NationStates Jolt Archive

Just curious but are there any writers in the forum?

More specifically is there anyone who considers themself a writer? Whether they actually do it for a profession or just dabble on the side. Feel free to post any stories/poems you may have written.

As for myself I started writing poems around two years ago and I'm pretty good at it, or so I'm told. Recently I've been working on some stories but they're a little more personal.

I wrote an autobiography but its too private for me to show to anyone but my closest friends (no, that doesn't include NSGeneral). I also do bad poetry (although at least nowadays I get the rhythm and stress right).

Edit: ...and my signature says Safalra is currently writing the Book Of The Countercultures (draft versions soon to be available online) - don't expect anything too soon though.

*SHAMLESS PLUGS FOR Les Liber & My Thoughts On:*

I loathe personally writing creative pieces, but can offer a good analysis of most pieces. I've always preferred non-fictional writing, particularly the Thesis style.

I also do bad poetry (although at least nowadays I get the rhythm and stress right).

In my opinion the only bad poetry is the poetry you write forcefully. Although I have a particular disgust towards soppy I miss my ex crap.

I've written quite a few short stories over the years, as well as a few discursive pieces I wrote for personal interest, but never attempted to have any published. I did have a few poems published, but I now consider them little more than trite juvenilia.

I was also a member of my school's pupil council and my first university's student union, so reguarly contributed to the papers/magazines of both institutions. Never anything that fascinating, but it's nice to see your name in print wherever it is.

I'd like to get back to writing again, but at present I don't really have the time. My imagination has suffered due to the fact that I haven't done much in this area of late, but hopefully it can recover; when recently writing a background for a role-playing character, I was encouraged by how much I enjoyed the exercise and by the fact that it read quite well. So one day in the not-too-distant future, I'd hope to get back to more meaningful compositions.

Just curious but are there any writers in the forum?

More specifically is there anyone who considers themself a writer? Whether they actually do it for a profession or just dabble on the side. Feel free to post any stories/poems you may have written.
I actually write quite a bit. Just a few poems and essays that are on my primary Website:

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmHeart.html

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmLove.html

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmTheParadigmParent.html

I've just written the lyrics to a song for my older grandaughter to sing. Someone I met on here is writing the music. Look for it online soon. :D

I occasionally write for fun, short stories, roleplays, etc. I'm thinking of working on a novel though; I might post a draft here in a couple of years if I bother to start it. (Let alone finish.)

Just curious but are there any writers in the forum?

More specifically is there anyone who considers themself a writer? Whether they actually do it for a profession or just dabble on the side. Feel free to post any stories/poems you may have written.

*Raises hand* Me :) I got maybe a hundred pages into a fantasy novel, then lost the lot, re-did it, got about as far again and lost it again (goddamn computers:mad: ) so I've given up on that one. I do intend to go back and finish it properly, but not yet... not yet.

I've also got a kinda sci-fi novel on the go at the moment. It's early days, but after it's done I was thinking of maybe doing a few more - a series as 'twere. In fact I was thinking of making a trilogy of the fantasy one too. Got the plots all figured out and everything :)

However, my main work in progress - there's a link to it in my sig - is a fanfic. Not the most glamorous project, but it's enjoyable, and it's very good practice for when I settle down to the real thing :)

I wasn't gonna go total pro on it - but part time authoring would be cool, depending on how much time a career in astrophysics would give me - but I am hoping to eventually publish.

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmHeart.html


Wow that almost brought a tear to my eye. Very beautiful.

I only write when I'm bored or need to express something. Usually the prior, but sometimes I just get the urge. :D

Lyrics.... and had a go a poetry

Everything I write is quite simple and basic though. No fancy metaphores all over the place for me :p

I've written a few things, none of which were officially published, and a few reviews for fanzines and a free university radio newspaper, so nothing, really. I'd like to, though.

I consider myself a writer, though i haven't written anything in ages. Too damn busy/lazy (take you pick).

I used to do a lot of Fanfiction writing, and I more or less wrote and edited my old school's yearbook one year. I'd love to do it as a profession, but I'm not quite there yet.

I've proofread and edited a lot, but not really written much. About six of the things I've worked on have been published: mostly in journals and magazines, but one independent book (and I got a 'thanks' in the insert - yay!) So...no, I suppose.

Yassum, I consider myself a writer. I have written a novel and am currently working on my second. The first isn't at all publishable, but I cherish it as a learning experience and hopefully my second will be a bit more refined.

Aside from that, I have a myriad of short stories lying about and a few poems here and there as well (though I'm pretty bad at poetry and no longer bother with it, my talent lies in prose.)

I'm a produced playwright, I've written 9 plays that have had 13 productions that have included two Kennedy Center nominations. I was a playwright in residence at a college in the Bay Area. I also have one screenplay that is optioned and one that is being 'developed' (which means that the studio is reading it and liking it but not paying me for it yet and wanting me to make changes to it. Usually they would be paying for it so I wouldn't take it somewhere else while I work on it, but such is the hassle of being the new kid on the block. Besides, the dude fostering the script is someone I trust so I don't want to roam much). The option is just for a short and I think that I'm going to have to take it back, I lack faith in the producers ability to actually produce the damn thing (the option is just about up and they haven't done anything but pre-production, no movement towards actual production.)

One of my more popular plays will be (theoreticly, I'm always a little hesitant until the curtain goes up) produced in San Francisco this summer by the director who originally did the play. I credit her with the popularity of that play, I actually didn't have any faith that it could be done. She is the one who convinced me to finish the play and found a way to pull it off. All but one of the best directors for my material have been women. Don't know why.

I'd link to announcements about my plays but I don't want you fuckers knowing my name. ;)

Ah, the old 'are you a writer?' self-debate: Are you still a writer when you're not writing. Sure, don't let the semantics tie you (me) up..!

I wrote this for my students at the girls' national high school in Chunghua:

Some Secret Truths

The universe has theories, patterns,
and "rules" of physics,
but actually, life is an anarchy.
You can do anything you want,
anything you can imagine.
You can explore ideas and experiences
that nobody has ever done before.
You create your reality, every detail.
You control everything.
You have the ultimate responsibility,
and this is freedom.

2.10.6

Ah, the old 'are you a writer?' self-debate: Are you still a writer when you're not writing. Sure, don't let the semantics tie you (me) up..!

I wrote this for my students at the girls' national high school in Chunghua:

Some Secret Truths

The universe has theories, patterns,
and "rules" of physics,
but actually, life is an anarchy.
You can do anything you want,
anything you can imagine.
You can explore ideas and experiences
that nobody has ever done before.
You create your reality, every detail.
You control everything.
You have the ultimate responsibility,
and this is freedom.

2.10.6

I wish my teachers in high school wrote poems. Well I had two that were very inspiring people but the others were just shells following a curiculum.

King Nothing

Hail King Nothing ruler of all he wraught
Gentle gold rustle between in his fingertips
Hands coated in the blood of the knights who faught
While blasphemous lies escape his venom lips

As his warrior all I can do is stand and grit my teeth
While my land burns and falls apart
As my people fall for his false belief
Seeing such enrages me and breaks my heart

King Nothing, all the gold in which you shower
The lies in which you've said
The abuse in which you use your power
Made twenty score of soldiers dead
The people who trusted you most faithfully
Were the first you sent into misery

Vindication is a stubborn one
You, false prophet, king of nothing shall be taken
It is you who smell the corpses rotting in the desert sun
Justice's will be done, by the very people you've forsaken

Then when you have lost your gold
Your people will prosper and thrive
Then when you have spoken the last lie told
Your people shall use their eyes
Then when all in which you built comes crashing down
It is we who shall remove that odious crown

Hail King Nothing ruler of an empty land
Hail King Nothing rotting in his throne
Hail King Nothing slain by the people's hand
Hail King Nothing and all he owns...

It needs some polishing

Well, I'm working on a novel, though not as a primary job or anything.

I'm a produced playwright, I've written 9 plays that have had 13 productions that have included two Kennedy Center nominations. I was a playwright in residence at a college in the Bay Area. I also have one screenplay that is optioned and one that is being 'developed' (which means that the studio is reading it and liking it but not paying me for it yet and wanting me to make changes to it. Usually they would be paying for it so I wouldn't take it somewhere else while I work on it, but such is the hassle of being the new kid on the block. Besides, the dude fostering the script is someone I trust so I don't want to roam much). The option is just for a short and I think that I'm going to have to take it back, I lack faith in the producers ability to actually produce the damn thing (the option is just about up and they haven't done anything but pre-production, no movement towards actual production.)

One of my more popular plays will be (theoreticly, I'm always a little hesitant until the curtain goes up) produced in San Francisco this summer by the director who originally did the play. I credit her with the popularity of that play, I actually didn't have any faith that it could be done. She is the one who convinced me to finish the play and found a way to pull it off. All but one of the best directors for my material have been women. Don't know why.

I'd link to announcements about my plays but I don't want you fuckers knowing my name. ;)

And yet you couldn't think of an NS name? :p

Odviously I RP, but I also do poetry, and 'proper storys' so far I've jhad several poens publiushed and pne short story (In a comendium) to give you an idea of my latest:



In a hole at the bottom of the garden, a boy lay. He looked like an ordinary boy to any passer-by, although there were none for this was secluded country. If I gave you a description I would say he stood at around 5 foot 7, with cloudy blue eyes and heavily tanned skin.

But I cannot be sure of this, it has been many years since I saw him, and it seems that every different person who sees him sees a different boy. Certainly, those that I have spoken too have given me reports far different from my own ideas, and each others. So I’ll leave it at my own description, though feel free to make up your own.

Maybe he appears to every different person what they expect, that is part of the magic of him.

And indeed there is some magic with him, though nowadays many of the things attributed to him can be done by clever tricks and a little know-how.

Still there must be something in it for the first person I met who claimed to have seen him was my own father and this was long ago, before cars have been invented.

The strangest thing is that he seems not to have aged a day since my father saw him, or I did for that matter, it may be that he is blessed (or maybe cursed) with eternal youth, a virtue long desired by many and found by few.

Those that do find the sacred gift, find it more of a curse. Imagine, seeing your friends wither and die while you get older!

He told me that he got his gift by the touch of an angles wing, but other times he said it was from the first babes laugh and the touch of dewdrops upon his nose on the first Tuesday of January. He never seemed to be precise on such matters as he never was on his name.

He would make up all sorts of untruths and tell you different things. He would change his story completely after maybe a few minutes, first telling you his name was John and then when you called him that Rob. Privately I think he wasn’t sure himself.

Another mystery is where he comes from, to me he looked an Italian, or someone from the south. To my farther he looked like a highlander, and spoke with a Scottish accent.

At this point it is liable to wonder if they where one and the same, but I assure you they must be, there could not be two such characters in the history of the world.


----------
I've also written play scripts, (Most notably, Dumpies) that have been produced.

And yet you couldn't think of an NS name? :p

lowl :D

I don't really consider myself a writer, but I do write a bit, mostly for (pen and paper) RPGs. Writing a scenario, with some description to read to the players and NPCs answers and so on is very close to writing. I also maintain a wiki with many background information, which is growing to much more than just technical RPG, and contain characters and areas with their personalities, histories, descriptions, ...

I'm also more or less writing a novel describing the early life of my most important NPC, but I would not consider it of professional quality, and I'm very slow at writing it. I write it more for my self to get ideas and more in-depth view of him and those around him (which does affect a lot the campaigns I DM) than anything else.

-snip-

Interesting I must say.

i do a bit of writing...short storys and some really stupid poetry.
i working on a novel and helping my friend write a short story/novel:)

I am a writer, and a poet. I have been since I was around nine years old. Here is some of my recent work, for national poetry day:

The Future

In the future, it is said,
That by machines we shall soon be lead,
And under their parental gaze,
Navigate life’s eternal maze.

In the future, we shall be,
Living together, in harmony,
Kind to animals, courteous and fair,
Treating each other with due care.

In the future, I have been told,
Drugs and booze will not be sold,
And to those who search for a ‘high’,
Society will wave a heartfelt goodbye.

But sometimes the stories that I hear,
Deal not with the destruction of drugs and beer,
They speak not of mankind’s friendship, and love,
Nor of machines ruling from above.

They speak of guns, tanks, and of pain,
Blood falls like autumn rain,
Of ancient evil now unleashed,
Without safety able to be reached.

And so, not knowing what the future may be,
Do you not think it better to just wait and see?

This is the opening to my short story about an elite group of soldiers, The Einherjar.

The Rover thundered on across the plains of Belathian with all six passengers aboard. Their leader laid out dieing on the turret's base; close at hand were Jade and Athena whom carefully attended their fallen lieutenant. Walter swept the blood from his brow while trying to keep the rover as steady as possible. He knew well that Decimus didn't have long to live and any slight jar might shorten the precious time he had left. Beside Walter in the center command seat was Lucian, naked and ashamed at the horrifc sin he had commited. Head lowered and chin buried in his chest he muttered over and over: "Why did you forgive me Decimus?" Maurus, sitting close by with a gun pressed in Lucian's Temple, was thinking the exact same thing.

Decimus had one hand covering the mortal wound in his chest while trying to steady his breathing. Every moment was a pain he had never felt before, not just physical pain, but the sorrow of knowing he had lost everything and everyone he loved. However, he drew a smile as he remembered the moment he stood above Lucian with a knife in hand. For the first time in his entire life he showed the compassion he so desperately sought himself. "Forgiving Lucian will be my ticket into Valhalla huh?" he struggled to say. Athena tried to stop the bleeding in his chest but it was futile. The wound was far too deep and there was internal bleeding in too many precious organs. She grasped Decimus' hand firmly, smiled, and responded: "Yes Decimus, you really did something divine back there." Jade laid a hand on the liutenant's shoulder as she watched her only friend fade from existence. Someone she had respected, admired, and loved all her life was dieing and his murderer sat no more than a meter away. Overtaken by rage she clutched her sniper rifle and pushed the barrell into the back of Lucian's head. Gently a bloody hand arose and pulled the barrell down. Jade looked down and saw Decimus in his mortal state trying to speak. A man whom she thought was practicly immortal had trouble just breathing and here she was directly disobeying his dieing wish. The sniper rifle was slung back into its original position with a motion of frustration and sadness. Lucian slowly muttered: "Please, Decimus, let them kill me. I must atone, I must be judged." Lucian looked back and heard the soft words of his closest friend: "Lucian, we are the Einherjar. Brothers in combat until our dieing breath. You only did what you did because of me. It's a cur-" His heart ceased beating as Athena rushed into desperate preventive measures, his grunts were suddenly silenced and the last lieutenant of the Einherjar passed away. Decimus' head rolled to the side and in his last visions saw the lady Valkyrie, master of the slain, smiling. Next to her stood a glorious angel decorated in white armor who looked exactly like himself. A sweet smile and a single tear swelled in his eyes before he surrendered to mortality. A cool breeze swept across the plains as the Einherjar carried their fallen brother home.

Writing is the only legal endeavor I've been able to make a living at for the past 40 years. I've had quite a few shorts stories published in paperback anthologies but no hardcover works of my own. I've lost count of how many of my short stories have appeared in magazines. I'm also a professional journalist with more magazine and newspaper non-fiction in print than anyone should keep up with.

So, even if I didn't consider myself a writer, the IRS still does. ;)

I consider myself a writer, though I've only been published in a few campus-wide collections. I do try to attend the "poetry jams" at the local coffeehouse, but they're so crowded and overflowing with sorority girls and such.

I'll post some of my stuff later, probably -- on a roommate's laptop right now.

I certainly consider myself to be a serious writer. I write sci-fi/fantasy, though I hate the labels that often come with writing 'genre' fiction. I also am a complete lamer because I write fanfic, currently SUPER lame because I'm writing Red Eye fanfic. :P

But yeah. I have one book that is currently being sent to publishers in an attempt to get it, well, published; I also have several novels-in-progress that will eventually be sent out as well.

I write. Wrote a novel once. Never got it published. Fixing to start a new one soon, working on the details now. One day I will be published, if I keep at it. Or not, I guess.

Interesting I must say.
Thanks, the basic point to it is find out who the boy is, it become pritty clear in the 4th chapter, It's only meant to b e a short story and thus it's only 4,221 word. It should come out in a compendium of storys later on.

I certainly consider myself to be a serious writer. I write sci-fi/fantasy, though I hate the labels that often come with writing 'genre' fiction. I also am a complete lamer because I write fanfic, currently SUPER lame because I'm writing Red Eye fanfic. :P

But yeah. I have one book that is currently being sent to publishers in an attempt to get it, well, published; I also have several novels-in-progress that will eventually be sent out as well.
i love not too too lame fan fiction. do you have a link to anything that got good reviews? whats red eye?

Thanks, the basic point to it is find out who the boy is, it become pritty clear in the 4th chapter, It's only meant to b e a short story and thus it's only 4,221 word. It should come out in a compendium of storys later on.

That's cool, my central story is going to end up breaking off into several other stories which eventually lead to the story about the end of the world and the war between the gods "Ragnorak"

That's cool, my central story is going to end up breaking off into several other stories which eventually lead to the story about the end of the world and the war between the gods "Ragnorak"
I had an idea like that before, it got very philisophical, basically it was about the relatiosnhip between gods and balivers, and my puiblisher said that it was A) Too long for a short story, B) To Philospopical for a story. A) he was right, 78,000 words is too long for a short story, and B) is that possable.

I'd link to announcements about my plays but I don't want you fuckers knowing my name. ;)That's the way I am about it. I've won a major fellowship for my poetry and recently won a $5,000 prize for another poem (although the check hasn't gotten here yet--fingers crossed it's in the mailbox when I get home from work), and i've published in a few places. Right now I'm putting together my manuscript (again!) for book contests.

I've written since I was old enough to hold a pencil. For fun, relaxation, possible publication someday... but mostly for fun. :D I love it!

Lyrics.... and had a go a poetry

Everything I write is quite simple and basic though. No fancy metaphores all over the place for me :p

I've got some spare, if you need them... ;)

I actually write quite a bit. Just a few poems and essays that are on my primary Website:

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmHeart.html

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmLove.html

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmTheParadigmParent.html

I've just written the lyrics to a song for my older grandaughter to sing. Someone I met on here is writing the music. Look for it online soon. :D

See... I'd like to believe you wrote those... but I didn't see "WTF, over?" anywhere.... ;)

I'm a produced playwright ... etc

Congrats! Writing is a tough racket to break into!


I'd link to announcements about my plays but I don't want you fuckers knowing my name. ;)

:D

... so I obviously write lots of creative fiction :p

On a serious note, I sometimes write thousands of words in a week. Sometimes little. Depends on what projects I've got on - I'm definitely more of a features writer than a news-hound.

I like to write creatively for fun. Here's something I posted a little while on NS, but the thread died a death :( It would be fun if someone wrote the next coupla paragraphs, then someone else the paras after and so on and so on ...

[TITLE] Harry Potter and the Infinite Ramblings

[Wordcount] to be determined

[by] Cute Dangerous Animals et al

[TEXT BEGINS]
Harry, Hermione and Ron were sprawled on the floor. It had been many years since Harry had passed through the portals of Hogwarts and he reflected on this while taking a big toke of a nice, fat spliff.
"Harry, your hogging that," exclaimed Hermione, self-righteously.
"Yeah, that's, like, right, pass it over," drawled Ron.
"Wha?" asked Harry. He had forgotten what was going on.
"The SPLIFF," shrieked Hermione, annoyingly. "Spliffo Levioso!" she cried and the spliff levitated through the air to come to rest between Hermione's lips, now plump and red. Hermione had done a lot of growing up over the years.
"Gimme some," cried Ron.
"No," said Hermione sternly, "you can't have any until you cough up some Galleons. We tolerated it when you were a child, but you can't sponge off everyone else for the rest of your life. Don't you agree Harry?"
"Wha?" said Harry, as he rolled his bloodshot eyes to Hermione. He had forgotten what was happening again.
"You can talk, you self-righteous, smug cow," cried Ron, wounded. "I know you've been borrowing money to fund your shoe-shopping habits! And I know that you're broke too! So go and get your own money and get your own weed!" he shouted and made a grab for the spliff. Unfortunately, his co-ordination was not what it could be, and he missed, knocking foul-smelling bong water all over the floor. Harry giggled, and opened a pack of chocolate cookies.
"Damn you Ron!" screamed Hermione, for the bong water had spilled all over her nice new, expensive, suede boots. "They're ruined!" She disapparated.
"Hah! that got rid of her," giggled Ron.
"Wha?" said Harry. For he had forgotten what was happening again.
***
Meanwhile, in another part of the castle, tears were trickling down Hermione's perfectly sculpted cheekbones. The poor little girl was sobbing her little heart out. Why couldn't Ron see that she only bought all these beautiful, expensive things to make him like her? She had tried being nice, but he didn't notice. She had tried being bad, but he didn't notice. Tonite, she had tried being one of the boys, but he didn't notice. And now her beautiful swede boots were ruined! Thinking of her boots, brought a cold chill to Hermione's passionate heart. They had cost a great many galleons and now her little piggy bank looked poorly. And she needed some more clothes! She only had 462 dresses, 237 pairs of shoes, a mega-assortment of T-shirts, boob-tubes, trouses, and jumpers. "My," she thought, "I have absolutely nothing to wear! That is it! I must have some more money to by shoes." But for a broke, beautiful Hogwarts resident there was only one way to get cash without compromising her studies. "I'm going on the game!" [becoming a hooker - CDA] she declared. "If it's good enough for McGonnagall, it's good enough for me!"
[TEXT ENDS]

Over to you chaps (& chap-ettes, of course).

Just a note: This one isn't about a crush or someone I became involved with. It's about a male friend I probably spent a little too much time with -- everyone in my dorm thought we were having some sordid affair...*shakes head*

2am
curled up
on a worn-out couch
that I'd slept on
hours before
Still, you woke me up.
My not yet crimson hair
was dripping on your Java book
the same one
I tripped over
in my soggy
tear-filled
entrance.
I sat there
a low neckline
twisting
jerking
tearing
those mood-ring
eyes
off the screen.
phones turned off
voices near mute
the door
l o c k e d.
much like
their minds
on the thoughts
the ideas
gossip
rumours
the delicate intrigue
that always
seemed
to crash
into the door.
That
door.

Congrats! Writing is a tough racket to break into!




Your right there, playwriting hardest (ever tried compelting a play? It's fucking hard, it took me months to coplete Dumpies, I found publishing easier, mainly due to the Young Writer magasine which published some of my earlier stuff and my teachers whos got freinds in hgioh places,

Just curious but are there any writers in the forum? I've written a few stories, some of which are not too bad. Whenever I try to write a novel, I can never finish. I even know exactly how it's going to end, but I just can't finish writing the "boring" stuff in the middle.

I've also found that poetry can be quite fun to write, mainly because it's short, and greatly rewarding if it makes sense, it's about something I feel passionatly for, and especially if it followes some sort of guidelines. It gives me a sense of accomplishment when I write a poem that follows a strict syllable structure, efficeintly.

I had an idea like that before, it got very philisophical, basically it was about the relatiosnhip between gods and balivers, and my puiblisher said that it was A) Too long for a short story, B) To Philospopical for a story. A) he was right, 78,000 words is too long for a short story, and B) is that possable.

It's not going to be very philosophical, it's basically my vision of the norse gods. Namely Fenrir and the relationship to his prophet, the main character. I'm still working out how I want the final battle between the two to end and what role the other gods are going to play into it.

Being young, I have basically nothing, but I do dabble in writing when the mood strikes me. I have one poem published in the newsletter of an environmental group on the East End (Long Island, not London:p )

I've written a lot of short stories (never published), and have been published (journalism) in the newspapers of both my high school and college.
I also have an epic about a gangster/cult leader's rise to power that I've been working on for about a year. I'll never finish it, though, because I've got subplots coming up faster then I can resolve them.

My band teacher would give us writing assignments when we had a substitute teacher, and most of my friends didn't bother doing them. I finished mine and handed it in, meant to be as sarcastic and literal as possible. She read it to the class. :P
The topic was: "Is music a luxury, or is it necessary to life?"

Music is a luxury, plain and simple. While I’m certain that you, Mrs. Rivers, was hoping that I, the student, would more deeply explore the issue and interpret it in a metaphorical sense, I must state that I am far too literal to do that. To reiterate, music is not necessary to human survival.

Case the first: the complete lack of physical necessity of sound in general. As stated numerous times in the past 18 seconds, humans, nor any being for that matter, possess the metabolic need for music, and, in extension, are able to survive without it. Theoretically, humans can survive without any sound whatsoever. While challenging, people without the ability to hear can lead full, lively...um...lives.

Case the second: Even if hearing ability is readily available, individuals may find music as an expendable resource. Indeed, personal preference is a major player in whether mental survival, as I am certain this topic was precariously centered around, can be fulfilled, but those who choose to despise music in all it’s forms still achieve some form of satisfactory mental health, granted they are not suffering from an unrelated disease that makes them legally a maniac. While music’s nay-sayers may be predisposed to bitter pessimism in their “going-on senile” years, they are in no direct danger due to their, to put it simply, “condition.”

In rather vague conclusion, while the luxury of music may in fact be the center of culture, it remains just that: a luxury. No persuasive essay to the contrary or the government’s implantation of robotic microchips at birth that programs the human brain to die if not tempered with music can convince the “right-wing” masses otherwise.

Wow that almost brought a tear to my eye. Very beautiful.

I only write when I'm bored or need to express something. Usually the prior, but sometimes I just get the urge. :D
Thank you. I can hardly read it myself without fogging up. :)

I have a very temermental Muse. She goes for long periods ignoring me completely, then will suddenly drop a bomb on me out of a clear blue sky. Damned Muse! ;)

Thank you. I can hardly read it myself without fogging up. :)

I have a very temermental Muse. She goes for long periods ignoring me completely, then will suddenly drop a bomb on me out of a clear blue sky. Damned Muse! ;)

Likewise, I haven't been able to think of a topic to write about for a while. My last poem I tried to force was about oranges. *looks for muse*

Christopher grimaced at the large number of shells that were being shot down.

"That's unusual," she said. "They must have some extraordinarily great CIWS systems to knock down that many naval gunshots."

"What should we do, Commodore?"

"Keep firing. Sooner or later, the law of averages is going to catch up to them."

"Aye, sir."

It'd better catch up to them, she thought, looking at the tactical display. One of the light carriers suffered moderate damage, while other ships suffered slight damage in the first round of the attacks.

"Get the VLS tubes ready," she said. "I want the Scourge and Scorcher missiles ready to go."

"Should we arm them with the tac warheads?"

Christopher thought for a moment. One Scorcher missile armed with a tactical nuke was powerful enough to wipe out an entire U.S. aircraft carrier battle group, she realized, since the Scorcher was based on a Russian missile. The missile the Scourge was based upon so worried the former United States Navy that they sent an entire carrier battle group after a single Russian destroyer armed with that missile.

With conventional weapons, it would take several Scorcher missiles to wipe out the entire Panteran fleet. But Christopher decided she wanted to save that trump card for later, if it turned out she needed it. Right now, she wanted to deal the Panterans another vicious shot.

"Conventional weapons, mister," she said. "We don't need to destroy this fleet of theirs. Just give them enough damage to force their hand a little bit."

With doubt creeping into his voice, Weapons Officer George Hawk sighed a reluctant, "aye sir."

"Countermeasures away!"

The Oceanias fired their anti-missile batteries, along with the escort ships and the Potomac herself. They were getting the majority of the missiles with their Hornet SAMs and the short range Yellow Jacket mini-SAMs and the 35 mm Millennium Guns knocked down a few other missiles. Meanwhile, decoys drew off others, but one shot managed to hit the Potomac, causing an area near the primary communications array to envelop in flames.

"Damage control teams to Deck 8 immediately!" Captain Edward Hansen, the nominal commander of the Potomac shouted. The automated fire suppression systems would start work on dousing the flames immediately, but Hansen wanted to make sure the fire was well under control. The backup communications systems immediately came online, though Hansen and Christopher both thanked their lucky stars the targeting software was still online.

"Targets acquired, sir."

"Full spread, missiles and naval guns. Use the secondary guns to target their escorts if they're in firing range. Give 'em a few more torpedoes while you're at it."

"Aye, sir."

With a growing look of anger mixed with extreme hatred for her new Panteran enemies, Christopher drew her right hand into a fist and all but growled.

"Fire!"

**********************************************************

"Direct hit on one of their ships," Alvarez shouted as the Sun King reeled from the impact.

"Sir, they're returning fire. Depth charges."

Depth charges, Jacobi thought. They haven't been in use since World War II.

"Helm, evasive maneuvers. Get the Nixies ready in the event of torpedo fire. Make ourselves as hard a target for those bastards as we can."

"Aye, sir."

The Liestes increased its speed slightly and veered hard to starboard, evading one depth charge and staying out of the range of two more.

"Alvarez, I want torp tubes three and four loaded and torp tubes one and two reloaded. Make sure you've got torp tubes one and two loaded with the nuclear warhead."

"Sir? If that hits..."

"If it hits, we waste a large enemy warship. Now isn't the time for us to ponder the effects of a nuclear warhead on an enemy that is now aware that we're lurking in the depths. It's time for us to think about how we're going to beat these assholes."

"But, sir," Alvarez started.

"That's an order Alvarez!"

"Aye sir," Alvarez responded. "Torpedo tubes three and four loaded. Instructions given to arm tubes one and two with the nuclear warheads."

"I want a firing solution that can get through those torpedo nets and get to that carrier," Jacobi said. "And I want to hit a much bigger target with the nuclear warheads. If I can get two of them, so much the better."

Alvarez pulled off the headset, and with an unmistakable quaver in his voice, said, "sir, torpedo tubes one and two are loaded with the nuclear warheads."

"Then get to it," Jacobi said.

"Aye, sir." Alvarez's right hand trembled as he pushed the button to fire the torpedoes from all four tubes and the sub shook with the energy required to launch them.

"Mr. West, right full rudder. Take us to St. Christine's. I have a hunch we're going to be needed there, too."

"But sir, what about the rest of the fleet?"

"We've got to make sure we can be available when the ISN gets its shit together."

"Aye, sir."

***********************************************************

"Sir, bandits at four o'clock!"

"Hard right, let's put some moves on those fuckers and blast them to kingdom come!"

"Roger that!"

The SZ-2 Albatross air superiority fighters, built more for dealing with enemy fighters than the SZ-1 Vultures, were going to use their maneuverability to their full advantage, performing banks and hard turns that they hoped would frustrate Panteran efforts to target their squadrons.

"Get locks on their fighters and blast 'em out with all you've got Hellrider," the squadron leader yelled into her communications device, taking great care to employ maximum encryption. Not that her plans were any great secret. She knew the Panteran fighters were gunning for the same mission, but she didn't want to give away her position or that of any of the fighters under her command.

"Roger that Den Mother."

Colonel Jacqueline Barclay grimaced. She hated being called Den Mother, even though as the commanding officer and a woman who was old enough to be the mother of just about every pilot under her command, she earned that moniker. She was still one of the very best pilots on her station and with several Branwynians in the squadron, she felt comfortable that the squadron would give it all they had.

She remembered from her history lessons that despite impossible odds and outdated F-16 fighter jets, a squadron of Branwynian pilots took on 75 Mauiwoweean jets and shot down 13 of them. She knew their odds were impossible, but she figured her pilots had more of a fighting chance. She was desperate to prove herself right.

"Acknowledged. I've got one bandit in my sights now. Firing!"

Her fighter launched one of its AAMs at the Panteran fighter in her crosshairs and she followed it up with several booms from her autocannon. She wanted to make sure she got a kill on an enemy with it in her sights, and she readied chaffs and flares in the event the Panterans got her in their sights. But she wanted to make sure she was as difficult a moving target for the Panteran fighters as she possibly could be, so she veered her aircraft hard to the right and then throttled her aircraft high into the air, keeping an eye on both the locations of enemy fighters and on her aircraft's service ceiling.

I've got about four Robin small diameter bombs, she remembered. I need all the maneuverability I can get. Maybe I can get something else out of it, she mused, increasing speed until she reached a position near one of the larger Panteran warships. She pushed the hatch to release the bombs from her weapons bay and four Robin small diameter bombs began a rapid skyward descent toward the Panteran fleet.

The rest of the squadron also followed suit in their wild maneuvers, making sudden banks and rolls and firing both missiles and autocannons when they got Panteran aircraft in their sights. Barclay hoped that they could provide enough of a distraction to the Panteran aircraft for the Vultures to swoop on their prey and claim a few kills. Toward that end, four Vultures modified to carry the Bayonet torpedoes launched those torpedoes toward enemy warships.

Maybe those Goddamn Reavers won't have a fleet to go back to if we play our cards right.

************************************************************

"Countermeasures, get the countermeasures up!"

"I'm trying!"

BOOM!

The tank wasn't directly hit by the oncoming enemy fire, but a glancing blow was enough to knock out the tank's tactical display. The battery backup flickered for a moment before it came to life.

"Damage report!"

"Minor damage to the hull, but we lost our primary tactical display. The battery backup's going to have to be enough for now."

"Fire more smoke grenades. Maybe we can use the blindness to get away."

"Aye, sir."

The tank sent more smoke grenades toward the armored units, and motored toward a covered embankment where it would hope to fire its ETC guns unimpeded. The other tanks fired occasional rounds from their ETC cannons, while Captain Lloyd Honeyworth got another idea.

"Get the sabot rounds in there and fire at those bastards!"

"Yes sir!"

Honeyworth's Jag fired a sabot round, whilst two other tanks did the same. All the while, anti-amour weaponry began to ring the beach.

"Major, we've got the anti-amour in position."

"Fire!"

The anti-amour weaponry began to ring out its own hello as the smoke from the grenades cleared up and Holloway's tank found cover. It would most likely be worked on by the army corps of engineers whenever they had a chance, but right now, it would have to get quick repairs on the fly or be used in its current damaged state.

"I want amour piercing rounds, now," Kevin West shouted to his infantry riflemen. And I want some fuel air explosives directed at those Reavers."

"Yes, sir!"

The men kept up a withering fire toward the Reavers on the beach whilst other riflemen crawled into range in their camouflage and on top of the spectra fiber vests that replaced Kevlar in the ISA as part of the reforms enacted by the government. They took out magazines of anti-amour shells designed to penetrate the armored protection of enemy personnel and these shells would get their first test.

Meanwhile, the fuel air explosives, which often created an explosion reminiscent of a nuclear mushroom cloud, though the effect was short-lived, would at the very least cause some enemy troops to meet their own version of hell a lot earlier than they expected.

"Colonel, in range and ready."

"Fire!"

The shorter ranged shells of the Sarzonian guns sent another round of flame in the direction of the Reavers and the fuel air explosives started hurtling toward their targets. In various buildings throughout Daltrey, explosive devices were rigged to a remote control system that would be detonated once a certain number of Reavers entered a building. In homes and apartment buildings, snipers set up their rifles with their aim to cut down Reavers as they approached the buildings themselves.

I hope the army hurries its asses up and gets here," one sergeant thought as he waited desperately for reinforcements sent by Sarzonia in the form of a full Fleet, with two divisions of regular army troops under Lieutenant General Ryan Kennedy to augment the limited colonial and Sarzonian forces. Unbeknownst to them, the ISA was on its way: To St. Christine's. Kennedy decided he wanted to land his troops where the Reavers weren't and set out to intercept them, either in Daltrey or further into the countryside. The Navy was still steaming toward Daltrey in the hopes of contesting the Panterans, but Christopher with a mere 40 warships wasn't expected to last long enough. Perhaps she could pull something out of her ass and weaken the Panterans enough to let the Fleet strike a fatal blow, but against a world megapower, that was uncertain at best.

************************************************************

"Mike, do you want to make a speech to the Branwynians," Deputy Senior Vice President and External Affairs Officer Grant Haffner said.

"What the hell do I say? 'Keep fighting until the cavalry comes'? Do you have any idea how hard it's going to be to defeat those guys even if we had an army that wasn't a world laughingstock?"

"No, Mike," Tyler interrupted. Several Cabinet members looked in shock. Tyler rarely ever got involved in situation room-type discussions.

"What you do is tell the Branwynians that you're there to support their freedom against the conquering evils of Pantera. Remind them that they're fighting for their homes and their way of life against an enemy that's out for territory."

"So you mean give them a lot of propaganda?"

"No," Tyler said. "How about you promise them independence if they help hold off the Panterans?"

"I can't do that, not without an Act of Parliament!"

"Remember, the Wartime Powers Act? Remember Article XVII? Use them," Tyler said as he walked toward the underground bunker that served as his and Sarzo's quarters during extreme emergencies.

"Don't listen to him," Haffner said. "Let the people who know what they're doing handle this."

"Handle what," Sarzo retorted. "You forget you're talking about my partner over there. And politics ain't exactly rocket science. I'm going to invoke Article XVII and the Wartime Powers Act and I'm going to make that speech."

"Mr. President!"

"My mind's made up. Now excuse me, I've got work to do." Sarzo turned and walked briskly toward the broadcast centre and walked up to the podium. With the bright lights of cameras in front of him, Sarzo began to speak as soon as he heard the signal.

"Citizens of Branwyn," Sarzo began, with his face showing a forceful determination that Sarzonians and Branwynians rarely saw in their President. "As you know, the rogue state of Pantera, in blatant violation of Sarzonian and Branwynian sovereignty, has attacked Daltrey and is making it known that their goal is to take Branwyn from us. They claim that we are an oppressive regime when they neglect to mention their own dictatorial behaviors.

"I implore each and every one of you to oppose the Panteran 'Reavers' as strenuously as you are capable. If not directly in combat, refuse to provide any aid to them as much as you can. Hide your valuables. Burn anything that can be construed as sensitive information. But by all means, fight the enemy and we will join you arm in arm as we defy the Panteran threat.

"I am here to announce now that as of this moment, the Wartime Powers Act and Article XVII of the Sarzonian Constitution (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=330340) is hereby invoked. I assure you that this measure is a temporary one and shall only be in effect until such time as this emergency passes. I am also here to announce that if the people of Branwyn are successfully able to force the Panterans to depart without having taken the colony, I will sign an executive order granting immediate independence, to take effect as of the total cessation of hostilities.

"We recognize and appreciate the great and difficult task in front of us in these terrible times. But we also have great admiration for our Branwynian brothers and sisters for their extreme courage and determination and our hearts soar with every demonstration of those wonderful attributes. Until victory is ours!"

With that, the camera light dimmed as Sarzo turned and walked away from the podium.

"Great speech, Mike," Tyler said as Sarzo returned to their quarters.

"God, I hope so."

************************************************************

Akbar Rafsanji noticed Brax's gesture and ambled over to his table as if he'd seen an old friend from uni. He sat down with a jovial expression on his face that melted into a serious demeanor as soon as he finished scanning the room to make sure no one was eyeing them suspiciously.

"Good, you made it," Rafsanji said. "I wish they'd turn on the damn air conditioning," he said, though the heat in the bar was far from oppressive. "My men stand ready to assist you in your goals of striking a blow at the Great Demon, Sarzo. It has long been our organization’s goal to overthrow him and repeal many laws we find immoral and wrong. Notably," he said, with his voice clouding over in a venomous snarl, "the pro-gay rights legislation. I'm tired of having my country run by a couple of faggots.

"Though that is not our only goal. We have other goals in mind; notably, toward taking Sarzonia out of this war for good. My people hate the Praetonians, you must understand. They have thwarted our plans more times than I care to count.

"Based on the what my informants within the colonial government tell me, their next step will be to move the government from Daltrey and toward Entwhistle. The terrain toward that city is known for being rather harsh, as the infrastructure here has never been the same since the insurrection and the Quasi War against Sdaeriji. There is another city that lies between Daltrey and Entwhistle. Its name is Bonham. It's a training ground for the colonial troops and the Sarzonian Army.

"The ISA has been training fiercely since Parliamentary hearings after their disaster in Inkana. I suppose you're finding that out to an extent on the beachhead."

Rafsanji looked into Brax's eyes, hoping to get a sense of what his information was doing to the Panteran agent's mental gymnastics. I could always read other people like a book, he thought. But this guy's real good.

I write songs, poems, short stories, and plays. Here's an excerpt from my latest creation. It's a fictional account of Benito Mussolini. In this bit, a sadist is telling Benito of his view of sadism.

"Subjugation is a method by which pleasure is extracted from vice. The infinite delights bestowed upon the most coveted and denounced orgasm lie in a state of hibernation. The petty whims of the vulgar lack the potency to bring life to ultimate pleasure. Nor do they possess the mental faculties to fathom the apex of humanity’s vice.The necessities of the physical realm: shelter from all of the beasts and plagues that nature has contrived for our torment, protection from the spontaneous and exquisite of human seduction, food for consumption, and of course the flesh to satisfy our lust. The vulgar are content only the lowest aspects of the physical realm; pleasure is only used as a means to survive, not as means to quench our natural lust. They are also plagued with distractions of a more existential nature.
The optimism of the divine disallows them from partaking of pleasure. It is the divine who forces vices of all natures to seek refuge from the decrees of the priesthood. ‘Tis their hearts that bare the mark of the libertine. They possess no earthly understanding of desire. Their entangled bodies are given life solely by the sweetness of their own self-mutilation.They issue declarations of heresy. It is they who force the sophisticated connoisseur of vice into the prisons. It is they who subject us to the mark of sadist. It is they who corrupt the minds of men to abandon their natural pursuits. They conjure demons into our minds in order to hasten our descent into Hell!
I cannot grant your your freedom, but I offer you my assistance in obtaining it. The path of the divine will lead you to torments that you could never imagine. The path I follow will lead you to a freedom that is so powerful that not even the highest of plutocrats could not obtain."

And yet you couldn't think of an NS name? :p
Names take me forever, and I change them constantly. The only thing thats easy is that for some reason I always name characters that are 'outside' the narrative that intrude (like yuppies in a slacker story, to make a broad example) Alan. I don't even know why, I just do.

One other quirk, someone had to point this out to me because I didn't realize it, I tend to give most characters androgenous names. Again, don't know why.

But I hate that process. I try to lay that on my collaborator, but he always balks and I'm left to do the dirty work. Just like when it comes to the actual writing (even though he's the one who actually aspired to be a writer and I just 'fell' into it.)

Congrats! Writing is a tough racket to break into!Your right there, playwriting hardest (ever tried compelting a play? It's fucking hard, it took me months to coplete Dumpies, I found publishing easier, mainly due to the Young Writer magasine which published some of my earlier stuff and my teachers whos got freinds in hgioh places,
I actually write the plays rather quickly, usually in less than a week and in a few instances one or two nights. The idea is, I guess, you are either ready to tell the story or your not.

And you are right about the help of instructors. I had a lot(relatively speaking) of fans early on, but the fact that the biggest ones where professors had almost everything to do with the success. They pimp the writing more than I do. (In fact, I wouldn't even be a playwright if it wheren't for a professor calling me up at my job over the summer and asking for my first play)

I should qualify that success-I do have a volume of plays that have been produced, and I have recieved income from those plays, but right now I pay the bills by crewing on movies and television shows (mostly reality shows, sadly) because the money doesn't flow all that freely from the writing. Yet.

That's the way I am about it. I've won a major fellowship for my poetry and recently won a $5,000 prize for another poem (although the check hasn't gotten here yet--fingers crossed it's in the mailbox when I get home from work), and i've published in a few places. Right now I'm putting together my manuscript (again!) for book contests.
Congratulations, by the way-if I haven't said that yet(!) Sweet butter.

I actually write the plays rather quickly, usually in less than a week and in a few instances one or two nights. The idea is, I guess, you are either ready to tell the story or your not.

And you are right about the help of instructors. I had a lot(relatively speaking) of fans early on, but the fact that the biggest ones where professors had almost everything to do with the success. They pimp the writing more than I do. (In fact, I wouldn't even be a playwright if it wheren't for a professor calling me up at my job over the summer and asking for my first play)

I should qualify that success-I do have a volume of plays that have been produced, and I have recieved income from those plays, but right now I pay the bills by crewing on movies and television shows (mostly reality shows, sadly) because the money doesn't flow all that freely from the writing. Yet.
My play got in absically because my English teacher, a member of Grassington players, was looking for a new play for them to do. They had a meeting and nobody had anything half decent so he gave a me a call and basically asked if I could write a play script.

I said I could and so i wrote one about the street children of Peru/Brazil (The location isn't revealed) and there life and hardships. it folows to kids from abandonment to death, at the hadns of the infamous 'Kill squads.' It was good and powerful mainly becuase It was an issue I felt strngly about.

I was wondering what you guys think of a little thing I thouhgt up of last night, it's a kids story, aimed at people like my sister, 12 year olds, anyway.

And lead us not into temptation

My farther failed on that one, okay so he didn’t actually lead anyone into temptation but he certainly fell for it. He was the perfect guy other than that, perfect record not one stain, except for one night with a woman. The Temptation. My mother.

My fathers name was Gabriel, a nice name I can here you thinking but unfortunately his second name was angel, my surname now. Rearrange them and you can see what I mean. My Farther. The angel Gabriel.

It’s the wings that where most difficult, angels are basically like humans ,a few differences, immortality, two hearts, lighter bone structure, but nothing truly noticeable. Other than the wings I mean, there a bit hard to hide. The problem first arose when my mum was having her ultrasound, where clearly showed a pair of tiny wings on the baby, the doctors called it a equipment malfunction, but my mum new the truth.

So a home Birth was the only option, great way to enter the world, my mum by dad and a load of angelic midwives. But then the real problems began, wings are hard to hide, it’s like having another chest coming out of your shoulder blades. Large cloths are the only option, and I mean large. I’m actually quite a thin guy but my jumper is around my knees and I look weird, really weird, like the hunchback of Notre-dam.

P.E was a problem, once I started school, I couldn’t exactly get changed could I, not with a whacking great pair of wings sticking out of my back. So I have a permanent sick note, kinda kills of sports that does. Not that I’m bad at sports-a advantage of being a angel is superior reflexes and skills.

Then the big trouble broke out-the story of my life, big trouble. Basically God found out what had been going on, that my farther had a secret half-angelic son hidden behind his back. I was five at the time,. Needless to say God wasn’t to happy about me, his first instinct was to kill all four of us, my sister was about to be born, but my farther pleaded for our lives. So God changed his mind.

i occasionally write poetry. its kinda bad but more often than not its been nothing more than an emotional outlet. see some of my stuff here http://www.hlj.me.uk/mywriting.htm

i was also writing a story/novel a couple of years back... an interesting mix of sci-fi and fantasy, action and drama... got up to about 60 pages or so (editing as i went along) over about 3 years of on-and-off writing, but have barely looked at it of late :(
want to get back to it but its hard to find the time/willpower to get back into it properly
the plot was good though... well, it had no real plot yet (still devising it) but the 'world' was good - the frame and characters, the technologies, the basic premise of the whole story, the backgrounds of all the characters and hundereds of years of history mapped out in my head... the few people i talked to about it (and the one person i ever let read anything) all said it was a great idea :)

now if only i could actually get round to writing some more :headbang:

My problem with writing a nove is that my writing tails off in the middle, the begiunning and end ar elalways good and the idea sound, but the middle gets a little boring. That why I'm sticking to short storys.

Just curious but are there any writers in the forum?

More specifically is there anyone who considers themself a writer? Whether they actually do it for a profession or just dabble on the side. Feel free to post any stories/poems you may have written.

As for myself I started writing poems around two years ago and I'm pretty good at it, or so I'm told. Recently I've been working on some stories but they're a little more personal.

My thoughts post-911 - not what most of the left-leaning people here would think of when they think of Deep Kimchi...

I think that I gave it more thought because I actually saw one of the planes hit (the Pentagon).

I spent some time at my daughter’s elementary school, which despite its presence in a fairly good neighborhood is probably as old as I am. I met her music teacher. She had gathered two classes of vocal students, separated by age, and gave private lessons in piano and a few other instruments. Things wore out, things atrophied; and yet so much of what I remember from my own experience in elementary school remained, essentially intact.

“Come see my primary chorus, John. You know, the little ones really have better voices than the older kids; it's always that way. Your can eat lunch with us, and then you can stay and listen till you get bored.” And so I lunched with them, and stayed and listened. The children arrived promptly, in clusters, obviously experienced pupils—feral out of doors, noisy but tractable as soon as they crossed the threshold. It was true that their voices had not yet lost the sweet clarity that their souls, being human, had never had; and she had schooled them into a lusty approximation of accuracy and order. They sang “John Peel” and “Auld Lang Syne” and “I've Been Workin’ on the Railroad.” They sang, pristinely as an inspiration:

Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow,
Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow.
Do you, or I, or anyone know
How oats, peas, beans, and barley grow?

I stayed longer than I had expected. They sang “America the Beautiful.”

How long since I had heard that song, or any such song? At least a few years, it must have been. I tried to recall some real or plausible last occasion from my disintegrated memories of the Time Before, and could not. And since that lost last time, my ears had been filled with the sad, wild anthems of the sterile plateaus.

Oh, beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved,
And mercy more than life.

And suddenly a real beauty trembled vainly up from the foolish words, and I was homesick, soul sick, for those alabaster cities that had never been and would never be. There people lived whose right name was patriots, and fed upon the golden wine of pride, the snowy bread of love. But there had never been a past from which that future might have come.

Had there been? I had been a child, too young to do anything real, too young really to understand; and when I began to understand, and to be old enough, it was too late for doing.

Here's a little story I wrote for a friend(making the conscience decision to write it in a week). The way I write could be construed as childish in places and I fully acknowledge that. I love childrens' literature. All 'mistakes' are intentional. Enjoy!

The 'Pencil' Inside


I – The Symbol of the Gods

With a little difficulty, Jonnie went about tying his shoelaces. His hands, swollen from the previous nights bare-knuckle fist-fighting tournament, barely functioned. After literally twenty-nine minutes his laces were tied. Unfortunately for Jonnie his shoes were on the wrong foot (both of them).

“Gosh darn it!”

Jonnie’s exclamation was so abrupt and violent that his pet terrier (also named Jonnie – though he preferred Jonathon) went into cardiac arrest, slipped on a banana peel and landed anus-first onto one of Jonnie’s sharper pencils (yes, the point was facing upwards!). The shock alone should have killed Jonnie. But it didn’t. He lay on the floor of Jonnie’s musky bedroom in a near-epileptic fit; drool foaming up from his mouth and blood curdling around his pencil-stricken rectum.
After an exhilarating trip to the animal doctor Jonnie was right as rain again! But sadly Jonnie would never be the same. You see, in his hurry to rush poor Jonnie to the animal doctor he had been forced to leave both his shoes on the wrong foot. This had caused his foot to now stick outwards. Jonnie now walked like a penguin (not because of the shoes, you understand, but he thought he might do this to cheer Jonnie up).
Arriving home, Jonnie opened the door using one of his more colourful keys (this one was yellow), closed it again and then kicked the door down.

“Yeah that’s right. Show that sonofabitch who OWNS this house!.”

Ejaculated Jonnie.

“You door! You Bastard! You’ll pay for this! Forcing me – me – to use one of my more Colourful keys to open you! Take this! And this”

The door simpered, attempting futilely to crawl away.

“Where the fuck you goin’ bitch!”

Inquired Jonnie.

“Stay out of this you dumb fuck or I’ll slay your puny ass!”

Retorted Jonnie.

“You aint got the balls you half-witted nincompoop!”

This remark threw Jonnie over the edge. Again. He was literally falling from a metaphorical edge. This confused Jonnie, and sent him into a Hulk-like rage. Tearing his blouse and ripping apart his sexy lingerie Jonnie stood stark naked – save his shoes – in front of Jonnie, like a boiling pot of lentils. Jonnie’s mother oft remarked that her son resembled lentils - something Jonnie secretly loathed (he dare not tell her though as she would have his eyes) though was very fortunate as it prevented the previous simile from being mere nonsense, like a vast elephantine acorn gliding over gilded chinamen…
Jonnie was ready to create war. Before a battle it was customary for them-who-be-named-Jonnie to sing an ancient war song. It went thusly…

(to be sung to the tune of greensleeves)

O evil force
ye have done wrong
and now I shall sing a little song.
I will fight you
and you will fight m,
and later on I’ll go have tea…
But not with ye!

I shall stab ye in yer eye so dark
o yea it shall all be a lark!
I shall tear off your goolies with my hand
and mail them back to yer foreign land.

The song ended and Jonnie, now so full of rage that he pulsated like a swarm of wasps, threw his lute in Jonnie’s face. This was a common tactic amongst them-who-be-named-Jonnie. Luting , it was called. Apparently stunned, Jonnie was stationary, unblinking, his mind like a baby’s face after eating a plate of spaghetti: really messy. He had had a really messy mind, what do you do? Jonnie ran at Jonnie, vibrating his limbs in a queer fashion until Jonnie’s ear shattered into at least a zillion pieces.

“Oh no!”

Jonnie observed. His mind was now calmer, catching Jonnie off guard, Jonnie took the upper hand. Jonnie carefully pulled a revolver from his anus and swung it round to meet Jonnie. The barrel touching Jonnie’s knee.

“Hey baby, you come here often?”

The barrel inquired, sleazily.

“Oh! Get off me you awful thing! Oh! Oh!”

The knee flapped about like a bird of some description, frantically trying to escape the barrel’s grip.

“It’s over Jonnie”

Declared Jonnie.

“Why don’t you just hand over your knee and we’ll say no more about it huh? You go your way, I’ll go mine.”

Jonnie’s eyes bulged. His anger was unlike that of any normal boy.

“Never! I’d rather die that give you the satisfaction you died-up gerbil ****!”

Jonnie’s trigger finger tensed ever so slightly. The barrel chipped in:

“Shoot the rude fuck!”

“Shut your goddamned mouth or I’ll plug you too. Bastard.”

“You stoopid! I’m the only one you CAN’T shoot you stoopid canine ****! You fucking anal dripping fuck piss shitting bat **** vegetable bastard dog! I fuck you all, fuck you all! You hear me fuck!?”

“Shuttup shuttup!”

Jonnie pulled the pencil from his rectum and jammed it straight down the barrel’s mouth. He now pointed the gun at Jonnie’s eye and squeezed the trigger. Backfired. The barrel exploded, flying shrapnel missing Jonnie’s body by centimetres. Out of Jonnie’s eye ran blood and pus and all other kinds of liquid shining incandescent. Blues, reds, yellows, pinks; the liquid rainbow ran down perfectly until it hit the ground and Jonnie’s shoes with a phloosh.
Jonnie was down but he was darned if he was licked yet! Motionless, he stood and looked at the fragments of his melted eye on the ground.

“Father…”

The pieces of eye, struggling to hold onto what little life it had left called out to Jonnie, whimpering like a wounded feline. Jonnie turned his attention to Jonnie. Then to the eye still simpering and gasping ‘father…’. Then back to Jonnie. And back to the eye again…
After an agonising period Jonnie triumphantly rode to his feet and picked Jonnie up, high above his head. He lifted him and threw him exaltedly into the massively deep electric shaft contained in the Death Star. Wheezing, he collapsed onto the ground. The eye got a little better.

II – Further Down the Rabbit-Vole

Years passed and Jonnie largely forgot about his pet terrier. He had not replaced him, not because he felt he was irreplaceable but that he had made a decision which was to never communicate with, or even glance at another living creature again, so traumatic was that fateful eve. His eye had made a full recovery albeit a smallish hole at the centre (he didn’t mind) and now lived in Jonnie’s brain.
Jonnie now lived in a secluded forest in an unknown country. It was difficult to avoid all the beasts residing there (especially the insects). In fact this task proved to be impossible. Jonnie had learnt this from day one and so had taken the necessary precaution of RABIDLY TEARING OUT HIS EYES DIRECTLY OUT OF THEIR SOCKETS (and other places…) AND THROWING THEM INTO THE DEEPEST LOCH HE COULD FIND. This was understandably difficult now given Jonnie’s predicament.
At first this life was difficult for Jonnie, he knew not what plants to eat and where the edible ones might be. He frequently fell into muddy puddles. But Jonnie, being a strong-minded bastard had developed a system. He did not need to even move. He first ate a couple of plants and drank a couple of litres of water. Then, he sat under a large tree so to shade him from the suns nasty rays. When the time came to excrete his food he did so, but kept the excretions for later consumption. He was able to drink the urine by inserting his penis into his mouth (an easy task for him, as he had an extremely large penis). The system worked well and Jonnie had been living this for a good few days until one Tuesday morning. No excretion. Until later that day. Phew.
Though Jonnie thought he was alone and would be undisturbed in this state he was not. Many animals observed him (the insects much less, but when they found the time). In particular the squirrels would congregate a few metres away from him and make disgusting jokes about the state of Jonnie’s mothers ****. They were like that.
Jonnie’s life was one was of misery and boredom. Or at least he’d like to tell himself that. He talked loudly and brashly, holding epic conversations about the state of the world as he imagined it. In his mind the world was a technological wonderland, run by charming pixies with devilishly charming machines and the doors were kept under strict control. He loathed doors unashamedly. It was his passion he supposed, his hobby. He excelled in it and could be named the worlds most devoted hobbyist if there were any need for such a title. At least a quarter of his day (including sleep- that’s when he really laid into them) was taken up by his rants on doors.

“Doors today, doors yesterday, doors tomorrow. It doesn’t matter, they were born bad. From the first day. I don’t even know who invented such a diabolical device but he musta been a real sicko. A real man-hater. Outlaw ‘em I say. No OK OK that’s too much. I’m sorry (he would never go too far) just keep ‘em under control. Please.”

And so it went on day after day, night after night. At times he thought he may be going mad, but then realised that a boy in his position had a right to be a little mad. In fact, a boy in this state must be completely insane! So it’s OK if I’m mad. I am mad. But no! That can’t be a bad thing.

It is.

For three and a half weeks Jonnie had kept his system. It had worked well he had thought. No communication and no sight of anything. On the Thursday on the fourth week of his new life he thought about deafening himself, leaving only his inner monologue. He was often distracted from his door-rants by the rustling of bushes or the sound of a passing bumblebee. This could be the perfect solution. But, late in the evening, just as he was sharpening two sticks while quenching his thirst a familiar voice entered through his ears.

“Dear Yahweh, here he is.”

His mother. He continued sharpening the sticks.

“Pick that bastard up.”

His father. He continued sharpening the sticks.

“We’re here to take you home son.”

The words floated around in his mind and quickly dissolved. A muscular hand grabbed Jonnie’s throat. Squeezed it tight. Air trapped inside him – he wanted to expel it! Then take it back in! And expel it again! Jonnie could be rather childish (understandably) and hated it when somebody ruined one of his games.
Jonnie’s father throttled Jonnie until he passed out and subsequently died.

“I don’t understand.”

Who was the mother addressing? I should know…

“Look, that sentence about Jonnie’s dad throttling Jonnie- it was ambiguous! I can’t tell from it who’s died!”

The mother, obviously distressed calls out to her creator in a vain attempt to acquire the knowledge she so badly wanted. For days she roams the forest aimlessly.

“How did I even find Jonnie? He lived on an unknown country!”

Well, it’s still possible.

“You haven’t explained anything – your story is complete shit! It barely makes sense! Why would you give the two central characters the same name!? And you should’ve told the story of how we found Jonnie.”




















































III – The Story of How they Found Jonnie

Pure chance.




















































IV – The Power of Chance

A strange and mystical presence had entered the forest. A bat glided through the trees and touched the caterpillars. He ate some mice. The he went to sleep. It was a good day. The next day he found himself in a rather less cohesive situation. After his morning’s feed, he had accidentally flown over the river whilst looking for a new mate for the day and had caught his reflection; it being a beautiful summers day the river glistened with a strange and mystical glaze. Upon glancing down at the river he found out that he appeared not to be a bat at all, but was actually an unusually small commercial airplane. On his side read Gringus Travel, and in smaller print it read: ‘Getting you where you might want to be’. He pondered on this and, while he did so landed perfectly on an unusually small runway.
Just as thoughts like ‘Who am I?’ and ‘Can can I think?’ entered his mind a fully grown fox leapt on him and tore off his wings. The bat screamed inwardly. The fox played with the wings a little, got bored, and left. The bat was dying. He heard a tinny little voice in the chasm of his skull…

Ladies and Gentlemen I regret to inform you that this aircraft is no longer suitable for flight. Everybody at ‘Gringus Travel’ apologises wholeheartedly but hey! You might want to be here…

A little flame appeared somewhere near the planes tail.

KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPFFFRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

The fragments of airplane-metal settled on the ground, in trees and in some poor animals’ skulls. They turned from a dirty white-grey colour to clear. It appeared they were melting. The pieces dripped from the trees and skulls. One small badger whom had a smaller fragment lodged in his Precentral Gyrus scooped up the liquid in its paws and danced around a nearby birds nest wibbling like no other. The pieces shrunk. They shrunk so infinitesimally tiny that everyone forgot about them the second that they lost sight of them (animals are like that).

And then…

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH……………………….BLLAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In an instant the world turned upside down, inside out, up down, round and round, back, forward, sideways – it imploded and inevitable exploded – every atom separating and in almost PRECISELY THE SAME TIME INSTANT it reformed exactly as it was before. Except now Jonnie and his dad were both alive, and there was a huge hole in the earth, and the sea was now a pinky-grey colour, and Jesus was still alive and was the Prime Minister or Gongowa and a country named Gongowa existed. Everything else was the same. Well, I didn’t do a really thorough check but I’m at least 90% sure that everything else is the same. Except donkeys now like tuna a little better. 80% sure.

V – A Dialogue (a Digression)

The world had never seen anything like the world exploding and reforming again and so was understandably a little shocked. So too were the scientists, some of whom lived on the earth. The big, special important ones got together in a big special important room to discuss the issue. There are three.

Scientist 1: Hello everybody, how is everybody doing today?

Scientist 2: Deespenze veeth formalities Fritz! Do you not remember zat I seenthesized your mother unt had mine vay vith her?

Scientist 3: Ja Fritz, get on vith eet – I need to go home unt clean my test-tubes Ja?

Fritz: Alright scientists. We are gathered here today…

Scientist 3: Eets not a vedding. Preeck.

Fritz: I have asked you to jo…

Scientist3: Preek

Fritz: Please, scientists.

He waits for silence.

Thank you. Now as scientists we never expected this to happen.

Scientist 3: Ve nefer predeected eet.

Scientist 2: I deed.

Fritz: In any case, it’s going to look bad for us… People will start to be suspicious of science. We’ll go the way of the alchemists and astrologists. We need damage control here people.

Fritz gets up on the big science table and does a little science jig.

Scientist 2: Vat he say?

Scientist 3: Somezing about zee cabbage he stole or zum zuch nonsense.

Scientist 2: zzzzzzzz

Fritz: Give me a hand with this, guys.

Scientist 3 gets up on the table and lifts Fritz off – they both sit on comfy science chairs.

Scientist 2: Vat ve need to do eez go out unt keel zee unbelieverz. Ve veell control zem through fear.

Scientist 3: I like vat he say

Fritz: No, please, we are men of science. Can we not think of a more rational solution?

Scientist 3: Like vat? Steal zum more cabbages huh? You are reely one to talk you are! You thief! You call yourself a scienteest?

Fritz: Let’s put it to vote. All in favour say aye.

Scientist 2: To vat? Stealing cabbages?

Scientist 3: I second zat

Scientists 2 and 3 leave for the local grocers. Fritz pushes a little pink button on the science chair. Two other scientists are ushered in by laser-gun toting robots.

Fritz: Scientists – the time is upon us! TOTAL NUCLEAR WAR AGAINST THE UNBELIEVERS!!

Scientist 4: DISSECT THEM!

Scientist 5: ANALYSE THEM!

Fritz: Scientists – break!

VI – The Pencil Inside

While the scientists plot diabolically, Jonnie had inexplicably found himself in his dank, grey little room trying with great difficulty to tie his shoelaces. Something was different. He couldn’t put his little finger on it but since the world has simultaneously disintegrated and reformed he had felt… odd. Well, with an event so transcendental how could he not attribute his queer state to it somehow?
Trying the best he could to ignore these irregular feelings he concentrated on his shoelaces. He found the task considerably relatively difficult as he had never been taught how to. His father, Igor, largely ignored his duties to his son as he was preoccupied with his profession: golfing. Jonnie’s mother, Bert, ignored his for no reason whatsoever.
Jonnie was impatient, very impatient. His pet terrier reassuringly barked in his face.

“Bark! Bark!”

Mused the terrier.

Jonnie had had enough. He threw his shoes across the room and shouted profanity and difficult-to-understand words at his little doggy. Jonnie furiously stormed out of his room and made raging motions towards the stairs. A pink pencil lay in his way. He arrogantly stood on it, the pencil turned and Jonnie slipped. He fell down the spiral staircase – thwacking his cranium on every wall he encountered. His mother walked idly by, urinated in her underwear and fell to the floor in the adjacent room, wibbling. Jonnie was still conscience.
Jonnie was still conscience. He was paralysed. Not one limb could move. Or could they? Yes they could. He rose from the ground with the elegance of an ape on steroids and body-slammed the wooden front door. It swung open, coming into contact with Igor – catching him in the corner of his eye. He went down, bleeding through the concrete; blood seeped into the soil an deeper.
Jonnie ran for no reason at all. He ran simply because he could. The terrier following him always. For minutes and seconds they ran – they ran through the park, past the post office and into the bank (on the spur of the moment Jonnie had decided to hold-up a bank: he planned to use the terrier as a deadly weapon). The inside of the bank was not there, the outside was there – this had given him the impression that the inside was also there but it was not. Instead of a bank there was an indescribably (at least by me) enormous hole. With an unbelievably large pink pencil protruding from its center.

“This is unusual”

Quipped Jonnie nonchalantly. And indeed it was. After a little staring and a lot of glaring, a rancid, pinkish apparition appeared before Jonnie and the terrier. It looked a little like him.

“Jonnie….. you are Jonnie….”

Half-stated, half-asked the ghost.

“Why heck, sure I’m Jonnie”

Jonnie flanked right back.

“Jonnie… listen to me…. You must put the dog on the pencil… the dog must be on the pencil…”

“Why the shuddering plop would I do something like that you stinking transparent cretin!”

“Jonnie must have the pencil inside… or all will be lost…”

“Lost?”

“In a terrible nuclear holocaust…”

“How will this prevent it?”

“I don’t know… but it miiight….”

The apparition disappeared as Jonnie thought to himself that this could not be mere coincidence. Then he realised that he’d do it for kicks. He lifted the terrier, it struggled a bit. He shoved copious sedatives down its mouth. The dog went limp.
Onto the pencil, Jonnie placed the terrier – rectum first. A blinding light filled the room. Outside, the scientists stared agog through the two-way mirror. The light seared through Jonnie, his body flowed like liquid through the concrete floor, seeped through to the soil and deeper. Outside, an audience cheered, applauded and laughed gaily. Finally the show was over…

THE END