Creative Writing Thread II

[RedAnarchist]

We used to have one, but it seems to have gone.

This thread is for general creative writing - poems go in the poetry thread.

Edit (Mujer Libre): We've now decided that this thread is for prose and poetry- so go for it Revlefters.

[Mujer Libre]

I was considering broadening the definition of the poetry thread to include creative writing in general. It makes sense considering that poetry is fuzzily defined anyway.

What do you (and others) think?

I'm reluctant to add another sticky because I feel that there are too many, but if nobody minds one more I can pin this too.

[Sentinel]

I'm reluctant to add another sticky because I feel that there are too many, but if nobody minds one more I can pin this too.

Here's a link to the old poetry thread. Now I'd lock and unpin it, people can read it through the link if they wish to and contribute their own stuff here. Perhaps I'd restart some of the other stickies as well if I was you; it makes loading times go faster.

I'd love to hear some fresh poetry by revlefters, but am unfortunately not capable of creating any of my own.

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by Sentinel@May 28, 2007 05:43 am

I'm reluctant to add another sticky because I feel that there are too many, but if nobody minds one more I can pin this too.

Here's a link to the old poetry thread. Now I'd lock and unpin it, people can read it through the link if they wish to and contribute their own stuff here. Perhaps I'd restart some of the other stickies as well if I was you; it makes loading times go faster.

I'd love to hear some fresh poetry by revlefters, but am unfortunately not capable of creating any of my own.

Thats probably best - the poetry thread is 17 pages long so we need a new one. I would agree as well with the idea of broadening the thread to include all creative writing.

[Sir_No_Sir]

Look at what you’ve been able to do. Are you proud? Do you think you’re a good person? With your suspensions, your scoldings, your report cards, our screaming matches. Look at the fucking therapist’s office. Why do you even make me go there?

Is it because I dare to dream? I dare to think about what could be, so I’m weird? There’s something wrong with me? No, I don’t think there is. There’s pretty obviously something wrong with you fucking guys. You’re all satisfied, satisfied with what you have. Big offices, “security”, “morals”, and “success”. Is that what life is to you? Have you ever even fucking thought about what life should be? Or do you just ask the question and pose a fucking fake answer?

Have you ever cared? Have you ever even been happy? Have you ever fucking lived? Maybe you have, and maybe The Breakfast Club was right. Maybe your heart really does die when you grow up. Is it because you’ve been so goddamn jaded? Is that why you turn around and punish me for thinking about what could be? Or maybe it’s because you’ve never lived, and you don’t want to see me do it either? You don’t want to see me die-not physically-but you do want to see me whither up like a dead rose, don’t you? Like a parasite, just hanging on the earth, contributing nothing, just sucking the life out of anything I touch?

Well, my god, have I got news for you! I won’t be another face in the crowd! I won’t be a statistic, and no one else should be either. Together, we can build something so amazing. We can fix the wrongs in our lives! But how can we expect to work together as a human race, when you can’t accept who I am? You hate everything I stand for, don’t you? You hate the idea that together, we can build something far greater, far more concrete then this shambled housing project we’ve inherited! We’re learning. Slowly, but surely, we’re learning what you want, and what we need, and how opposite they are. Two polar opposites. You want us to be a lawyer, a salesman, a doctor. All honorable professions, but not for those who find honor in the law. Not honorable for those whow ant nothing to do with selling overrated crap. Not honorable for those who find no honor in playing God. That’s the fucking problem. You want us to be what we aren’t. You’d rather make us destroy our lives and those around us with sleepless nights before exams, TV, videogames, sports. Why worry about your life as long as you can see the super bowl, a certain TV show, or pass a certain test? You want us to live day to day, for ourselves. You don’t fucking get it! We want to live for each other, for life! We don’t want forced relationships, of any kind. Not with you, not with our significant other, not with friends, and not with teachers. We want love to be full of life, and life full of love. I’d hope you’d join us. But then again, you never had what we wanted, or needed, or what made us happy, in mind, have you?

Let us live.

[Rage Against Right]

The Storm
A storm is nearing
Energy building in the heavens
A breeze of silence echoes over hill and dale
The world stops, and waits

The hum of thought stops the mind from the thinking
The world takes heed but we are oblivious
The warning signs are ignored but the mind ticks on
It has arrived

The journey begins
Shadows devour light
Silence devours sound
The sky devours the Earth

Into an abyss
We travel further down
Fire, brimstone are the myths true?
The illusion passes and we ride on

Ride on the sky
Straddle the rearing beast
Take hold the reigns and spur the demon on
Ride with giants, ride on, ride on, ride on

The unknown calls
The riders veer left, led by a sound unheard
They ride on the backs of instinct
They can smell it, they have reached the unknown

[Luís Henrique]

This has to go in pieces, for it is too long:

People of God, again: unmounted shepherds, exiled on their own land, promised and undelivered land, here they camp, in a mix of gipsy camping and church party. To sleep, to eat, to work, to struggle. And to pray. Just like now: what exactly is that they commemorate, under August's shy sun? A saint's day, memories of other fights, other campings? Why does the people gather, while the priests celebrate what kind of mass?

And what is that dust over the small, curvy road of dirt? Who brings news, who is coming to join the people in Sunday dresses? Who cames, foreigner? Do you come in peace?

It's an automobile, a Santana Quantum, and it does not come in peace; it comes roaring under the boot on the throttle, making the brittle fly under the alucinated tyres; it comes directly in the direction of the crowd, it comes to kill.

The crowd hesitates a fraction of second, in disbelief; and then flees, opening a thread, like the Red Sea for the Jews; men, women, children, the elderly, quitting from the front.

Only a small body does not find, or doesn't want to, the way of flight; the body of a small woman with deep blue eyes, that meets the murderous metal, equally blue, at the speed of a hundred miles per hour, and swirls in the air, already lifeless, open arms when it falls over her comrades, the last hug of a hurtful love: that of Catarina Pisan.

Luís Henrique

[Luís Henrique]

The automobile turns on itself: the hunt is not over; and then, when again pointed against the people, it coughs, it chokes, it stalls, as if the metal carcass, now dented in the front part, left light broken, could understand what is going on better than the man that sits at the steering wheel, and stays there, strangely fragile, taken by imense abandonment.

Two instantaneous circles form, one that verifies the inutility of any effort in favour of the open eyes reflecting sky, over the red earth soaked in blood, other that gathers around the repentful machine, ot take notice that the murderer is a well known merchant in Travessia dos Índios* and UDR member, and that is accompanied by a boy about ten years old, that now stares at the victims of his - father? uncle? - with eyes full of the fright of state of siege.

And now, what to do? Knives and swiss-knives quickly sprout out of as many hands, to reduce the tyres to rags, while the car coughs furiously, under the desperate attempts of its owner to bring it back to life. What do you do to a man who throws an automobile against a crowd, what do you do to someone who brings a child to a pogrom, as to a picnic? Eyes turn around, moved by habit, in search of the priest; but there will be no one to take responsibility for them: ostensively, the figure dressed in black shows them his back, over the improvised pulpit: God's representative will not judge his people if the the sand of Encruzilhada das Almas** acknowledges today the weight of still more a corpse.

* Indians' Ford
** Souls' Crossroads

[Luís Henrique]

Lourenço Topolski gets near the automobile, moving the comrades from the way with his huge hands, big even for someone who, like him, is almost six and a half feet tall. Known for his physical strenght, but not exactly for the brightness of reasoning, there he comes, now already close to the car. The others feel a kind of dizziness, seeing that he holds his revolver; which he grabs by the barrel.

- Thou art very lucky, tchê* - he exclaims, perhaps more to his comrades than to the livid worm that shrinks inside the Santana - that we are people, not a murderous beast like thou - and at saying it, hits the car's glass with the revolver's butt, which crackles in the characteristic way.

Lourenço pushes the broken glass to the inside, lifts the door's bolt and wide opens the car, to take the human rag out by the collar. He pushes the murderer's neck against the car's roof; another man would perhaps feel the temptation of revenge; Lourenço just would like to know how to speak, to be able to transform into words the despair, the mourning, the angst, his and the others'. But how to say everything that is stuck into their throats, from this last murder, through the torment o all those years in search of land, to all the nightmares that spread over the past centuries and three continents, failed revolutions in Germany, famine in Italy, foreign invasions in Poland, death by starvation or smallpox in the Tapes and Kaingang villages, the brutal crossing of the ocean of Gege and Bunda slaves, how, and, after all, why? In the end, words have never been Lourenço Polaco** best friends, and, of course, while he stares at the Santana's owner, they once more forfeit him, except one:

- Dog.

* Southern Brazilian expression, meaning something like "you guy" (or gal, it's unisex).

** Pollack, derogatory term for Pole.

[which doctor]

This was something I wrote and posted on another forum, where it went unappreciated. For those of you who don't know, DMAE is a nootropic and I was curious as to its effects when insufflated because I couldn't find anything on the internet about it.

I sat hunched over on the floor with a card cutting the white crystalline substance. Music was pumping in the background and sweat was dripping of my nose. Before I knew it I had rolled up a $20 dollar bill, put it up against by nose, and inhaled the two fat lines. I threw my head back and savored the burn. Just a minute later I felt the drip and a salty taste on the back of my tongue which no glass of water could get rid of. My head came back down and I sat there staring at a Noam Chomsky book covered with remnants of white powder, a bottle of DMAE, and an empty gel cap. I did it. I was a pioneer. Was I the first one to snort DMAE? Perhaps not. Was I the first one to record my experience on the internet? Probably, at least according to google. I turned on the fan to help alleviate the summer heat and turned my stereo off. Minutes later my nose was still sore, it's a shame DMAE isn't a local anesthetic like cocaine.

[black magick hustla]

Morality of disaster
---------------
Today Santiago destroyed the universe.

Santiago turned his head around, staring joyfully at the mindless destruction surrounding him. The stained glass windows were broken, the gold was stripped from the altars, the statues depicting saints were demolished...

And the Christ that used to hang in the altar, suffering excruciating pain and asking for sacrifice from his followers?

He was beheaded.

Santiago was in ecstasy. Behind him, there were another dozen of young souls, eager for more devastation. Everyone of them was smiling, watching with awe their masterpiece, the obliteration, the manifestation of years and years of relentless moral pounding on their brains and on their guts.

All of them dreamed for this day. Before, they where anxiously waiting for the night everyone would have the guts to do this. Before, it seemed so difficult. Climbing the walls of the church, then entering through the little opening behind it... Yet, once they were inside, everything went so fluently. A bunch of degenerated teens with bats, bashing and smashing every little statue, every window, every altar....

Bashing and smashing God.

They were the well-behaved kids from Mexican, middle class families—always obligated to come every Sunday to mass, and to listen to the pathetic sermons of an old man that died the day he became a priest.

Gustavito, please comb well your hair. Ricardo, please polish your shoes, you don't want other people to see you like that! Armandito, don't sleep here at mass, what will the other people think about you?

And every time their parents would order them to comb their hair, polish their shoes, and stay awake at mass; each one of those kids would lower their head, nod, and stay quite, with the sour taste of impotence in their mouths.

However today it was pay-back time.

Santiago turned around to face the crowd of his followers—his new brigade of destruction. Everyone of them looked upon Santiago with a sign of hope in their eyes. Everyone of them, had at least broken something in the Church.

“Fuck God!” Santiago shouted with all his might.

“Fuck God!” the chorus of alienated teenagers energetically replied.

Santiago, the leader of the brigadiers, was the most special, and perhaps, most destructive of those alienated teenagers. He was the masterpiece of a conservative family, the perfect middle class, goody-two shoes specimen. He was the valedictorian of the best catholic school money could buy, he played cello at the local orchestra, and he wanted before, to be a famous surgeon.

His parents paid thousands of dollars to the specialists of morality to create a functional member of society.

And then, one day Santiago just snaps and sends everything to shit.

Santiago walks from side to side, like a pendulum, in front of the altar. He glares at each one of the brigadiers, scrutinizing with his eyes each one of their souls. He comes to realize that everyone of them, was miserable and weak till this day, for this day was the day of their emancipation.

“We are a generation of teenagers raised by warm milk, tradition, catholic schools, virginity, and God.”

Santiago paused for a bit.

“...and we joyfully reject all that! The only morality we now know is the morality of disaster.”

The teens experienced a moment of epiphany. Until now, they didn't realize why they enjoyed so much beheading Christ, throwing bricks against the invaluable stained-glass windows, cursing God, and demolishing statues of saints.

They came to this very important realization:

Once you are not afraid of Hell—once you kill God...

everything is possible.

[black magick hustla]

Luis Henrique, I really liked your story. I thought the description o the old woman dying was really moving.

What does the car represents? The bourgeosie and its relentless violence?

Was "Dog" an insult?

[Luís Henrique]

Originally posted by Marmot@June 08, 2007 08:54 pm
Luis Henrique, I really liked your story. I thought the description o the old woman dying was really moving.

What does the car represents? The bourgeosie and its relentless violence?

Was "Dog" an insult?

Thanks...

Catarina was a girl, though, not an old woman.

I think the car should remain unexplained, so that each reader can take their own conclusions; but yes, it is a class-driven murder, the UDR being the landlords' main organisation.

And yes, "dog" is an insult.

When I feel again in the translating mode, I will post the following.

Luís Henrique

[black magick hustla]

Originally posted by Luís Henrique+June 09, 2007 07:22 pm--> (Luís Henrique @ June 09, 2007 07:22 pm)

Marmot

@June 08, 2007 08:54 pm
Luis Henrique, I really liked your story. I thought the description o the old woman dying was really moving.

What does the car represents? The bourgeosie and its relentless violence?

Was "Dog" an insult?

Thanks...

Catarina was a girl, though, not an old woman.

I think the car should remain unexplained, so that each reader can take their own conclusions; but yes, it is a class-driven murder, the UDR being the landlords' main organisation.

And yes, "dog" is an insult.

When I feel again in the translating mode, I will post the following.

Luís Henrique [/b]

you dont need to translate it, i can probably read portuguese hah (i am mexican)

[OneBrickOneVoice]

The People's War is Invincible

The rebels leaned against the tree, the crumbled wall of a sweatshop
kneeled behind boulders on mountain tops,
crouched in fields of corns
he wiped his brow with his bandana,
she cleaned the wounds of her sisters and brothers
for as long as she could remember,
for as long as he could remember,
for as long as their ancestors could remember,
they had lived enchained, under the sole of a steel-toe boot,
like birds with broken wings,
and Larks locked in cages
they were tortured,
killed in the streets,
starved of life,
They worked their lives away
for scraps,
to live in the shantytowns of planet earth

She loaded her rifle...
he looks down his sights...

no more,
no longer will they take it...
They fight back from Palestine to the Phillipines,
from Nepal to Peru,
from India to Ireland,
the struggle lives on, the shining red star glows ever deeper

the people's war is invincible

[Bad Grrrl Agro]

Exploiting me for their own momentary pleasure
Something everyone's been doing forever
Nobody cares about how I am feeling
Just about me doing their bidding
They want to see
What they can get out of me
From that camera lens
And a series of akward positions
To former girlfriends and boyfriends
Who would abuse me to reach their ends
Emptiness
Loneliness
I'm a trophy boy
And when their done
They throw me away
After the fun

[RedAnarchist]

The sweet sounds that flowed in through the small window woke up him. He was confused as to what the sound was, and drawn towards it by the twin forces of curiosity and attraction, he stumbled out of bed, got dressed and walked out of the door into thge street, or at least what used to be a street. The once grey paving stones were now covered in death and violence, but nothing mattered more than the sound that entranced him, drew him away from the safety of his home and towards the old and derelict building which used to house the school. He climbed over the rusty fence and walked across the playground, still clearly marked with bright paint. He wandered towards the main door of the building and looked into the window into the dark hollow inside. As the door had not been locked for some time, he dared to enter and hard the sound even more clearly. It seemed to be coming from the hall, which was a huge room with few windows and was filled with old chairs and tables and some possesions the students had left behind. He concentrated on the corner from where the sound was coming from, his curiousity and attraction now burning a hole inside him as he approached. He clambered over a few tables and reached down to the floor, and picked up a device from which the sound was emanating. He examined the device and tried to recognise it, but the end came too quickly, and out from the shadows came the creature, snarling and growling. The man tried to run, but the device had started to melt into his hands, and it began to weigh him down. He desperately tried to attack the unwelcome creature with the device, but to no avail. It all went dark for him, and the sound stopped suddenly, sending the device crashing to the floor. As the sound started to warm up again, the creature dragged the corpse into the shadows and awaited his next meal.

[RedAnarchist]

Slowly created swirls of cloud
Floating across the dusky sky of the twilight
Silently I sleep beneath the fleet
Under the tree branch the slumber is set
And the moon shines down onto me
Warm reflections washing over

[Bad Grrrl Agro]

Banners of red
flying high
above my head
'til I die

for the man who can't make enough
to feed his family
for the woman held down
by patriarchy

for the workers in the factories of the city
for the workers in the fields out in the country

flag of red
above my head
bandera roja
bandera roja

[Saint Street Revolution]

So here we go again
Trying to prove that Punk's not dead
Everyone's a suspect, we're no longer friends
There's no community, there's no unity between us
Dividing scenes across the states

Your outlook's so outdated
Your outlook's...'77

Throw away your accents and your bondage jackets
You scream "ANARCHY!!" but won't begin to see
It not that we don't need a system
It's just that we need a better one
One that stands for you and me

Your outlook's so outdated
Your outlook's...'77!!!!


(Lyrics about how the Punk scene is the same shit, over and over. That "Fuck the System!!" stuff is really tiresome. I'm not talking bad about the Punk scene, it's just that it needs something innovative.)