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...and all this we do for Wayne.

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Success! And Thanks. [28 Jun 2006|06:24pm]

paxluvfelicitas
[ mood | contemplative ]

Um.  Hi.  This is Meg, by the way.

I don't know if anyone still reads this, but the story I wrote for the anthology in SFW just won a Silver Award in the Scholastic Art & Writing competition, and I just wanted to say thank you.  To Amanda, mostly, so if anyone has contact info on her, I'd appreciate it, but to everyone in the class too, for being wonderful and insane and making me think the story was good enough to enter it.  The story wouldn't have existed without y'all.  I hope you are well, and wish you luck in all your endeavors.

Thank you again.

1 forgot, but we all fall down

[19 Apr 2006|03:39pm]

heir2slothdom
[ mood | contemplative ]

I think this might be the first time I've posted here. Well, if anyone still reads this, here's the first draft of a really short story. Any thoughts?

First Love (A Box for Jake)
Imagine a room. It is a small room, cluttered and dirty, the bedroom of a tiny second story apartment. There are shelves against one wall. Books and knick-knacks line them. The only window has its curtains pulled back, illuminating the mess to a small degree. Clothes litter the floor, old jeans, worn out t-shirts, torn skirts. The bed takes up most of the remaining space. It is unmade and covered in pictures, letters, trinkets, all meticulously laid down in what appears to be some sort of logical order, although it is hard to tell for sure.
            The first item is a note, hand-written in scratchy pencil. “Sara,” it reads, “will you come with me to Prom?” It is signed “Jake.
            Next is a photograph of two teens, a boy and a girl, standing beside each other in front of a blue backdrop. They are not touching. Just standing there, smiling shyly in their nice clothes.
            Another picture follows. This time they are sitting, laughing. They are at a party. His arm is around her shoulder. To either side of them are more people, their friends.
            A locket lies open with part of the chain overlaying both photos. It is gold, small and fine. The pendant itself is a dragonfly, but there is nothing inside. A card stands up beside it. The front has a dragon with the delicate wings of a dragonfly. The inside is covered in the same scratchy writing as before. “Happy Birthday Sara! I hope you like the necklace. It took forever to find.”  There is a smiley face drawn here. “Our little joke. Remember? The dragonflies and the damselflies. But where are the knightflies? I guess we’ll never know. Have an awesome birthday anyways. Love you lots, Jake.”
            More pictures and letters. School, the park, Calc homework turned romantic note, the water-park, although they both look uncomfortable there. A burned CD titled For Sara. Movie tickets litter the entire bed.
            A large valentine succeeds the various papers. A heart, big and pink. XOXOXO A bouquet of long dead flowers covers any other message the card might bear. They are roses, some red, some pink, some white, but their color has faded and their dry leaves crackle delicately as a breeze stirs in the next room.
            A long note, perhaps a letter, is set slightly to the side of everything else. “Oh honey. I can’t believe he did that. I had no idea! But boys are like that- stupid. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing. ‘Still be friends.’ What sort of crap is that?”  It continues on for nearly three pages. There is no signature, only a scribble at the bottom, “Your bestest friend!” encircled in a lopsided heart.
            Light floods the room as the door creaks open. “Damn. You weren’t kidding. Your room is a mess.”
            “I know!” comes the answer from the other room.
            “Hey Sara. What’s all this stuff on your bed?”
            There is a pause, and then “Nothing. Just some junk from a couple years ago. I found it the other day when I was packing my closet. I just haven’t gotten around to trashing it yet.”
            “Want me to for you?”
            “No. I’ll get it later. Come back in here and help me shove this stuff into the boxes. I have to be out of here by next week.”
            “Ok.” The door shuts. Later, after the other girl has left, the corner lamp clicks on. Its dirty yellow light can be seen through the window late into the night, along with the silhouette of a woman. She is sitting on a bed, carefully wrapping memories in paper and setting them in a cardboard box. At the end of the week, in a tiny beat up car, the woman follows the moving truck with all her belongings out of the parking lot. In the passenger seat beside her sits a cardboard box. It is labeled Jake.
we all fall down

NEW STORY [29 Aug 2005|04:59pm]

sharpestthorns
[ mood | accomplished ]

Hello, loves. Your Samantha has slaved at the computer for the past couple of weeks, and produced a story. I emailed it to some of you I thought would be interested. If I didn't email you, and you want a copy, by all means, here it is. I would like feedback, if possible.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/sharpestthorns/15073.html

1 forgot, but we all fall down

Airplane Story [27 Aug 2005|06:00pm]
tutugal
[ mood | artistic ]

So this is just a little tiny nothing that I wrote while trapped on the plane coming home from Spain. It was like cattle car. Tres horrendous. Anyway, PLEASE critique as no one ever does and just beat me over the head with mean things about my writing. I beg of you!

Behind me sits a tired mother clutching her kicking baby. I giver her a look and am surprised to have it returned with an apologetic upturning of her lips. She hates being one of those parents who can't control their child. It is in her eyes. "I told myself I wouldn't be like this." she thinks. The baby keeps hurling itself at my seat.
To my right is the movie star. He is curled up with one leg underneath him and the other sticking out in the aisle. The tall, lanky kind who just can't fit their whole body into one tiny coach seat. Nursing a Bloody Mary, he reads Fortune Magazine (an odd choice for one of People Magazine's Sexiest Men Alive). He wishes he'd upgraded to business.
Next to the actor sits the token business man. He made this flight last week and will do it again next week. Business as usual, even at 30,000 feet, his laptop is propped on his knees, the tray table rendered useless by the thoughless young woman reclining in front of him.
Concentrating becomes nearly impossible as the baby starts to wail. The elderly woman several rows back compensates by talking even louder to her neighbor. Apparently crybaby behind me reminds her of her grandson James. Only 2 but so smart. Out come the pictures. According to her, Rome is nice but you can't beat West Palm.
It figures.

2 forgot, but we all fall down

[27 Aug 2005|11:42am]

corpo_fechado
Well, here it is. Hopefully I didn't miss any confusing errors. Weeeeee.

EDIT: AWWWW BASHIZAJIT!! NO INDENTS? *gnashes teeth, punches self in nuts* Well maybe it's endurable anyways. But I doubt it. Hmph. No freakin indents. What were they thinking? Also, fixed name thing and another little inconsistency (which was more aesthetically pleasing, but nevertheless an inconsistency and it must die).


Vance carefully smoothed the creases of the letter against the bed. Then he poured out the last of his heroin on it and separated the powder into two thin lines. He made sure not to obscure the words, so that he could read them again.

Vance,

The band misses you. We hired another sax player but he’s not the same. We don’t get the good jobs with him. At least talk to us, even if you aren’t coming back. Wendy wouldn’t have wanted you to act like this.

-Max

He kept reading it over and over, then looking back and forth from the letter to the black saxophone case at his feet. It was a final attempt to feel bad about what he planned to do next. After several minutes of this, he still couldn’t bring himself to care, so he picked up the phone on the table beside him and dialed the number of a local instrument store. [better name for an instrument store, common and proper?]
“Big Sammy’s Instruments, how can I help you?”
“Hey,” Vance replied. “Remember me? I called yesterday about the sax.”
“Well, I haven’t changed my mind,” said the clerk. “Eight hundred is the most we’ll give you for it.”
“What if it used to belong to Vance James?”
“Hmmm. Hold on a second.”
Vance heard the clerk conferring with someone else for a few moments. When he came back to the phone, he answered “Nine hundred.”
“What? That’s all?”
“You’re not gonna get anything better,” the clerk said. “He’s not as popular after he left the group like that.”
“Alright, alright.” Vance grimaced. “I’ll take it.”
“Just stop on by any time you like.”
Vance hung up the phone. He carefully rolled a dollar bill and snorted the heroine through it, one line in each nostril, and then lay back on the bed. It was cheap stuff, almost black with impurity, but it would put the craving off for a while. More importantly, it took his mind off of Wendi. When it was over, he’d sell the saxophone and get something with more punch to it. He lazily studied the texture of the ceiling, waiting for the high.

*

The crash was one of the worst things Vance had ever experienced. In between fits of drowsiness he vomited and wept. By the time it ended, night had fallen and it was probably too late to visit Big Sammy’s. He made a mental note to never buy from the same dealer again. Whatever he was cutting his H with was poisonous.
Vance’s gaze alighted on the carpet in front of his door. While he was in the bathroom, a letter had dropped from the mail slot. He picked it up, and turned it over twice to find that the envelope was blank except for the words “Master Vance James.” He opened it and unfolded the paper. Each letter in the message seemed to have been cut out of a magazine, and it took his mind a few seconds to adjust.

Mr. James,

I’ve got your woman. Bring $1000 cash to the alley near the middle of Laconia Boulevard at 11:00 tonight… if you ever want to see her again.

Vance’s jaw dropped. Then it quickly tightened, and his teeth ground against each other. Of all the cruel jokes, he thought. Of all the things the things to do to a man, who’d do that? It couldn’t have been someone from the band. They knew how bad her death had hurt him. They’d been at the hospital when it happened. But who? The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He checked his watch; it was ten thirty-two. Not too late to give the punk a lesson.
He walked to his dresser and pulled the clothes out of one of its drawers. Underneath them was a pair of brass knuckles, which he dropped into his pockets. As he turned to leave, a desperate thought ran through his head: what if it’s real? He shook his head. You’re outta your mind, motherfucker. But the thought had taken hold of him, as irrational as it was. If it were possible to have her back… He turned to the dresser again, this time to look at the old cigar box on top of it. The last of his money was in that box. It was about one hundred and twenty dollars. Not enough by itself, but maybe Sammy’s closed late. He stuffed the money into his wallet, picked up the saxophone, and was on the street.

*

The owner was turning off the lights and getting ready to leave just as he walked up to the store. Vance rapped quickly on the door. The man strolled over to the door and pointed to the sign on it.
“We’re closed,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Please,” said Vance. “I need the money.” He pointed at the instrument. The owner eyed him thoughtfully.
“I’ll give you seven hundred for it.”
“You said nine!”
“And I woulda given you nine. But it’s almost eleven o’clock at night now, and the other stores closed a while ago. A man’s got to make a profit.”
“Come on, man. I need nine hundred dollars.”
“Yeah, me too.” The owner’s expression was apathetic.
“Alright. Fuck you,” said Vance. “I’ll find someone else then.” The owner said nothing. Vance stormed off. Shouldn’t have told him I needed it, he thought to himself. He checked his watch. It was ten forty-five. He’d have to walk fast to get to Laconia by eleven. As he strode down the sidewalks he saw another instrument store, but it was closed.
The buildings on Laconia were filthy and decrepit; the road itself was cluttered with garbage. Vance observed that someone had jarred a bird’s nest out of a tree, and that the corpses of the three baby birds inside had been neatly arranged on the sidewalk, side by side. A sick feeling came over his stomach. He slipped the brass knuckles onto his left hand and kept it in his pocket.
He first saw the alley from across the street. It was narrow and dark; it seemed even darker than the night around it. For the first time, he was afraid, and it occurred to him that walking into a pitch-black alley in a bad neighborhood with a saxophone case in one hand was not something that sane individuals did—never mind trying to ransom a dead girlfriend. He laughed nervously to himself and began to step back. “Must’ve been that bad H.” Then the sound of a gun cocking pierced the silence.
“Too late for that, kid,” said a voice near the entrance of the alley. “Get in here. Right now. And take that hand outta yer pocket.”
Vance could hear the blood pounding in his head. He slipped his hand free, careful to leave the brass knuckles behind, then walked into the alley. After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to make out the form of the man holding the gun. He was short, thin, bent over slightly, and seemed to be wearing a trench coat. For an instant, Vance thought he could see a network of wrinkles on the man’s face. Then the man made a quick, beckoning gesture with his gun and walked backwards into the alley. Vance followed him.
They walked like that for a long time, neither of them saying anything. The air became cooler as they progressed, and the light dimmed until Vance could barely see. At some point he began to feel like he was walking on a downward slope. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself, and found smooth stone rather than the texture of bricks. Finally, the dark form in front of him stopped and spoke.
“The money’s in that case?” the man inquired.
“Yeah,” said Vance. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”
“’In a manner of speaking.’ You playin’ games with me, buddy? The deal was one thousand cash and it better be goddamn cash.”
“It’s actually a saxophone. But it’s worth nine hundred dollars, and I’ve got a hundred in my pocket.”
What followed was the most nerve-wracking silence Vance had ever endured. Then his eyes caught a slight upward motion of the gun in the man’s hand, and he knew there was just a moment of indecision before it fired. He took advantage of it in the only way he could think of.
“It’s a quality instrument! Could go for more than nine if you found the right buyer. It’s got a good sound. I could show you.”
The gun didn’t lower, but after a pause the man replied: “Seems to me like it’d have to be a hell of a sound to sell fer nine hundred dollars.”
“It is. It sounds beautiful, man. You wouldn’t have any trouble selling it off quick, there’s plenty of people—”
“Play it, then. Let me hear it.” The man’s tone was not warm, but there was a hint of amusement now.
Vance crouched, undid the clasps on the case, and assembled the instrument inside. Then he slung the strap over his shoulder, stood up, and put the saxophone to his lips, his hands feeling around in the darkness for the keys. He hesitated for several seconds, too scared to move a muscle. He searched his mind for something to play, but all he could think was if I fuck this up I’m dead.
“Well? I don’t got all night,” the man said.
Vance cleared his mind and waited for his heart to slow and his hands to stop trembling. He could remember one piece now, the last one he’d performed before putting the sax up for good. It was a melancholy piece he’d composed when Wendy died. He took a deep breath. He didn’t think. He started to play. The first few notes were shaky, but as he got into the music, Vance felt his confidence return. He closed his eyes and imagined himself onstage with the rest of the band. The music became powerful and moving. When it came to an end, Vance stared back into the darkness of the alley without fear or expectation. He’d played it as well as it could be played, and now the matter was out of his hands.
After a pause the man sighed, then said, “Yeah. I can see how that might be worth somethin’. Put it back in the box and wait here.”
As Vance listened to the man’s receding footsteps and placed the instrument back in its case, a conflict brewed in his mind. This grouchy old shit isn’t gonna bring Wendy back to life he thought. I’m gonna get shot to death here, and who the hell is gonna come down this long ass alley to find me? I should get outta here before he comes back. Three times he turned around and took a step towards the entrance. Each time a voice in the back of his head commanded him to stop. What if she’s really here? If there’s just a possibility of having her back… nothin else matters. Not even the goddamn H.
Then he heard the footsteps returning. He furrowed his brow in concentration. Two sets. There were two sets of footsteps, two distinct rhythms. He held his breath. Can’t be, he thought, there’s no way at all. Two pairs of feet came to a halt in front of him.
“Here she is,” said the man. “Leave the sax on the ground and hand me the cash.”
Vance pulled the money out of his pocket and held it out. The man found his hand in the darkness and snatched the money away. Suddenly, the glow of a small flashlight pierced the gloom as the man counted the bills. The light was too small to illuminate the man’s face, but when Vance strained his eyes, he could see the outline of the second person. It was a woman. Just before the flashlight clicked off, she moved her head and the light reflected in her eyes. Vance knew those eyes. His heart began to beat faster.
“I’ve been pretty damn nice about the, eh, method of payment,” the man said. “You know I shoulda shot you down for breakin the deal. But now yer gonna listen careful and do what I say, or there’s penalties. Got me?”
“Yeah! Yeah, whatever you say.”
“Good. Here’s how we’re gonna do it. She walks behind you, and she doesn’t talk. You don’t touch her, you don’t talk, and you don’t fuckin look back. Soon as you do any of those things, she’s comin back with me.”
“Uh. Alright. I can do that.”
“Then get movin.”
Vance turned around and started to walk. He listened intently for the sound of feet behind him, and they came. It occurred to him that he couldn’t tell which one of them was following, but he pushed the thought away. Just a few minutes away. Then I’m outta here, and Wendy with me. God, how is this even possible? There’ll be time for questions later. Just a few minutes away.
After walking for what must have been half an hour, Vance was not out of the alley. He couldn’t even see the entrance yet; the darkness in front of him was solid and unchanging. Vance wondered how the man would know if he were to reach back and take Wendy’s hand, but couldn’t bring himself to risk it. He decided he must have walked faster coming into the alley, and quickened his pace.

*

Vance was still walking when morning came. Heroin withdrawal had set in and he was suffering with each step, but finally he could see soft light coming from the entrance. Relief overwhelmed him, and he sprinted until his strength ran out. Then his feet came to a halt. He stared forward, unable to believe what he saw. The entrance was not any closer. A frustrated grunt burst out of him. He willed his tired legs into a jog, and watched as freedom stayed exactly where it was. The gap would not close.
Many hours later he was crawling on his hands and knees. The sun’s light was strong now, but all that it illuminated was the unmoving rectangle. It couldn’t seem to pierce the darkness of the alley. It’s an illusion, he thought. Drug sickness. Can’t be more than a few seconds away. He kept crawling until dusk came, and then his body collapsed on its side.
Slowly, sadly, he pushed himself back onto his knees and looked behind him. The faintest ray of twilight fell down into the shadows and lit Wendy’s face.
“I can’t go,” he cried. “I can’t go no farther. I’m so sorry.”
“I love you Vance,” she said. “But you know you can’t bring the dead back. You can find’em if you know where to look, but you can’t bring’em back.”
Then the light was pushed away, and Vance with it. A powerful force slid him across the ground until he came to rest on the sidewalk. A foot stepped out of the alley and landed beside him. Vance looked up, and it was the man. Half of his wrinkled, skeletal face separated from the shadows, gazing at Vance. He lowered the saxophone case onto the ground.
“Don’t get any ideas, kid,” the man said. “It’s just worth more in yer hands than in mine.” Then he stepped back and was gone.
With his last ounce of energy, Vance made it to a payphone. He dialed the only number he could think of.
“Who’s this?” came the response.
“Max, it’s Vance.”
“Oh. Really? Glad to hear from ya, man. What can I do for ya?”
“I need you to pick me up. I’m on Laconia Boulevard.”

*

As the man walked silently through the alley with Wendy, a third pair of feet came in beside him. The hairs on the man’s neck raised, then he realized who it was.
“You drive a hard bargain, Charon,” said the second man.
“Dammit,” the first said. “You caught me, chief. Who told you?”
His companion laughed harshly. “Didn’t think I’d notice your absence?”
“Guess I’m in deep shit now.”
The second man was silent for a moment, then said, “No. I don’t think any punishment will be necessary. Just tell me why.”
“Well, it’s pretty quiet down here. Every once in a while a man gets to wanting a little music—“
“Ah. So it has nothing to do with the fact that he should have overdosed fatally today.”
“—and if he keeps a life out of yer hands, it’s a nice side effect.”
“Confess, Charon. You’ve gone soft. I remember in the olds days if they couldn’t pay the ferryman he left them on the shore. What was it you said? ‘Let’em wander the bank of Acheron for all eternity, the cheap fucks.’”
“Hold on now,” Charon replied, offended. “I took his money. I’m not all good. And you might as well confess yourself. You’d march every wraith outta the underworld to hear that music again.”

END
7 forgot, but we all fall down

Oh, ferrous ungulosity [26 Aug 2005|05:41pm]

corpo_fechado
Hi. I wrote something. I'm pretty disatisfied with it, but I thought perhaps some criticism and revision might make it as good as it was in my head. Still, it was more than five pages in Word. Which counts for something. In my strange little world. Where mankind is but a necklace for Obaloboodalang, God of Ranch Dip and Fear. I'll post it soon as someone shows me how to do italics up in this bitch.

Amen.
2 forgot, but we all fall down

[23 Aug 2005|07:28pm]
tutugal
[ mood | I have no friends....tear tear ]

Hello all you lovely people! Sad as I am not seeing you morning, noon, and night but c'est la vie. Have started a new community just for peeps from East Term 2 2005. It is called eastterm2_2005 (original, I know!) and please come post on it because I don't want it to be one of those communities that nobody posts on! Anyway, lurve you and miss you to pieces!!

Hanna

we all fall down

The Name-Game... [21 Aug 2005|02:39pm]

abigail_nicole
[ mood | productive ]

Since I've been telling a bunch of people about our lovechild Espn BBCB, I thought it would only be fair to share this with you guys. I came across it while I was reading Freakonomics by Stephen D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner, which I recommend to you all. This is just some interesting facts from this chapter, though the whole thing adresses the issues of names and their socioeconomic implication, focusing on the differences between black and white people and the education level of both groups and their parents. So yeah, it's deep, but it's interesting. And useful to know when naming characters.

The chapter I took it from is called A Roshanda By Any Other Name.

A young couple named Natalie Jeremijenko and DaltonConley recently renamed their four-year-old son Yo Xing Heyno Augustus Eisner Alexander Weiser Knuckles Jeremijenko-Conley.Collapse )

we all fall down

Glass House [17 Aug 2005|07:33pm]

abigail_nicole
[ mood | 0.0 ]

Sorry again for anyone who gets this if they read my journal. Everybody who hasn't friended me, DOOOO EEEET. And you're all babes.

My horoscope for today, since this reminded me of Today's Horoscope in the Pocket Muse:
PISCES: The universe will protect you from your worst desires and bring those who are good for you closer.

So. Thing. Draft Two. Abstract like the Jesus-story. Written in Katie's notebook at a weird church meeting thing I didn't pay any attention to because I was so engrossed in this.
Criticise away, please.
---

8eight slash 9nine slash 0oh dash 5five 7seven 2twenty 3three pee emm
ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahh, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahh, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah...

WORLD AT LARGE. FLOAT ON. Modest Mouse is carousels around my brain, overlaying everything everyone says.Collapse )

we all fall down

[08 Aug 2005|01:21pm]

spammityspam
This is almost completely pointless, but I watched the All-American Rejects' video for "Dirty Little Secret" last night and they completely ripped off PostSecret.

Seriously.

Unless they had permission, which they probably did, but SERIOUSLY.

Is nothing sacred?
1 forgot, but we all fall down

Random Notes [05 Aug 2005|03:24pm]

sharpestthorns
[ mood | Plain ]

'Allo, Loves. I'm missing you all, be asured, but I was looking through the Notebook (yes, the pretty little blue notebook I carried with me all the time at TiP, hereby referred to as "the notebook") and I found this little thing I did during freewriting. Now, you have to understand that I sort of belive in aura's. I've had some personal experiences with them, and I enjoy matching aura colors to people. Another thing is that I also belive in reincarnation (as a practicing catholic...cough). I was told once by somebody who looked into my eyes that I was "an old soul", meaning my soul's been reincarnated many times over. I also enjoy trying to guess roughly how old a person's soul is (young, med, old). So here is a list I did for all of you...if you've got beef with what I put for you...too bad. <3 Just to let you know, we'll go with the assumption that my soul is old, and people have cast my aura color as red, though I usually see it as a light purple...go figure.

Name - Aura - Soul Age

Charlotte - Crystal Blue - Old
Bethany - Lilac - Young
Amanda - Stormy Blue or Pink - Med
Rachel - Grass Green or Burnt orange - Med
Rye - wine colored - med/old
Emma - Bright blue - med/old (but older than rye or anna)
Anna - Magenta - med/old
Meg - Icy blue - old
Breandan - Green/gold - young
Vinegar - Ivory - old
Nicole - Grape purple - young/med
Olivia - Golden - med
Isha - indigo - med
Brad - Blue-silver - Old
Hanna - Crimson - young
Miranda P. - yellow-gold - old
Miranda B. - Dark Crimson or Purple - old (but younger than Miranda P or Seth)
Seth - Navy/Gray - Old
Maurine - Blue - med


Just thought you all might enjoy that. ^-~

Ja-
Sam

5 forgot, but we all fall down

Dear Catastrophe Waitress [04 Aug 2005|01:47pm]

abigail_nicole
Um. If anyone saw this on my journal, sorry for the repeat? Though I don't think anyone did. As a gesture of goodwill towards Charlotte, I post this, my latest attempt at fiction. Please, rip it to pieces. It's extremely first draft, if I continue it at all. And very short. Unusal for me, yes, I know.
Thanks to Vinegar’s (stfu_mofo’s) freewrite for the weird Jesus-guitar-playing-idea, and the biblical fanfiction.
Deja Entendu is a CD by Brand New, Dear Catastrophe Waitress is a CD by Belle and Sebestian that I've never actually heard, and Christopher Moore and Neil Gaiman belong to themselves. Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to me, which is why Moses has to bring it back when he gets done watching it.

Dear Catastrophe WaitressCollapse )
6 forgot, but we all fall down

[03 Aug 2005|09:48am]

spammityspam
[ mood | aggravated ]

Hello, darlings.

This is CHARLOTTE, the bitch of Short Fiction Workshop 2005 TIP East Term II and your lufferly maintainer. I would just like to say that writers don't really exist, but his orangetasticness makes me happy because I want to name the all-knowing cricket, if the characters in a bodice-ripper suddenly decided they wanted to be intellectuals it would look like someone puked on the typewriter, but everyone else thought there would be a magic fairy to clean it all up because almost everyone in Thailand is in the Mafia and I have the chest of a fine Romanian gymnast; however I think that Dr. Hooray is rotting and I am a Samurai with an endless display of pencil skirts whose narrator equals femi-masculine nothingness, so I miss my baby mamas; therefore Maureen doesn't believe in fingernails, but AMANDA just sneezed, so after the dance I'm showering in my jeans while lust fatigues my soul as I am taking a lover of "Rub-a-dub-dub, seven pigeons in a tub," since later I will run over my boyfriend with an eggplant truck and that's where you're concealing the cookies, so please do not juggle the textbooks yelling "zoom, zoom, zap, clang, zoom, zap, zap, zap, zoom, pow, pow, pow," because femme-bot two is a sexy badass killing machine, but that would be oppressive monochromatism, which would lead to a decline in creative spirit, which would lead to DOOM like the doom Breandan is facing because he ate the forbidden turtles (the ones that Emma killed) because Meg is scratching on my door/forehead right after Britney Spears ate French toast in, like, ten seconds along with the MoonPies she hides under her scoops of vanilla ice cream and those Chinese restaurant mints I like, since funny things happen to fish kept in fish tanks, and he's gotten past his differences with his horse, and I hope he will not die; unfortunately, this is not the correct beverage, but the important thing is I want to be a narwhal (like my brothers, who are plaid; my gauntlet chafes and gives me bruises because the capitalists are coming, hide your orifices or no one will love me because I am knock-kneed and eat lots of goatweed while frolicking in the quad [cue English accent, which is so sexy that it almost makes me ill] because I am a duct tape Amazon warrior princess who likes to drink and be manly and although this sentence contains language, time is so meaningless – arbitrary, kind of like English units that play the pickle (insert Nicole's identification penguin here) until I do laundry, much like your mother, who is not giving birth to Donovan the Antichrist, (who goes to daycare with Sam's child, Espn B-B-C-B)unlike Charlotte, who had his shirt, the red one, with the man on it, and if he proposed to me I'd have a hard time refusing him, because he is splattered on the ground like a dead bird – wah, I want my Maksim – and plus, he eats people and washes them down with figs, for perhaps sleep is a worm that crawls into peoples' heads and taps into their brains, creating semblances of life we call dreams in which Anna challenges you to laser ninja battles, which I will now describe through interpretive dance, which reminds me of them, who are all one person now, like the Mirandas; the bad guys were incarcerated and later incinerated while the vampires look for the Lucky Charms that sprung from Isha's athlete's neck that was cured with the laser beam of love, and seriously, it's no one's right to decide it's wrong to be a sexy killing machine, upon which he shouted "Shut up, you're destroyed," and if he were a pair of eyes he'd be pretty hot, but not good enough to have Rye's toasters on the Hellfire setting and then some inside jokes were born, for we should all be able to write in the language of our dreams, because anything less is a crime against humanity, and all this we do for Wayne.

WERD, snoogans.

6 forgot, but we all fall down

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