Post your writing here.

La Petit Mort

I want to see the writers of the forum represent, we already have too many drawing threads.

Nightmare

Midnight is coming
The hour hand is ticking
and ever slowly
the shadows come creeping.
They tear and They take
what you love the most.
They'll come and They'll eat
your dreams into dust.

the darkness is coming
and They'll take no chances
a chorus of demons
with screams everlasting.

The darkness is coming,
and they'll Take no prisoners!
The end will come now
with no one to listen

So sleep easy now,
and wait out for midnight,
it's quite a show
and you'll find yourself in it!

Come to the nightmare,
the screams and the howls.
Come to my nightmare!
find your way out!

Sail

Could this be a generalized "Post your writing" thread?

La Petit Mort

Your wish is my command.

Sail

Walker

Look it's a novel, maybe you should read it (you probably shouldn't).

La Petit Mort

Summary?

Walker

A clockwork android on a Hoth-like planet gets angsty, runs away from a fanatical religious group that is trying to kill him.

La Petit Mort

...I'm reading that.

What did you guys think of my poem?

Walker

It feels a bit uneven and clunky. I don't know much about poetry, but I feel like yours could benefit from a closer look at the meter and rhythm.

Take this bit for example:

So sleep easy now,
_ _ _ - _
and wait out for midnight,
- _ _ - - _
it's quite a show
- _ - _
and you'll find yourself in it!
- _ - _ - - -

A dash represents an unstressed syllable, an underscore represents a stressed syllable. As you can see, both the number of syllables and the rhythm of stressed and unstressed syllables is all over the place. I think it would sound better if you tightened it up and gave it a regular pattern. Maybe something like:

Rest easy now
- _ - _
just wait until midnight
- _ - _ - _
it's quite a show
- _ - _
and you're on centre stage!
- _ - _ - _

Keep in mind that almost all of my knowledge of poetry comes from the Internets. Odds are I'm full of shit on some point, but I felt trying to give some proper criticism.

La Petit Mort

Really? I read my poetry out loud to check for rhythm and it seemed just fine when I wrote it, maybe it's that I had a certain accent in mind while I was writing it, think of a mad hatter/insane circus MC vibe.

Walker

Really? I read my poetry out loud to check for rhythm and it seemed just fine when I wrote it, maybe it's that I had a certain accent in mind while I was writing it, think of a mad hatter/insane circus MC vibe.

In that case it probably would have been better if I'd heard you reading it. For me the rhythm didn't come across very well in text.

theknoxinator

I wrote a novel last November, which can still be found here. Currently in the long, long process of rewriting and fleshing out the whole story better.

Johannes Uglyfred II

Little vingette thing:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had come in out of the sun. Blue shadows draped the entryway, mingling with her own. She shut the door behind her, the rectangle of light cast from outside slimming until it was no wider than a finger, and finally vanishing. She could not turn the lock on the first try.

She continued inside, placing one foot in front of the other. Steadying herself, she reached the parlor. There were too many places to sit and she could not choose one. She tried the winged armchair, the cushioned footstool, the lounge pillows, the window seat. None offered the peace she sought. Her eyes caught the piano bench and she crossed to it, drawing trembling fingers across the smooth varnish. She eased herself down. Her breaths came like her footsteps, a slow succession. One breath. Two breaths. Three. Her heartbeat was not anywhere as still.

She stared at the piano before her. It neither beckoned nor encouraged. There were no promises of succor to fulfill by opening it, no guarantees. After all, ghosts dwelt within. She was not well-armed with happiness; unprepared, she may be flung to dark places. Knowing this, she traced the curve of the wood. Her face shone in formless reflection against the lacquer. The hazy countenance that should have appeared there, next to hers, was no longer there. Praying to be swallowed, she opened the keyboard's lid.

The keys looked up at her, thirty-six tar black and fifty-two naked bone white. They would not do this for her. She sucked in an escaping sigh, holding it hot inside her lungs. Captive breath was the only thing to fill her. She was an emptiness surrounded by pregnant air, heavy with potential for sound. One push, one motion, and the water would break. She pressed a key. Everything began.

Her fingers vaulted across the keys in a torrent of movement. Slower first, then accelerating, growing and expanding, a storm turned whirlwind, a whirlwind turned hurricane, a frenetic typhoon. The room spun and the notes spun, repeating again and again in an endless rondo, and she spun with it, out into some strange space filled with dizziness and pain. The knot in her stomach leapt up through her, worming its way out until it exploded with song, words drawn from some memory she could not name.

She felt uncorked, unstoppered. The emptiness had concealed a reservoir beneath, the hidden pit of her soul. Too much flowed out and she could not stop it. One minute grew into two, two into four, four to sixteen, and soon she had forgotten time. Her voice grew hoarse with strain, her fingers ached from pounding keys. Fatigue took over, wearing away at her denial.

The storm passed. The intensity faded. She stopped forcing out air, lips falling shut. Her feet withdrew from the pedals, tucked away under the bench. Her hands slipped from the keys to her lap with a last plaintive note. Spent, she rested. Everything ached. In time, tears arrived, and a bitter laugh choked into a sob.

It was the first time in years that she'd played alone, performed alone. A recital to inaugurate her loss.

Victor Frost

The Tutor’s Lament:

Don’t blame me.
Don’t blame me if your kids grades aren’t gong up.
I spend six hours or more a week with your kids.
I try to teach them every thing I can to help them.
Analogies, diagrams, videos; I don’t just come prepared, I come fully stocked and fully loaded.
But after those six hours, it takes you less than five minutes to undo it all.
TV, XBOX, Playstation 3, Computer, Facebook, cellphone.
They bury themselves in all of that and you say nothing.
You DO nothing.
When we were kids, Video games, phone, those were privileges; things you could enjoy as a reward for doing your work.
And we worked.
We worked so we could hang out with our friends.
We worked so we could use the phone.
We worked so we could save the princess from Bowser, only to find she was in another castle.
Your kids work for nothing.
They want for nothing.
You give them anything they want.
And then you ask, “Why are their grades so horrible?”
It’s because they have no reason to work.
They don’t know the disappointment of a “C” or the elation of an “A” because they have no reason to.
Work? Don’t Work? What’s the difference?
There is no reward for them, no punishment, no matter either way.
I say “Let me take their cell phones.”
You say, “No, they need them so they can talk with their friends.”
I say, “Let me take their computers.”
You say, “No, they need them to write their essays because they need the spell checker.”
I say, “Let me take their games.”
You say, “Then how will they play?”
And already, at only 20 years old, I say, “Well, back in my day…”
Back in my day, we wrote essays on lined paper.
Back in my day, we used the dictionary to check our spelling.
Back in my day, we played games and talked to our friends when we were DONE with our homework.
Not before, but after.
Your kids can live without their cell phones and computers.
You did.
We did.
They can too.
And they’ll be better for it!

La Petit Mort

Also known as the lament of Hungry Joe. Only that he wrote essays on papyrus.