I would invite everyone who has taken pen to paper and scribbled a poem or story even a description to post it here. I also want to say that the posts will be welcome in both typed or in your own hand by the magic of scanners or digital cameras.
Since we're starting out with a fresh sheet of paper so to speak I thought that I might put up my Christmas story that I did for Pentrace. Don't think there are any copyright problems so here it is.
A Christmas Set
(With apologies to O Henry)
Fourteen dollars is all they had and three were in quarter. Counted out first for the Laundromat and now saved in a Sanka tin far back on the shelf. That’s all that was available in their apartment to provide Christmas cheer for the couple who‘s rooms we now are in. There were three in total, rooms that is, or four if you wished to count the center area as living room and dining room, separated only by the existence of a table at one end. From the curtains to the couch next to the wall, this was an apartment of hope. Hope for something better, the few objects seemed to have been chosen with care and kept up as much as possible. Nothing appeared to be askew or out of place although there was more place then things to be in it.
If we were to find her in the grand tour of the neighborhood, on a return from the market, we would find a dainty girl with her face pressed too close to the window of the Jewelers gazing lovingly at the displays. But more especially at the holder made for a set of three pens & inkwells of fine crystal on either side. ‘Someday’ she’d say and walk quickly through the cold.
Next to the bell was a sliver of paper written on with a fine Copperplate hand was Jack Wellington Grance & Family. The ink was faded gray and as of yet the family consisted of he & his wife Helen it still gave the air of high hopes that had not so much fallen as plummeted down as youthful idealism had met a job market not as friendly to liberal arts. It was this bell he rang three times, the signal they had arranged to mark his arrival at the door. She stopped her attempt to boil the vegetables into submission to wait for the man she loved. He came into the room slowly carrying all of the cares of the day on his hunched shoulders. But when she came in sight he straightened and relaxed.
After the repast he pulled the chair closer to the light and opened the end table’s drawer. Out came first came her pen, a long black eyedropper with Indians of silver half way down it second a bottle of ink. That he could use this at all was a mark of how close they were being that it had been given to her by her Grandmother who had received it through a arcane genealogy that she had once detailed from a second cousin‘s maiden aunt. Lastly from the drawer a book covered in what once must have been fine leather but years of handling had left as a mere indication of substance. He then began to write as she finished the dished. Only 3 lines a day as had his father and grandfather and great grandfather. It may have started out as a sea log but it now recorded the journey of a line of men. There were pages left but they had to be rationed to let the next generation talk as well.
Lately the entries were darker after the reduction in pay had made the apartment nearly a luxury, he recorded every day’ journey not toward but away from something.
In the corner of the room was ,because few people keep shrubbery in their house, a Christmas tree. She had tried to make it festive by the liberal application of tinsel but had only succeeded in defining the lopsidedness of the tree. There were ornaments on the branches but nothing beneath the tree.
‘Oh Jack what ever are we to do for Christmas’, she exclaimed putting the final dish away.
‘ I don’t know, unless there’s a bonus this year I doubt much’
‘But there must be something’
‘yes, something.’
You must have realized that upon the neighborhood tour we were not alone in watching Helen for another set of eyes saw what she was longing for and another set of shoes walked to Halyard & Smyth Antiquarian Books. Where a large amount of bound paper was exchanged for some smaller sheets
The penultimate eve of Christmas found her in the leather shop explaining lengths and breadths of the cover she wished made and what type of signet should be on the front. Her relations pen sat in another window with three brass balls without waiting for another to possibly give it as a gift.
Rushing home with her package clutched tight she could hardly wait for the three rings. They came eventually and she nearly knocked him over as he entered carrying a gaily wrapped package as well.
‘Merry Christmas’ she yelled and thrust the package at him as he fumbled his down to the table. ‘Open it’ as they both tore paper exposing a lovely leather cover with his initials on the front. ‘It’s for your journal’ she explained pointed out the flaps and such, ‘ you put the book inside and it protects it.
‘But how did you afford it?’ he replied.
‘ Oh I sold that old pen from my grandmother, got enough for this and dinner too’
He sat down hard and started to laugh,’ well this won’t do you much good then’. He pushed his package toward her’ Not much use now’.
She extracted the box with a Jeweler’s name she recognized and gasped. Within the tissue inside was the desk set ready for a pen that was not hers.
Full Version: The Write Stuff, a pen salon.
I've always enjoyed reading your writing, Kurt; thank you for posting this for FPNers to read.In re-reading your story, I got the impression that this could be a contemporary tale, and not one necessarily set in O. Henry's time...Was that deliberate on your part?
I guess I should have posted something that I have written (intead of merely complimenting you on your work!) but I am afraid that I lack writing talent. I could write good essays in school, but creative writing was such an incredible chore for me
I honestly don't know how people did it....
I guess I should have posted something that I have written (intead of merely complimenting you on your work!) but I am afraid that I lack writing talent. I could write good essays in school, but creative writing was such an incredible chore for me
I honestly don't know how people did it....
Ok, I didn't realize it is supposed to be one piece of writing for one thread, so I moved this post to a new thread.
Sorry about the misunderstanding...
Kind regards, Wim
Sorry about the misunderstanding...
Kind regards, Wim
QUOTE (Maja @ Mar 25 2005, 06:26 PM)
I've always enjoyed reading your writing, Kurt; thank you for posting this for FPNers to read.In re-reading your story, I got the impression that this could be a contemporary tale, and not one necessarily set in O. Henry's time...Was that deliberate on your part?
I guess I should have posted something that I have written (intead of merely complimenting you on your work!) but I am afraid that I lack writing talent. I could write good essays in school, but creative writing was such an incredible chore for me I honestly don't know how people did it....
I guess I should have posted something that I have written (intead of merely complimenting you on your work!) but I am afraid that I lack writing talent. I could write good essays in school, but creative writing was such an incredible chore for me
I honestly don't know how people did it....Maja,
yep I was trying to bring it up to date as much as I could. Thanks for noticing.
In response to your creative writing question: I'm a very visual person so I just imagine something happening then write down what's going on.
Why not give that a try. I'm trying to remember my pen haiku and also those pen riddles I made a while back.
Post away!
Kurt H
Here's a bit of something I've been writing. I doubt it will appeal to many here, any way I'm writing for a couple of real close friends. 
It had been a busy morning. The flight had arrived in London at six o’clock in the morning. The flight its self had been long and rough, delayed twice because of inclimate weather, and turbulent as it passed over the up heaving seas. Passing through customs had been long and tiring too. In the rush hour morning traffic, catching a cab had been difficult. Outside the airport terminal men on business in smart blue suits, luggage in hand dashed frantically about grabbing every open cab in sight. Young, longhaired hippies were obviously not the cabbies first and utmost importance; no matter who they were. The whole time, light misty rain drizzled from drab grey skies.
Now it was nearing half past nine. Navigating the London rush hour had been nothing short of a skirmish, even for a man who did it for a living. Now the city was far behind them though, and the cab dipped and wove down hilly country roads, lined with old twisted trees, and miles of dry stonewalls. The sky had cleared off twenty minutes ago, and now the air was warm. It would be a most gorgeous day.
The window of the cab were rolled down, letting in a fresh breeze that played through Lori’s long, wavy, light brown hair. She gazed attentively out the window, taking in the scenery, which went rolling past. It all seemed so foreign yet familiar. The snaking roads, and steep, smooth hills mimicked those of her native Michigan. The ancient walls and buildings dotting them were something new. So were the treeless plains, and green grass growing on the hills. Before this Lori had never been to England.
She knew with coming here her life would change its course forever. In the last month and a half her life has changed drastically, but all for the better. Usually she feigned change but these she had pursued relentlessly. A month and a half ago she lived at home, had a job, and was preparing for another year in university. From day to day life hardly changed, it had become routine. The one who broke her out of that monotony lie beside her on the black vinyl seat.
His name was James Patrick Page, or Jimmy as everyone called him. He was guitarist in Led Zeppelin, and becoming a bit of a legend amongst his fans. He had come into Lori’s life a month and a half ago while she was working as a lifeguard at a Detroit hotel. From their first meeting Lori had noticed there was something between them.
At the start of the journey Jimmy had fallen asleep leaning against Lori’s shoulder. With the bumping and dipping of the cab and the deepening of his slumber he had sunk into the position he was in now. Lying on his side, knees pulled up to his chest. One arm beneath his head, the other tucked to his body. During the flight he hadn’t been able to attain any sleep. It seemed he thought the plane would go plummeting into the ocean at any moment. It hadn’t happened and he had waken her many times. But now he was getting some of the rest he needed, she thought gently tracing his smooth, pale cheek.
Over the past week he hadn’t been able to get much sleep. There had been a show every night, and early in the morning they had to rise and drive to the next town or city. All that strenuous work showed well in him. His eyes were slightly sunken, and black ringed, his lips cracked, and his skin white and winter even under his soft, golden tan, given by the summers sun. Home is what he really needed, his own soft bed and some warm, filling meals. Infact his whole body seemed to have shrunken over the last week.
Despite his sickliness he was still beautiful, something ill health, no matter how bad, could rob him of. His long hair was black as midnight and as wavy and shiny as it had ever been. His lips, even though cracked, were full and pink as a spring evening. His body, albeit it was a little thinner than it use to be, was like heaven, Lori thought, her eyes running over him. Today he looked stunning dressed in black velvet bellbottoms that embraced his skinny legs, hips and butt. And a long sleeve western style shirt of medium, with a smattering of white, yellow, and brown flowers, it was almost perfectly fitted to the contours of his upper body.
With one hand she reached out and ran it over one velvet clad buttock, and thigh. Jimmy not seeming to mind, she ran a finger over the brushy fringe of his long, raven black eye lashes. This he did mind, and moved his hand close in front of his face; he never did like having his face touched while he was sleeping. Leaning over Lori kissed the top of his head, and began stroking his hair, which was spread all about his slumbering head and shoulders. Looking up she could see the cab driver smiling in the rear view mirror. Lori knew the one thing Jimmy enjoyed while sleeping was having his hair stroked, and she loved doing so. To her his hair was like a comfort blanket, warm and silky soft, a great place to snuggle into as she lie beside him at night.
For a few moments longer Lori continued running her fingers through his hair. Stopping she kissed him once more, then continued looking out the window. Jimmy needed sleep and she was going to let him have it. Now they were bumping down a narrow road lined on both sides with an ancient crumbling stonewall. On the other side of one of the walls there was farm fields with grazing cows, and on the other there was forest. The walls went on for miles, only breaking to let through a drive up to a house. Usually an old farmhouse. The road was so narrow they had to pull partially into the gravel along it to let another car pass.
Seeing all these ancient houses made Lori wonder what Jimmy’s house would be like. He had described it to her numerous times, yet descriptions could be a bit deceiving. Even his, which were usually quite accurate. She knew he lived on the River Thames and she had seen some river a couple of different occasions through the trees along one side of the road. A green sparkling river with wooded banks, its sluggishly flowing waters looked quite refreshing after sitting in the stuffy cab for a decent hour and a half. Something inside of her told her they were getting close.
Almost twenty minutes after thinking that, the cab driver glanced over the back of his seat, and asked, “Hey missy, do you know where we need to turn off?”
“No, I don’t know. Just a minute,” she answered leaning over and shaking Jimmy.
She hated waking him, but she had to do so. He looked so precious and peaceful while asleep. Slowly Jimmy sat up, brushed the hair back from his face and rubbed at his lusterless eyes.
“Hey Jimmy our diver needs to know where to turn off,” Lori told him.
“Oh…ok,” he said his voice still heavy with sleep. Leaning forward he spoke to the cabbie, “It’s just up over that hill. There’s an iron gate in the wall, that’s where you need to turn.”
His task finished, Jimmy leaned back in the seat, yawned and scratched an itch on the back of his head. His belly rumbled as it always did when he was hungry. Lori reached over and rubbed it for him, feeling his ribs through both his shirt and skin. It startled her a bit since it seemed he usually had a thin covering of flesh over them that hid them just a bit.
It had been a busy morning. The flight had arrived in London at six o’clock in the morning. The flight its self had been long and rough, delayed twice because of inclimate weather, and turbulent as it passed over the up heaving seas. Passing through customs had been long and tiring too. In the rush hour morning traffic, catching a cab had been difficult. Outside the airport terminal men on business in smart blue suits, luggage in hand dashed frantically about grabbing every open cab in sight. Young, longhaired hippies were obviously not the cabbies first and utmost importance; no matter who they were. The whole time, light misty rain drizzled from drab grey skies.
Now it was nearing half past nine. Navigating the London rush hour had been nothing short of a skirmish, even for a man who did it for a living. Now the city was far behind them though, and the cab dipped and wove down hilly country roads, lined with old twisted trees, and miles of dry stonewalls. The sky had cleared off twenty minutes ago, and now the air was warm. It would be a most gorgeous day.
The window of the cab were rolled down, letting in a fresh breeze that played through Lori’s long, wavy, light brown hair. She gazed attentively out the window, taking in the scenery, which went rolling past. It all seemed so foreign yet familiar. The snaking roads, and steep, smooth hills mimicked those of her native Michigan. The ancient walls and buildings dotting them were something new. So were the treeless plains, and green grass growing on the hills. Before this Lori had never been to England.
She knew with coming here her life would change its course forever. In the last month and a half her life has changed drastically, but all for the better. Usually she feigned change but these she had pursued relentlessly. A month and a half ago she lived at home, had a job, and was preparing for another year in university. From day to day life hardly changed, it had become routine. The one who broke her out of that monotony lie beside her on the black vinyl seat.
His name was James Patrick Page, or Jimmy as everyone called him. He was guitarist in Led Zeppelin, and becoming a bit of a legend amongst his fans. He had come into Lori’s life a month and a half ago while she was working as a lifeguard at a Detroit hotel. From their first meeting Lori had noticed there was something between them.
At the start of the journey Jimmy had fallen asleep leaning against Lori’s shoulder. With the bumping and dipping of the cab and the deepening of his slumber he had sunk into the position he was in now. Lying on his side, knees pulled up to his chest. One arm beneath his head, the other tucked to his body. During the flight he hadn’t been able to attain any sleep. It seemed he thought the plane would go plummeting into the ocean at any moment. It hadn’t happened and he had waken her many times. But now he was getting some of the rest he needed, she thought gently tracing his smooth, pale cheek.
Over the past week he hadn’t been able to get much sleep. There had been a show every night, and early in the morning they had to rise and drive to the next town or city. All that strenuous work showed well in him. His eyes were slightly sunken, and black ringed, his lips cracked, and his skin white and winter even under his soft, golden tan, given by the summers sun. Home is what he really needed, his own soft bed and some warm, filling meals. Infact his whole body seemed to have shrunken over the last week.
Despite his sickliness he was still beautiful, something ill health, no matter how bad, could rob him of. His long hair was black as midnight and as wavy and shiny as it had ever been. His lips, even though cracked, were full and pink as a spring evening. His body, albeit it was a little thinner than it use to be, was like heaven, Lori thought, her eyes running over him. Today he looked stunning dressed in black velvet bellbottoms that embraced his skinny legs, hips and butt. And a long sleeve western style shirt of medium, with a smattering of white, yellow, and brown flowers, it was almost perfectly fitted to the contours of his upper body.
With one hand she reached out and ran it over one velvet clad buttock, and thigh. Jimmy not seeming to mind, she ran a finger over the brushy fringe of his long, raven black eye lashes. This he did mind, and moved his hand close in front of his face; he never did like having his face touched while he was sleeping. Leaning over Lori kissed the top of his head, and began stroking his hair, which was spread all about his slumbering head and shoulders. Looking up she could see the cab driver smiling in the rear view mirror. Lori knew the one thing Jimmy enjoyed while sleeping was having his hair stroked, and she loved doing so. To her his hair was like a comfort blanket, warm and silky soft, a great place to snuggle into as she lie beside him at night.
For a few moments longer Lori continued running her fingers through his hair. Stopping she kissed him once more, then continued looking out the window. Jimmy needed sleep and she was going to let him have it. Now they were bumping down a narrow road lined on both sides with an ancient crumbling stonewall. On the other side of one of the walls there was farm fields with grazing cows, and on the other there was forest. The walls went on for miles, only breaking to let through a drive up to a house. Usually an old farmhouse. The road was so narrow they had to pull partially into the gravel along it to let another car pass.
Seeing all these ancient houses made Lori wonder what Jimmy’s house would be like. He had described it to her numerous times, yet descriptions could be a bit deceiving. Even his, which were usually quite accurate. She knew he lived on the River Thames and she had seen some river a couple of different occasions through the trees along one side of the road. A green sparkling river with wooded banks, its sluggishly flowing waters looked quite refreshing after sitting in the stuffy cab for a decent hour and a half. Something inside of her told her they were getting close.
Almost twenty minutes after thinking that, the cab driver glanced over the back of his seat, and asked, “Hey missy, do you know where we need to turn off?”
“No, I don’t know. Just a minute,” she answered leaning over and shaking Jimmy.
She hated waking him, but she had to do so. He looked so precious and peaceful while asleep. Slowly Jimmy sat up, brushed the hair back from his face and rubbed at his lusterless eyes.
“Hey Jimmy our diver needs to know where to turn off,” Lori told him.
“Oh…ok,” he said his voice still heavy with sleep. Leaning forward he spoke to the cabbie, “It’s just up over that hill. There’s an iron gate in the wall, that’s where you need to turn.”
His task finished, Jimmy leaned back in the seat, yawned and scratched an itch on the back of his head. His belly rumbled as it always did when he was hungry. Lori reached over and rubbed it for him, feeling his ribs through both his shirt and skin. It startled her a bit since it seemed he usually had a thin covering of flesh over them that hid them just a bit.
I was right when I said no one would care for it. 
QUOTE(LedZepGirl @ Sep 10 2007, 07:37 PM) [snapback]367913[/snapback]
I was right when I said no one would care for it.
Not so. I enjoyed it, it just took me a while to get here.
Clydesdave
I'm not at all elite---more of a Wal-Mart type---but I have a blog.
I think it's in my profile. Haven't even figured out how to post my avvy, much less link my LJ in a siggy line.
But here is a BRIEF excerpt from Chap. 32 of my WIP (up to Chap 33 as of now):
I think it's in my profile. Haven't even figured out how to post my avvy, much less link my LJ in a siggy line.
But here is a BRIEF excerpt from Chap. 32 of my WIP (up to Chap 33 as of now):
QUOTE
Tokyo Central Wholesale Market lies within a cavernous, bustling building near the famed Ginza district. Open at 4 AM, it may well be the world's largest purveyor of seafood, selling close to 450 different kinds: squid, crab, tuna, sea urchin, and many other varieties most Westerners have never laid eyes upon.
Neatly stacked boxes of fish form aisles for the benefit of wholesale buyers in search of the freshest seafood on the planet. Early-morning tuna auctions enliven the chilly interior, and the market is a favorite of film crews and tourists.
But Ozawa Hideo was simply looking forward to the next issue of One Pound Gospel.
Takahashi Rumiko's tale of a novitiate nun who helps train an aspiring boxer made him laugh, filled him with dreams. Maybe someday he could become a boxer like the character Kosaku. And it wouldn't hurt to meet a cute girl like Sister Angela.
In appearance, Ozawa was a rather unremarkable, stocky man in his 20s, distinguished only by long black wings of hair which obscured a nose too large for his face.
But in his heart, he thought of himself as Momotaro, hero of the classic Japanese tale of the Peach Boy. He would never reveal this to anyone, of course, and recent events (all right; not-so-recent events as well) seemed subject to confusion, but he knew the name of Momotaro was deeply meaningful and arose from a better part of himself.
Or maybe he read too much manga.
All he wanted on this April evening was to finish his shift, take his meager paycheck, and return to his room to read.
Despite frigid temperatures, the corner of the market where Ozawa worked stank of the few types of fish guts even the Japanese will not eat.
Near the alley entrance, the offal awaited. Ozawa glanced at a wall clock and counted the remaining gray plastic tubs, each lined with a white trash bag. His job was to tie the bags shut when they were full, then take them out to the dumpsters. He counted the tubs he still needed to empty. Only four more! He lifted a heavy bag and approached the swinging door that backed onto the alley.
The bag of guts made a satisfying squelch, hitting home in the big dumpster. One down, three to go.
That's when the man edged out from behind that very same dumpster. Ozawa stopped, puzzled.
A foreigner, this guy, to be sure, and wearing sunglasses at night. Ozawa tensed. He was no boxer yet, and wanted nothing to do with some thug looking to steal fish or cash or equipment.
The stranger was strongly built with a broad jaw. Long brown hair was scraped back from a rather low, narrow forehead, and caught in a tail. He looked like a tough customer, for all that he was a bit shorter than Ozawa.
The stranger reached for his sunglasses. Ozawa felt his heart thump, like this man was reaching for a gun. But the eyes behind the dark glasses held glints of intelligence, and when he spoke, it was in perfect, polite Japanese.
"If you have a little time and could use some extra money," ventured the stranger, "I've got a job for you."
"What sort of job?" Ozawa wanted to know.
"Not too difficult." The man's eyes flicked from Ozawa to the open door to the back of the fish market. "Hauling crates."
Ozawa stood for a time, considering. He'd had this job only a few days, and it would be tough making rent.
The foreigner gave Ozawa a glimpse of wadded cash.
Don't go, said a pale whisper from somewhere near the back of Ozawa's mind, almost a sense of deja vu. He balanced that warning against the struggle of rent. At last he nodded. "I'm off in about ten minutes."
The stranger grinned. "I'll be waiting."
Neatly stacked boxes of fish form aisles for the benefit of wholesale buyers in search of the freshest seafood on the planet. Early-morning tuna auctions enliven the chilly interior, and the market is a favorite of film crews and tourists.
But Ozawa Hideo was simply looking forward to the next issue of One Pound Gospel.
Takahashi Rumiko's tale of a novitiate nun who helps train an aspiring boxer made him laugh, filled him with dreams. Maybe someday he could become a boxer like the character Kosaku. And it wouldn't hurt to meet a cute girl like Sister Angela.
In appearance, Ozawa was a rather unremarkable, stocky man in his 20s, distinguished only by long black wings of hair which obscured a nose too large for his face.
But in his heart, he thought of himself as Momotaro, hero of the classic Japanese tale of the Peach Boy. He would never reveal this to anyone, of course, and recent events (all right; not-so-recent events as well) seemed subject to confusion, but he knew the name of Momotaro was deeply meaningful and arose from a better part of himself.
Or maybe he read too much manga.
All he wanted on this April evening was to finish his shift, take his meager paycheck, and return to his room to read.
Despite frigid temperatures, the corner of the market where Ozawa worked stank of the few types of fish guts even the Japanese will not eat.
Near the alley entrance, the offal awaited. Ozawa glanced at a wall clock and counted the remaining gray plastic tubs, each lined with a white trash bag. His job was to tie the bags shut when they were full, then take them out to the dumpsters. He counted the tubs he still needed to empty. Only four more! He lifted a heavy bag and approached the swinging door that backed onto the alley.
The bag of guts made a satisfying squelch, hitting home in the big dumpster. One down, three to go.
That's when the man edged out from behind that very same dumpster. Ozawa stopped, puzzled.
A foreigner, this guy, to be sure, and wearing sunglasses at night. Ozawa tensed. He was no boxer yet, and wanted nothing to do with some thug looking to steal fish or cash or equipment.
The stranger was strongly built with a broad jaw. Long brown hair was scraped back from a rather low, narrow forehead, and caught in a tail. He looked like a tough customer, for all that he was a bit shorter than Ozawa.
The stranger reached for his sunglasses. Ozawa felt his heart thump, like this man was reaching for a gun. But the eyes behind the dark glasses held glints of intelligence, and when he spoke, it was in perfect, polite Japanese.
"If you have a little time and could use some extra money," ventured the stranger, "I've got a job for you."
"What sort of job?" Ozawa wanted to know.
"Not too difficult." The man's eyes flicked from Ozawa to the open door to the back of the fish market. "Hauling crates."
Ozawa stood for a time, considering. He'd had this job only a few days, and it would be tough making rent.
The foreigner gave Ozawa a glimpse of wadded cash.
Don't go, said a pale whisper from somewhere near the back of Ozawa's mind, almost a sense of deja vu. He balanced that warning against the struggle of rent. At last he nodded. "I'm off in about ten minutes."
The stranger grinned. "I'll be waiting."
QUOTE(Clydesdave @ Jan 14 2008, 12:29 PM) [snapback]477951[/snapback]
QUOTE(LedZepGirl @ Sep 10 2007, 07:37 PM) [snapback]367913[/snapback]
I was right when I said no one would care for it.
Not so. I enjoyed it, it just took me a while to get here.
Clydesdave
Thank you. The rest of it is on my myspace page. I use to have it on a different web page but I was forced to move it all. If you're interested I can PM you the link to it, that is if you have a myspace account.
QUOTE(LedZepGirl @ Sep 10 2007, 09:37 PM) [snapback]367913[/snapback]
I was right when I said no one would care for it.
No it took me three pages to get to it
Kurt
QUOTE(Tytyvyllus @ Feb 9 2008, 10:22 AM) [snapback]508726[/snapback]
QUOTE(LedZepGirl @ Sep 10 2007, 09:37 PM) [snapback]367913[/snapback]
I was right when I said no one would care for it.
No it took me three pages to get to it
Kurt
Thank you
I'm surprised I haven't been told to write a real mature serious type story. As I mentioned I started writing it for some close friends- girls in their teens and twenties.
QUOTE(LedZepGirl @ Sep 11 2007, 03:37 AM) [snapback]367913[/snapback]
I was right when I said no one would care for it.
I enjoyed it.
Another Led Zep fan! I love them too... although I have to admit I'm more of a "The Who" fan. Saw them in Toronto last year - even took me "wee man" who was 4 1/2 at the time to the concert. Figured that if I didn't, when he's 20 and finds out he had an opportunity to see them but I didn't take him, he'd hate me!
Now, the "wee man" is a fan as well.
Back on topic though... before I knew what a keyboard was, all of my poetry and short stories were scribbled out. Sometimes I think there is something about pen and paper that motivated better stuff than the stuff I come up with using a keyboard.
I used to write a bit of poetry - this one was written in about 15 minutes from beginning to end and some say they like it:
The Passionate Non-Poet To His Love
Come live with me and be my love
And we shall newer pleasures prove
Of wood stoves, stars, and cuzzles long
Together we'll sing our winters song.
We may lie in grassy fields by night
Gaze 'pon amorous firefly's light
Backdropped by canvass of starry sky
My heart's brush will paint its desire for thy.
And we will dance slow, cheek to cheek
"You're my princess," my eyes will speak
The moon's light upon your hair, will crown.
I, your prince one my knees bend down.
When we wake to morning sunrays
The shadow lines upon your skin amaze
My lips and fingers as they press
Gently the sweet fruit that is your breas'.
Whilst we walk barefoot in the creek
Towards our table on the hill's peak
Our ankles touching under water shallow
I will pick for you lillies and mallow.
We shall be as the mourning dove
If thou live with me and be my love.
**********
Donne and Marlowe fans might recognize something here - I love the works of John Donne, and some years ago, came upon his poem entitled "The Bait."
The theme, rhyme and metre was based on Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd To His Love" so I thought I'd try my hand at doing what Donne did, and base something on both Donne and Marlowe's poems.
Now that I've recived so many positive responses for my silly story I'm contemplating posting more of it here. But first- who has myspace? As I mentioned above the rest of the story is on my myspace page, which is a good place for it because it's free of editing restraints related to some foul language, drug use and mature themes.
This is a "lo-fi" version of our main content. To view the full version with more information, formatting and images, please click here.