Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase
Here is a story I've been meaning to write for a few years, but just this past fall got around to actually writing. It's essentially a portrayal of the type of relationship I'm looking for. The qualities of the girl character and the things she says are kind of a "splicing together" of things I have observed in/heard from different girls I've had crushes on, and there are also things from my own life that I've worked into both characters.
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3298978/ ... w-Universe
Heh heh, I never really get a chance to share anything I write, so why not!
The Cashier at Panera Bread
Upon consummation of the trade,
I requested my change.
He asked for my name,
with a propitious smile
and stardust eyes.
No, steal away from me, galaxy gaze!
Stay poised, witless woman!
Anchors up!
Godspeed the mast!
Make haste to Poseidon's Valley!
In any case,
no shortage of ships in these waters
known to the mermen already.
And my vessel long bartered for a skiff
called "Solitude."
Because it seemed a better course then
to not know
rather than to know and yet not be.
And it stood to reason
a prodigious hull is easier found
by glaciers and roguish squalls.
But come now, Captain,
the tide draws ever wayward.
Give this cavalier a seafaring commission
lest he take a pirate's oath.
Aye, mate, before these ropes can meld
into my sailor's skin.
So, says I, my name is Prudence.
And with that revelation,
he simply write it on the receipt
and went about headlong
taking the cosmos with him.
An awkward breeze politely skirts the scene.
A Star's Rebuttal
O, solitude of mine,
fiery, frozen prison.
Man gazes. Man marvels. Man moves on.
They look at me in amazement.
I watch them in agony.
Untitled
It only takes one arrow
To strike me ten thousand times
The first shot from your bowstring
And all the rest from mine
_________________
Like the crackling of thorns under the pot, so is the laughter of fools. ~ Solomon
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. ~ D.H. Lawrence
^ Wow. A little Edna St. Vincent Millay, Emily Dickinson, and Sappho.
To strike me ten thousand times
The first shot from your bowstring
And all the rest from mine
Perhaps you know this one (from memory, so it may be off):
Sweet the Bee -- but the Rose is sweeter
Quick his sting -- but the Rose stings deeper
Bee will heal -- Rose petal -- never.
_________________
There Are Four Lights!
Sweet the Bee -- but the Rose is sweeter
Quick his sting -- but the Rose stings deeper
Bee will heal -- Rose petal -- never.
If I've read it I don't immediately recall it, but the dashes give it away as being Dickinson's! (post script, I just thought to Google it and I was wrong about that)
This is one of my favorites by Dickinson, which I have written on my bathroom mirror in dry erase marker
I died for Beauty — but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining room —
He questioned softly "Why I failed"?
"For Beauty", I replied —
"And I — for Truth — Themself are One —
We Brethren, are", He said —
And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night —
We talked between the Rooms —
Until the Moss had reached our lips —
And covered up — our names —
_________________
Like the crackling of thorns under the pot, so is the laughter of fools. ~ Solomon
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. ~ D.H. Lawrence
Why are trees green
why’s the sky so blue
OK,
Heaven
Earth
Light,
it’s all because of You.
God.
What is it what we seek
What we want
OK
doesn’t matter
You lead us, the meek.
You take care
that we have our daily bread
then a woman
then a child
and then you turn of the light.
You even have some words
For my funeral
so that my people would not
have to cry at all
I look in the mirror
It doesn’t look good
40 years old
And almost dust.
You live every day
and I everyday my last
Hope that I can reread this
tomorrow
Hey but there’s something
that I have to discover
Before I believe in You
If you only spread the Word
The Light
Love,
Big stuff,
that I cannot carry
Or if You also have some gifts
A simple gift
Or two
This is from my second poetry collection. The eBook is called Hope Emerges.
Relaxation
I feel a relaxation
A gentle feeling,
Back into a kind of routine.
Its quite nice to be me.
I wondered yesterday,
How I could put meaning to things.
Instead of them being worthless,
Could I make them useful?
I feel a sense
of the concept opening up,
Expanding,
Allowing me to be free.
Well, not totally free.
A light pressure gone,
Allowing me to see,
A lone ray of hope,
A fork in the road,
Allowing a productive me.
_________________
I'm honest, loyal, creative and generous.
You can view my eBooks on Kindle at [url]bit.ly/KarlettaAK[/url]
This is from my first eBook about being on the Spectrum. The book is about Autustic Burn Out. It is called Successful to Burnt Out.
Chapter: Slowing Down
Back in Brisbane, Queensland I limited my parameters for working. 'Maybe not a full time job just now. Go back to temporary work.' I knew I was burnt out.
Inexplicably I was experiencing increasing flashes of frustration, anger and feeling trapped while working even week-long assignments. These didn't make sense, so I began thinking there was still something wrong with my well being. My mental state just wasn't settling down.
I began what would become years of interviews and sessions with mental health nurses, psychologists, psychiatrists and doctors. I discovered things that started to make sense of my unproductive side. I had anxiety. Mind blown. My depression was back. Bugger. I have schizoaffective disorder. Excuse me?
What I explained as a vivid imagination combined with anxiety was now called paranoia. Imagining conversations to combat loneliness was psychosis. Streaks of productivity was mania. 'Isn't that just called working?' I thought.
A psychiatrist helped a shocked yours truly to get on the Disability Pension. I further reduced my temporary jobs to a day or two here and there. Emergency relief.
Thank god I didn't have to deal with the fear and crushing obligation of having to look for work every week. I hated looking for work, partly because I never got past the interview stage.
_________________
I'm honest, loyal, creative and generous.
You can view my eBooks on Kindle at [url]bit.ly/KarlettaAK[/url]
lelia
Veteran
Joined: 11 Apr 2007
Age: 71
Gender: Female
Posts: 2,897
Location: Vancouver not BC, Washington not DC
Well, this happened. https://www.amazon.com/Writing-Speculat ... se+Foreman
One of the excerpts I use to illustrate a point about writing features an autistic teenager from Brian Tashima's Secret of the Songshell.
That looks like a book I'd read! I'm rereading one right now about creating charactor arcs.
I wouldn't pay that much for an ebook though. $5 is my limit, unless I don't have many expenses that week.
_________________
I'm honest, loyal, creative and generous.
You can view my eBooks on Kindle at [url]bit.ly/KarlettaAK[/url]
lelia
Veteran
Joined: 11 Apr 2007
Age: 71
Gender: Female
Posts: 2,897
Location: Vancouver not BC, Washington not DC
Hey, Ceramic. Yeah, 4.99 is sort of my limit, too. However, this is a textbook. And I don't get to tell the publisher what to set the price at. But I understand what you're saying. Maybe you could do me this favor: in a couple days ask your local library to buy a copy for you to check out. The print version should be ready by then, maybe even ready by now, but I would give it a few days just in case. Thanks for looking at it.
lelia
Veteran
Joined: 11 Apr 2007
Age: 71
Gender: Female
Posts: 2,897
Location: Vancouver not BC, Washington not DC
Hey, Ceramic,
The thought of making a sale in Australia makes me feel giddy. One of the excerpts is from a writer in Australia. You'll be able to tell by the punctuation which is different to American English.
Shoving Blue Tack in My Ears.
I'm not happy with the people who make blue tack. I have a dispute with them. They're crooks.
I spent a sizeable portion of my precious time researching and developing a new use for their product; I use them as earplugs. They mold to fit your ear, and as they're non-porous they're more effective than the standard porous foam plugs.
For six weeks I nurtured my invention.
Then, I wrote to the Blue Tack company outlining my project, enclosing the relevant patent applications and marketing research. I expected to be richly rewarded, with a generous cash injection and/or cushy executive position.
I never got the cheque or the office; they wrote to me advising me to refrain from inserting their product into my body, and if I had, to consult a medical professional immediately.
The bastards. I bet they stole my idea.
_________________
"all men can see these tactics whereby I conquer; yet none can see the strategy by which victory is evolved"...
While attempting to get over a little block, I rewrote some opening paragraphs in this bizarrre style. I imagine it would be as exhuating to read an extended piece in this style as it is to write in it.
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It was late morning when she first knocked on my door; I stood frozen, staring at creation made solid before me. But no, it could only be an imagination seeking to find the broad sameness and wash over the minute and miniscule difference. A picture in the mind, so acutely obsessed over, inclines the fancy of seeing that visage everywhere; every barely seen face on the street, every likeness just missed made her by a conditioning of the mind. To see her in everyone, because hers is the only face demanding to be seen.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Pardon my staring; I was startled. I mistook you for someone else.”
“I am someone else,” says she. “Else, the someone you mistook me for.”
“I must apologise again – I do not follow.”
She confirms my name, and continues.
“This book you wrote,” says she, bringing forth a book. “This book you wrote is about me. I am she here named.”
A coincidence, I say. A co-incidence of names.
“And of souls? Explain to me, if you can, your moment’s stopping; your long stare and looks of remembrance. You know this face because this face has been in your mind some time. Since long before writing this character of my same name.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“This I have answered,” her response.
“Not to satisfaction.”
“Then let this door bar my way no more, and grant me entrance. I shall explain no further on this step.” Her eyes, made of all the brownness in the world, catch me in their steady gaze.
And so I sit across from a creature of my own supposed creation. Not by some act or action against a woman living made she who sits there now; she is of no woman existing before. Her claim, as fantastic and unreal as it is, is mine to now hear. How she, not before upon this Earth walking, today came to my doorstep.
“Your claim is to be the principle character of my work?” I ask.
“A maddening thought? A thought whose owner must be mad? I know this is forefront in your thoughts, as it would be in any presented with my story. But story it is not; truth and truth alone is what I say.”
“You have yet to say much beyond your assertion.”
“It is with my assertion you have most quarrel.”
That I could not deny.
“As to proof,” says she, “I have none but the thoughts of my own head, and the words on your page. They are the same, and nothing different. My mind is one, there are no thoughts of another, and there is but one inhabitant of my head.”
“But this is naught to me,” I rightly rebuttal.
“Of trust this matter must be. And fact. Though no physician, you see no sign of vibrant insanity? No manic torpor? No dullness in the brightness of my eye? By all accounts a reasonable and sane appearance.”
“By one account.”
“By two,” her response.
I admit:
“By two.”
“Then your doubt wavers?”
“Enough to hear more.”
“Then pour a glass, and I shall continue.”