Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase

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Sarcastic_Name
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31 Aug 2005, 9:59 pm

Has anyone else submitted anything, it still show's my submission as the newest.


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GalileoAce
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31 Aug 2005, 11:59 pm

I will be once I transcribe some of my writings from paper to data. :)

GA



Antigone
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09 Sep 2005, 9:40 am

I don't claim to know anything about writing. More often than not my poems don't seem to make sense. I just like to do it. This is a great thing thank you for setting it up.



Prometheus
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28 Sep 2005, 9:22 am

“I-77 Bridge Over the Valley”



The I-77 bridge always captures my eye like a feather caught in the wind. The colonnade of viaduct columns stagger the imagination. The roadway is more a living being than a inanimate object. This is a bridge that is synthesis of the epic and the mundane.
If one looks closely, they will find that the viaduct columns that support the I-77 bridge have a corrugated texture, like sheet metal almost. The beveled edges of the prefabricated blocks that make the columns interrupt the vertical continuity of the column, and resemble ancient Greek temple columns. But these columns are not of the same scale; at the highest point from the valley floor, the height is around 300 feet. From the ground, they seem impassibly massive, yet the proportions are graceful, lithe and phallic. Masculinity can be detected in their shape; the very foundations are the consummation of man and earth. The columns themselves are erect and more virile than anyone would expect. Next to the bridge several tall advertising signs blast their silly consumerist bromides; in a good wind one can see them sway, as if their supports were more flaccid and impotent compared to the muscular, ivory-white columns of the bridge that holds the roadway still.
From below, the red paint of the underside of the deck accentuates the impression that the bridge is a lifeform. It is a blood-red deep in hue, almost fading into a royal purple. The height of the four I-beams under each of the decks appears at least two and a half stories tall, and the supporting crossmemebers between them are almost gossamer thin, more of the web of a spider than anything else. These crossmembers extend underneath the bridge the entire length, giving a sense of perfect purpose in design for each member, and the blood-red paint conveys power in purpose. On the top of the roadway, a chainlink fence mounted on the k-rails protect the occasional stranded motorist. The highway lamps, mounted on such a high bridge, seem even more delicate and more like the antennae of an ant or insect.
The bridge is the result of the conflict of epic and mundane, thesis and anti-thesis, synthesis. The angle of the bridge upwards speaks of its purpose; heaven-facing, away from Cleveland, and the opposite for the other direction. The angle is such that the trucks out of Cleveland and the valley struggle against their weight and load as if tethered to an anchor. The cars, light and tethered to only air, speed around those trucks that keep pushing beyond what one would epect one to endure. The very frames of the semi cabs contort themselves in supreme effort, and the engine noise is of a lower, deeper and more feral frequency, as if from the gut rather than the throat. On the other side, the traffic simply coasts into Cleveland, effortlessly, soundlessly and without distinction.


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Prometheus
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28 Sep 2005, 9:22 am

“Coffee Cup”





The handmade coffee cup that my school gave my parents is a very different cup from what the average person encounters in life. The shape of the body itself is of an old-fashioned wood barrel type rather than the modern steel oil-barrel type. The handle is that of a pretzel shape rather than the sleek “C” found so often. The glaze is a warm earth brown-yellow, mottled like a ripe banana on the outside. This is not the average coffee cup.
The cylinder of the cup is wood-barrel shaped in the stead of a simple cylinder. Follow the eyes path from the top, to a gentle, graceful bulge in the center and a near-rounded bottom. The walls of the barrel are thin, almost as thin as porcelain china. The heft is that of tea-set china indeed than a heavy, practical cup. The outside of the barrel is smooth and free of lumps; but the inside betrays its heritage as being handbuilt. Gentle lumps where the hand pressed the soft porcelain clay can be seen and felt in the interior. Where the handle attaches to the body of the cup, the porcelain almost opens up to the handle; it looks as a trampoline does when someone heavy has jumped on it. The handle is not the mundane “C” shape that is echoed to infinite regress, but rather the shape of a pretzel. The diameter of the pretzel is that of a pencil; thin enough to be delicate, but thick enough to reassure one of it’s stability. The handle fits my large hands, even though it is thin, the holes are large enough and spaced well to accommodate even the largest of hands.
The glaze is more than just merely pleasant to look at. The brown-yellow is mottled like a ripe banana that is somewhat more than ready to eat. On the pretzel handle, the glaze has caught and bunches in the nooks, browner than the rest. Inside the cup, the glaze is a porcelain-white stained ivory by time. Through sheer old age, the constant use of coffee has made naked every crackle in the interior glaze. The spider web shoots out from the bottom and fades to nothingness near the very brim. Some crackle is visible on the exterior, but only if the light hits the cup in such a way as to expose it. On the bottom rim, some of that brown-yellow glaze has chipped off; if one follows the rim, another rim, caused by the melting glaze and darker than the inner circle, is obvious. Inside the inner rim are three dots, spaced out as the vertexes of a equilateral triangle. Two of the dots are blueish, and the third is scraped off, by an grinder to remove the sharp edges caused by it. These dots are the proof that this cup sat on triangular kiln furniture in a ceramics kiln.
Painted on the cup, before the glaze was applied is a Millridge Mustang. It is a simple, more logoish deciption of a mustang than an attempt at reality. The line is black, and the horse is the base colour of the clay, porcelain white. The number “1997" is inscribed on the flank of the mustang. Underneath the mustang is the letters “MCHI” (Millridge Center for the Hearing Impaired) in bold black. The height of the letters is about 6/10ths of a inch. On the opposite side, in gold pernament marker, is “Nathan” as written by a calligrapher. When facing the mustang portrait, the handle is on the right side. I can tell it was applied before the glaze because underneath the “M” in MCHI, a tiny spot of white exsists, as if the artist was afraid to apply more for risk of getting some on the “M”. Some glaze (tiny amounts) also was painted into the interior of the horse by accident.


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pooftis
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11 Oct 2005, 7:55 pm

Life is like gum on the bottom of new shoes
When you can’t laugh any more
Because you’re so damn sad about asbestos
And the starving homeless in who knows where.
(Why don’t they get jobs?)
Then came the dress…
(You wouldn’t fit into anyway, right?)
The other lady wore to the Cinderella ball
You changed your mind about going to,
So you could watch it on television.
It’s always so much more real on television.
Don’t you hate when the air conditioning kicks on
Just when you got used to your neighbors,
And by the way
What is that smell coming from under their house?
Off the subject,
Have you hugged (seen) your kids today?
I love to swim in pools of apathy
That swirl like fudge on the ice cream sundae of my life,
Wait I don’t know how to swim.
No wonder I’ve been feeling like I’m drowning.
We are dogs on invisible leashes,
Walking where we please until we feel the tug of
(Concession to the majority)
Pull us off the grass.
It really is flat,
The world I mean,
And you are all walking off the edge
But not me, cause I’m invincible
Until I get food poisoning from eating taco bell French fries
And hallucinate fairies who laugh at me
(Because they know their not real).
I’m not real,
I am figment of my imagination I think,
Or maybe I am just having a bad hair day
And I can’t find myself.
You can tell a lot about a person from their hairstyle,
I read it in Cosmo
So it must be true.


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pooftis
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11 Oct 2005, 7:56 pm

Sometimes my life swallows me whole
And I feel like sand in someone’s swimsuit…
You know,
The uncomfortable part.
I want to be a rebel
And buy my shoes at the mall like the other rebels,
But I can’t because the mohawk girl keeps glaring at me
So I take my slurpee and leave the store,
f**k it,
Didn’t want their shoes anyway.
Besides, I think I’ll be a republican,
I can hate everyone who isn’t like me.
Actually I think I just hate everyone.
Ahh, it’s lonely at the top,
(Why do they always leave me here?)
My breadcrumbs are gone by now,
I’m sure of it.
I wish I had a little pink room
With a little pink bed
And a little pink rug
And a lock on the door,
(Maybe it should be pink too.)
That way when people dropped in
I could pretend I wasn’t there
Instead of being rude.
They must be masochists
That’s why they keep coming over.
(So I’m really doing a service…)
I keep chewing the ice cubes
Then it occurs to me
Why not just drink water?
Sometimes the obvious answer
Is the last one you think of,
Which is why you stop thinking after that.
Have you ever noticed that
Your brain on drugs looks surprisingly like
An egg in a pan?
There is definitely a deeper meaning there,
But I’m not sure what.
And lastly, why do they call it rebellion
If everyone does it to fit in?


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ghotistix
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13 Oct 2005, 9:52 am

Gah, don't you hate it when a fire takes out your webhost's servers? I know I do...

The showcase on my site will be out of commission for a bit, but feel free to keep posting pieces in this topic if you like.



ghotistix
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13 Nov 2005, 7:53 am

Back by... *cough*... popular demand!

The glorious writing showcase!

Because the interweb hates me, the fire at my host took out all the writing. But I think I've got everything working again, so feel free to submit (or resubmit)!



Last edited by ghotistix on 02 Mar 2006, 11:51 am, edited 2 times in total.

HuskyInDenial
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05 Dec 2005, 4:54 pm

Tell me something, mate... Do you find it somewhat... redundant... to post something there that I've already posted elsewhere on the internet?


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ghotistix
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06 Dec 2005, 6:33 am

HuskyInDenial wrote:
Tell me something, mate... Do you find it somewhat... redundant... to post something there that I've already posted elsewhere on the internet?

Who what where?



HuskyInDenial
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06 Dec 2005, 8:19 am

ghotistix wrote:
Who what where?


uh...

I writing deviantART.

>>

<<

><


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06xrs
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27 Jan 2006, 12:27 pm

I just posted Chapter 1 of my as yet unfinished novel.
Ducking into my foxhole.
Ready, aim, fire for effect!
INCOMING!



neptunevsmars
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23 Feb 2006, 7:31 am

Hi Ghostistix...another big thank you for setting the site up. :D

I've submitted a song lyric which I tried to post in the writing and poetry section here but have not seen it yet. Either it takes a while for them to check stuff or they 8O didn't like what they read...it's a bit darker and more cynical than the other stuff there.
Bound to happen when you're into Girls Against Boys and NIN :roll: lol

Also note that as a song lyric it does not read with the conventional meter of poetry, you kind of have to imagine something like REM's "The One I Love" - on speed - going on underneath it.


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maxxosthetaxxos
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09 Mar 2006, 6:53 am

hi. I've noticed alot of fellow aspies have such talent on computers. wish I did. lool. and how would I join?



Astreja
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26 Mar 2006, 4:21 am

Here's one of the stranger stream-of-consciousness pieces from my website:

I am I am I am I am who am I what am I where am I what is this place is this a place is anywhere a place too many questions too many answers what why what how when there he is there she was who are they does it matter what is matter but frozen energy but to freeze is to lose energy yet nothing is lost nothing is gained there is no loss there is no gain there is no advantage except over self there is no self without the other yet the other is self in a different place different time but what is difference just a trick of mind that divides and divides and m*u*l*t*i*p*l*i*e*s the div is ions until all matter is fr ac tured into particles but no particle in particular all is one so they say so why were numbers invented? 'If one didn't exist two would have to invent it' thank you monsieur Voltaire I'll make sure the thought's back at the library by oh-900 Monday morning and still I search for an I that cannot see and listen for the silence that they call Truth but who are they what is truth but that which defines a lie and does reality have time to spread itself so thinly two sides to every story but at best the story is only two dimensional and demential too but I digress there is something so terribly wrong with the deal we've been handed that if it were a 59¢ kitchen gadget we'd already be halfway down the road to the store to the complaint department (complaint=to plead together, like com-panion and com-rade) but no one wants to listen because in a perfect world nothing is wrong only the silence of con-sensus and now consensus is lost in angry pacing and posturing as we attempt to cut holes in the prison made for us of words, more words, 24 hour news from a single dripping, stinking candle there is no light that illuminates human stupidity only shows it up and engenders jealousy and backbiting paranoia ass-watching blameshifting where NOBODY IS GOOD ENOUGH but NOBODY isn't even in the office on Tuesdays and that was when IT HAPPENED and of course no one saw it coming because they were trying so very hard to LOOK THE OTHER WAY which way are we facing are we even looking do we even have our eyes open and if we do why can't we see?