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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in a club's LiveJournal:

[ << Previous 20 ]
Thursday, January 25th, 2007
3:36 pm
Expect something from me here next week. Anyone else?
Tuesday, January 16th, 2007
9:50 pm
It's been a very long time since anyone has posted here, but I think it's high time for a revival. I've looked over a fair number of writing communities since I started up this one, and my idea of what it should be has changed a bit. Most livejournal communities seem to suffer from a lack of quality control in their members: large numbers of lj users join the community, but the importance of the opinion of each individual member completely disappears. What purpose is there in having 500 people reading your writing if none of them give you any useful feedback?

I propose to begin this community anew to remove that form of membership. I don't want to start a niche community with in-jokes and pretention; what I do want, however, is to create a fiction and poetry writing community where every member can be counted on to consider each piece of writing any other member submits, and to give feedback of some kind whenever possible.

This community can be what online communities are at their best: large groups of people interacting on a massive and cooperative scale. But let us not begin that way.

Those of you who are members of this community already, decide for yourself if you are able and willing to commit to providing substantial review of up to 3 individual pieces of writing every week. Submission guidelines will follow in the footsteps of any good writing workshop: No more than 10 double spaced pages of text for a prose submission, and no more than 100 lines for a poetry submission. Exceptions may be made, of course, but only if prepared for in advance.

Who is willing to join me here? I would let to get the shuffling-feet period over with as soon as possible.
Friday, January 5th, 2007
5:11 pm
I've had an article published in Newsweek's online "My Turn" column. I felt Spirit-led to write the article, in the hopes that those who read it might feel compelled to examine themselves for any hidden prejudices. The article can be found here.

Please note that the title and the tagline were not written by me. The original title was "So I Married a Creationist".
Sunday, January 8th, 2006
8:00 pm
I hate my soul. It has become enlarged recently and grown progressively more massive. Midway through last week, I lost the ability to pass a bowel movement due to its exorbitant mass. Soon I will also become unable to walk. I hope that I can find a cure for my pervasive condition shortly or I fear the consequences may be dire. Tomorrow I plan to visit the village mystic for a consultation.


As I entered the hut of Minskrot, the mystic, I noticed the pervading odor of human excrement. I found this encouraging, as my rectal breach was ballooning to unreal proportions as a result of my condition. If nothing else, surely the good doctor could cure this aspect.

Entering Minskrot's inner sanctum, I was greeted by a salutation. "Hullo," he bellowed in a reverberant baritone. I was struck dumb for several seconds, awed by the enormity of his person. When I recovered my sentience, all I could think to say was "Thank goodness I'm here, I have a bit of a problem."

After I had gotten out this mouthful, the good doctor gave me a look of tremendous contempt. "That much is obvious," he said, eyeing my near bursting midsection. "How did it start?" he asked with a look of concern. "We may not have much time, so be as quick as you can."

"I fear my soul has become enlarged beyond it's normal parameters," I said solemnly, the impact of my words forcing my feet into the floor and the ground beyond. I glanced over at Minskrot, expecting to see a look of professional concern, but instead spying a face more like that of an amused child.

"How exactly did you come to this conclusion?" he asked, incredulous. "Most people are far less than aware of their souls' daily fluctuations, and enlargement to the degree which you suggest was increasingly rare, even in the dark ages dominated by drugs and interventionist medicine."

"Well, you told me to keep this brief, so I decided against explaining that straight out. But the thing you should know, Minskrot, is that I am far from an average, ordinary, boring man. My work with the Bureau of Savage Rehabitilation has exposed me to things most people can only imagine. The men with their suits and ties, carrying their briefcases around in imitation of the days of yore have spat their fiery insults onto me day in and day out as I have done my job. One morning I awoke and felt a weighty, solemn feeling deep in my gut. I knew at once that something was wrong. Unfortunately, I was in the midst of a 3-week exhibition in the Savage's crown jewel, the 'city' of New York. I tried to go about my business as usual, but eventually, as I lost consciousness in the street, I could not escape the clutches of the white-coated masses, dragging me deep into their shining vehicle, to the bowels of their massive, faceless buildings of healing and recovery, the horror..."

"Alright, I think that's enough," gasped Minskrot, visibly shaken. "I will prepare a strong soul-shrinking drought immediately. There is no time to waste." He immediately rummaged through his cupboards, pulling out herbs and fowl-smelling creatures. He threw them all into a large pestle, and began mortaring away with a vengeance. When he had created a stiff paste, he cut a vein in both my thumb and his and squeezed some blood into the mixture. When this was mixed, he added salt, pepper, and garlic powder ("You'll thank me later," he said, noticing my look of confusion) and again stirred the mixture thoroughly. When this preparation was completed, he grabbed a spoon from the drawer and took a taste.

Nodding in approval, he poured the mixture into a cup and passed it to me. I downed it in one gulp and immediately released 14 days of waste into my pantaloons, sighing happily, and walked over to the next room, the bath.
Wednesday, November 16th, 2005
9:22 pm
I think I'll start NaNo, except not really, today.
A draft of sorts, to be edited on the morrow:

The old man stood before me, his face scavenged by some avenging flame, his gaze holding the same flame within it. Perplexed by his silent carriage, I waited for him to define himself with words.
A pretty pair we must have made, standing there in the morning sunlight; his clothes were tattered riches, mine rich tatters. I had been on my way to my begging post, and his haggard frame burned with his refusal of such activity. Catching sight of an old tattoo on his shoulder -- interlocking rings just visible through the threadbare corner of his twined garment -- I kept waiting.
"My boy," said the old man, somehow familiar with me after so short a time, "you need not do such things with your life."
He paused; my silence asked him to continue.
"I have a job for you, and any friends you might have. It won't be easy, but it's not impossible, and I know that you have the stripes for it" -- this said while his eyes scanned again the waning power of my neck and chest.
"If it strikes you" -- and I know it does, said the grin on his face -- "be by the docks at dusk, as armed as you can manage." He trailed off.
I blinked… and sunlight shocked me into sensibility.

Now, before I go on, let me tell you about this city; this city is my life. This city burns and cools at intervals; its inner fire and inner chill are twined tighter than an old man’s clothes. And the cycle gets to you, drains you of your own motions, and makes you a part of the city’s pattern. I’m sure you’ve seen the same, wherever you are, but here… here, no one escapes the pattern. I’ve tried, though.
Before any of us were born, an old man named Anceps tried hardest of all to escape the pattern. He worked the earth as his fathers had before him, but he tried to twist the harvest-time in his favor – he tried to shift it, first by days, then weeks, then months. He confused the plants, you see… he made them think the sun was out during some and then all of the night, and, when their life cycle was so altered, he introduced sudden spurts of night without warning – after which the plants, fearing for their lives, had no choice but to look to the future, to exhaust their reproductive capacities before they had them no longer. But frenzied births brought frenzied children, and Anceps’ crops could no more hold onto their lives than an oaf to his balance. Those who did survive the trials were the most terrible, however. They learned faster than any men, and they found the arbiter of their fate too self-interested to be allowed to live… but you see my point, yes?
This city, from farmland to dockside, rules us all.
Sunday, September 18th, 2005
10:44 pm
Hi, folks.
If I still have readers, here's a little sketchy thing I wrote for the writing class I'm taking this semester. Let me know what you think.

The Leg
Class with that annoying girl, again.
She never listens to herself. It’s obvious. Why else would she never improve? I hate this song thanks to her.
My foot sticks out as she walks by. She falls. I hear a resounding thud, and my heart quivers.
“No, it was him. It wasn’t me!” I cry, indignant. Somehow everyone knows it’s a lie, even the boy. He blushes. What a horrible scapegoat!
I need a better one.
* * *

The principal’s a nasty man, but he hides in his suits and his family photos. He looks down on me in his chair. I stand, waiting.
“Now, Ms. Fitzgerald (he always calls me Ms. Fitzgerald, capitals and all), why did you trip Regina?”
“Don’t know.” That’s true – and it was foot that done it, really.
I don’t think he likes my attitude again.
“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me, Ms. Fitzgerald?”
I pause, eyeing those words. He waits.
And then it starts again. He gets louder, and I can’t hear him anymore. Something about my attitude, and my inappropriate behavior, no doubt.
I can’t hear them when they insult me so much, so I keep waiting. He sighs, and it’s over. I walk away, but I turn around so he can stop me for one last word.
“If you do this again, you’ll have to face the consequences, Ms. Fitzgerald.”
Enough with the name already, I want to say. I know you’re talking to me.
Instead, I walk out. His back looks disappointed when I peek over my shoulder.

* * *
They don’t look at me when I come back. I can feel the pause, though. Everyone’s wondering what he said, and it’s thrilling. I sit down, and there this incident ends.
Except when I get home.


The principal called my parents: my mother answered, but she certainly told my father when she’d heard.
Once I see her eyes, I know: this time, “don’t know” won’t work – and she always sees what I’m thinking in my eyes. She’ll call me Susan, not Ms. Fitzgerald, but she’ll say it with capitals too, and this time it will burn.
So when I open the door after I get off the bus, and I see her waiting to open her mouth at me, I say “I’m sorry.” I take the credit for my leg, for being ‘snide’ with the principal, for everything.
Because when she talks to me, I hear everything.
Tuesday, July 12th, 2005
3:17 pm
Be careful what you wish for
Genna wanted something to read. She said we all on her friends list pretty much suck for not giving her something to read, so I'll give her something to read, all right. But I still suck: because see, I'm putting up all of my most depressing, pessimistic, vile, and angst-ridden sonnets in the hopes of making all who read them miserable. I will not put them behind a cut either. Read it and weep.
Sonnet #2

Each autumn, as the leaves fall from the trees,
Turning burnt orange beneath a placid sky,
And as the humid air begins to freeze,
The ladybugs come in my house to die.

One day my doormat is devoid of them;
The next, I find the shells of those deceased
Insects for whom I write this flippant hymn.
I find them bothersome, to say the least.

The few who yet live stagger ‘round the floor.
What drives them into here, I do not know,
But as I sweep their bodies out the door,
Reflecting on my chore, I wish they’d go.

Belittling these deaths, I make mundane
That frail mortality of bugs in pain.
Sonnet #19

Once, not so long ago, I found someone
With traits I value greatly in a friend—
A kind and gentle spirit, sense of fun—
I’d have to say we were much closer then

Than after I had tried developing
Our friendship. Those from separate hemispheres
Of fate will ne’er harmoniously sing.
With others, something seems to click—like gears.

The rhyme’s already writ. I have no voice,
And what I consciously deem worth pursuit
Shall come to me by chance and not by choice.
My efforts are a tree that bears no fruit.

I choose to try, I give the horse my spurs,
But all for naught—for friendship just occurs.
Sonnet #29

Another day, another dollar, yet
Another useless conversation, just
Like yesterday. I’m so frustrated that
It’s like my lower jaw is caked in rust.

I’ve heard it said that there’s another place,
Where death and pain and grief are dead and gone,
Where we’ll have conversations face-to-face,
Where I can use my lips to sing Your song.

Once this dead mouth has come alive again,
And when the former things have passed away,
I’ll be content and glad. But until then,
I never thought I’d be so glad to say:

“I hate it here. I wish that I were dead.
I wish that I were home with You instead.”
Sonnet #35

This place is for the ones who have to bleed
From open wounds, and bleed tears from their eyes.
They found the world could never meet their need
And scarred them with its answers to their cries.

This place is for the ones who have to break
And break things when they scream and detonate.
In here they can be angry at their aches
And all the evil in this current state.

This place is for the ones who have to bawl
Because their current state is evil, too,
Inside their heart. They come here, sins and all,
And sob for all the hateful things they do.

And in the presence of the Lord Most High,
We’ll bleed, and cry, and kneel, both you and I.
Sonnet #41

I can’t express my thoughts quite right in prose.
They turn out wrong and often sound off-key,
Not what I meant—so why did I suppose
That sonnets would be easier for me?

Iambs and feet and rhymes just complicate
The task and rule out words I otherwise
Would use. If my words were not all that great
Before, unfettered, yet not good or wise—

How stupid they must sound now! On your ears
They fall like iron bricks in metered verse!
Against all hope this poet perseveres!
Perversely, I take prose and make it worse!

So, why’d I keep this sonnet, anyway?
Could it have anything at all to say?
Sonnet #45 (A Valediction: Forbidding Morning?)

Now as I lay me down to sleep, I pray
The Lord my soul to keep, and if somehow
I do not live to see the light of day—
I wouldn’t mind that much if I died now.

Still in my clothes, I collapse onto the bed
And try to You my tired voice to raise.
It’s too bad I already feel half-dead,
Already wishing for my last of days.

Why do I spurn Your gift of life? And who
Would want to hear the thoughts of such as I?
And who would ever stop to listen to
A human being who will be glad to die?

Forgive me, Lord; You always do what’s best,
And give me rest when I most need to rest.
Sonnet #60

“Come see! We’ve found his secret lab, wherein
He tests his theories with experiments
In transmutation, women’s wills to win,
Concocting feelings fervent and intense!

With laws of caused effects and formulae,
With heartless greed and pseudo-science cold,
He’ll pull off his relational alchemy
And bend her will to turn his lead to gold!”

Before the door we stood, as I knelt down
And peered in through the keyhole. Still as death
I stared; the Alchemist turned, faced the door;
I pulled back, sharply sucking in my breath.

He’d looked up from his text on alchemy,
I’d seen his face—the Alchemist was me.
Sonnet #61

A year has passed since last I came down here;
I’m sitting on the steps of Music Hall
And thinking back on times when I shed tears
And how I never used to cry at all.

There’s harder things in life than allergies
And irritants, than pollen in the air.
There’s seeing sad farewells ahead, when she’s
Cared for you—yet not as you care—

You lovesick kids, you know well what I mean,
You poets who pour your pain into your art.
You know there ain’t no antihistamine
To clear out all the junk inside your heart.

The tenor singing tonight knows how I feel,
As sad Italian lyrics keep it real.
Sonnet #63

I’m sick of my emotions, sick of love
And longing, of the pangs that run me through;
For Jesus Christ, enthroned in heaven above,
Has never loved a woman as I do.

A friend of sinners and the destitute,
He loved all women without a thing to gain.
He died for beggars, widows, prostitutes,
And selflessly took on their sin and pain.

But I’ve loved this girl selfishly instead,
With empty hopes for water from her well.
I think my love is hell? I’ve heard it said
That Jesus Christ descended into hell…

But this I know: He loved us, we impure.
Lord, make me holy, make me wholly Yours.
Sonnet #76

The bus goes on, but I go back in time
To overload my mind with…long-dead cares?
I meant to think of happy things, but I’m
Dragged into memories, caught unawares

By all—oh, never mind, I can’t think straight,
Today destroyed what poetry I might
Have made, or maybe it was yesterdays
Of throwing up. I know this can’t be right.

There’s no escape from your own thoughts, when all
Your poetry comes out in fits and starts,
And on the bus I sit and fight the fall
And pray that Someone Else will guard my heart.

And I know it’s a task for Someone Else;
How could I guard myself against myself?
Sonnet #77 (upon beginning the poetry exchange with Matt)

O Matthew Talamini, this idea
Is good, and I will definitely try
To give my feelings voice, though I've got fear
Of mentioning the things I hold inside.

The empty pit inside my stomach claws
At all the walls, the source of deepest ache.
What dreams may come, they say, must give us pause—
I fear my choices are not mine to make.

Is there no one to whom I can confess
The one Event that drives me to my knees?
I know the cause of my profound distress,
But I don't wish to seem depressed...

I trust that one day yet, things will be great.
I'm hoping on a promise, so I wait.
Sonnet #78

The bus is dark today, the lights are dim,
And his it is to ride and wonder why.
Today he wishes that he were a “him”
Instead of being such a selfish “I.”

It’s dark inside his half-enlightened head.
He’s trapped in his perspective, and there’s no
Escape from selfhood, even when he’s dead.
All day he’s learning things he cannot know,

And time goes by too slowly when he’s too
Aware of every second, and his guts
Resist digesting what he puts into
Them. But when selfhood hurts too much,

He finds a single thought that will suffice.
Another knows of selfhood: Jesus Christ.
Sonnet #81

The man on the TV is bleeding from
The nose, as soldiers seize him by the hair
And press him up against the wall. Shalom?
There’s no shalom, just violence over there.

What do I know of pain? I rarely bleed
And never have been struck to that extent.
Racism’s Greek to me, and all my needs
Are so well-met. What has this image meant?

The words are easier to bear: “When there’s
A population being occupied,
And when their fundamental human rights
Are being systematically denied…”

But could that beaten man on the TV
Communicate some brutal thing to me?
Sonnet #84 (originally written on a scrap of toilet paper)

My excrement today is of a strange
Consistency, and smells so pungently,
Exhibiting manure-enscented change
From poop of odorless solidity.

Like mud of human waste, it sits within
The basin of the toilet, in contrast
To more substantial turds, each by my pen
Unmentionèd, the feces of the past.

What ate I that my bowels might thusly move?
And better still, why shouldst thou even care
About the rank viscosity that proves
To issue, mudlike, from my derriere?

And should this rhymed display of T.M.I.
Be e’er revealèd to the public eye?
Sonnet #87

St. Augustine, was memory ever like
A torture chamber, full of bitter pain?
Unbidden, did it rummage through your psyche,
Making you live through your sin again?

In your devotions, did you ever turn
Aside inside your thoughts, from God to lust?
And it did hurt, the way the fever burned
Against the fiercest struggles of your trust?

I don’t remember why I wrote this rhyme
Or why I took a trip inside that vault.
There’s times I’m sick of contemplating time,
So easily reminded of my faults

And too prone to neglect the simple fact
That Christ has died to give me what I lack.
Sonnet #97

Retract and re-retract: is that my style?
Is nothing constant, nothing so secure
Except my tendency to, under trial,
Give up on holding fast to something pure?

I’m so ashamed of what I wrote before:
What good is good that fades and doesn’t last?
I held, but I’m not holding anymore,
As past emotions break like colored glass,

As fickle, fluctuating feelings fade,
Refuse to stick and now disintegrate.
So, did I work alone in what I’d made,
All that I once felt…did I fabricate?

I’m such a liar, so I’m telling you
There’s no one in this world at all who’s true.
Sonnet #103

Here, in between the wasteland and the sky,
The parched air burning blue distorts with heat,
Blank cloudless heavens rippling; throats are dry
And skin cracks like the earth beneath burned feet.

Deserted men await some great respite
With thirsty throats and nostrils lined with dust,
Grit felt in every orifice; at night,
They seek to sate their thirst with greed and lust.

I’ve never been to Arizona or
The Middle East, but listen: I still know
The empty, arid feeling at the core
Of every dehydration of the soul.

The young man’s waiting for his turn to die,
Here in between the wasteland and the sky.
Sonnet #111

Since when did optimism become passé?
These days, the radio keeps music bleak
As if there’s nothing positive to say.
The tunes they play, the flavors of the week,

All center on shipwrecked relationships,
With themes of things that suck and lyrics filled
With anger or despair or bitter quips;
We mourn the death of all the joy they’ve killed.

In basements and garages some convene
To worship at the shrine of Kurt Cobain,
But we who live for more than the (ob)-scene
Forsake the rites of music’s cult of pain.

We don’t need you to tell us life’s not painless.
Here we are now: please don’t entertain us.
Sonnet #115

Transcending all the boundaries of lame,
You stormed out, blind to all you’d left to hang.
Incompetent and quick to throw the blame,
At someone else, you watched it boomerang

And caught it right smack-dab between the eyes,
To realize that you’re reaping what you’ve sown.
I’m sad to say communication’s died,
And power of resurrection’s not your own.

You lose your food for thought when you’ve cut ties;
A would-be friend’s offended, now that you’ve
Grown angry just like other angry guys,
A disconnected room without a view.

You’re Jackson Ferrell: you’re the mess you make,
Incapable of fixing this mistake.
Sonnet #117

Good Lord, who is this vicious, hateful man?
How did I come to share a mind with him?
I grow embittered just because I can,
Mentally violent, prone to spiteful sin,

And all my self-assertions turn to screams
As I self-lacerate, still proud as hell.
I spit on Him who gave me all my dreams,
Fueling recidivism in a cell

For criminal intentions in my soul:
Destructive urges fueled by random hate
Keep tearing at restraints and take their toll
As my control starts to disintegrate,

But why did I not let disintegrate
That caged abomination fed by hate?
Sonnet #120

A hero, sent to gather magic ore,
With five companions delved into the rift.
Beneath the town, the twisting corridors
Stretched furlongs deep, of all sunlight bereft.

Risking a death unspeakable, the crew
Descended shafts of darkness in the mines,
Where hideous creatures, features veiled from view,
Guard ore and conjure horrors in the mind…

But that’s the magic-man’s economy,
When mages forge enchanted swords for kings,
And someone’s got to fuel their sorcery
With magic ore for making everything.

Five lives and one man’s sanity were lost;
What quantity of ore is worth that cost?
Sonnet #138

Dear Dad, Hello. How are You? I am fine.
I saw the waves today and thought of You,
How You called into being and designed
That vast and boundless bay of deepest blue.

My allergies are acting up these days,
But it’s not so bad, and school is going fine.
I’ve made some friends, whom, when I graduate,
I just keep thinking how I’ll leave behind.

I miss You, Dad. I know You’re never far,
But Your transcendence seems so far removed
From all I know, my consciousness so marred
By sin and time and fluctuating moods.

Say hi to all the angels in the heavenlies.
Goodbye for now. Wish You were here. Love, me.
Sonnet #144

1 – cos Θ = r:
A formula for tracing out the graph
Of a misshapen sideways quasi-heart,
Possessing two symmetric rounded halves.

No blood flows through its single chamber, void
Of valves and impotent to pump or beat.
The static apex of this cardioid
Can’t strike against my sternum or feel heat…

It’s cold out here: polar coordinates
With frigid digits touch my punning heart.
A bitter laugh’s my last defense against
The slightest tap that’d make me fall apart.

Poor brittle cardioid, is it your fault
That you’ve become so cynical and hard?
Sonnet #152

You tell me that this world’s illusory,
That all is one, that pleasure brings us harm.
You pull the carpet out from under me
And try to melt my sense of all that’s firm.

You tell me that my selfhood is my sin,
That God is nonexistence that exists
And that I must give myself into Him
And cease to be, to be—you make me pissed!

Shut up! Your vicious speeches make me ill!
Your words are poison poured into my ear,
But it takes more than liquid lies to kill
This King of Denmark: I refuse to hear!

So take your lies and leave; I won’t be led
To think like you—now get out of my head!
(I forget what number this sonnet is)

This afternoon I felt this urge to pick
Up roses on the way back home from work,
Do something kind and thoughtful, bring a gift
To give to...dammit! Who would it be for?

This sonnet was supposed to have a point,
An object, a direction, but instead,
The longing in me twists things out of joint
And turns back on the feelings in my head.

I'm getting used to unfulfilled desires
And loving girls who'll never love me back,
And heart attacks--or maybe I'm a liar,
And actually can't stand to feel this lack...

Why do things always stop before they start?
My sternum aches. I feel so sick at heart.

Well, that was somewhat more optimistic than I had hoped for, but I suppose I'll make do with it.

Current Mood: pessimistic
Wednesday, May 25th, 2005
10:01 pm
A Short Story for your enjoyment
(Johnnies especially should like it. Unfortunately the italics didn't carry over.)
Aias NauphulakosCollapse )
9:40 pm
This Week's Sonnet

Sonnet #139

Our freshman year, we had to memorize
A brand new alphabet of mu’s and phi’s,
And meanings bore the unfamiliar guise
Of words with alien morphology.

Confronting strange, fresh marks and shapes,
We learned declension paradigms; we scoped
The Meno out in the original Greek,
And yet we never talked quite as I’d hoped.

But now I’m in a place where there’s fraternities;
Not everybody goes Greek at this place.
Once, you and I had so much commonality—
The Program—but I let it go to waste.

“Eimi”’s a word I’ve never heard you say.
(I’m dumb. I threw our koinonia away.)

Comments welcome. Please. Please comment, please. Please above all else criticize constructively.
Wednesday, March 16th, 2005
8:33 pm
The Fourth Person Pronoun
Hey people. I know this community hasn't seen a whole lot of noise lately, but here's a short story I been working on, that you've seen part of before. Check it out.
What I'm wondering about, specifically, is whether the scene at the end with Terry and Erin adequately establishes Erin's identity and connection to everybody, and also whether I should go with the Erin-phone-call or the Erin-comes-over. Any other comments, also welcome. Lookin' for constructive criticism. It's almost complete, I just need a story about what happened today for Erin to tell...

The Fourth Person PronounCollapse )
Friday, February 4th, 2005
12:22 am
A story.
Hi everybody... it's been forever, I know. If you've got some spare time, and you're not one of the people who have already read it, could you give me a critique on this story? It's fairly done, but even if your comments don't make me change the story I'm fairly sure that they'll help me later on, with the next story like this one that I try to do.

Some questions I would ask you if you were reading this is front of me: Are the characters believable? Are the transitions too much? Does the ending feel like it works to you?

And of course, if you have something else to say, say it all.

it's called Not the Man You Are ExpectingCollapse )
Saturday, October 16th, 2004
5:40 pm
Cardshark After Long Hiatus
I've been reworking some parts of Cardshark. Here is the mall part, which I have reworked. I still have to conclude it. If you wish, you can tell me what you think and what still needs work.
So, here it is.Collapse )
Monday, August 9th, 2004
7:39 pm
Is Poetry Legal?
Hey, everyone. I've accumulated quite a lot of sonnets, so here they are for you to edit, because something needs to happen in this here community. (Something tells me we are not truly houradaying.) Of course, they're far too many for you to edit all of them, so just pick one that you like but that you think could benefit from your helpful suggestions, and tell me what's right and what's wrong about it. And lo, there was much praise of the Son of God in latter sonnets, just so ye knoweth. Feel free to review a couple if it tickles your fancy.
What I'm particularly looking for editing help with is the good-poetry-ness of the thing. Ugly or cumbersome phrases, poor rhymes, stuff that might be put better, cliches...that sort of thing, point it out and offer suggestions for fixing, for improvement. Some of the early ones are really terrible, I know it, but don't let that stop you from helping them out.

Aye, laddie, Sonnets McAssload is me name!Collapse )
Saturday, August 28th, 2004
9:31 pm
To make Kast happy, an old faux journal entry fiction.

I was sitting outside the library the other day, not waiting for anybody in particular, just waiting and reading a book on gnosticism I'd gotten out. It was then that the winnebago type thing pulled up and the window rolled down. He looked like Jesus, at least like kids are raised to think Jesus looks like, and he smiled and said "Hello."
I looked up from my book, or at least, I looked up more noticably from my book than I'd been looking before and said "Hi" and thought, "Damn, he DOES look like Jesus".
"I'm the next coming" he said, and grinned like it was the nicest thing in the world. It was like he had been waiting all day to tell somebody, and I just happened to be the girl sitting in front of the library when he couldn't stand to keep quiet about it anymore.
I had no idea what he was talking about. "The next what?"
"The next coming," he repeated, and grinned again, only with slightly less confidence that I was the one he ought to be telling.
"Congratulations?" I hazarded, hoping this was the correct response to someone who announces that he's the next coming and doesent tell you where he's coming to or what is the thing coming next that he is.
The grin resumed it's previous brilliance and he came to another conclusion. "I am the next coming, and I shall have ice cream."
"Ah..." I said, then added "That's a wonderful idea, if I were the next coming that would be exactly what I'd do."
He didn't say anything for a minute so I pointed in the direction he had come from and said "There's a Ben and Jerry's on the corner back there, or there's a gellato place on Broadway... gellato's better than icecream."
He tried out that idea, "I am the next coming and I shall have gellato," he said, then grinned again. "You shall have gellato too," and before I could say anything he drove off and parked his winnebago.
"You know," I said when he came back "I've got a boyfriend already."
"I know," he said "You're welcome" and he started to walk up the alley towards Broadway.
I chased after him. "What did you say you are again?"
"The next coming," he seemed to have gotten over his excitement about this.
I thought about it, he sure did look like Jesus. "You mean the second coming?"
"No, the next, second was ages ago."
"So... what are you up to this time around? A reign of terror? Fire and brimsone kinda thing, or more teaching?"
"Actually," he said "I thought I'd just take a road trip. What kind of gellato did you want?"
I looked at the guy who looked like Jesus in Birkenstocks and jeans, then at the glass case. "Well... chocolate hazlenut woud be lovely"
"Two," he said to the lady scooping.
"Say... this roadtrip of yours," I said, "would you be going to Indiana?"
Sunday, July 25th, 2004
2:57 pm
More Cardshark Still
hey, here's some more Cardshark to look over. There is a scene I wrote in my red notebook which is missing, in which Kate excuses herself from the group during clothes-shopping, and takes a little Kate-time during which to mentally flip out and panic. But as for what I've already written...the usual concerns. Is it believable, is there any extra stuff I should cut? Characterization? The little things like phrasing nuances?
Don't be afraid to suggest radical revisions, if that's what's called for. But if it's not, then that's cool: just suggest what revisions are called for.
Am I only talking to Alec here?

STALKER!Collapse )
Wednesday, July 21st, 2004
10:11 am
More Stuff
Kate has a strange cardshark dream in this one. I'm not sure where I'll put it, in the story...but probably what needs to happen is for someone to mention woods, or swords, or words, or dragons. These things can't be showing up in her dream for no reason. Perhaps Danny can talk about swords and dragons, it makes sense.
Kinda rough. Comments appreciated. Does it feel like a dream? How could it be made to feel more like a dream?

dream sequence.Collapse )
Sunday, July 11th, 2004
4:47 pm
In the beginning there was light. And the light was with God, and the light was God. And because God was all there was, there was nothing but light. And the light gave God a headache, and made it impossible for them to play Hide and Seek.
And God was cranky.
So God said, "Let there be darkness, and let the darkness be seperate from the light," and it was so, and God saw that it was nifty. And they played hide and seek between the darkness and the light. And they laughed.
Saturday, July 10th, 2004
12:34 pm
Alright boys and girls, this is the thing. I'm working on a very long fairy tale, but I don't want to put it up online until it's done. The reason for this is that I have only a vague idea where it's going, and the beginning bits are probably going to need serious editing so that the story will end up making sense. I don't want to put up the first few chapters until I know that they're going to stay the way they are at the moment.
However, to pacify you, I'll put up the beginning of a creation myth that I started a while ago the moment I get home from this silly family reunion thingy.
Friday, July 9th, 2004
7:58 pm
Third f&$king time livejournal has eaten my entry
wrote this on the bus today.Collapse )

I had a little more to say on this, but I'm sick of LJ blowing it away. So how about if I hear what you have to say, instead? Tell me what could be improved, what could be axed entirely, and what you think in general. Could it fit in Cardshark? Or does this sound like someone besides Kate, with different concerns and stuff?
Okay, let's tack this bad boy up.
Thursday, July 8th, 2004
8:59 pm
Dear Mr. Kast,
Tonight, I am aspiring.
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