27 September 2010
Author: the TATAbox
Word Count: 298
Warning: Beware of awesomeness.
The adult lives on the surface of the world; he lives in depressed, uninspiring steel-and-
concrete nature; he reacts without emotion, and he secures himself solely around his
surroundings. The child does not see the world as it is; he sees it only as an extension
and reflection of his mind, the unlimited universe his domain. Both are ignorant. The
ignorance of the child who lives in his dreams is such that he does not know the reality
and powerful inspirations of life. The ignorance of the adult deprives him of the power
to open his mind to the “impossible.” While he is not lacking in knowledge and thinking
ability, his inner eye is shut to the beauty of the ordinary as well as the rare because of
relinquished imagination that might give him a myriad of possibilities in his rigid world of
profits and because of his dying childhood heart that should have freed him from all his
self-placed limitations. Adulthood, though normally seen as childhood’s improvement, is
instead the continuance of childhood on different degrees.
Books, the portals to new worlds and dreams, have revolutionized the world in
unacknowledged ways. For the luckily educated, books build bridges back to the age
of wizards, fairies, and other far reaches of the Old World that draws innocents in and
frees them imbibed with mental seeds of romanticism and imagination shooting tall. For
the luckily educated, books reach out to the deep, dark unknown, bringing forth thrilling
terror, macabre murders, even majestic horrors, which resurface ten-fold in sweat-
breaking nightmares. For the luckily educated, books thrust – peppered with sweet
remnants of happy moments – unthinkably cruel reality into their readers’ faces. For the
luckily educated, these records of ink and paper impart knowledge, pain, or excitement –
all starting with a single word.
Silver's note: :D A first non Lewis or Silver post! <3!!
25 September 2010
Writing: Excerpt from Roleplay
Word Count: 316
18 September 2010
Writing: Character story
Word Count: 520
She doesn’t know how long it’s been. She’s awake with not a thought or memory lingering in her mind, a gravestone washed clean of all engravings and blemishes. The still-warm blood coagulating on her fingertips and the weight in her lap hint that perhaps her last few minutes haven’t been spent in the land of dreams. She looks down. It’s a corpse. A young girl who, by the looks of it, might have been very pretty when she was alive- pretty, before someone decided to disfigure her until she was hardly recognizable. Maybe, she thinks, maybe I did it?
She’s not sure how to react to the notion. Something pure, righteous, and nagging declares that she should be atoning for her sins right now. Murder, done in the cruelest fashion. Appalling. She finds that being painted from head to toe in sticky red isn’t too disgusting. Strange. But what does it matter, when she doesn’t know this girl, and there is really nothing to feel guilty about? Really, all she is doing is having some fun.
With the leftover blood on her hands she paints the tiled bathroom wall: a toppled, butterfly-wing-shaped splotch for a heart symbol, since it seems like the kind of thing that would suit a girl the age of the dead one there. R. I. P., rest in peace. What was her name? She adds “beloved daughter,” because it seems to fit. She doesn’t know the date, so that too is omitted. And. What else was this girl?
When the body and the blood go cold, she reluctantly washes herself off in a nearby sink. The blood looks so pretty on white porcelain that she decides not to clean the stains off the sink, marks of her passing. She’s finished here, so after surveying the empty bathroom (where there’s no one else but herself, that blood, and those lifeless bodies), she makes her way for the door. There is a growing feeling of delirium: even as all of this is happening, she is being born. She is given a past, an experience, a mark on the world as proof that she was here. She exists.
It’s not until her reflection in the mirror catches her eye that she notices that she has no face.
Jule emerges from her dream like a drowning sailor breaks the surface of the water. Her breath is shallow, but it settles after a few seconds. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Just to be sure, she picks up the hand mirror laid readily on the bedside table and checks her reflection. Clear blue eyes blink sleepily back at her, fringed thickly with long lashes. They are almost covered by her long blond bangs, swept across her face in her sleep. The skin of her face is pale, and as she tilts her chin upward, she can almost see the veins in her throat, pulsing with blood. Normal. Normal. All normal. As long as she has a face, she has an identity. But without her memories, what meaning does it have? When the time comes, what will be written on her tombstone?
It's kind of really messily done >.<
This is another writing-- um... a character's side-story, maybe? in prep. for Nanowrimo.
Jule has the ability to shapshift into anything as long as it's human, but she also gets amnesia every once in a while. So it's very confusing, and she can't remember who she was or what she used to look like.
I just wanted to try to get some insight into her ...more human, more vulnerable side before I begin portraying her as the "torturer of humankind" kind of person that she usually is. I actually really like her because she's like this. I mean, not that I would be friends with her in real life; she'd probably make me cry and then kill me.
Also, I will probably be submitting another character story on one of the other NaNo characters, Zetes (formerly Tophis Hayes), who is (a jerk) unpopular with the ladies.
I met the word quota this week :D
Silver : 100000000000, Lewis: 1
17 September 2010
Authors: Lewis,Silver Ink and esteemed guest author Oscar Wilde
Writing: Collaboration/ Homework Assignment
Word Count: 479
Bracknell: Yes, please. (awkward silence) Miss Prism, it is plain that something is troubling you. Come now, out with it.
Prism: Yes, yes. Forgive my awkwardness. (pause) Do you remember the events just after Mrs. Moncrieff’s untimely death?
Bracknell: Of course! What of my sister’s death?
Prism: You will recall that Mrs. Moncrieff entrusted me with the task of delivering her baby to you then? (Bracknell nods and Prism continues, agitated) For some reason, I have been thinking about the poor baby. See, I had set him in my handbag for the journey. I was occupied for but a moment and then both babe and bag had vanished!
Bracknell: I see. That is most unfortunate. The poor lad-- where could he have gone?
Prism: I never found out....
Jack: This is extremely strange. I am wandering the streets with a handbag at my side, a pink handbag no less. (sigh) But it is my only clue to finding my mother. (pause, looks around) I suppose I might as well start somewhere, but how? ...oh look! What coincidence to meet a familiar face here. (Approaches Prism) Good morrow, Miss Prism! Would you happen to know whose handbag this is?
Prism: (look of shock) Why, my bag! I haven’t seen for years. (takes bag) Thank you, Mr. Worthing. How did you chance upon it?
Jack: Miss Prism, more is restored to you than the handbag. I was the baby placed in it.
Miss Prism: you?
Jack: yes (embracing her) Mother!
Miss Prism: (recoiling in indignant astonishment) Mr. Worthing, I am unmarried!
Jack: Unmarried! I do not deny that this is a serious blow. But, after all, who has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Why should there be one law for men and another for women? Mother! I forgive you!
Miss Prism: Mr. Worthing, there is some error. (pointing to Bracknell) There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.
Jack: Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?
Lady Bracknell: I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not altogether please you. You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon’s elder brother.
Jack: Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all! I knew I had a brother!
Prism: What is your Christian name now that you have become someone else?
Jack: What name was I given? Let me know the worst.
Lady Bracknell: (after a pause) Being the eldest son, you were christened after your father.
Jack: Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name?
Lady Bracknell: I remember now that the General was called Ernest.
Prism: Ernest! I felt from the first time you could have no other name. Congratulations!
Jack: (dazed smile/ thank you)
11 September 2010
06 September 2010
Writing: Short Story?
Word Count: 2866
Warning: Implication of mature themes, Minor profanity at end.