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Nov. 3rd, 2004 @ 10:16 am
tarthan
this is what i want you to do:
- read the passage(s) below
- post these directions and teh passage in your journal
- add a linking passage of your own

The wind swept hills of the barren wasteland always makes me feel alive somehow, maybe it is the leaves... all the color of fire moving soundlessly before me consuming the very landscape. seperated by a standing wall of glass not more than an inch thick. In the edge of silence, i watch this living breathing landscape of scorched earth and feel changed by it, and almost as suddenly i am pulled back into a world of comfort to dispell this vein of wildness inside.

The Nature of Fanfic... Oct. 19th, 2004 @ 06:52 pm
jng2058
...is caught very nicely in these two comics, don't you think?

So, less as an excercise than as a talking point, what's the worst fanfic you've ever had the misfortune to read or (horror!) write?

Eroberung - Chapter 0.5 (the real first chapter...honest!) Oct. 2nd, 2004 @ 07:23 pm
bandraoi
Title: Eroberung - Chapter 0.5
Author: bandraoi/leidenschaft
Format: Series
Warnings: Long and very trippy
A/N: At last, the long-awaited "first" chapter. I had another chapter up in my writing journal, leidenschaft which was the original "first" chapter. This changes the tone of the whole story, and the introduction of one of the main characters, Linnea, quite substantially. For those of you who have read other parts of this story involving Linnea, this chapter will definitely make those parts a lot more understandable.

My thanks in advance to those souls kind enough to read through this and give feedback. ;)

Read it from the beginning: Prologue

__________________________________


Chapter 0.5


Lake Forest, Illinois – 12 July 2004


One moment she lay in bed, wracked with chills and nausea. In the next, reality seemed to ... twist. A deafening roar, and the world was ablaze with orange fire. She felt her back slam against something hard, a sharp spike of pain twisting in her belly. The world grew dark, and she could hear screaming and an inhuman roaring around her. Everything burned, and searing pain consumed her. Something reached out, connected. Dizzyingly, she realized what was reaching for her…seemed to be herself. Or was it?

She cried in agony, writhing around in the bedclothes. Her flesh burned and her body moved feebly around the unendurable pain in her abdomen, limbs flailing like an insect that has been pinned to a board.
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Current Music: Rammstein - "Ohne Dich"

Some Mad Rush Sep. 30th, 2004 @ 12:54 am
marjoram
Hi. This is my first post, and I thought I'd post something I've been working on the last three days. I thought it would be better to post some of my writing first before I commented on anything else. So....

****
I followed his voice one night, in a dream, something surreal. I held on to some hem undone, trailing a little ways behind.I followed Aden to a soft garden bed, swollen with spring, where we dug our nails in and pulled roots up from the wet ground. We wanted to see the essence of things, see if we could break their bonds with the native earth. Then we played at being thieves, disguising our faces behind hands cupped round and meek eyes peeking out. And we did steal: roses that bloomed bloodripe and smelled thick, rich. Intoxication (somemadrush) is what we felt, running barefoot up the grassy hill to some magic place Aden described over and over. He was a perpetual record, proclaiming, “It’s wonderful, its wonderful!”

As we ran, our feet pounded hard into the earth, leaving our imprints to linger as an aftertaste—no mistake, it was us. Like a trail of breadcrumbs with only Hansel left to find his way home, he would be alone. And we felt everything, an intensified state of being. We devoured the opium air, let it weave itself through the slotted-fan of our ribs. However, it wasn’t until I was winded, chest heaving, ready to cave-in beneath the weight of exhaustion that I saw. Gasp! A flicker of life sprang within me, a wonderful aching deep inside. The first sight of this town was the prick of a perpetual wound. A beautiful scar to cherish, a bee’s sting. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and my smile widened as Aden took me by the hand.

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Current Music: elliott smith

Sep. 23rd, 2004 @ 07:22 pm
tarthan
A young man sitting at the end of a warm sun-weathered wooden dock as he scribbles away on his sketchpad, writing little anecdotes here and there to clarify his own mixed up thoughts. He had spent all of today trying to break through his own mental blocks, but all he could do was keep struggling to make sense of his latest drawings. Then she walked into his light, and he looked up to see a young woman standing in his light. The stark white of her teeth against dark tanned skin, it was very striking and he felt her question even before she asked him, and his smile answered her within a moment.
The candle light wavered against the walls of her bedroom as his painting neared completion. The air filled with sounds of heavy breathing and short quick brush strokes. She lay still hoping her sweat wouldn’t ruin her artisan’s painting. He watched her abdomen start to rise and fall, with the gentle candor of her eyes. She wanted him, in the ways of poetic seduction, . Tonight she wanted him to draw and really see her soul, and for one moment to capture it on canvas for the entire world to see. More directly, she desperately wanted him to do the one thing she couldn’t, she wanted him to see her, really see her, and not misunderstand. Not hide away in the shadows of her mind, or cloud this quest for self-discovery within an erotic fantasy. A dark smile swept across her face and then a distance glaze of horror filled her eyes. She realized a question: what if who she really wants to be is a far cry from who she is? What if she was a monster, or an evil creature at her core that deserves to die and not be an affliction upon humankind? Or more to the point, what if she was just an ordinary girl with delusions of grandeur. He started mixing some oils together with his fingers to add texture to canvas, she gasped while maintaining her poise, but her internal shields started taking over. In her mind this chance was gone; she condemned herself for changing this painting from an expression of her inner self into just another perversion of self.
This boy had never known or seen her before today, and his childlike eyes gleamed with delight as the finishing touches were added to canvas. He watched her figure start changing intently as if the entire evening was just another illusion. He didn’t care, his truth is captured on canvas and no matter how much cleavage she revealed, there was nothing that would change the element of mystique revealed within this portrait. In the simplest terms, he painted a ravishing woman of high morals carrying a gentle sadness within her musculature, and it gave her a character more unique than any other.
Usually women pretending to be pinnacles of morality asked for a “favor,” more like a scribble. They just would carry on about what the ladies in their bridge club and what they would think of having a their portrait painted by a peddler. They were whores hidden behind closed doors and within castle walls. What made her different was that she actually reminded him of someone he once knew; full of nobility and a natural grace. No pretense, no dark secrets, save her inability to acknowledge herself as anything special, a trait that is becoming disturbingly common these days.
He never did have the pleasure of drawing her again, in fact, the next time he saw her, she was walking through the park, sunlight streaming through her hair, and she seemed to radiate a confidence that betrayed those innocent eyes. The years had changed her face yet she resembled that painting more than ever now. He felt warm inside and turned his face towards the ocean, the rolling waves carried mysteries of their own to be revealed.
Current Mood: tiredtired
Other entries
» Dark & Stormy Night Contest
Someone passed this around via e-mail. Again, should go here for posterity.
---------
For you lovers of good writing, these are the 10 winners of this year’s flulwer-Lytton contest – AKA Dark and Stormy Night Contest – (run by the English Dept. of San Jose State University), wherein one writes only the first line of a bad novel.

10) “As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the echo chamber, he would never hear the end of it.”

9) “Just beyond the Narrows, the river widens.”

8) “With a curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, a tanned, unblemished oval face framed with lustrous thick brown hair, deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, Marilee had a beauty that defied description.”

7) “Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept along the East wall: ‘Andre creep... Andre creep... Andre creep.”’

6) “Stanislaus Smedley, a man always on the cutting edge of narcissism, was about to give his body and soul to a back alley sex-change surgeon to become the woman he loved.”

5) “Although Sarah had an abnormal fear of mice, it did not keep her from eeking out a living at a local pet store.”

4) “Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then penguins often do.”

3) “Like an over-ripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor.”

2) “Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘fear’; a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death -- in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies.

AND THE WINNER IS
1) “The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window, revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog’s deception, screaming madly, ‘You lied!”
» Eroberung - Prologue
In the hopes that posting this revised version of my "novel's" prologue will goad me into finishing the current chunk that is going to be my new first chapter...

Title: Eroberung - Prologue
Author: bandraoi/leidenschaft
Format: Series
Warnings: None that I can think of...unless you need to be warned in advance about encounters with the German language ;)
A/N: I have several scenes already written out, but this is the only one in the present tense, as I thought so writing it would convey a certain mood. An emerging theme in this story is how things may look a certain way from the outside, but on the inside, the story is quite different. This prologue attempts to set up that whole dynamic, when compared to the scenes to come.

Feedback of any sort is sought, really. I like to know what works and what doesn't. I like to know if what I'm trying to convey is hitting the mark, at least on some level, in the mind of the reader.

_________________________________________

PROLOGUE
San Francisco – 5 September 1999
Echoes of the final chord from a previous song hang in the cool evening air, slowly dying away as the stage fades into total blackness before the next set. The roar of the crowd slowly quiets as well, but a hushed murmur of excitement can be heard threading its way through. Several heartbeats pass in the relative quiet, and then the sound of subdued, beautifully eerie synthesized strings breaks the silence. Silvery, numinous light grows out of the darkness, bathing billowing clouds of fog that rise from smoke machines at the perimeter of the stage. Lights move slowly in time with the forlorn music, their colorless beams sweeping the stage as the fog parts. The lazy, rhythmic movement is hypnotic, and so it is almost a shock when they catch and linger upon a tall, powerful figure of a man and the much smaller, slighter figure of the woman standing atop the platform before him.

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» My writing process - Bits and pieces
I used to write fairly chronologically, but for years now every story I've worked on, even if it happened to start out at the beginning of things and progress naturally from there, has always ended up coming in disjointed flashes at some point. Stephen King in his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft advises that one should write a story in chronological order if at all possible. He also likens the process to an archaeologist removing a fossil from the ground, the goal being more to discover than to invent or create, and to get said discovery out of the ground intact, if at all possible. It's a lovely analogy -- it really is.

Sadly, when I go digging, the fossils I discover already seem to have been disturbed, perhaps by some great tectonic cataclysm somewhere in the past, leaving a welter of broken, scattered fragments that I need to unearth and then piece together. I shouldn't really say sadly, I suppose; it's great fun putting it back together, just as much of a discovery for me as slowly revealing it in chronological fashion would be. It's actually a very organic process, because the flashes illuminate other stuff that's already been written -- which can be a great boon when I write something that has something vaguely lackluster about it that I just cannot quite put a finger on...and then BOOM! I have a flash from some other part of the story, and the answer to my former dilemma reveals itself. And it's always one of those Eureka! moments.

Whereas, writing chronologically, I always get to a point where I feel in order to press onward I'll have to force events, and even more unforgivably (in my mind, at any rate), force the characters. And that's never good. Plot is important, yes, but I feel it has to flow naturally from the motivations and actions of the characters or else it's just not going to ring true. When I start writing stuff that starts to peter out or seems hollow to me, even if I'm right in the middle of a scene, I usually put that particular bit aside and turn my attention to whatever other scene "pots" have been simmering on the backburners, while I worked on other stuff, and are now ready to be served.

It's kind of maddening, though, because I also break one of Mr. King's other cardinal rules, and that is that one should write "with the door closed." Writing with the door closed means just that: you write the story and you keep it to yourself until you’re at least done with it. Maybe you even wait until you make a second draft. Obviously, I don’t do that, else I wouldn’t have helped to create a community wherein, by my participation in it, other people can read my stuff and give me feedback.

So here’s my conundrum: I write my stuff piecemeal, but I need feedback. You know, it’s really hard to ask people to read your stuff when you know damned well they’re going to have a hard time following what’s going on…and when you realize that you’re not even totally sure you know what’s going on. However, that ultimately does not stop me from attempting to inflict it on others.

So, much as I esteem the opinions of Mr. King, those are, I am afraid, two pieces of it that I’m going to have to throw right straight out the window.
» Tobian's Square
Tobian's Square

Restless and weary, we run where all others refuse to walk, trying to escape ourselves and another empty day. another day filled with meaningless distractions. There is a place: full of passion, fire, and a string piece quartet that plays like the devil. To the untrained eye it is a stretch of land where music plays, but to some its magick, another chance to feel alive again. Walk towards the music; find a rhythm within and dance it, the world fades away into a swirl of colors rich with life where death dare not dwell.

All that suppressed energy, all the drama; the entire string of failed chances finally reaches its end. I found it once, I danced through the night and into the day, the music coursed through my blood and I melted into myself. I felt alive and aware and no longer sick or tired. It was a defining moment that passed as quickly as a wave of my hand. I stayed and spent many a night dancing myself into a drunken ecstasy, and then I began to grow an appreciation for the square, even though I kept trying to go back and I never found that same clarity again… some called it an addiction, and when I close my eyes, I still see the sky sparkle with the colors of dawn, and I stumble onto a grassy hill filled with ocean air, and first rays of sun break thru the horizon, and dizzy with life I drift off into sleep with the smell of fresh dew on my skin.

Running on this unbeaten path, nothing cleared away, and I have found no clearing to match that one expression of life which I know has faded away.
» Dear Marquis
Dear Marquis,

I feel my husband and I aren't communicating the way we ought to. How can I make him slow down and listen to me?

Frustrated in Fredericksburg


My Dearest Frustrated,

Clearly,your paramour is unworthy of your delightful attentions. Come visit me at my chateau and we can explore the true depths of communication. Or, should you be truly devoted to your inferior mate, I suppose placing him on a regimen of corporal punishment may be sufficent to sharpen his wits a tad.

I suggest a good flogger.

---

Dear Marquis,

My girlfriend doesn't seem to respect me. She flirts with other men, expects me to dote on her all the time but disappeares for days when she feels like it, and seems to only like me for my money. What should I do?

Desperate in Detroit


Dear Desperate,

Obviously you need to bend her to your will. I suggest a long week of protracted sexual torture. Hot wax should be a good place to start.

---

Dear Marquis,

I've discovered a deep and abiding love for teeny-pop boy bands. What can I do?

Fanatical in Frisco


Dear Fanatical,

...

Dear God man, what is wrong with you? Seriously...I mean, just seriously. Get help. Now. Before you lose your soul, you poor sick fucker.

I mean, Jesus Christ!!
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