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ClaymanOnFire
Metal newbie

Joined: Sat Mar 12, 2011 8:13 pm
Posts: 333
PostPosted: Mon Apr 16, 2012 9:14 pm 
 

Maybe you should start developing characters and see where that leads you.

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TheUglySoldier
Metalhead

Joined: Mon May 12, 2008 3:44 am
Posts: 1636
Location: Australia
PostPosted: Mon Apr 16, 2012 9:52 pm 
 

Currently having a bit of a blockage - and I have two piece to submit. One on Thursday of around 2000 words, and one on Monday of about the same, up to 3000 (the second being for a contest, the first being a chapter for my "novel" for Uni.) First only has to be a second or third draft, mind you. Ahh well, maybe panic and stress will help push me through, haha.

Nexus, I've had the same problem before - I often come up with characters and struggle to find uses for them in the world. As Clayman said, just develop them. Start writing little scenarios. Write about how one of them gets up in the morning. Write about them going into battle, about their death, all sorts of things. A story might just bloom out of that.
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Aurone
Metalhead

Joined: Fri Jun 19, 2009 3:17 pm
Posts: 1228
Location: United States of America
PostPosted: Sun May 20, 2012 11:56 am 
 

Felt it's time to bring this thread back.

For my English class last quarter, we had to do a Narrative Essay, so here's a fantasy/scifi story I wrote for it that's heavily inspired by the artwork of Louis Royo, if you read it and look at some of his work, you'll see similarities.

Quote:
Malachite sighed softly as Magdalena cradled his head in her arms and held him tight. He breathed slowly as the agony in his chest overwhelmed him, both from the fact of what he had become and the pain he was now bringing upon his dearest love. Surrounding them in the empty alley where towering brown stained walls made of thick metal going up for over a mile into the sky, a dull light eliminating the alley from floating globes. His eyes remained closed for he couldn’t stand to see the differences between the two of them now. Her naked beauty was as obvious as it always was; she still had her soft lightly tanned skin, her short silver hair and glorious wings extending from her shoulder blades with silver hair strands hanging far and long. The beauty he once shared with her was now gone; his skin was now a blood red color with pieces of metal, wires and pipes sticking out at certain parts and his body was free completely of all hair. Worse of all was his wings; they were now large metal slabs in the shape of his former wings’ glory. As Magdalena held him, Malachite kneeled there and hated himself for being foolish enough to not listen to his elders and travel from his paradise of angels and into the city of metal and flesh, where angels suffer most.

Before the events that had changed him, Malachite was like all other angels and lived in there realm known as Paradise. The Paradise of the angels was a radiant realm of beauty and majesty, a constant glow of bluish light across the lands. All across the realm where glorious mountains covered with snow, opening between them where valleys filled with pine trees and long stretching rivers for miles go come. The angels would fly naked and free, unaffected by temperature or disease. Here they would live and love with each other in harmony with the beasts and nature in a never ending bliss. That was how Malachite lived until his curiosity got the best of him and he ventured towards the red light and into pain.

It was well known among the experienced angels that the red light that opened into the realm of humans, also known as the prison of the physical, was not a place for angels. The stories said that humans had a hunger for all, and they never could be satisfied. Despite having built behemoth cities of metal and truly impressive technology, they still couldn’t reach a peak and continued to build upon their cities even more. When they learned of the existence of angels and the bliss they can bestow upon them, they desired that as well. Worse yet, they also found ways of punishment and pain upon them that prevents there return to Paradise, forever exiled. Despite warnings, many angels have ventured out, some returning while others not.

Despite the warning, the curiosity and desire to know became too much for some, and Malachite was one of them. After sharing passion with Magdalena, knowing full well that they might never meet again, he flew south east towards the red light. As he passed over the mountains, forests and valleys, he noted how the light blue glow of everything began to change, slowly transitioning to slightly bright red. After nearly three hours of flying, the light red had turned into a darker shade. The trees were starting to die off, no animals could be found and the mountains that where once covered in snow where now gray with no any form of coloring at all. Then suddenly, with no warning at all, a brightness over took him where he had no sight, no hearing, not breath, no feeling and no taste all, then just as suddenly he was brought back to all his senses.

After Malachite adjusted and regained his control of flight, his eyes widened to find he was no longer in paradise. Below him, Stretching as far as his vision could allow, was a great city towering high into the sky with metal, iron, glass and smoke. Slowly flying above the tips of the massive towers, he watched in disbelief at what he witnessed. Flying between the towers where boxy machines that carried wingless humans at great speeds, the humans looking pale, dirty and in poor health. Between the towers, massive cables extended and connected, between each other sending electricity, fluids and gasses back and forth. At the tops of the towers, massive funnels released endless clouds of smoke into the sky, a sky which was continuously cloudy and dark. Despite it being a sight he awed at, it was one that he also found truly depressing.

Suddenly, a traveling machine much larger than before appeared before Malachite, it having a rectangular shape going up and down with humans at the top behind glass staring at him. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, hand like hooks detached from the lower half and shot out at him. Malachite barely managed to drop, the claw missing him by inches. He then quickly began to dive, his wings shot straight up as he dropped head first into the city, the machine behind him dropping just as quickly behind him. As he dove, he had to constantly swerve to avoid cables and machines, the humans watching from inside their machines and from alcoves of the towers in disbelief at the sudden appearance of an angel. For a short second, he believed that he could still escape, but then suddenly a gray beam enclosed him and he was engulfed in something he had never experienced in paradise, pain. The experience was so shocking that he suddenly passed out.

When Malachite awoke, he was slow and dreary. It took him a second to realize his surroundings; he was in a massive room where no walls where visible and only darkness in all directions, the only light coming from some high source that illuminated him in a blue light that was close but not exact to the one in his paradise. While looking around him, he suddenly saw the fearsome figure of a man like beast stepping into the light, he stood at least twelve feet tall, his skin was orange brown, two massive tusks where extending from his lower lip and his clothing was an armor made of massive stones carved into platting. Malachite was about to flee in fear, but then the massive beast stepped aside. Stepping into the light behind him was a beautiful woman with narrow eyes and blond hair wrapped in a cloak. As she approached, she gently let the cloak fall; without the cloak, she only had decorative armbands with long hanging strands of silk as clothing, the rest of her was naked. Her body was well shaped and extremely soft skinned with barely a sign of a tan; if not for the lack of wings, he’d think she was an angel.

She introduced herself as Batho Ry, and she was Lord Commandress of the city, Malachite barely uttered his name out in return. She then slowly lowered herself onto him began to indulge in passion from him. At first, he went along with her, lost and confused to think of his actions. For a while, he indulged and was truly engrossed as the bliss was similar to what he’d felt but also different; however, he suddenly he had images of Magdalena flashed in his head and was engulfed in a heart clenching guilt. With a sudden and swift action that surprised even him, he pushed Ry and sent her flying a few feet away from him. Despite the dismissal and the painful landing, she didn’t show any sign of rage; she just slowly rose, crossed her arms so that the silk suddenly covered up her body and waited as the beast creature gently picked the cloak up and put it on her. As she turned to leave, the creature suddenly rushed and grabbed him, holding him tight in its monstrous hands. He then lifted him and took him into the darkness.

Malachite awoke inside of room with machines all surrounding him, his whole body strapped to a table with his wings held above his head. Needles, fluids, cutting tools and claws holding objects where on them all; next to them where men in robes and had breathing masks and goggles covering their faces. With no warning at all, they then switched on the machines and the ones with needles suddenly shot down and punctured him; the pain of the piercing was sudden and shocking, but minute to what he felt next. Agony engulfed his whole body and mind and he suddenly released a scream he never knew he could make. Because of the pain, he didn’t notice that his body was suddenly changing; the hair on his head falling off to make him bald, his wings where suddenly becoming bare sticks with no sign of the former beauty and his skin was changing to a reddish brown color, losing the majestic appearance it once had. Once the needles left him, other machines began to cut open his skin, each cut leading to a piece of machine suddenly being attached and worked into his body permanently. By the time the third object was inserted into him, one of the humans had grown irritated by his screams and violently injected something into him to knock him out. These would be his last moments awake as a normal and beautiful angel.

He awakened again inside one of the traveling machines, hanging from chains from the ceiling and a scene of chaos around him. After a few moments to register, he suddenly realized what was happening; the laying on the floor where human, dead and bloody with their bodies crushed and torn apart, some having their heads smashed into the monitor screens. Standing above them where beautiful, naked beings with wings, his fellow angels; he never knew his kind could do such violence. After blinking a few times, he realized he recognized the one closest to him, his beloved Magdalena, he also noticed the look of sorrow and despair on her face. He then looked down at himself and gasped in horror; his skin was hideous, pieces of metal and cables where hanging out of his body and his wings where nothing but metal mimics of their former glory.

Now Malachite looked back on it all and wondered why he didn’t listen to his warnings he had taken for granted. The changed flesh and metal prevented him from returning to Paradise, meaning he was forever trapped in this realm. Despite his disapproval and the warnings from the other angels, Magdalena refused to return and stayed with him in this ugly and disgusting realm. He didn’t know how they were going to survive, maybe they could find some form of nature out there away from all the metal, but they were forever marked for death due to the humans killed in order to get him freed. For now though, Malachite remained still in Magdalena’s arms, regretting the pain he brought upon him and his beloved.

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DreamOfDarkness
Metal newbie

Joined: Wed Apr 25, 2012 4:09 pm
Posts: 59
Location: Germany
PostPosted: Mon May 21, 2012 12:44 pm 
 

I wrote some poems and stories, but as english isn't my native language most of them are in German. But I tried at some lyrics in english, too:

Spoiler: show
Silent thoughts

The moon is uprising, the air stands still
A wall of clouds casting shadows on the field
Between all these smashed corpses
cowers down a lonesome knight
deadly wounded, he cries:

Been sent here to fight
for honour and glory
We came here and died
never-ending, cruel story
attacked by the monsters
cold eyes with no mercy
struck down by the blade
my friends lay beneath me

Our shield will protect us
Our sword will give us might
Looking back at my training
all these words were just lies
Young and naive, we sold our souls
For ambiguous fame and a hand full of gold

Will they remember my death?
They won't remember my death
They will forget my horrid pain
Suffer for a senseless aim

Been sent here to fight
for honour and glory
We came here and died
never-ending, cruel story
attacked by the monsters
cold eyes with no mercy
struck down by the blade
my friends died beneath me

But the emperor told us to:
Invade the enemy land!
Kill by his command!
Befoul our innocent hands!
Leave alive no man!

My time is growing short
My life will soon abort
My heart is filled with hate
realising it is too late...


They might be a bit cheesy, but it is the first poetry I wrote in english :)

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TheNiceNightmare
Veteran

Joined: Thu Dec 18, 2008 5:11 pm
Posts: 2839
Location: Sweden
PostPosted: Mon May 21, 2012 1:21 pm 
 

Nice enough story Aurone, I like the way you described everything in decent detail, not going overboard on excessive details but not being too bare-bones about it either. The pacing was nice too, varied but always fluid, reminding me of something I'd write myself. With all that said...

For the love of all that is holy, please learn to make a difference between there/their/they're and where/were. :P
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Panflute
Metal newbie

Joined: Sun Mar 15, 2009 11:11 am
Posts: 355
Location: Netherlands
PostPosted: Mon May 21, 2012 4:59 pm 
 

I've written some short stories, but all of them except one is in Dutch. The one that's in English is a rather weird story I wrote in the middle of the night after watching a lot of British comedy. It turned out way more macabre than I intended, and in the end it wasn't really funny. I'll post it when I get home.

I've also done some translations of Dutch literature, some of which are decent. Dutch literature generally is very difficult to translate due to the peculiarities and colloquialisms present in many iconic works. For instance, even the title of Nescio's phenomenal short story "Titaantjes" is impossible to translate properly. Not only because English doesn't have diminutives, but also because the diminutive in Dutch has a wide range of connotations that simply cannot be captured in a single adjective. But I guess these problems apply to the translation of literature in general.

On a final note, I've also written quite some essays I'm rather satisfied with, most of which deal with nationalism and/or fascism in an Iberian context. One of the essays I wrote is in English, and seeing as I have never used it for anything other than getting a good grade in Academic English class, I might as well post it here (in attempt to contribute something concrete to this thread). I must note in advance, though, that I wrote this before doing most of my research (it basically was a preparation of my bachelor thesis) and I did most of the writing out of my head, so it contains many oversimplifications and even some factual errors. Still, it may be an interesting read for those interested in the subject of nationalism:

Spoiler: show
José Antonio And Catalan Regional Culture: A Historical Misunderstanding

Introduction

Ever since the birth of the concept of nationhood, conflicting ideas regarding this term have frequently increased the tension among European peoples. In Spain, for instance, regional and national interests have been clashing with each other for over 150 years. Even today, there are many organisations and individuals who challenge the unity of Spain. Due to the survival of regionalism in modern Spain, the country's 20th century history is still a sensitive subject, as the oppression of regional cultures by general Francisco Franco's dictatorship (1939-1975) is closely related to the persisting prevalence of regional nationalist sentiment. As a result, the different historical perspectives are often marred by political interest and bias.

This bias can also be noticed in the historiography of the Falange Española (Spanish Phalanx), a Spanish fascistic party founded in 1933 that was to become the only legal party during the Franco dictatorship. Due to this, the ideology of the Falange is often confused with that of Franco, leading to many misconceptions about the Falange's political ideology in the first years of its existence. Particularly the party's founder and initial leader, José Antonio Primo de Rivera, continues to be one of the most misunderstood figures in modern Spanish history. Hailed as a martyr by the Franco propaganda, he actually held views that stood in sharp contrast with those of many contemporary conservatives, including Franco himself.

Perhaps the most misunderstood part of his ideology is the way in which he perceived culturally distinct regions such as Catalonia and Basque Country, where separatist sentiments have traditionally been the most prevalent. While he is often identified with the monocultural, rigidly centralist views of the Franco regime, Primo de Rivera actually had a vision of Spain that might be more comparable with the pluriform interpretation of the Spanish state that has been dominant ever since the country became a democracy in 1978.

The question I will be looking to answer is: "What are the views of José Antonio Primo de Rivera and his Falange party concerning the regionalist issue in Catalonia, and how are they different from the conservative political currents they are often identified with?" First, I will analyse articles in which Primo de Rivera himself expresses his views on the matter. Next, I will use several scientific sources to provide a full and balanced answer on my thesis question.

Historical background

José Antonio Primo de Rivera was born on the 24th of April, 1903 in an aristocratic, relatively wealthy family. As was customary among boys of his social class, he went to university, where he studied law. After obtaining his doctor's degree in 1923, he went into military service. Upon his return from duty, a year later, he started working as a lawyer in Madrid. During this period (from 1923 to 1930), his father, Miguel Primo de Rivera, ruled over Spain as a dictator.

José Antonio himself, however, did not occupy himself much with politics during these years. It was not until 1931 that he started becoming politically active, initially dedicating himself to the active support of various conservative Catholic parties. A year earlier, Miguel Primo de Rivera's resignation and subsequent death had given leeway to the installation of a democratic republic that would become known as the Second Spanish Republic. Countless new political parties and movements were emerging, but despite this wide array of options, José Antonio did not feel comfortable with any of these parties.

This lack of political satisfaction led him to found his own party, the Falange Española (Spanish Phalanx), in 1933. Especially in the party's founding year, the Falange's ideology was strongly based on the Italian fascist movement of Benito Mussolini, a man whom José Antonio greatly admired. Being the first party of significance in Spain that was modelled after fascism, the Falange occupied a unique position within the country's political spectrum, which had, up until that point, been dominated by a fairly straightforward mix of traditional conservative parties and progressive left-wing parties inspired by Marxism. The Falange, however, offered a mixture of these two political currents, supporting strong Spanish nationalism while at the same time pushing for a thorough reorganisation of the economy. In practice, this meant that the Falange was heavily in favour of maintaining the Spanish state, but also supported concepts such as the redistribution of wealth, the nationalisation of banks and more rights for the working class.(1)

As is common with new political movements, the support for the Falange was initially to be found mainly among students, young people with generally wealthy backgrounds who were aware of the economic and social chaos caused by traditional politics. As time progressed, however, the party also gained significant support among the working and middle classes. Still it must be noted that, despite the fame and infamy of the party during the first years of its existence, their support was limited, barely exceeding a few thousand members.(2)

The Falange and regionalism

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the falangist ideology was the party's acknowledgment of the existence of regional cultures, such as those of Catalonia, Basque Country and Galicia, as opposed to traditional nationalists. Previously, such a position had been characteristic of progressive, left-wing movements and parties. Up until then, Spanish nationalists had claimed that local customs, languages and traditions posed a threat to the unity of Spain. However, the Falange argued that it was not necessary to prohibit, suppress or deny such regional expressions of culture.

The motivation for this unusual position can be found in the definition that Primo de Rivera and his Falange gave to nationhood. In Ensayo sobre el nacionalismo (Essay on Nationalism), Primo de Rivera made a distinction between two forms of nationalism. The first school, labelled by him as 'romantic nationalism', focuses primarily on those aspects that are closest to man's nature: race, language, traditions, customs, etc. As an example of this type of nationalism, Primo de Rivera mentions Germany, where Hitler and his Nazis were striving for unity in race, language and belief, and attempted to rearrange territories based on parameters strongly related to ethnicity. The other type of nationalism defined by Primo de Rivera can best be described as 'universal' or 'historical nationalism', as it defines nationhood by the historical context in which the people within a certain territory emerged.(3)

In the case of Spain, this 'historical context' mostly refers to the country's past as an imperial world power. For the falangists, Spain's imperial age meant the birth of the country as a nation. As Primo de Rivera stated in parliament, they saw Spain as "an imperial vocation that unites languages, races, peoples and customs in a universal destiny". According to Primo de Rivera's definition of nationalism, this common historical context meant that the Spanish people were obliged to face the future in a united fashion.(4)

Because of this unusual interpretation of nationhood, the falangists were able to acknowledge the distinct cultural traits of Catalonia without having to acknowledge it as a separate nation. After all, in the view of the falangists, nationhood depended on other parameters than language, customs, etc.

The Falange and centralism

This regionalist-friendly stance contrasted with the views of traditional Spanish nationalists. Many conservatives saw no other way of preserving the unity of Spain than to fiercely combat any form of regional cultural expression in Catalonia. As a result, they proposed using Castile, the central region of Spain, as an obligatory cultural model for Catalonia, and indeed the rest of the country. Perhaps the best known example of this is their opposition against the use of Catalan, a Romance language spoken in Catalonia, Valencia and the Balearic Isles, and their desire to only allow the use of Castilian, the language we know simply as 'Spanish'.

Aware of these centralist sentiments, Primo de Rivera argued that such views were only helping the Catalan separatist cause. In parliament, he commented: "if we keep denying that Catalonia and other regions have their own characteristics, it is because we silently acknowledge that these characteristics justify [their] nationhood." He also claimed that the approach of the centralists attacked those aspects closest to the nature of the Catalan people (their language and customs), and therefore would only fuel the fire of aversion against the Spanish state.(4)

Primo de Rivera or his Falange never got the chance to develop a complete and detailed ideology regarding this subject, let alone put it to practice. After Primo de Rivera had been imprisoned and subsequently executed by the Republican government in the wake of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), general Franco took control of the Falange party and merged it with various ultra-conservative movements, the most famous of which is the requetés, Basque militia known for their fierce anti-communist stance and religious devotion. To cater to the desires of the conservatives, nearly all of the 'leftist' ideals of the Falange ideology were dropped, including the party's lenient views on regional cultures. This became apparent when the new Falange became the only legal party under the Franco dictatorship, and Franco himself went on to obsessively repress any form of regional culture in Catalonia during the next four decades.

Conclusion

The views of Primo de Rivera and his Falange regarding Catalonia differed greatly from the centralist ideal of an all-Castilian state. The most centralised government in the entire history of Spain, the Franco regime heavily contrasted with Primo de Rivera's ideal of Spain as a culturally diverse country in many ways. In fact, while the franquist propaganda machine granted Primo de Rivera the status of martyr almost immediately after his death, the policies of the Franco dictatorship had next to nothing in common with the way in which the original Falange approached the Catalan issue.

What would have happened if Primo de Rivera were to have lived through the Civil War is mere speculation, but it is certain that his views on nationhood would not have been compatible with the way in which Franco structured the Spanish state. This contradicts the fairly common identification of Primo de Rivera with the Franco regime, as well as the misconception that Spanish nationalists had to be centralist by default.

On a more politically relevant note, Primo de Rivera's approach to nationality and nation building is particularly interesting when one observes how the European Union - despite or perhaps because of pushing for national symbols such as a flag and a national anthem - consistently fails to create a 'European sentiment' among the people of this continent. This confirms that there are plenty of reasons why this topic is in need of more thorough investigation.


Notes

(1) Payne, Stanley. Fascism in Spain, p. 80-81, 90, 100. (The University of Winsconsin Press, 1999)
(2) Thomas, Hugh. The Spanish Civil War, p. 115. (Penguin Books, 1986)
(3) Primo de Rivera, José Antonio. Ensayo sobre el nacionalismo (1934), http://www.rumbos.net/ocja/jaoc0045.html
(4) Primo de Rivera, José Antonio. España y Cataluña (1934), http://www.rumbos.net/ocja/jaoc0079.html
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Empyreal
The Final Frontier

Joined: Thu Nov 30, 2006 6:58 pm
Posts: 16548
Location: Where the dead rule the night
PostPosted: Mon May 21, 2012 5:18 pm 
 

Here's a sample of this thing I'm working on, a sort of dark comedy about super-humans who get their powers from drug use. I don't even know if that's a good idea, but for some reason it was stuck in my head...

Spoiler: show
Another hot, muggy Miami night, rife with flies and mosquitoes and roaches, at a frat house by the beach that smells like weed and booze. They had been partying all week like this. It was almost the end of the semester and they wanted to party even harder than they had been working. Howard Lounds, a senior set to graduate, felt as out of place here as he had at the previous three parties. He didn’t even know why he had come tonight; maybe just because he had nowhere else to go. He felt like leaving, but then he would have wasted the $7.99 he spent on the six-pack of Corona Lights. And he hated drinking alone – it made him feel like a loser.

But mostly the reason Howard Lounds stayed was out of the deluded hope that something – anything – might happen in the next minute. If he left, what would he miss out on? Maybe some desperate, lonely girl will come over and offer to take him to bed, he thought. He ended up staying another five minutes. Just five more minutes, he told himself each time. Just one more beer. His Corona Light was cold on his palm, perspiring in the sweltering sun, dripping down to the pavement in small, irregular patterns. He noticed this more and more as he drank more.

“Hey, Howie,” called a drunken slur of a voice, and he turned around to see Tre Crandall, one of the football players, and decidedly not one of Howard’s closest friends. But in the drunken haze of a Miami U Frathouse party, everyone’s your friend. “Howie, you gotta come inside, they’ve got some killer shit in here. You gotta try it.”

“No, I’m good,” Howard said. A girl had caught his eye, slender and blonde, the picturesque beautiful woman you see on greeting cards and in 50s style white-picket fence homes. He felt a tugging sensation in his chest, pulling downward.

“Suit yourself, man,” Tre said, and sauntered off in a drunken, sideways stumble toward the big house behind them. Howard continued watching the girl. Some guy, some musclebound jock, came over to her and handed her a beer can, and she smiled at him and nudges him with her shoulder. He sat down beside her in the manner that guys do when they like a girl.

On second thought, Howard thought he’d like to go inside after all. Why not?

***

Inside, the smoke and the noise of the crowd and the blaring music were suffocating and they were all sitting in a big circle on the floor, around a big bong. It was shaped kind of like a big dildo, and also kind of like a lamp. Howard’s drunkenness was setting in and everything seemed to be shifting – the walls, the floor, even the other people – but that could have also be the contact high from all the smoke. He was surprised the fire department hadn’t been called yet.

Howard sat next to the only person he recognized through the smog, Eric Sheldon, a skinny Bio major with curly hair and a goatee who couldn’t seem to keep himself neat and tidy for the life of him – he always looked like he just woke up from a nap. Eric grinned his big toothy grin and shouted, “You gotta try this!”

“Maybe,” Howard said. “I’m just watching right now.”

“What?” Eric shouted. The noise was deafening, the music some horrible dubstep abomination just blasting in their ears over and over. Howard didn’t bother responding. Seeing the look on his face, Eric shouted, “Are you still down about Tina?”

“No,” Howard said. “No, no. Of course not.”

Eric continued talking anyway: “You’re better off without that bitch, man.”

Howard wasn’t really listening anymore. Instead he was watching the circle of frat boys and the various girls they’ve roped in taking hits off the bong and coming away with that far-away, dazed look in their eyes. It really was potent stuff. Howard wondered where they got it from.

Soon enough the circle came to him. All eyes were on him as he got up and bent over the mouth of the bong and took a hit. The smoke filled him so completely, so wholly, that he could see stars as he lifted his head and looked at the ceiling. When he breathed out, the smoke seemed to be every color of the rainbow all at once – a translucent, misty fog through which he could see another universe, like through a very clear window or a portal.

When he sat back down, his veins were boiling again, like they did every time he smoked. It felt like his whole body was just on fire, like his blood had turned to molten lava. But he knew he could still get stronger. So he stuck around in the circle. Eric looked at him kind of funny, but he was too stoned and drunk to make sense of anything. Howard sat in the circle ‘till his turn came back around, and then he took another hit. He felt more and more invincible every time. Like he was flying.

The circle dwindled down until it was just Howard and two other guys, big guys with neckbeards and backwards baseball caps. He recognized one of them, the taller one, as the leader of the frat house, Gary Sands. Gary said, “Man, you’re really fucked up.”

“I need it,” Howard said. He felt the heat in every vein, every pore and every crack of his body. He couldn’t see himself right now, but when he got like this, he felt like his eyes were glowing red hot, like a villain in an old superhero cartoon that would have been on Saturday mornings. Gary and the other guy looked at him like he was a freak, and it dawned on him, for a split second of clarity, exactly how many hits off the bong he had taken. More than anyone else – that much is for sure.

“I think you should go home, dude,” Gary said. “You want me to call you a cab or somethin’?”

“I can walk,” Howard said. And before he stumbled out the door, he took one last hit on the bong. His body was burning inside. But in such a beautiful, empowering way.
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God of shadows
Mallcore Kid

Joined: Tue May 15, 2012 7:32 am
Posts: 22
Location: Sweden
PostPosted: Wed May 23, 2012 8:32 pm 
 

Hi!
I also write some stuff, mostly fantasy, but also some poetry and lyrics. The fantasy is in swedish, cuz I'm not(at least what I think) that good in english so I can write stories, but when it comes to poems and lyrics, it's a different story XD

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The_Great_God_Pan
Metal newbie

Joined: Tue Aug 01, 2006 10:25 pm
Posts: 109
PostPosted: Thu May 24, 2012 3:14 pm 
 

I enjoy writing a lot, but it's been a while. Here's a short story I wrote a few years ago. I'll post something else if I see it's worth it.

Spoiler: show
It Was August, And The End Was Near

A shadow of what appeared to be a man arose high upon the plain early in the morning.
It was August, and the end was near.

In the distance, this silhouette appeared closer each time, what reminded me of past times, when hail, water and wind ravished the land and ice covered the plain in its entirety, like white blood spilling from my eyes, like tears within the rain.
Grey clouds ruled the sky and the Sun was not to be seen by the sight of the sinners and liars, nor to any mortal eyes. A fellow stranger passed by and greeted the walking kin that crossed his path.
I never heard from him again.

Cold winds hit my skin sharp as razors while everyone wished for the torment to perish a slow and crimson demise. The strange pilgrim that rushed upon the field caught my attention when he stopped. I had been sitting outside during the night thinking about miserable verses that would never be read, and here they are:

“Who are you, my fellow life? What is it that has brought you here?
Please do not tell me that you are here to make me suffer, for I will not bear it, please do not tell me that you are here to torment me, for I will be the rising Sun by dawn…”

And my ink did finish.

My eyes were open like mirrors absorbing fragments of light in the might of the morning as the rays of such light wandered through the plain.
I was too weak to follow my heart, but too strong to deny my feelings and too silent to ignore my will.
The stranger was close and I trembled with fear, it was August and the end was near.
The ghastly silhouette stood with all of its might right in front of my eyes, and whispered into the sky:

I am your best friend, and my name is…

My name is The End.

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Nephilum667
Metal newbie

Joined: Sun Jan 04, 2009 5:29 am
Posts: 258
Location: Louisiana
PostPosted: Tue May 29, 2012 8:57 pm 
 

I do free verse poetry with a focus on creative writing (more aspects of how something is written than what is written). Sort of in the likes of what ee cummings did.
Spoiler: show
Dies Irae- Day of Wrath
The (s)ulfur and dust is in the air
(F)our (th)ousand times the pain of (s)moke to the lungs
You won’t even notice it

In this poem, the letters contained in parentheses are stressed, so sulfur is said like sssssulfur and four is said like fffffour. I'd do this more so with words that begin with an s, th, f, wh, or w.

There's some cases where I just write in a plain way, like this:
Spoiler: show
Adorned on display
A sacred upkeep of the most holy
A desire to show the power of God
In an unfathomable and bizarre fashion
Keep my head
Keep my bones
Keep my cadaver
For all to see in the glory of completeness
However black
However disgraceful
However partially rotten
So that all know the glory of God
And how he will keep his children safe
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Zeltschwur
Mallcore Kid

Joined: Mon Jun 04, 2012 7:26 am
Posts: 28
Location: Germany
PostPosted: Mon Jun 04, 2012 6:07 pm 
 

I'm writing since I was in first grade, stories and random texts to express my feelings. Today I mainly create stories involving random sects or vampires (bad vampires, not sparkling fairies as Edward).
I've read few of the works you've posted here and was quite impressed, gonna read the rest as soon as possible.

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sherlockmist
Mallcore Kid

Joined: Wed Aug 24, 2011 8:56 am
Posts: 22
Location: United States
PostPosted: Wed Jun 06, 2012 10:55 pm 
 

Fifteen year old writer here!

I wrote my stories in third grade, and they are sufficiently horrible to give me a chuckle every time I read them, my first story was "The Beaver Warriors", guess I read too much Redwall as a kid... Now it's what I want to do with my life (keep in mind, I enjoy writing articles/blogs/nonfiction as well, so hopefully the career path isn't too hopeless for me), I love it. I was recently accepted to a prestigious young writers program and am super excited about it. Anyways, enough rambling, here's some excerpts of my work.

A poem of mine. Called "Stepping by Shadows"

Spoiler: show
Nightfall cast on a lonely river bed
Only a single soul hears the water run
Collecting thoughts into his head
Only to come and disappear again

Wandering slowly to an open door
Where all things pass and come home again
And tidings leave the wreckage on the shore
Where countless wisps had travelled before

And far away in the distance
A woman held a pale of blackened water
And deep inside the blackness
Did he see his face staring back at him?

Swallowing words of entropy
And a pale of stark opaque water
Did the senses fail to perceive
All of the knowledge he received

Stepping by shadows in a weakened mind
Marrow from the soul breaking in two
So uncertainty raised confusion inside
For nature’s law still remains undefined

And as the memories start to stay
And the thoughts begin to surface
The spectrum recedes to grey
And the prize is shrouded in the haze


Also, here's an excerpt of a short story of mine that I've been thinking about getting around to finishing. It needs a lot of fine tuning and is nowhere near my best work (actually, reading it now, it kind of sucks). Is it worth it? Tell me what you think.

Spoiler: show
Black, an enigmatic sound that resembled the calls of an owl but, unlike the sound of the bird, was a continuous hum that never ceased sounding, the sound never even changed in volume, let alone retreating into silence.
The “man” in the cloak with gleaming blue, icy eyes and a set of teeth that resembled the fanged incisors of a carnivorous dinosaur was quite fond of this sound. Its body was entirely covered in scales and bore a tail of great length like a reptile, and it possessed gills for breathing as well as lungs, but it possessed the body frame of an adult male human and bore the ears and nose of the human race.
The thing in the cloak which was only quasi-human was walking ever so slowly through the cemetery that seemed to stretch for miles. Each coffin illuminated under the pale, full moonlight. Why were these coffins not buried? The answer to that question was of no concern to the thing in the cloak. The ONLY thing that the monstrosity in the cloak cared about, could care about was the mansion that was sure to lie past the foreboding sea of coffins and into the abyss that was the unfolding expanse of darkness.
Darkness…
The hues of sunlight never danced here.
After what seemed like ages, the mansion began to etch its way into view, dimly at first, so dim that only the thing in the cloak which was not quite human would be able to see. And then the mansion was there in all of its would-be glory. If the dilapidated old thing had been even slightly repaired over the last few centuries, it might be regarded as pleasant, maybe even beautiful. But nevertheless, with windows broken quite clearly and visibly, the porch in front of the pale white mansion had long since fallen, with still a few wood planks visible to the naked eye from this distance.
The quasi-human in the cloak advanced towards the ancient mansion at a crawling yet also determined pace. Its face was turning into the closest thing to a smile that the wretched thing could muster.
Although the porch was safely gone, leaving only a few wood planks that had not yet disintegrated lying prostrate and broken on the meager ground, there was no issue of reaching the door for the thing in the cloak. Unveiling a set of retractable claws from its reptilian, fleshy hands, it scaled the wall quite easily and managed to ring the doorbell.
Ding Dong…
The door creaked open slowly.
“Come in,” said a voice from inside the mansion.
The inside of the mansion was as dark as the night around it. The only sound was the creaking and moaning of the parts of the sound of the quasi-human’s feet on the floor. Even the seemingly endless sound of the humming had stopped. Some of the moonlight from outside managed to get in, revealing what appeared quite the art gallery in the room where it stood. Paintings hung on every inch of the wall that allowed space, most of them of people, and of the ones that were people, most of them looking towards the thing in the cloak with an eerie yet also welcoming eye.
The owner of the voice who had welcomed him in was nowhere to be found.
The monstrosity uttered a string of garbled sound, the best way it could communicate, calling as loudly as it possibly could.
A cheerful chuckle arose, and the thing in the cloak which turned out to be reasonably reptilian crouched down to the floor, silently observing every piece of space around him, waiting for the owner of the voice to make him or herself known.
And then it would kill it.
The anomaly moved slowly around the room, after scouting it several times to be sure the owner of the voice was not in it, it moved into the dining room at its left, which was beautiful in its own dark right. It did not have to look long.


Now with my own thoughts on other people's work. If they care.

@Nephilium667: I see what you're going for on the first poem, and the first line creates an image in my head that I really like. I like what you did with the stresses, saying it out loud gives the poem an almost sinister sort of vibe. I'm not sure how I feel about the second one, it's definitely well-written but I feel like it's a little "in my face" if you understand what I mean. That's really just my subjective preference in poetry, and even though there's some "in my face" poems I really love, it's a style that I don't usually gravitate towards. Still, good stuff man.

@The Great God Pan: The imagery here is just perfect, the descriptions aren't long or drawn out but they set the perfect scene in my head for the end of the world. The first two sentences of the "my eyes were open" paragraph in particular were very thought provoking. Fucking awesome!

@Dream Of Darkness: These seem to be pretty archetypical Epic Doom lyrics. Don't get me wrong, they're really well written, but a little generic for my tastes. Still, they are pretty good for what they are.

@Clayman On Fire: What was the Mastodon reference in the first one? Crack in the sky? You do know that expression has been used long before that album, right? Hell, Bathory used it on the second track off of Hammerheart. Regardless, I like this. "Lifeless living" is quite a provocative term. My opinion on your second one is interestingly similar to my opinion on Nephilium's second poem, I feel it's a little too "in my face". A few metaphors and little more subtle language could make this poem much better.

@Det Morkettal: I also have a desire to write an epic poem, particularly something of grand scale. About Stephen King, hearing that you say not to like him, have you ever read The Dark Tower series? Not horror by any means, but an awesome read and probably one of the most original fantasy epics since Tolkien. Be warned, the ending, does, in fact, suck balls, though. Anyways, onto your work. I really appreciate that you took such a cliched theme and made it so engaging, I really like your metaphors and you really know how to draw the reader in to the suffering and loneliness of the poem, while it's not a particularly long work, you manage to make the reader care for the speaker and his ambiguous love, and for that, I commend you highly. Nice job.

@Markov: Alright, this will be my last one for now. I thought this was okay but needs a little polishing. Some of the phrases don't make sense (particularly the "slaughtering away a mosquito" thing, and "among a crow, lied beneath a man) and the prose of the story in general is a little rough around the edges. It's just little things like word placement and passive voice. The idea is good and the overall presentation in and of itself is also good, it's just the execution in some places that's a little...off.

That's it for now

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Nephilum667
Metal newbie

Joined: Sun Jan 04, 2009 5:29 am
Posts: 258
Location: Louisiana
PostPosted: Thu Jun 07, 2012 1:51 am 
 

sherlockmist wrote:
@Nephilium667: I see what you're going for on the first poem, and the first line creates an image in my head that I really like. I like what you did with the stresses, saying it out loud gives the poem an almost sinister sort of vibe. I'm not sure how I feel about the second one, it's definitely well-written but I feel like it's a little "in my face" if you understand what I mean. That's really just my subjective preference in poetry, and even though there's some "in my face" poems I really love, it's a style that I don't usually gravitate towards. Still, good stuff man.

Thank you, and for the second poem it's more of a statement in free verse. I just find it very bizarre how people present the dead as an object of awe- it's fine to respect the dead and everything they've accomplished. Even public viewing of corpses is fine as long as the act was in the will of the individual who died, but when people are preserved without their consent and are in as rotting of a state as some of the Incorruptible Saints or individuals like Dashi-Dorzho Itigilov those individuals should be properly buried or at least not displayed in public. It's one to have a fascination, it's another to to have an obsession.
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sortalikeadream
Metalhead

Joined: Thu Jan 14, 2010 2:34 am
Posts: 1553
PostPosted: Thu Jun 07, 2012 3:18 am 
 

I recently did a brief assignment applying some ideas of Spivak and Lacan to the 1915 film, The Italian.

Spoiler: show
Reginald Barker’s landmark film The Italian tells the story of an Italian family emigrating to America, and the tragedy they meet while chasing the “American Dream.” Historically, relations among different cultures have involved a process of differentiation, and the application and acceptance of an identity as other. This social dynamic is explored in great depth throughout the film. In fact, Barker has been criticized for portraying stereotypical characters and possibly contributing to the perpetuation of the myth of the other. The postcolonial theory of Gayatri Spivak and Jacques Lacan’s psychoanalytical explanation for the origin of an individual’s undersanding of the Self will be drawn upon to foster a better understanding of these themes in the film.

Spivak’s exploration of post-colonial identity provides a useful framework for understanding the experiences of Beppo’s family: Both colonial subjects and immigrants in the United States were perceived as inherently other. Citizens of the United States possessed a much greater share of social capital than immigrants like Beppo. The disparity in the distribution of social capital is what allows for “one explanation and narrative of reality was established as the normative one” (Spivak, 2115). Once the narrative has been established, identifying deviants as other becomes a matter of course.

The most brutal display of power of social capital comes when Beppo is robbed, and the summarily arrested for attempting to retrieve his money from the thief. The fact of his otherness takes precedence over basic ethical considerations. In an extremely powerful moment, the sheer otherness of Beppo is made palpable when his plea, made in a caricature Italian accent, to be released to that he can get the milk he needs to save his son’s life, is met with laughter. Beppo has been stripped of his humanity. His status as other defines him only in opposition to the culturally normative. He only exists, socially, as an object of negation.

However, drawing upon Lacan’s thought, one can also see how even the internal apparatus of a subject’s mind--that which allows her to conceive of the basic distinction between Self and Other--is also a product of “identity-in-differentiation” (Spivak). To see how this is relevant to the film, it is best to turn to Beppo’s mother.

She is too old to adapt and too other to be accepted. She revels in her status as other, and refuses to acquiesce to the demands of the Immigration officers. Her staunch commitment to the old way of life both situates Americans as the other in relation to her understanding of what it is to be normative (illustrating the relative nature of how such social relations come to be) and illustrates the extent to which an identity-in-differentiation is not only imposed by external forces, but also acts as a psychological foundation for the comfort of a united Self. Lacan writes that one first identifies their Self by “identification with the imago of the counterpart... the dialectic that will hence-forth link the I to socially elaborated situations” (Lacan, 1167).

The Italian proves to be a poignant exploration of the political and humanitarian results of the denunciation of the Other. One way in which the film has a particular political effect on the viewer is Barker’s very deliberate attempts to get the audience to sympathize with Beppo. In doing so, he creates a common ground of humanity even as his grossly exaggerated characters justify (intentionally or not) the dominant view of the Other as inferior.

Word count: 603
Works Cited
1) Spivak, Gayatri. A Critique of Postcolonial Reason (The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism). 2nd ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2010. 2114-26.
2) Lacan, Jacque. The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experience (The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism). 2nd ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2010. 1163-69.
3) http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/12/movie ... .html?_r=1
4) The Italian


It's not as polished as it could be and I don't have very much experience applying secondary sources to my analyses, but I do enjoy it and am proud of this brief work.
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darkeningday
Metalhead

Joined: Mon Aug 23, 2004 1:20 pm
Posts: 1290
Location: United States
PostPosted: Fri Jun 08, 2012 6:54 am 
 

Wonderful write-up, sortalikeadream--I'm familiar in name only with Spivak's celebrated Postcolonial text, but I was still able to make sense of your comparison. I'm much more literate with Lacan, and--while my psychology and sociology degrees are at great odds with Lacanian Psychoanalysis--you made a good case for it in the film.

Succinct, informative and entertaining. I don't think there exists much higher praise. :)
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MazeofTorment
Metalhead

Joined: Mon Feb 07, 2005 11:06 pm
Posts: 2024
Location: United States of America
PostPosted: Sun Aug 05, 2012 4:14 pm 
 

Decided to track this thread down and bump it because I wrote something just the other day for the first time in many months. Far too long, in fact, but it was just a funk. I needed to make a few changes in my life to clear my head and now that I've done that, I feel I can finally get back on the wagon. I started writing a few years ago and have a blog that I've posted on maybe a dozen or so times with various musings, typically philosophic in nature, but becoming more of a fiction/philosophical fusion as time went on and I became more creative.

This eventually led to me beginning a novel that remains far from being finished. I've got a decent chunk of material down - a prologue (which is fairly long in itself), first part, and some of the second part, but stalled some time last year on it and haven't written anything since. My intent is to have snapshots across my protagonists life that depict his growth and continued frustration with the human experience. More specifically, each part is to have a single, all important moment that shakes his understanding of the world and closes the section with a moment of epiphany, perhaps similar to what you would find in James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist.... Although, how much my character "learns" or actually moves "forward" is probably a bit different.

Anyway, I thought I would share what I wrote the other day and see what some of your thoughts might be since I've never posted my stuff here before. It's fairly similar to some things I've written before in terms of style and content but its basically just a short little abstraction inspired by the lyrics of none other than DsO even though I started writing it listening to the new Evoken album(which is excellent, btw). In any case, I need to grow much more and I intend this to be the start of much productivity that will hopefully result in renewed inspiration when it comes to the novel I've started.

Spoiler: show
"Coronation of the Serpent"

Rustling through the dead, dried leaves of yesteryear moves the bearer of truth, the quintessential light at the end of time that flashes and dies away in an act of rebirth, for its brief glimmering came from darkness and to darkness it must return. The rejected idol, the defiant one whose cunning clarity penetrates into the depths of knowing, rebels against the imposed structure of the world with every light little crunch.

Beneath your toes and under your nose slithers this enigmatic reality that is always crossing paths with the veiled certainty of self-assurance. Coming into contact with you in the everyday, it often only grazes the surface, sometimes with a flick of its forked tongue against your heel just to remind you that it will always be there; outlasting your self-assurance, your very life, and any future cognition that could be had of its everlasting presence.

Through blind, primal perseverance you endure its steady gaze and move forward in a mournful act of refusal; unable to look upon the face that tells no lies and minces no words. Intermingled in the debris lay the reminders of its eternal essence – layer upon layer of fractured, shed skin. Like divine leaflets, the frail contours of its past exterior mark the passage of time, the death of worlds, and the renewed manifestation.

Traces of its being, of its chaos, creation, and dissolution litter your pathways and still these signposts do no convincing, nor do they so much as spark interest. Willfully remaining obtuse in the presence of these markers, your judgment suffers and you see nothing.

And then comes the critical moment.

An instilled will to insincerity and blindness breaks down in a single snapshot of time; a flashpoint, a great collision between the egos’ carefully crafted cyclopean point of view and the torch bearer that has been gliding its way through the same grass, streets, sidewalks, and homes. A weakness in ones legs can be felt, a great strain on the limbs that prevents movement in any direction. In a state of confusion, you search for the source of the stagnation and look down to find the sharp, glaring eyes of the great serpent staring back as it coils itself around your limbs, gracefully squeezing the fabricated comforts of your own creation out of your entire being in a fateful act.

Coming to grips with your own finality, you see for the first time and receive the ultimate unmitigated dose of reality with one deadly strike. The fangs sink deep, injecting a serum that cleanses the blood of all murk that clouds what always was. With vertigo taking hold, the fear and trembling that is experienced swells in a kind of ecstasy, as peaceful closure becomes incomprehensible in the grips of the fallen one.

While the time and place comes as a surprise, the end was always in plain view - to be sensed, realized, and accepted. Turning away from what lied at your feet, your systems of thought took hold and became reality. But with fate came the blow that shook your faith to its knees – exacting a painful truth in the process.

Struggling, the coils tighten, expelling the last gasp of rhetoric tainted breath from your poisoned lungs. Finally enclosed by the cosmic emptiness, the painful lie of life ceases, and bestows the peaceful rest of non-being. This ending awaits us all and your awareness to its presence makes all the difference when its indiscriminate jaws take hold.

Praise the manifestation and its inevitable finality.
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