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Discussion Starter · #1 · (Edited)
This should get fun. Post a little bit of your writing here.
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EDITING WELCOME (on my posts)
Please mark whether editing suggestions for your work are welcome.
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“In here?” Zoë queried.
“Of course. The kitchen’s the best place to do something like this. Linoleum’s a lifesaver, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” Zoë was still wary about Jen’s offer to cut her hair, but didn’t know how to back out.
“You’ll like it,” she promised. There are a few things in the world that wake a person up enough to realize that one is painfully aware that one is alive, and about to stay that way regardless of whether one wants to. The “you’ll like it” that comes right before an impending haircut is one of them. It can be a more or less comfortable situation depending on the trust one has in the person doing the hairstyling, but trust suddenly doesn’t matter if the stylist’s own hair is streaked with colors that really belong solely inside a box of Trix cereal.
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You can post longer stuff if you like, or more than once.
 
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Ooh, you reminded me I had promised someone on here one of my short fiction pieces to read. Am still translating it from the French but will upload it soon!
 

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I will make something up for you right now!


A dull, throbbing ache in my head coaxes me back into consciousness. I open my eyes to get a better idea of my whereabouts, but quickly close them again as I find myself in strong disagreement with the stabbing pain that follows. What is the last thing I remember? Yes... today is Friday... of that much, I am certain. My right hand dutifully responds as I try to grope around to establish my surroundings. The ground is smooth... cold... somewhat sticky. Tile? No... it must be linoleum. I glide my hand further and now it brushes over something rough. Carpet. Berber, by the cheap feel of it. I'm laying on two different surfaces.

I prop myself up on my elbow and ease myself into a sitting position. So far, so good. The pounding in my head has started to subside. Thank God for small favors. I massage both sides of my head around the temples and give opening my eyes another go.

Bras.

Why am I staring at bras?

I look up... a sign dutifully informs me: Full Figure 18-Hour Classic Bras, 3 for $20.

It's all starting to come back to me now, and I find myself filled with a deep sense of regret. Why did I ever think I could survive a Wal-Mart on Black Friday?
 

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Discussion Starter · #4 · (Edited)
It's all starting to come back to me now, and I find myself filled with a deep sense of regret. Why did I ever think I could survive a Wal-Mart on Black Friday?
LOL.
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EDITING WELCOME
but don't expect my promise to include it
The last time I edited this thing was ages ago. I still have a seriously-marked-up manuscript of this entire novel, and I haven't implemented the changes yet.
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A Fire Anoki poked his head in the door. “Jaken wants to see you, Amanda.”
“Take a picture,” I said, “if he wants to see me. I thought he knew what I looked like.”
“I think he meant that he wants to talk to you.”
“Talk with me or at me? If it’s about battle strategies, he’s done a lousy job.”
“He didn’t say,” the messenger said, looking like his patience was wearing thin. “Can you just go?”
“All right,” I said, knowing that someone behind me was giggling slightly.
I followed the messenger out to—points to you for not guessing a Quonset hut—a three-story mansion with no bomb protection whatsoever. There’s a surprise.
Someone opened the door from behind it. I went in, and the messenger fled.
“You are Amanda.” It seemed more a statement than a question.
I resisted the urge to blurt out, “That’s my name! Don’t wear it out!” and nodded.
“You have taken control of one of the army groups.”
“Technically, I was asked and I accepted.” Jaken had his back to me. I read this as, “I don’t want you to see my expression.”
“How old are you, exactly?” The ancient question.
“Thirteen. And a half,” I added.
He turned, so I had to wipe the grin off my face. “And what makes you think you are capable of leading our troops into battle, let alone qualified?”
“Because I just saved your butts several times today, your soldiers seem to think I can, and your previous general got killed before I got back here.”
“That brings me to my other point,” Jaken said, frowning in that way adults do when they think you’re too stupid to know what you’re really asking and thinking that they’re not being paid enough to explain how audacious you’re being. Too bad. “You left, leaving our village in peril. Your lack of responsibility, as well as your audacity…”
Here we go, I thought. He said the word audacity, and it’s only been about thirty seconds. Jaken babbled on a little more, but I’d stopped listening.
“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting him, “but you never employed me. I wasn’t in the army. Ever. I defended people, but I was never paid, never employed, and I never heard a thank-you from you or any other of the village ‘elders.’”
“You knew full well that you were the only Zephan healer. You left us.”
“And you didn’t pay me for that, either! My parents were killed. I healed little kids’ cat
scratches for their lunch money so I wouldn’t starve! Not to mention that I did teach Zephans conventional medicine and left you with numerous stores of potions. I bet you aren’t even out of them yet. I can see it in your face.”
“There are rumors that you ran to the Kliid tribe,” Jaken said. I could tell that he was running out of cards to play.
“So you drag me here based on rumors to accuse me of something you don’t have proof of. And even if I was there, how do you know I wasn’t spying on them? I’m sure you don’t pin down your spies like this.”
“We didn’t employ you for that, either!” he said, trying to use my own argument against me, but realizing how ridiculous he sounded.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I said.
“Minors are not fully mature. Teens especially are impulsive and hard to control.”
“And in battle, this matters how? I’ll tell you what matters. What matters is that there are Zephans alive now. What matters is that the tribe is safe. And you can’t even bother to defend children! In ten years, what army will you have? The only people still alive will be old, retired farts who fought in the war that one time!”
Jaken was constantly giving me that well-that’s-quite-an-interesting-bug look, especially when I used phrases like “saved your butts” and “old, retired farts.” Then I noticed that the retired fart thing had struck a note with Jaken, who must have been sixty-something.
“What’s your argument?” I kept going. “That I’m rude? Oh, no! The Kliid will be so angry at me! Oh, wait! Half the Kliid army is pushing up daisies. Well, they’ll be very offended in hell.” I wanted to add, “Tell me if I’m right when you see them there,” but decided against it.
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Some of my older writing. Not very good, but pretty funny. Just for you, because you guys are dang fast. I even put off updating my sig.
PS: Amanda is about to assassinate Jaken. She sees no need to pay him any respect when she's about to bump him off.
PPS: What's Amanda's MBTI type? I'm wondering if she's ENTP. She's not INTP, I know that much.
 

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Do INTPs usually read each other's minds, or something? I swear, this is like the fourth thread in two days that someone might as well of hijacked straight out of my conscience. Weird...and also kind of cool.

Anyway, you guys seem to be more prose prone, so I will wait until some other brave soul endeavors poetry, before I take my flying leap of faith (off the perilous Cliffs of Humiliation). Something tells me, however, that if anyone will be able to grasp the technical, scientific imagery/ references I so often use, it's my brainiac INTP peers. Nothing I write should go over anyone's head around here. :wink:

Also, what is your creative process like (she asked everyone in the room)? Do you find you have bursts of artistic fury, which quickly fizzle out? Or are you slower, steadier, and more constantly/ reliably productive? What kind of work do you enjoy writing most (poetry, fiction, screenplays, etc.)? And what are some of your favorite muses (themes/ subjects/ objects/ events, etc.)?

Sorry...I ask a lot of questions....
 
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Heres some prose, fresh out of the mental oven.
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It was cold, too cold. My chilled bones hated me for it. I sat in my car, my engine wheezing to life, the AC blasting arctic winds onto my fingers in revenge for waking it from it's slumber. I would leave at the first ray of morning. Take off and leave. Forever. The Thought came with a tinge of happiness. It would be dawn in an hour or so, not that it really mattered anymore. Nights blended into days as my fight against sleep waged on. Why sleep when the only thing that came were nightmares? Could I even call them nightmares anymore? His very essence was so foreign it tainted even the most mundane landscapes my dreams could conjure. Him/it/they, I couldn't even determine that if I wanted to. At first I had thought of him as poetic, a tall, faceless nine-to-five everyman in a crisp Black suit whose existence consisted of clocking in and clocking out for the day. I realized too late that he was, but his shifts were sporadic and he only clocked in long enough to screw with my head before catching a ride back to God knows where. I couldn't tell you when he'd started inviting himself through the proverbial front doors of this world, this reality. Where his feet fell, the ground rotted, and God, the smell. It reeked of insanity. The toxic perfume dissolving away the edges of my mind. My mind, my first and only defense. My mind was my refuge when the outside world became to hard to handle. It was the first time in his presence that I had almost broken down, when I found that my mental sanctorum would become my prison. I did my best to keep myself ignorant of him, keeping myself distracted in dreams seemed to work but only lasted a while before he found other means of entertainment outside of my head. Did I mention he was a family friend? Well, at least long enough to mutilate them and stuff them in bags to hang in my living room. Good ol' Uncle-Murderous-Psychotic-Being-from-a-place-worse-than-Hell always gave the best birthday presents. When did he decide to crawl out of my brain? I couldn't figure it out either.

As with most houses whose owners suddenly die, the mortgage and the bills found themselves unable to be paid, and my measily paycheck barely covered my car insurance; at that point I thought it best to leave. I'm headed East, where a couple of internet friends offered me shelter and sanity. They'd found me through an online journal chronicling my ordeal with tall, dark, and deadly, whom apparently likes to network with his victims. We'd all decided that if we were going insane, we might as well be together when we fall off the edge. I packed light, only clothes, a few hundred dollars, and a camcorder. I found out a while ago that his need to fiddle with technology outweighed his ability to use common sense. It made him easier to track. Easier to outrun.

It was comforting.

I saw the trace of pink along the horizon and decided to take my leave. I tried to get one last look at my home before I left, but my gaze couldn't make it past the front porch. God it hurt. I crept down the road, not wanting to rouse any suburbanite that might contact the police at the first sign of a suspicious vehicle. I slowed to a stop at the corner, waiting for a semi to pass before I turned.

I immediately wish I hadn't.

It felt like my foot couldn't hit the gas pedal hard enough when I saw the blur of black in my rear-view mirror.
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I would first like to say that when I had written this an hour ago, in this very reply box, Google Chrome thought it would be just peachy to suddenly close on me. It was also the first time that I had actually physically hit my computer screen. As you can tell, my bit of prose came through and i'm actually quite happy about it. Five internets to anyone who can name my inspiration for this, all the answer requires is that you haven't been living under an internet-rock for the last three years. I apologize for any glaring grammatical errors, i'm sure that i'll find them and hit myself in the morning.
 

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Anyway, you guys seem to be more prose prone, so I will wait until some other brave soul endeavors poetry, before I take my flying leap of faith (off the perilous Cliffs of Humiliation).
Challenge accepted.

Ode to Octopuses and Platypuses

Though little to do with one has the other,
if you have one of either and add another,
in numbers greater than one, remember:

Octopi and platypi are both grammatically incorrect.
 

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Swallow me. I'll be the novocaine to numb your brain from all the pain. Have no shame, and swallow me for sanity.
 
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Discussion Starter · #10 ·
Do INTPs usually read each other's minds, or something? I swear, this is like the fourth thread in two days that someone might as well of hijacked straight out of my conscience. Weird...and also kind of cool.

Anyway, you guys seem to be more prose prone, so I will wait until some other brave soul endeavors poetry, before I take my flying leap of faith (off the perilous Cliffs of Humiliation). Something tells me, however, that if anyone will be able to grasp the technical, scientific imagery/ references I so often use, it's my brainiac INTP peers. Nothing I write should go over anyone's head around here. :wink:

Also, what is your creative process like (she asked everyone in the room)? Do you find you have bursts of artistic fury, which quickly fizzle out? Or are you slower, steadier, and more constantly/ reliably productive? What kind of work do you enjoy writing most (poetry, fiction, screenplays, etc.)? And what are some of your favorite muses (themes/ subjects/ objects/ events, etc.)?

Sorry...I ask a lot of questions....
Haha, go right ahead. I write poetry about as well as a Vogon, so don't look at me.

I can write 5000 words in a day, but can't seem to write too steadily like this unless I'm out of school, sick. I have written a quarter of a novel before in one sick week, but then ended up totally lost.

My muse IS Muse. :p And The White Stripes. And Andrew Bird. And Joanna Newsom. And Explosions In The Sky. And... I could go on. Arcade Fire, Daft Punk, Radiohead, Nick Drake...

And Weird Al. Gotta love the one serious ENTP of the bunch.

p.s. I like this character's name, for starters. 'Cept I prefer mine without the umlaut. :proud:
Oh, really? Thanks. I was wondering if she'd be the Special Character with Special Name cliche.

Oh. Wait.

Fred had a horrible fright
To his stump he applied dynamite
He would have been wiser
To call an adviser
Instead he was blown out of sight.

^ My dad's stump grinding business limerick. He's an INTP.
 
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Discussion Starter · #11 ·
Oh, and guys: note whether editing suggestions are welcome on your posts. If you would ^^
 

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Here's a little of my rambling stream of consciousness for ya:

Sometimes I have to wonder if anything's wrong with me for thinking that so many things are wrong with me. It can't be true. Surely I'm just a normal person like everyone else with their ups and downs... But then why do I feel so different? Not everyone can possibly be as fuzzy as I am, as encased in a fog of seperation between the real world an their thoughts. Why me, if anyone at all? I'm not even really sure about this yet, am I?

Do I act and feel the same as everyone else? Then why do other people appear so different to me? Is this my real personality, and if so, why does it feel so fake? Do they feel fake, too? They seem very happy... Is it all an illusion? Does that make me a pessimist?

No. I want to believe that I'm the only one going through this. I don't want anyone to suffer the way I do. Or do I just want to believe that I have it worse than everyone else so that I feel sorry for myself? How can I tell? If there's a way, would I be able to make use of the answer, or would I be too insecure to admit it to myself? I don't really know, but I do know one thing: There's got to be a way out of here. There's got to be people who actually enjoy their lives. Sure, everyone has moments of doubt, but like this? This must be some kind of phase. It has to be.

All I know is that there's got to be someplace for people like me. There's got to be some way that I can finally shrug these feelings off and go experience life for real. There's got to be hope. I may be a cynic, but I have faith. I can't feel like shit forever.

^^Surprisingly clean for just coming off the top of my head, but rambly... I guess that was the point, anyway.
 

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Haha, go right ahead. I write poetry about as well as a Vogon, so don't look at me.

My muse IS Muse. :p And The White Stripes. And Andrew Bird. And Joanna Newsom. And Explosions In The Sky. And... I could go on. Arcade Fire, Daft Punk, Radiohead, Nick Drake...

And Weird Al. Gotta love the one serious ENTP of the bunch.
'Scuse me...this is prolly the first time I feel embarrassed that I donno' (what I assume is) an obscure nerd reference, but what/ who is a Vogon? I am not familiar...

Also, I too love Radiohead. And I like Arcade Fire. Weird Al is...well, he's Weird Al Yankovich, so his name alone is enough for me to think he's great (and "Eat It").

If you don't mind, I'm going to take the liberty of posting Radiohead to this thread, because they count as an electronic hybrid group.

I'm guessing your name is Zoe? Or some other variation of spelling (minus umlaut of course).
Yes. You have guessed correctly, and you win AAALLL THE COOKIES!!!

Actually, when I first started posting on these forums, it was under my ACTUAL, full, real name---stupid FB sign up thingy, didn't even ask me to create a username. But last week I wrote a moderator and had him change it to zobot.

(Awesome story!!!!! :dry:)
 

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'Scuse me...this is prolly the first time I feel embarrassed that I donno' (what I assume is) an obscure nerd reference, but what/ who is a Vogon? I am not familiar...
Vogons are an alien race from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Their poetry is widely considered to be the third worst in the universe.
 
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'Scuse me...this is prolly the first time I feel embarrassed that I donno' (what I assume is) an obscure nerd reference, but what/ who is a Vogon? I am not familiar...
They are creatures from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy seemingly based on stereotypical ISTJ's who are repued to write the worst poetry in the universe (the second worst was written by the "the Azgoths of Kria", and the worst of all was said to have died along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex, in the destruction of the planet Earth).

EDIT: Ugh, ninjad.
 

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There's this place I like to go that you won't find on any bus route... it's on the corner of Lucidity & Inebriation. It's an elusive destination that exists at some indeterminate point between .06 and .07, where thoughts come easy and movements come slow. It's in these fleeting moments of clarity, unfettered by the anchors of doubt, I throw caution into the wind and mistakes seem like the concern of mere mortals.

It's always a short stay at this place of mine, but it's great while it lasts.
 

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There's this place I like to go that you won't find on any bus route... it's on the corner of Lucidity & Inebriation. It's an elusive destination that exists at some indeterminate point between .06 and .07, where thoughts come easy and movements come slow. It's in these fleeting moments of clarity, unfettered by the anchors of doubt, I throw caution into the wind and mistakes seem like the concern of mere mortals.

It's always a short stay at this place of mine, but it's great while it lasts.
Could you be talking about Ballmer Peak ?

"The theory that computer programmers obtain quasi-magical, superhuman coding ability when they have a blood alcohol concentration percentage between 0.129% and 0.138%. The discovery of this effect is attributed to Steve Ballmer, CEO of Microsoft - who probably "discovered" it by simply monitoring his own perpetually inebriated nervous system, and deducing that programming ability "peaks" after a few drinks and then dips dramatically after full-blown drunkenness ensues.

If you can convince your boss that this is all based on legitimate science, and that the effect is real (i.e. your drunkeness = better code = more money for the company), then you will have achieved perfection in this world. There will be no reason to ever come back sober from lunch again. "

 
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