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Jeol: The Resuscitation

Posted Oct 18, '12 at 12:46am



3,964 posts

REVIVE! (Again...)

I had to write a found poem for World History, and I don't dislike the result. Even though it technically wasn't on my own time, I feel like it was an accomplishment, given that this style of poetry is new to me. Anyways, poem be below.

The Charge

The morning -
The sun shone most gloriously, and so -
Saw the imposing lines of the enemy:
Immediately cavalry and artillery,
To the right and to the left.
Heard the boom of artillery,
The echoes of musketry.

When the enemy's artillery began to play,
We laid down;
We could hear shot and shell whistling,
Killing and wounding.
Consisting of three hundred guns,
We did not muster half that number -
Terrible havoc wrought,
Whilst we acted on the defensive.

On that memorable day,
We received orders to retire.
The enemy's artillery had come up;
By the time they discharge their guns,
We were behind the rising ground,

We had now before us the heroes;
We saw the bearskin caps,
Rising higher and higher as they ascended,
Advancing nearer and nearer to our lines.

It was at this moment,
His famous order given,
He rode along the line:
"Guards, get up and charge!"
After so many hours of inaction,
All the loss of comrades.
After firing a volley,
We rushed on with fixed bayonets,
And that hearty
Peculiar to British soldiers.

"The Battle of Waterloo, 1815," EyeWitness to History,, 2004.


Posted Oct 27, '12 at 11:45am



3,964 posts

I had to write another poem in World History this week, specifically surrounding Romanticism (and in my own actual words). It turned out more like a metaphor, even though I tried to twist emotion into it as much as possible. I can't say it hit where I was hoping. I guess it depends on the point of view. It also lacks a title... Whoops.

Running, falling,
Tripping over the grindstone;
Pain is so prevalent,
Its lasting effects take hold.

Blinding stars and mental fog
Grasp my mind and shake -
Which direction I am facing,
I cannot tell;
All I know is that I am falling...

More pain, this time surrounding.
To see the smirk of his face,
The flash of metal -
To hear the ringing in the dead air.
His mocking eyes glare as he thrusts,
Into my soul, into my heart.
To feel this throbbing liquid
Abscond from my frightened substance -
To smell the abhority of pain,
The taste of metal.

All I did was rise.

I run.
Down I fall.
Moments in time,
Stretched into infinity.
Never was I living -
I was simply a falling entity.

This piece reflects the lower class during the time of the revolutions as they struggled to obtain their rights. They risk rising as 'he' (the upper or controlling class) sees them as a displeasure and an annoyance, pushing the working class back onto the ground. To him, they are nothing but a selfish lazy workforce that has no purpose other than his capitalization.


Posted Nov 25, '12 at 9:15pm



3,964 posts


What precedes imagination? Imagination is the heart of all thought and creation. Even imagination itself takes part in inspiring emotions. But is there something that precedes imagination? Inspiration itself is founded by imagination that they inspirer was truly as good as the thought itself was. Some might say that imagination comes from the created mind. Indeed, the mind is truly unique - but is that the only source of imagination? To find the answer, one may need to dig deeper than he might think.

Color. Color is deep. It irrupts an indescribable emotion within the mind. Some colors have been linked to give certain thought processes - for example, yellow is often credited to anger. Indeed, it makes babies cry. There is hardly an explanation for it, except for the obvious fact that it triggers emotions. The question is, how attributed are emotions to colors? Are they a programmed thought of the mind, a simple imagination, or the Thought? That Thought, respective to the topic that this man is so daring to address.

These thoughts resounded with this man, only on a certain level that might be considered a scientist. Luckily, he often had thoughts that normal people might not be accustomed to - in fact, that was his job. He liked to think of himself as more of a moderator, observing, performing, and keeping in check those of his subjects. He did not meet many people on his job. Actually, he didn't meet anyone on his job - usually they were simply assigned to him, and he toyed with them as a cat would with string. Usually, his experiments verged on the thought that he didn't really know what to apply, but he still had a goal in the back of his mind. As this Thought came into mind, suddenly his goal seemed a lot more focused. Some thoughts had seeped into his mind in the past, but not as provoking as this one seemed. He pondered it.

Not only would such a project take massive research, but also extensive planning with a considerable day of execution - whether that day would work in the end would have to be assumed, but that day would also conclude whether or not the experiment would work, and he certainly couldn't do it on his own - he was the moderator, after all. He turned from his desk and stared at the wall.

It was blank, the bland whiteness covering the room, not even one speck of color on the five walls, or the ceiling, or the floor. He smiled.

He stood up from his desk in the corner (it was black, no color either) and run his hand over the smooth surface of the wall. Palms out, cheek in, he hugged the wall. The purity of it was rather astounding to him. The man stepped back from the wall. It needed some color. He nodded to himself in approval - yes, this he was confident of. He turned around, walked to the door opposite his desk, opened it, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

It was several hours before he returned. When he did, though, it took him a half an hour simply moving everything he had bought into the room. After it was all moved, he managed to catch himself before he started - his desk was still in the corner. Of course. He picked up anything that was on his desk and took it out of the room. He then picked up the heavy desk, squeezed it through the door, and setting it down, shut the door behind him. He rubbed his hands together. Now came the fun part.

The man looked at the supplies. Paint cans, brushes, rollers, rags - anything a painter might have used. A realization came over him, and he tossed the brushes and rollers and other equipment out of the room.

Pop, pop, pop, the lids came off of the paint cans. Aqua! Maroon! Navy Blue! Golden Yellow! Colors of various shades were thrown into the air, the thick liquid splashing on the walls, ceiling, and floor, colors mixing, drying, and contrasting. The paint soaked into the carpet, stiffening as it dried, sticking to the feet as the man pranced about the room. At last, when the final drop flung from the last can of Saffron paint, he threw the empty cans into the trash can he had conveniently bought with the paint, and without waiting for the paint to dry, took the desk back into the room and shoved it into the corner. The paint from the walls and ceiling dripped onto the black desk and dried as he left to sleep for the night. It had been a long day.

As the man lay in his bed, he thought. What could be his experiment? What was he fulfilling? How was he accomplishing? He explored his mind for a bit. Then he laughed at himself. Why, science of course. The questions beg for answers that only distract from the original purpose. How can you fulfill if you don't yet pursue? While the answers may look good on paper, he was searching for a much deeper answer. What does one accomplish by asking questions? He realized the irony of the rhetorical purpose of the question, and so rolled over and fell asleep.

Perhaps the intentions are partially hidden, but that was yet a small piece of one's imagination - and as accomplished as he felt at the end of that day, so he went into the next with vigor. Is action blinded by purpose, or vice versa? Or is the imagination of the mind so seeking that in resolve it fulfills a greater purpose, realizing or not? Perhaps everything is partially inspired and guided by some greater purpose, living within us. Even as it brings out the unique creations of the bitter mind, it sets and destroys the etiquette that people as a society are so desperate to obey.


One part of supposed fifty. What? NaNoWriMo? Never heard of it... :P

Anyways, I may add to this because I like the idea of where I might go with this. It'll take a lot of work, but I suppose it will be worth it in the end. Hopefully I stick more to philosophy this time than straying off into a boring story. Hrm... We'll see.

Crits or comments are good. :3


Posted Dec 3, '12 at 11:52am



3,964 posts

It Stood

Standing firm, standing tall,
Ominous in disguise, royal in apathy,
Erect in stature
Stood it.

Trumpet blasts, blaring call;
Tried and true in resilience,
And yet silent
Stood it.

Metallic tang, reeks enthrall;
Stench for sure, spice of pleasure,
An essence of wonder
Stood it.

Full of everything, empty of all;
Used for anything, yet not exhausted,
Not unprecedented
Stood it.

Symbolist poem. I'm also working on a short story for World History, which may also make it on here. We'll see.


Posted Mar 12, '13 at 10:59pm



3,964 posts

I thought update with a story I wrote with a friend of mine. I'm also working on a rework of a 'sequel' to the Explorer, I poem, which may be popping up in the future. Sorry in advance if it's notated incorrectly... I had to copy it from Word.

A Series of Peculiar Events

The morning of the 31st of March, 1956 began as any other morning might: my cat woke me early, I shaved off my light brown whiskers, a comet crossed the morning sky, and I was on my way to work at the Rome Central Police Station. However, this day would quickly cease to be average, for I was scheduled to be the assistant interrogator of the prime suspect in the murder of a tour guide at the late Roman Senate.


I stood in the corner of the interrogation room looking upon the first and only suspect we had: Brutus, a tour guide at the late Roman Senate. The chief detective of the case, Pietro, was leading the interrogation.

"So, Brutus." Pietro cleared his nasally voice. "We have a murder on our hands." He leaned forward on the table, looking Brutus in the eye. "Unfortunately, the only lead we have is the discovery of a man in a toga (most likely a late tour guide) lying dead in the Senate room as of yesterday morning. Let's see. He seems to have died from . . . " Pietro flipped through some papers. "Multiple stab wounds. Once in the neck and several times in the torso area." I peered over his shoulder at some pictures of the crime scene. Well, that was evident enough.

"So far, based on what information we have gathered, - " The chief detective coughed. "Well, you're our only suspect."

Brutus stared at us blankly. Suddenly realizing what had just been said to him, he stood up and attempted to defend himself. "Well, I didn't do it, if that's what you're asking. You're calling me a murderer?"

"No. Well, yes," Pietro admitted. "But there's a possibility you are, in which case this isn't just a wild accusation."

"It's not a disease - I can't 'might' catch it," Brutus wildly claimed. "I'm not the murderer."

I interjected. "Sounds like someone needs an antidote."

"Et tu," Brutus retorted.

"As far as we know, it is a disease," Pietro sighed.

Brutus sat back down and thought for a moment. "Well, I haven't gotten any fleas or rats recently."

Pietro stated sarcastically, "I suppose that it is out of the question, then."
Brutus continued. "And - whenever this happened - I didn't do it. Wednesday and Thursday, the 28th and 29th, I was off work, at the shore with my wife. You could check the Sole Hotel in Castellaneta Marina where I stayed." Giving the detective and me this information, we dismissed him to his cell, leaving the two of us alone.

Pietro sighed. "There goes our only suspect." He turned to me and ordered, "Look into that hotel and make sure his alibi checks out. After that, I want you to meet me at Antico Caffe della Pace so we can talk about another case that has come up. This one should be a little more fun."


"I certainly am glad to have that over with." I sighed as I paced down the dimly lit hallway to my office. I located my telephone by following the curly cord underneath the clutter on my desk to where it lay, dangling into the trashcan. Mindless of the unsanitary state, I pressed it to my ear, found the number for the Sole Hotel in the telephone book, and dialed.

Moments later, I had donned my coat and scarf and was hailing a taxi to take me to the Antico Caffe della Pace.


Arriving at the cafe, I located Pietro, I doffed my coat and scarf and sat down across from the chief detective. Without saying a word, he plopped a newspaper in front of me, the headline declaring, "MITRE FOUND AFTER HUNDREDS OF YEARS IN VAULT." I read the article.

"The missing mitre found at last! Five hundred year-old mystery solved! On the 500th anniversary of its mysterious disappearance, the mitre of Pope Callixtus III miraculously found its way to its rightful home. The mitre was found when the president of the Bank of Italy, Giuseppi Marzoli, opened a large safety deposit box to which the rent was long overdue. With a little investigation, several historians were able to identify the gold-trimmed, white cap as that which was believed to have been stolen back in 1456. Marzoli has donated the mitre to the Vatican Museum, where it will go on display on April 12th. Pope Pius XII is delighted to have the mitre again in the possession of the papacy. In a press conference after the generous donation from Marzoli, Pope Pius XII stated, 'The wandering artifact has-'"

"Finished it yet?" Pietro interrupted.

"I think I got the gist of it," I replied.

"I suppose you might conclude why we are here, in that case. As far as we know, it's a cold case, but some higher authorities want some answers on the behalf of the Vatican City, since such information likely would have been retained in Rome or the surrounding area." A waiter interrupted him, granting us our lattes at the expense of our thanks and a tip. Pietro continued, "Anyway, we're here at the cafe to meet some historians and explore some details."

"Ah. A little late, I presume?"

"As usual," he cracked. I rolled my eyes.

As we sat back sipping our steaming lattes, I listened in on a conversation behind my shoulder between an upper-class man and someone from out of town, as evidenced by his clothes â" yet, despite their dissimilarities, they appeared quite like brothers. The outsider seemed as if he was spooked.

"I heard a voice, man â" a voice!" he exclaimed.

"Okay â" calm down. Start from the beginning," the well-dressed man assured.

"I was going on a walk by myself, right? Near Lake Trasimena. There weren't nobody around. It was all fine until there were these loud noises. Sorta' like metal on metal, with all sorts of yelling. It was going on for a while, and eventually died down. I thought it was about over, then all the sudden, there was this booming voice, echoing through these groves. It musta' been as loud as thunder. What it said scared me so much I couldn't get it out of my mind â" 'Itali bellum non veni, sed auxilia contra Romanos Italicis.' Now what sense can you make of that?! I don't suppose you know Latin do ya'?" The better-dressed man shook his head. I took note of the phrase.

Soon after, the historians arrived. We went over some documentation, and an hour later, we retired to our various homes.


"Cinna: Oh Caesar â"

Caesar: Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?

Decius: Great Caesar â"

Caesar: Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?"

I had returned to my small apartment to mull over the day's events. A murder â" an unsolved murder of a middle-aged man in a toga; a murder with no suspects; the sudden reappearance of an ancient Catholic relic; a Latin phrase being spoken by the unseen voice.

I felt these three unrelated events gyrate throughout my mind with the Shakespeare I was reading. I had picked up Julius Caesar. It somehow seemed appropriate as I skimmed along with my thoughts.

"Casca: Speak, hands, for me!

[Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus.]

Caesar: Et tu, Brute? â" Then fall Caesar!"

I placed the volume back on the shelf and took up Virgil's Georgics.
"Germany heard the noise of battle sweep across the sky and, even without precedent, the Alps rocked with earthquakes. A voice boomed through the silent groves for all to hear. A deafening voice... Never fell more lightning from a cloudless sky; never was comet's alarming glare so often seen."

I returned that volume as well, rose, and crossed to my window overlooking the Roman Senate building.

Who could have said that epic Latin phrase? Who could have placed that mitre in the safety deposit box? Who would have murdered that man? Who was to blame? I don't know who others like Pietro suspect, but I blame all on the time machine.


Posted Mar 14, '13 at 8:17pm



6,889 posts

I like the short story, the twist was quite unexpected and merited a chuckle from myself. However, a few things stuck out to me:

In the first few paragraphs, the repetition of "the late Roman Senate" seems odd, and none the least because I'm confused about the purpose of "the late." If the Roman Senate is dead, or even late for an appointment, I think you could explain that more clearly. And if none of the above, you definitely need to clarify that.

A few word symbol translation funnys pop of in the middle of your story. I only point this out because it only happens in the middle of your story. I'm at a loss as to why it didn't happen uniformly throughout your piece.

Finally, the last paragraph is odd as well. I feel like you accidentally left out some sort of punctuation, because the first clause of the last sentence, "I don't know who others like Pietro suspect," which is a shame, because such a slight blurp in the flow just before the punch line really detracts from the overall quality of the ending.

But overall, its a great piece and a bemusing concept. You did a good job of combining Shakespeare with Italy with a 1950's detective mystery. Its almost like something out of Doctor Who, and I say that with the utmost praise.


Posted Mar 14, '13 at 10:49pm



3,964 posts

In the first few paragraphs, the repetition of "the late Roman Senate" seems odd, and none the least because I'm confused about the purpose of "the late." If the Roman Senate is dead, or even late for an appointment, I think you could explain that more clearly. And if none of the above, you definitely need to clarify that.

Ah. I remember only writing it once, but then again, my friend wrote the opening and I the interrogation. But yes, 'late' references their non-existence as of now, and is later used as a form of a joke.

A few word symbol translation funnys pop of in the middle of your story. I only point this out because it only happens in the middle of your story. I'm at a loss as to why it didn't happen uniformly throughout your piece.

Oh, yeah... Those are hyphens (-). Apparently I forget to check for them in the later segments. Everything else I caught, though.

Finally, the last paragraph is odd as well. I feel like you accidentally left out some sort of punctuation, because the first clause of the last sentence, "I don't know who others like Pietro suspect," which is a shame, because such a slight blurp in the flow just before the punch line really detracts from the overall quality of the ending.

Humm, I see what you mean. The hilarious part is that my friend and I are comma-friendly, perhaps to a point where we overuse them. This would probably be revised to:

"I don't know who others, like Pietro, suspect, but I blame it all on the time machine."

Thanks for the feedback!

I finally got started on the second chapter for the novel that I totally wasn't writing for NaNoWriMo. Hopefully I will have it finished and posted soon.

Posted May 10, '13 at 11:23am



3,964 posts

I'mma pull the 'game' art card (if you could even call it a game) and will tell you guys to check out my Bubbles. Can you bother to pop all the bubbles?

It was made with HTML and JavaScript (mostly JQuery, actually). You shouldn't even need HTML5 to run it.


Posted Jun 18, '13 at 10:16am



76 posts

Well. I got to 14. How many levels are there, bunny boy?


Posted Jun 18, '13 at 1:31pm



10,172 posts isn't a very rewarding game =/ no challenge other than "do you have the patience to complete this"

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