Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Alt's Assorted Authorings

Disorientation,
consternation,
discombobulation,
hallucination.

Trapped for a year in this hospital bed,
they all say that tomorrow I'll be dead.
Well they've said that 365 times,
and here I am, semiconscious.

Not knowing what's true and what's false,
or if the price is right of wrong,
my blanket serves as a prison.
in a whole year, I haven't risen.

People seem to come and go,
yet they pass through objects to and fro.
Things from my past drift in and out,
and here I am, semiconscious.

They pump me full of medicine,
not wondering what reality I'm in.
When I am alone, I still hear din,
faces passing me, wearing a grin.

Locked inside my own memories,
seeing everything pass by again.
They say that it's an unknown disease,
but to me, it's all a tease.

I don't think I'll ever leave.
I think I'll never leave.
I know I'll never leave.
I still haven't left.

The cake is a lie is one of the best =) The first one about poetry is also good and reminds of one poet of my country, saying, trough a poem, how it shouldn't follow rules and all that modernist stuff.
The letter is another one that makes me want to know more english than I currently know. The writing is really great and the small history behind it made me think about many aspects of life.

The cake is a lie is one of the best =) The first one about poetry is also good and reminds of one poet of my country, saying, trough a poem, how it shouldn't follow rules and all that modernist stuff.
The letter is another one that makes me want to know more english than I currently know. The writing is really great and the small history behind it made me think about many aspects of life.

As much as I do write, in poetic respite, I know it is not right, for me, to shed light on the black and white of the wrong and right and gray areas, in spite of what I may write. I proliferate in the prose that prate in the late hours of a date when I, to sate the curious wait, redetermine my fate.

So I start with "The Letter". You use a lot of adjectives and adverbs. Nothing wrong with that. While I do understand the story, some of your words form a logjam that obstructs the flow of the prose. It's an awkward combination of showing and telling. Some words you don't need, some words don't make sense, and some words are just awkward because something else is missing. And it's just the first half before he opens the letter.

Probably been eight years since I read Robinson Crusoe and I don't remember much of it except what I remember from that Pierce Brosnan movie.

Probably been eight years since I read Robinson Crusoe and I don't remember much of it except what I remember from that Pierce Brosnan movie.

The Loner
He had always been a reclusive child; more quick to grinenbearit through a problem than face it, even indirectly. During lunch, he sat alone, chasing a spaghetti noodle with a plastic fork, or neglecting his slice of pizza. He always seemed forlorn; he would open up to those he knew, yet he knew no one. In retrospect, his life was entirely tantamount to nothing but a collection of arbitrary deeds, excluding one thing. One very important thing.
He would spend recess walking around the perimeter of the playground; doing nothing constructive but inspecting mulch, or maybe kicking a rock. One day, he came upon a cicada; this repulsive creature could be counted only as his only friend in school. Needless to say, the friendship was ephemeral, lasting about ten seconds before the insect crawled away. He was happy at this fleeting relationship, yet soon sunk back down into depression, boredom and mulch inspection.
Oddly enough, he wasn't targeted by bullies. He was an outcast; he never bothered anyone, nor was he bothered in return. It was almost like a twisted covenant of indifference; as though he was invisible to them. When people noticed him, all they saw was a cold countenance, which did not appear to listen or care to anything around him. When confronted by teachers for not listening, he would just stare at them with a steely expression; not menacing, but bored. He would feign interest in their tirades against him; and stare at the clock whenever he was called to the Principal's Office. He finished his homework, yet instead of writing his name, he would write one letter, &quot." Lowercased. No frills. Just that one lonesome letter. P.
His home life was mundane; his parents provided food and shelter, but nothing else, and he had no siblings. The only time one would ever hear him talking would be to his fish; he had gotten it from a county fair. It was a common goldfish, named "Racer." It was the only thing he confided in, launched his bottled-up invectives at, or conversed with. It was the only thing he opened up to, and he told it everything. He poured his soul into the creature.
One day, when he was inspecting mulch, he came upon a dumpster behind the school. It was a repulsive thing, a mass of filth and squalor. But it was mysterious. It was surreptitious. And so he took a peek.
He saw many plastic supermarket bags stuffed under the flamboyantly disgusting trash bags. They appeared to be empty at first glance, but inspection revealed a shocking secret. They were filled to the brim with marijuana. Each bag contained a relatively large amount; enough to make the bags bulge slightly; and enough that it would be of great interest to the police, and enough to buy him more goldfish. He pondered the situation....

Skiing
His mental health had always been unstable; he was prone to night terrors and hearing voices. But his mental state was not too scrambled; he simply took a low does of medication. Two pills, 200 milligrams, that's all. Two pills each month and he was fine.
He and his two best friends had gone skiing. Up in a pristine slope in Colorado; the Sun was shining off the snow, creating a pale-white glow that pervaded everything in their area. The time was 3:00.
He was a surreptitious man; his true emotions hidden behind a facade of stupidity and indifference, his eyes stared blankly at whatever they were fixated on. Yet behind those stupid eyes was a salient intelligence and word smithing; after all, the best writers are insane. He wrote editorials and short stories for a living, and his name was on many popular short stories across various collections: The Compendium of Tales, The Story Collections X, XIV, and XVI, and Stories of Steel. His publishing agency, Sycorax, was at first reluctant to enter his stories in these collections; they soon realized, however, by the sharp eye of one Mr. Crestview, that without his stories, the entire book would be tantamount to a random collection of scatterbrain thoughts vomited onto paper. He was good at what he did.
Their skiing trip had gone smoothly for a while. It was getting dark, however, so they needed to head back to the lodge; they had gone far out, so they needed to backtrack to the lift. He was walking at the rear of their group; minding his own business. But then, he heard a scream. The others weren't phased, so he felt it was his duty to save the lost, freezing person who owned that scream.
Trekking out into the woods, he continued to hear screams, which enticed him into a northern direction. He kept trudging through the seemingly vampiric snow, still hearing these screams, as the wind pounded brutally against his face.
He began to feel weak, and deathly cold. He was catching hypothermia; yet still he continued onward to the person he was to rescue. Getting weak, he sat down up against a stalwart tree, breathing heavily. His vision began to darken. . . .
He awoke in a friendly lodge; with his friends next to him. He immediately got up, silently, and sat by the fire; the biting cold inside of him smoothing into a recuperating cool; he felt as though he were a phantasm who lay in a cool river, the sublime cool inside of him like the freshest water. After warming sufficiently, he went over to his knapsack, and checked his pills. The bottle read on the sticker: "50 mg pill." He sank, contented, into a leather chair, and took two more pills. However, sometimes he swears he can still hear the terrorized screams of a small child in those woods. . . .
P.S. Strop: ^allusion

"The Loner" -- Flamboyantly isn't exactly a word to modify "disgusting" or "trash bags".

Also, it isn't as clear as it should be because I don't know what exactly that "[o]ne very important thing" is. Is it the cicada or the cannabis? Look into creating better flow through transitions and juxtapositions of paragraphs and sentences as in persuasive essays. Move some sentences and paragraphs around and see what happens.

"Skiing" -- Will read later.

"The Loner" -- Flamboyantly isn't exactly a word to modify "disgusting" or "trash bags".

Also, it isn't as clear as it should be because I don't know what exactly that "[o]ne very important thing" is. Is it the cicada or the cannabis? Look into creating better flow through transitions and juxtapositions of paragraphs and sentences as in persuasive essays. Move some sentences and paragraphs around and see what happens.

Very interesting...you tend to write about things I never see others write about. Sort of like Edgar Allen Poe, just not as much into the horror.
Now for the fun part - the...uh..."constructive" criticism, I think you called it :P You spend too much time describing stuff. I want to know what is going on, not what some random guy's extraordinarily large and ugly wart which happens to reside on his bulgy, red nose looks like (sorry if that sounded harsh, but I just don't really enjoy reading descriptions.) Other than that, it's pretty good!

Very interesting...you tend to write about things I never see others write about. Sort of like Edgar Allen Poe, just not as much into the horror.
Now for the fun part - the...uh..."constructive" criticism, I think you called it :P You spend too much time describing stuff. I want to know what is going on, not what some random guy's extraordinarily large and ugly wart which happens to reside on his bulgy, red nose looks like (sorry if that sounded harsh, but I just don't really enjoy reading descriptions.) Other than that, it's pretty good!

That was just an example of something similar to what you do -_-
How much more abstract literature do you plan on posting?

That was just an example of something similar to what you do -_-
How much more abstract literature do you plan on posting?

Oh btw, a good example would be that while I was writing "Skiing," I was listening to Brain Damage by Pink Floyd, and People are Strange by the Doors.

Writer's Block
He sat on his desk, lightly cradling his aching head in his hands. A pen and paper lay beside him, lined with sentences that have been scribbled out. He had been trying to write another story for days; all attempts to start a new novel had been met with agonizing writer's block. He was a triple-A author; having written five Pulitzer novels, and four other that had been honored. His publishing agency was expecting another soon; but he just couldn't think of a single thing. Now matter how many titles he started, now matter how many openings and dialogs he wrote, he just couldn't find another story to sculpt.
He had tried everything; he had walked all day, waiting somewhat impassively for inspiration to strike. Yet none came. He would stare at something, with a steely glint in his eye; studying it intently. He would brainstorm various things. He would write questions. But no matter how much he did to call inspiration back to him, she would not smile upon him again. He had lost her; he had left all of his creativity in a final opus that was intended to be the opening into a whole new series. All traces of her had left him; not a single snippet had remained inside of him.
He had become used to this; living without inspiration was the common thing for him now. Inspiration was but an old flame; a forgotten memory, an ephemeral image of what was. He had been stricken with the heaviest grief; with separation anxiety. But now, his drab life had become the paradigm of his existence. He had sunk into a routine. A routine. A vicious repetition of the day behind it; with nothing new. Every day, after day after day, he just did the same things. He would wake up and fix coffee. He would read the newspaper. He would eat breakfast. He would watch TV. He would take a walk. He would get home. He would eat dinner. Then, he would rinse and repeat the same process thousands of times; with nothing at all interrupting his unstoppable grind forward.
He died a tortured soul; the colors of his personality faded by the washing machine of his inspirationless life, the once-magnificent structure of his literary mind rusted and broken. He had grown reclusive in his later years, and he had his groceries delivered. He knew not a single person anymore; the only thought of humanity was of that sweet little girl, inspiration. Left as but a single, washed-away footprint on a beach. His epitaph read but this: "Lost was his inspiration. Lost was his life."

I was having a terrible case of writer's block, so I wrote something depressing about it.