Just wanted a place to post some other stuff I've written, namely poetry and little nothings, and things of that nature.
I Dislike Poetry
writing poetry is just so cruel rhyming, meter and rhythm too writing poetry is something I absolutely rue
villianelles, rime royals, and terza rimas trochaic, spondaic, iambic and anapestic why can't words be drab and rustic?
SpasMoDiC PoEtrY is EveN MoRe diFficUlT sonnets make me sob. Poetry would be the first thing I'd attack if I were an angry mob.
you say I'm writing poetry well I must protest
if I'm writing poetry I am scarcely at my best I quite dislike poetry
and won't pen a word at your behest. I won't give poetry a cent. And at the side of the deathbed of poetry I certainly won't lament.
-------------- Something about the main character from the "Publishers" stories. Henry Crestview was a regular man. His light blond hair spilled subtly over his somewhat stocky forehead; his vivid aquamarine eyes showing to their fullest under the awning of his bangs. His eyebrows were barely visible, his countenance stolid; yet appearing to hide a razor wit and a light of life. He was not a chubby man; his legs lanky; his arms thin. These limbs concealed a deceptive strength, born from years of safaris and marathons. He was by no means ancient. Yet nor was he terribly young; in his thirties, he has seen life at it's best and worst, the only thing left for him to discern which was which. His mouth was radically serene, his nose well-shapen. All-in-all, he was definitely a mundane-seeming person. Mundane situations, however, were just not his style.
Wow the first part of the story is really good! I don't often have the patience to read these internet stories, but yours really sucked me in. Can't wait to read the next 2 or 3 parts!
Gary stood, a steely glint in his eye. "I'm going to just get over with this." "Follow me, then." Gary followed the policeman, and climbed into the car. He started the engine, and began to drive.
Jason eagerly hopped into his car. He started it, and began to drive down to the town where the trial was taking place, nd he knew that Gary wouldn't get through this trial with an acquittal.
Gary strode into the room, and sat down beside his lawyer. The judge menacingly sat , gavel in hand, at the elevated seat, looking over the courtroom, eyeing Jason as he walked into the room. He slammed the gavel on it's pedestal, and began to speak.
"Today, we have the case of the murder of Grigori Schantley. The accused, Mr. Gary Jonstone, is here today. We will begin.
"Now, my first questions are for the accused. Please, rise," the prosecutor said while meandering around the courtroom. "So, what were you doing that night?" "I was watching the Military Channel." "Was there anyone with you? Any way for you to prove this to us?" "No." "Okay then. So, what weapons do you have in your collection?" "A few rifles, things of that nature." "Any in particular?" "The prize of my collection is an StG .44, a German rifle." Gary's hands had started shaking. "You do realize that your fingerprints were found on the bullet?" "Now I know. I already had the weapon loaded for self-defense." "You've been pretty straight on your story so far. That's all for now." Gary exhaled deeply, and sat down in his chair. He was sweating, and had drained his water bottle in one gulp.
"Now, Mr. Smith. Why do you think My. Jonstone is guilty?" "Motive, means, fingerprints-there is no arguing his guilt." "His alibi is airtight, and we have no records of any witnesses seeeing him anywhere near his location." "It was night." "There are streetlights there." "Ahm. . .true. . . ." Jason looked as though he was having second thoughts. That moment, a police officer came in to the courtroom. He held, in a clear evidence bag, an StG .44. "Here's the supposed murder weapon. It was found in a trashcan, outside of Gary Jonstone's house. Jason's eyes widened slightly for a moment. Perhaps he really was guilty. . . . "Has it been checked for DNA or fingerprints?" Garey looked fretful. "Not yet. However, it will be processed and checked soon."
in this game, I hold a bad hand sitting at the table I know there'll be no reprimand this won't be the stuff of fables
you hold the royal flush and I have nothing to deal You think you know you'll kill me, my blood will gush working meal-to-meal
I have one trick up my sleeve in cold blood, but necessary I guarantee you, none will grieve and I can fill my reliquary
I know you think you've got me beat that you'll squeak by with your smarts and skill if life's a self-concerned game of poker, why not cheat? I know I will.
Love the scond part of the story Alt. Very suspensful.
That moment, a police officer came in to the courtroom. He held, in a clear evidence bag, an StG .44. "Here's the supposed murder weapon. It was found in a trashcan, outside of Gary Jonstone's house. Jason's eyes widened slightly for a moment. Perhaps he really was guilty. . . .
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