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Writing Piles of Paper

Lady Asphyxia

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[size=1]It's the curse of most writers -- the unfinished story in the back of your writing drawer. Usually a brilliant idea that just fades with time. It can be 2 paragraphs, it can be a thousand words -- but it just isn't a story. It doesn't have a plot. It isn't long enough. It's a random thought that you don't really want to pursue.

Well, put those bits and pieces in here.

It doesn't matter about the length. How many times have you thought 'Wow, that's a great phrase, I'll write a story to go with that', and then gotten stuck after the first two paragraphs? I want to see these 'Frankenstories' -- these bits and pieces.

So dig up the piles of papers in your back drawers and show me your unfinished work -- and your powers of procrastination.




Always running. The earth pumps beneath my feat, the sound of soles hitting pavement like music to me. A war drum.

My lungs are screaming in pain. And still I run. I run like hell. They can?t catch me. They can?t. Not now.

Running used to be an escape for me. A way to get away from all the hassle. It?s still an escape, just of a different kind. An escape from death. The impostors are after me. I can?t slow down.

They?re watching me. Always waiting. Always watching. Always trying to hit me when my guard is down. Always.

So I?m running.

Always Running.
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[font=Times New Roman] [i] Sometimes I wish time would just go away. Have you ever wanted to be able to move freely within time? I have.

I mean, if nothing else, it would make history class a lot easier. Beyond that think of the all the amazing things we could reexperience and the bad we could skip all together.

I think off such dry humored remorseful remarks often, but always stop myself with the overused cliché â??hindsight is 20/20.â? But still, wouldnâ??t it be great to do over all the wrongs and embarrassments? Study more for that crucial test? Swallow my pride and fix that crumbling friendship? Go after that elusive relationship? Hold in that hurtful comment?

I would love to be able to have enough foresight to think these thoughts before they are in the past.

My life is a virtual disaster area. Everything I touch seems to turn to figurative ashâ?¦[/i]

[color=green] I love that first line, and I wanted to write a story about a girl's life in which nothing seems to go right, kind of dismally funny. I couldn't really think of a plot.[/color] [/font]
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[size=1]Actually, Carr, the first couple of lines were really quite good. I read them and thought, 'Wow, you could do something with that.'

I started this piece after my mother and grandfather had a conversation about smell being attached to to memories. I decided to explore it a bit, but I never got the chance -- I was sidetracked by a new story.



If you step into the front room of 21 Jacaranda Drive, the first smell to assail your senses will be the familiar citrus tang of lemons, followed by the smell of pipe tobacco, and finally, of pillow mints.

When you look around the room, you?ll notice that these smells are far from random wafts of wind. Mr. Carmichael had deliberately and effectively created these smells by quite simply littering the room with lemons, tobacco, and pillow mints. When Mrs. Wenton asked about this, Mr. Carmichael just shrugged.

?Memories? came the grunt.

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[size=1][i]Great[/i] idea for a thread, Kat. This forum really needs it as well.

I will see what I can dig up. I have some things laying around...how much I'm not sure exactly. We'll see.

This really isn't a dead story...I don't think any story is dead. I believe they are always there for you to dig up. Always there for you to have. They might not turn out the same as they would've if you dig them right up...but they will always turn into something good if you let them fester long enough. But some ideas just are so great that they demand to be dug up right on the spot...whatever the case, I believe that no story is ever dead. It is only dead within the eyes of the those that can't see treasure where others see nothing.

Saying that, I will post a story I've had for months and haven't touched called "Cigs." I posted it earlier...someplace. But it's gotten a tad further along, and I even just started typing of it out of nowhere. This is what I love about stories...it's like a friend. You know where you want it to go, and how it should be, so its face never changes. It only festers and grows by being left alone.


Come over here, to the bathroom. If you look close enough you can see him right now. On the stall on the far left, the one that's been broken since who knows when.

This is Ben Coper. He's worked in this building for thirty-five years of his wasted life.

And everyday he comes here. Comes to this stall on the far left, the one that's broken.

What does he do here? Well, if you'd ask him, he'd smile his fake smile and tell you he's simply doing his job. That he's just cleaning the bathrooms.

But that is a lie.

In the stall, his stall, he usually lights up a cig. A Marlboro Light.

Nothing too bad. He sometimes even smokes another two or three. Or even four.

The cigs really clear his head. They allow him to think. And his thoughts are usually clouded. But with the help of the cigarettes it's like he can finally breathe in his dead head.

First it all gets fuzzy. Everything. The way his hands feel as he sits on the toilet gets fuzzy and farther away. His vision gets farther away and all fuzzy too. All of it gets fuzzy.

If you were to walk into the bathroom right when he was smoking in his stall, you'd see smoke almost all over the bathroom. A large and billowing monument of it.

Ben doesn't take chances though. He locks the door each and every time.

This time is no different. But soon it is different. Soon things don't go like they have for thirty-five daring years.

As he's smoking his mind and everything gets fuzzy. Everything starts to dance with an asphyxiation that falls right into Ben's eyes. Right into his soul.

It goes like this for a long time. He smokes slow, uncertainly.

Then his first cig is smoked to a small ashy stump.

From his denim jacket smelling profusely of smoke he reaches into the front pocket. He takes out his package of cigarettes. It's a fresh pack. Only is missing the first cig that Ben just smoked.

That's when it happens. His throat begins to feel like it hasn't ever felt before. His mind begins to think and flutter. His hands begin to shake like there's some earthquake all over the ground.

He falls over.

When he opens his eyes he can hear someone banging on the door. Shouting. Their voice is too muffled though, he can't understand a single word they say.

He is about to stand up, about to go and unlock the door when his eyes fall on them.

The cigarettes are still all over the ground. Without a single afterthought or a single second feeling he reaches out for them.

That is when he is tapped on the shoulder. As he looks up, his entire body shakes as he is shocked in a sudden fear. He almost lets out a scream, but he holds it inward, not wanting to look too much like a coward. That's always been Ben's way. Just stay it cool.

Not just staying cool, but he's always been one of those people that wanted to be cool, that wanted to be accepted. Wanted to be known.

So he keeps his cool as much as he can?holds everything inward as he looks at it. At first the thing looks like what Ben had always feared. He'd always feared clowns. Not just any clowns, but ones that were scary. With big teeth, sharp teeth. And a snarl to match.

That's what he sees at first. He's quite certain it can't be real as he stares it down, looks at it. But, as he rubs his eyes and touches the thing's feet he realizes that it is real.

He almost screams. Almost. But the clown first puts his hand over Ben's mouth, blocking out what would have been a scream. All that comes out is dead air that falls to nothing in the stall that's always been broken, the one on the far left.

Ben just stares at the clown. It's all he can do. He also tries to grab his cigs on the ground, but somehow and someway, he isn't able to?his hands fall right through them. Just like a ghost.

As Ben stares at the clown in bewilderment and makes his wild grab for his cigs, the thing's face begins to change.

It isn't an instant change. It's more like a slow change, a very slow change. The thing looks like a maggot as its face melds into nothing . It sits like this for awhile like it's thinking of what to change to. To what, though, doesn't matter to Ben at all.

All that is going through Ben's mind is to get the hell out of the bathroom. And, secondly, to have a cig. Just one more, he wants just one more. Wants and needs it bad right then. He needs it like he'd always desired to have sex. Like he'd always desired to be cool.

He needs it bad.

But his wild grabs are doing nothing. His fingers, his arm, his entire body won't feel anything. It won't touch the cigs. They just go through them hopelessly. They just go through them without any feeling.

The maggot-like face of what had been the clown now rebegins drastically changing. Not just its face anymore, either. Its entire body is changing, melding, molding. To what, Ben has no clue. And what it's changing into is the last thing on Ben's mind.

Ben finally gives up on his cigs, and he begins to climb onto the broken toilet. But in his stupor and panic, he'd forgotten to close the lid.

He falls right down as he clambers up. Right down onto the tile and hits his head. Hits his head hard. So hard that, as he later learns, he fractures his entire skull.

For now, though, all he is left with is an extremely large open cut on his head. It's over almost his entire head. All of it except for maybe a quarter. A quarter and even less.

The blood begins to flow.

It flows all over the small stall, seeps under the crack of the door.

The blood's also clouding Ben's eyes. He can barely see, and he feels like he's going to pass out. His entire body feels like one big nothing. All he can feel is the endless and numbing pain of the wound that's on his head.

His breathing becomes loud and hard. It's like he's breathing through a mask that's hooked up to some loud and hissing bottle of oxygen. Every breath to Ben's lungs burns and makes his body ache. He's about to pass out.

Then he looks up with the last of his strength. And, to his surprise, there stands the principal. His name is Mr. Hanning. He'd always been nice to Ben. Especially nice.

Through the blood and blurred vision Ben barely makes out that it is Mr. Hanning. He squints more, and he can see that Hanning's holding something out to him. Something white.

It's a cigarette. Ben soon realizes this, and he lets out a large wail. It's a lusty wail. A wail of extreme want and need. Through the pain all over his body, he manages to outpour his hand. His entire hand shakes in this attempt, but he manages to reach out just enough so that he can reach the cig.

His hand touches it?or tries. Not surprisingly to Ben at all his hand falls right through the cigarette. And he cannot hold onto anything any longer. He passes out. Again.

Ben doesn't know where he's at anymore. For a long time there's blackness. A blackness like his lungs probably look like.

Then he starts seeing things again, starts dreaming again. Or whatever you call what he'd seen?the clown and all.

This time it's more of a memory than anything. He remembers it very well, this memory. It's something that he constantly went through all those years he'd sat in the broken stall in his lonely school.

He sees himself in a restaurant. This isn't just any restaurant, it's quite special to him. He had only gone there about three times in his life, but it's still quite special to Ben.

The restaurant's name is Chile's Bar And Grill. It's a simple and homely restaurant. It smells like barbeque sauce. Pretty much breathes it.

There's also peanut shells all over the ground like hair that dots a barber shop's floor. And just like the hair on a barber's floor, these shells are just there. Most people don't even see them, they're just there. To Ben, though, it just makes this memory even more surreal and lively.

He walks into this wonderful part of his memory out of the blackness that he'd so recently had.

He enters and finds himself sitting down right there smack in the front, finds himself waiting for a table. This version of him is much younger. He doesn't have the rough and white beard. He doesn't have the sandy and crude wrinkles all over his face. This Ben is younger. A lot younger.

He watches the younger self with open eyes, sees how ignorant and stupid he looked. How hopeless and without a cause, a reason, or a place.

The younger Ben is, of course, smoking a cig. It's what Ben has done since he was around ten and on.

And the smoke from the cig is falling all over the place, all over this memory and tainting it for him. Every wheeze and trail of smoke that goes around shakes this memory, the restaurant's beautiful feeling itself, into a blankness. Into vagueness.

He watches this asphyxiated: just like he's breathing in the smoke. And it feels like it to him, too. It feels like he can just taste that butt in his mouth, taste all of the smoke going in and through his lungs. It's a wonderful feeling to him, a bad one perhaps, but good all the same.

He continues to stand there, everything blanking out, the smoke asphyxiating him, burning through him. Then the younger Ben puts out the butt in an ashtray right next to his seat, and stands up. He's going to sit down at his table along with the friends that Ben used to have. Used to have.

Ben could care less about these friends. They had long ago left his life. They were not even friends to him at all, not a bit. Never were. He simply thought so.

Ben follows the younger version of himself, he follows the memory. It's a strange thing seeing himself, especially considering how long it's been since he's seen this as vivid as this; but it's wonderful and bitter all the same.

Ben comes to the table, and notices that already the younger Ben has another cig out. The same thing happens as before. Ben becomes asphyxiated with the smoke, and it falls all over the memory again and makes it fade slowly. It's like the cold flame of a candle; the smoke falls over everything and only gives it some light, some essence. It causes everything to flicker.

But this butt is also soon put out, and as soon as it is, the waiter comes over.

She's beautiful. She has long blonde hair that's wispy and thin as wires; yet at the same time this hair is also as full and lifting as a push up bra. Her hair's the first thing that most would, and is what Ben, notices.

Her face is also quite entrancing. It's blushy and petite, and at the same time, it's quite curved and round and full?somewhat just like her hair. Her lips are red like a rose, and as bitter and small and closed as a rose's bud. Through her rose lips her teeth poke out slightly as she smiles to Ben and his friends.

"Hello y'all," she says. He voice is slightly and, to Ben, sexily drawled like a hybrid of a New Yorker's and a Texan's accent. It's a very slight drawl, though. It's quite there, but can only be fully tasted in hearing at the ends of her sentences and the longer syllables she says. It especially flares up on the "y'all" in this case?very beautifully, in fact.

Hellos are exchanged, and the waiter takes out her almost stereotypical writing tablet and pen.

"So what'll ya'll be havin' taday," she says, letting out another smile, showing off her paper white teeth. "Soup's on specal, and we've also got ribs on specal, too. But first I'm bettin' ya'll'd like some drinks?"

Ben looks casually over his menu as the waiter slowly goes around the table, asking each what they'd like to drink, and jotting down thinly on her tablet as she did so. Then she comes to Ben.

"An' what would ya like?" she asks, bringing the pen to her teeth, nibbling on it impatiently.

Ben looks her right in the eyes, looks right at her. "I would like water; ice water, m'am, if you please."

There's a silent moment as she jots down, and then looks back at Ben as he looks to her. It's a strange moment, a quite feeling moment for Ben. Why they are looking at each other neither of them know. It is a very brief moment, very small. A look at one another like the fiction of wanting to know and give a damn about something. About anything.

It's like a moment that was meant to happen. Not just happened, but meant to happen. It's like breathing, being alive, or being saved to an inch of life. Just there?yet, at the same time, looking it on the outside, there's a feeling that you can't look away; magnetism and some driveled, mirrored, and worn meaning of will and shall.

And as this moment happens, quite amazing to Ben, he gets so many images in his head. First sexual, sensual images. Then something almost right from a movie, right from a projector. Just like on a projector, the images or quite faded, Ben can barely see them. He can see this lady, no, this person. He sees shadows of who she is more or less. Shadows of the past, and haunting shadows of knowing more about something than is ever possible.

And while this all happens in his mind?this nostalgic feeling and knowing?she drops her pen as it falls from her mouth where she'd been nibbling it.

He looks at the pen in lengthy detail; as if the memory has suddenly been slowed down to a sloth.[/size]
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[font=arial][b]Broken Roses[/b]

I met Leslie my junior year of high school. She was everything I was not: sunny, enthusiastic, bright?a friendly whirlwind. I was her shadow. Calmer, darker, a little mean-spirited. I was the yin to her yang; each a little awkward on our own, we complimented each other perfectly.

We met in art class, halfway through junior year.


I closed my eyes and smiled as I walked into the Haven. I hadn?t had an art class first semester, and hadn?t realized how much I?d missed it I breathed deeply, taking in the aroma of wood shavings and worn-down crayon, and pastes.

I envisioned the room as I knew it would look: the large tables surrounded by stools, afternoon light slanting through the windows, year-old jars and tubes of paint on one shelf, different kinds of paper on another, pots and masks and paper mache creations waiting to be picked up by their first-semester creators.

I heard someone smiling, and opened my eyes. Mr. Janesen stood against a shelf, watching me. ?Welcome back, Piper,? he said, eyes twinkling.[/font]

[size=1][b]I found this in a notebook this morning. I liked this story...the rest just never quite made it onto paper.[/b][/size]
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Thanks, I keep meaning to start another something with that line. A poem maybe....
I like the second one a lot; you should finish it, Asphyxia.

I like Sara's too. It seems like it could go somewhere.


[font=Sylfaen] [size=1] The cup is paper and it has little brown coffee mugs on it. It sits on the corner of my desk. All I can do is star at it, wondering where it came from.
I keep finding things. Things I canâ??t remember buying, or doing.
I came home last night and my laundry was done. Not the most unusual phenomena, but last this morning I had no clean cloths except the ones on my back.
I left my cubicle ten minutes ago to go to the bathroom and get a snack. I closed the door to the office area (I am working late, there is no one else here.) and locked it behind me. The cafeteria is two floors down, and the coffee machine is broken. There is no other way to get coffee in the building.
Last Tuesday I woke up to a new alarm clock. I know my old one was on the nightstand when I fell asleep at two-o-clock last night.[/size] [/font]


I stopped working on this one, disgusted. But now that I look at it I am thinking I should finish it.
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[size=1]Thanks, Mitch. I'd been thinking of it for a while, but I didn't know what to call it. Charlie suggested several things [including Frankenstories, heh.] but I finally decided on Piles of Paper.

I actually got the idea because of this piece, which I posted, but felt it didn't have [i]enough[/i] of a story to post. Since then, I've added a paragraph, or thereabouts.

Carr, yours is quite intriguing. Do you know what you were going to do with it?

Sara, yours seems like it can go somewhere, too.

Mitch, I haven't read yours yet -- I'm not supposed to be on here, but I'll edit when I have.


He looked at the pouring rain with misery; feeling the steady drip, drip of water falling off the brim of his Akubra. His mates were standing next to him, as equally soaked as he. "This rain," he sighed, staring down at the ground - now a muddy mess only fit to be squelched in. "I swear, the only reason I shower anymore is so that the hot water'll put the feeling back in my feet..."

There was a loud kathunk! and the high-pitched shrieking of a female, who was obviously distraught over something. A yell split the air. "Ryan Dunthrop, you get one more speck of mud in my house, and you can live with those damn pigs!"

"Well," Ryan corrected. "That and the missus."

Elizabeth Cadence Dunthrop huffed once and flounced back into the study. She was sick of this dirt. She was sick of Ryan?s ?mates? always being around. She was sick of her menstrual cramps, and most of all, she was sick of this rain. She?d moved from England for just this reason ? rain was evil. So she?d moved here, to the Land of Droughts, and [i]just[/i] her luck, it was raining. [/size]
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[font=arial][i]There was a little girl who didn?t live in the real world. Not many children do, but this one had not made up her own fantasy world, with magic and adventure and fairy tales. Her parents gave her a special world. It was normal in every way: school, family, neighborhood, church.

Except that it was perfect.[/i]

I don?t know if my parents planned me to be this way. If they did, I know they meant well. What parent wouldn?t want to protect their child from the world? So maybe I shouldn?t blame them.

They knew the world wasn?t perfect, as much as they knew Santa Claus wasn?t real. There?s no harm in it when a child is young?who didn?t like believing in Santa? If you never find out he isn?t real, though, you?re going to have a rough time of it when you grow up. What happens when your parents can?t keep the lie going anymore?

I believed in Santa until I was eleven years old. I?d spent years doubtfully defending him from disbelieving classmates. That year, though, I prematurely found the ?special? present that he was to leave under the tree on Christmas Eve. I was angry. I felt he owed it to me to be real. Something that doesn?t exist can?t owe anyone anything?but I wanted to believe in Santa.

And I wanted to believe this perfect world was real.
[color=orangered]The terrible thing is, I have every intent of finishing these stories...someday...

Asphy, the rain one made me grin.

The Memories one, the bit about lemon and pipe tobacco, reminds me of your "Smoke and Oranges."

Carr, I like the second one you posted. Seems like it would be fun to work with.

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[size=1] Eh. Now this is a story I don't like lol. I doubt I'll ever use it, but here you are:

The man heavily crutched the cross dangling nondescript about his white shirt. He looked at me, his eyes were blue, a bright blue: like that of the sky. But through his eyes, this blue-sky color was now being hidden away in his tears. These tears fell from his face, clear and cleansing. I looked at him through the lighter I was holding in my hand, striking back and forth in a click-clack of metal. I let out a smile.

"Why're you 'fraid of me?" I said.

He continued clutching the cross, and began to chant under his breath that familiar prayer I'd heard so many times in my useless life.

"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy n?"

"?answer me, damnit!" I screamed, striking the lighter into a flame, and moving over to him slowly.

"?hallowed be thy?hallowed be thy name?" he continued chanting.

I ripped to his hands, breaking the cross necklace forcefully from his neck. He yelped in anger, but still stammered in his reluctant corner.

The metal and wooden beads that had held the necklace as one beaded and broke onto the floor, making a small and heavy tic-tic sound. With my hand on what was left?the string and a few clinged beads?I held the cross to the flame of the lighter.

The reaction was not instantaneous, as is metal to flame, but slowly and surely, the flame gave the cross a florescent yellow-orange hue. When this came, I heftily shut off my lighter, and threw the damned cross on the ground, and scrunched it between the soles of my black shoes. Steam slowly whisped out of what had been the cross, tickling my nose. I smiled again.

"Hallowed be thy name indeed," I said, removing my shoe, and spitting on the marred and melted hell that had been the cross.

"Care to answer this time? Why're you 'fraid of me? Hm?"

This time, the man looked me right in the eyes. His tear-blue eyes reflected at me dismally. He then began to slowly stand up, and moved closer to me. Soon I could feel his naked breath on my face.

"Why am I afraid of you?" he said between short bursts of his breath. "Why am I afraid?" he said as he began to bring up his finger, slowly, uncertainly. I followed it, moved my eyes with it. It came to the tip of my forehead. Almost touching. I moved my eyes away from his finger, coming to his eyes, letting out a sneer.

"And what about it?" I said between clenched teeth.

He looked at me, still pointing, still tears.

"Why, it's the mark of the devil. Six six six. Don't you know?"

I laughed at him, still in my sneer. "Why, of course, dear friend. Haha, why, I've had it since I was born."

"Since you were born?" he fell back.[/size]
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[size=1]This next is a [i]very[/i] short piece, which I never really started, or was interested in. There was just a line in a song which sparked off the paragraph, and I decided to use it.


The word ?social? had always invoked an odd fear into her. Needless to say, with this attitude, she?d never been to a social before. This inexperience was the main source of her anxiety tonight. It was her first social.[/size]
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I really am not sure what I was doing with that. I wrote it in class bored and couldn't remember where I was going. heh. Now that I think about it, It would be interesting to have the person have some kind of mental disease...or a stalker....

I liked the one about the Antichrist, Mitch. heh. I would. :+)

Sorry, but I can't find any more at the momment and I really don't feel like looking. heh.

I'll put one on here when I clean my desk...I guess I should do that soon!
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[size=1]Oh wow. The wonders of things you find when you stay away from OB for a couple days. O_o;; And scarily how many stories I have that I don't think I'll ever get finished. I'll post a couple things of mine that I haven't worked on in a couple years (I think!)


[center][b]Voices in the Dark[/b][/center]

Sere Tuscumbia walked in and slowly looked around the dingy classroom. It was dark; electricity had been cut off from this part of the building a long time ago. Paint was peeling from the walls, and blinds were closed to keep the heat from pouring in the open windows.

There were only an elite few in the classroom, and they were arranged in small cliques. She stared, trying to decide which to choose, all the while flicking her fan in agitation.

It snapped shut quite loudly, and two of the groups turned and looked at the new arrival to the classroom. They were dressed exactly opposite, and Sere noted that in the groups were some members of the well-known gangs, the Light and the Dark.

A certain fire light up in their eyes, and their heads snapped from Sere, to each other.

Sere flicked her fan open again, and pulled out a chair.

The groups glared at each other, then smiled at Sere, beckoning with their eyes for her to join them.

Sere responded by calmly plunking down the chair right in-between the two groups. She sat, with an expression of, 'Don't like where I'm sitting? Come and change it if you dare.'

Automatically, two members of the Dark group came waltzing over to Sere.

"Hey there babe," one said, trying to catch a glance down Sere's low-cut shirt.

The other just stared at Sere with a resentful expression.

She could understand why. Even though her boots and pants were black, her shirt and hair-tie were white.

However, she played a little more favoritism with the black trenchcoat and ( . . . )


Yep, horrible, horrible me. I left off right in the middle of a sentence. However, I think there's a good reason for that. Since most of my stuff that's never been finished is on a Zip Disk, there's a chance that the disk can become corrupted. And that's what happened to my Zip disk. So I think this was one of the files that was corrupted, and I lost some of the story. O_o;;


"It could be something with the words: 'bathtub', 'phone battery', and . . . possibly, 'racquetball'? I can't be sure." He squinted at the scorched scrap once more. "It'll take a while to decipher all of the way."


This one was the inspiration for my CSI-ish story. I've actually started the story, but, you know, since it's kinda on my main computer and I'm too lazy (and rushed for time) to acutally get my butt up and start transferring files from my computer to the main computer, you won't get to see that.

I've also got another story that I have (ok, I've got like, 50), but it's one of the longest that I have, and I'm posting (at least) the beginning in my livejournal, so you guys can read it [URL=http://www.livejournal.com/users/summerstclaire]here[/URL]. (And, of course, me and my bad self don't have it up yet.)

And, oh, for the first story, there are probably grammatical errors galore, but I was copying it from the original, and I'm not going to bother to change it.

More when I decide I actually want to get up and transfer files.

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[size=1] An unfinished poem...like one of two that I have. I usually finish poems.

A train went through a burial fork
It was split until He couldn't forget
As the train skipped and skipped?
It was split

On aboard there were Cravens
Old Sages and Wise Lamemans
A Wight that was cold as he was white:
And the engineer a homely old man?
One that loved the train's flight

First they were going round
And round
Until there wasn't even an after sound:
The cravens sighed: for they were impatient
And the Old Sages and Wise Lamemans were elated
The Wight was tall and he never fell nor slight

The old engineer, that homely man?
Why, endeared as you and I: he was abridged
He hadn't a clue which fork to take
Which chance was meant and which was mistake

So, as he sat in his caboose he pondered?
Pondered 'til he couldn't choose
'Til he didn't know what was left
And what was to lose

By this time they were still going round
And round
Until at this time there still wasn't an after sound
That was when the engineer came out:

He first came to the Cravens
Spoke to them of his timely situation
And asked for their desperation?
And they were silent as is the way of Cravens
For they are unretribute and are fallen aback to any given salvation
Hopeless to an endless relation

There was one about the group of Cravens whom was their leader:
He was a cruel being in his time, a ruler and leader until he died
He was the one who spoke up then: spoke so loud the entire train seemed to sigh

"We must turn back!" said he, the leader of The Cravens
"We must turn back, for this path leads to damnation
And the other to false salvation!"

The entire group of Cravens then began to chant
They said exactly what the leader had said
It flew around the train like a sigh and a touch to skin
All aboard heard it many times and again

The engineer took this to his situation
Then leaving those dear Cravens he entered the room
Of the Great Wight
Through the room could still be heard The Cravens
Who were soon silenced by the Old Sages' connotations
For their spells were of a powerful transpiration

As the engineer entered the Wight stood tall and spoke sublime
"There ye be thou dear Sir. Why dost thou come hither?" said he
The engineer told of the state of affairs in quick retrospect

"I see. Ye know which path thou shall take! Thou shalt take salvation withal?"
The engineer stared uncertainly and unsure?
He tried to speak yet his mouth would not move

"I see thou art uncertain. Hear me now dear Sir: Thou shalt take salvation!"
The Great Wight implored heavily outward and outsaid salvation as if it in one a big sigh
Yet the engineer was still uncertain[/size]
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[size=1] [b]A story I've started, but went the wrong way with in the last paragraph. (I'm thinking of making myself a word document called 'Discards' -- with paragraphs of writing that just didn't work; it didn't fit in with the rest of the story, etc. You think I should make a thread, too? It'd certainly be interesting to learn from.) It's about a psychic, and she's seen a murder. The story was influenced by a dream I had -- I saw a guy murdering a woman in my dream, and decided to turn it into a story. I called it Dreamer.[/b]


When images came to me in my dreams, I decided that it was the combination of stress and fatigue that made me dream of people being murdered. It was when I saw the story on television that I first went to the police.

Yes, I went to the police. Most psychics like to claim that the police came to them, but really, if you?ve dreamt of a person being brutally murdered, and then find out it really happened, you?re going to do one of two things. The first is to go to the police. The second is to book yourself into a mental institution, under the care of a stout nurse named Helga, who hailed from the ?Old Country?, and who won?t listen to anything you say about dreams that tell the future. You do not sit down and wait for the police to come to you.

And, as for other pet peeves about psychics (and I have quite a few, I must tell you), it strikes me that a lot of them change their names to something awful like ?Madame Dahlia? or ?Mistress Mirithiel? and claim to have seen visions since they were six. In my experience, that?s a load of nonsense. My first ?vision? was when I was 42. By that time, I had kids, a mortgage, and a husband who did nothing, just like most other women in the western world. There was no talk of meditation to ?further my inner eye?. To me, my ?inner eye? was the thing I used when I knew my kids were hiding something. And that isn?t a special technique. It?s called guilting.

Some days I almost wish I could say that I was ?Madame Dahlia?, and that I?d been seeing things since I was six, but most ?Madame Dahlia?s are skinny as a rail, and, much as I hate to say ? I don?t float gracefully on air. I waddle. At best, I shuffle. And, while my kids prefer to call me cuddly, I must say that, quite simply, I am fat. [/size]
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Guest Narusegawa
I sometimes have little ideas and I start a story. Because there's so many of them, I can't work them all out. Unfortunately I truly HATE unfinished stories, so all the little fragments I write down have some kind of clue or climax in the end, and as soon as I have gathered enough inspiration to continue the story, I pick it up again, knowing a little bit more already about how it's going to continue.

Lately I had the idea to start a story about a desperate writer, who keeps on losing his or her inspiration (no, I haven't figured out whether it's going to be a he or a she). If you're beginning a story, it's nice to know who your main character is. In order to make my personality a bit deeper (nice to know if you all want them to have their own expressions or reactions, whithout that you have to make that up throughout the story), I make some kind of sketches with thoughts of that one personality, or some little events that he or she is speculation about. This is why those stories often don't really go about anything, but I have them lying in my drawer anyway until I have the time to work them out, so I decided to post one here. Anyway, I always think it's fun to figure out later what kind of person this is going to be, with these kind of thoughts. Hope you can all appreciate it.


Once again.

Why is it that I'm always trying to find that one special and ultimate word or expression? Every thime I look at a white paper and reach out for my pencil I stil don't have a clue what's going to be on it, though I already know I'll fail.
It's a rare thing for me to write down something that later on can still give me the chills. Thousands and thousands of ideas spin through my head, but they hardly ever make it onto the paper: I don't want to waste my ink nor my time on it.
You know, sometimes my inspiration is like a well to me. During some kind of 'rainy season' it almost doesn't have the capacity to contain so much water, while yet another day the well is dry again. Yes, there must be a rough climat inside of my head, i suppose.
But how comes I can never write down the intensity of my emotions? How comes that I keep on attempting to explain something to that 'someone' while I feel like I know even less? And who is that someone who travels with me anyway? That someone who sometimes uses my mouth to make a deep cry-out in pain? How comes that this person is expressing all that I can't display? Is this person inside of me?
After agressively writing this down with the speed of thoughts, my well was dried out again and I sat down staring into nothing, wondering how to described the thoughts inside ones brain, and how those can be related with emotions, and how those can actually case some kind of weird sensation that comes closest to bein described as 'psychical pain.'
I started to write again, knowing that this story wasn't going to lead anywhere, that I still hadn't written down my true feelings and that I had failed....
...once again.


oke, I'll have to do a lot of editing on this chara to add more dept to it, but he or (probably) she will turn out to be an interesting personality, i hope.
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  • 1 month later...
[size=1][b]This piece is part of a Harry Potter Fanfiction I'm writing. After writing this short scrap, I looked at it, decided it was no good -- it just doesn't work! --, and cut and pasted into my 'Discards' file, and then started over.

The 'Discards' is a good file for me, because when I do that, it feels like I'm almost purging them from my mind, and I can always refer back to the good parts if I want them. Anyway, this scene is of Ginny, just after the diary incident, and she's been sent to St. Murgos to recover. Thing is, she's not.[/b]


[i]Dear Tom, I think I?m losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don?t know how they got there.[/i]

?Ginny. Ginny, dear, wake up. You?re hallucinating again.? The matron shook the little girl again, silently tutting over the precious soul destroyed by Voldemort. She was so tiny, almost like a six year old. The child bolted upright, eyes searching with a manic fierceness for some invisible danger. When she found none, the pools of brown turned towards the Matron. The child sobbed once, and collapsed into the Matron?s arms, desperate for contact. The Matron sighed, hugging the child tight. ?What?s wrong??

?He,? she gulped in between words, unable to communicate for lack of air. ?He was there. And I...someone was stalking me, and they were coming closer and closer, but it wasn?t...they weren?t...it was...me.?

The matron hushed Ginny, and rocked her back and forth until she calmed. Ginny let out a whimper and closed her eyes, hands coming to rest on her forehead. ?Come now, Ginny, you?ve been here for six months. Don?t you think you should be getting better by now??


The matron sighed and didn?t pursue the matter. ?I?ll go get your food. Stay here. And stay awake, Ginny.? The girl nodded and leant against the wall, surveying the bare white room with apprehension.

?I know you?re there. Leave me alone. I?m a good girl. I did nothing wrong.? She whimpered, unable to tell the matron what was wrong. Even in the wizarding world, hearing voices was a bad thing. But her dreams were becoming worse and worse. There was Thom ? always Tom ? and another girl. It was she, but not she. She was?different. Both were stalking her, ready to claim their prizes.

[i]Didn?t you? What about your Chamber?[/i]

?Why are you doing this to me?? The girl huddled into the corner, the pace of her breathing beginning to rise. How is she able to talk to me? The her had never been able to speak before. Not when Ginny was conscious. It meant she was getting closer. Her, but not her. Ginny, but not Ginny. Virginia, perhaps. As if naming her stalker would make her feel better.

[i]You ignored Tom?s cries for help. You drifted there. And now he?s dead because of you. It?s your fault![/i]

?I?m a good girl!? The cry sounded pitiful and weak, as if there were doubt in her mind. Of course, she was talking to people in her mind, so doubt was the least of her worries, she thought hysterically.

[i]Dear Tom, I can?t remember what I did on the night of Hallowe?en, but a cat was attacked and I?ve got paint all down my front.[/i]

The matron walked into the room, carrying a tray of porridge, lightly sprinkled with honey and sugar. She grinned as she expected Ginny?s reaction ? it was Ginny?s favorite meal. The Matron ? a portly woman known as Sister Shana ? was quite fond of the little girl.

The child was harmless, despite protests from other Matrons. She was lost, alone, and scared. She needed support, love. Her condition shouldn?t even warrant staying at St. Mungos. But, none-the-less, here the girl was.

Sister?s thoughts were interrupted as she surveyed the scene before her. The poor dear was once again huddling in a corner, holding her head and whimpering. She was staring with horror at some unseeable object, whispering a chant over and over.

?I?m a good girl. I?m a good girl.?


[b]The next story was never going to be a story on it's own. I might slot it into one of my novel stories one day, but I was never goign to expand it. It was just a random piece of writing that I'd posted in my journal, a piece of writing that had never seen the light of Word. So, here it is.[/b]


She was always a very private girl. It was hard for her to speak about anything that was personal. She was a deft problem-solver for others; she could tell them what they needed to hear, she could keep them at school, she could find that missing piece of information for the assignment that was due the next day. But they never touched a core inside of her -- the one that locked away all her problems, and made her solve her own problems. She was independent, really.

Some days I loved her freedom, some days I didn't. I didn't know what she though; I only knew what she said. I only knew she was lying when she burst out laughing after a story and told me, 'And everything I just said then was complete bullshit!'.

I never understood why she lied. She was so entertaining, without the lying. And there was no point to the lies. They were little; exaggerations, perhaps.

I did ask her once. We were in bed, side by side, staring at the wall and saying nothing in particular.

'Why do you do it?'

'Do what?'


I could hear the smile in her voice. 'You know I don't talk about that stuff.'

It was one of the days I hated that core. She was so very independent. She could shut anyone out. She had secrets, and I was aching to know them. 'Make an exception?' I pushed. I think she must have been surprised, because I never pushed. I was the perfect pushover boyfriend for her.

I hadn't realised before now how easy it was to get her to talk, if she thought you wouldn't judge. Perhaps it had something to do with her mood. I still don't know why she told me.

'I'm a storyteller.'


Her voice was resigned, as if she didn't think anyone but herself could accept her thoughts. 'Well, different people entertain differently. Acting, singing, drama, melodrama, music. And I'm a storyteller. But, people don't want to hear stories. There are only so many stories a person can tell without others getting bored.'

'I don't understand.'

'Instead of telling stories, I exaggerate things to make people laugh. I like it when people laugh at my stories. Even if they're just stories.'

There was sadness in her voice when she continued. 'I know you don't understand. No one ever does.'

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