Forum

Before I startI must apologies-for all the lies that lay within this verse. The first sound rhymed within.Singular. Pristine. Captured in measure-silence echoed into a void. There. Then there and thereeverywhere within nowhere In Spaces withinthe between - thoughts touch all.Music ripples from sound alive and dying. Temporary notes hover in flightsourced existing, freely livedinside the prison of the mind.

Fit Here I sit, At Least I'm not throwing a fit. Charlene Louise Carradine

What rule can govern death and life apart!How great thoughts burn alive a Black and WhiteWar, so that now darkness reflects as light.Has science shattered piece from peace as art?Who but you and I see the end from start!Hanging from a tower knowing the fightWanting us is not about wrong or right;Hence forth our symmetry shall fall apart!Waste us away our position and time,Howl the difference between love and hate.We are one with justice or two with crime,Heaven and Hell gamble souls on such lines.Where mortal desire is God and State,Heaven has no Hell without a checkmate

Greetings Shiney Happy People! I have a new idea we're going to try: a stickied topic for Blog Update announcements. I'm going to call it the Blog Log. I've noticed in the Notes that occasionally people announce this type of thing here, and that's okay for now because its not happening at such a volume to become annoying. But I thought it'd be a more orderly and less intrusive way if we had a central place to... um... place these. The reason I'm encouraging this is that when folks use their own blogs (instead of the forums here) for their original material, they have control of the comments being posted below - not so on the forums. Some people may just want to share one way, as it were and not necessarily looking for critique.

Hi everyone.  OK, here's an idea that I've had for a long time, but I know I'm not going to take the time to do it.  But if I share the idea, maybe someone will be inspired to try it.The idea is this:  Take a chess game, and write a short story in such a way that the pieces are embodied as characters and the moves as the plot.  It would be fun to do this with some famous game, like Fischer's windmill game or the Evergreen game or Morphy's Paris opera game, etc.  You can imagine the plot element that might correspond to a piece sacrifice.  You get the idea.  It would be some work, but if done properly it could be VERY cool indeed.  If any of you decide to take this up as a challenge, please let me know.In the meantime, please read my blog and leave me a comment.  (I thrive on the feedback.)  http://blog.chess.com/kurtgodden-Kurt 

We're The Eleven Hundred Kings, our fate has been seen, and foretold by the Prophets of Old that we'd reign supreme, We're a Chess tempermental Intercontinental Team, with Tactics so fantastic all thats left is a drastic scene, Our ships first set sailed on a full northern gale from Port Wales and soon we spanned the High Seas, Vast Kingdoms were rendered to surrender as we gloried in the splender and all Captives were reprieved and set free, We set our Royalty aside and let good virtues abide, then we'd collide with our foes in the fray, As our enemies skedaddled we became seasoned for battle and the cages we rattled gave way, Our hectic yet unsuspectic Isometric Variations, Pulls rank to open files of closed center court investigations, We're the type of Kings that will take a Jester by the neck and Jerk it, so we're not picture perfect, But if you have a new classy chess opening we will work it, untill we Backdoor Checkmate a National Master on a closed Chess Cicuit, Our Pawns harrass and pass so fast, its like a full class Graduation, And We're fully at fault of the Queenside Assault, that creates our chess sensation, And when the hammer comes down in the Chesapeake Town, we'll be the ones crowned King, Wrote the Prophets of Old on scrolls of rolled gold, so bold it makes the chess Ladies sing,

This is my take on Beth's journey into young womanhood and advancement in the international chess scene, It draws on events portrayed in the 2020 NetFlix seven-part series and Walter Tevis's 1983 novel. In the series, Beth was last seen beating Soviet world champion, Vasily Borgov, at the Moscow Invitational, In the novel she looked forward to playing him in a title match in the near future. Following Tevis's lead, my continuation utilizes both real-life and fictional players, and provides some of the characters' back stories. This is a fan fiction ... an homage. The characters and events portrayed belong to the Tevis estate (he died of lung cancer in 1984). I make no claims to copyright and post this for the enjoyment of chess.com readers. P.M. me with corrections and suggestions. It will be posted as chapters

[COMMENT DELETED]

A german poem of mine. Its called Der Klang der mir noch fehlte. The sound that I was missing. Der Erde entrissen, der braunen Augen Blick, vom Himmel gefallen,ihrer Zwinker Blitz. Dem Winde entwehte, ihre Stimme die bebte, Du, der Klang der mir noch fehlte. Und Augen nicht glauben, kann man es denn sehen? Das Herz so rasend, bleibt es doch kurz stehen? Im Winde des Herbstes, muss ich mich drehen, Oh Duft der Liebe, wer kann dir widerstehen? Das Herz sich sehnte, der Klang der mir noch fehlte, Stuf' um Stuf', der steigende Ton, entfacht das Feuer, das brannt' in mir schon, und löschen vermag, dies' süß' Schicksalsschlag, nur brennende Lust, und dein lieblich' Kuss. Die Schmerzen der Liebe, mit Schwertern die Hiebe, des Herzens Narben, schreien sie schon, aus heiterem Himmel, Du, lieblicher Ton. Der Klang der mir noch fehlte, ein Tauber ich wohl, will dich nicht mehr missen, ich liebe dich schon.

At dawn he started walking. Under his arm he carried his soul. He had no companions, and he had no luggage, just a stick in his hand. He did not look at all, to the left or to the right, his gaze went always straight ahead. He walked like this for a few hours, although to him it seemed that only a few minutes have passed, when he saw the road's end. Great joy had him in its power. He let go of the stick, and ran further, as quick as he could, using the wings of happiness. He stumbled a few times, but he did not fall, he kept running forward, to the so desired destination of his journey. He soon got there, totally out of breath. It was noon. Gasping and panting, but really happy, he lay in the grass, close to the river quietly drifting nearby. He heard only the birds' song, and and the water's soft hum, reminding him constantly, of life's strength and power. A slight breeze woke him, tickling his face. He opened his eyes, and saw a crooked silhouette over himself. It was a man with a grey beard, and grey hair which probably would have been silver, had it not been for the dirt. In his hand he was holding a bucket, and a fishing rod, flipped over his shoulder. -A fisher- Stated the happy man in his mind. "You're not from here" Said the fisher. "No." "Where are you from then?" "From over there," Answered the wanderer, pointing at the road. "I started travelling on this road, and wandered through it for a long time, to know. Now, I have reached its end, my journey is finished. I can live this day, till the nightfall, knowing. All the efforts I have made, shall now pay off" "I also have heard this and that, about this road" Replied the fisher, and was silent for a moment, with a slight, and thoughtful smile on his face. Then he continued: "But, please climb this tree, my friend." And he pointed to a willow, growing a few steps away. "Why should I climb it?" "Because from the height of the tree's peak, you can see what you cannot see from the depth of the valley, where you are now standing. When you'll climb that tree, you'll see that the road has vanished for a moment only, that this is not the end, but merely a curve." The wanderer was dumb struck. "You're lying!" He shouted. "Why should I? Climb the tree, and you shall see yourself" "What a mockery" Said the wanderer, and started walking away. But already after a few steps he notcied, that he now knows much, much more than in the earlier phases of his joureny, but...he still doesn't know everything. This realization hit him hard, he felt a pain, of sorts. He turned around, and with a great sadness approached the river again. "So you understood" The fisher said, with the calm, that hadn't left him for a second. The wanderer went past him, silently. He felt a weird gratitude to the fisher, his hurt pride wouldn't let him thank, or bid farewell, however. So he asked: "So, is there any fish, in such a small river?" "No." Answered the fisher."But perhaps one day there will be fish" He looked the wanderer into the eye, in a curious way, took his fishing rod, his bucket, and walked away. The wanderer also, crossed the little river, and went further, on his road. The sadness, which took hold of the wanderer earlier, when he learnt that still many a mile he'll have to walk, was leaving him gradually, and soon it was gone for good. Again he was filled with hope, and that excitement, which we all feel when time will soon deliver something dear to us. Soon, he will know. He will be able to live fully, and completely. Different, than what any imagination might forsee. Before the traveller, was a great mountain, covered in a beautiful beech tree forrest. It was there, and it would not go away, waiting for a daredevil, casting a challenge. The wandered smiled, accepting this peculiar challenge, obedient to the road. Many times, he thought, that soon he shall reach the mountain's peek, but when he got on top of every elevation, he always saw an even higher lying point. The road had many curves, which added a lot, to its length. He stumbled once, and fell, hurting his leg. But he did not give in, cursing his fate, he carried on, slower now, angry with himself, for not being more careful, and with the moutain. After a certain period of time, he saw that the sky begins to grow red, from the west. He began walking faster, with an alarming thought in his head. -I'll get to the top, I will for sure, but how little time will be left till nightfall! Well, nothing can be done now...going there is still worth all the effort, at least for one minute, to know during at least a single minute. If it wasn't for the leg, I would have made it much sooner, I did what I could- and higher, and higher he climbed. Greatly tired, very weary, he finally made it to the top of the mountain. And he cried bitterly, under the beautifull red sky. From the mountain, he saw a wonderful view, and that view exactly, saddened him so much. He saw miles and miles away, rivers became threads, and hills - mere dots. The wanderer saw the overwhelming beauty of nature's art. But he also saw, that it had no end. Between hummocks, and and forrests, lakes, and canions, beside houses, by the rivers, through highlands and lowlands; ran, his cursed road. Till the very horizon, till the end of his field of view. He then sat there, like that, the wanderer, in silence gazing at the view and beginning to admire this immensity, under the red sky of sunset. Soon, it would be dark. Night would come and bring the stars. The wanderer was sitting there, leaning against a rock, starting to smile, and thinking this weird though...- But it is better like this....So, I shall not know. I shall not know everything. But I now know enough to know, how little, I in truth can ever know. How far this road reaches...." And he rose, the smiling, white haired and white bearded wanderer. And he continued his walk, following the road. Till the nightfall.

Here is the first chapter of my as yet unfinished novel, standing at almost 50k words. I'd welcome feedback on it if anybody wants to comment. Thank you Mark Chapter oneA warm welcome to Galt? The old man hobbled along the road, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Looking back nobody was quite sure what had happened and where the old man had come from. It was as if one moment the road had been empty and, the next, he had appeared limping along it.The day had started as a normal summer one in Galt. Despite it still being relatively early in the day, the heat was already quite unbearable. The sun beat down into the ground. In the distance it caused a haze distorting the far distant trees and the mountains rising above those.People had been bustling around from an early hour looking for what bargains they could find. A great deal of bartering was going on and delighted merchants rubbed their hands in glee in eager anticipation of making more and more profit. Then the first person noticed him. He nudged his neighbour who looked up and saw the strange figure. That person attracted the attention of the next and so on. Gradually every person thronging about in Galt's market had stopped what they were doing and looked into the near distance. There was a feeling of inevitability and joy; interest and anticipation at seeing the suffering of another human being. Not with any great malice towards that person, but as a break from the monotony of life and just another day in Galt. They also eagerly anticipated the arrival of Narrhinn's men to arrest the stranger. It didn’t matter whether he’d done something wrong or not. In fact being a stranger was considered by Narrhinn to be doing something very wrong. Arrest would surely soon follow his arrival in the town.Oblivious to any of this, the old man shuffled down the road. Hardly lifting his feet from the ground he moved slowly and painfully. He appeared to be in no great hurry. Perhaps he couldn’t hurry. Anybody observing the state of his feet would readily believe that.Nobody had seen him appear. There had just been a realisation that he was there. Some when asked, would attest that one minute there had been nobody in sight and then the next he had been on the road. People stared suspiciously at him. Strangers were rare and always a danger. Not in themselves a danger to the people. Nobody knew just why this was the case. It always seemed that shortly after a stranger appeared trouble followed fairly quickly after. This one appeared harmless enough but you never could tell. The honest ones amongst the crowd would admit that trouble was usually waiting for strangers when they came to Galt. Narrhinn did not tolerate outsiders who might cause him problems. In all honesty, Narrhinn just did not like outsiders at all.The man kept moving down the street, still seemingly unaware of the stares he was attracting. He moved along even more slowly than previously, if possible. Those closest took in his appearance: ragged clothing and footwear, unkempt hair and beard, dust and dirt on his face; hands and legs visible through his patchy leggings. He stood about 5’6”, though with his hunched stance he appeared much shorter. A very slight frame which looked as if a strong wind would easily blow him over. His bare arms revealed a musculature which few might have guessed at. Across his chest was what looked like a bag strapped tightly to him. He held one arm across it as though it held something valuable within. He was the most unusual sight in Galt for some time and those gathered here were in a rare state of excitement and anticipation.Galt was a bustling town, the capital of the province of Galten. It was named after the first and self-proclaimed ruler of the lands around, Prince Galt. He had seized power following a long battle in a war mostly long forgotten. It was still mentioned in passing but nobody living still knew the details of it. No history existed which told of the fury and violence unleashed on the people of the land. Galten was now ruled over by Prince Narrhinn, reportedly a long distant descendent of Prince Galt. He was not a popular man amongst his people. But he was feared. His people lived under a rule of constant oppression and fear. Those few who had openly opposed him, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Their lands were then added to his own and one of his many lackeys assumed control on his behalf.The land surrounding Galt was arid and it took much work on behalf of the farm owners to irrigate it. There was water to be had but much of it fell under the control of Prince Narrhinn. He kept his cronies well watered but those who were not amongst his favoured few, were left without or having to get it from elsewhere. There were free farms who had water to use but these were few and far between. Prince Narrhinn sought to make sure they became fewer in number. It was said by some that once upon a time the land was green and fertile, with regular rainfall. It was folklore said many, but there were still those who believed it. There were even those who believed that the land was not supposed to be so hard to obtain; that it should be free to those who wanted to work it. The prince usually made sure that these people did not survive long after spouting 'such treasonous rubbish'.Many lived in poverty earning barely enough to live from day to day. Those who stood by him and had his ear, were safe and secure, though that could change in an instant. Narrhinn had his favourites who were generally safe from his outbursts. There had been one notable exception to this when Baron Rummell had uttered some words which Narrhinn had interpreted as derogatory toward him. Since then Rummell had disappeared from public view, his lands divided and controlled by somebody else and his money moved to Narrhinn's cash stronghold. Neither Rummell nor his family had been seen since.The old man continued to shuffle along. His progress could be measured by the bloody footprints he left behind him. He must have travelled some distance over rough and uneven ground judging by the state of his feet. As he moved further along the street, he seemed to at last take some notice of where he was. He stopped and looked about him. He gathered himself and wrapping his arms back around the bundle resting on his chest. He seemed to dip his head towards it before moving on. He made his way towards the edge of the street and went into the nearest shop. The crowds parted before him as though he was cutting through water. After a few moments he came back out and, blinking his eyes at the brightness, moved onto another shop. He did this a few times to no avail it would seem. Whatever he was looking for was obviously not forthcoming.He moved back out into the street. Those he passed recoiled as they got a whiff of his body odour. Many turned up their noses as he passed them by, some moved away with a disgusted look on their faces. The smell of his body odour was overpowering. It had obviously been some time since he last bathed. His beard was a good foot long and shaggy. It was also littered with bits of plant life (and maybe even some animal life if one looked closely enough). His long grey hair hung like a mane down his back and shoulders. Yet those who were nearest and had strong stomachs, would tell that his face was relatively unlined and clear of the usual blemishes somebody of his apparent age should have. Although his hands looked dirty and rough, upon closer inspection his fingernails were neat and clean. The braver and more observant amongst the crowds fascinated by him were waiting for him to speak. Not for the sound or accent, if there was one, of his voice, though that would be interesting to hear. But no, they wanted to see his teeth. This might indicate his age as well as giving a clue as to when he last ate.They didn't have to wait long. He went up to the nearest person and spoke in a weak but surprisingly clear voice. "Please sir, could you direct me to where I might obtain some food. I am very hungry having travelled a long way without any nourishment." The person to whom he spoke turned away without answering. Narrhinn had spies everywhere. Even now somebody would have gone to his palace with details of what had happened so far. There would be somebody else who would be all too ready to give the name of anybody who helped the stranger. The old man looked confused as to why he received no answer to his question. He tried somebody else, and then another but received no help from anybody.He moved away and followed the street until he came to a corner. There was another shop just on the corner. Outside of it stood a tall man with a lean frame. About forty years or so of age with a pleasant face topped by black hair. He had bright and intelligent brown eyes staring out at the man. Those eyes saw a lot, the old man realised. He approached the shopkeeper fearing yet another refusal to speak to him. He was happy to be proven wrong. "Good day sir. You look to have travelled a long way. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can offer you food and drink if you would like to step over here." So saying, the shopkeeper pointed towards the door of his shop. The old man smiled. Looking up at the younger man, this time he spoke in a stronger voice. "Thank you sir. I have indeed travelled some distance and am much in need of help. Food, drink and a rest would be most welcome indeed." He followed the shop keeper indoors. The interior was warm and welcoming and the old man relaxed noticeably.The shop keeper said to the old man. "My name is Dap. This is my wife, Yolan. She will get you something to eat and drink." A woman in her late thirties hurried to stand next to her husband. He noted her smooth complexion, with light brown hair and grey-brown eyes. She had a pleasant figure. She nodded a welcome to the old man and then hurried off to the kitchen area. "Please sit down, you look about ready to drop." The old man sat with an awkwardness and clung onto the pack on his chest. A little murmur came from it. Startled Dap looked more closely at it. Inside he could just make out the shape of a small body. The old man saw Dap's look of surprise. He reached in to the pack and started to pull out the child. "I am Mohan.This is my... grandchild. We have travelled a long way and both of us are in need of food, drink and rest." Yolan came into the room at this moment, and she too was taken aback at the sight of the emerging child. "Here's your food and drink. Would you like something for the child too?" she asked."If it would be no trouble? Otherwise we can share this.""It's no trouble at all. Fortunately my three children are not here today as my mother in law is looking after them. I have time to deal with the child and give you a rest. Here, I'll take the child into the kitchen and find some more suitable food. That way you can eat your meal more easily." She took the infant from Mohan. He noted the way she handled the waking baby, how her face lit up as she looked down at the little face. He was pleased with his choice. She hurried away cradling the infant to her chest obviously pleased to be looking after one so young.Mohan applied himself to the task of eating his food. He ate and drank slowly as if savouring each mouthful, although Dap had expected him to rush it down at first. He became aware of Dap's gaze and caught his eye. "I expect you are surprised that I am eating so slowly. I do not want to become ill from eating too quickly. It would not be okay for me as you probably know. Dap smiled his agreement though he was unconvinced by the words. He wondered if Mohan was quite what he appeared to be. He was also intrigued by the man's accent and figures of speech which were not immediately familiar to him.However, his thoughts were cut short. A man came running in to the shop. It was Nayas, a friend of his."Quickly, Narrhinn's soldiers are coming for the old stranger. They'll be here soon. Get him out if you know what's good for you both." So saying, he ran straight through the shop and out the back door. Dap was unclear whether that was directed at him and Yolan, or him and Mohan. It didn't matter too much. He knew what Narrhinn would do to him if he gave him a reason.Mohan appeared confused at the words and looked up at Dap. "What should I do? Do they have any reason to take me? To hurt me?” Dap nodded seriously. He hadn't quite expected the arrival to be so soon. His face obviously betrayed his fear. The old man's expression mirrored his own and he appeared more concerned."Have you anywhere I can hide?" Before Dap had a chance to reply, a group of soldiers came storming in. More soldiers were shouting outside. There was nowhere for Mohan to go. He implored Dap wordlessly to take care of the bundle for him. Dap knew what he meant: the child was his main concern too. The soldiers took hold of the old man who struggled but was nonetheless dragged out of the shop. Dap followed as if to keep an eye on their behaviour towards the prisoner but wisely stayed out of arm's reach. Mohan’s hands were tied tightly in front of him and he was then tied roughly to the back of a mule and led away. Dap caught the old man's eyes. They were a vivid blue and had a strange light in them. They were seeming to ask a question of Dap. When asked later Dap would say the man spoke to him but his lips did not move. Similarly almost without moving, Dap gave the slightest nod of his head towards the old man. That person smiled and then happily, or so it seemed, allowed the soldiers to take him away.The crowd stood and stared after the backs of the soldiers. Most of them had no liking for Narrhinn and his men, but they enjoyed seeing the stranger trussed up and taken away. Whilst somebody else was in trouble it meant they weren't.Dap went into the kitchen. He rapped on a seemingly blank wall."It's safe to come out, Yolan." She opened the door and came out with the child in her arms. She had been hiding in a large cubby hole, hidden from sight and not known to anybody but the two of them."As soon as I heard the yelling, I dashed into here with the child. I didn't want the soldiers to find me with it. Have they taken him away?" she asked , referring to Mohan."Yes. They were fairly gentle for saying they were Narrhinn's men. They only trussed his hands, tied him to a mule and took him away. No beatings or anything like. Yet! I'm glad you had the sense to come in here and hide." He had installed the safe place when building the shop, not really knowing at that time why he was including it. He had just known instinctively that it was needed. Now he had to get Yolan and the child away to safety. Only, he thought to himself, how do I do that? And then, what do we do with the child in the long term? With three of our own already, we have enough to deal with.

After working on my novel for two months short of a year, I am ready to send it to an editor. The problem is, I have no clue how to get an editor. Any ideas or advice would be helpful. Thanks.

Cheats never prosper, that’s what we’re toldThen what is it I wonder that makes them so boldIs it the thrill , the buzz of being caughtOr the joy of stealing, rather than being taughtI don’t know why, it just leaves me unsureAngry, confused and oh so much moreSo let’s ban, exile and evict them for goodAnd get them out of chess.com’s neighbourhood

Chess I must confess that I’m not the very best at chess. I sometimes play to test myself or release some stress. I do not play an excess amount, nor do I obsess. Or maybe I do since I’m writing a poem about it, I guess. Nonetheless, I’m glad the interest in chess is one I possess. Some may say a game of chess is like living a day. It ends with you feeling lame or gay, depending on how you play. RZA proclaims rapping is like chess in a way. If I may, let me say chess quotes are just cliché Because you always ponder before you move, at least this I pray. “Chess is life,” Bobby Fischer claims. They are the same; you always try to win life’s games. When life gives you pain, you let it into your brain And when you make gain, you strive to do it again. Chess and life are almost like success and fame. Chess is the game for the rich and for the poor. It’s played by those who own mansions on beautiful shores And also by average Joes at parks where there’re chess boards. Even by minnows and sharks, chess is doubtlessly adored. Since everyone knows it, why don’t we play chess instead of fight wars? Nothing’s going on so I’ll check your king to keep myself awake. You blocked it with your knight, which was a cheap mistake. To D8 I will move my queen, which you are forced to take. Can you guess what I will move next to make myself elate? My rook takes your queen, resulting in checkmate.

I'm 68 pages into my story right now. The sample below does go with quite a bit of context but I felt like sharing it anyway. Feel free to share pieces of you larger writings. There was darkness, nothing but darkness. His eyes slowly opened. He had the feeling that he would not be able to fall back asleep now. Ulrich was not particularly fond of being awake. Consciousness meant that time went slower and his thoughts came to him quicker. He knew that this wasn’t technically how it worked but it certainly felt so. In consciousness, Ulrich was also haunted by the memories of the events that had taken place in Munich at least several times per day. While sleeping, people’s memories come in the form of dreams sometimes. Ulrich’s dreams were all very realistic; in fact, they were actual reality. He dreaded reliving the genocide. The people were marching. Tens of thousands of people; even enemies joining together for the greater good. They marched, carrying banners. They sang songs of freedom; songs against the corrupt ways of the government. The songs varied greatly. They spanned from the ancient reggae of the great Bob Marley who had sang over a century ago, to the late Urs Weber, who had been executed by the corporation not only for performing music, but for singing songs against the corporation. Ulrich remembered that this was his first time feeling like he was free. It was an amazing feeling. But then the clouds of gasses came. After a brief moment of confusion, people ran, screaming in terror, but also in pain. As the cloud of gasses continued to cover the crowd, Ulrich began to run in the opposite direction of the cloud. The cloud had gotten so close to him that he could see the people dying inside of the cloud. He was one of the comparably fortunate members of the march. He only suffered from mental problems after the catastrophic event. While in the hospital, it was explained to him by a corporation hired doctor that Ulrich had essentially suffered a mild loss of sanity due to what he had gone through. The corporation doctors, for some reason, were very broad with their explanations of people’s states. After two suicide attempts then an assault on a corporation officer, Ulrich had ended up here, in the prison no one ever came out of. He didn’t really mind to much. Since his parents, brother, and girlfriend were all part of the three hundred thousand lost to the corporation’s poisonous gasses, everything had made him feel the same. Ulrich stood up and briefly banged his head on the wall that opened up to the inner room, but not with too much force. He turned around and saw his mother, Helma who was standing in front of the opposite wall. “Hello mother,” he said in his native tongue of German. “Hello, my son.” “Why are you here?” “Why do you think?” “I don’t know. Whenever you appear, you always give me some sort of advice.” “That’s what mothers are supposed to do,” she replied. She turned her back to Ulrich and gazed out the window. They were silent for a few moments. “I wonder what those people are doing out there.” “Who?” Ulrich remained where he was. “The people that work here. Who else could be out there?” “You’re right. Is that why you have appeared; to tell me this?” “It’s up to you, my son. After all, I am merely a figment of your imagination.” Ulrich’s mother disappeared. Whenever the ghosts, memories, spirits, or whatever they were disappeared like this, it triggered a bit of déjà vu in Ulrich. It reminded him of how he had gotten the news that his entire family, as well as his beloved Nina, had all perished in the cloud, while he was in the hospital. They had disappeared from physical existence so suddenly. Ulrich had to remind himself that his mother had been all in his mind just now. He shook off the feeling of sorrow and walked to the window. There, he saw two men, one of which was on top of a ladder with a handful of chords. What could they be doing out there?

Has anyone here written a whole novel before? I'm attempting to write one now. It would be nice to discuss it with other people and follow what they're working on.

Very often I'll type a sentence and look up to find all the "A's" missing. I don't know why I have a reluctanct "A." Perhaps it's just a bashful "A." Maybe it's been a naughty "A," and someone aught to spank that "A."

You were always with me. No matter where I went, and how much I begged you to leave me, you would not. You were closer to me than any friend I ever had, than any shadow that light ever gave me. Whenever I wanted to stop at one place on the road that followed by so many, you never let me. There were times when I wanted to at least slow down, or other times when I wanted to go faster, but every time you dragged me forward or held me back. And now you have pushed me, nearly to the road’s end. We started walking only slowly, whereas now we are almost running. I look back, at the road that everybody once followed, follows, or is yet to follow. With every step, more and more becomes indistinctable. To so many phases of the journey nearing its end I’d want to come back. But it’s no use wanting. Only use, is for dreaming. The dream, is the only place, where you can’t follow me. I will soon get of the road, and fall into an abyss, or I’ll start following a new road, not sure whether I shall meet you on that road. For certain, you will always be on the road, I am just finishing. You will add a lantern here and there, and block an escape, anywhere. Many will curse you and thank you, as I do now, my old friend and foe. You took much, but all that you took, you have once given. I had so many questions, some you answered but most you left untouched, and that’s how they’ll stay. I say my last words, but the whole reply that I get, is the one final tick.

Hi team , sad news , our SA has gone , if there are no objections , I would like to be SA to run this group and appoint some admins , for this to happen I must make a forum and get the teams feed back / votes for new SA , please comment here , support needed . SA forum

If words could kill;In thy poetic dark will,You'dwield the sword-shaped penIn your snaring, sordid hand,My fate,Written prick by prick,In the icky thick red-ink,Oozing out,Of the neck, the eyes, & then the soul,Of thy crumbling paper-wax voodoo-doll.Alas!Thy black magic poetry,Is a death to behold. ©Kafkaesque