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Chromatose by Writch The celestial lantern slips down under twenty-two shades of vermilion clouds into Neptune’s realm behind Mt. Shasta. Golden brilliance reflects off and through a million jasper slivers of sleet. The carnelian sheets of ice hit the pavement, shattering, melting, collecting, reflecting back from a hundred puce puddles echoing the plums of Heaven’s watercolor above. When darkness cloaks lightness in the sky, the lightness of my soul dons a twilight robe. With some trepidation I reflect at my phantom reflection in the plate glass window that’s thrown there by the fluorescent bulbs of the mercury streetlamps waking each other up along the soaked boulevard below. A street sweeper scoops bits of trash and cigarette butts that have pooled into the iridescent shallow rivers from sunset‘s crying. Evidence of sobbing mars my own face. False eyelashes from the outsides of my eyes have come loose and stick to the sides of my face. My expressions are in quotations making them look less than genuine. A comma shaped smudge of blood from the corner of my mouth where he hit me gives me the impression that I have yet more to say. My lover used to care for that same mouth of mine that he smacked so hard. Maybe he thought cute little mouths were like cute little children: to be seen and not heard. He used to say that my smile was so perfect that the Tooth Fairy himself must have been my guardian angel. But tonight the Tooth Fairy has an errand to run after a trip to her ethereal ATM. Under my pillow she’ll have to collect the fragments of my smashed happiness and return them back to wherever the Sisterhood of Dental Collections Local 314 deposit repo’d canines. I get up out of my full lotus, collect the pieces of my smile from the blood-stained shattered glass and broken frame of our prom photo that he flung at me to try to silence me. In these November hours of the day, I nest in my futon, and watch the sun diver with celebration, with awe. I try to return to my quotidian rhythm of evening centering after the interruption of an afternoon eruption. Through the plate glass window the twenty-two shades and million slivers curtain soon are drawn to reveal forty-seven billion diamonds. The poor Pleiades are chased by an obsessive Orion with the dog star Sirius baying at his heels. The Hunter will never give reprieve to the Seven Sisters. My attention drops back down to the crimson drips spattered on the sepia images among the crystal mess. He used to pursue me. I thought it was courtship. He knew it was seduction. At the beginning, the language of our chase was colored with the red of roses. But the path of passion is fertile and grows fast and furious. The pillow talk of our rose bed sprouted intimacies hued with scarlet tones. Petaled and thorned confessions choked and tangled our talk. My sentiments became richer with the deeper romantic shades of blood that course through my veins in matters of the heart. His words adjusted the chat to lighten it into carnal tints with milky white of seminal innuendo. It took time for me to notice – no, not quite… to stop denying - his pink and pearl words. He was scared of the taste cherries that dripped from my tongue and the rubies that sparkled in my eyes. I felt the wavelengths stretch as distance increased. My girlish blush of innocence was tempered by sadness and the blues. I felt marooned. My morose mood blued and chilled my responses to him into a cold slate hardness. Gray was my state and suspected. His fleshy colored talk cut off from the vitality of its carnal source turned gangrenous and stunk of green jealousy infected with the pus of possessiveness. Author's Note: This was "prose scribbling" - no plot or real character - just playing with colors and moody-words in experiments to see if I can nudge readers' attitudes into the space(s) I wanted them for the sake of development. So call it a sketch. Also, I was trying to write from an abused female perspective. "Putting yourself in another's shoes" often cultivate genuine empathy and not knee-jerk sympathy. It is what it is.Writch P.S. And, yes, "I felt marooned." was an intentional pun since I mixed red imagery with "the blues." Update Edit: "Whoops" on the Subject with the mispelled name, and "Humours" as in The Four Temperments, not Comedy. Abuse is not funny.

To Hell and Back ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Joranus Tentalius unsealed the heavy Dwemer doors, exposing the hallway beyond to the light of present day. The light flowed into the hall and revealed swirling clumps of dust imprisoned for thousands of years. He produced a torch and lit it with a small magic fireball. Holding the torch in his left hand, he unsheathed his ebony blade and gripped it tightly in his right hand. He moved around a little to make one last check that his glass armor was fitted properly. Not detecting any defects, he stepped into the ancient hall. Joranus stepped as lightly as he could on the metallic floor so as not to alert the denizens to his presence. The place was deathly silent, unlike all previous Dwemer ruins he had explored. There was no humming from old machines defiantly forging on in the neglected halls, no creaking and clanking from centurions still tenaciously guarding their extinct masters’ once magnificent homes. It didn’t sit right at all with Joranus. It was just too quiet. After carefully walking down the long hall, he came upon another door. He carefully examined it and discovered that it was locked and trapped. He sheathed his sword, took out his lockpick and probe, and set to work. Within a couple minutes he had defeated the rusted lock and disarmed the trap. He then put the pick and probe away and restored his blade to his hand. He pressed his ear against the door and strained to hear any little noise. However, there was still only silence. The only noise he could hear was the sound of his own lungs drawing breath. With his heart pounding against his ribs like a hammer striking an anvil, he slowly opened the door a little and poked his head through the narrow opening. He surveyed the room and saw nothing except for a few old tables and a desk, all completely bare and smothered in rust. No machinery, no centurions or any other type of being. He couldn’t think of any reason why there weren’t any guards or monsters or any machines. He was confused, and the absence of these common features had him growing more uneasy by the second. He was to the point where he was expecting some otherworldly being to jump out of the shadows at him at any moment. He inhaled deeply and fully opened the door. He walked about cautiously, glancing over the ancient tables. He rummaged through the drawers of the desk and found a few Dwemer coins which he slipped into a pouch strapped to his waist. He wandered aimlessly about the room for a moment, looking everywhere. The glow that the lights on the walls cast on the rooms had always seemed warming, but now it looked menacing. It was like a herald for some unholy force that was waiting for just the right moment to set upon Joranus. At last satisfied that there was no danger in the room, Joranus walked up to a door beside the old desk and gave it one of his thorough examinations. Finding neither a lock nor a trap on it, he opened it. As the door swung open, it revealed another empty, dimly lit hallway. He looked around and carefully stepped into the hall. He crept down the hallway, still trying to hear the faintest sound of activity. However, his ears just couldn’t pick up any noise save for his own breathing and the sound of his footsteps. He continued down the hall to a large door, also unlocked and without a trap. He pressed his ear against the door, trying to hear the slightest noise on the other side. Try as he might however, he heard nothing. Joranus was now seriously considering leaving the ruin. The lack of the common centurion guards and the absence of the loud machinery told Joranus that there was something sinister here. The lack of valuables also contributed to the “leave the ruin” side of the argument as there didn’t seem to be much chance for monetary gain. He just stared at the door, debating on whether to press on or leave. Suddenly, he got the feeling he was being watched. He looked behind him, but saw nothing. He had some experience with mysticism and Dispel was one of the first spells he learned. Thinking he was being set upon by an invisible assailant, he cast Dispel. However, the spell revealed nobody. Joranus gripped his blade even tighter and held his torch like a second sword. It was a style he was keen to learn. He used his blade as the offensive weapon, while the torch was used for blocking. The torch also functioned as a nice club when it needed to. Joranus knew there was something approaching him. He felt it getting closer and closer until finally, as if he had a sixth sense, he felt something behind him. He wheeled around and assumed a defensive stance. Joranus’s instincts had been right. He looked upon a figure with glossy eyes, exaggerated muscles, and pronounced features. The figure smiled an evil smile that revealed two long, sharp fangs. It was a vampire. The vampire immediately lunged at Joranus. It was in a blood frenzy. It probably hadn’t tasted blood in years. This was a very hard-to-reach ruin. The monster flew at him with a flurry of punches. It was all Joranus could do to keep from being struck. The vampire continued hurling fist after fist at the Imperial explorer, fueled by unnaturally high energy and chance to drink blood for the first time in a long time. Joranus was tiring, but the vampire never slowed; he knew he would eventually wear the adventurer down. Joranus also realized that he would tire out long before the vampire. He also realized that to have any hope at all of escaping this place with his life, he would have to strike back, possibly even kill the unholy creature. He willed his fear under control and began looking for holes in the vampire’s routine. It didn’t take long for him to see them. The vampire tried an uppercut, but Joranus blocked it with his torch and struck the attacker in the face with the hilt of his sword. They were still in the hall and it was difficult to find swinging room. Joranus knew he would have to take the fight back to that room for him to use his fighting skills at their full capacity. Joranus began retreating down the hall, keeping pace with the vampires blows. Once they entered the room, however, the Imperial went from defensive to offensive. He blocked a punch to his stomach with the torch and countered with an uppercut to the vampire’s jaw which he immediately followed up with a slash across the demon’s chest with his sword. The vampire growled, angry from the pain. He let out a roar and charged Joranus. Joranus sidestepped the wild lunge and speared the vampire through the chest with his sword as he passed by. The creature staggered for a moment and then turned to face Joranus. However, it did not come at him again. Instead, it summoned a fireball and hurled it at him. The bastard had suddenly remembered that he could use magic. Joranus dodged to the left, but there was another fireball already coming. He dodged it as well. While the vampire was working up another one, Joranus suddenly had an idea. He ran over to one of the tables and with adrenaline surging through his arms, he lifted it and hurled it at the vampire. The vampire aborted his fireball and dodged the table, but Joranus had thrown another table right after that one and it was too close for the vampire to dodge. It struck it and slammed it against the wall. The vampire tried to rise, but Joranus hurled a third table at him, this time striking him right in the center of his head. The vampire’s body went limp; it was out cold. Finally, the adrenaline wore off and Joranus collapsed momentarily on the ground, his muscles exhausted from such extreme exertion. After taking a moment to collect his wits, he rose up and hobbled over to where the vampire lay pinned against the wall; it was still knocked out. Joranus surveyed the floor and collected his sword and torch. Before leaving, he walked over to the vampire, held its head up by its hair, and severed its neck, killing it forever. His foe finally defeated, he made his way to the exit. As he passed through the doorway, he was greeted by the warm sun and a beautiful view of the surrounding hills. He breathed in the fresh air and untied a scroll from around his waist. He read the parchment and in seconds, he was standing in front of the temple at Ald-ruhn. He went inside the temple and straight to the healer. As the healer tended his wounds and checked him for infection from the vampire, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Couldn’t he just have read the scroll when he was first attacked and have skipped the fight altogether? For just a moment, he felt stupid. Then he realized that there wouldn’t have been nearly enough time to untie the scroll from his waist, unroll it, and read it before the vampire either killed him or ripped it to shreds. “Ok, you’re all done! The healer exclaimed in a cheery voice.” She was a Dunmer woman, middle-aged with long, black hair and cherry red eyes. “You don’t have the vampire’s disease and your wounds are small. They will be fully healed soon. You are welcome to use one of the guest beds to rest. I can see you’re exhausted.” “Thank you.” Joranus replied, accepting the offer. He paid the healer her money and sauntered over to the guest beds. He didn’t remove his armor. He made it a habit of sleeping with it on so he wouldn’t have trouble sleeping on long expeditions. He fell on the bed and his muscles relaxed. His eyelids were as heavy as those dwarven tables with which he’d clocked that vampire. As his eyelids slowly covered his eyes, Joranus reflected on what he had just been through. He had fought a vampire in an old, dark, abandoned ruin miles away from civilization, and he had done it alone, and won. For him, it was like he had entered hell and lived to return and tell the tale.

My journey from fundamentalism to sanity--introduction I take after my mom in one way; we are both bitchy. Other than that I take after my dad; I am stubborn, opinionated, passionate, egotistical and have ocd (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). I think the world should be perfect and it’s not, so therefore, life in general has been a series of frustrations and anxiety interspersed with brief interludes of enlightenment and clarity. I think I should have been born a man but I would have undoubtedly turned out homosexual. I tell people I am a homosexual man in a woman’s body. In many ways I think like a man. When I was younger I chalked it up to the fact that I am left-handed. My parents controlled me mercilessly. I grew up trying to be perfect in order to maintain their love. Sadly for me, I couldn’t obtain perfection. Sadly for them, I quit trying to be perfect in October , 1997. I figure I am going to live to be 107; I had a dream that I was going to live until 2072. It makes perfect sense to me because I didn’t get my first bike until I was 13 when most children learn to ride a bike around age 6 or 7. If my parents had bought me a bike when I was 6 or 7 all my life problems might have been solved. But it wasn’t meant to be that way and I was destined to start my teenage rebellion at the ripe old age of 32 so at this rate I suppose I will be fully socialized when I am in my 60’s. 　 I took a college psychology class in the late 80’s and as a class exercise we were told to write down our earliest childhood memory. If you are the type of person that loves pop psychology you might want to go write your earliest childhood memory before you read any further. I remember riding the train to California with my mom and sister. I had a doll in my hand and I was so excited to be traveling I could hardly contain my excitement. Then I remember pulling up into our driveway in the yellow Vega and imploring of my mom, “when will I EVER get to go to school and learn how to read?” Those are the main two but I also remember running around the house naked yelling, “I’m nekkid, I’m nekkid, I’m nekkid… and chasing my sister around my mom and dad’s bed. I also remember sucking my thumb and picking all the fuzz off my stuffed animals. The feeling of rubbing the fuzz between my thumb and fingers was very comforting for me. Anyway, your first childhood memories are supposed to reveal aspects of your personality. I AM excited by newness and travel, I LOVE to read and learn and I like trying to catch people that are running away from me. As for running around the house naked, I actually don’t like being naked all that much but I think it symbolizes the freedom of being able to express myself; something I was not often allowed to do.

This is a short season-based poem which seemed to write itself. The opening two lines were inspired by a line in Pawnsolo2's recent post in the Poems thread: "We show how the lives of the rich and how the lives of the poor both value themselves apart, but together they hold no clue to the value of life" The rest just followed, almost like a game of word association. Feedback more than welcome. -- We spent our summers Showing the rich what was wrong with their lives, Charging highly for the privilege. Our nights were full of autumn, A slow withering and a gathering frost, Thoughts drying on the bedsheets. Winter broke my jaw and walked away, Burning with bright anger on its way to be with you, Leaving me to endure the cold. Springtime proved elusive And emergency meetings were held As I watched the trees refuse to grow.

Les Traveledby Rich O Les Moore- real name "Leslie" - narrator name: Vic [Chicago Chapter (past)] - Les returns from Army - Narrator in a relationship - One night narrator slept with Les in mutual moment of weakness - Les went into Peace Corps - Lesleft PC, moved to Hawaii [Hawaii Chapter (past)] - narrator meets Les in Hawaii to study at UH - narrator and Les are rhousemates -Les gets a job waiting tables at a strip club The same day that my friend claimed he saw Les at Femme Nu Nightclub I went there. It was sort of a shot in the dark because, having frequented these types of places on the mainland, I knew that the girls don’t always work all night after night. I had gone on as much a whim as a hunch. Although I knew Les well enough to know this wasn’t beyond her, I had to know whether she would do this without telling me. When I went there, I was tossed the good-news/bad-news scenario. The bad news was, well, she was there. The good news was she wasn’t a dancer, she was just waiting tables. In a stereotypical French-maid uniform, she waded through the oggle-eyed masses. The crowd seemed evenly divided between propeller-head geeks one drink away from loosing their paychecks, and meatheads one drink away from loosing their dinners. Her eyes scanned back-and-forth, back-and-forth, until they made a full circuit around the bar to where I stood. With no one immediately to duck behind, I tried to act nonchalant. Busted, I cursed inwardly. She made a bee-line toward me, weaving around guys that were just plain weaving around whatever. "Howzit!" I shouted a greeting at her over the loud music. I tried to back it up with an inquisitive, half-forced smile. But she was onto me. She knew of my old ways and vices and probably was as not-surprised to see me here as I was her, and rightfully so. She was acted surprised to see me, but true to form, she wasn’t embarrassed. I thought I almost could see relief. She shoved her tray to a passing co-worker with a wink and a quick phrase I couldn’t hear, then threw her arms around me. My arms responded without me and found themselves wrapping around her, drawing my face into her neck. Her hair wreaked of smoke, but still I found Les’ vanilla-musk lingering underneath. I filled my lungs and kept it in for as long as I could, like a bong hit. Her smell set me off in ways Mary-Jane ever could. Coupled with my arms full of her half-naked torso, there was no better place to be. Pulling away after a bit, she jibed "What the hell are you doing here, you horn-dog?" I was suddenly of my involuntary growth below. Actually, as was her way, she was cleverly turning the tables around, trying to put me on the defense. This also clued me into the fact that she might be jumping to conclusions. But I wanted to be frank. Wanted? Had to. She’d know otherwise. "Mitch said he thought he saw you here... I had to come to see for myself." "More likely I caught you before you realized I only waited tables" she grinned. "Puh-leeze," I feigned, but there was probably a degree of accuracy there I wasn’t prepared to openly admit. Suddenly, I had to chalk one up to her, she won this round of rhetorical wrestling, realizing I was on the defense. "Actually I’m sort of glad you’re here...." but before that sunk in, she looked around for a table. Leading me to a small empty booth with drinks on the table, she continued, "I’ve only been serving tables here for a week, but they’ve asked me to try dancing." We sat down across from each other over a small round table with two mostly empty bucket glasses. Her eyes darted around, either from habit, or in some imagined way of carving out a piece of privacy from the murky darkness. "The money looks really fast and good, Vic," now her eyes fell on mine and locked, "and you know how I get the Wanderlust." "So?" I acknowledged, already dreading which direction this was heading. "If I dance for a month or so, I can bank enough to last me for that trip to Europe and then some!" She whispered intensely while squeezing my hands cupped in hers. Two guys approached the table, eyeing us, the glasses, back to us. Les turned to them, shot that Mona-Lisa smile at them and said, just audibly above the din, "We’re sorry, but this table is reserved now. Stand over there and I’ll find you soon for a couple of drinks on the house." They smiled back and wandered off to the counter chairs next to the main stage. I could see what – or rather "who" – attracted them but I felt Les squeeze my hands again and my gaze swung around to meet hers. "Am I distracting you?" Constantly, I confessed, again only to myself. "Go on..." I grinned, trying to psychically broadcast my sentiments (which never ever seemed to work no matter how hard I tried). "Anyways, I already made my mind up," she said seriously, Mona-Lisa gone for a powder in the ladies’ room apparently. "But it’s just a matter of nerves. They said anytime I wanted to ‘audition’, just tell the manager, and the house-mom will fix me up with an outfit." "I don’t get it." That was me being a dope. "Vic, you see, it’s like this. I could first dance in front of you... If I had a friendly face that wasn’t leering at me, I can do it. After that, it should get easier, I think.... Maybe." Her nails had slowly started to dig into the back of my hands, but I don’t think she was aware. She really was nervous for the first time in a long time. Not since that night in Chicago. "You’ve already seen me naked," as if she read my thoughts. It’s a good thing it was dark in there, because I’m sure I was blushing. Hell, as soon as the words crossed her lips, being male I was already picturing her nude whether or not I had had the prior experience. "Les, are you sure..." "Shut-up!" she cut me off, "don’t be my brother now, I need a friend, not family." I looked down at the spent cocktails, and slowly retrieved my hands so that she would not feel their trembling. Lord knows I fantasized many nights situations like this, but when it was in front of me like this, I felt I was taking advantage of her. Bullshit! No one could take advantage of her without her letting it happen. If anything, she was taking advantage of me. And I craved it. "At least I know I can count on you not to make me self-conscious." Ouch. She really knew how to burden a guy. Preemptive guilt, if it had a name. "When?" I thought I said. Trying to pick out a not-too-eager tone. I must have found one because she snapped, "You got somewhere else to go?" Her sarcasm was veiling her nervousness, I could tell, but it effectively took any tint of pleading from her voice. But then she reached out, lifted my chin too look into her eyes again. "Please?" That night she danced three dances in front of me. I stuffed her house supplied garter with dollars all the while, playing the good client. After that third one, an older guy with a tie slipped up next to me for his turn. I tried to slink away, thinking my job was done, but she shot a chilly glance at me. Don’t you fuckin dare! she mouthed. So I remained there for the remainder of the set – and the following two sets until closing -- being the de facto schill at times when there was no other guy. Moral support had a oxymoronic ring to it. - soon after Les's mom dies - Les leaves on religious pilgrimages using money earned as dancer

Here's a quick story I wrote not long ago because I was bored. It's not that well written since I didn't really spend a lot of time on it, but I hope you guys enjoy it just the same! Once again, it is based in the elder scrolls universe. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ra'Misha eased her lockpick into the keyhole and set to work on opening the lock. The soft rustling of the pins was the only sound to be heard that night. She used the pick with the surety and accuracy of a professional, though in reality she was a greenhorn thief only a few months into her career. In just a few seconds, all of the pins had given way. Ra'Misha removed the toothy bar from the lock and put it in a small pouch strapped to her waist. Ra'Misha gave a habitual glace behind her before easing the door open. Big, thick shrubs concealed the building's front entrace almost completely. Nobody just passively looking around like the town guards would see a person mesing with the door. Still, Ra'Misha looked behind her to be sure she wasn't being observed. Convinced she was still invisible, she eased open the door and poked her head inside. Not seeing anone, she fully entered the room. Ra'Misha's Khajiiti eyes sliced through the darkness, allowing her to navigate much more easily than thieves of other races. Not seeing anything particularly interesting in the small antechamber, she advanced to the sitting area. She scanned the room intently, but as with the anteroom, she saw nothing eye-catching. All of the dishes were either clay or pewter. The bottles of wine that had been set out were cheap. Ra'Misha was growing frustrated. Nothing of value was in the house! Agitated, Ra'Misha located the stairs heading to the second floor. Perhaps the owner kept the valuable stuff in his private quarters. She quietly ascended the staircase and peered down the hall. She saw no one and proceeded down the hall. She came to the hallway's end, which was where its only door was located. She opened it slowly and peered inside. She recognized it instantly as the bedroom. In the corner stood a bed. A figure in a blue gold-fringed gown lay on it, its bottom half covered with a red blanket. On the opposite wall stood a dresser. Growing impatient, she glided over to it and opened the drawers. Her tenacity was finally rewarded. The drawers revealed fine silk and cotton clothes and beautiful pieces of jewelry. She untied a bag she had srapped to her waist and started filling it with valuables. She filled the bag as full as she could while still being able to tie it. After fastening it shut, she heaved it onto her shoulder and turned to go. As she neared the door, however, she cast a look back and saw something that send a wave of fright crashing over her. The bed was empty. Ra'Misha was frozen in fear. She cursed herself for her own carelessness. The owner had probably fled and alterted the town guard; they probably had the building surrounded. At last, Ra'Misha willed herself to run. She saw a window on the wall opposite the door and used the bag of loot to smash it open. Stealth didn't matter anymore; only escaping did. The loot was forfeit. She lunged out of the window and rolled as she hit the ground. As she started to run however, she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her back. She howed out in pain as two more jolts of pain shot through her spine. She struggled in vain to stay standing for a few seconds before collapsing on the ground. As she felt her life slipping aay, she saw a figure disappear around the side of the building she had just robbed. As the apparition's robe trailed around the corner behind it, Ra'Misha noticed that it was blue and fringed with gold.

Hey everyone, I thought I'd post some of my more-recent work in here to assure you that it's actually me...SIDESTEPUnsuccessful, obscure, constrained;so you draw the best to your breast,bestow this blessing on your elect,that we, by this, might retain our purehunger for a consolation only You can cure.So holiness means being hidden, You keep uslike secrets, those of us who surrender to Yourdiscretion & whom You hold in confidence.Nature says Your name in Her way incessantly;the sky, Your canvass, the thunder, Your terror;but we, Your monks, can stay silent, & so you trust us.Like an inconsiderate, thoughtless utterancespoken rashly, so are empty works so swiftly published.You, for whom an eon is an eye blink, know nourgency, & ferment your wine for the longest timebefore pouring.If our work has worth, it isonly wherein we give you glory,all the rest is shadow, static, vacant vacillationof forgettable froth that vanishes instantly regardlessof humans silly, self-congratulatory accolades.Only where we love You, Lord, do we sidestepthe swallowing void and participate in actual creation.What you are not, is nothing& only those of us who cry your namein the night, beset with bad dreams,are your true children, & for usyou come running.~

PRECISA-SE DE UM AMIGO Não precisa ser homem, basta ser humano, ter sentimentos. Não é preciso que seja de primeira mão, nem imprescindível, que seja de segunda mão. Não é preciso que seja puro, ou todo impuro, mas não deve ser vulgar. Pode já ter sido enganado ( todos os amigos são enganados). Deve sentir pena das pessoas tristes e compreender o imenso vazio dos solitários. Deve gostar de crianças e lastimar aquelas que não puderam nascer. Deve amar o próximo e respeitar a dor que todos levam consigo. Tem que gostar de poesia, dos pássaros, do por do sol e do canto dos ventos. E seu principal objetivo de ser o de ser amigo. Precisa-se de um amigo que faça a vida valer a pena, não porque a vida é bela, mas por já se ter um amigo. Precisa-se de um amigo que nos bata no ombro, sorrindo ou chorando, mas que nos chame de amigo. Precisa-se de um amigo para ter-se a consciência de que ainda se vive. Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Have you ever wanted to be a heart reader or crawl inside another brain? My heart is written in some alien hieroglyphic code with pieces missing and my brain has been stormed-- There is a downed power line and a sign: DANGER! DO NOT ENTER! Everyone congregates to see the damage. Who can resist staring at a wreck? Somehow exciting and life affirming, isn't it? I'm trapped behind the downed wire. I want to walk right up to it; risk electrocution. Yet I am transfixed by my fear... The wire probably isn't even alive. I run and hide, afraid of the people on the other side afraid of the rescue workers afraid of the wire afraid of my fear. How much longer can this go on? I pretend like it doesn't matter and lower my head looking for the nonexistent missing pieces.

Greetings, Folks! Im happy to have found a new "writer's group" as it were, since I had to leave my little clutch back in Hawai'i when relocating back to the mainland. These have been already (recently) posted as blog entries, but I'm interested in your opinions. [EDIT: I removed these from the wild (my public blog) and into the sanctity behind the safe walls of this forum; they're now further down the thread.] blog.chess.com/Writch/snowflake-a-sestina-poem blog.chess.com/Writch/knot-this-time-slam-poetryblog.chess.com/Writch/issues-slam-poetry-from-hawaii The one, Issues, requires a little knowledge of the local culture & jargon in Hawai'i. Aloha you may know has more connotation than the denotive "Hello" and "goodbye" - it is often synonymous with the warm, sincere hospitatlity of the Islands. Haole is a Hawaiian word that is often used pejoratively for White-folks in Hawaii - especially transplants: its literal translation means no breath and comes from the time when foreigners came and would not greet with the exchange of breath that was custom before colonialization. Cheers, -Writch

On another forum (Short Poems, I think) I wrote and posted a poem about a ship being pursued by pirates. Writch expressed disappointment in the conclusion, preferring a bloody battle-scene to the devine intervention that had developed. Thus inspired, I started working on the longest poem I've ever written. I'd like to suggest as the topic of this thread- HIGH TIMES ON THE HIGH SEAS- and would like to start it by submitting the first two nautical posts. Please feel free to add your own poem or to critique mine.

Here in Southeastern Virginia today thousands of "Boomerang Pods" have beenfalling from the local trees. I believe they are River Birches although I wouldn'tswear to it. They are so fun to watch. I go outside with my dogs and theywatch and jump at them as the brown unevenly shaped pods catch a currentof wind and fall to the Earth, mixing in with the many Pine Pods that arealready on the lawn. Sometimes a white or Monarch butterfly mixes into the ride or even a hugebumblebee, creating a strange dance of nature clashing with the man-madesounds of this country plot that is now begrudgingly becoming a city. The pods will move downward until a gust sends them hurtling sideways like a warped Frisbee, and sometime even appear to move upward as well. Then the wind stops and the sun glares and not a pod falls from a tree. Justlike in life a calm precedes the storm of change and then returns to calm again.

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain but for the heart to conquer it. Let me not look for allies in life's battlefield but to my own strength. Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved but hope for the patience to win my freedom. Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling your mercy in my success alone; but let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure. ---- Rabindranath Tagore Source: http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/tagore/frutgath.htmEdit

Mother and Child A mother protecting her child, From the air-raid that's outside, What is this world coming to When we have to run and hide. Peace should be sought, A solution should be found, Before this whole world Becomes a battleground. This was inspired from a post card which shown a war scene and a woman running into her house with the child in her arms trying to get away from the bombs going off in the street outside.

I can not find my way through this all Too much Mercury.....

Misfortune (c) 2010 A queen left her home one dayTo search for a kingdom far awayHer intentions were as black as her heartBut she knew how to play her partThe dark beauty left her aged kingFor her whims wanted better thingsShe left to capture another manAgainst all odds she would standThe dark queen fought with all her mightFor what she saw in her sightHer brave army fighting anotherSetting pawns against each otherThen she saw him, tall and paleAnd his queen in dress and veilSeeing her own love be threatenedThe white queen drew her weaponShe took down knights and holy menCutting through pawns again and againCastles fell on the battle fieldVictims of fate being sealedThe black queen faced her adversaryBoth were determined but also weary Foot to foot they drew their swordsWhile the kings looked on, ignoredThe aged black king had come to seeIf his queen would take the victoryThe white queen saw her foeTowards the dark king she’d goThe pale king moved to aideThis disastrous failed raidAnd when he moved to help fateWhat do you know? Checkmate!

Hey everyone! Here's a collection of some chess limericks I have come up with. Enjoy! I once played against Kasparov Tal, Morphy, Fischer, and Karpov I have no time portal Nor am I immortal Tis in a dream that I speak of -------------------------------------------------------- A man moved his queen to d4 Then his jaw suddenly dropped to the floor The move had looked keen But he hadn't seen The other guy's rook on b4. ------------------------------------------------------- This girl pushed her pawn to c6 And put white in a really nice fix The guy she was playing Could be seen dismaying Over the fact that she'd seen through his tricks ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On e5 a knight ruled the board Put there by a player's accord But, then the had a look And saw it blocked his rook Truly the knight was a two-edged sword ---------------------------------------------------------------- A man made a bold double sac To form an attack from the back He received some weird looks When he sacced both his rooks But the onlookers soon saw the attack ----------------------------------------------------------- In a game I saw a great sight It looked like I would win the fight But I hadn't seen My defenseless queen I left her en prise to his knight

Just a short story about a Dragzard who lives with the elves and tries to explain what is snow. It also shows that he misses his old home. Tangar- A silver Dragzard who is about 2600 years old. Over his years, he learned many things and learned from from his mistakes and pass the advice to others. Tangar looked up at the gloomy, dark gray, sky, poking through the long leaves of the jungle trees, thinking that he needed to hurry before the big storm hit the elven city of Kerrigen. Kerrigen was the capitol of the elven lands west of the Land of Dragzards ruled by the great King Kendáno Deneni (King Kendo Deneni for short). The silver Dragzard was one of first people from the east to settle with the elves after the three explorers find them and told the news about the new Land of Dragzards. At first, the elven people weren't sure to trust the news from two Dragzards and a human. But after King Kendo send his brother, Prince Legdien, and his high wizard, Norcánar Hirlas, with the three explorers back to the Land of Dragzards. After five years, the two eves, two Dragzards, and the human came back and proved that it was safe to live there. News also traveled to the Land of Dragzards, and a small band of humans and Dragzards moved out to the elven lands- Tangar was one of them. Just as the first rain drops hit the white hair of the Dragzard, he climbed up a flight of stairs to a door that lead him into a tavern. The long leaves of the tree helped to protect Tangar from most of the heavy drops of the rain storm. Once he opened the tarp to the bar room, the silver was greeted with a cheery noise of the inn. His blue eyes quickly looked around for an empty seat but he didn't found any. Then he noticed a dark brown spotted, tan-coated dragat sitting by a booth. Tangar looked closely and found out that dragat was Taki. Taki was owned by his landlord, Centrius, a young elf *who was in his 90's. As the white-haired Dragzard walked towards the booth, Taki started to wag his tail. Tangar patted the dragat as he sat down across his landlord. “Good afternoon, my friend,” Tangar spoke after he sat down. The landlord closed his book and replied, “Tangar! Nice to see you here, how's life here?” “Well, it's different. I'm used too living near a mountain where we get a lot of snow. But here it's large, tall, trees and rain storms.” 'True, the storms can be bad around in the jungle. But what is snow. I was born many years after our people left the lands east of here.” “Snow is...” Tangar started then stopped. How can he tell what is snow, one of the hardest things in Torzukarr to explain? “Well, snow is, um, frozen water that fall in flakes. Once many flakes fall on the ground, they form a white covering that can blind you when the sun shines on the ground.” The elf stroked his short dark green hair with his hand, “Sounds amazing. Maybe when you come back to the mountains, you can take me too.” 'That's a deal, my friend,” the silver replied. *Remember that elves live forever, so 90 is young.

Link: http://www.writingexcuses.com/ By far, this Podcast is the best. I listened to first esp and I liked it. The first one talked about brainstorming and I gained some good ideas from it. Go to the site and listen to one esp and see if you like it also!

Shape-shifter: Chapter 2 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The moaning got louder and louder, and then all of a sudden stopped and was replaced by a nauseating creaking noise. Juline opened her eyes and turned her head upwards. She was greeted by a spike so close to her face it looked like a flat disk. She turned her head to the right and saw that somehow, her sword had gotten turned perfectly upwards when she fell and amazingly stood like that for the length of time it took the ceiling to descend that low. That blade was the only thing stopping the spikes from turning her into shish-kabob. With a renewed will to live, she turned until her feet faced the door, taking care not to raise too high. She turned her legs sideways and began kicking. The creaking noise became an ear-splitting grinding noise as her poor silver short sword struggled to hold the ceiling up. At last, the door’s frame gave way and she was able to kick its remains aside and create an opening. Her adrenaline still surging, she slowly inched her body through the crawlspace. At last, she got all the way out. No sooner did her head clear the toothy ceiling that she heard a clang; her sword had finally surrendered. Juline hobbled back towards town, her adrenaline gone and her body drained of energy. Her clothes felt like they weighed a hundred pounds, and her muscles ached from exertion and stress. Her leg muscles’ protests were almost too much for her to bear. Only the knowledge that wild animals would eventually kill her if she stayed out there kept her going. After staggering for what seemed like an eternity along the road, she arrived back at the city. Juline went straight to her house. She shouldered the door open and slammed it behind her. She removed her sweat-soaked clothes, threw on a nightgown, and flopped on her bed. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t fall asleep. She just lay there, sprawled out and her mind racing. She’d almost died, and only survived by the merest chance. “A grand performance. Ha ha ha.” Juline was sitting as straight as an arrow shaft in an instant. She looked this way and that, trying to locate the source of the voice. By the Tribunal, even her own house wasn’t safe anymore. “I haven’t seen a face that terrified in centuries.” continued the disembodied voice as Juline sprang up from the bed and continued to search. “You should have seen it. Priceless.” Finally, her ears sensed the direction from which the voice was coming. She glanced down on the bed, and there it lay. The same key that she’d found in the tomb. Shape-shifter. “No, no. This is impossible.” she babbled as she staggered backward in shock. “Aww, what’s the matter? Haven’t you seen a talking key before?” said Shape-shifter in a mocking tone. Juline, not knowing whether this was real or if she was having a nightmare, turned and walked out of the room. She sat on the divan in the sitting area, distraught and wondering if she was going crazy. Then, everything just seemed to stop. She couldn’t hear anything, the thoughts in her head froze, and a wave of drowsiness swept over her. The next moment, she fell back against the back of the divan and her head slid into the crook where the arm and back met. She was out.