Post Literate Art

[SnowOwl96]

Oh very nice everybody. Travis, you have answered my question extremely well.

For the Love of You

In my dreams I have followed you through stormy lakes, flooded ponds and sweet summer and spring showers.
I dream of the morning I awake to see you glide ever so gracefully across the field towards the pond.
We have meet on such sunny days with rain falling from the sky without a trace of white silhouttes in the sky.
We have visited on several warm and delightful evenings but we both seem to be a bit confused and sort of spooked by each other.
These dreams and reality seem to cross within. Sometimes I have to pinch myself just to see if I'm truly dreaming.
We've raced across fields, jumped through trees and brush and crashed into the lake together. More like I crashed and you soared across.
Was there ever a time when we're not playing "Hide and go seek or Pick a boo, I see you!?"
Or perhaps A time when you spook me with that loud bird voice of yours. I know it's just an alert to let me know you spotted me. But do you have to be so loud?
We're always playing these games and yet I enjoy them.
You are a dream that I share both in this life and in possibly another. In both reality and in the dream realm

It's starting to get cold again. I don't want this to end..not yet. I'm not ready.
I've finally found you and now I'm afraid I'm going to lose you again.
Out of the dreams I have had in my life You are one of the select few that I have truly deamed as real.
Just thinking this could be it, that you may not come back saddens me because some how you gave meaning to my life.
I never in 25 years had I imagined I'd be working with huge birds until now.
Fore all that you are and all that you mean to me
Thank You!
I apolagize but words can't express my feelings enough for you.
The love will always be there for you.
Eternally Yours,
Ashley Michelle a.k.a. Snowie Owl

[rabbeseking]

And now for something completely different. For your consideration a story I wrote when I was 5, spelling errors have not been corrected.

What I Was Sposto By A Five Year old rabbeseking

Onec wen I was 5 I went on a ship. In room 296 I was eating a werd shaped chip but what I didit now was what I was sposto! Sudinley I tirned white! These warnt regular chips! these wher cemimil whip chips! OH NO! I started to change shape with each swallow, my chin sunk into my face. I couldnt shut my mouth anymore. I turned into a weird looking child. Now I live way below in the engine room. Hiding my deformed ugly face. Just think before I ate these werd shaped cemical whip chips I looked just like you.

Further proof I have always been odd.

[SnowOwl96]

That's really sweet rabbese.

[SnowOwl96]

That's awesome travis and good luck with your final!

Grrr... I'm not a god, I'm a goddess. O.o
*pokes at status*

[Miharu Yuki]

The Raven and the Dove

Written by me.

--

Solemn raven sitting quietly
Gazing upon a silken dove
It tries to chirp, but crows- an unholy sound.
The dove then flies away, among the clouds never to return

Each day passes, the raven becomes more lonely.
It's reflection is guided to be desperation and despair
When it gazed into the dove's reflection
It saw love, and life.
Beauty- reflected the dove
And ugliness reflected the raven.

It crowed each day, making a sound more horrifying than the last.
People did not like the raven, they beat it and broke it's wings.
Thus is the reflection of the raven, it receives bruises and cuts.
While the dove is destined for warmth and caring.

A day passed by, where the dove returned
Elated the raven was, it tried to call out
but the cuts and bruises made it impossible.
The dove noticed the raven that day
The dove then sung, sung such a sweet song
To the raven that was so undeserving.
The raven, who represented hatred and darkness
Was being serenaded by a dove,
Who represented charity and good-will?
The raven crowed loudly, it was undeserving

But the dove continued-

The raven loved the dove that loved the earth.
The dove loved the raven who loved nothing but it's desire.
The raven and the dove were never meant to be

So a day came past, where the raven
The raven was bloodied up and ready for death.
Without a sign of the dove- the raven waited for the inevitable.

A song was sung that night- a song of loss and redemption.

The song was what the dove had sung
To the raven after it's dying breath had been passed.
The song that should have been sung,
So long ago to the raven.
The song that was a love song, became a requiem

And both the raven and the dove- remained apart.

An eternity, never meant to be.

[SnowOwl96]

Really beautfiul Miharu!

Here's something I wrote. It's incomplete though.

In losing myself I'm finding you

Somewhere along down the road I lost myself
no sign posts or arrows to point me in the direction where I should go
I've lost me
I can't seem to remember where I lost myself
I don't remember me
As I try to turn back and follow my footsteps from where it all went wrong
I notice that there are no foot prints on the ground
As I stand here grabbing a hold of my head and try to remember
I force myself to remember when it doesn't come
I know I should wait for it all to come back but I'm running out of time
So what is one to do when they've lost themselves and can't seem to remember for the life of them who they are?
As I sit I forget about looking on the outside of me and I take a deep breathe and look inside myself just to see if something will spark my memory
I look deeper and I find something, someone... it's not me but You!
Some of the questions people have asked me are now being answered. You were the answer all along, no one ever thought about it.
But how does one with sooo many questions, someone who never had the chance to meet you ask for your help when you're no longer around?
You and a couple of people made my life somewhat significant, I try to sit here and learn your beautiful language because I want to know, to understand, to feel.
As I sit here and try to learn, I realize I may not ever find me.
But as long as I have a peice of you in my heart
I know that there is still some hope that I'll find part of me even though I won't find me completly
At least its worth a try, Its worth every part of me and I owe it to you.

[rabbeseking]

[Fiction]

"Bevare Det Hvilke Gjorde Ikke Noe Inntrykk"

Chapter 1: Prologue


Setting: Late at night, Crowded bar, indie band playing in the background.

Rabbeseking: Do you know who I am?

Shadowy Character: Of course I know who you are. I'm the one who called you.

Rabbeseking: You sound different in person. Did you use a voice changer?

Shadowy Character: No sh!t, I have the entire world after me right now, they probably have people looking for me right now.

Rabbeseking: *Takes a small sigh* Then perhaps you should hurry the f**k up?

Shadowy Character: *Pauses and then moves a bit in his chair* The job I'm about to present to you, will break down our current system as we know it, it will destroy the support beams that hold up our way of life, and cause it to come crumbling down, they wi...

Rabbeseking: *Holds up hand to signify him to please stop* You still haven't told me what I need to do.

Shadowy Character: *Winces his eyes and looks down at the table* You need to understand the severity of what I'm going to ask of you.

Rabbeseking: You promised 15 million norians for this job, I'll eat my face, and then throw it back up for that kind of money.

Shadowy Character: I need you to kill some people. I need their deaths to be flashy, I need it to effect the media, and the people.

Rabbeseking: *Makes a signal to lower his voice*


Shadowy Character: *In a softer voice* Have you killed before?

Rabbeseking: Yeah, how do you think I got where I am today.

Shadowy Character: *Looks at rabbeseking with a half scared, half impressed expression* Good, then.

*A few intimidating men enter the bar, looking around*

Rabbeseking: I have a feeling we need to cut this short. Call me on my secure line, nobody can monitor my calls at the office. *Hands phone number on a piece of paper*

Shadowy Character: *Gets up quickly*

Rabbeseking: Oh, and I didn't catch your name.

Shadowy Character: Call me Halfjaw.

*Halfjaw runs out of the back entrance, while Rabbeseking stays sitting, gathering his thoughts*

[sanguinemybrother]

That....was...BEAUTIFUL Rabbese.

[SnowOwl96]

Oh nice rabbs! Very very interesting.

[rabbeseking]

Jan 2, 2009 12:59:46 GMT -5 SnowOwl96 said:

Oh nice rabbs! Very very interesting.

Jan 2, 2009 11:07:47 GMT -5 sanguinemybrother said:

That....was...BEAUTIFUL Rabbese.

Thank you very much, and here is Chapter 2.

"Bevare Det Hvilke Gjorde Ikke Noe Inntrykk"

Chapter 2: Do It


Setting: Fancy office, mid day, door closed, people working and phones ringing in the main office

Rabbeseking: *Sit's in chair, unties his tie, and looks towards his telephone*

Rabbeseking Thinking: Will he call today? I doubt it, especially if he's been caught by those thugs. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he's just some nutcase. Part of me wants that to be true, and yet the other part would be thoroughly disappointed if that was all to come out of this.

*Rabbeseking is snapped out of his thinking by the slam of his office door opening*

Rabbeseking: *Looks to see who's at the door, and then sighs* Alright, what is is Clone...

Clone: We caught some guy assaulting people over in G.D, any opinion on what we should do with him?

Rabbeseking: Is the guy a citizen of this city, does he live here?

Clone: Apparently no, we can't really find out where he's from. And with the states laws, we can't incarcerate him if he isn't a resident.

Rabbeseking: Yeah, sometimes I think the state did that to limit our powers, or just make life a royal pain in the a.ss. I say we kick him out and never let him back into the city, a scumbag that assaults random people like that doesn't deserve much else.

Clone: Really? Isn't that a bit harsh? I don't want us to look like a bunch of hard a.ss douche bags, we get enough bad mouthing from...

Rabbeseking: This city needs a bunch of hard a.ss douche bags, being hated is part of our job buddy boy.

Clone: Doesn't mean we enjoy it.

Rabbeseking: Tell me about it, there are probably a couple thousand guys outside of this city that would love to slit my throat.

Clone: Outside? There are probably that many inside this city too.

Rabbeseking: Hah......yeah, some days I wish I didn't have this job.

Clone: I'm sure there are a hundred guys downstairs that would take it from you in a heartbeat.

Rabbeseking: And every one of them doesn't have the balls. They'd probably crack the second someone screamed bloody murder at them.

Clone: *Looks semi agreeingly at rabbeseking* So you vote for kicking him out?

Rabbeseking: Yup.

Clone: Alright, I'll go see what the others think, and we'll deliberate at the next meeting.

Rabbeseking: *Waves clone out*

*Rabbeseking turns in his swivel chair and looks at the city outside of his window. He remembers how he's grown to hate the city. Because of how much the city hates him*

*The phone rings*

*Rabbeseking smiles*

[SnowOwl96]

How many chapters are there?

[rabbeseking]

Jan 3, 2009 18:18:31 GMT -5 SnowOwl96 said:

How many chapters are there?

I'm reckoning there will be quite a lot, at least in the two digits.

[mrfabulous]

Those that have me as a friend on Facebook will see that I have posted my play, titled Stranger's Sonata, on my Facebook.

If you wanna read it, but don't have me on facebook, then here.

Stranger's Sonata: A play.

I know I've sopped this to everyone and their dog, but if you haven't read it, then take a look. I'd love and feedback you've got. This has been my pride and joy for the past six months.

NOTE: This is slightly unedited. There's at least one factual error I've made in terms of one character's age, but this will be changed upon further editing.

[mrfabulous]

If that's too long for you, then check this. I call it Influence. I wrote in a bad bad way.

Here we stand, a considerable distance from each other in the middle of a road at the break of evening outside my house. Your arms are crossed, the thin fabric in your hoodie and jeans failing to give you any warmth against the bitter fall-winter transition. You breathe through your nose, rubbing your hands in vain. Your eyes fail to settle its now frantic gaze on any given visual – they dance at a hurried tempo. “Friggin’ cold.” You muse, snorting again to try and break this silence.

Without my asking, you begin to explain the purpose of this seemingly pointless interval.

“I came to apologize.”

“Clarify.” The word swipes the night air and leave a sting on your cheek. Your eyes drape closed.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s not coming out. I force it.

“How come.”

Your eyes move faster as they wander, a mix of the cold and cowardice creating the overall ultimatum in the atmosphere. You grasp at straws, being careless with your response.

“I…I dunno, I…you know, I’m sorry for –“

“For screwing me over.” I assume initiative once again. My fuse is short. “For making me into this disgusting excuse of a person.” I don’t raise my voice, the cold carrying my voice far enough.

“I’m not used to this. You made me flunk out of high school because you wanted me to live out your pointless existence. You wanted me to ‘live’!” All of a sudden, I don’t feel so cold anymore as I heat up in anger.

“I never wanted this. I never wanted your ideal. I’m not a dropout. I had morals once. I had a goddamn FUTURE. And you…what did you have? A pretty voice, decent intentions, and a lack of understanding towards what really happens in life! Why couldn’t you just leave me alone to begin with! I mean…Jesus, man! What do you have to say for yourself? For ALL of this?”

My tone changes without my knowing. Your head droops, the snowflakes melting in your hair making it messier than it was prior. From behind this makeshift mask, you utter a simple question that I should have considered.

“Can you really blame me?”

A gasp suggests you’re crying. I’m taken aback by the question. I’m supposed to be the one in the right. And yet…

And yet…

Your head picks itself up again, and my assumption is confirmed.

“Like, it didn’t just occur to me until now, but…like it or not, a person is going to be influenced by something or other. How they choose to assert what they want to do with what they’ve learned is entirely up to them. So can you really blame me? I mean, sure there were faults on my part to be considered as well, but cut me a break, man! You have no one to blame but yourself right now! Why should it be my fault for something you could have done something about, you could have said ‘no’ to? It shouldn’t be, so just cut me a break!”

You’re practically screaming by the end, and your voice carries farther in the cold. The validity in your statement strikes me dumb. I’m the speechless one now.

You go on, your tone more apologetic.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I just…well…hell, I…I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I need to think…” Your voice trails off. You know what needs to happen next. We both do.

Reluctance.

I take a step closer.

I want to choose my next words carefully, but to no avail.

I can only muster a general statement.

“Please come inside.”

Eye contact. Not a word.

You smile a bit.

[hyacinthex]

-sigh.- I just snagged these from my Myspace blog because I'm too lazy to actually put my half-novels on a site. I write too much. xD

I wrote the second one while I was quite drunk, so .. go easy on it, mmk? xD These are not my best; I'm much better at writing fantasy. But whatever, they were the only things short enough to post here without making you guys want to dig your eyes out from walls of text. <3

Petals / Seconds

Petals. I was painting silver, pink and blue petals on a canvas that was set directly in front of the window, the most inspiring place in the small apartment – which wasn’t saying much. From that window I saw buildings. Not even rooftops. Just buildings, old and gray and tall and boring. Most afternoons, they blocked out the sunlight. And the afternoons where the sun was at just the right angle, when the clouds were scarce, didn’t matter. I did my painting at night, when even the buildings couldn’t be seen clearly, and the sounds of the city were deafening even through plate glass.

Our artwork covered every inch of the apartment that wasn’t occupied by the creaky red couch, the black coffee table, the mini-fridge in the corner and the full-sized bed at the far wall. It was a studio apartment, not very spacious, but it worked for us. In between the paintings on the walls were sticky notes or sheets of notebook paper thumb-tacked to the plaster, from which the lilac paint was chipping, leaving yellow-white patches. On the sticky-notes were blurbs frantically scribbled in short bursts of inspiration, and on the sheets of paper were short stories or poems. A painter and a writer. Go figure.

For nearly four years we’d lived there, and it hadn’t changed save for the additions of our newest creations. What little furniture there was had never been moved from the places we first set them. Originally there had been three paintings that hung above the couch and five notebooks that were stacked on the coffee table. Those same three paintings still hung above the couch along with four others, while the notebooks gradually became empty bindings that were thrown away. It was not out of arrogance that we 'decorated' this way… Rather, it was to remind ourselves of who we really were, what we wanted to do, so that we wouldn’t get lost in the monotony of what we had to do to get by.

Grinding the cigarette into an ashtray on the windowsill, I made the final brushstroke on one of the blue petals and then stepped back to view my work, taking a sip of coffee from the mug I’d had since I was fourteen. It was the only thing I’d brought from home, the only reminder of how much easier life was back then. Truth was, I didn’t particularly want to be reminded.

Deciding that another silver petal would be better than another pink one, I set down the mug and sat on the stool, about to dip the brush into the paint when I heard the door open, his keys jingling in that very familiar manner. It was like a bell on the collar of your favorite pet, and it had always been a comforting sound to me, almost a relief. My day was finished at half-past seven, whereas he worked until ten and it took nearly half an hour for him to get home. I never waited, I always immersed myself in my art upon setting foot in the door. But hearing the loud, screechy turn of the doorknob, the soft plinking-plunking of his keys and the gentle thud of his footsteps making their way to the easel to give me a very polite, non-invasive kiss to my forehead before he strode off to take a shower… They’d been the same sounds for the past three years, seven months and eight days. It was a routine, but also a reaffirmation.

But it stopped when he closed the door and put his keys in his pocket. As I began the lines for the next petal on the canvas, I didn’t hear his approaching footsteps. My hand stopped. I waited. One second. Two seconds. Finally five, and then I turned my head to look at him.

His countenance did not betray him. He was stoic, lifeless, his crystalline blue eyes focused on me with a gaze I’d never received from him before. I was the angry, pessimistic, cynical one. He was the impulsive, open-minded, spirited one. Any arguments we’d had in the past were of my doing, and it was something we both accepted; I was the one to nit-pick and complain, he was the one to soothe and enlighten. But now he looked at me in such a way that I felt I didn’t know him… And I knew why.

We were engulfed in a silence that spoke for us. No words left our lips, but they reververated from the walls, drowning out even the cars beyond the window. He knew. And it didn’t matter how he’d found out. I would have expected him to be hurt, to be angry, to look at me with a rage and disgust that frightens a woman in the way only a man can do. But he looked at me as if I weren’t there, as if he’d never laid eyes on me, touched me, known me. And that was far worse.

It seemed like an eternity before he moved, walking quietly but swiftly over to the closet by the bed. I didn’t watch him. My eyes remained focused on the spot where he'd been, there in front of the door. It only took him two minutes to return there, a bag slung over his shoulder, his keys back in his hand. One hundred and twenty seconds to prepare for his escape. Less than a second to make it, without a glance or a word. All I heard was the jingling of his keys, the quick, purposeful thuds of his shoes and the slamming of the door.

I don’t know how long it took before I exhaled, lit a cigarette and returned the brush to the canvas.

Dizzy

She had never let me take her away from that place. I was beginning to wonder if she ever would.

So many times I'd sat with her like this, in so many places, so very late in the night. On the curbs of parking lots, on the cold and grungy tiles of public bathrooms, on the faded and stained rug in her living room, on the porch swing at her mother's house when she'd needed to escape for a night .. But most often, it was as it was now. We sat in the front yard of her duplex, our feet bare in the dry grass, the air cold against our cheeks, her eyes focused on the pieces of beer bottle scattered down the driveway like a parting gift. Her head was resting on my shoulder, and I looked down at my dull brown strands of hair intermingling with hers -- naturally strawberry blonde, naturally rare, appearing almost lilac in the glow of the Christmas lights strung along the roof. This was how I'd always viewed the two of us; me, so ordinary and every-day, so plain in my natural, conventional "beauty," while she simply exuded something mysterious and unfamiliar. With her almost frighteningly thin frame, her skin that instantly tanned in the summer and just as quickly drained white in the winter (but the tiny freckles always stayed), her sunshine-and-cherries hair, she was far from a supermodel -- and that was what made her breathtaking. She looked as if she were born from the earth itself. She looked like something you were far too lucky to have really found.

Upon my arrival, when she was waiting for me outside in nothing but a T-shirt, I'd noticed her hand trembling while she raised a cigarette to her lips. As usual, she had chalked it up to nerves, quick to change the subject when he stumbled out onto the porch, down to the driveway, fumbling for the keys to his truck and dropping his beer in the process. I'd known better, and she knew it. Now I looked to where our hands were clasped together in my lap, finding that her wrist was in fact starting to redden and swell. Apparently it's not so easy for some people to recognize their luck.

Dropping the beer had been enough to refuel his anger, and we went through twenty minutes of him screaming obscenities and kicking a dent in her car before she finally threatened to call the police. Even if the renters on the other side of the duplex had been in town, I'd long given up on expecting any help from them (but it wasn't the first time I'd wondered what they must have heard in the past, all those times she refused to call for help). Pulling out my cell phone had been his cue to leave, the truck swerving on and off the grass along its way around the corner. I'd wrapped my jacket around her, suggesting we go inside, knowing that she would instead collapse in tears on the lawn, and knowing that I was expected to stay there with her.

In the beginning, when she spent her days at the beach, the park, at the movies, the mall, around town, in her house or mine -- when we spent nearly every spare second we had together -- and nights like this were unexpected and shocking, I had tried to say something. Every time the tears came, I consoled her, and once they stopped I tried to reason with her. At first, it was with sadness and concern that I practically begged her to leave, to let me take her somewhere else, promising that we would make all the necessary changes the very next day. Once, I had approached her in anger, when she'd called for help and then disappeared, leaving me to call her in desperation all night when neither of them had been home. But I'd been angry more than once. Each and every time, though, I was more confused than anything.

Every moment with her was like a scene in a movie, and our time together had always been innocent, almost secret; brief and stolen kisses, her hand trailing so lightly down my back when I moved in front of her, a smile across the room even when he was there. Those were the happy scenes, the scenes where she stole the show, where she made me feel like I didn't have a life without her. But this was different. It was always different. I didn't know how to be me, or how we could be us, or how she could change right in front of my eyes because of him.

In movies, they always know what to say in scenes like this ... I didn't know what to say anymore.

We sat in silence for what seemed like hours before she raised her head, smiled at me, giving me that almost dismissive "thank you" I was so tired of hearing, and stood up from the grass. I stood with her, feeling that ache I always felt: the guilt for leaving her there, the desire for her to leave with me, the absolute confusion as to why she was staying. As she unwrapped the jacket from where it covered her thighs and handed it to me, I reached for it -- for her, my hand moving across and past the denim to her arm, gripping, pleading. Again, she smiled, all too sure and all too passive, as if this had never happened before, as if it could be excused, and, worse, as if I couldn't possibly expect anything different of her. I brought my other hand to her cheek, softly tracing the bruise there from less than a week before that was only beginning to disappear, and then to her ear, into her hair and finally I pressed my palm firmly against her nape, her skin cold against my fingers. Her expression changed right before I pulled her to me, kissing her in a way I never had before, and for a second she was still against my lips, surprised as I should've been by my fervor. Then we were together, embracing, her arms encircling my waist, her hands settling at my shoulder blades. It was just one kiss, long and earnest, our lips meeting as if they could never part.

And then she pulled away, lifting herself up on her tiptoes to kiss my forehead. I stood silent, numb, as she dropped my jacket to the ground, reached down to squeeze my hand, and then turned and walked up the lawn, taking a moment to look back at me before going inside and shutting the door.

She had never let me take her away from that place. Suddenly, I knew she never would.