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Literature
Proseburst 1: Just listen
  I knew a man whose skin was stretched too far upon his face.
  When he opened his eyes, his mouth would close. When he spoke, his eyes would shut. Thus he found it hard to speak of what he saw.
  Over the years he was forced to be either the silent observer, or the voice of blind opinions.
  He chose neither. He shut his eyes and spoke no more; then finally, he heard.
  I read his haiku, written on napkins, at the local diner.
  People say he’s blind—a mute, but through his writing, it’s obvious that he knew more simply by listening.
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Literature
Hold My Hand
It is raining. The heavens are weeping for its children. Someone is crying in the back, but I cannot see them. There are too many people in the way. We are all being sent to our deaths. For the first time in my life, I can call death by name. Its name is Auschwitz.
The trains stop, and the doors are jerked open. The officer barks several orders, but my mind is numb. My legs move me forward off the train against my will. I am jerked roughly to one side where the women are. They are terrified, clutching each other with all the meager strength they have left.
Once we are all off the trains, we are taken inside the camp for inspections. A living skeleton grabs my arm and hisses, "Whatever you do, do not get selected! They will kill you!" She screeches and lets go of my hand as a guard cracks a whip at her huddled form. A bloody welt instantly forms on her back.
The new arrivals are lined up in a row and a man with a cruel face slowly walks down the row. He stops in front of a small child.
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Literature
...other metastatic failures
Contrite sweetness,
feel me on saccharine sheets
masking leveled edicts of
commanding generosity
because I
feel you ache-wishing
you could break
into
the seething shades
of sunlight leaving
each crystalline breath--
it's a promise, lover,
     working toward nonchalance
I'll choose not to see your
slowly shrouded high-rise
lies.
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Literature
The Three Arthurs
Once upon a time there were three black cockatoos called Arthur. They weren't related or anything, they were just very good friends, probably because they were all called Arthur.
One day, the three Arthurs were sitting in a tree somewhere in the middle of the bush, quietly eating their lunch, when one of them saw something in the distance.
'Look, Arthur,' said Arthur, 'there's something over there.'
'What do you think it is, Arthur?' said Arthur.
I don't know, Arthur,'' said Arthur. 'Let's ask Arthur.'
So the Arthurs asked Arthur, but Arthur didn't know either.
The thing came closer and closer and soon they saw that it was a big, black storm. The clouds boiled up, all grey and grumbly and all the animals and insects went very quiet.
Then the wind started to howl in the branches and make the trees shake. The rain swept down with big splatty drops and made everything very wet and it got very dark.
The Arthurs were a bit scared and tried to find a hole to hide in, but there was only one h
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Literature
Dr. Seuss: The True Story
Children's writer, artist, and to some an ingenious poet, Dr. Seuss has become a household name. If you have time to look up any biographical information on him you will find that he died due to an illness shortly after the passing away of his wife, Helen Palmer Geisel. If you believe that this is true then you may as well think Whoville is a real place, and when your kids tell you that a black cat wearing a funny red and white hat, speaking in rhyme, told them to knock over the cabinet of family heirlooms you should believe them. You may even go as far as to call the police as say there is an ugly green man who looks like animated guacamole stealing all of the town's Christmas presents. If you believe that Dr. Seuss died of some generic illness then the Seuss has once again pulled the wool over your eyes.
Let me paint the scene for you. Dr. Seuss, while you'd never know this from his bizarre writing style, was a big fan of Shakespearean tragedy (another writer you should not get me st
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Literature
brio
the middle of the day falls
upon me like a crease forming between
my eyebrows, prodding until my mind
opens, and I think of open spaces
like an open room where a girl used to play
clumsy, beautiful things
her spirit hung down, low by the
ankles of those who walk by,
eyes flighty,
carrying
the drenched weight of opinion:
one part contemplation, everything else scattered,
rearranged, prancing like lemonflies dancing, wetly
                                        over the puddles of fact and fiction.
                                            some people get awfully good
                        at marking down the truth though.
they could probably tell you a story
of
fifty soldiers getting shot because their
bodies blocked ammunition intended for a city
of children picking paper off the ground.
that a handsome fifer blew Beethoven
            from twenty stories up
            maybe that someone wanted to kill him
            and that the elevator was broken they could tell you
that
word
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Literature
Sanctity of the Sweet.
Silence is in and around the building,
Closing up on every gaping corner,
Every waiting hole.
The lights have been turned down low,
As if a beast has jumped upon them,
And shaken them dry,
Hollow,
Empty inside.
Without light.
They sit around the table, waiting,
Wishing the time had already come for one to
Escape the trap.
A dog is heard howling through the night,
Biting into the icy silence within, until
It is restored.
Silence,
Again.
Déja Vu.
Somehow, impossibly, there seems to be wind
Rushing through and through the place,
Chilling; cooling.
The brown-haired one moves slightly,
Fidgeting, becoming restless.
The others look on in horror.
The brown-haired one is no more.
Struck down,
Harshly.
Killed.
The veil of wool has been pulled mercilessly
From the eyes of the onlookers.
They begin to realise this place
Is a lie.
Harsh reality slowly knocks them down,
One by one,
Until the five remaining lie breathless upon the floor.
The cold,
Chilling.
Floor.
They know their time has come,
Thei
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Literature
Illusion
“Oh okay. Well when you see him, could you tell him that I’ve still got his book? You will? Thank you Mr. Connolly. Yes it’s nice to speak to you again. Good Bye.”
I lie back and sigh, then sit up again and check my watch.
00:37. Can’t sleep. I never normally have any problems. Lie down. Close my eyes. I’m not tired.
I am thirsty though. Climb off my bed, rather clumsily. The whole room shakes.
“That’s not good.” My voice sounds hoarse in the silence, and grab onto the bedpost for support. Suppose I must be tired or dehydrated; there’s no other reason to be so uncoordinated.
Carefully shuffle downstairs in search of something to drink. The fridge is empty. Surprise surprise…
Nobody ever buys any food in this house. There’s a small amount of what smells like orange juice left in a carton. Can’t quite focus enough to read the label, but drink it anyway.
I was right, it was orange juice. When did we last have orange juice an
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Literature
Heart on my sleeve
To whom it may concern on the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences.
My name is Jason Stewart and I have failed your 1st year classes three years in a row. I received a letter saying that I was forever banned from ever entering High University ever again. However, I am pleased to tell you that something incredible has happened. I have had an epiphany. I have had a realisation that there is more to life than drink, women, and video games. Next year, Year Four, is when I make my mark on the world and pass all your papers with flying colours, from Anthropology to Psychology, Human Development to Writing For University Purposes. I'm asking that you give me my one chance to try again.
We all deserve a second chance, and I am falling to my knees and asking that you give me it now. You see, I want to learn about the human mind. I am entranced by it's dizzying highs and lows, it's ability to shape the material reality and to pretend that aspects of reality do not exist just so that it can live w
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Literature
To Tamper With Truth
The sales pitch was not easy. The company's lobbyist flipped through chart after chart of the latest research in neuroscience on the way the brain decides to lie. The panel members listened closely, searching for their next opportunity to grill him on ethics. Ninety percent accuracy, said the lobbyist. What about the other ten percent, a member wanted to know. Ten-year warranty, said the lobbyist. But don't some start to break at eight or nine years? Is there any way to tell that the machine is no longer capable of telling the truth? Perhaps by internal inspection, for some visible sign? Yes, but only a trained company engineer could spot it. We'd be happy to inspect and recertify every machine you buy as often as you'd like. Won't this machine, in cases where capital punishment is considered, be responsible for putting innocent people to death? Then the lobbyist, the salesman in disguise, brought in the purchase: It will condemn a lower percentage of innocent lives than human error
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Literature
Hiding
She hide her face and tries to pretend
He holds back wouds that will never mend
They see eachother every day
Just a quck glance then turn away
They to hate and deny their feelings
They stare at the stars and cloud as if they were ceilings
One day they final met as, what people say, an accident
Though they both knew it was entirely ment
Day after day, they could hide
From others, not even eachother knew what was inside
Inside their hearts, inside their souls
Both of them seemed like empty bowls
She knew inside she wanted to be loved
He knew inside had always been shoved
They loved one another and both very proud
And this is what made them rise not above the crowd
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Literature
Tragic Really
It was on that night that I learned out the accident. New Year's Eve, a time for celebration was when I fell to my knees with tears in my eyes.
She told me then that she could never have children- every woman's dream had become her nightmare.
She had doctor after doctor run every possible test, look at every angle and think of every new idea but it was no use. The accident had destroyed any chance that she had to feel a child growing within her.
She put on a brave face but I saw the tears in her eyes when she told me about the horrible night she can't forget- the bike accident that changed her life.
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Literature
Mell
Mell
Lying, Lying
Everywhere you go
Lying, Lying
Is It All You Know?
Telling Stories, Making Friends
Betraying and Hurting Us All
We Trusted You.
Believed What You Said
But You Were Just Spinning Lies
Why?
Why we asked you.
All Of It Out Of Revenge.
On A Friend.
A Friend Who Did The Right Thing
Turning People Against Her
Then Just -poof- Disappearing
But Setting It Up Just Right
So It Looked Like It Was Her
Looked Like You Never Existed
It Was All Just Your Friend
Who Do We Believe?
Her?
Or The Evidence You Left Us?
Do We Trust Her, Who It Looks Like She Was You?
Do We Just Go By The Evidence You Left Us?
But You Lied To Us. Is The Evidence A Set-up, A Lie Too?
So Confused.
So Screwed Up.
All From Petty Revenge
I'm mentally Damaged
I Was Supposedly Your Best Online Friend.
You Turned Out To Be A FAKE</i>
All I Ever Thought About.
How You Betrayed Me.
Lied To Me, Your 'Friend'
I've Made My descision
Who To Believe
C****** I Trust You,
Even Though,
It Looks Like You're Her.
Mel
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Literature
Lend Me Your Ear
Listen up, I want you all to
Hear what I have to say.
Don't worry about questioning
Me, things will work out either way.
I'm just righteous and good
And righteous, and in case I didn't mention,
I've never told a lie,
And never stolen my grandma's pension.
On the outside, I'm eating with kings,
I'm dining with the lords of the land,
I wear only the finest clothes,
I only wear designer brands.
On the inside, I'm certainly loyal,
I've always been kind to the common folk,
I'm generous with my money,
I'll probably be famous by the time I croak.
Well, don't pay any mind to that
Propaganda, you know they don't like me,
And I don't know why, since I'm so good
And righteous and good and clean.
I'll wag a skinny finger at them,
A starving finger at that,
I haven't eaten in almost 3 weeks,
'Cause I'm afraid of getting fat.
Well, I told you before, this is all true,
Just take my word, take it from me.
I've never been broke, I've never been bad,
I've never been unclean.
I just want to make a good i
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Literature
Strange Surrondings
His eyes snapped open for the third time that night, seemingly too on edge to get a good sleep. He had good reason, though: this place was different to him, somewhere he had never been to before... and it was dark,  too dark. Where was the moon at? He couldn't see a thing, but he knew something was there... that sound that had interrupted his sleep: a dull, strange roar.
There was no good in just laying there, he had to do something. With a jolt of motion, he was sitting up and inspecting the surroundings... or at the least what he could make out. His eyes started to adjust to the dark, but to little help-- all he could make out now were dull silhouettes. He would have preferred total blindness once he started to inspect one of them. Stifling a gasp, he froze in place, eyes wide... only a few feet away was a figure, human in shape, but that was not what alarmed him... it had a strange posture, as if it was hanging from something. Could it be dead?
He didn't dare to look any c
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Literature
Unnatural love
Tell me a lie,
tell me what I want to hear.
Tell me a lie,
my hidden heart is full of tears.
Tell me a lie that you love me,
that you do so in the way I do.
I've been deluding myself
in forbidden fantasies,
with you, kissing me sweet.
I've seen your face when we talk
about love, and I knew it'll
not be me.
I've dreamt about you
all night long
I've never got
a good night's sleep.
When I see you talk to anyone else
my heart makes a jealous leap.
Tell me a lie,
tell me what I want to hear.
Tell me a lie,
my hidden heart is full of tears.
Tell me a lie that you love me,
that you do so in the way I do.
You've rejected me
so many times
I tell lies to myself
one big white lie.
That you will soon grow
to love me
that you will,
that you will.
I want a lie,
One that I want to hear.
Feed me a lie,
to comfort my heart full of tears.
I want you to say you love me,
that you love me more than I do to you.
I have worn all my fake smiles
I am running out of wit
I am tired of chasing after
a forbidden l
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Literature
Me, Myself and I
Me, Myself and I
Accused of murder
In th First Degree,
It was 7 maybe 8
the interrogations started
no evidence existed,
"I did it"
was heard throughout
Many were confused,
Was it Me?
Was it Myself?
Was it I?
Was it Him?
Or Was it Her?
Will the Truth be told?
the court adjourned -
it was Him,
the one but not the only
Twas He who had planned it,
She supported it,
I Definately did it,
But They finished it,
For that was one good tasting turkey...
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Literature
Lies of an Identity
Lies
It was almost winter, the chill in the air and the gold-dusted leaves on the ground were proof enough for the coming change in the season. An adolescent shuddered slightly as he stepped out of the car, clad in his school uniform and a black scarf which was wrapped loosely around his pale neck. Without a word he walked across the school grounds, surrounded by countless of others who were also drugged by the inevitable tiredness that came with every morning. He strode past the large dining hall and numerous classrooms-some empty, some not – before arriving at his destination. The room was almost empty, albeit for a girl who sat in the corner, looking out of the window onto the large garden below.  
He gazed at her for a second before placing his satchel down next to his seat. Hearing the noise he had created, the girl turned around slowly, a smile appearing on her usually solemn features. "Hello," she said carefully for they were not supposed to know each other, being from completel
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Literature
The Order
The order is writ.
I have lit the candles and am staring at the envelope, considering my current options.  The first and most obvious would be to take up the stick of wax and seal the orders as I should.  The second... ah, but it is hardly my duty to think of anything else.
I light the wick by one of the candles and watch the wax drip gently onto the envelope, likening it to blood in my mind's eye, for the color is quite similar.  There is no turning back now.  This must happen, and my opinion on the matter is irrelevant.  And what is my opinion on the matter, in any case?  I hardly know any longer.  
Once I would have done anything and everything within my power to stop this.  Once... once, I thought I loved her.
But that was long ago, I remind myself.  That was before I realized what love truly is:  a slow-acting and deadly poison, devious in its manner and painful in its means. &
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Literature
Veil of Lies
I know that I am not myself
Yet how can I be someone else?
I am the me I've always been
My thoughts and intents buried
Far, far below the surface of lies
Beneath my cheerful torpor and my vivacity of sadness
Lies the me that really is
No one can see it
No one.
Even I, who ought to know...
Can barely find myself beneath the distortion of melted snow
Why is it this way, when there is so much more?
I'll know the day I find my soul
My ice is scorched even as I freeze
My flare is dampened as I shine
A mask affixed to my face forever
I fear for me should I remove it
So I love falsely
So I live falsely
All the while trying to shine with truth
I try, but am too afraid to step forward
And remove the veil of lies that covers my face
It's so convenient this way
Everyone likes me, without explaining
People would hate me if they knew
If they knew how much I could control
Years of training in how to lie
Without knowing what I had done
I grin with pleasure while feeling none
After all, it explains so
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Literature
On 'Fountain'
The postmodernist masterpiece, the triumph of esoterica:
she is the definition of the everyday, raised
to spit in the ear of van Gogh;
defying gravity, she hovers,
all clean lines and white porcelain.
Zhenxiao weeps:
culmination, genesis,
sui generis, millefiori,
revelation – six dozen leaves falling.
Foucault huddles below the Piss Christ,
the obscenity defining the masterpiece,
the nails creating the lamb.
    Bathos! – the children cry – Bathos!
The devil laughs in the ashes of Sodom.
Gabriel shouts and sheathes his sword
Dice hid where the gambler sought them;
Esau took Loki at his word.
From bitter formulas, fractals spring hot and raging.
Locusts salute the myrmidae,
reflect chestplates of steel and bone:
tiled squares frame smooth, cool curves.
Julia, bent through the matte gray and ice-burning white of minitrue:
the unfinished symphony - entropy,
standing at attention as the liars walk away.
A sandaled foot crushes an acorn between leat
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Literature
Little Painted Lies
It was cold outside when he drew the dressing gown around his body. He sniffled and snatched the sodden newspaper from the gutter where water dribbled.  The sun had barely risen as he trudged to the kitchen, still half asleep, to begin manually grinding coffee. Twenty minutes and fifty clockwise turns later, the pot had only started to brew.
     Whilst pouring thick black coffee into the 'think big' mug, thoughts channelled in and out of his seven a.m. head. He mused about Adele, the woman he'd never given a glance when they schooled together from years seven to twelve. She had hay fever for Christ sake and another man, he thought as he smeared butter on warm bread. He could hear the fax warming up and then the sharp whirring sound. A fax? At this time? He asked himself. Stashing his coffee cup where he wouldn't be able to find it, he ventured across the hall to his small, crowded office and waited for paper to roll out.
Douglas Hewitt
'Think Big' Project
Monday 2nd  Apr
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