The Grammar GangstersBeware the grammar gangsters!The Grammar Gangsters7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The mafia of the literary underworld.
They saunter into stanzas,
Under their trench coats
Or in violin cases.
They can make you talk,
"With just a few well-placed speech marks,"
Leave you shouting! Where you should have whispered!
And pulp your bold statements into quavering questions?
They can, pepper, your, phrases with, commas,
Or bring your piece to a dead.
They'll trap you (between brackets)
As you - dash - to the exit.
Then: punch a blunted colon
Into the gut of your text
Force-feed you a poisonous semicolon,
Then hack/slash your work to shreds.
The grammar gangsters
Never leave survivors.
Readers discover the victims
In the back alleys of the library,
In a tommy-gun ellipsis...
The Prince of MothsI dreamt myself a Prince of MothsThe Prince of Moths2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Upon a brittle autumn leaf;
And, though a novice in my state
Of wings and things, I found I took
Quite readily: I fashioned up
A crown of thorns and glittering moss,
With a pile of blossoms, laced with webs
And iridescent spiders' legs,
With feathers glossed with gossamer
And freckled dew of violet hue.
Thus decked, I leaped and left my leaf,
And viewed myself in silver pools;
And reasoned that a moth like I,
Of state and breeding, should desire
Estate and wealth, and thus acquire
An industry and beauteous bride.
I fashioned in a hollow tree
A quarry for the ants to mine,
With beetles as their keepers, set
To dig for me for treasures fine:
For gems of old, and treasuries
Of elven wealth and fairy gold;
And deep they dug, and so brought forth
Fine trinkets rare from ages lost;
And with these I could set me up
As a business-moth of fine repute.
I forged myself a partnership
With a voluptuous spider crab,
Grown rich in sales of mollusc oil,
Who promised m
Full Fathom FiveFull fathom fiveFull Fathom Five8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
She lies, drowned,
In a world with
No light or sound
On her side, 'mongst
The corals and the fishes,
Longing for the
Breeze she misses
Full fathom five
She stirs and groans,
From her bones
And rising from
Her frigid bed
She reaches from
Beyond the dead
Full fathom five
She leaves the gloom,
Seeks the comfort
Of the moon.
With a whisper,
She breaks the waves;
Her skeleton crew
Wake from their graves
Full fathom five,
She sails still,
Upon a gossamer mist,
Weaving a chill
Around the hearts
Of sailing men
Who cross themselves and turn
From this phantom wind
Full fathom five
She flees the dawn
Seeking the night
To which she's drawn
But when the sun
Climbs into the sky,
Full fathom five,
She'll, dreaming, lie.
How to Write a SestinaIn order to write a sestina,How to Write a Sestina11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
you must start by being unsure,
quickly switching from cold to hot
to cold and to hot again,
the temperature being like a cat
in the Sahara desert at dusk.
Sit on your porch at dusk,
watch the clouds create their sestinas.
As you watch, allow your cat
beside you, her tongue lapping unsurely
from a cup. Look up again,
wonder if milk would be hot
if left out. It is hot;
There is a heat about dusk.
Forget. Forget about the poem again,
Look around. Everywhere, there are sestinas.
Not just in the cool, unsure
ripples your cat
makes, the gentle clink clink your cat's
teeth make as she tips her hot
tongue against her cup. In unsure
clouds, sestinas. Not just in dusk
either. And mosquitoes make stinging sestinas.
Crumple a sheet of paper. Again.
Now throw it out, again and again.
Eventually, sensing a toy, your cat
will chase it. Wonder what a sestina
really is. The pen will feel hot
in your hand. Take some paper. Dusk
is now ending; Be absolutely sure
this time yo
PINGGeorge stared mutely at the floor, trying to come to grips with what had just happened. There, on the thin patterened carpet, just to the left of his shoe, his R key stared up at him blackly, like a sightless eye. His hands, frozen momentarily at the noise, clung to the remaining keys beneath them unconsciously. His stomach churned. He looked down at the black square at his feet, a cloying drop of strange digital blood. Gears clinked mutely through his numbed brain and his eyes swept to his hands. They shook slightly as he realised what they must invariably conceal. Slowly, like a victim peeling back his jacket to at last assess the damage a bullet has made, he took his hands from the keyboard. A square gash of circuit board showed livid where the R key had once been. Bile rose in his throat. He snatched his hands to his chest, grinding the slick metal tang he now felt on his fingertips into the fabric of his tie.PING7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Something wrong, George?
He nearly jumped out of his skin. I
omg lol"omg lol w8 4 meh!1" cried Wendy as she hastily grabbed her textbook and slammed her locker door shut. The second bell had rung five minutes ago, and her two friends were already across the hallway. They stood in front of a door with a sign that read "chatsp33k". Mary Beth, the eldest of Wendy's little posse, waved her hot pink painted fingers at Wendy.omg lol9 years ago in Scraps More Like This
"hurry!!11! were l8 lol," she beckoned.
"im coming lol," said Wendy. She trotted down the hall towards the two, who were already heading through the door into the Chatspeak classroom. Wendy panted as she took her seat, which was located directly in front of Mr. Parsley's desk, the Chatspeak instructor.
"u 3 r l8 AGAIN1!" said Mr. Parsley. "wot do i have 2 do 2 get u 3 to com ein on tyme?"
"sry," apologized the three girls.
Mr. Parsley scoffed. "nevre let i thapen a gain." He cleared his throat. "now, az i wuz saying b4 teh interupshon, did every1 turn in teh homwork form last nite?"
Everyone in the class, except for the three girls, who
ScrutinyAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,Scrutiny7 years ago in Open More Like This
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I am going through the keyless gate
to watch and wait,
to wander here and there among the proud,
among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:
the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.
And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,
read of the sins their lips have took
and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect
I am lost in my own depth, I will say
in a slight, impartial way
(for I lack violets and an antic princes love)
and they, floating through their channels deep
dare to drown me in my sleep and in their orisons remember
So shall I be a queen bone and ash,
of crawling worms and sullied, melting flesh.
Kissed by death, I shall burn upon a pyre
knowing only distance and desire and, rising from the fire,
I shall step with soft, unfettered feet
Synchro-CityThey breathed in unison. All over the city, all over the planet, the bots were breathing together. They moved and walked and spoke as their individual programming dictated, but their breathing was synchronised, in and out with the constancy of a ticking clock. She was in her twenties when she first managed to make her own working robot and it breathed with inexorable regularity. In out. In out. In out.Synchro-City7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"Hello," it said. In out. "Are you my mother?"
"The female creator of my form," it insisted, "The instantiator of my existence. Are you my mother?"
She had to concede that she was, although the term made her uneasy.
In out. In out. It breathed just like all the other bots did.
Without access to the research databases, she had made a very basic effort at its programming, and that meant it needed to be taught.
"Do I have a name?" It asked her, as she was showing it how to clean the windows. It was standing very close. She could hear it breathing in out, in out.
"No. Would you
How the comic would have gone!Alrighty! Here's how the rest of the comic would have gone as I had it outlined. (I seriously just copy+pasted it no here)How the comic would have gone!3 years ago in Personal More Like This
And, since you guys are super nutty and have begged, I've decided I'll leave the comic up, unfinished as it is. And make a big ol' disclaimer for our front page.
How the Comic Would Have Gone:
TPP = Team Pick-Pocket
All the goons were about to be turned into pigs when I left off. Starting with Betty. She was a hilarious floating ghost pig.
The Goons would have eventually gotten into a fight with Doopliss over the third key. I was then going to have them lose and then they'd have to get Peach and Lime to help them. because, being pigs winning would be impossible. I'm not exactly sure how Doopliss got back into the pig business... I guess he got kicked out of Flurry's theater somehow. I probably would have come up with a humorous reason at the last second. (That's how I work, baby!)
Chapter 16.) Castle Chapter
-Peach returns to h
In case of emergencyI saw the roots of prairie grassesIn case of emergency7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like carrion beetles in their yellowing shells
Nibbling angrily, at the concrete beneath my feet,
At wood sheared to fence posts near the road.
The very earth they rejected, drawing what peace they could.
When did stained glass become the standard?
I have forged narrow mountain paths and stumbled over
Bottle caps secreted between the mica flakes and quartz.
In this city, in the sectors most pregnant with age,
Trees testify shamelessly into the sky.
Clandestine, one coils his reach toward
A flimsy cable, twisted and strung precariously
From corpse to shabby corpse, on and on.
Graceful and altogether stoic, another refuses to wince
As the merciless force of a school bus violates its skirts.
All the monstrous lizards reduced to macabre exhibits,
I fault them for dying. With cold blooded savages
Of the biological nature, the world was better off.
Save the best for last is never the real philosophy.
Find me the soul that cares for what happens to its carca
Witch OilThere's magma boiling in her frostbitten veins;Witch Oil2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
incandescent pixie dust and
sluggishly making its way through
a childish heart — wishing for one last chance
to spread her wings and soar to
The Thing About ClichesI.The Thing About Cliches6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys, and drugs.
Wed find footprints in the sand and read angels into them. Wed collect rejected roses, tarnished rings, and hopeful held breaths where the tides washed them up, tie them up with ribbon, and cork it all away for someone else to worry about.
This is not a romance either.
So instead I baked coffee cake while it rained, and picked the wee