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My modesty is awesome
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Why we write

W

Why we write

By night, when homeward bound, I plan and count The hours that remain and how I'll joyfully apply My creative mind; but oft I can't surmount That tiny gap between to do and try. Like Armstrong on the lander's final rung The smallest step is yet the longest leap. An undecided heart is by its heartstrings hung; A hundred short-lived joys are easier to reap. The world has colour more than black and white And room between prolific and procrastinate. Creation need not rule our every night A balanced mind has other needs to sate. A poem written over eighteen days Is still creation--at a languid pace.
The Appreciator
The Fruit of Memory

Why we have fiction

W

Why we have fiction

There's a joke the gods like to tell in heaven "A man decided to get up in the morning" And they laugh and they laugh and they laugh I kissed a girl the other night She didn't run away so I did okay I said a witty thing before I kissed her And I said a witty thing after I kissed her And that made me feel pretty good Sometimes, I watch when things happen to me Or when I happen to things And I think to myself, well This would be very funny if I read it in a book Or very sad if I saw it in a film Or very wise if a poem was to be written about it But since it is happening to me Or I am happening to it It is complicated and messy

One of my many superpowers

O

One of my many superpowers

Sometimes I walk home with a painful bursting bladder past a dozen weeing men just to feel superior.

My Father 1

M

My Father 1

When he was 30 my father had built and torn down and rebuilt again a shed with his own hands; had planned a future for himself and his wife and the two children he knew he'd have. My father had serious hobbies. I remember the oscilloscopes and the smell of ammonia. He would come home from work and pore over financial documents, figure out how to keep us safe and secure and comfortable. Because that is what grown-ups do. And he'd worry and frown and talk seriously to serious men. It was clear to me then that there was a line between child and man, and that I was on this side and he on the other. That was fine. The line would

2nd person fiction and You

n

2nd person fiction and You

You like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth. Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth. Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was. Only, of course, it wasn't. Fiction
The Longest Con

Fuck you, grapefruit

F

Fuck you, grapefruit

Fuck you, grapefruit. Fuck you right in your sickly dark-red ass. Grapefruits are the Nigerian spam of the world of fruit. Yay, I just got $20,000,000 off this Nigerian prince on the internet. Wait, why is my bank account empty? Yay, oranges! Wait, grapefruit. In every way that oranges are awesome, grapefruits are awful. Just look at them! Oranges are joyful, bright, full of life--they're orange! Grapefruits are the sickly pale hue of a nerd that sits in front of his PC 20 hours a day grinding quests in World of Warcraft. "That's not all I do," Grapefruits insist in their whiny high-pitched voices. "I have other interests! For instance, let

The Shambler

T

The Shambler

The following letter was found in the quarters of the High Inquisitor after he had taken his life. Your Highness, We arrived at first light. The courthouse lay in ruins, as was reported. The locals assured us they had not entered the ruins since the fire, and judging from the distance they are keeping from the smoking piles of rubble even now we are inclined to believe them. They warned us that some evil entity resided inside still. Our scouts found no signs of life, evil or otherwise, at all. We are still identifying the corpses we found within. Some are entirely incinerated, others have barely been touched by the flames. All of them are
See all

Why we write

W

Why we write

By night, when homeward bound, I plan and count The hours that remain and how I'll joyfully apply My creative mind; but oft I can't surmount That tiny gap between to do and try. Like Armstrong on the lander's final rung The smallest step is yet the longest leap. An undecided heart is by its heartstrings hung; A hundred short-lived joys are easier to reap. The world has colour more than black and white And room between prolific and procrastinate. Creation need not rule our every night A balanced mind has other needs to sate. A poem written over eighteen days Is still creation--at a languid pace.

Why we have fiction

W

Why we have fiction

There's a joke the gods like to tell in heaven "A man decided to get up in the morning" And they laugh and they laugh and they laugh I kissed a girl the other night She didn't run away so I did okay I said a witty thing before I kissed her And I said a witty thing after I kissed her And that made me feel pretty good Sometimes, I watch when things happen to me Or when I happen to things And I think to myself, well This would be very funny if I read it in a book Or very sad if I saw it in a film Or very wise if a poem was to be written about it But since it is happening to me Or I am happening to it It is complicated and messy

One of my many superpowers

O

One of my many superpowers

Sometimes I walk home with a painful bursting bladder past a dozen weeing men just to feel superior.

My Father 1

M

My Father 1

When he was 30 my father had built and torn down and rebuilt again a shed with his own hands; had planned a future for himself and his wife and the two children he knew he'd have. My father had serious hobbies. I remember the oscilloscopes and the smell of ammonia. He would come home from work and pore over financial documents, figure out how to keep us safe and secure and comfortable. Because that is what grown-ups do. And he'd worry and frown and talk seriously to serious men. It was clear to me then that there was a line between child and man, and that I was on this side and he on the other. That was fine. The line would

2nd person fiction and You

n

2nd person fiction and You

You like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth. Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth. Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was. Only, of course, it wasn't. Fiction

Fuck you, grapefruit

F

Fuck you, grapefruit

Fuck you, grapefruit. Fuck you right in your sickly dark-red ass. Grapefruits are the Nigerian spam of the world of fruit. Yay, I just got $20,000,000 off this Nigerian prince on the internet. Wait, why is my bank account empty? Yay, oranges! Wait, grapefruit. In every way that oranges are awesome, grapefruits are awful. Just look at them! Oranges are joyful, bright, full of life--they're orange! Grapefruits are the sickly pale hue of a nerd that sits in front of his PC 20 hours a day grinding quests in World of Warcraft. "That's not all I do," Grapefruits insist in their whiny high-pitched voices. "I have other interests! For instance, let

The Shambler

T

The Shambler

The following letter was found in the quarters of the High Inquisitor after he had taken his life. Your Highness, We arrived at first light. The courthouse lay in ruins, as was reported. The locals assured us they had not entered the ruins since the fire, and judging from the distance they are keeping from the smoking piles of rubble even now we are inclined to believe them. They warned us that some evil entity resided inside still. Our scouts found no signs of life, evil or otherwise, at all. We are still identifying the corpses we found within. Some are entirely incinerated, others have barely been touched by the flames. All of them are

Assembly instructions

A

Assembly instructions

Before You Start Novices should read instructions from start to finish to avoid embarrassment later. Ensure you are wearing adequate protection for the job at hand. Power tools are not required but there’s no shame in it either Designated two person assembly (two males pictured) females may need to adjust configuration to suit. Any number may assist. Spare dowelling plugs are provided. 1 Unwrap all the parts; fold and retain the packaging for later.  Check all pieces are present, and in working order. Familiarise yourself with them, feel their heft, their quality; caress the expert workmanship, the smooth and supple finish. Try
10Comments

Good Evening, and Welcome to the Poetry Reading

G

Good Evening, and Welcome to the Poetry Reading

Since you have all come to hear poems, when poems are freely available in book form, I assume you are here because for some reason or other you felt obliged, or this kind of thing is the kind of thing you want to support, or maybe it just feels good to be here. That's okay too. I'm not sure why there are so few/many of you, but—surely—it is the prevailing condition of poetry in this area, and such a number in such a place represents the deplorable/commendable level of local investment in the arts and culture, for which those responsible should be duly applauded/castigated. I'm afraid you will be hearing six kinds of poetry this ev

besuch

b

besuch

zerflossen stehst du vor meiner tür. wie eis auf nacktem, heißem fleisch. ewigkeiten ist es her. vor dich hin schniefend ersäufst du worte in rotz und schnodder. wie ertrinkende, die sich an rasierklingen klammern - arglose laute in einer unerbitterlichen see. ich nehme einen schritt zurück und du, zwei vor. es ist nicht aufgeräumt, aber es ist nie wirklich aufgeräumt. ein paar quadratmeter umzäunt von zu dünnen wänden. du setzt dich auf mein bett. von leidenschaft zerwühlt - nach einer anderen stinkend. ich habe nur einen stuhl. an meinem schreibtisch. und genau auf diesen habe ich mich ge

Spotlight

The Longest Con

The Longest Con
26Comments
Artist // Hobbyist // Literature
Badges
Albino Llama: Llamas are awesome! (68)
My Bio
I used to write things. I still do from time to time. My things twist and blaspheme.

Favourite Movies
Adaptation, Matrix, Lola rennt, Requiem for a dream, Bound, Mulholland Drive
Favourite TV Shows
The Shield, Dexter, Arrested Development
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Meshuggah, Textures, Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, Opeth, maudlin of the Well, Madder Mortem
Favourite Writers
Thomas Pynchon, Kurt Vonnegut, Donald Barthelme, Neil Gaiman
Favourite Games
Waterboarding
Favourite Gaming Platform
PC
Tools of the Trade
are all metaphorical
Other Interests
Languages, Writing, Music, Weird Films, anything Weird

Oh, right, forgot to tell you guys

Oh, right, forgot to tell you guys

I got published. Tales from the Perseus Arm (Amazon) My story "The Fruit of Memory" was selected for the Tales from the Perseus Arm anthology, alongside a lot of other good science fiction. So that's pretty cool.

Music and Ultra Violence

Music and Ultra Violence

I've just written 1900 words in story number 2 in the Memberries cycle: "The Appreciator". What is it with this sudden surge of activity? I love it! It's like waking up from a sleep of a hundred years and wiping the cobwebs off your face. Here's the Memberries story, in short: tearstone (https://www.deviantart.com/tearstone) and myself started on a cooperative writing experiment many, many years ago (8 years?) that was supposed to be called The Glass City. It was very unorganized and written in short bursts, and never did go anywhere. In it, however, we came up with the concept for Memberries: berry-like drugs that you could ingest to absorb someone else's memory. I went on

How to find your next thing

How to find your next thing

So I'm not sure I'll finish My Father. I was all excited about experimenting with poetry when suddenly a prose idea snuck up on me. It's an old idea, but what I'm doing with it excites me. I'm also seeing how smoothly I can slide through the spectrum of literature from gorn to silly-SF. Working title is "Memberries of Her", and tearstone (https://www.deviantart.com/tearstone) fans may now scream and throw their unspeakables at me. How do you find out what the next thing you need to do is? Do you just sit down and let it happen? Do you have fifteen things on the backburner and just pick up the one you're most interested in? I wonder how sane people do it. Hey, you know what?

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Dropped by the ol' stomping grounds on a whim just to see what the old gang was up to. Just leaving a note to say hello. Glad to see a name change, not a strikethrough. I miss these days.
danielzkleinHobbyist Writer
Hi! Very happy to hear from you :) I live in Los Angeles now and make video games, so that's cool. If you want to listen to me rant about things, I do that on twitter now: twitter.com/danielzklein 

What's new with you?
LexisSketchesHobbyist
Just stopping by to say hello :hug: Have a wonderful day!
raspil Writer
happy birthday :salute: