|Here's what I've been up to "lately".|
A Troll PassesThe traffic lulled her to sleep as it echoes off the concrete like the ocean. Except the buses. Fuck those things. Every forty-five minutes one would roar by and shake her back into a wakefulness she didn't want. Consciousness was cold and smelled like unwashed blankets. They might have had fleas in them, or bedbugs or something, because the tiny welts on her skin itched in forty-five minute intervals.A Troll Passes by Goldfish-In-Space
There had been no money in ages-- or food. Tramps had stopped trying to trade those things for sex; there wasn't enough left of her to trade. Her recollections of the times food or money had been important and scarce enough to to barter for were interrupted by another bus. She shivered, even though the leaves were still green on the trees.
"Fuckin... transit" she said to herself.
In the wake of the motor's scream, someone stirred on the walkway to her nest. Someone with a flashlight in the dusk.
"You can't sleep here."
The woman's jacket was blue, and the stripe of yellow running down th
To someone who was gone even thenThere was never a dayTo someone who was gone even then by Goldfish-In-Space
where the sun was shining
that I did not picture
someone else's smile
The Moth Farming Equipment The light basin hadn't been emptied in three days, and was ripe with fluttering wings. Sal fit the net over it and secured the leading cable. Her radio crackled.The Moth Farming Equipment by Goldfish-In-Space
"Remember your damn goggles, Sal. The screen says you're not wearing them."
"Yeah, yeah. Right," she said as lifted them to her face.
The basin was overfull, but she couldn't tell how many moths were just by-catch and how many were worth something. She hoped for something big and easy-- some Flowra or Jenny-Dreaming. She released the basin door and watched them gather on the sides of the net. A Jenny-Dreaming landed next to a Greymare and she frowned under the goggles. The Greymare's antenna brushed over a topato moth, and then the smaller insect was gone. She knew she had to get all the dark-winged ones out before they ate the others.
"There are a bunch of nightmares in there. Hope we still have some for dreamdust," she said. The radio didn't answer.
Her gloves came up past her shoulders, and she pushed them into the net over
The Sun and a StainIt rose from the dank earth, its skin ragged like a moulted root. It chaffed from the raw air. The scales fell away to leave weeping sores on its many limbs, which grasped and decayed the roots it escaped from. Dust met it and stuck in patches around the pincers that snapped at the sunlight like an enemy. The rays balked, as if scared. The creature hissed, and reared its head to challenge the sun.The Sun and a Stain by Goldfish-In-Space
"Lysander, look. Look at that. Auh! It's disgusting; kill it. Kill it please."
The elf regarded the eldritch horror, and then his boyfriend. Lysander stomped the creature with the heel of his boot, and winced when it popped, covering the leather with something purple and caustic.
"It's ruining my boots," he said.
"I have a wonderful ointment for leather in the caravan," said Fleance, "I can get a stable boy to apply it when we're at the inn, probably."
Fleance tucked his hair behind his ears and shot Lysander a look. What good was it if everyone thought they were just extraordinarily beautifu
What they do to KingsThrop, Maine, is a fishing village that subsides mostly on tourism. The last census reported about 4000 full time residents and another handful of part time residents that keep the scenery hungry tourists housed, fed and happy. The brightly painted storefronts of the main drag hold enough local colour to attract most kinds of people. The cheery woman running the consignment and used book store gives interesting directions to straightforward destinations, and the owner of Wharfside Bar and Inn offers personal boat tours for the right price. The man asleep on the bench in the sun tells tall tales about the ocean and surrounding woods. All three go to one of the two bakeries in town and direct the tourists to the other. A few years back, the town went through the Co-Op and had the sewers redone to stop the streets from becoming highways of newspaper boats and the imaginations of young boys. The Wharfside Bar owner tells a story about newspaper boats, and then laughs if you ask if he'll haWhat they do to Kings by Goldfish-In-Space
In Which Our Heroine Takes Action She wasn't sold, even if the decision had already been made. Pouting was no longer affirmative action, so she glanced out the window and tried to remember if it was rosebushes her mother had planted or something closer to harmless. Since her father had caught her with a few penny dreadfuls featuring woman escaped from their domestic destinies, thorned shrubbery had popped up under any terrace remotely climbable, jumpable or escapable by any imagining. The unattended trips to the Terrace Way Market had also stopped. At least they hadn't burned her books, or even looked through them. She decided the calibre of shrubbery didn't matter, because five petticoats and the overdress would be a fine barrier against thorns. In the back of an overlooked and overused novel was a diagram from a previous owner and in the girl's hands were every bit of linen she could smuggle into her room without it being missed.In Which Our Heroine Takes Action by Goldfish-In-Space
She wanted to see something clockwork. Something bigger than the mechanical kitten her f
Diary Entry of a Nervous PersonIn three minutes, Kayla would walk in the door. She would look down, brush the hair our of her face and look around her. The light in the hallway would be out, so she's flick it on.Diary Entry of a Nervous Person by Goldfish-In-Space
Her voice would echo nervously over the hardwood. I'd emerge from the kitchen, wearing the nightgown she bought for my birthday and look her up and down.
"You said you'd be home by seven at the latest."
Two minutes from now would be nine twenty three, so that's what time it would be. I'd look at the analogue in the kitchen. She would look at the digital on her wrist.
But she doesn't wear the digital watch anymore because she broke the strap last week and hasn't got a new one. She' probably just late getting off work.
In four hours Kayla would turn the key as quietly as possible. Her makeup would be a mess, like someone else's hands... or lips... had been playing there. Her hair would be tied back and she wouldn't flick on the hallway light as she snuck to the bathroom where I would be sitting on the
|Here's what I've been up to "lately".|
Andy WarholWarhol's early work involved ink drawings of shoe advertisements. He was hired to design album covers and promotional materials for RCA Records before he moved on to adopting the Silk Screen Printmaking technique. You can read more about that particular art technique here. One of Warhol's greatest skills, perhaps, was to overlook flaws in his own work and put it out there anyway. If you look at a lot of his final pieces many have smudges, scuffs and marks that lots of other artists would not be able to tolerate.Andy Warhol by Kaz-D
Source: Live Auctioneers
Perhaps to most people, one of the most interesting things about Andy Warhol is his artwork. That is, after all, what he was most famous for. However in 1968 a radical feminist writer attempted to murder Warhol and a colleague and whilst the colleague was barely injured - Warhol was lucky to survive. It was this that then influence
#ProjectEducate Sign UpsWell, it's that time again, and we're gearing up for another projecteducate week scheduled for July 21-28th. Since we've already done Prose Basics and Poetry Basics, we thought it might be interesting to do Literature Basics this time around. The Admin at CRLiterature have come up with a short list of articles we'd like to see written for PE week, but we're always open to ideas as well.#ProjectEducate Sign Ups by GrimFace242
As a quick refresher or if you haven't been around long enough to have experienced a projecteducate week, it's pretty simple. We ask deviants in the Community to write educating articles to be submitted through projecteducate (and collected by CRLiterature). The article topics and lengths are determined by the writer. So we're asking that you write about a topic that you know about or have lots of experienc
Hark, Writers of Science Fiction!Here are a few places you really should submit to.Hark, Writers of Science Fiction! by SgtPossum
Bastion Science Fiction, at Bastionmag.com, because they not only have very professional standards, but if your story is rejected they will tell you exactly why. This is unusual and invaluable. Pays.
Nebula Rift, at FictionMagazines.com. It, like most other magazines on that site, is pretty nascent but it seems like a great place to start. Pays royalties.
Redwing, at Graceandvictory.ca. Canadian publication, they haven't yet published their first issue. They seem good-humored and they pay five bucks a pop through paypal. The more subscribers and contributors they get, the more they'll pay.
As well, there's Dreamscape Press at dreamscapepress.wordpress.com, which publishes a variety of anthologies throughout the year. The quality's a little lower, I think, than these other magazines, but that could change with more contributors. Unlike the other three, this one is unpaid.
And for those of you nervous about rejection, just remember
Kingdom of NightHe played the violin in the moments before his death, played Beethoven as if it were the only song ever written.Kingdom of Night by fallenidle
The Germans had disallowed the works of their great musicians to the likes of him, but here in the meadow between earth and the kingdom of night, the Germans had no voice.
Snow fell like ash over the frozen ground, and felt almost warm as a blanket. Corpses were scattered around them both, half-buried in the white, their strength finally stolen. In the shadows the boy heard the song, sweeping away the hunger and pain in his belly.
He played the violin in the dark until breath left him, and he was one more unmarked barrow in the black forest. The song rang forever in the boy’s ears, in the void beneath his ribs.
Ghosts of a Belle Dame"Those that go do not return,"
tales tell of the woods, be wary;
no good can come of entering.
Not that anyone lives to speak.
This path was his quickest means
with dead branches and peeling bark.
Everything falling away
like a corpse shedding its skin.
He knew the cost of his road
and soon grew fearful of it.
Gusts of wind forced his step
and the copse invited him in.
There were whispers in the trees
and eyes in every shadow.
His mind was not a trickster
and the forest possessed no life.
A faint hand fumbled out,
and he felt it against his skin.
Alas, his eyes could not perceive
what he knew to be there.
"Hide not in the gloom,"
he spoke into nothing,
"- the winds and moon betray you."
He choked through ash and dread,
"And you are revealed."
An apparition of light and pain
flew from the dark in earnest.
A knight of old armor and crest
whose face was stricken with woe.
A word could not escape him
and he motioned to the Earth.
Scattered in piles around them
were the bones of visi
The North doesn't have TeethWhen the striking red sun of dawn appeared in Jack Fliften Aplen's foggy eyes, birds chirped all around in high and low tones, the whistling of the wind caused his long ears to ring, and the crisp cold air continued to nip at his frost bit skin. He flexed his fingers and could not feel a thing. He fell asleep in the midst of a coniferous forest. He already knew he was in Gishmimimis, but in what part?
A breath of panic escaped his throat as Fliften lifted himself to a sitting position. His hands fumbled at his person, groping for any kind of compass or map or device of direction-keeping, and when he ran his fingers over one of the pockets on his long brown and gold-trimmed coat, he could hear the crinkling of paper. After two immediate tries shoving his hand into said pocket to retrieve what was making the noise, he did. The paper he pulled out was folded up, so he unfolded it into something larger. It was a map! But was it of this region
Three StrikesJudy took a deep breath and popped open the top of another Red Bull. She could hear one of her nine children crying from the hallway, but she just shook her head. It was only nine in the morning, and already she had played piano for the church’s 2 a.m. early risers’ service, gone shopping, planted six new vegetables in her personal sustainment garden, mowed the lawn, and fixed the kitchen table. How much more could she subject herself to, what else was there to do? Her book club did not meet until eleven, and she had already read the section seventeen times. Once she fed Joshua, there would be nothing. Maybe she could lie down for just a minute.
No, no she could not. Judy already had two strikes on her card. If she would go idle one more time, they would terminate her. Who would take care of her children? Her husband had already been terminated two years ago following a biking accident that left him bedridden. They had no other immediate family, and her oldest child was on
|Sometimes I try to give constructive advice.|
I usually accomplish being a jerk. A jerk with jargon.
Uhg, even worse.
Warning: "I-Statements" ahead! |
I try to make up for my lack of genuine genius with a lot of obsessive work on my writing. I think it's turning out to be a pretty good plan so far. I tend to think anything that lets me sit hunched over my computer chain tea-drinking as the sun beams down outside is pretty good.
I will critique any writing, you just have to ask me!