Songwriters, Writers and Poets Unite!!

[Zelgadis 638]

Okay, we've got this thing back on track now. 

Bear in mind that the hack cut off everything after Vandy's post on page 7. 

We have a fresh page 8 to start with. 

ISF

[DocRorlach 25]

Page 8? Yet here am I on Page14 as the last page, and something I posted yesterday still does not show up - although I can find it via an advanced search.

Strange, eh?

[Zelgadis 638]

Dunno what I was thinking.

Fresh page 14.

ISF

[WillR116 60]

This is good, I was wondering if anything musically was on simtrop, now in the past three days I've found this and the Headbangers Club. Also If I can think of something much to post here I'll post it, I am a songwriter and poet, sometimes both at the same time, Also I am glad to announce I'm starting a band called the hasbeens, Rock, general rock including Alt. but not like country rock thats what I write and what we play.

[DocRorlach 25]

Having found this niche in this unexpected corner of Simtropolis, I'll add a trial of words of my own. It is an old story of mine, put to paper more than three decades ago while I was travelling. Thus I throw myself at the mercy of the critics.

A Husband's Wife

The shiny, almost glittering protrusions of her cheekbones, the quiet and small nose with its minuscule upturn, the wayward fringe of brown hair, swept aside constantly to clear the confine of her smooth forehead. The round, ever baffled eyes, dark but light eyes which looked for (and seemingly found) glimpses of humour in whatever her companion said. Compared to all this agitation her body remained at rest, partially hidden by the table, silent and peaceful, with no immediate need to convey or contribute to their conversation. 

For a week now I had seen legs, breasts, eyes, lips: sometimes (though rarely) entire bodies appealing to me. Not voluntarily, of course, only through my wanting to look, my wishing to see them. The short road, cluttered with vendors, small businesses and even smaller hotels and restaurants, had provided this spectacle free of charge. The season was at its peak, the sidewalks were crowded.

But I insist that have never leered, the panorama has nothing to offer for any kind of ogling. Somewhere, some time ago I read that the older you get the more selective your tastes run. I cannot disagree, still, that was not the case. My mood simply discarded any and all lechery, fond as I may have been of it at other times and previous places.

The age and creed of these visitors (some of which may as well have hailed from distant galaxies for all I recognized) simply prohibited leering; the speed with which they appeared and disappeared provided shifts and folds in the street's human composition which seldom allowed me to see a woman more than once. They were tourists, regardless of what their own labels said.

Yet both the hunger and the lack of appetite must have been conspicuous, those who did return my spying looks often shirked their eyes. How could I have said what strange combination of personality I was trying to find? When all I could think of was what I did not want? When I could not say for certain that I was trying to find anyone.

I have always professed suspicions over the advertised perfection attacking our judgment from the media, if for no other reasons then its improbability to appear on any stretch of asphalt I might visit. Perfection, real or artificial (or what is paraded around as such), remains scary to me, I cannot trust it. The days of the puppets and masks and drummed up Cheryl's and Tammy's may have long gone, we are still being bombarded with the likes of the Naomi's and Michelle's and Kate's. Women so public they cannot but be considered a menace.

Which left me with my shadowy ideals, formed and dreamed in timely distance. Looking back over my shoulder I could still see echoes of my varied past. Externally no two women had been the same, I could tell now, they were too small a number to forget. No apparent preferences, no easily recognized predilections. I am, must be the thread running through their appearance.

So who, (or was it whom), or maybe what, had I in mind? I had of course thought about it. A great deal. By now I knew what I was looking for, much in the way a collector of periodic art recognizes the signatures of time in unknown objects. It wasn't so much a desire inspired by the just occurred break-up as it was a need for a sympathetic ear. Calling on the devil to rid me of Satan, though this does sound drastic. Or did. Until I thought to understand and identified the glances she sprayed randomly at the man next to her.

Most of the time her hands held up her face, maybe it was in fact heavy, a burden in needing support, with elbows drawn tightly to her body. The loose sweatshirt and the leaning posture made it impossible to discern what that body might be like. Thus I quickly convinced myself that it no longer mattered.

He gave rise to the impression that he was younger than her, of a different origin, socially and by location. Of course such predictions are easy here, the odds are stacked against two people coming from the same angle of life. The entire gamut of nationalities runs along streets like this one.

I wasn't sure whether she had actually uttered anything, the droning of the television, the chatter all around trying to conquer other chatter as well as the TV., the noises streaming in from the still lively street, all this made catching definite sounds from a single source improbable. My own preoccupation with her eyes, with the shine of her face, made it impossible.

I recount all these thoughts of mine, of the day, by the of introducing my eventual fall. My descend was slow, premeditated like the glide of a diver from a cliff. I seemed to soar upwards, fooled by my own willingness to jump, realizing too late the inevitable plunge. I say now that I was pushed, prodded by those eyes, shoved by the narrowly curved lips as they opened and curled to form a small 'Oh'. I could not have heard it, but I felt it orbit around me, only to smack into my back.

I had nothing to hold onto, no banister or barrier to stop me and avert the fall. No wish to control a situation about which I could not know anything. Past emotions were just that - past, gone, blown away by the silent storm that was her face. The physical distance between us, a few tables and empty chairs, the man next to her, shrunk to centimetres and inches when she noticed my descend.

She came to the rescue. Not to save or stop it, not to provide a net to catch me and lead me to the refuge of the solid ground. But to provide a target, a purpose and destination for my plunge.

When we ran away, without so much as a glance for what we might have left be-hind, we tried a few words, some fig leaves to cover the proximate embarrassment. I forgot them as soon as they left my mouth, cantering ever faster, stopping only to take hold of what my hands could grab in their newly discovered inexperience. Wanting to lead I was being lead, needing to pursue I felt followed. Not caring where we went.

A sound, a wrong intonation, could have ruined us then. When it came, in form of the delayed shouts of dismay by the other fellow, we fled, running into small alleys, turning here, rounding a corner there. Laughing, almost haughtily, against others, for us. Laughing, irascibly about the anxiety which followed us.

Someone else's doorway held us at last. We stood in its dark, hidden from his rising, chasing fear. Close together, so close, the passing dog mistook us for a single person with too many legs, making him forget to bark in his surprise, to give us away.

Only now did she mutter her uncertainty, our mutual surprise, a few fleeting syllables of being unable to understand. I tried to brush them away with false knowing. No need, they had already disappeared like the footsteps of our pursuer, like the patter of the dog's paws. We owned the silence, because we refused to hear. Basking, yes, basking instead in the heroism of impulses, of instant knowing. Admiring ourselves and each other for the small fragment of courage which had lit this, our attraction.

How could we have exchanged that for the harshness of a neon-lit hotel room? How could we have waited, even in flight, for what we could not be sure of to carry through once we reached the stationary stillness of a bed? The only practicality re-maining was that of not wanting to hurt, of trying almost too hard to avoid pain, physical, realistic damage to the other.

We had only the doorway, an unlit recess from the already darkened lane. We had my jacket and her sweatshirt, and the long skirt I had not noticed earlier in the restaurant. It sufficed, there was no need for protection, unless it was from each other.

I do not know how long we lay there, impulses as such cannot last. Again, it did not matter, or seemed not. There was no language, no exchange of stories neither would have been able to live up to. Not even a promise.

A cat found us, perhaps mistaking our inert forms for some source for food. Per-haps she had a cold, could no longer smell the pugnacious sweat of human intimacy. Perhaps that is what attracted her. We could only guess, but by then it was too late, we had discovered the need for language and sound again, not as camouflage for what we had done, but as one last relief of the tensions still in our possession. 

I wanted to run further, perhaps not physically, but in thought, in spirit. She stopped me, holding on to my arm from a far, safe distance. Her head shook ever so slightly, almost imperceptible in the dark centre of the night.

"He is my husband." 

There was bravado, no, bravery in those words, spoken with quiet certainty. I wanted to admire her for it, like I had done before, like with our escape. She would, could not let me, not any more. My hands, empty now, fell aside, useless as my tongue. She turned her head while walking towards the light of the main street, long enough for me to see the glimmer on her cheekbones, the dark, light eyes, the narrow curve of the now pale mouth, the still bothersome fringe.

------------------------------------------

[astronelson 339]

I love my Simcity 4... a ditty in (or should that be with?) no particular style.

I love my Simcity 4

The construction I simply adore.

Though my sims are irate,

service (second rate)

causes all of them to be poor.

The city's a mess, I'll admit

whoever designed it's a twit.

Oh wait, was it me?

We'll just wait and see

I think it's improving a bit.

The taxes are wrong,

Commute times too long,

The traffic has blocked the turnpike

Healthcare's down the pipes,

Education? Oh cripes

And everyone's going on strike.

There's fires breaking out again

Pollution's on the rise again

Mayor rating's down again

Crime is going up again

Desirability's tanked again

Income dropping fast again

Expenses are rocketing again

I've got to start over again...

Click... Click... Exit to region... Exit without save?

NAH! Let the sims suffer! CANCEL!

* Sound of the destruction of all services, leaving only power and roads. *

...I love my SimCity 4.

[LarksTonguesInAspic 28]

Back after an inexcusably long absence!

astronelson: whimsical and topical, not too heavy. Cool!

Docrorlach: Heavy, moody, unusual. I don't know what to think of it, but that's not a bad thing. I just can't quite pin it down.

---

Up very late, thinking over a certain someone from my distant past for whom time and my patience ran out years ago. I dearly wanted this person when I was someone else, but there can be no room for them now. Figures I would get the come-on years later! Oh well, C'est la vie.

Here's what I just finished writing only moments ago while mulling it over.

(edit: I just realized that there 60 4-letter words in this poem. Wow.)

A Thing Called You And Me

in just a glance I saw your look, with those come-hither eyes

perhaps you thought I couldn't see through that oh-so thin disguise

it cannot work the way it did on all the other guys

once you were the one I wanted and passionately did crave

now it seems you resurrect yourself from some forgotten grave

yet after all these years there simply is, nothing left to save

I would have died for you, lived for you, there was no price too dear

I would have given all I had, all I was, just to have you near

I told you once, a million times, I made it very clear

we can't go back, there's nothing there, you wanted it that way

how dare you signal with your eyes there's something here today

you made a choice, as did I, there's little else to say

you rejected me, way back when, no tears for broken heart

now that twinkle in your eye tells lies of brand new start

it cannot be, it never was, you wanted us apart

it's just as well, I cannot be myself and have you, too

I will admit that what I wanted was myself to be with you

but who I am has changed in ways that you cannot undo

I'm better now than 'could have been', than we could ever be

it's a sad sad joke, if you now say that what you want is me

there never was a thing like that, a thing called 'you and me'.

[zane900 1]

The following is an excerpt from a paper I recently wrote on No Child Left Behind and the privatization of public education.

Charter law legislation is now in effect in over forty states, and the spread of state takeover laws - to be facilitated by the impending re-authorization of NCLB - will pave the way for private corporations (such as Edison) to gain entry to public schools.  Even now,, numerous educational corporations, "from European-based multinationals, to start-ups such as Platform Leaning, Ignite (founded by Neil Bush, the president's brother), and Educate Inc. (whose profits soared 250% last year) and swarming into the schools, offering prepackaged curriculum, tests, and educational materials to meet the legislative mandate to "teach to the test" in a narrow range of subject." (Exam Privatization)  With each passing year millions more of taxpayer's dollars are being diverted from the public school system to private corporations; IBM to tune of $80 million, Cambridge Education 16 million annually, and CTB/MCGraw another 80 million, to name just a few cases.  MCGraw Hill has even proposed to offer students cash rewards for perfect test scores!  Many other corporation, such as Princeton Review and Gallup are jumping the outsourcing bandwagon.

The value of such tests is dubious at best, and the consequences for so many children, devastating.  Researcher Walt Haney of Boston College has noted, "There is more public oversight of the pet industry and the food we feed our dogs than there is for the quality of tests we make our kids take."

The hidden agenda of No Child Left Behind should be clear enough to any citizen willing to think seriously about the sheer hypocrisy of this law.  Isn't it curious that the only single aspect of our children's lives that our politicians are willing to standardize is the testing of their academic performance?  Standardized testing places all of the nation's students and schools in competition with each other, expecting that all children should learn the same information at the same rate, while virtually all other aspects of our children's' lives - including the funding of their schools, the size of their classes, the salaries of their teachers, the condition of the schools they attend, the condition of their neighborhoods, their families' income levels, the education levels and socio-economic backgrounds of their parents, the quantity and quality of extra-curricular activities made available to them, and the depth and breadth of their own life experiences both inside and outside of school, as well as so much more - are neither standardized or rendered equitable in any way, shape, or form.  While our nation's leaders shamelessly assert that NCLB is designed to ensure the "success of every child," the reality should be clear to us all.  The Act is, in fact, designed to do precisely the opposite: to reinforce the already entrenched hierarchy of the existing social structure, namely by ensuring academic success for the nation's most privileged students and failure for its least privileged.  In this way, NCLB furthers a social agenda rooted in the ideology of eugenics in that it seeks to measure individual achievement (not only of students, but of teachers and whole communities of people as well) while ignoring the larger economic and socio-historical conditions that work in myriad ways to shape and determine academic performance, attitudes toward learning, and socially formed notions of achievement and success.

At the same time that NCLB works to reinforce the social hierarchy, the population will pay through its nose to fund the schools - paying the costs of personnel, transportation, food service, maintenance, testing and contracting fees - while private corporations reap the profits.  As with our so-called "health care" system, our so-called "public" airwaves, our so-called "national defense" industry, our so-called "war" in Iraq, and countless other a vehicles for public plunder and private profit, public education may well evolve into the "education-industrial complex" that the financial community envisions.  While the public pays the bills and corporations cash the checks, our children will be taught ever more 'efficiently' to do nothing more than work, consume, and obey.  Encouraging a critical appreciation for the society we live in, and helping to foster genuine insight into their real conditions of existence, will surely not be part of the agenda, since these are the last forms of learning and consciousness the corporate sector wants for its factory-produced functionaries.

[WillR116 60]

I dont have the song done but ive got my chorus, its called Avenger, its metal and its for my band C4,

Live in life

live in death

live some more

your outta breath

im kinda new but Ive got my first verse (ill post it all when finished) and the melody for the first verse and chorus, ill link to a video if i make one.

[LarksTonguesInAspic 28]

Originally posted by: Simsamerica I dont have the song done but ive got my chorus, its called Avenger, its metal and its for my band C4,

Live in life

live in death

live some more

your outta breath

quote>

Yah gotta have a chorus! To quote Happy With What You Have To Be Happy With (King Crimson), making fun of pop songs:

Yeah, then I'm gonna have to write a chorus

we're gonna need to have a chorus

and this seems to be as good as any other place

to sing it till I'm blue in the face...

Then I guess I'll repeat the chorus!

We're gonna repeat the chorus! (x4)

[WillR116 60]

OK, I was looking for criticism but OK, note, I play SC4 and my band is called C4, its nothing to do witih the game, it refers to the explosive but still... funny.

[your_adress_here 11]

Wind

“Wind, hello!” noticed Mr. Fiddle, as he distanced himself from the Castle on the Mountain, walking along a path which did not greet many travelers. A deep, chuckling voice, one which reminded Mr. Fiddle of his joyful old grandfather, met his greetings. This actually made him sad, as his grandfather perished not long ago in an incident involving a windmill and a very fat cow.

“Merry morning, traveler, with whom may I have the pleasure of speaking today?” the voice of Wind boomed and resonated on the valley walls of auburn stone.

The valley, as it may be, was actually named Valley of Wind, the name having been chosen by Sir Alfred Morrison of Dorman-Logen, a man of lacking originality. He was the first to speak with Wind, in the days before time.

“I am Mr. Fiddle of Fiddle Hut, Slayer of the Dragon in the Castle on the Mountain, and I am on a quest to find my lost object. Have you seen my object?”

“Holly-jo, how can find your object if I do not know what it is?” inquired Wind.

“Well,” started Mr. Fiddle, “I don’t know. It is my missing object that I have gone out to find.”

“Mr. Fiddle, I dare say I would like to be able to profit you with my assistance, but I cannot, since I do not know of your object you speak of.”

“Might you, per chance, have seen anything out of the ordinary lately, something which might prove to be any help?”

“Alas, the times are still; the grass grows, the clouds fly, the sun shines, the mountains sleep, but I have seen nothing out of the ordinary since about five shadow ago, when I saw you.”

“Ah.”

Mr. Fiddle’s last statement concluded their conversation, and so he continued through the Valley of Wind, walking towards a destination unknown, searching only for his lost object.

---

The Desert

It had been about an apple tree’s growth since Mr. Fiddle had seen anything like it. You didn’t often stumble upon a vending machine this far in the desert. For exactly one dollar and twenty five cents, Mr. Fiddle could purchase a bottle of “Eau de Source Naturelle”. Poor Mr. Fiddle did not have this money, though. He only had the seventy-three and a half cents that the baker had given him. He was forced to march along the beaten path through the desert, shuffling through the tall, orange mesas of copper, dust lingering in the atmosphere. The sun burned overhead, burning the lifelessness of the earth into a dying, shriveling, nothing.

Not much shrubbery lived in the desert, which had no name, since nobody had thought it worthy of receiving a name. Even the few plants of green that were beheld to the sight of Mr. Fiddle kept to themselves, as they did not like to talk to strangers. Sometimes there would be cactus, but they were so full of themselves; Mr. Fiddle did not like talking to them. He had one incident with a particular cactus that went by the name of Gerald. Gerald, it seems, did not think that the owls of the night should be allowed to perch on his being.

“But Gerald!” had cried Mr. Fiddle, “why do you not let the owls rest upon you? They mean to do no harm; all they wish is to be able to rest.”

And Gerald replied in turn: “I will not be having any snotty owl pooing on me! I am grace of nature, king in the desert, spikes as formidable as the moon. Do you dare oppose me?”

“No, but I just thought it would be nice of you to let the owls rest on you”, pleaded Mr. Fiddle.

“It shall not be”

And so Mr. Fiddle did not like talking to the cactus along the side of the road, since, as he had discovered, they all act in such a manner. The traveler kept walking in search of his object.

[LarksTonguesInAspic 28]

Interesting, quite eccentric but very readable. You have a future in short stories. Keep it up!

If only I had written the last poem that popped into my head, I would share it here. But instead, I put it off, and it was quite put-off by my putting-off of it, so it abandoned me without so much as a note. Now I am here, poemless.

[your_adress_here 11]

Originally posted by: manticorefan

Interesting, quite eccentric but very readable. You have a future in short stories. Keep it up!

quote>

Thanks

If only I had written the last poem that popped into my head, I would share it here. But instead, I put it off, and it was quite put-off by my putting-off of it, so it abandoned me without so much as a note. Now I am here, poemless.quote>

Oh I know that feeling. Too many times has it happened to me, where I would be laying in bed, wandering through my head, usually trying to get to sleep, where suddenly, an idea, a song, a melody, a story, or anything creative pops into my brain, and I always tell myself: "I should capitalize on this creativity!". Except I'm always too tired to be bothered to get out of bed and start writing (especially since I usually come up with stuff for the guitar).

[BlondeTwiggy 43]

Nice to see this bumped. 

Hey, y_a_h, I didn't know you were a story writer. Very imaginative. Your writing style is unique.    But interesting.  Any more to that story?

manticorefan, I know the feeling too..about to go to sleep or something...and this poem brushes up against my consciousness...and if I dont get up and write it down, I forget it.  Have witnessed the death of many good poems that way.  lol

[WillR116 60]

I have no video but ive got audio and a Garageband page I wrote this a month ago and posted it tonight

http://www.garageband.com/artist/William_Roberts/podcast/newsletter

[LarksTonguesInAspic 28]

*bump*

I have decided to finally start my book. Now, if I can make that decision stick, I will be in good shape.

Tentative title, You're Higher-ed: My True Stories Of Drugs In The Workplace.

I had so many stories over the years with many different employers and colleagues, I thought they'd make a good collection. It would completely shock many of you with its sheer pervasiveness, and how easy it is to get away with- even in an age of constant testing. Because of its honesty and candor, most of my family will never see it.

Unless, of course, I get a big advance for it. It would be hard to hide that. Wish me luck (or discipline to finish it)!

[WillR116 60]

ooo, maybe i'll wind up ordering a copy, sounds interesting...

I actually have some new song's I've written

1. Mary and I and our last goodbye

2. A Place

on "A Place" I really want to know what yall think its about.

Mary and I and our last Goodbye

Mary was singin that song

singin there with her velvet on

Didn't know what was haunting her

but she knew she wanted more

Mary, Mary and I

Mary and I and our last goodbye

She didn't know how things would go

all she knew was she was through

Ridin Free, Ridin Strong

Ridin there with her velvet on

Noone knows what happened to her

But we dont know if we want anymore

Mary, Mary and I

Mary and I and our last goodbye

She didn't know how things would go

All she knew was she was through

(repeat chorus)

A Place

Chorus 1 (accupella)

I come from a place where the winters are warm

And the summers are cold

And the Kings will die

And the angels do to

Chorus 2 (to a solo not the chorus music)

I come from a place where the winters are warm

And the summers are cold

And the Kings will die

And the angels do to

Chorus 3 (To chord version of chorus music now)

I come from a place where the winters are warm

And the summers are cold

And the Kings will die

And the angels do to

(Solo)

Verse 1

If you try to sell me something

You’re gonna get sold

If you try to tell me something

You’re gonna get told

Verse 2

Can You tell me

Can you sell me

Can you save me

Can you lead me, no

(repeat chorus 3)

[your_adress_here 11]

Originally posted by: manticorefan

*bump*

I have decided to finally start my book. Now, if I can make that decision stick, I will be in good shape.

Tentative title, You're Higher-ed: My True Stories Of Drugs In The Workplace.

I had so many stories over the years with many different employers and colleagues, I thought they'd make a good collection. It would completely shock many of you with its sheer pervasiveness, and how easy it is to get away with- even in an age of constant testing. Because of its honesty and candor, most of my family will never see it.

Unless, of course, I get a big advance for it. It would be hard to hide that. Wish me luck (or discipline to finish it)!

quote>

Can't wait to read it.

[screamingman12 30]

This may sound familiar to a lot of you, its based on the CJ I wrote a few years back. I don't know what to call it, and it still needs some work, comments/suggestions welcome. 

Chapter I

Hello, my name is Nick Sho. I am 18 and living in Bay City, home to approximately two million residents and a large metropolis in the urban desert known as the Ortega-Bay City Metro Area. The story I am about to recount is one of bizarre proportions, over the last two months I unwillingly and unknowingly took part in something I did not even know existed or much wanted to be involved with. It started with a computer, and ended with one of the largest criminal arrests that Bay City has ever seen. I will tell of it as I can best remember it, haven explained all sensitive details to the proper authorities resulting in the arrests of the guilty individuals. Thus, I shall begin as it began, a morning like many others, at 7:15 AM on a Tuesday.

“BEEP BEEP BEEP” the cheap electronic alarm clock cried out, alerting me that it was time to attempt to wake up (even though I was bound to push the snooze button several times, as work did not start until 9:30). “Alright, alright, I'm going” I said lazily, I got up and went to the bathroom where I proceeded to wash my face, after which I went into the kitchen. “Mmm, bagels, same as usual” I said unenthusiastically as I browsed through the refrigerator, grabbing a bagel and the almost-empty carton of orange juice, realizing that I desperately needed to go to a grocery store soon. After breakfast I proceeded to go down the elevator and walk two blocks to the streetcar stop. Now, before I continue, I must explain that the only reason I live in such a new, desirable apartment is because it was subsidized due to the fact that I was going to college, as is the custom in the country of Oceana. One drawback to this was that expenses such as utilities and food were of the sort that I could barely manage to pay them on my current salary, and had I not been going to school, I would probably be living in one of those old governmental concrete towers that were built about 1960, and converted to residential use when all governmental proceedings and offices for the metro area were moved to Ancora City, three hours down the R-2832.

“Next train arriving in five minutes”, the computerized voice at the station said authoritatively. Now, I must explain that although Bay City has a very vast and efficient light rail/streetcar system, it is one of the oldest in the region, using cars that are from 1940, at least. However, there is little to complain about, as the climate doesn't require air conditioning, and there seem to be enough to keep the service frequent. I swiped my annual pass as I entered the car, “your balance has twenty eight dollars remaining” it said; again, a bi-product of my expenses, as it needed to be renewed soon. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and sat down, the ride up the Western Shore district took about a half-hour. Bay City was divided into three districts, the Eastern Shore, Middle Island, and Western Shore, as the Harran River split into two branches and flowed into the northern end of the Ortega Bay.

It was 9:32 AM when I arrived. “You're late”, said the sales manager Liz Arsello, as I walked into The Electric Shop, a small chain of electronics and computer stores I worked at. “Sorry, but you know transit” I replied, hoping to get some sympathy. “Never mind that, I need you to do something”, she replied sternly, she wasn't exactly the nicest person when on the job. “Me?”, I asked with a blank stare, “Yeah, I need you to drop off a computer at a guy's house that he brought in for work a week ago, he claims he has a torn mussel in his leg and can't drive”. “I didn't know we delivered, but anyway I don't have a car”, I said, trying to get out of it. “That's no matter, borrow Mike's, he left it here again, he won't mind as long as you don't crash”, she said, accepting no excuses as usual. “Uhh, okay, but I barely got my driver's license”, I replied, futilely going for another cop-out. “As I said, don't wreck it”, and with that, she handed me the keys, and I put the computer in the passenger's seat. I began to drive along West Shore Boulevard, I was always struck by the scene of the Middle Island and the Eastern Shore seeming to rise out of the water, and had taken many pictures of it, having procured an SLR camera at a deep discount through my job. I immediately recognized the address I was given as being in an old concrete tower park, and once there, I realized exactly how visually toxic these building were, being nothing more than gray concrete slabs with black slits of windows in them, and many were still being renovated even after being vacant for ten years.

I approached the address given, and went inside to the lobby. “I have a delivery to make”, I said to the woman standing behind the desk, “dropping off a computer, for a Torre Shang” I added. The attendant said “fourth floor, room 422, elevator's on the left”, and I was soon at the door, and on the second knock it was opened. He must have been at least five years older than me, dressed in khaki pants and a blue Hawaiian shirt, with shoulder-length black hair. “Shang?” I asked, “ Yes, better come in and set this up for me” he replied, pointing to the desk in the corner. “All fixed”, I said as I turned it on, “just needed a new video card, I assume you paid already?”, “yes”, he replied, glancing at me quickly. “Say, have I seen you before?” he asked, this caught me somewhat off guard, as I couldn't say that he had. “not that I know of”, I replied, walking towards the door, “anyway, Torre Shang, glad to meet you”, he said; “Nick Sho”, I replied.

“That was strange, never had somebody introduce themselves to me like that”, I said to myself as I walked towards the borrowed car, which I had managed to succeed not damaging. As I drove back, I couldn't help but remember that it was also my job to buy lunch for us on Tuesdays, so I stopped by the FastBurger and walked in (city law prevented the building of many drive-thrus, so they were rare). “Whatcha want”, the cashier barked, they must have been a relative of Liz. “Uhh, two number sevens, one with fries, one with rings, and a number five, also with fries, two cokes and a strawberry shake” I replied, one thing I liked about buying lunch was being able to get more for yourself, something which everyone took advantage of from time to time. “Here or out” she replied, annoyed that I had ordered so much. “Out”, I said. “Five minutes” she replied. Everyone always said that any task would take exactly five minutes, regardless of what it was, and ten minutes later I walked out of the restaurant with the food and began to drive back. As I drove, I noticed someone who looked like Torre casually walking down the street. “That's weird, I just saw that guy”, I sad to myself.

“What took you?” Liz asked sharply, “I had to get lunch, I think the FastBurger cashier is related to you”, I said jokingly. “Not funny”, she replied blankly; “Somebody say food?” burst out Jerry Regis from the back, he was our workshop man for the day. “Yeah”, I replied, and slid a bag and drink over to him. We were all very hungry, and soon devoured our double cheeseburgers (mine with bacon, remember what I said about privileges?), fries and drinks and soon got back to work. The rest of the day was, like most others, uneventful. Explaining differences between various computers, televisions, that our couch (which was probably the envy of the city by now) was not for sale, and why car stereos don't come with headphone jacks to the occasional customer who walked in.

Meanwhile

Torre Shang picked up his telephone. “Don't worry Vick, the plans are still safe, everything is still on the computer like it was when I dropped it off, I'll bet you a million that those idiots didn't even check it for anything”. “Good, he said, just don't press your luck multiple times, be more careful”, “I will” Shang replied, “but this means we're still on for Thursday this week, the exhibit leaves on Saturday, and we can't afford to let it slip by, all the crew have the gear?” he asked. “Yes, we're set, all the blueprints of the gallery and agendas are on that computer, I swear, you better have encrypted those good, cause if this blows up, we're gonna get the slammer for ten, at least”. “Don't you worry, just do your job, although I am beginning to worry about one thing, I saw the guy who dropped off the computer at my house driving by as I was walking to the bank, maybe he knows”. “Well if you see him again, or if he gives you trouble, you let me know and I'll send somebody to take care of him”, Vick replied confidently. “Lets meet at the wearhouse tonight and go over everything once more”, “okay, sounds good” Shang replied.

Meanwhile

“Well, that's about it”, Liz said as she flipped the sign to “closed” and turned off some of the lights and locked up the cases with the flat screen TVs in them (can't be to careful here, somebody might steal them), “see you all tomorrow, I'm buying lunch, and I'm buying a chocolate flurry for me, nobody else gets one!”. “Yeah”, I replied, rolling my eyes. I decided to ride over to the library on the train, as I had to borrow some books for school on architecture theory (did I ever mention how I hate those concrete towers they built?), and thus I got on an A-Eastern Shore/Tunnels, rather than the E-Westshore Blvd train that I usually take. The tunnels which the streetcars used were built about 1900 and served to connect all three districts of the city running under the two branches of the Harran River, they were the type of thing you would expect to wander through and get lost in very quickly. As the train exited the tunnels on the Eastern Shore, I looked out the window, and couldn't help but notice noticing a bunch of people exiting a van and going into an industrial building. I thought they were real estate people until I saw somebody familiar, “was that the guy again? This is creepy, is he following me?” I thought, he must have seen me, as he was looking directly at the train as it passed by.

Meanwhile

Torre arrived with the van, and pulled up in front of the abandoned wearhouse to an assembly of seven unassuming men dressed in street clothing. As he got out of the van, he turned around to notice a streetcar pass by, and browsing through its passengers, he saw a face which had become all to familiar in the past several hours. “Bloody Hell, was that him?”, Shang muttered to himself. “What? Who?”, Vick replied, realizing that something was up. “Its that guy again, the one I told you I saw three times already today, I think he might be on to us, we'll have to do something about him”. Shang replied quietly, as not to frighten the others. “Leave that to me, I'll take care of it, he'll learn not to mess with us”, Vick reassuringly told Torre.

Afterwards

That day left me with a lot of unanswered questions. Who was that man, what was he doing, and why did I keep seeing him? I returned to my apartment, never realizing that my being or my possessions could be in danger. Little did I know of what was to come next...

 

[Vandy 110]

Hey, All.

Vandy here!

Just thought I'd drop in and let y'all know that I'm finally able to get back to Simtropolis and become active again -- that is, as active as life will let me be.

I hope to start posting my writing again soon as well as am hoping y'all will start posting your writing again.

Hope to see y'all in the thread soon.

Take care.

Regards,

Gary (Vandy)

[Crackdtoothgrin 0]

I'm surprised that I never noticed this thread before...

How would one go about posting things relevant to a novel? I wrote one (not published, working on that), but I don't think that it is posible to post it on here, haha.

[Vandy 110]

Hi, CTG.

Depending upon how big it is, you could ZIP it and attach it to your post.  Or, you could upload it to a different site and then link to it in your post.

Either way, I look forward to reading it once you post it.

Thank you for your participation.

Regards,

Gary (Vandy)

[Crackdtoothgrin 0]

Well, it's 310-or-so pages (different sizes depending upon the Word Processing program.)

The only big concern I have is the possible transferrance of rights by posting it here. I know that some sites basically get to own whatever is posted on them, so my reticence to put it on here is largely based upon this.

Well, that, and the fact that I still have about half the book to edit. The auto-correct went wonky on me with some contractions, but it's still legible.

And, is the content of the book also a possible point of contention? It's transgressive fiction, so more along the lines of Palahniuk, Kerouac, etc. and contains some rather adult content (although not erotica, to be clear)...

[JP Schriefer 5,591]

First of all, I'm sorry for "dig" a standing topic for so long. But I found it and I love poetry and things like that. I like to write poems, but in Portuguese, my first language. One of my poems won a prize at school as best poem a few years ago, but I'm afraid to post them here translated, I think they can be very different and with other messages.

Anyway, posted here on this topic because I think unfair this cool topic be forgotten, and is good for those who also like that sort of thing read the topic and perhaps post their works too.

[A Nonny Moose 8,263]

When it comes to poetry, the song is often lost in translation between languages.  Perhaps we could agree to accept items in this thread written in the original languages.  Quite often it is not only the words but the sound of them that makes poetry great.  If one does not know the language, there are translators to help people get the sense if not the feeling of the poem.

[jmsepe 2,040]

I post stories online. The link to my account is just here if anyone is interested in reading them.  Just a bit of a disclaimer, everything in that link are fanfictions, I do no post non-fanfic stories online yet and some themes are not suitable for children. 

[RipRap 4,400]

I sometimes create poems. I had one of my poems published in a poem anthology.

Let's give this a try shall we?

忘れた日

記憶の炎

寒くなる

A day to forget (there's a switchable word)

Threse burning memories.

It has gotten cold.

First Japanese Poem hahahaha