Fan-fiction, short stories, screenplays, poems -- anything text-based really belongs here.
Fri Aug 29, 2008 1:57 am
Tuor wrote:Speaking of that old girlfriend, poem I wrote after we broke up.
Bleed that crimson stuff
the thing of life
pour it out for me
show that you can feel
shed a single drop
to show that it's within
feel the pain that you caused
the tears so undeserved
run the blade
dance on the edge
I was rather distressed.
I'm glad that either of you are still alive...
Fri Feb 13, 2009 5:58 pm
I demand an update! I also really like those last poems you posted.
Sat Feb 14, 2009 6:18 pm
Haha, I haven't had much time lately to write much. I'll try to get something up soon, just for you.
Mon Nov 30, 2009 6:07 am
Suddenly struck by the mood to write, dashed this off before bed.
The Valiant Dead
And what's to stop the valiant dead
from coming after us, instead
of going to their endless sleep,
to hear no sounds save for a weep.
Short hours before they knew feelings,
went with us in our dealings,
of debauchery and sin.
They seemed to know we could not win.
And now they lie in mangled heaps,
the rain across their armour sweeps
beneath the pale and sickly moon.
Their judgement comes, no nay their doom
Tue Jan 05, 2010 3:34 pm
Thu Sep 30, 2010 2:20 pm
The moon shone down, pale and cold, silhouetting the naked trees. The boy hunched his shoulders and wrapped his arms about himself. I say boy, but in truth he is within that awkward phase of adolescence where he should probably start to shave but is too proud of his sparse facial hair. His breath streams behind him, a faint trail of mist left in his wake. He adopts a swaggering gait to bolster his resolve; the night scares him, though he didn't let on before. He didn't let on when rides were offered or groups were setting off for other destinations. Now he was alone; now he was terrified. The night was dark, but the moon shone eerily, showing the scape in sharp contrast.
As he walks he has cause to pause. The boy is passing by an area where the forest presses up against the town. Out of the trees he hears humming, sickeningly silky and sonorous. He begins to move faster and the humming follows, crashing after him. The boy turns to look and in that instant his foot catches and he tumbles into the brush. His hands gashed and his knee shredded, he lies still. He's perpetually short of breath, it's caught in his chest and he dares not inhale deeply. The humming is coming. Twigs snap and branches shuffle. Silent tears course down his face as he peers out. His heart throbs in his throat and suddenly his body feels on fire.
The humming is everywhere now. Words now. "The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."
A big crash come from behind him and the boy whirls, ready to flee, or shit himself, or both. Nothing.
Then warm breath caresses his ear.
"And miles to go before I sleep."
Fri Oct 01, 2010 6:58 pm
Tuor is so hawt~~
Fri Jul 22, 2011 4:45 pm
The rain poured down, washing across the windows, streaking them, distorting the people beyond. He liked to people watch, but that was not why he had chosen the large chair near the windows. He was expecting a guest. A guest who was twenty minutes late, but he was a gentleman so he would wait.
"A gentleman or a shmuck?" he pondered, gazing into the dim street. It was just past midday but the gloom was so deep the streetlights were on, casting pools of orange light onto the pavement.
A sigh escaped his lips as he drummed his fingers. He was too nice, he was taken advantage of. Any other jerk would have left by now, but no, not him. He rose, leaving his jacket and moved outside, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. Huddling under the awning of the café he lit it. The teen was a new smoker, he held the cigarette all wrong, unable to pull off the nonchalance so attached to the act; it steadied him nonetheless. As he exhaled he mused that at this temperature he could have pretended he was smoking and been almost as convincing. Chuckling he attempted to blow smoke rings for a few moments before giving up.
Suddenly he saw her coming. He flicked the butt into the gutter and retreated inside, he would pretend he hadn't seen. Half an hour late, half an hour late, she wouldn't stand up some other guy for half an hour. She'd catch hell this time, he swore.
Last edited by Tuor
on Fri Dec 16, 2011 9:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wed Dec 14, 2011 4:33 am
Dude, it needs more~
I've been loving short stories lately.
Wed Dec 14, 2011 4:37 am
Thu Dec 15, 2011 2:47 pm
Bk-o wrote:Dude, it needs more~
I've been loving short stories lately.
I think you miss the point of flash fiction.
Nice to see you doing more, Tuor. I think I've inspired you. :3
Also, typo in the first sentence.
Have you shown me this before?
Fri Dec 16, 2011 9:07 pm
I've showed you that piece before, ya. This is the piece where I scribbled it down while drunk and then copied it onto the computer
Mon Dec 19, 2011 6:27 pm
I really like those small pieces of prose, I see some things never change. Great job Tuor.
Mon Dec 19, 2011 7:20 pm
Thanks, Elend! Glad you like 'em
Sat Jan 21, 2012 11:57 pm
I just noticed how many views this has in comparison to how many replies, haha
Tue Apr 10, 2012 2:53 am
Something I just did really quickly today, input?
Why now, not later?
What makes this moment the one?
The world that moves around you?
The stars, the moon, the sun?
Or does it come from something else, something down inside?
When you allow yourself to open
and swallow up your pride?
Then you see the truth of your mentality
Let yourself feel that truth, and accept reality.
Thu Apr 12, 2012 3:17 pm
Interesting rhyme scheme. Is it ABCB ABA AA?
Thu Apr 12, 2012 5:56 pm
Thu Apr 12, 2012 8:50 pm
Was that a conscious decision? You should be going to school here. There's a poetry professor here who organizes national poets to come and read and reads himself with such passion. He should basically be the laureate.
Recordings of his readings: http://robertfanning.com/readings.html
Fri Apr 13, 2012 3:46 am
I didn't start the poem intending to do that rhyme scheme. I never really start poems with a certain pattern in mind, I feel like it constrains me. I just start and see what pattern will work with the flow.
Fri Apr 13, 2012 6:45 am
Did you check out that poet's stuff? Today he's hosting an event on campus where people come and just read poetry by a pond all day.
Thu Apr 19, 2012 7:13 pm
My face is cold, and wet, and warm, at the same time, and my split lip is stinging. I'm face down in a puddle, and it is turning cloudy from my blood. She's walking away, and he's walking with her, and I'm not moving as I watch them go. I thought I meant something, but clearly was a fool. As my front turns damp and the puddle starts to taste metallic, I think of my delusion, and wonder. I wonder if I ever mattered, if my gestures mattered, if my outpourings mattered, or if she had just gone along with it all the while, and then gotten tired of me and found an excuse. The puddle starts to turn salty.
When I rise it doesn't feel like pushing myself up, it feels like pushing the earth away, and I sigh as the idea of pure love leaves me, replaced by a harsher reality. All that's left to fuel me is a fire in my veins as I spit out blood, and venom, and idyllic romance into the gutter. A thick, misty rain begins that turns the streetlights' rays into orange orbs around them and penetrates layers of clothing. It envelopes my face and cools my cut as I turn to walk to the station, or perhaps a bar, and I weigh the options in my mind, as I walk with my face upturned for cleansing. I sigh, again, through half closed lips and run a hand through my hair, somehow feeling that appearance still matters.
Cars swish by and I wonder where they are going, and then ask myself the same question. I'm halfway to a friend's and I feel all right about that, I guess, because I keep walking. She was always there and I knew I had been out of touch, but I needed someone now. I rang her number. She buzzed me in and I climbed the floors to her apartment. She's already standing at her door. She's wearing a large white shirt off one shoulder, her tresses in disarray. She looks like salvation; my face bares all.
Tender hands guide me and I just make it inside before breaking down. My clothes are soaked through so she makes me change into a spare pair of men's pyjamas, which I take to the bathroom. Hanging my things I ignore my reflection and go back to the main room. The flat is small so it doubles as the bedroom. Her bed seems huge and, piled with cushions and thick duvets, like the softest I've ever felt. She wraps herself around me, smelling like mandarine, and bergamot, and fresh soap, and I fall asleep listening to her breathe.
Wed Mar 20, 2013 8:35 pm
Hot damn, Tuor. You're good at conveying mental imagery.
Wed Mar 20, 2013 8:44 pm
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