BWAH!
Spike: I'm not a monster. Xander: Yes! You are a monster. Vampires are monsters! They make monster movies about them! Spike: Well, yeah. Got me there.
'Dirty Girls'
The Great Write Way
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
deborah grabien - Dec 10, 2004 8:56:58 pm PST #8623 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
victor infante - Dec 10, 2004 9:03:04 pm PST #8624 of 10001
To understand what happened at the diner, we shall use Mr. Papaya! This is upsetting because he's the friendliest of fruits.
BWAHHAHA!
I've just written 44. May write more in the morning. I'll post 'em on my LJ tomorrow, after the reading.
erikaj - Dec 11, 2004 6:32:48 am PST #8625 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Mary Jane Watson
sees the red and blue webbed spider suit.
She finally knows.
deborah grabien - Dec 11, 2004 7:25:20 am PST #8626 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
I seriously thought about trying a haiku based on the characters Kavalier and Klay came up with. Escapiste!
victor infante - Dec 11, 2004 7:56:11 am PST #8627 of 10001
To understand what happened at the diner, we shall use Mr. Papaya! This is upsetting because he's the friendliest of fruits.
No more comic book haiku today. Too tired, and woke up sinusy. Bleh. The fortysomething from yesterday will have to do.
Will also be reading the Andy Warhol poems. Tried to finish a new one last night, but it just didn't come. No big. "Warhol Days" and "There is No Word for 'Fear of Culture'" are plenty long enough, and I've got a couple appropriate older pieces to throw in.
Lilty Cash - Dec 11, 2004 8:13:51 am PST #8628 of 10001
"You see? THAT's what they want. Love, and a bit with a dog."
I know it's haiku day, but I'm going to sneak in a drabble.
Everyone in the house is tired, stretched to the last threads of patience, of composure. Hope left days ago, and now all that’s left is the sound of her breathing, raspy, wretched, and everywhere. The power has been out for hours, lines blown down by the wind. In the kitchen, an aunt and uncle share a bottle of wine over an old mulberry candle. In her room, people perch on her bed, stroking her hands, murmuring last promises. My mother sits quiet in the corner, afraid of the dark. Having said all my goodbyes, I leave before it’s over. Twenty minutes later, the phone rings. It’s done.
deborah grabien - Dec 11, 2004 8:49:50 am PST #8629 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Oh, Lilty, lovely.
This scares me. I wrote it, didn't look at it, just highlighted it and told Word to count it. 100 words, first shot. Not changing anything.
Do-Over
If I could do it all again
Six years, do it over, have it back
Like a child with a ball, stuck between high tree limbs
Crying and stamping
Do-over.
Would I be more visible, more insistent
Would I care for you better, hold less tightly
Would I have become the centre of your universe
Your firmament's brightest star
Would you have loved me more, forgotten her
Would you still be alive?
It didn't have to end that way
Shouldn't have ended at all
My own doing, the child, the ball, the high tree limbs
Weeping into the morning
Do-over.
Lilty Cash - Dec 11, 2004 8:51:42 am PST #8630 of 10001
"You see? THAT's what they want. Love, and a bit with a dog."
Sweet Jesus, Deb. That's inspired.
deborah grabien - Dec 11, 2004 9:02:07 am PST #8631 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Sometimes it feels as if every damned word I write about him, and those years, is inspired.
As mentioned in the 2004 byebye thread, if Teppy hadn't begun this idea, I would quite possible have lost my sanity, especially in September.
Lilty Cash - Dec 11, 2004 9:05:49 am PST #8632 of 10001
"You see? THAT's what they want. Love, and a bit with a dog."
Well, you've channeled it incredibly. I wish I could write about the rough stuff with more clarity. It feels like every time I try to start, it gets blurry and moves away from me. Not the actual people and events, but the emotion behind it, the reason I'm writing about it in the first place.