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 QUICK WRITING JAM!, get the juices flowing!
Lar
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 11:49 AM
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i'll give us like.... twenty to thirty minutes to write, then we're on to the next prompt! Other people can choose the prompt depending who joins etc


idk let's just write with ABSOLUTELY NO INTENTION OF BEING GOOD


first prompt:
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Lar
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 12:06 PM
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He sees her face on the morning news, every morning. And her long blonde hair that smells of gardenia, her warm wrists that radiate perfume—some glass-bottled gift he'd bought her on their second date, fool that he was. He can imagine her pulse beating through the thin skin of her neck under his rough lips, her exquisite softness.

Some mornings he calls out of work, when he knows they won't need him—knows that Julien and the others will keep the place running like clockwork. He lays beneath the blankets with the news turned up loud enough that her voice permeates the comforter, that her laugh chimes in his ears. If he imagines hard enough, it's as if the bed fills with her weight, as if he might roll over to find her curves pressed against him and all the sheets bunched on her side of the bed.

Some mornings he is determined to prove her wrong. He pries himself out of bed and presses his clothes; dresses sharply for a day in the office. He swears at her from the shower, calling her an unfaithful slut, a cold bitch, a goddamn dyke.

Some mornings he sits on the foot of the bed with his face in his hands.

And every morning—

every morning

he turns on the news.
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Lar
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 12:21 PM
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31 minutes GET POSTING

bird will get to choose the next prompt if she posts her response!
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bird
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 12:31 PM
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"I've been thinking," he says, when the song ends. Vera looks up at him and starts to unwind her arm from around his neck, because nothing good ever started that way. The hall smells like smoke and cedar and leather; Texas western chic done on an oil-rigger's budget, all grins and loose limbs, a little sweat cooling in the air after the last quickfooted little fiddle number. He doesn't fight it when she pulls away, but then he also doesn't give up her hand so easy. He says, "You ever miss it?"

Vera takes their beer glasses from the sticky tabletop: lager served a little flat and a little warm. She hands him his glass and knocks them together, once. "Just the sea," she says, as if the faded blue check of his shirt might remind her of it, but he is no more the Atlantic than this place is Texas, with muddy snow stomped off the soles of cowboy boots melting in the hallway in. "Other than that, it's like any place, I guess. Can't say I spent much time there. Not since I was a kid."

It's not the right answer, though, is it? It can't be. He has a good, kind face even when he's drinking, not quite handsome but always a little hopeful, and she knows what it probably looks like now even when he hides it behind his drink. "I just thought," he starts, and thinks better of it, emptying his beer glass. He looks at her then, a little bolder. "Maybe we could go back, you know? Start over. Twenty grand buys you a house out there, and I've been saving up. We could get married, if you wanted to."

Just the sea, Vera thinks, and she wonders if it's ever looked the way that she remembers it: green glassy scarps and white tongues in the summer, blue ice in the harbour sometimes floating in. Wide-eyed seals look up from the wake of her father's little outboard. But she can't remember the colour of the clapboard of her old house, not the way he must. He has photos pinned to the walls of the little mudlogging shack he works in, smiling cousins and panting Golden Retrievers. She imagines the house that his twenty thousand dollars would buy. She imagines that he'd paint it just that same colour, the one she can't remember.

"James," she starts, after some time, and her voice sounds like it comes from a great distance. When she puts her hand on his arm, she has to reach across the golden prairies to do it.

But he's already got his jacket half-on, and his cigarettes back in his pocket. "Forget it, Vee," he says, softly, shaking his head. "It's okay. I get it."

He doesn't come back to the bar after that, and Vera orders another round, and then another, and then another. Later that night, she sways gently to the hum of the music inside, sharing a toke with a stranger in the Alberta sleet. She closes her eyes, breathing the smoke out. She thinks that it could be blue.

--------------------
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bird
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 12:39 PM
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NEW PROMPT




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Lar
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 12:58 PM
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You knew the stars in the sky—by name
back in the Before. Nonna taught you,
each has a story, each has a purpose.
We walk by them, we hunt by them
We eat and sleep and breathe by them.

She never told you this: that one day
these stars you learned would be gone;
that the world could change in a lifetime.
You are amongst them now, a prisoner
of the universe, hurtling—uncharted—
between the stars. They give us one chance,
she'd said, to listen to the world around us.

You think you hear the noiseless pop of fission.
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bird
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 01:09 PM
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UGH THIS ONE IS BAD

--

"You ever wonder if minds are colonial?"

You think that maybe you haven't heard him right.

"As in, colonized?" Like toxoplasma gondii, the darling of the nature blogs. The parasitic wasp, laying its larva in the head of a spider, puppeteering a shivering corpse, or the thin spires of ophiocordyceps unilateralis skewering the dead zombie body of an ant. Or kuru, maybe -- the madness of a misfolded protein. You've had this conversation before -- parasitism and prions; god, isn't life a horror show? You are both scientists, people of reason, the kind of people who know these things. You shrug and say, "I don't see why not."

"I mean colonial. Like a man o' war, or an aspen colony. Like, we got cell organelles from all the things the proto-eukaryotes ate, right? We swallowed them up and made them functional."

You saw a transect into your steak and mushroom pie, when it comes. You are drunk enough to entertain this.

"Bit of a stretch to go from that to consciousness, though."

"Why's it a stretch? Neurons aren't anything special. Electric impulse from one end to the other, right? Put enough units together in enough discrete arrangements. Douse with hormones. Bake at four hundred for a few million years. Besides, maybe you don't even need structure -- maybe you just need processes to adequately mimic intelligence, you know? Slime molds have got complex networks figured out and they don't even have eyes."

"It's a bit more complicated than that, actually," you say, but you realize you have to placate him. You didn't think he was talking that loudly, but now you realize that everyone else in the restaurant is looking at you two, and god, you don't want to seem like an out-of-towner.

"It's not like it would even have to make its own. It could just absorb --"

"Look, Charlie. It's a honey fungus. It's not some kind of super-brain that's watching you. It's just big, okay? That's all."

You could tell him more, maybe; you could draw him diagrams. But the waitress turns up at your elbow just then with preternatural swiftness, and she smiles, and she asks you if you want a little pepper.
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Lar
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 11:06 PM
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PHOTO PROMPT TIME

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bear
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 11:26 PM
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"I learned... the earth is a mirror for the universe."

"Hm. That's a bit centrist, innit it? Like saying the sun runs around the earth?"

"... Runs? Really?"

She settled on a stone jutting out over the lake, her fingers hesitantly touching the thin film of moss, "Hm. The moss is more prominent than it was last year. What's the pH reading?"

"Higher."

"Mm." She reached into a canvas bag, pulling out a translucent dixie cup with a lid. "If the universe looks into us as a reflection, the universe hasn't been taking care of herself. I'm calling it, one day we'll see a three-eyed frog. What have we done to you?" Beneath the moss was a scrounge of litter, discarded beer cans, cigarettes, and the plastic packages with the rings still intact.

"Are you calling us a blemish?" Her companion jested, a grin crossing his face though something grim lingered beneath.

"... Let's get this stuff back to the lab."

"Evening."

She looked back over the lake, where the trees stood proud and tall, the sky reflected in the lake and the sun settled in the west. When night approached, it reminded her that one day, earth will move forward without them just as well as it functioned before them.
"... Yes. It is an evening. Well done."
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Lar
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 11:27 PM
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There is pain in a crisp blue sky. She has it memorized thanks to a long snow-packed winter in college, where the early morning walk across campus soothed her; she remembers how sharp the light got then, the weight of her head on her shoulders, the sensation of freefall—those times when making it through the day one second at a time, fixating on the little things as a wall against the huge.

She remembers the first time she learned that shadows change colors, on a day like that where the morning sun slanted through the sky. The class walked across campus together, and she saw—clearly, for the first time—that the shadows were bluer, greener. More than grey.

And so it aches to see that sky again, searingly blue softened by clouds. It aches to smell the azaleas clumped in their groves, arranged into man's approximation of nature. To see the mindful marks of zen in the pathways.

It hurts to know that even in spring—even in this best time of the year—

There is pain in a crisp blue sky.
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Poette
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 11:32 PM
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Joseph’s feet were worn down to blisters: he didn’t recall being younger and minding the good rub on the back of his heel, under his big toe, and right in that sweet spot where his arch was as being a deterrent to any physical activity that involved a pair of shoes. Only now was regret seeping into the wound and he sat down on a rock while his partner navigated up a less than steady rock face, peering up ahead.

She half-turned, corkscrewing her body back toward him and sighing. Even her bones ached in the places a woman never knew she could hurt.

“Are you sure we have the right place?” There was a tinge of suspicion, of disbelief that he could have gotten it all wrong.

“No ‘lake-that-mirrors-heaven, garden-more-sacred-than-Eden?’ ” Head met bark. If he closed his eyes just so, it’s there in his vision as the pamphlet prophesied. What was staring back at Jessica Hinely not only did not meet expectations, but looked to be even more endless wilderness.

“No. Do these cultists know anything about directions?” The tip of her hiking boot fiddled with a soft spot in the earth. Ants swarmed over, coating it tarry.

“They compared their ritual grounds to heaven. I’m not sure anything in their pamphlet qualifies as reliable. They’re probably the sort to nick your wrist in the wrong place, call it a necessary sacrifice as you’re bleeding out, and then-”

A death glare shot across the forest, “Don’t you dare finish that statement. I don’t want to know the machinations in your mind, nor do I care to venture further into that thought. We came for a story; now I am tired and the fact that you tripped and ruined our sandwiches is really getting to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. You toasted them perfectly and everything.” Hunger was forgotten by foot pain, now reminded and in full force. His stomach gurgled when there was a shifting in the branches above her head.

Whist.
Plop.
Drip.


Something nauseatingly brown-red smeared down the cleft in Jess’s dimple while she noticed the way his hair lit up from the canopy above. The next drop met the heart shaped divet in between her upper lips, slicking it wet with a hue he may have liked as lipstick, but was forever ruined as his eyes gazed upwards at a dead deer and the hunter whose boot branded into its fur. A cigarette hung out of the side of his mouth as he licked his lips, “Wanna head over to my place and share this fine specimen?” He grinned too white-- too broadly back at them as Jess began screaming in the three minutes it took her to look up and realize blood was on her face. Trophy or not-- cultist or not-- they were outta here.
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Poette
 Posted: Aug 3 2015, 11:50 PM
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bear
 Posted: Aug 4 2015, 12:00 AM
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Monsters.

Monsters came in the shape of people. And when we truly dissected the human, we learn that we're very toothless. We have no claws, we have no fangs, we have no poison in our skin, no bright colors to warn others.

We have no wings, no gills.

Our heart has four chambers and our skin is thin.

Humans.

But,

Metal.

Humans have metal. And with a thumb on the hammer, two fingers on the trigger, the tip pointed between the eyes of every single apex predator to cross their path on this green earth, they climbed to the top of the food chain. We lived on a blue earth and we couldn't breathe in water, and yet we still stood on top.
Monsters were human.

Humans have thin skin, we bleed easily, our tolerance for pain is brief. We're here because of an accidental collision of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen in a lake of primordial ooze.

Click.

And what happens next was the sound of the world exploding.
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Poette
 Posted: Aug 4 2015, 12:23 AM
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“Darling, you made a wrong turn into Sin City,” her accent betrays a nationality he knows is ‘not from around here,’ but instead of causing him to drop his whiskey he’s been circling for the past hour (the ice long diluted)-- it arouses the baser questions in his mind. Who is she? What the hell is wrong with his landlord? It’s the third damn week in a row these hot off the streets, prostitutes with a gun have crawled up to his sixth floor apartment for the view and the room. The sex doesn’t sell quite the same way with a gun bifurcating the countenance of her face. He never knew whether she truly looked like a woman or a gun as the image blended together.

“Look, ah,” he swirls the whiskey over and over. There’s a long extinguished cigar resting on his side table. He gives it a wayward look as though it is a conspirator -- as a victim, or a woman with a gun, he doesn’t question. She punctuates questions with a barrel aimed at him. His heart, his breast, his button-downed chest-- whatever the ladies called it these days. They were always aiming at something below his line of thinking, like the criminality of poverty in the orphanage or the corruption and inequality of the working class and the urchins on the streets paid 50 bucks to go under the sheets.

Immorality was a name on an avenue sign, wavering back and forth when transient graffiti artists clambered up it to smear it out. She still had a gun to his face and a prayer on his lips, wetted with an aged liquor. Religion never tasted sweeter.

“Look, whatever they paid you to do what you did,” he raises his glass between them-- his weapon against hers but it is futile in the long run, “I’ll pay you double to get out of here.” It’s the wrong line, used week after week. It’s the reason they come back, one after one looking for dough and dope to ease their suffering. Desperate people create criminal occupations-- this one included.

“Yeah? Well, what if I don’t want your money?” Wrist circles gun, fingers nudge the trigger.

“Do you want my insides splattered on the walls like some Pollock? Are you a copycat? The gun doesn’t buy you time. Maybe the good cops won’t be here for an hour or two, but the dirty ones always find trouble sooner. They deal in blackmail, and honey you’re too pretty without the bruises to necessitate the honor of getting them now.”

There’s a laugh-- a hearty, boyish laugh as the figure rips off their voluminous hair, letting it fall to the ground with a stiff thunk. He stares at the person across the room with eyes set deep in his skull where otherwise they might have protruded in shock. But that’s the point of facades these days, get a reaction, get the eyes just right, gleaming in the light. Get the photo on the daily news, the man who got pranked.

“Gottfried? Man, what are you doing these days?”

Gottfried pulls out an old-fashioned lipstick holder and extracts a bullet or two, rubbing them together before putting them back. “Do you know how much these women make, Robert? It’s a damn shame you and I didn’t think of this sooner.”

Gottfried strolls over to the cracked leather chair and places a heeled foot down on it in between Robert’s legs. He’s wearing hose, hose for Christ’s sake. He swallows his own tongue, noticing the costume as though art itself pasted with dollar signs.

“This is your new financial venture?” He muses, clinking the whiskey to the gun and downing it the way a man drinks when Russian Roulette clicks empty on his turn. He’s not sure whether it is brilliant or whether Gottfried has lost his sense, but considering the price he was about to pay for a quiet Thursday night, he doesn’t have to think long on the proposal on the edge of Gottfried's tongue.
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bird
 Posted: Aug 4 2015, 01:00 AM
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an instrumental, moody sort of prompt because it's late
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