|Nothing in particular.|
FFM 17 - Keep WritingA writer walks into a bar. He gets drunk. A poet walks into a bar. She also gets drunk. The poet and the writer are in the same bar, both drunk, and the writer says to the poet, "I hate writing." And the poet says to the writer, "I hate writing too." And they both get even more drunk to escape this fact, which may be a hint as to the stereotype of alcoholic writers.FFM 17 - Keep Writing by Vocable
Later in the night, the poet asks the writer, "Why do we even write?" The writer, unable to answer her, says, "I don't know." The poet asks the writer, "What is it about writing that we keep doing it?" The writer, still unable to answer, says, " I don't know." The poet asks the writer, "Why does it feel as if we are possessed to write by a force we can't explain, that even through our self-loathing we feel a drive to create?" The writer stays silent for a moment then says, "I don't know," and then he continues, "because it is different for each person. I write because I have to, because I feel I must. No matter what this fo
FFM 16 - La Pluie Noire (The Black Rain)Justice is blind and love is blindfolded. Oil fell from the sky in large oozing glops, sliding down my thin glabrous covering, mixing with the dark ichor of my wounds. Harrison drifted before me, smiling from across the spiked parapet, blue gossamer wings stained a murky pitch.FFM 16 - La Pluie Noire (The Black Rain) by Vocable
Why? I asked, my vocalisation distorted in the scratch of dark rain.
We deserved to know the truth, Harrison said, twisting spires of their eyes arching in regret. The world does.
Not at this cost, I say, words struggling out my beak. My gills toiled with the dense sable blocking them. My vision blurred and black pooled beneath my spiralling limbs, my extrusions leaving patterns of ink with their cavities.
Harrison shook their cephalon. I'm sorry. they said, watching me die. Goodbye, Laura. Shadow dripped from the membrane of their wings, the splash of them on carapace lost in the crackling.
Harrison thought they were doing a good thing, that this was necessary. I would have agreed wi
FFM 15 - By FaithAleksandr offers Ewan a vial of pale violet liquid. The teenager takes it, dubious, holding it to his eye.FFM 15 - By Faith by Vocable
"So you're basically giving me a placebo," Ewan says.
"It is not placebo if you believe," Aleksandr replies, calmly standing nearby to make sure Ewan takes the potion, on Marc's orders. "All you need to do is believe it will work and it will."
"Placebo," Ewan repeats, but uncorks the vial anyway and downs its contents with a gulp. He grimaces. "You think believing in something makes it true?"
"Of course." Aleksandr does not know why Ewan does not understand this. As a child of Miorbhail, the miracle-maker, he must have learned that belief is the foundation of his magic. "True enough."
Ewan shakes his head, muttering to himself. "Unbelievable," Aleksandr hears, which is the problem, as he needs to believe. It does not matter. Aleksandr has faith he will learn.
Aleksandr is a demon of smoke, and so he smokes constantly, a cigarette holder rolling sensually between fingertips. It is
FFM 14 - Red TapeIn the Establishment, Maria scoffed at the shouting protesters outside. It was true that they finally submitted all the proper forms and so was legally allowed to congregate outside, but it was still an unappealing sight. The very thing they campaigned for was anathema to her. What would the world do without the forms to tell them? How would we know when someone did something, where someone went without proof? How would the drones know to keep the water units outside to be fully stocked so that the protesters wouldn't dehydrate? A world without paperwork would be a logistic disaster, events happening without being recorded, actions done and no one would know who did them or why. They make a desert and call it peace. Even now she could see the protesters loosely organized outside, their shouts non-uniform.FFM 14 - Red Tape by Vocable
A small buzz sounded in Maria's ear and she faced forward, smiling formally as the leader of the protesters approached. "Welcome to the Administration department. How may I help you t
Machine of Death Volume 2: Open Submissions!Machine of Death is an anthology of short stories with a shared premise: the idea of a machine that uses a blood test that can tell you how you're going to die. It may be vague, but it's never wrong.Machine of Death Volume 2: Open Submissions! by Vocable
From May 1st to July 15th 2011, submissions will be open for all writers and artists. Click the link-slash-title up top for the guidelines!
This poem has been removed.[This poem has been removed as it lacks the emotional and verbal depth to be a real poem.This poem has been removed. by Elle-Oh-Elle
When submitting please remember that a real poet is an outcast and eccentric, with real emotional trauma, and lacking these qualities nothing the submitter writes can ever be considered a poem.
If you wish to re-submit your work, please follow these guidelines:
-o- Please remove all instances of self-depreciation and any words that clearly allude to pain. These are "emo" and therefore not real poetry.
-o- Please do not write about love if under the age of twenty-one, as an adolescent obviously knows nothing about such an adult emotion.
-o- Please do not use common place words, nor anything too obscure. A real poet will know which words are permeable.
-o- Please do not write poetry about the fictional media- it is not real enough to provoke deep emotion.
-o- Please do not write poetry
Post-Apocalyptic ComedyWe roasted the dog, but I think most of the jokes went over his head. He doesn't speak much English anyway, just "sit," "stay," and "Hey, hey stop that!" We only roasted him because we'd already done everyone else-even the cat. The cat got more of the jokes than the dog.Post-Apocalyptic Comedy by NoxLamiarum
Anyway, the first person to get the idea to do a comedic roast was Sam. She'd never seen one, (none of us had) but we'd all fallen victim to the repetitive commercials on Comedy Central advertising them while watching Scrubs, South Park, and Futurama reruns at random hours of the morning in my dimly-lit living room. The basic idea was clear-spend a couple hours poking fun at someone, laugh for a while, then it was over. There are five of us human-beings, so we decided to do it once a month, space it out a bit.
They all wanted to roast me first. Somehow I became the leader, or something. I think it's because I'm the tallest. Or maybe because I've read so many random books. It made me uncomfortab
- "But I really want to talk about vocables to you, Harry. They're words, but you take them just as a group of sounds and letters and pieces, and you don't think about what they mean. Just a mixture of things that you can say, that can come out of your mouth. And sometimes they can be so ingenious that you don't even realise that underneath the sounds and letters and pieces there's no meaning." —Pogrebin, Walking Shadow
Caged BirdMy little bird, beautiful and wild,
trapped in a pretty cage.
I long to hear your voice;
won't you sing for me
just this once?
I'll give you anything you want--
except your freedom.
What happens in CRLit Chat......is shamelessly posted in GM journals. May I present:
A19th century hip hop masterpiece by Vocable
Dedicated to Halatia. Sacks attributed to zebrazebrazebra.
i was all up in my arts, courting the ladies with romantic verbosity when this straight up smatchet came up and messed my vibes. mandrake totally blagged up my dollymops, bubbies or chicken-breasted don't matter, took them to his crib, upshowing me, led me to the streets to the seamstresses. them ladies with easy virtue, those rantipole's smashing blind cupid out on display
docked with my lawful blanket and then sneaked into the night to shag my left-handed wife. inserted gaying instrument into her fruitful vine, dabbed it up with her dugs, my convenient's commodity supertight. other men left loll tongued at her madge, her diddeys. i say to them, she be muffed to good health, mandrakes. you bitches can't get no laced mutton, your Nebuchadnezzar only a modicum of mettle, no nanc