|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 TapeMaria scoffed at the protesters outside, loosely organized and shouting non-uniform It was true they finally submitted the proper forms and so was legally allowed to congregate outside, but they were still an unappealing sight. The very thing they campaigned for was anathema. 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.FFM 14 - Red Tape by Vocable
A small buzz sounded in Maria's ear and she faced forward, smiling formally when the leader of the protesters approached. "Welcome to the Administration department. How may I help you today?"
"I would like to submit a formal complaint," the leader said politely, through grit
Why Peter is not a poet.Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Cole:Why Peter is not a poet. by freudenschade
1. His eyebrows are the most expressive arches his body has to offer.
2. He's so terrified that his very expressive eyebrows are threatening to take up permanent residence in his hairline.
3. He does not have suicidal tendencies, and later understands--for the sake of his mother's heart and Officer Roy's bladder control--that his strategies for
O Dan Rot.Dan Rot, a manO Dan Rot. by claytonwoolery
of considerable comic timing
who came on rackety wings around the globe
in thirty days or so,
visiting once again with a night on his heels
copping feels on innocent ladies pillowed in bathtubs,
i was black like night
and i was ringed in rainfall
i was so glorious
a spiraling psyche led me to one thing
and this town never could have contained me
a spinning science to my insanity
bends in the system and curves of the power lines
a beauty to plywood and splinter breaks that cannot be defined
bends in the path, a northward slide
strand you in a parking lot
i was vicious and viscous
and i was perfect
as i die i know you have too
as i fade over snapped trees
all is quiet and all is dead
and i curved away.
Ms. Civit, a woman
of considerable jazz influence
who culled in her snatch fifty thousand
squirming little nothings
ravished by the callous allure of Mr. Rot
(who raped her mercilessly,)
on the ground on the ground and the fever is rising
upside down min
- "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