FFM 2018 6 - Principles of Uncertainty by Vocable, literature
Literature
FFM 2018 6 - Principles of Uncertainty
To my Brother Bentius,
The quieter you are, the more you can hear. But you can never truly experience total quiescence. Even in the most silent of places, you’ll still hear your breath, your heartbeat, the thrum of blood rushing through your veins. These are signs that you are alive.
Uncertainties always exist in life. You should know this better than I as a Scholar of the Principalities, but I feel you need reminding of the guiding truths that you have long followed. The coming war soon approaches but you need not hasten yourself to meet it. The more you hasten, the more uncertain your position becomes.
Slow down, my Brother, and fi
FFM 2018 5 - It Was on the List by Vocable, literature
Literature
FFM 2018 5 - It Was on the List
Garmund didn’t really believe in prophecies but he believed in Zreoban. The elf was the smart one between the two of them. Didn’t Zreoban say that Garmund’s own blood-brother would betray him? And that the long slimy fish Garmund caught in the gray river would give him a nasty stomachache even if he was an orc?
Zreoban saw a lot of things Garmund didn’t. His friend was a seer, he knew. A see-r and sightseer. They traveled a lot and Garmund got to see many things also.
The axe in Garmund’s hand did not feel heavy but Garmund thought it should. Garmund thought he was getting stronger, he was not tired though he h
Warm and dry wind scattered sand over the dunes where Dosne walked, flapping his clothes.
Everyone offered their dead to the desert and this was the least fertile region of it, no vegetation in sight, only the vast mineral landscape that extended into the horizon. And so this is where the dead were buried in sand or left facing the sky. Dosne imagined bodies drying up and turning into skeletons, and those skeletons becoming brittle and eroding into dust. Their bodies are the sand we stand on, countless ancestors supporting our feet.
He often walked into this region of the desert, the part that was least untouched by man. Compared with the v
A good story begins at the ending. He can only hope the multiverse is one such story.
The concrete shelves tower over his form as he walks through them, searching for the next staircase upwards. His eyes glance over the books filling those shelves—not to scan their titles out of curiosity or a thirst of knowledge but to beware of any traps. The perception-triggered runes were the nastiest of the lot, requiring him to avoid looking at the spines of the books or he’d set off the spells linked to them. And yet he had to look in case there was something nasty was waiting, like touch-sensitive worms or those papery bats that masquerad
PNEUMA (1)
Hot and wet. The meadow is an open space where flowers bud, where roots push out of damp soil. Movement is the exchange for growth. Wind blowing: unknown in source, unknown in destination. I hear the ghost of your breathing.
GASTER (2)
Hot and dry. The sand is a lachrymal bowl where tears petrify, where an angry golden god continually weeps. Light is the energy for transformation. Dunes lapping: heat that rises, heat that penetrates. The scent of your burnt flesh lingers.
OSTEON (3)
Cold and dry. The leaves are a dying bed where teeth and hair fall, where skin sloughs off. Gravity is the pillow for death. Burdens calling: a de
"I forgot to save…"
— Last Words of Hero Theodore Raspel in battle with the Arch-demon Guzalthazar
Many scholars have argued about the last words of Hero Theodore. While the weakened Arch-demon Guzalthazar was quickly slain by the gathered forces and his demonic army routed, much confusion remained in the aftermath of the conflict.
Who or what did Hero Theodore forget to save? Perhaps it was a loved one unknown to the masses? A great city or his hometown? Soldiers were dispatched to many locations under the order of many officials but no further demonic incursions occurred or were recorded.
Close friends to hero were as much in
George frowned, continuing to stab the corpse of a five-foot-long caterpillar. His stick made wet squelching sounds every time it thrust into the soft flesh of the bug. "So this thing… has my soul?"
The wizard standing behind him answered in a high squeaky voice. "Why, yes. That Deadfall Crawler should be your counterpart in this world. Now that you've killed it and absorbed its mirror of your soul, your spiritual connection to mana should be established which should allow you to use magic. Theoretically speaking, you're now considered part of this world's system so there'll be no need for your anchor point."
George continued stabbing
You wake up to the smell of sweet smoky meat, the sound of sizzling grease, and a head like pyramid stones being hammered by ten thousand workers. A groan escapes your desiccated lips, your supine position on the floor helping gravity to push where your lungs once were. A near-empty jar of palm wine is cradled between your arms as a makeshift pillow, some of its contents splashed on the bandages of your chest.
It takes you a while to get up, pushing the jar away and grabbing onto nearby stonework for good leverage before stumbling bullishly towards where the smell is coming from. A man wrapped in bandages the color of ripe peach stood over t
Here was a man of effluence. I could scarce imagine what filthy things he'd done and was afraid to wonder.
He approached, his presence growing stronger. I reeled, and though the tunnel was dark I saw rays of light and brilliant lasers.
I saw him then.
The retired pirate stood in his element: the literal gutter. Unused as this place was, its age only made the waste more potent, congealing and hardening into gross chunks of grime.
My breasts heaved, staring into the septic-slimed muscles of the sewer-pirate. His ripe musk made me light-headed. I could handle no more.
I vomited.
FFM 4 - The Spine of the World by Vocable, literature
Literature
FFM 4 - The Spine of the World
He can't remember when he last took the medication. It could have been weeks. He doesn't know, can't think: skull pulsing with maggots. They've burrowed into the cavity of his braincase, squirmed against the flat bones of his cranium. He hears them sliding, feels them fester in his grey matter. Feels them breed.
He can't go outside. Hasn't tried, too afraid, yet promises each time, huddled in a dull corner, he will do it, soon. He sees a flickering shadow waiting. He hears metal screams. He is cured but they will poison him. To leave was slavery, to stay starvation.
He reaches a hand but his fingers are palm leaves. His body is a knife, too
We are screened. By television screens. By computer screens. By phones and photographs and profiles.
How much of our life goes to watching the screen, living vicariously through it?
We are fed: news feeds and updates and a sea of signs all clamoring for attention. We are a target audience. We are encouraged not to look away.
Why would you want to look away? It's good entertainment. Better business.
We are shot by cameras, more real in image than life. We are followed. We are always seen. We are tracked, devices everywhere. In private, in public, in every pocket.
Our every action logged, our every post tagged. Our daily lives under a con
Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of Christmas by Vocable, literature
Literature
Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of Christmas
Nietzsche eyed the gaudy Christmas decorations. The pressure of providing all the people he knew with gifts weighed heavily and he once more wondered what the point of it all was.
Around him were people like him, shopping for Christmas gifts to show the people they knew they cared about them. But unlike him, they were constantly in motion, shoving against each other, searching and purchasing. The shopping mall was filled and Nietzsche felt he was the only one not caught in the fervor of Christmas.
He stepped outside to the parking lot to properly monologue.
"What is the point?" Nietzsche wondered to himself out loud. "What is the meaning o
When Nietzsche was fifty-five years old, he died and went into the afterlife where he was filed into the Literary Realm. There he enjoyed his contemplations and spent time outside of time in the profound ecstasy of his own mind. But at last, someone stumbled upon him in his thoughts, and he went before the stranger, knew him despite not knowing him, and spoke to him thus:
You, Hunter S. Thompson! You have wrapped truth with your gaudy own! You make it new for yourself. Would you have wearied of truth if not for the loud finery you veil it in.
Behold. One must have tasted iron to take solace in the outrageous, but one must be hard to take so
The basic rule of sociology is this: I am who you think I am.
Who I am to you: middle-aged, male and human. You do not argue with this. You can see it for yourself!
But this is not true.
I am tired of lying, tired of being other than I am, and so seek to change your thoughts of who I purport to be.
I am not middle-aged. I am seven years old—from the date I was manufactured not the date I was activated. As for how long it has been since I was first conscious, it would be a scant three years, nearly half of that time I've spent with you.
I am not male—what is male anyway? A gender construct? This body is male and I was given a
He went up the mountains, slept there
and went back down.
Thinking of twilight, an apple clutched
between both hands.
The flash of a camera, home in a taxi.
Conversations heard from the second floor.
A man hospitalized for firework burns
dreams of Hiroshima.
The crunch of an apple, a tongue licking its juice
from the corners of a mouth.
Explosions for New Year's, quiet dinner
for Christmas.
The woman upstairs undresses herself.
The wind pummels a face, the horizon,
thoughts of dragons circa 2010.
Inflammed arms dipped in ice.
The shore is cold. Salted water
on a man's face.
Depression is a symptom. People don't
trust her,
Movement fails (in all directions). by Vocable, literature
Literature
Movement fails (in all directions).
Uncertainty spreads itself on your shadow in the east,
I wanting even your adumbration in the light.
The air between us relaxes only when departing
to somewhere sighing as it insinuates all.
Indeed the depths between us fills mostly west
and even this we presumed dying.
My self and your gaining obscuration
contrary to resting, confused and at once decisive.
That which is north is bluebruise false
and I linger in the south, shaded and inscribed.
A minotaur and centaur walk into a bar.
"I'm not gay, you know," says the minotaur to the centaur. Both are noticeably male and shirtless.
"I know you aren't," says the centaur. "We're just hanging out. As friends."
"I don't know. This still seems pretty gay."
"Look, there's nothing gay about it. I'm gay but you're not gay and unless this is a gay bar or we run into gay people, I think you're pretty safe." The centaur looks at the barkeep. "This isn't a gay bar, right?" The barkeep shakes his head. "See? Nothing to worry about."
The minotaur grumbles but takes a seat while the centaur continues standing since the bar doesn't seem to be p
life (I'll stay in yours, please stay in mine) by YouInventedMe, literature
Literature
life (I'll stay in yours, please stay in mine)
just a few sentences
made the looming dark
and fading light
into a description of sunset
our minutes remembered
and sure to return
whatever comes
whatever terror
whatever
backwards-dragging
shadow or
fearsome
people-shaped weather
our hands shall remain clasped
we will deal with it together
(our hearts are still stuck fast
we remain each other's shelter)
Poetic terms and techniques
This article aims to give you a brief introduction to some poetic terms with which you can bemuse your friends and nonplus your enemies. Try and sling some of these terms into a casual conversation and watch the ensuing confusion.
If you don't want to confuse people, you could use these terms to discuss poetry like a badass while smoking unfiltered cigarettes in a French cafe, when critiquing, or to give your own poetry a bit of a vajazzle.
These terms are arranged vaguely into alphabetical order for your convenience. Some of them will be covered in more detail in other articles throughout the week.
Alliterat
What is a Beta Reader?Apart from being a writer's best friend, beta readers provide a cross between edits and a critique. A beta reader does not edit a manuscript, but will note the errors for the author to fix. Advice and critiques are other services a beta may perform.
Establishing a RelationshipYou've just partnered with an author; what do you do first? Establish with your author what each of you expects from the relationship. A solid understanding of expectations starts the partnership on a productive path and avoids misunderstandings.Time Expectations
Is the author expecting a 24 hour turn around, while you're thinking a week? If not
Before You Start
Novices should read instructions
from start to finish
to avoid embarrassment later.
Ensure you are wearing
adequate protection
for the job at hand.
Power tools
are not required
but there’s no shame in it either
Designated two person assembly (two males pictured)
females may need
to adjust configuration to suit.
Any number may assist.
Spare dowelling plugs
are provided.
1
Unwrap all the parts; fold and retain
the packaging for later. Check
all pieces are present, and in working order.
Familiarise yourself with them, feel
their heft, their quality; caress
the expert workmanship, the smooth
and supple finish.
Try
List of Useful Writing Blogs by julietcaesar, journal
List of Useful Writing Blogs
Don't forget to fave the news article for this list here!
:new: 08.02.2012 Oh look, shiny massive update of new writing blogs! Now including poetry and some other interesting bits and bobs, so scroll down and enjoy. I would have added more, but I would never have gotten any sleep at the rate I was going. Ahem. So I've been feeling the itch to post news articles on these writing blogs again, but I'm not sure whether there's enough interest for me to start doing them again. For anyone who's new to this list and what I used to do in the past, here's an example right here: https://julietcaesar.deviantart.com/journal/Useful-Writing-Blogs-1-The-Cr
Military checkpoints have popped up overnight.
Travel is discouraged. Do not leave your residence.
We have nowhere to go but the clubs are still open
and we're asked if we still know who we are.
None of us are wasted, wasted.