The Creative Writer's Journal (original) (raw)

Feel free to add if you see fit.	[Aug. 9th, 2004\|10:54 pm]One day, this will be considered art
The night belongs to loversAnd so, my friends, I sleep;I've no one left to wait for,And no vigil left to keep.
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(no subject)	[Aug. 9th, 2004\|10:54 pm]One day, this will be considered art
The night belongs to loversAnd so, my friends, I sleep;I've no one left to wait for,And no vigil left to keep.
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(no subject)	[Jun. 30th, 2004\|11:02 pm]One day, this will be considered art

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Identity	[Apr. 20th, 2004\|10:32 pm]One day, this will be considered art
I am chaos incarnateI am the roaring blazeFor you I'll turn the world to dustFor you, who has no nameI am the source and end of painI am the piercing windFor you I'll break Death like a twigAnd leave his bones for gameI am the cure of all stabilityI am the quaking groundFor you I'll lay the mountains lowTo build statues of your frameI am the dull and beating drumI am the pounding surfFor you I'll wash all things awayMake the world a tidal plainI am the sharp and cutting edgeI am the shining swordFor you I will slay every foeAnd leave their homes in flamesI am chaos incarnateThe source and end of painThe cure of all stabilityThe dull and beating drumI am the tall tin soldierWho'd give it all for freeI am the one who loved you mostThe one who walked away
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Identity

[Apr. 20th, 2004|10:32 pm]One day, this will be considered art

I am chaos incarnateI am the roaring blazeFor you I'll turn the world to dustFor you, who has no nameI am the source and end of painI am the piercing windFor you I'll break Death like a twigAnd leave his bones for gameI am the cure of all stabilityI am the quaking groundFor you I'll lay the mountains lowTo build statues of your frameI am the dull and beating drumI am the pounding surfFor you I'll wash all things awayMake the world a tidal plainI am the sharp and cutting edgeI am the shining swordFor you I will slay every foeAnd leave their homes in flamesI am chaos incarnateThe source and end of painThe cure of all stabilityThe dull and beating drumI am the tall tin soldierWho'd give it all for freeI am the one who loved you mostThe one who walked away

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A story, by Joe	[Feb. 11th, 2004\|12:50 pm]One day, this will be considered art
The first chapter of my book. It's got a lot of syntax/grammar/etc. to be taken care of, but it's a startCh. 1 "No, Mrs. Petley, I'm afraid you're wrong on all counts. Yes, Wrong, as in, Incorrect. What do you mean, 'what do I mean?' I am simply stating your involuntary ineptitude upon every issue. Yes, every, as in, all of them." Matt Boylan sighed contentedly. This was the part of the day he hated least, that quaint slot between late lunch and afternoon nap, the period of time in which any actual contact with his clients occured. "Well, whatever issue you were about to raise, then. No, it doesn't matter which, any would have sufficed. How many times do I have to go over this, Mrs. P? I don't care if that isn't your name; you're wrong about that, as well." That is, if he had any clients. Matt was in a deep depression, and had been ever since the sudden disappearance of his last client. As a private investigator, any sudden, inexplicable, and untraceable disappearances of clients hit him quite hard. Matt's former client, Mrs. Ira Petley, was a kind old woman with a rather large sum of money, and a carelessness for monetary goods. She was the perfect employer, and had hired Matt (for all he knew) more as a cash surplus valve than anything else. In the two years he had worked for her, Ira hadn't given him a single definite, concrete task besides looking after Sprinkles, her cat. Sprinkles was a forty year old tabby, alive only through the innovation of a deranged taxidermist-slash-mechanical engineer. She was now more machine than actual living cat. Since this meant Matt didn't have to feed her, he gladly agreed. Now that Ira was gone, Matt had sunk to the level of answering every single phone call as if she was on the other line, which greatly disturbed quite a few potential clients, to the point of frightening away his entire clientelle. Matt reflected upon all of this as he answered the pleading young woman on the phone: "Fine then, Mrs. Petley. I am afraid you have been wasting too much of my time. We shall speak of this matter later. No, I'll only call you if you don't visit my office; say, tomorrow morning at nine." "Good day," he smiled into the telephone. "Au revoir." Matt lowered the phone to the reciever, brought it back up and punched redial. He waited until the voice of a harried young saleswoman answered. "And please, don't call this number again!" He began to lower the phone, then thought, to hell with tradition; in a rage of furied action, he ripped the phone, jack and all, from the wall, dragged the tangled mess out into the hallway, pulled out his revolver, and shot it in the chest. Twice. "damn telemarketers," he breathed. Matt swept the door closed. Odd, he thought; telephones don't usually have chests. Also, I didn't think they bled so much after being shot.
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A story, by Joe

[Feb. 11th, 2004|12:50 pm]One day, this will be considered art

The first chapter of my book. It's got a lot of syntax/grammar/etc. to be taken care of, but it's a startCh. 1 "No, Mrs. Petley, I'm afraid you're wrong on all counts. Yes, Wrong, as in, Incorrect. What do you mean, 'what do I mean?' I am simply stating your involuntary ineptitude upon every issue. Yes, every, as in, all of them." Matt Boylan sighed contentedly. This was the part of the day he hated least, that quaint slot between late lunch and afternoon nap, the period of time in which any actual contact with his clients occured. "Well, whatever issue you were about to raise, then. No, it doesn't matter which, any would have sufficed. How many times do I have to go over this, Mrs. P? I don't care if that isn't your name; you're wrong about that, as well." That is, if he had any clients. Matt was in a deep depression, and had been ever since the sudden disappearance of his last client. As a private investigator, any sudden, inexplicable, and untraceable disappearances of clients hit him quite hard. Matt's former client, Mrs. Ira Petley, was a kind old woman with a rather large sum of money, and a carelessness for monetary goods. She was the perfect employer, and had hired Matt (for all he knew) more as a cash surplus valve than anything else. In the two years he had worked for her, Ira hadn't given him a single definite, concrete task besides looking after Sprinkles, her cat. Sprinkles was a forty year old tabby, alive only through the innovation of a deranged taxidermist-slash-mechanical engineer. She was now more machine than actual living cat. Since this meant Matt didn't have to feed her, he gladly agreed. Now that Ira was gone, Matt had sunk to the level of answering every single phone call as if she was on the other line, which greatly disturbed quite a few potential clients, to the point of frightening away his entire clientelle. Matt reflected upon all of this as he answered the pleading young woman on the phone: "Fine then, Mrs. Petley. I am afraid you have been wasting too much of my time. We shall speak of this matter later. No, I'll only call you if you don't visit my office; say, tomorrow morning at nine." "Good day," he smiled into the telephone. "Au revoir." Matt lowered the phone to the reciever, brought it back up and punched redial. He waited until the voice of a harried young saleswoman answered. "And please, don't call this number again!" He began to lower the phone, then thought, to hell with tradition; in a rage of furied action, he ripped the phone, jack and all, from the wall, dragged the tangled mess out into the hallway, pulled out his revolver, and shot it in the chest. Twice. "damn telemarketers," he breathed. Matt swept the door closed. Odd, he thought; telephones don't usually have chests. Also, I didn't think they bled so much after being shot.

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(no subject)	[Dec. 5th, 2003\|09:50 am]One day, this will be considered art
I love that girl
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OLSA	[Dec. 1st, 2003\|06:04 pm]One day, this will be considered art
[mood \|anxious]To close an eye is to sever the world from viewTo close both eyes is to risk a fall from realityfor indeedTo dream is to die asleepand wake reborn into a new worldTo dream is to chance fatefor how do you know you will awakeThough the dreamer lives seperate from this relmThey are not held in some land, imperviousThe door to the universe is openedbut the physical body can not step throughso it must be left behind, abandonedto continue agingfrom chronic hours of emptynessTo dream is to fly with wings of airwithout fear of hitting the grounduntill the fall, in winter's cold bleak hearthWhen the wind blows you close to earthand awake,To dream is to fight your subconsiousnessfooled by an inflated ego and self imageTo dream is to learn,but remember only questionsTo wake is to struggle to lifeto take breath,do you remember breathingthe hours you were asleeIs your heart racing or is it slowawaking into a wall of icethat clings to you until you thaw underheavy blanketsor wake into a rain of sweatand feel totally aloneto dream is to UnknowTo dream is to fling yourself into voidwhere anything is possiblebut can you escape
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OLSA

[Dec. 1st, 2003|06:04 pm]One day, this will be considered art

[**mood** | anxious

anxious]To close an eye is to sever the world from viewTo close both eyes is to risk a fall from realityfor indeedTo dream is to die asleepand wake reborn into a new worldTo dream is to chance fatefor how do you know you will awakeThough the dreamer lives seperate from this relmThey are not held in some land, imperviousThe door to the universe is openedbut the physical body can not step throughso it must be left behind, abandonedto continue agingfrom chronic hours of emptynessTo dream is to fly with wings of airwithout fear of hitting the grounduntill the fall, in winter's cold bleak hearthWhen the wind blows you close to earthand awake,To dream is to fight your subconsiousnessfooled by an inflated ego and self imageTo dream is to learn,but remember only questionsTo wake is to struggle to lifeto take breath,do you remember breathingthe hours you were asleeIs your heart racing or is it slowawaking into a wall of icethat clings to you until you thaw underheavy blanketsor wake into a rain of sweatand feel totally aloneto dream is to UnknowTo dream is to fling yourself into voidwhere anything is possiblebut can you escape

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(no subject)	[Nov. 20th, 2003\|10:25 pm]One day, this will be considered art
Im going to move for modifying the schedualI want to have a week where we meet three times, Tue Wed And Thurs and work on something then, Then we can see how that goes, Wed Is just not enough if all we do is flop around like fish out of water.
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Another day, another character...	[Nov. 16th, 2003\|03:01 pm]One day, this will be considered art
[mood \|artistic]Mimae- the ghost of a young girl. Fearful, lost; Mimae is protective. Guards a boy named Ako. She has long, blondish-red hair, with an 'otherworldly' aura, when she is too frightened, upset, or otherwise emotionally overcome to disguise herself. She has bright aqua eyes. She is the spirit of a girl who drowned in a ship accident, while attempting to save the life of a friend (a boy named Rayk). She now haunts over a heart locket, one of a few artifacts which were salvaged from the sunken ship, on display in a shipwreck museum. Ako first meets Mimae outside of this museum. Although she attempts to remain inconspicuous, Mimae projects a 'feeling' which haunts anyone who looks too closely, a feeling of lost happiness, and loss in general. Everything about her is a mystery.The heart locket gives Mimae a closer bond to the wearer, and a greater strength to Mimae's form, but subtracts from the wearer's energy. This is true for many haunted materials; they share, for better or worse, a life force between the living and dead.So... whaddaya think? Feedback, please... What should I add, change, keep?
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Another day, another character...

[Nov. 16th, 2003|03:01 pm]One day, this will be considered art

[**mood** |

artistic]Mimae- the ghost of a young girl. Fearful, lost; Mimae is protective. Guards a boy named Ako. She has long, blondish-red hair, with an 'otherworldly' aura, when she is too frightened, upset, or otherwise emotionally overcome to disguise herself. She has bright aqua eyes. She is the spirit of a girl who drowned in a ship accident, while attempting to save the life of a friend (a boy named Rayk). She now haunts over a heart locket, one of a few artifacts which were salvaged from the sunken ship, on display in a shipwreck museum. Ako first meets Mimae outside of this museum. Although she attempts to remain inconspicuous, Mimae projects a 'feeling' which haunts anyone who looks too closely, a feeling of lost happiness, and loss in general. Everything about her is a mystery.The heart locket gives Mimae a closer bond to the wearer, and a greater strength to Mimae's form, but subtracts from the wearer's energy. This is true for many haunted materials; they share, for better or worse, a life force between the living and dead.So... whaddaya think? Feedback, please... What should I add, change, keep?

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(no subject)	[Oct. 21st, 2003\|12:59 am]One day, this will be considered art
[mood \|aggravated]The beggining of a storyThe Beggining of a StoryIm down on my kneesprayingDo you dare point your gun at me?You know I'm not going to screamor begDo you Dare point your Gun at me?Your finger's on the triggerYOu got 5 rounds in the barrelFive rounds in your pocketFive rounds in your handFifteen bullets; Is that how much you hate me?I'll never die against my willwaitingDo you dare point your Gun at me?I stain the land of my fatherBleedingI stain the land of my motherbleedingI stain the land, red with bloodI ttok my life, you knew I wouldDo you Dare point your Gun at me?Do I threaten you that muchThat you need to be asured that I am deadWell here I amDo you dare point your gun at meI STANDyou your disbeliefI BREATHstep away from meREBORNI can no longer dieMy soul Awakes from where my body liesA ghostly image of your pastforeverDo you dare point your gun at me?I STANDI BREATHI WATCHmy love Weepas She DIESby your handYou will never understandI BURNForever moreHEART TORNEYES COLDI REACH I PRECIEVEA Deeper death then you recieveAnd in the shadows stand the wriathsYour DeathDo you dare point your Gun at me?
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(no subject)

[Oct. 21st, 2003|12:59 am]One day, this will be considered art

[**mood** |

aggravated]The beggining of a storyThe Beggining of a StoryIm down on my kneesprayingDo you dare point your gun at me?You know I'm not going to screamor begDo you Dare point your Gun at me?Your finger's on the triggerYOu got 5 rounds in the barrelFive rounds in your pocketFive rounds in your handFifteen bullets; Is that how much you hate me?I'll never die against my willwaitingDo you dare point your Gun at me?I stain the land of my fatherBleedingI stain the land of my motherbleedingI stain the land, red with bloodI ttok my life, you knew I wouldDo you Dare point your Gun at me?Do I threaten you that muchThat you need to be asured that I am deadWell here I amDo you dare point your gun at meI STANDyou your disbeliefI BREATHstep away from meREBORNI can no longer dieMy soul Awakes from where my body liesA ghostly image of your pastforeverDo you dare point your gun at me?I STANDI BREATHI WATCHmy love Weepas She DIESby your handYou will never understandI BURNForever moreHEART TORNEYES COLDI REACH I PRECIEVEA Deeper death then you recieveAnd in the shadows stand the wriathsYour DeathDo you dare point your Gun at me?

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