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    dots Submission Name: Short Storiesdots

    Author: rws
    ASL Info:    58/m/ohio
    Elite Ratio:    8 - 2788/1297/258
    Words: 826
    Class/Type: Random Thoughts/Misc
    Total Views: 1962
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 5743

       A sequence or cycle of writings from about a year ago submitted as they were written. Unedited and unrehearsed.

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsShort Storiesdots

    I question
    Every word now
    Because what I describe
    Perfectly - no one else
    Seems to understand

    It's time to paint
    A masterpiece - where
    Have I left the brushes
    And the paints?

    I think the tendrils
    Of small children raised
    In watery shallows
    Lie in the hollow of some
    Legend that no longer speaks...

    At least not to me

    We leave scratches
    In the form of hieroglyphs
    To mark where we are
    Or where we've been

    Lexicographers invented
    Literacy - literally

    Supersize and cholesterize
    The triplets that you call your thighs

    It's alright, every
    Thing's going to be fine.

    No, you're not in any
    Trouble. Just put
    Down the pen
    And back away from the paper.

    Perhaps my rage is just the misplaced frustration at poorly written essays and cheap porn masquerading as a major studio production. Or maybe it's the inherent helplessness derived from subdividing time that barely exists and stretching it over the skeleton of an unforgiving schedule. Perhaps.

    Or maybe I just need a sip of cool water from a sea of forgetfulness. Something to remind me that this is only a small segment of life and not life itself. As an elderly Heston leaning on a staff would say, "This too shall pass."

    I keep trying and trying to sleep, but I can't. Perhaps it's time to tell my story. Odd. The only lines I can remember are these: The only way to be fair to your own writing is to find its weaknesses before someone else does.

    And now, a word from our sponsor

    "Wazoo Forest, Wazoo Forest
    I can't find it on the map.
    Wazoo Forest, Wazoo Forest
    These directions are as clear as crap."


    The couple smiled
    A lady wept
    A villain died
    Orphans found homes

    The music swelled
    To a single note

    The popcorn was fresh
    The restrooms were clean
    As a ninety-four minute
    Cliche was born

    I feast on terror
    And I dine on danger
    I fart lightning
    And I crap thunder


    Chaos leaves me constipated

    What say ye, Sir Crab of Tree?

    I say that I am neither
    Crab nor tree
    Yet I agree

    If I made a film
    I'd bury its ashes
    In the subconscious flourish
    Of an auteur's hand

    Lyricyst - singer of painful lyrics
    Pregnanthill - belief that litters of children wait to escape a single womb
    Carpe diet - seize the pilates
    Intelligenteel - prissy genius
    Asylump - place for large loonies
    Childrental - parenting practice
    Pierce Dye - blind acupuncturist
    Jewishful - a longing to be Hebrew
    Doggerevelation - babbling as art
    Inspirited - introverted enthusiasm
    Opticklish - giggling tear ducts
    Livideo - rage on tape
    Henry David Thorough - detail oriented philosopher
    Amelia Airhead - underwater balloonist
    Applauditorium - place for built-in accolades
    Craniumbrella - device to protect gray matter from flooding
    Birth market - where infant stocks are kept
    Videolphin - camera friendly sea creatures

    A pumpkin wheezed about the good old days when most pies were made of apple.

    You sound as if you've latched onto friends from another universe or at least one foreign to yours.

    The essence of the thing is its natural state before it has been affected by anything else.

    I prepared four drug addicts for injections of (what they were told) was a controlled substance, LSD, but it was really saline. So, whatever sicknesses they displayed were pre-existing conditions that they could feel comfortable blaming on a non-existent drug. The blood tests proved that they were clean; their behavior proved otherwise.

    I confirmed this through visuals: they wrote, spoke, drew, and acted on what they saw. They became animals who could draw comfort from an "innocent" response to an external distortion.

    They believed God was asleep and they were in heaven.

    I live in the quaint village
    Of Middle Management
    Where responsibilities are many
    And power is nil.

    but I have unspeakable energy

    How do I feel?
    How do you think I feel?
    A family lost, bright smears
    On the street? Both parents
    Died and I'm alive?

    A double yellow nightmare
    A drunken scream

    How do you think I feel?

    There is no one to be drawn toward
    But there is always someone to be drawn from

    There's something
    On the tip of my tongue
    That needs to learn
    Your wisdom

    Some strange phrase
    Fused itself
    To my curious ear

    And now all
    I hear is soft echoes
    Of a timeless chant
    I'd love to be able to touch-

    But can't

    Submitted on 2011-06-11 21:48:53     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      For me the title is the key. "Short Stories", indeed.

    You speed from thought to thought and careen toward brilliance here. Swerve away and hit a curb there. Like some mad teenager who stole a car while on a drunken binge.

    What I see in this piece: tongue-in-cheek statements, private jokes shared (I suspect) only with yourself, and lies. The lies seem most important.

    Some of the lies I see (although I give them in no particular order):
    Lie 1: these are short stories
    Lie 2: you want people to "get" everything you say so you say it clearly.
    Lie 3: the nervous energy isn't focused
    Lie 4: being mean and being clever are the same thing
    Lie 5:you are a happy clown, dancing for our amusement

    I could go on and on, but I won't. I don't even know if I've got the lies right. Besides, I think that you've got the "going on and on" thing covered!

    I like this, it's like gem mining.
    | Posted on 2011-09-23 00:00:00 | by JanePlane | [ Reply to This ]
      you know, i love little doodads put together. they are doodads, right?

    i mean do you ever have a thought, (just a thought), that you are not quite sure what to do with, but it's a good thought and you don't want to lose it like most other thoughts that seemed decent but were gone by the time you thought about them again.

    this is like that. bunches of those thought-things that mean, or could mean something, when placed together one right after the other.

    you have style, sir. and something to say.


    | Posted on 2011-09-04 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]
      uhmmm... i love the way you structure your words - structure your thoughts.

    i grew a little concerned when reading your self doubt, about how crystal (clear) your communication is.

    without specific comment or critique (forgive me, is my way), i just want to encourage you i believe you are magnificent, unique, courageous in your individuality and wise in ways of the "in-between".

    again, this is not specific, but as one who is also "more degrees of 'unique' than most" - salute!

    your voice is valued and perhaps, will be more (acknowledged by you to be) valued, as you silently let go of your self-criticism and relax into the love of self, the faith in your worth; not better than anyone else, but certainly not worse. worthy... :)

    | Posted on 2011-07-13 00:00:00 | by biska | [ Reply to This ]
    my god, he is the man! how long was this gem here? pity and boon no one ever comes here anymore and what with people writing 'midnight dreary' in the posts, frankly, this is quite a breath of fresh air and what i need from the stale, stagnant air i was accustomed to for nearly a year.

    i've sort of plateaued in my writing surprisingly(?). they took my crayons away. and my drugs. wonder where your brushes have gone i wouldnt know, nor have a clue where to begin looking for em. they could be down the drain swimming in [censored] or in a 4x4 cell block or between the beeps of an EKG.

    but whatever. this level of writing is of the kind the world has no use for. and that, is exactly why it matters! unrehearsed you say? you [censored]!

    Rehearsay- pretentious writing.
    Feelmaker- steven spielberg.
    Tetra-Hydro-Cannibal -me
    Autheur- pretentious writer with attention deficiency

    crap thats all i got.

    what is it about the writing? im sorry about asking the question, but after everything, i feel like these questions are the right ones to ask. i may not get a the right answer, but fu.ck if i can ask the right people! so thank you for bearing with me, humoring me and just the mere fact of your presence here and your writing is a great comfort to my life. always have. and dear uncle bill has seen me grow awkwardly as i get used to my bones, my voice, zits and bad pubic-hair days.

    anyway, thank you for putting this up, its one of the kicks that i unfailingly get from your pieces. though maybe not as fargone and overboard as your previous pieces of yesteryear that really made me think (which is a feat because after the reflection nothing seems to do that). but still, how sharp thy pen. perhaps i should dispense with this fanboy syndrome, but really im just a big kid, really.

    should i grow up?
    | Posted on 2011-07-02 00:00:00 | by Pietro | [ Reply to This ]
      i really don't know how to comment on a piece like this other than saying that it is an incredible collection of eclectic stories that give us a sense of the workings of the writer's mind.

    many of them are quite humorous in a sarcastic, almost satirical way. others like, XIV make you think and to me shake ones foundation of wonder. it brings to mind Peter Pan's rant against growing up and being tethered to a desk.

    overall, this is another uncanny write from the master...

    | Posted on 2011-06-14 00:00:00 | by rev.jpfadeproof | [ Reply to This ]
      a little too much all at once..to digest...

    but for starters...interesting first part...where did i hide those brushes...

    an odd irony...i will create a masterpiece despite the fact no one understands my words...
    and will they know it's a masterpiece? even if it is?

    the second part reminds me of youth which is gone...not being able to relate to children, even though we were one...it seems to distant..life has spoiled innocence...made us grow up...the tendrils keep trying to pull us back...but it's not the same...life is different.

    i really like the third part, especially the last few lines..the idea that literacy is only that if it is written down...the pen says it all...

    in the mind it is nothing until words on paper become the proof.

    part five is a smile.

    part six..mmm...the rage at bad writing and moviemaking...
    making clichés out of life..maybe as in your later part..a 94 minute cliché?

    when art does not really imitate life...but somehow spoils the purity of it...

    we can only hope as poets to give expressions to the feelings life gives us, so that others may understand that life affected us enough to write about it...and maybe they can actually feel something similar as they read us---

    in "ars poetica" it reads.."a poem should be equal to, not true"

    i think that might be saying..poetry is not information, but is experience and feeling..and that the poet doesn't need us to figure it out...but wants us instead to have a similar feeling as he or she had when the poem was written.

    will be back for more comment..but there is a lot here...and much good.

    | Posted on 2011-06-11 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]

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