online writing group

Knife Edge

2003-07-29T17:39:00.000-05:00

hello i'm new at this please be gentle!

its there serated
i'm here humilated
watch its teeth move up and down
methodical.
cutting slowly through bread
wish i was somewhere else.
even in this stifiling heat i'm covered
try to trick me with warmth.
catch me out to hold me down.
you make me explain my fears
but you dont listen.
don't understand why i love it
why its my sancury, my friend, my lover.
addicted, allured, saved, cured.
i'm sick, twisted and attention seeking
also cool, kooky and fucked.
but the knife edge calls
is in the bathroom cabinet and the kitchen drawer.

i hope this is ok. please be honest, sorry the typing is rubbish, i'm quite drunk!!

2003-07-29T08:40:00.000-05:00

forget that last post...just when i had given up on this group, i got a couple of requests to join yesterday.

2003-07-28T07:36:00.000-05:00

it looks as if this group is going to go away soon...not alot of interest in keeping it open. later on, in a couple of months, i will try to reopen it with posters who have interest in joining.

until then, thank you all, for all the posts and comments.

2003-07-01T08:07:00.000-05:00

writing exercise if you are in need of inspiration:
two people in a restaurant...set the location, and create dialogue

A wink

2003-06-17T07:45:00.000-05:00

hi there, everyone this is my first post. hope someone out there can give me some advice on what i have written here.

The air breathes
and sticks to her shoulder.
The makeup melts,
all the women seem older.

The glass in her hand
is ice cold,
and worth
the $10 for which it was sold.

The chatter around her
rises along,
with the intoxication of
the seductive song.

She moves her body,
from here to fro,
she eyes a handsome man,
and smiles just so.

He walks towards her,
his eyes do not waver,
there is no one,
none at all who can save her.

The alcohol has made her unable
to see far,
the man coming towards her was
only headed to the bar.

She has had far too much,
far much to drink,
she would belong to any many tonight,
with just a wink.

2003-06-10T08:36:00.000-05:00

anger

i feel
as if i just want to punch the wall
and leave a mark
of the anger
i am feeling now.

to remember it,
so that
when i feel
as if
i am living in a sunny, happy world,
i realize that
it in fact
i am not.

2003-05-05T21:03:00.000-05:00

The Castle Game

Through the leafy bamboo the
Twisting passages stretched like the arms of
A spider, engulfing the
Fallen logs and lookout trees,
Forming a hidden labyrinth. We
Chopped away for hours with snapped-off
Sticks to make
Veiled pathways through the green-filtered sunlight.

With quixotic enthusiasm, we
Planned escape routes, built dungeons
And corridors, cleared out sleeping chambers and
Banquet halls, and gathered
Weapons to kill the bears with.

Now I gaze into the moon like
The eye of a swan
And I think back to those times when nothing was real;
Terrified, we abandoned our
Sleeping bags to venture through the
Forest by your flashlight’s electrical glow.

2003-05-05T16:18:00.000-05:00

she stews,
softly shouting.
silently screaming.

still,
sun sets,
stars shine,
seclusion strengthens,
sleep succumbed,
smile submerges.

such strange switches,
sometimes
startle,
seemingly sound
souls.

2003-04-14T23:31:00.000-05:00

the kaleidoscope i can't quite reach

brilliant shades of streaking vagueness
surround my consciousness-
in what is perceived as
vast outward fields of
death and life,
reflect throughout my mind-
with each multiplying image
echoing our friendship,
time raises
time lowers-
its volume
its pitch
its ability
to be perceived as an element
that can be recognized as comfort-
the reception is no longer soft,
i can no longer bathe in the warmth
that once saturated the connection-
when i except the connection
your energy is brought in with sharp edges
that cut the will-
that sever the connection
and present the infection-
the air becomes stronger
with its visible heat-
the skin of my body expels its moisture-
my stomach turns its position,
my body throbs,
i take both hands to my face,
i touch my temples,
i release-
i release the insides of my body,
i lie in a universe of precise vagueness-
precision to capture the essence
of distant measures-
precision to return to freedom.

2003-04-13T17:21:00.000-05:00

If truth be told, i really don't have blonde hair, nor do i have these breasts that the men in my life seem to love so much. fake. all of it. i am fake. that's okay though because i never lied to them about it. they never asked me, they just wanted me this way.

sometimes i feel like one of the mannequins at the windows of the pretty stores. people look, they stare, they appreciate what they are seeing, and don't care to know anything about them. they don't care where it was made and the journey it took to get there.

i don't know, there really is so much more to me, i love art and science. i was a good student in school. i come from a very big family, and being the oldest girl, i took care of them. i have loved and i have been left behind, i have also chosen to leave. i have many stories i can share with you.

but you persist in looking at my outside and don't ask anything about me. you want a pretty girl near you so people will think better of you, you pretend to listen when i know that your eyes are looking elsewhere. i do not care enough about you to tell you my stories, but if you were to ask, i will tell you the truth.

2003-02-24T18:39:00.000-06:00

I scribbled this down the night after meeting a bunch of people from orchestra for our weekly dinner, trying to describe this one moment from the car ride on the way to the restaurant, and after writing it I realized how fitting it was for this group, especially since it happens to go with the theme word of "dark" in a sense, too. :o) It's just a scribble, and could definitely be refined some more. Names changed just because.

It was very fitting somehow, like a scene out of a movie. We were in Ben's car, Ben and Peter and me, with "Clocks" by Coldplay on the stereo, and we were driving and looking for the restaurant. Ironically, despite its name, Taqueria Del Sol, it was well past sunset, and the dark was all around, broken by streetlamps, headlights, and the brightly lit signs and storefronts of various establishments. There was some sort of synchronicity in the moment. "Clocks" is a wonderful song, and Coldplay seemed to provide the perfect soundtrack for watching for the door numbers of passing stores. Our starting point was a brightly lit gas station, number 1800. Our ending point was to be 1200. The numbers whisked by, emerging from the shadow with a gentle persuasion of light, only to vanish into silent anonymity in our wake. Descending slowly but surely. 1721. 1700. Onward they flew. We murmured them, not wanting to overpower the simple cheer and satisfaction of the music.

And then we arrived at our destination. The familiar vibration and thrum signifying a moving vehicle halted. Car door sopened, the music broke off in mid-chord, mid-word. The mood had vanished. Quietly, we exited the car and went to meet our friends.

2003-02-09T16:29:00.000-06:00

This one is actually a speech I'm giving next week, limited to 5 minutes so I have to be brief in my definition of feng shui. If you're versed in feng shui, please tell me if this rings true for you, and if you're not, do I say enough to explain it for purposes of this speech? My other area of concern is the conclusion - does it flow, and is it enough? With this and anything else I post here, I welcome even the most nit-picky of feedback. Thanks!

About a year ago, I became interested in feng shui, the Chinese art of placement. It‘s based on the belief that objects affect energy, which in turn affects your life. I purchased a book, Feng Shui Demystified, that is an excellent introduction. It outlines the nine areas, or guas, of a space and how each gua affects different aspects of life. It also describes common feng shui problems and provides direction for correcting them.

When I began to read my book, I became excited about the possibilities… until I realized that my home, architecturally, is a feng shui disaster.

Based on feng shui, the two worst places for a bathroom to be located in a home are the far left corner - the “fortunate blessings” gua - and the middle of the house. I have two bathrooms: a small one right in the middle, and a large master bath in the far left corner.

In short, it’s bad to have a bathroom in the fortunate blessings gua of your home because that area affects prosperity and abundance, while the many drains in a bathroom literally drain the positive energies right through the floor. My book gave me lots of tips for reversing the negative impact of having a bathroom there, and since I was looking for my next home improvement project, I took up the challenge.

Some of the suggested fixes were simple - keep the toilet lid down when not in use, and always close it before flushing. Keep the door closed, and the trashcan hidden from view. Place one or two large rounded stones near the base of the toilet, and pots of the plant Sansevieria on either side of the tank. It took only one trip to the greenhouse and one afternoon to effect those changes.

But my book also recommends what for me was a major fix: “Make that bathroom the finest room in your house--fit for royalty. Spare no expense. Make it nice.” I had a budget of $200. This particular bathroom is quite large - 12 feet by 15. It had dingy white walls patterned with the strange combination of flowers and strawberries, and the fixtures were the cheapest on the market. It seemed an impossible task to transform this room with so little money, but I was eager to try.

Colors play an important role in feng shui, and for the fortunate blessings corner, rich, saturated colors are recommended - royal purple, cobalt blue, or bold Chinese red. I love purple, and thought if I was going to paint any room that color, this was the one. I picked up a gallon of “purple whimsy”, a deep eggplant shade that looked great on the paint chip, and ignored my friends’ suggestions to tone it down a bit in favor of a lone supporter of feng shui, who said "Go for it!"

After I primed the walls, I filled a tray with purple whimsy, loaded my roller, and hesitated. If I put that roller on the walls, there was no going back. I took a deep breath, raised my hand, and pulled a thick band of color onto the wall.

It took me a couple of hours to get the first coat up, filling in around three mirrors, the counters, the toilet, the window, two doors, the garden tub, and above the shower. I refused to let myself be shaken by the uneven color, having read on the can that “multiple coats may be needed”. I washed out the roller and brushes, flipped on the fan, and left the room to dry.

When I returned an hour later to check the paint, I was aghast. The paint was not purple, not at all. It was whorehouse fuchsia, with occasional purple streaks. I prayed silently, reminded myself about the multiple coats, filled the pan and began again.

After the second coat, the fuchsia began to recede and the purple to emerge. But it was still not purple, and I wasn’t feeling very whimsical at that point. My arm ached and my hand cramped painfully from four hours rolling and brushing. I had paint in my hair, on my glasses, under my nails and down my arm. Too tired for another round, I walked away, closing the door behind me.

The next weekend, I applied a third coat, and finally had the purple whimsy I wanted. It was spectacular, rich and deep… but it didn’t look right with the wood trim. I picked up a pry bar, and set to work ripping down all of the old trim and carting the broken pieces to the curb.

I spent the next two weeks selecting, cutting, and installing new white molding. After switching out the cheap silver towel bar and toilet paper holder with new white ones, I framed some art with wide white mats and arranged deep purple rugs on the floor.

Then I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

Where before the space has been cavernous and plain, now it was comfortable and rich. The difference in the room’s energy was tangible. I made some mistakes in the process - there are a few stray bristles mired in the paint, and removing the trim after painting netted some extra touch-up work on the color - but the overall effect was stunning.

Now, I had only to wait for my fortunate blessings to mount.

In the coming months, I refinanced my home to save 3% on a fixed mortgage and consolidated my higher-rate car loan into a home equity loan. I accepted an invitation to speak to students at my alma mater, and reconnected with the campus that was my home for three years. I stood and spoke with confidence to an audience of two hundred students, parents, and teachers. I read four books that I’d been neglecting so long they were veiled in dust. I began to write seriously again, a lifelong dream that had lain dormant for nearly ten years. I joined a formal writing group and also an informal one, expanding my circle of treasured friends by three. I designed two sessions for a national conference, raising my prestige in the eyes of my colleagues and building relationships with others in my field that I admired. I researched Master of Fine Arts programs and charted a course to earn my next degree. I identified potential publishers and began to submit my work. I established ambitious personal, professional, and educational goals for the next five years of my life, and I took first steps towards them all.

Is this the result of my purple bathroom? Yes, I think it is. Feng shui is working for me. It isn’t having rocks under my toilet that changed my life, but rather the shift in my focus to the belief that things - all things - could get better, and I had the power to make them so, just as I had the power to turn my nondescript room into one fit for a Queen. The energy I harnessed during that month in the bathroom was my own. Every single thing that’s improved for me in the last few months has been the direct result of actions that I took. Painting was just the key in my ignition.

If you feel your own life has stagnated, or that you’ve become complacent, I urge you to try feng shui. Let it be your catalyst - don’t be content to plod through a comfortable routine. Bring some purple whimsy into your life.

2003-02-04T21:22:00.000-06:00

Hello. This is my first post, inspired by "dark". When I posted this to my site it appeared as one huge block of text, but it looks like the returns are holding this time (anyone want to let me in on how to fix that on mine?) Thanks for your thoughts & comments - Karen

My room is on the second floor of our big stone house, next to Mom and Dad’s, at the top of the stairs. It has red, blue, yellow and green flowered wallpaper that I got to pick out, a soft green carpet, and a wooden radiator cover where Timmy Tiger and Morgan Mutt sit except for bedtime. From one window, I can see over the street to the neighbor’s house, and from the other I can almost reach the branches of the giant sugar maple in the backyard.

It’s an odd-shaped room. The chimney goes right through it, and the closet has a raised floor. Dad says it’s because of the stairs underneath, but I think there’s a secret compartment. I tried all the magic words I know, hocus pocus and open sesame and shazaam, and I even sneaked a screwdriver from Dad’s toolbox to see if I could pry it open, but it must be stuck. I wonder if the little girl who lived here before me hid her treasures in it - books, stuffed animals, maybe a diary - that I might find.

The man who built this house must’ve had kids, because there are secret places all over. In the wall beside the basement staircase, there’s a door you can’t even see. It’s made of panels just like the wall and there’s no doorknob. You have to push on the top to make it pop open. It goes to a small room with no windows and a roof that slants all the way to the floor on one end. I know because I crawled all the way in and felt where the roof ran into the floor. We use the room for our boots, the black rubber kind that pull on over your shoes and then buckle up. Sometimes when you take one off, your shoe comes off inside it, and then you get melted snow on your sock.

The attic bedroom Stanley and Eric share has little doors to the eaves where they have a clubhouse. Between the rafters are stacks of Mad magazines and Batman comics, and on the floor is a baby mattress. Eric even strung Christmas lights so they could close the door and still see to read. I’m not allowed in unless they invite me, but one time when they were at Scout camp I stretched out on the mattress and read a whole Archie Digest.

There’s a laundry chute that goes from the second floor landing all the way down to the basement. Sometimes I put Timmy Tiger and Morgan Mutt in a shoe box with strings on it and lower them down so they can see what’s in there. It’s really dark but they have good eyesight and a map. Timmy says there are doors inside that lead to other parts of the house. I hope that one of them goes to the bottom of my closet so I can find out what’s in it.

And in the room off the kitchen, there’s a door in the floor with a big iron ring that lies flat inside a small hollow. I never noticed it until Eric showed me. I’m not strong enough to move the door but he is, and he opened it and helped me climb down inside. This room is so small that my head pokes up through the door hole when I stand up straight. The floor is just dirt and stacks of curved green tiles are everywhere. It’s a little damp, but if I had a blanket and a candle this would be a good place to hide. I tell Eric this and he says I’d run out of air. He’s in the sixth grade so I believe him.

--P.S. I'd especially like to know how old the narrator appears, and if the language is appropriate for her.

2003-01-30T22:26:00.000-06:00

Memories in a Waterfall (to pablo neruda)

Love, the thing that rules the world,
the waterfall washes away the stains.
the horrifing blood of the soul
is washed away, clean.
it is water and the power of the falls
that allow the child to be pure.

oh the pain of yesterday,
the sweet lie,
the loving fracture!

now the mind is dirty
thoughts are bruised,
by hate and death,
mistrust, misuse and death;
until love slowly,
slowly,
builds up pressure and power-
rock and valley,
and from falling and forcing and ease,
from the times of long ago-
brings us the child, purer than before
running from yesterday's hold
to fall again.

to search for pain, break, black and tears.
to commit itself, fall unto the same thing.
this way, newly pure,
the child leaps into life,
for someday the will commits itself
to a constant purity, into eternity.

(michael roy tomanek)

2003-01-28T13:52:00.000-06:00

There comes a time when a writer must write just to feel alive. I think I have reached that point in my life. I sit on my couch, trying to read a book or watch television, when something in my head lets me know I should be writing. I can’t call it, this compulsion, a little voice. It is more a feeling than a verbal directive in my mind. It feels the way crunching broken glass sounds - sharp, gritty, and painful. It is not easy to appease. There is never enough written to make it happy, to make it go away. It is never gone for long, sometimes less than a day, but no longer than a month. It is the only feeling that can bring physical illness, nausea, without a known reason. This isn’t like arthritis or other diseases that flare up, that are worse sometimes than they are others. No, this is the kind of pain that gnaws at you from inside, the kind of pain that grows like a cancer until, after minutes or hours of writing, when it is finally, temporarily appeased.
That’s the worst part - knowing that those words were just a temporary fix. What’s worse is the fact that the more I write, the more the urge wants me to write. Pushing, pulling, and tugging till I put something on paper or fill my monitor’s screen. I know I should be writing, but I don’t, for whatever reason. The urge doesn’t care about reasons, except to label them as what they truly are - excuses. The urge knows and lets me know that it knows and that I am jerking off instead of working, functioning as a writer. The urge keeps me semi-honest. I am still strong enough (or is that week enough?) to fight it, but the more that I write, in frequency and volume, the more I have to write, am compelled to write to silence the urge.

2003-01-28T11:33:00.000-06:00

"You are not like us," he said pointing to a picture of Katie Couric posted on weather-worn wood kiosk with splinters. "I am not like THAT," I replied.

We walked through the streets of an unknown town -- not a town, but a stage. The baristas all looked like famous actors, and actresses, rockstars and talkshow hosts. The walls were cluttered with posters of J. Lo, Madondda, and Gwen Stefani. He assumed that I was like "THEM" and therefore not like HIS "them."

This man realized that maybe I was more like "HIS" them, and changed his philosophy to, "We are alike. We are humans"

"NO!" I exclaimed. "We are all ourselves individuals. As humans we might have some things in common, but what matters is the TRUTH!"

2003-01-27T14:26:00.000-06:00

Hello, I'm new to this group, and here is my first post. It's an unfinished, untitled short story. Enjoy~

The Elkwood City Bank was located in the center of town, across the street from Joe’s Grocery and the Jordan Drummond Memorial Park. Along the front face of the bank beside the sidewalk were several rhododendron bushes that bloomed every year between May and June. In the fall, the wilting petals of the flowers blew into the street and made a blanket of pinks, purples, and browns that never got swept up. Sometimes, Joe from Joe’s Grocery would prop open his door with a newspaper stand to let the flowing breeze filter through the aisles of microwave popcorn and Kraft macaroni, and occasionally a strong gust would blow clouds of pink petals over the sidewalk, through the door, and across the tiled floor, leaving Joe cursing the wind, the bank, the city legislature, or anything else he could link to his misfortunate extra few hours of cleaning.

Despite the petal-gusts, Joe enjoyed his store’s location because of its vicinity to the park where children went after school. Children who were playing at the park would very often walk into his store with fistfuls of change to buy penny candy, which they would stuff into their sloppy smiling faces before running back out to the swing sets and monkey bars. Although he was unattractive, unmarried, and rather bitter when it came to ordinary life, Joe did love to see the looks on their faces as they licked their sticky fingers clean and dug through their pockets for another nickel. The other reason that Joe liked having his store across from the park was because in the evenings after he closed up and he retired to his apartment upstairs, the awkward tree famous for its unusual shape and legendary presence in the park would cast beautiful shadows through his bedroom window and onto the white wall. To make up for his lack of a social life, Joe sometimes sketched the tree and its shadows into a notebook of things he had drawn or written that he kept hidden under his mattress.

The tree was old and hollow and looked like the gnarled, bony form of an aging man’s hand. Leafless and dry it stood year-round, watching over the park. It saw and knew everything that happened in the community, and although many of the paranoid adults whose children frequented the park rallied and petitioned for it to be torn down, the obscure sense of security that the tree provided for the small town of Elkwood must have been what kept it there for decades. Even after it died, the tree remained a place for squirrels to reside and for teen-agers with Swiss Army knives to carve their initials. Every spring a family of robins would make their home in the same crook, and occasionally an egg would fall from the nest and break on the twisted mass of roots below, leaving a sticky stain on the ground. Kindergarteners got slivers in their palms trying to climb the tree, and one year an eight-year-old boy named Pickle fell from a high branch and broke his arm.

Pickle wasn’t his real name, of course—Nathaniel Edward Dawson III was written on his birth certificate, but Pickle’s given name surely did not fit his appearance nor his personality as well as “Pickle.” Even Pickle’s parents had given up on calling him Nathaniel, or even Nathan, because he would refuse to respond to anything other than the nickname he himself had chosen. Pickle’s face was round and pudgy with a nose that pointed up and freckles that covered the area under his eyes. Skinny and short, he would always manage to get dirty again within an hour of each bath his parents gave him, and he was a notorious daredevil on the school jungle gym or anything else he could clamber up.

---Let me know what you think of it. :) And if you have any suggestions for me, by all means offer them (I am welcome to the most severe of criticism). I'm at the moment stuck and don't have any idea where this plot is going. Thanks

2002-12-17T01:35:00.000-06:00

Situation Tragedy

take yourself and step into tomorrow,
and place your mind within a vision.
it comes to others in a silver finish
it comes to you as slowly as yesterday lasted.
three days in sequence
three days in darkness
three days in hell,
and you will never know when the reflection will disappear
or if it ever will.
to them you have vanished times before
to them you are already missing. you are gone.

take control of the conscious stream
create an alternate existence
enter into a deeper reality
and continue to wander
within the protection
and continue to wander
within the perception.
let them wonder-let them wander.
you are clean and you are safe
the air you breathe is pure
the dreams you view are innocent,
the only one who can be hurt is in control
and if you cannot control; manipulate.

do not touch what you once were
realize the productivity of the wandering purpose,
leave their dimension and succeed-
withdraw and become the confederate
-create stability as one.

2002-11-28T23:44:00.000-06:00

Long Flat Red

with a long sleepy summer gone
and the winds of fall being bitter
there is a vibrant pulse throughout my soul.
my body is moving slowly-
like candlewax, it creeps.
i slip-
it is so easy to slip
and then go further,
i went to far-
sip/flat - i cannot see anymore
slip/flat - i can feel the Tao
caressing my face - red.
the world and every measurement-
we are all running long-
existence is running long (flat) (red)
my expressions are weakening
the expressions are flat (red)-

the road is
Long
Flat
Red.

2002-11-28T23:23:00.000-06:00

Dead No More

We follow blindly the day from night,
I follow blindly into the dark,
and with the flight from the night to day
an echo of my voice will hark,

"The day from night
what horrible fright
but upon return
you forever learn-

That wanting less
is needing more
and wanting less
brings forth the horror..."

To wish a day to bring the end
the shadows and depths of time you spend
forever darkening the soul of plight
which brings you back to the very night,
and once again a painful sought
shakens loose this very thought-
Remove this stain, your soiled mind
light and love will one day find.

2002-11-13T15:58:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure what I am doing here yet. I think It will post in this collection of stories I see below. Forgive me but this unrelated stuff is all I have to write today.
How I feel about getting engaged:
I oftentimes see myself from the outside. Sometimes I see patterns of other things moving around me. Love has a different way of moving. It spiraled around and then bumped into me on its path. It is my work now to make it take me along and back out again.

2002-11-05T12:19:00.000-06:00

School Bus

her eyes were beautiful and almond shaped. she was not tall or short. she was neither thin or chubby. she did have one thing that made her stand out amongst the other girls and that was the slightly darker rim under eye. tired but beautiful eyes. her voice was soft, but clear, and she spoke as if she liked to read. she dressed simply, but in clothes that made her look good. she also had skin that was darker than most, a latte brown. her name was laurie and she was black. her tiredness came from trying to reman invisible in a white neighborhood.

tom had few things that he was good at, math class, football and being a friend to his pals nick and paul. he was white and lived in a predominantly white, middle class, neighborhood.

it is 3:20p and the school bus driver waited patiently for all the kids to board, but the kids knew that at exactly 3:35p, he would leave. nick, paul, and tom headed to the back of the bus. tom wore a shoulderbag filled with books ,while nick held a football and paul had his hands in his pockets, no books in sight.

as they had a seat, they started to throw the football around to each other, laughing, and speaking of the events of the day, and the game coming up at the end of the week. tom was the only one that noticed laurie entering the bus.

laurie, walked softly but steadily. she held her backpack close to her and took a seat in the middle of the bus. tom watched, but paul and nick were not aware of it or of laurie. but they did notice jill and her friend susan as they came to sit close to them. paul made a comment to jill, and jill laughed. susan said something to tom, but he did not hear her. susan repeated herself, and then when again she was not heard, she looked to see where tom's attention went. she then laughed and made a loud comment to the whole bus, 'tom wants laurie, tom wants laurie'.

paul tells susan to hush, while laughing. tom, is broken out of his reverie, and turns his head quickly. laurie, who was unaware of tom's attention looks to him, and noticing his angry face, she looks down. when susan says it again, tom tells her to 'shut up and grow up susan', then in an attempt to change the subject, he asks sweetly, 'now what is it that you wanted beautiful'? susan, feeling quite happy at being called beautiful, repeats what she had said much earlier, a simple comment on 3rd hour, and mr. fisher's homework.

tom feels relieved that he was able to get the attention taken off of laurie, and talks to susan about the homework. the rest of the bus ride is spent laughing, and chatting, and throwing a football.

as laurie gets off the bus, she turns her head towards tom, quickly, and he pretends to not see her look, as he talks to nick. when she starts walking away, he then does look at her, not knowing that paul has seen him. paul says to tom, 'man, stay away from that dark girl, why would you want her, when you can have, blonde beautiful susan, i don't understand you man. susan is all over you.'

tom looks at him and is unable to say to him, that he has been dating laurie for the past 3 weeks, but that they were hiding this fact from everyone. if it were made known, it would just be too much for all of them to handle. a black girl dating a white boy, the high school football team's star player.

2002-10-20T10:18:00.000-05:00

The geek's version

Today will be the most important day of my life.

I'm sitting alone at the table. My watch doesn't show a time other than 6-30. I've hit it, shaken it, even stirred it a bit, but it always shows the same time. 6-30. I've already drunk three glasses of water. The manager's looking at me...

...when she looked at me it was magic. It happened sometimes, our eyes would meet, and neither of us would drop it in fear that the moment would pass. So we would hold our gaze, waiting for the other to look away. It never happened. It would always need a third person to say something before we looked away. Her eyes were just hypnotic. But when we first met the only thing I remember were her feet, because they were all I could look at. Those feet with finely crafted arches, a tangent to whose center would have run parallel to the ground. Her toenails were the whitest of white, just plain #ffffff. I would occasionally look at her neck, but only when she looked away, because I couldn't bare to look into those eyes...

...and he's staring hard. All around me I see couples - they always came as couples - holding hands, looking into each other's eyes, and drinking from straws at 30 degrees to each other placed in a single paper cup holding cola. They chatter softly, but I know what they speak, is inconsequential, their vocal chords vibrating to produce sounds that neither of their cerebra registered anyway. All they needed was the other's presence...

...when I sat next to her her presence was intoxicating. The first time we talked I never listened to her, I just heard her voice and I knew she was talking to me, and that was like ethanol rising to my head. I don't remember what I said in response, but it was enough to keep her going. We chatted for hours and hours, and when she left I felt as if a part of me had been dissected, and my aorta would pulse hard. I never wanted her to leave. I felt happy just breathing the same air that she breathed, aware that those molecules that entered my lungs might have entered her lungs too. I felt happy being within 5 square feet of her presence, happy that if a comet fell on us from the Kuiper belt, we could both die together. Not that I wanted to, though. All I wanted was to live with her for the rest of my life, and I said so in my letter...

...the waiter says something and gives me a menu. I cast a cursory glance on it and tell him something. He doesn't budge. I look into his eyes and tell him to wait. There is nothing he can do. He takes the menu and goes off. He's losing money because of me.

"Hi Ajay!"

B--. Six feet, good looking, idiot. He's standing with his "girlfriend". She looks like a freak to me. They surely deserve each other. I'm angry.

"I'm waiting for D--".
"Oh..! But I heard she had a date with E--?"

They laugh. They laugh. The sound vibrates into my spinal cord and it feels oddly cold there. My mouth splits into a brave smile. They leave, and they leave me blind. I can't see much, the manager is blurred, the table looks fuzzy, and I can't see my watch. Oddly, there's saline solution running down the sides of my face, and it's coming from my eyes. My glasses are foggy. Suddenly there's no one else in the world.

I'm all alone.

"Saheb, time ho gaya hai."

I know it's nothing of the sort. But there's nothing more to wait for. Suddenly my watch shows 7-00. I wonder what made my watch run again. I realize Einstein was right. It's been the longest half hour of my entire life.

I've lost her.

For ever.

ps.: she just called to say that she got stuck in some work - and she wanted to meet tomorrow... yay!!

2002-10-15T23:47:00.000-05:00

As far back as Maadhu could remember, he had never seen the inside of any house. He was one of the many that we find in great numbers in most urban Indian roads - Some jocularly called them 'road side romeos', a vast majority cursed them as a social nuisance and only a handful ever gave a second thought regarding them.

But, it never bothered Maadhu at all. He mostly foraged through the dustbins and ate whatever food he could find. Surprisingly, he hardly ever went hungry - thanks to the enormous amount of wasted food that people dumped on the roads. He gained the keen ability to differentiate between the palatable and the unpalatable. He would usually rummage through the various dustbins, gather whatever he found fresh and carry them to a safe and shaded place to eat in peace.

There were many others like him, but, he never roamed along with them. Although, he kept in touch with them now and then, there was hardly any chemistry between them. As he passed one of his kind, he usually grunted a hello and moved on.

Every morning he woke up early and walked around aimlessly for sometime. Soon, his legs would automatically lead him to the nearest dust bin. He hardly found any palatable food in the mornings. As the sun's heat blazed ferociously in the afternoons, he sought the nearest tree for a nice little nap. His nap usually extended till the sun decided to settle down after a day's work. He would start his search for the food again and usually by nightfall, he found enough food to last him till next day. After hanging around for some more time, he would usually go to sleep under a lamp post on the main road.

He usually had the best of foods during the festival seasons. Rarely, when the going gets tough, he would try to steal from any random house. He was usually caught stealing and shooed away. Thankfully, he was never held under captivity. The police were always too busy to really bother about petty theives like him.

Recently, there was enormous growth in real estate and consequently the traffic on the roads had highly increased. He was finding it difficult to take his usual peaceful afternoon nap. This bothered him a lot. After much consideration, he decided to move a little further away from the city.

One fine sunny morning, he started moving towards the outskirts of the city. He crossed a few areas and then came across a national highway. He saw that the road was empty and after much thought took a hesitant step forward. He was half-way through the crossing, when an enormous blast of horn hit his ears. Hearing the loud sound, Maadhu stood transfixed in the middle of the road. Within a few seconds, a lorry driving at high speeds hit the brakes a few metres away from him. But, it hardly helped - for the lorry hit Maadhu and he lay sprawled on the ground midst a pool of red.

The lorry driver got down to survey the damage he wrecked. He found Maadhu almost dead. Inwardly cursing himself and Maadhu, he climbed up the lorry again - "Darn these buffaloes. They never react to the sound of horn". With a heavy heart, the lorry driver took a diversion and sped away to his destination leaving Maadhu, The Buffalo, in his final lap of life, all alone.

2002-10-14T12:52:00.000-05:00

norma slowly moves the drapes aside to look outside. her porch is warm and her legs are covered by a blanket. outside, there is snow on the ground and ice on the sidewalk, and the neighboring children are making a snowman. the family just moved in next door, about six months ago, this is their first winter here. little brown skinned children, with big eyes. she wondered where they were from. she wondered how old they all were, she wondered if they could speak english. she had never seen people that looked like them before. the mother wore a cloth wrapped around her, and she could hear their talk but could not understand them. she could tell that the oldest child, a girl was around 8, and the other two, her brothers, were younger.

no one visited her, her own children were grown and lived far away. this was a neighborhood filled with families with little children. these neighbors would allow their children to play with this new family. they could find out where these people were from. she had not a reason to go next door, no children to bring over, no husband who would befriend the father of the family. the wife stayed inside mostly, so she could not introduce herself to her. all she could do is watch these lovely children over the past months. she watched them play and fall and laugh and giggle and sometimes get hurt.

occasionally, the oldest, the girl, would look towards her house, at the old woman, herself, sitting behind the curtains. norma, wished that she would come over to say hello. life is so lonely here in the house by herself. the little girl would wave sometimes, but then turn to her mom, to make sure that she was not in trouble. her mother was usually too busy making sure that the other two younger ones were unhurt and still near her watchful eyes.

today, the girl waved, and when she looked at her mother, her mother also looked at norma. when norma waved back at the little girl, the mother also waved to her. this is a start, norma thought, maybe someday soon, they will come over.

2002-10-07T23:28:00.000-05:00

Saroja was extremely irritated. Her mother's, almost 90 years of age, condition was hardly seeing any signs of improvement. Ramanathan, her husband was suddenly called for an emergency meeting in New Delhi. Adding to her discomfort was small hairline fracture in her right wrist. The piercing pain when she accidently turns her wrist in a particular direction was keeping her awake throughout the night. She suffered while she was preparing murukku for her son and daughter-in-law living in America. She accidently lifted a heavy vessel from an odd position - resulting in this slight fracture.

But, none of these was the real cause for her current irritable mood. She was irritated that her maid-servant, Muthamma, did not turn up to work yesterday and today. All the vessels used for cooking were lying in the sink. Her fractured wrist did not allow her the luxury of cleaning them herself. She hardly had any more vessels left in the house to cook their dinner.

She went out to the gate and looked one way and the other searching for a trace of Muthamma. Saroja did know Muthamma's hut, but, was hesitant to walk down to her place. She disliked the dirt and squalor near Muthamma's house.

Silently cursing, she walked back to her room. Her thoughts again returned to her search for a maid-servant. Muthamma had always been slipping work a day or two every fortnight. When asked, she always replied with a stoic indifference - "My husband is not well". Saroja initially beleived her story, but, later on found it difficult to digest the same story every time Muthamma skipped work. She kept quiet, waiting to catch her red-handed. She almost had a chance a few weeks back. She saw Muthamma and her husband walking hand in hand, laughing and throwing amorous glances at each other near the market. Her husband was almost bald and looked a bit pale, but, he had an hearty laugh. Before Saroja could call them, the couple had disappeared into one of the bylanes. Anyway, Saroja decided that it was time she accosted Muthamma and fired her from work. She decided to ask her neighbour's maid to clean for a few days until she found a replacement.

She tallied the amount that she needs to pay for Muthamma's work that month and decided that she will settle the matter the same day.

Finally, after the sun had settled down for its slumber, Muthamma walked into the house. She had her head downcast and went straight to the sink to wash the vessels. Saroja told herself - "Look, she walks without even an acknowledgement". Saroja resolve gathered more enthusiasm and she feverishly counted the money that needs to be paid to Muthamma. She waited till she completed the household work. She thought - "Atleast, I will get today's worth of work done by her".

After completing her household chores, Muthamma walked down to the room that Saroja was sitting. Saroja, still in her sulky mood, started saying - "Enna achu - What happened? Ithu nallave illai - this is not good at all - You know that I have the fracture and cannot work on the utensils.." Before she could continue to say any further, Muthamma started crying copiously. Tears flowed without a restraint. Saroja was taken aback and with a puzzled and suspicious look enquired the reason for her sudden outburst. Muthamma, in between, her sobs said - "My husband died of putru noyi.. ma..". Putru noyi was cancer. Saroja was dumbstruck, but, a moment later thought it another ploy by her maid. Muthamma amidst her sobs continued her sad story - "We used to take him every month to the nearby government hospital for radiations. A few weeks back, they said that he was getting alright and asked him to shift back to home from the hospital. It was one of the happiest days in my life. But, suddenly he took ill a few days back and died day before yesterday".

Saroja thought back about her own anger with Muthamma for assuming that she was taking her for a ride and silently cursed herself. She handed over the money and asked her to use it for funeral expenses.

Muthamma, while walking out, thanked Saroja and said that she will be regular to her work from now onwards.

2002-09-30T11:17:00.000-05:00

i know i've been away for a while...
my appologies for the same...

wrote down somethings thats been on my mind...
let me know what you think.

its a poem and its untitled.

I can’t quite comprehend what you say,
You see, I never really learnt
to read and write between the lines. And

of all these funny yarns
you spin and expect me
to unravel…
I cant, I am incapable
Then you push me into
a treacherous maze of words
and expect me to find
my way home; safe and sound.
I can’t..
because quite frankly I am lost. I am lost

in the color of your speech
of blues, greens and reds;
of white and grey.
I am lost in the noise of your voice,
of thunder, cackle and glee,
of melody and cacophony. But

I am mostly deluded
by the chill and warmth
of your breath blowing
unexpectedly at me and
everything I stand for,
and of your erratic heartbeat
and sudden silence…
in the air around you
that says so much and yet so little.

You Confuse Me.
There is no doubt.

2002-09-29T06:44:00.000-05:00

Hello,
I just joined the group.
And that's all I wanted to say right now.
Robin Marie Ward

2002-09-26T20:33:00.000-05:00

Being Patriotic.

( Random thoughts running through a fictitious muslim american's mind. Everything in this story is unreal. Any resemblance to a person, place or thing is purely coincidental and unintentional )

I was born in Saratoga Springs, amidst the horses and the Power Company workers. My father had come to New York seeking a new life, hoping to leave the fanatism, distress and religious hate in Karachi. But he was a devout muslim. He did the namaaz atleast five times a day. It was what I grew up doing too, though I never really understood parts of the Koran that my father so affectionately read to me during our Prayers.

I studied in a public school. There were children from everywhere, of different colors. But I grew up with only two. White and every other. In everyway I was an american. By birth, by my talks, my thoughts, even by the food habit. I never cared if meat was Halal or not. Yet the differences and discrimination -albeit subtle - remained.

Come September, we are attacked by terrorists who thought of themselves as devout muslims, but who, by their actions, paradoxically proved themselves wrong. I don't like to call it 9/11 or September 11, but the media derives extreme pleasure in doing so. Calling it September 11 or 9/11 will all but create terror in the minds of the next generation of children in America. They will grow up in fear of that day, something that would distress me If I have children of my own.

What is patriotism ? Is it flying flags outside the house; in the office buildings; sticking stickers of the stars and stripes on windshields and bananas ? Or is it fighting for your country on the battle field, dying in glory ? In everyway, I am an American too. I feel as much pain as the man across the street, or the fireman who died trying to rescue people. I would rather fight a War than fly the Flag in my car.

But I am myself treated like a suspect today. Everytime I go into movie theatre or a diner or any public place, with my cap and beard, everyone looks at me suspiciously. Some take it a step further, and call 911 ! Some are afraid of flying. Me, I am afraid of the screening and profiling before the flying.

A citizen of America - patriot - in the land of the free; yet I am as bound and restrained as the next muslim immigrant coming in to America today.

2002-09-25T23:36:00.000-05:00

Greetings everyone. I'm sorry that I have yet to post anything but, well, everyone is busy. And the thing is, I write for work and school so sometimes any more than that is unbearable. I have a blog here. But here is some writing:

miles
All the things they are saying about him seem untrue to me. The guy I met and knew, albeit briefly, was gentle and kind, effeminate even, grateful and interesting, but not to the point of blinding jealousy or psychosis. Certainly I didn't think he could be a murderer.

But that's what they are calling him, as far as "they" can without having a court convict him of such heinous acts. But that will never happen since he's dead except for the tube shoved down his throat, forcing air in and out of his body.

And from across the country, I feel connected to his mother, who has now lost two sons. I want to reach out and say I am on your side, I don't think he could have done this. I knew him when he seemed happy, before the whole salty voyage began. I feel like there is purpose and meaning behind that chance encounter.

2002-09-20T17:07:00.000-05:00

(*waves* Hey everyone, I'm new. :o) My name's Smitha, my weblog's here; I just go by Andorus on Blogger but if you want to change this to my real name (first name, I don't use my last name on Blogger) definitely feel free to (I tried to myself but I don't think I have permission to)--thanks!)

A sliver of light gleams off the solid, warm, golden-reddish-brown wooden surface, dancing merrily across the face as I involuntarily move back and forth to watch its silent performance. The black lacquered wood, the metal, feels so natural under my touch, as if it's an extension of me. My hand immediately curves to the contours, a very familiar but somewhat acquired posture I've grown accustomed to falling into over the years. Fingers position themselves silently, waiting for the downward stroke, the beat signifying the beginning of a beautiful and mysterious journey into creation, expression, adoration. Marble, wood, and metal press into my other hand, which very willingly takes to the proper posture, as if it's been craving holding this beautiful object, craving that familiar weight balancing it. Within this weight is a hidden power, a hidden energy. With a strong enough pull, this energy will be revealed for all to marvel over.

I lift my arms as the preparatory signal is given...my eyes dart to the printed page ahead of me, the other to-be crafters positioned around me, and then up to the signaler...

...and I pull the bow across the strings with the swift down-stroke of the conductor's baton.

The feel of the horsehair pulling across the metal strings, feeling the thrum of life and vitality surge up and out of the violin tucked under my chin and against my shoulder, in my confident but reverent and loving hold, gives me a thrill like no other. The vibration, the intensity of the sound, the emotion of the printed black-on-white music resting atop the stand sitting before me, the energy pouring from my soul and through my arms, making the fingers of my left hand dart up and down the fingerboard like anxious elves scurrying around their workshop to continue work on their greatest masterpieces, lifting my right arm and pulling the bow hard, digging in deep, hearing the rich, throaty voice of my instrument take flight and immerse me...I'm in heaven. I'm creating a masterpiece, all for myself. I'm experiencing a connection, a love like no other, to these bit of wood and metal and whatnot. The music takes my body with it, moving it in silent but fluid waves converse to the motion of my bow. The bow slides fleetly past, from frog to tip, even pressure all across, my left hand dancing and vibrating the strings in a mad but placid and controlled rush, then tip to bow, then come the short notes, bounced, off the string in the lower half, then some measures of rest.

I bring my bow arm down, take a breath, and jump back in after the requisite measures pass. This is what I live for, what I long for and thrive in, this creation, this absolute, this mad serenity, my right arm pumping up and down, up and down, the fingers of my left hand dancing across the fingerboard as precisely but as fleetingly as an Irish dancer, but...it produces this wonderful end, this serene and calming state--despite all the frenzy, I'm at peace. Utterly. This is what I am.

2002-09-19T12:31:00.000-05:00

Word of the week…time. Time is such an enigmatic subject. When I was a child summer went so quickly and school lasted an eternity. As an adult, I sleep very few hours and waste little time, yet I cannot accomplish all the things that are required of me in a day. How can I be expected to complete more tasks in a day than there is time to do so?

But in my adult life, I realize there are certain aspects of my life that are extremely important and the matter of time cannot be allowed to be an issue. Friends, family, and health take high priority for me. I also take pride in my job but I will not allow it to rule my life to compromise the other three things that I hold so dearly. I pity the people that work extreme hours and miss all that life has to offer. Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around, you might miss it. There are so many people who miss their child’s recital, that football game, the spelling bee that their child wins by spelling eucalyptus correctly, their wife’s promotion party, their husband’s tennis match, or just the few seconds that it takes to stop and look at the people one loves and realize how incredibly beautiful they are. These are the same people who never realize the splendor in watching the sun set or just observing how beautiful the moon is. They have too much to do and not enough time to realize what they’re working for. I think it is so sad that so many people have lost focus on what it is all about. I have always loved this quote, "The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing." It doesn’t take all that much time to do this.

2002-09-16T10:40:00.000-05:00

Life is never just one emotion, life is most definitely a rollercoster, not always fun, never boring, but always unpredictable!

2002-09-11T08:19:00.000-05:00

audra's comment, resembles a journal enry does it not? well, a technique often used in writing involves taking a journal entry and creating a written work from it.
-------------
"jenny, you will not go outside dressed like this, and definitely not with karen and her friends", bill says.

"but bill, it's the first time in the last 2 years that i have gone out with just girls by myself. and what exactly is wrong with this dress? i wore it the night i met you, not that you remember".

"that's exactly why you will not wear it. i don't know why you want to wear it anyway, your stomach is sticking out everywhere and you look like a hoe, is that the look you're wanting jenny. you'll look just like karen. maybe it was karen that put this idea in your head, that you have to go out without me, your husband, to have a good time."

"bill, you are always going out with your coworkers by yourself, why you are you acting this way when i want to go out by myself?"

"that's different jenny, that's for work. now, i am going to the store, and when i get back i want you to be in your jeans, and then we will go out for a beer. you don't need to go out without me to have a nice time jenny. you don't". he says as he slams the door on his way out.

i look at myself in the mirror.

he's right, i am too fat for this dress. when did this happen, i wondered. i just wanted to look nice, and be able to smile, as i used to. i wanted to get attention, as i used to. it's hopeless, no one will find me attractive anymore.

i pick up the phone to call karen to call it all off. i am partly hoping that she will encourage me to go. i would love to be back in my old single life again sometimes. i would love to have karen's life. it's so carefree, no child to take care of, no husband to please. a life where i can dress sexy, look good, smile, flirt, and have all eyes on me. or at least one pair of eyes on me. it definitely would not be bill looking at me, he hasn't seen me as an attractive woman since the day i had nathan, our son.
----
thanks for inspiring me audra with your forum/journal question.

2002-09-10T14:13:00.000-05:00

I haven’t written in a while but I have a beef and I thought this would be a good forum for it. I have to wonder what is wrong with married men in America. I am a single, thirty year old woman looking for Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now. But I have to wonder why all I seem to find is Mr. Married Man. Actually, they seem to find me and I have to wonder why they’re even looking. I am thirty and single because I have chosen not to take vows of marriage until I find somebody that deserves those vows from me. When I say, “’til death do us part,” I want to mean it. I have no desire to part prior to death. Parting is what I do with boyfriends, not my husband. What is wrong with people swearing to something and breaking that promise so easily? Why did they get married in the first place? Does anybody have the answer for me?

2002-09-09T12:38:00.000-05:00

hello all in the online writing group team. it's been a while since you posted something...:(

if you would like a task for inspiration, here are some things that we did at a writing workshop over the w/e:
*describe the town that you are from
*describe the place that made you feel safe as a child.
*think about all the different jobs that you have had, make a list. then choose one or two and describe some things about them.

i write memoirs/auto biographies so this was helpful to me.

*write metaphors. describe all the different ways to use colors, without just stating the color:
tangerine orange
raspberry red
mauve hugs
prickly green
frosty pink kisses
lemon yellow
blood red kiss
olive grass
forest green grass
navy blue sky
iridescent blue
pale blue touches
sunshine orange
grey whispers

2002-09-01T15:54:00.000-05:00

age talks of experiences had,
and people known.
it is not a number but a reflection,
of what has been witnessed.

2002-08-22T14:13:00.000-05:00

i was playing with different ways of using adjectives (for instance instead of "sad feelings" i used "pungent taste lingers in my heart"). i wonder if it works? which ones would you remove or alter, and which actually work?
--->
Dark throes of comfort and peace
seem so far away,
Pungent taste lingers in my heart, of a time,
it was yesterday.

Stale visions of happiness once felt, oh,
seem as to not have ever existed.
Heavy chains tightened, and i willingly was,
enraptured.
I had not resisted.

Burst of sound, laughter,
seemed to have filled the room,
where now is silence.
Sweet scent that was yours, is gone,
i gave you away,
the story is now in past tense.

2002-08-21T00:04:00.000-05:00

2002-08-14T03:05:00.000-05:00

i've always been intrigued by relationships and the depths they run into...
i wrote one a few years back...

Fragments..

We're being honest here,
That is all,
You are dealing with a broken piece of truth,
Part of a whole,
Once removed,
Twice abused.

It's these pieces and fragments,
That cause all the din,
We like the noise,
Silence hurts,
Reality bites.

A touch of paint,
And perfume,
Now I see you smile,
I see you love the smell;
And when you chance a look into these eyes,
My eyes,
Do you see me in them?

Touch and go,
That's your reality.
For today I'm Garbo, tomorrow Monroe
Do you know,
How much I pay for this show?

Make immaculate what you believe?
Rock the bed till you go to sleep?
And what is your faith?
What do you believe?
In all that's wrong made right to please?

And look at the cruelty of your belief,
That seeks pleasure in a nightingale and not the cow.
For the former has beauty and a voice,
The latter everything out of no choice.
You cherish the bird and not the beast
A thing of beauty is a feast!

We're getting warmer,
I can see,
You love this body heat,
But do you listen when I speak?
Do you listen when I speak?

But is it you or is it me?
Failing to see the futility,
Of an explanation.

The truth is what cannot be denied,
Even if we walk with shoes on broken glass,
It will tear through the toughest leather,
And bleed you dry.

Do you wish to see what is clear as day?
Because I did and I am going away.

2002-08-12T00:15:00.000-05:00

the room is foggy with smoke. the beer signs are colorful. yellow, red, blue, green. the colors causing a glow on everyone's faces.

there are sounds everywhere. balls hitting one another on the pool table. beer glasses finding one another as toasts are made. the chatter of voices, mingled into loud buzz.

women in tight pants, whose high heeled shoes make their own sounds as they walk on the floor. as do the bathroom doors, opening and closing.

everyone has a smile on their face, as the hour is late, and the beer has been had.

soon, it would all stop, and everyone would return alone to their dark and quiet houses. until tomorrow, when they would begin the ritual again.

2002-08-05T20:02:00.000-05:00

Okay, I started writing a poem about hair, but I felt it was just too corny to publicly display. I know that’s what this site is for but I’m not ready for that yet. I will, however, write a brief statement about my own hair.

I’m not a vain person but I have come to realize that I look better with a different color hair than what God has given me, so it has become an expensive part of my life. I just have to wonder why I can’t just be happy with the hair I was given and just leave it be. I have friends who do nothing with their hair, mind you it looks like it also, but I wish I could be one of those people that is just content with themselves they way they are.

2002-08-05T10:52:00.000-05:00

here's my monday homework:

she with the blond in her hair,
i, with my dark skin and hair,
can only compare.

she, her, them, so many,
i see,
in the fashion magazines,
i am told, are beauty.

while, i, am not good enough,
to be.
according to what they tell
me.

if i keep looking,
i will start to agree.
if i close it,
i can have a value
for me.

different though i look,
beauty, it could be me,
although, i do not look
like she.

-----
or:

I didn’t hear his answer. he responded softly as if afraid to hear it himself. I looked at him and asked him to say it again. He shook his head and I could see a tear wetting his eye and then he turned his head away, to avoid my eyes.

Although I was afraid, this was a question that I needed to ask, and this was an answer I needed to hear.

I asked it again, but this time a little softer and a little sweeter. “Honey, please tell me, I need to know”.

As he heard my voice, he turned towards me, sighed, and sat next to me. he reached for my hand, and squeezed it once. He leaned closer to me. I could feel the warmth of his breath as he sighed again. he lifted my chin, pushed aside a loose strand of hair and tucked it behind my ear. Then he wiped the tear from my eye and kissed the lids.

When he leaned back on the sofa, he continued to hold my hand. Then he answered my question.

2002-08-05T10:48:00.000-05:00

hi guys, anyone up for an exercise?
how many can come up with something (poem, etc.,) with a word of choice, let's say monday's word, and we can do this every monday, maybe...anybody interested?

here's the word for this monday: hair.

2002-08-03T21:12:00.000-05:00

Circus by E!
The sand made Jessie uncomfortable. The dry raspy sound it made as it blew against the door reminded her of why she was here, and that made it at least bearable. Nonetheless, it grated on her almost as painfully as the sound of David’s voice. Luckily, David was outside relieving his bladder—his seventh such action since she started counting just outside of Austin.

The trip, which started on a drink and a dare, was almost half over. The plan had been to drive to the sunny shores of San Diego, grab a handful of sand and bring it back just to prove they’d been in California. In Jessie’s mind, it was a little like eating dessert halfway through a main course. The only difference, the one that she had willingly failed to inform David about, was that she planned on continuing to eat from the cake long after David returned to the meat loaf.

A gust of wind carried more sand into the car as David opened the door and climbed in. As she replayed the last 19 hours in her mind it seemed this trip was one big party in the world’s largest sand box. She left the sands of Texas, traveled through the sands of the Arizona and California deserts only to end up, hopefully very soon, in the sands of the California coastline.

Exactly 19 hours before she had been sitting inside Rooster’s Pub and Grub, just outside Lubbock, Texas when David sat down next to her. When he started in on his usual banter about his impending departure to the golden hills of California, Jessie reached her breaking point. At once, tired of his incessant complaining, she had abruptly asked what was keeping him from going. Forever changing the feet that he found in his mouth, David decided that if only he could find a willing navigator, he’d leave this very second. Twenty minutes later, Jessie found herself barreling down the road at 70 miles an hour, her hair streaming behind her as David extolled the virtues of California like he had lived there his entire life.

David adjusted the steering wheel and started the engine.

“Only another 200 miles and we’ll be in San Diego County. From there it’s only another hour’s drive to the beach,” he said.

Jessie only nodded in agreement. She had learned long ago that David had a tendency to run off at the mouth if you gave him any verbal indication that you were even slightly interested.

The road began to slip past the windows as David reached his usual cruising speed of 70 mph. Cactus and chaparral drifting past the open window of the Cadillac.

“They have water everywhere there. I mean everywhere!” he pounded the empty seat between them for emphasis. “We’re talking lakes, reservoirs, rivers, canals, and ocean as far as the eye can see!”

David’s consistent and even tone began to lull Jessie into a stupor. Her mind began to wander as it often did on long car rides. She thought about her home back in Lubbock. She thought about her parents and their uneducated rhetoric about college and her future. She had begun to nod her head in agreement just to shut them up, knowing full well that her stay in that filthy town was better measured in months rather than years.

She had grown up fairly happy. Well...as happy as a child can be growing up in cultural wasteland. She longed for the bustle of a large metropolis. The glamour of a large city... Hollywood, in fact. She envisioned her future, consisting mostly of daydreams with her playing the lead opposite Brad Pitt or some other male flavor of the month.

She had made the mistake of offering up her fantasy to live in California only once before. She had been relaxing on her porch, frosty glass of iced tea in hand, soaking up the late afternoon breeze with her mother. When Jessie had finally spoken aloud her little California dream, her mother had just about spit out her iced tea.
“Why would you want to waste your life away in that depraved place? You know what? Everyone in California is either a sadist, psycho or an prostitute!” she had said.

It took little more than that queer quote to deter Jessie from ever speaking of her future in California with either of her parents.

Her dreams, like most dreams of fresh faced 29-year-old aspiring starlets, hinged on a hope and a prayer.

Her only real concern was David. She hadn’t really started to formulate her plan until after they had left Texas. Now, a few hours away from their destination, Jessie had no idea how to get rid of David, the Wonder Bladder, once he delivered her safely to the California coastline. Of course, she could just tell him now, run the risk that he’d stop the car, turn around and head back to Lubbock. Jessie didn’t really believe that David would do that, being so close to their destination. Why would he care if she didn’t want to make the round trip with him? It wasn’t as if she was romantically involved with David or that he had ever exhibited anything remotely resembling a sexual attraction to her. When they had first met Jessie had found him somewhat attractive but eventually he opened his mouth and any feelings she had toward him had drained away.

She looked across the Cadillac’s bench seats and quietly studied his jaw line, one of her favorite features on a man. Although he had the finely chiseled face that she found attractive, he was definitely lacking in perspective as well as vision. Actually, these were two characteristics that she also found not only attractive, but also necessary in a man. No, she would need to find a way to gently inform him that she would not be joining him upon his return to Lubbock. Jessie gazed out the window and admired the vistas of the California desert. The shadows from the cactus fields stretching off into the horizon “like opportunities stretched across her future,” she thought happily. It wouldn’t be long before Jessie found what she was looking for.

2002-08-01T13:01:00.000-05:00

Dinner @ Brick Lane.
( Fiction Story. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or a place is purely coincidental and unintentional.
Criticism/comments on content, style etc are very much welcome and solicited. -Shiva)

Rupesh wasn't the only Jain I knew, but he was the first I met in London. One day, after work, he called me to Brick Lane.

"Most of them are Bangladeshis, you know." he cautioned me. "But still they have vegetarian food.". He promised to take me to an "eat all you can for 6£" Buffet place.As we neared the entrance of that place, I noticed the rusty iron board outside.

"Buffet for only 5.95£
Vegetable Curry
Lamb Buna
Chicken Do Piaza
Pakodas
Papadam
Piluv Rice
( Tax and Service Included )"

Rupesh caught me staring at the board. "Don't worry, they replace the meat with vegetable dishes." He said
" For herbivores like us." he winked.
We went in. The restuarant's name was Indian, but the cooks were all Bangladeshi. I could tell just by looking at them. The smell of the spices that was already part of the inside confirmed it.

"Buffet ?" the waiter asked, barely giving us time think or look for a place to sit.
We nodded. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Rupesh had lived in London all his life. He started talking about the area.
"You know this place is called Bangla Town. So many of them man. But most of these people can't even understand English, yeah. They just somehow land here and seek asylum."
I was now listening with interest.
"But not my Dad." he clarified. " And once they are here, like garbage in the sink, they remain. They stink, but no-one wants to clean up."

Radical thoughts, I thought.

Just then, the Waiter carefully maneuvered a double-decker cart. The upper deck had the food, neatly arranged. The lower deck had nothing and I could not understand it's purpose. The sudden appearance of the food surprised me.

"Chicken Do Piaza please !" The waiter placed a dish in front of us.
Rupesh looked at it, and his face went blank.
"What is this ?!" he shouted.
"Sir Chicken..."
"I know. Don't tell me what it is. Didn't I tell you I don't want meat ? Take it away !" He waved the food away.
The Waiter looked bewildered, almost frightened. The dish went back onto the cart.

"Lamb Buna please !" The waiter placed another dish on the table.
Now Rupesh was shaking in rage.
"Don't you understand what I am telling you ?" he screamed. "I told you, no chicken, no mutton, no nothing."
A few pairs of eyes turned, some curiously and some with irritation.

"But sir,the Buffet chicken lamb sir !" the Waiter mustered some courage and replied.
"So ? I was here last night and you substituted the meat. Don't you remember ? And you didn't even ask me today." Rupesh arugued.

The Waiter looked even more confused. He seems to have a memory lapse, or atleast pretended to. The Manager slowly made his way to our table. I wanted to hide. The waiter saw him.

"O.K. I get vegetable dish." the Waiter muttered and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
"Everything all right ?" The Manager asked us.
Rupesh started to say something "Fine Thank you." I said. The Manager left.

Rupesh looked up at me. "Just because they eat animals, they assume everyone else does.Man, this is disgusting."
"But they cook everything in the same vessels anyway Rupy" I pointed out.
He pretended he did not hear me.

More dishes came, and we ate in silence.
"Sir everything all right sir ?" it was the Waiter.
"It's good !" Rupesh said. He looked satisified. "Get us the Bill"

The Bill came, I paid. A year later, I left London; but that was the last dinner I had with Rupesh.

2002-08-01T02:41:00.000-05:00

hey there every one.. this is my first post here and like the others i, too am excited!
well..for my first post i am putting down two poems that i'd written sometime back..

Given a Moment.

Given a moment...
You look but do not see
You see but do not perceive
You perceive but do not feel
You feel but do not say
You say but do not express
You express but do not mean
You mean but do not act
You act but are not involved
You are involved but somewhere else
Given a moment
What do you do?

this was kind of inspirational..most of us i feel are at so many places at one time ( and that is true of me ) , that i wonder what are we up to really..?

this one is on Silence.

Silence
Seemingly eternal silence
the damnation of
a free spirit
locked in eyes
that only witness
but will not testify. And
the resultant atmosphere
saturated with fear
threatens to explode
in insanity but
does not ;
For time
employs hope to nurse the
agitated patience, and
pleads to that
weary sensibility to
Prevail.

silence intrigues me .. poignant silences, just silences.. so many of them..

well..let me know what u think ..

2002-07-31T22:45:00.000-05:00

Here goes a short story! It is a old theme. So, don't be surprised if you have read a similar storyline earlier. I was just in a mood to write some story and just the old theme came to mind.. Anyway, here we go.. please add your bouquets :) and brickbats :( to the comments section.. -----------

The pace slackened down to almost a crawl. As I continue to walk on the rather big footpath by any standards, I notice the huge trees lining the footpath on one side. I feel shaded and out of danger under their giant canopies. My friends had left me long time back. They were in a hurry. I can catch a glimpse of them occasionally far way down, running away from me..

The road on the right side of the footpath is empty. Hardly a vehicle in sight. My thoughts slowly turn back towards the roulette game that I won sometime back. I made a huge pile of cash. The organisers urged me to buy a latest stealth gun with some part of the money that I won. But, I hesitated and settled to a small handheld gun. I remembered stuffing it into my socks.

But, my thoughts are broken by screeching of the tyres on the concrete. A limousine comes to a near halt a few meters away from me. A window rolls down. A face with dark glasses covering it and a hand appears. Suddenly, the hand takes a wild swing and a big stone lands next to me.. I stand transfixed at the spot. I see the hand swing again and quickly duck under the bark of one of the huge trees. The car speeds away, but, not before more stones are hurled at me. Thankfully, the trees save me from further hurt.

I slowly step out from my hiding and look up and down the road. I watch another dark sedan hurtling towards me a few hundreds meters away. I pick up pace and start running, clutching tightly to the box containing my win.

The car races past me and throws a few water-bombs at me, drenching me completely. I decide to move away from the road. I run past the trees and come across a short wall. I stick my head over the wall and see a small church in Gothic style. I jump in, hoping that the church is the best place to hide.

As soon as I reach the inner compound of the church, I start hearing some high-volume chanting. It does not sound like a normal church chanting at all. I furtively look around and my eyes fall on the writing on the wall. It boldly says - 'Church of the Damned'. Oh shucks! Did I land into the fire, trying to escape from the frying pan?

Suddenly, a shout echoes around - "There goes our sacrifice!". A maddening crowd of men and women look eagerly at me. I break into a run. The leering crowd follows me and slowly starts catching up on me.

My thought suddenly returns to the gun tucked away in my socks. I bend down, take the gun in hand and point it at the crowd following me. Their shouts die down. They look waiting for me, but, not taking the risk of following me. I take this oppurtunity, jump out from the church-yard. But, before I jump out, I fire a shot to warn them against following me further down.

I increase my pace. Further down, I can see a lot of activity. Looks like a decent crowd from far away. I join that group and finally feel safe again. I notice a tall girl, dressed in all black at one end of the crowd. She is busy talking to somebody over the cell-phone - or atleast it appears to me from this far.

I move along and pass the girl. She turns at me suddenly and gives me a beautiful smile. I smile back. At the same instance, she draws the cell-phone and points it at me. Oh God!. That is not a cell-phone. It is the latest gun that I should have bought after the roulette game. She points it at me for a few more seconds and shoots at me.

Three shots and thats all that takes for me to fall down writhing in pain.

The screen shows the message. - "Game over. Wanna play again?"

----------------------------------------

Can you think of any different ending to this story? If so, please do add it.

2002-07-31T11:31:00.000-05:00

This is my first post on this site and I'm very excited to be here. I'm quoting something that I previuosly wrote on my site.

I used to be an open book and now everybody thinks I’m just a shallow wading pool because I don’t exhibit any depth because it has become excepted that Audra is the clown there to entertain the spectators of the circus called life. Don’t get me wrong, I love to be happy and entertaining but I remember the day when I was able to express distaste for aspects of life and it was acceptable but then I had that friend, that one friend, supposedly a best friend. You know, the one that replaces your own sibling and you feel closer to that person than you ever have to anybody? Not that it’s a perfect friendship but it’s the friendship where you can yell and scream and everything will be okay when you’re both finished venting. Then one day the friend becomes so self-consumed with all the negatives in their life that they are unable to see all the wonderful things that are right in front of their face, which are there…believe me. The friend is so self-consumed with all these maladies that the friend asks how my life is going but within twenty seconds has somehow miraculously turned the conversation back on them. I can’t remember how long I tolerated this, many months I know that. It’s all quite a blur, I think this actually extended over several years and in this period I realized that I didn’t need to talk about my problems because my problems just couldn’t possibly be as bad as this person’s. I mean isn’t that how it is, everybody else’s problems are much more serious than your own? I know that’s how it is in my life. But because of this friend, I have yet to be able to prove my depth because I have had to live the role of eternal cheerleader. I have forgotten how to be anything but that. Mind you, I was an exceptional cheerleader in the day, able to excite a crowd of several thousands into yelling some inane chant about some even more inane sport that they truly did not give two shits about but were at the event because it was the place “to be.” I’m wondering when I will stop cheering.

2002-07-29T14:32:00.000-05:00

a project for my class--after seeing about 100 pictures of cambodians(old, young,women, men), killed ,a few minutes after their pictures were taken.
--->
My son is walking in front of me, standing as tall and straight as he can. Although his body is thin for he is only 11 years old, I feel that he will try to protect his family. His father, my husband, is not with us, they took him away first, two months ago, and we have not seen him since. Now they have come for the rest of us.

My daughter holds a hand of her two siblings, one on each side of her. At 9, she is my helper. She is there when I am feeling too weak, unable to stand from the burden of knowing that I cannot promise my children that tomorrow they will have food.

I hold my baby against me with one hand and with my other hand I hold the small hand of my other child very tightly. My feet burn from the speed of our walking. My stomach is tight from not having eaten in a long while. My eyes burn from the dust mingled with the desire but inability to cry.

Today, I am scared. I see my neighbors, families of my husband’s friends, around me, and they are scared as well. The men walking ahead of us, with the guns will not stop walking to let the children rest. The children around the men want to ask them about the guns, they want to play, but they are also afraid.

My children look to me, pleading to rest, and I shush them and yell at them to stop acting like children.

The men yell to us that we are not believers of communism and we are worthless for not believing in it. They yell at us to walk fast, for soon we will meet our missing husbands, brothers and grandfathers, but then they laugh. My children are happy at hearing that they will see their father soon, but I am even more scared. I am also angry at my husband for his beliefs have placed us here, I am angry at him for leaving us here, I am angry that I don’t know what these men are telling us and whether we will or will not see my husband.

We come towards a group of buildings in a gated complex. We are pushed inside. There are people everywhere, women, children, old men, old women, and men. They look very tired. They look beaten, purple and blue marks all over their bodies and with fresh bloody scars. The children are alone, some were clearly trying to hide for protection, under benches, or behind trees. The elders are seated on the dusty ground, unable to stand from the weakness of their thin bodies. The women are running while crying out names, names of their children whom they cannot find.

I immediately yell to my children to stay close to me. I yell to them with anger and fear intermingled in my voice. My children start to cry, I have scared them.

The men with the guns push us towards a wall, and shout things that I cannot hear. Then they start to take pictures of us. One by one.

2002-07-28T07:29:00.000-05:00

I look at the mirror and notice a weary, convoluted and wrinkled face. It is not my face, but, can the mirror lie? Is there a world-wide conspiracy by the mirrors against me..

I let out a sigh and say to myself I have become an old lady. But, why does my own image of my face not reflect the one that mirror shows. Is my mind playing tricks; I concentrate hard on bringing in that youthful image; merge that flawless face over this wrinkled and admire it again..

Concentration does not hold on..

A seer told me long back that my original delightful face is hidden within me. The secret to it lies underneath these deep wrinkles that map my face. I trace through the wrinkled lines hoping to unlock that secret door to the old charming face; a secret lock that would help in peeling out this worn-out skin...

A young lady passes me, glances at me, smiles wryly to herself and joins another young lady at the other end of the mirror. She whispers to her - "Look at that old hag; she still thinks she is a personification of beautiful skin; she should probably appear in a skin-care commercial".

They have a hearty laugh and wander out..

2002-07-15T23:31:00.000-05:00

time spent in my car_

time spent in my car is much more than i would prefer.
a drive to work.
a drive to the parents.
a drive to friends.
a drive to the boyfriend's.
a drive to the store.
a drive to school.
always going to a destination.

the time spent can energize me, or
allow me to release tension by cutting someone off,
or by driving fast and switching lanes quickly, while listening to loud music.
it can also calm me, for
i am able to notice the sunsets and clouds,
things i would have missed, staying inside of a building.

the time spent in my car enables me to think,
when i don't take time to otherwise,
too many chores to do during the day.

while i look forward to my destination, sometimes i do
value the drive.

i've come to terms then, i think,
with the amount of time, i spend in my car.

2002-07-04T12:08:00.000-05:00

2002-07-01T09:35:00.000-05:00

topic for inspiration. what does this article inspire you to write about? if you are inspired send me a note and i'll add you to the online writing group list...or leave it on the comment box.

2002-06-26T10:15:00.000-05:00

online writing group

here's a chance to write
a way that you can share
what you have created
i guess, if you dare...
don't worry if it is as bad as this,
you won't be judged, really,
just write, of life,
something wise, or silly.
and if you want the truth, then,
that is what you will get,
else if you want niceness,
then you will get that,all from folks you haven't met...(?)

alright that's it, don't review this.