P
Pistil
Guest
Writers ...
P
Pistil
Guest
all the things here - notes to myself
Stop thinking about the things. There are no ideas but in the things.
Just skate on the edge, like Charlie in Modern Times, dreaming with Heddy
of middle class soporifics, department store dreaming within the Wellian ribbons.
See the past see the future seized in the past. Wave to the passersby.
Movement through the windows belies a Copernicus concussion.
Is it the train in motion or the world beyond the window?
Or is it all just rear projection sound stage foolery?
Don’t wait with the rationals for the green light. Or for the plausibles to applaud.
Meaning seems to be overrated; being underwrites all but the undertaker,
who takes meaning down to the level of common denominators.
Even April can’t reason with November.
And the morning paper a yet again reminder of the daily transfusion of yesterday’s false timing. Maybe just row and drift, and let the others care about running the world to ruination.
Oh dear how they roll their cups to snake eyes unseen.
See it all as you wait your turn through the turnstile. This is only everything
and everything is only oh so lonely in its onlyness. As only the lonely
don’t know in their bliss of loneliness that this is simply
a disenfranchised heaven tendered in the memories of splendor in the grass.
This is only porridge spilling over, only lamplight lit to see itself by itself unseen.
Stop thinking about the things. There are no ideas but in the things.
Just skate on the edge, like Charlie in Modern Times, dreaming with Heddy
of middle class soporifics, department store dreaming within the Wellian ribbons.
See the past see the future seized in the past. Wave to the passersby.
Movement through the windows belies a Copernicus concussion.
Is it the train in motion or the world beyond the window?
Or is it all just rear projection sound stage foolery?
Don’t wait with the rationals for the green light. Or for the plausibles to applaud.
Meaning seems to be overrated; being underwrites all but the undertaker,
who takes meaning down to the level of common denominators.
Even April can’t reason with November.
And the morning paper a yet again reminder of the daily transfusion of yesterday’s false timing. Maybe just row and drift, and let the others care about running the world to ruination.
Oh dear how they roll their cups to snake eyes unseen.
See it all as you wait your turn through the turnstile. This is only everything
and everything is only oh so lonely in its onlyness. As only the lonely
don’t know in their bliss of loneliness that this is simply
a disenfranchised heaven tendered in the memories of splendor in the grass.
This is only porridge spilling over, only lamplight lit to see itself by itself unseen.
P
Pistil
Guest
Hey. Writers ...
P
Pistil
Guest
until we get more live ones here, may as well wake up the dead -
a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me--
who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was
-but now that fiend and i are such
immortal friends the other's each
ee cummings
a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me--
who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was
-but now that fiend and i are such
immortal friends the other's each
ee cummings
P
Pistil
Guest
zzzzzzzzzzz
P
Pistil
Guest
Play
You enter stage left to an improv play
and you proceed across the stage
encountering various characters
in times, places, situations.
There are conflicts.
You learn to forgive
and to be forgiven.
Who will be with you
in the final scene
of the last act?
The forgiven.
You exit
Alone.
You enter stage left to an improv play
and you proceed across the stage
encountering various characters
in times, places, situations.
There are conflicts.
You learn to forgive
and to be forgiven.
Who will be with you
in the final scene
of the last act?
The forgiven.
You exit
Alone.
P
Pistil
Guest
Well dammee - thinkin I screwed up. Joined here a bit after you launched and didn't really read this well. The idea was for a continuing narrative, built by replies. I started throwing in poetry. But your original idea is better. I hope you can launch it again. I'll keep the poems at bay. Maybe more folks will join in. As intended.
L
Lupine
Guest
Well dammee - thinkin I screwed up. Joined here a bit after you launched and didn't really read this well. The idea was for a continuing narrative, built by replies. I started throwing in poetry. But your original idea is better. I hope you can launch it again. I'll keep the poems at bay. Maybe more folks will join in. As intended.
It's fine. I think the fact that it's morphed into something I hadn't planned is pretty cool.
P
Pistil
Guest
Could be cool with more participation.
L
Lupine
Guest
T
Thalassa
Guest
I stand corrected. Violently so. Irrevocably so. I was wrong all along in believing in goodness, in love, in trust. Completely wrong.
Now I understand how stupidly naive I have been, espousing and spewing these ridiculous ideals of mine. There is no love that lasts. None.
The mother and child exist out of need, out of the need for survival. When they're done with you, they move on. You are but a blip in their past.
Romantic love, the most nonsensical, an utter waste of time, of being. Utter. Waste. Hours, days, weeks, years, decades... poured into making things be, into creating, into building, only to have it all destroyed sooner or later. And worse. There is always worse. Why instead of a clean incision, a prolonged suffering, ragged edges, with ample bleeding, seems to be our fate?
What a fucking waste of
Time
Energy
Belief
Hope
A fucking waste of Me. Of You. Of Us.
When you believed yet once again all the way, more than you ever had, when you were ready to shed it all, and see it through. What was the point of it all. To end up broken. Ah yes you were all right about that too. When I used to say, no, nobody's broken, nobody needs fixing, just some healing. I was wrong. All these wrongs make nothing right. It just ends up being a mountain of wrongs. And you just end up being the fool.
You can think about it all you want, cry all you've got, beg for that one last chance, for the sake of what was, for the sake of others. But in the end, nothing matters. It just doesn't.
You all were right : non committal sex with no involvement, no feelings, apparently is the only worthwhile bond in a couple. Use and be used. Let's not bother to be bothered about it. The way of the world dictates it be so, wants it to be so.
We are both saints and sinners. Who isn't? But maybe I was more of a sinner than a saint than I thought I was. Maybe it is all deserved. Why I thought I could be, strived to be any different. Why I thought our story would stand the test of it all, the rights, the wrongs. Why I hoped all the times I gave and nurtured would override the times I took and needed. Why.
Nothing matters. All turns to dust. And you're left there, fallen on your knees, amidst the ruins, trying to comprehend how and why, finding no satisfactory answer other than love fades into indifference or hate. Eventually. Inevitably.
Now I understand how stupidly naive I have been, espousing and spewing these ridiculous ideals of mine. There is no love that lasts. None.
The mother and child exist out of need, out of the need for survival. When they're done with you, they move on. You are but a blip in their past.
Romantic love, the most nonsensical, an utter waste of time, of being. Utter. Waste. Hours, days, weeks, years, decades... poured into making things be, into creating, into building, only to have it all destroyed sooner or later. And worse. There is always worse. Why instead of a clean incision, a prolonged suffering, ragged edges, with ample bleeding, seems to be our fate?
What a fucking waste of
Time
Energy
Belief
Hope
A fucking waste of Me. Of You. Of Us.
When you believed yet once again all the way, more than you ever had, when you were ready to shed it all, and see it through. What was the point of it all. To end up broken. Ah yes you were all right about that too. When I used to say, no, nobody's broken, nobody needs fixing, just some healing. I was wrong. All these wrongs make nothing right. It just ends up being a mountain of wrongs. And you just end up being the fool.
You can think about it all you want, cry all you've got, beg for that one last chance, for the sake of what was, for the sake of others. But in the end, nothing matters. It just doesn't.
You all were right : non committal sex with no involvement, no feelings, apparently is the only worthwhile bond in a couple. Use and be used. Let's not bother to be bothered about it. The way of the world dictates it be so, wants it to be so.
We are both saints and sinners. Who isn't? But maybe I was more of a sinner than a saint than I thought I was. Maybe it is all deserved. Why I thought I could be, strived to be any different. Why I thought our story would stand the test of it all, the rights, the wrongs. Why I hoped all the times I gave and nurtured would override the times I took and needed. Why.
Nothing matters. All turns to dust. And you're left there, fallen on your knees, amidst the ruins, trying to comprehend how and why, finding no satisfactory answer other than love fades into indifference or hate. Eventually. Inevitably.
P
Pistil
Guest
Wow.
First pass is a beautifully articulated gut punch. I don't want to agree with or believe what the author seems to be espousing. But this writing speaks with authority, sincerity, and heart - too much so to be disregarded.
I'll look forward to reading fresh in the
morning.
First pass is a beautifully articulated gut punch. I don't want to agree with or believe what the author seems to be espousing. But this writing speaks with authority, sincerity, and heart - too much so to be disregarded.
I'll look forward to reading fresh in the
morning.
Last edited by a moderator:
L
Lupine
Guest
Getting a lot of raw emotional pieces. If nothing else I hope they aid the healing process a little.
P
Pistil
Guest
So raw so powerful. Moving.
So many can relate in some way.
And that makes this sharing so valuable.
My gratitude.
So many can relate in some way.
And that makes this sharing so valuable.
My gratitude.
P
Pistil
Guest
What's not to like about a hooker in a monastery? C'mon. Post some writing. It's all good.
SnoopSlimes
Resident
You were forewarned...
Extract;
Several mounted riders moved onto the trail ahead advancing towards the travellers. Pharone noted, the five she could now see weren’t armoured but all were armed. Roderan called his dog to his side which the animal promptly did.
“Liege-men from Lord Caliphos’s castle,” he mentioned softly as if his words would explain everything to Pharone. “These lands hereabouts belong to him and his men are fane to enjoy reminding all such is the case.”
The leader, or at least, the man who led the other four, was a big man astride a big black horse, well dressed in silks and an embroidered surcoat. The others wore less regal looking garb but none of it looked to be poor quality. None had drawn weapons as yet and simply rode at the walk up to where Roderan and Pharone stood.
Without any preamble, the big man spoke. “What’s in the bags, peasant and who is this woman?” He was eyeing the roll of skins and furs Roderan carried but curiosity bid him ask about the other portion on the load.
“They hold naught but goose-down, Lord.” Roderan replied. “The woman, I met on the trail.” He lied trying to distance himself from his association with her, hoping to avert trouble.
“She also carries a bag.” The man pointed at Pharone’s load as he spoke. “Think me not a fool. Being so willing to share your burdens, you can share with us. We’ll be having those furs and skins. Call it a tax for the liege lord.” He laughed softly as did his men.
Pharone dropped her bag, extracted a coin from her purse with the men warily watching her then tossed it at the lead man who promptly caught it.
“A golden Atlantean dublet, eh? You can share those with us as well.” He remarked, the avarice glowing in his eyes.
“There’s your lord’s tax paid.” Pharone barked in a voice that brooked no further discussion on the matter of tax-collecting.
”It was not a request, woman.” He replied, eyes narrowing, his anger growing and his hand went to his sword hilt. “Zavros, get the woman’s purse. We’ll determine the due to be paid, not you.”
The man Pharone assumed was Zavros dismounted, handed his reins to the man beside him and strode forward, his right hand on his sword hilt implying threat and his left extended, demandingly. “She’ll hand it over alright, Fadden, mark my words.”
“You want my gold,” Pharone replied firmly, and in a sudden move, dropped the cloak, reached over her shoulder, unhooked her shield and slipped her left arm into the bucklers. Next, her sword hummed into view. “I’ll pay with this.” She indicated her fearsome golden-hued blade. In a heartbeat, she threw her left leg forward a half-pace, crouched threateningly behind her shield in her fighting stance with just her eyes peering over the rim and sword poised ready to strike or parry.
The man, Zavros considered himself quite the exponent with the sword and he too drew his weapon. The shield was a nuisance but he knew a few moves that would cause this woman to move it to block a feint and with his expertise, a quick lunge would suffice to cripple or kill. Pharone did not move for the feint, she knew without knowing how she knew that it was merely a feint but when she moved, hers was not a move intended to deceive. The murderous blow severed his blade a hand-span from the hilt. With no lessening of the brutal power behind the stroke, Pharone’s golden blade clove the man on the shoulder opening him up to the sternum and the spray of the man’s blood splattered her shield in crimson streaks. She did not spare him another glance as the man doubled over and fell beside her with a groan. Before he hit the ground, Pharone was back in her fighting stance. “Is that payment sufficient?” She barked her question with a mirthless smile.
The four remaining looked to each other, unable to believe what had just transpired. All of them had witnessed examples of Zavros’s blade work before and not one had thought that at worst. a few moments and a few moves would be all that was required to lay the woman hors combat.
“Kill her,” Fadden barked, spurring his horse forward and drawing his sword. Pharone simply crouched lower, took his slash on her shield and as the horse passed by, she leapt higher than the man sat his horse and in a swift turning pirouette, drove a brutal slash at his back that severed his spine and opened his heart. The pirouette finished with her landing on her feet, once more crouched in her fighting stance and facing the three remaining. As with her last victim, she did not offer so much as look at him again. She knew that blow too had been mortal and the thud of a lifeless body falling from the horse a few moments later told her, such was the case. The three liege-men spurred their horses forward and the ground trembled to the gallop of a dozen hooves, one to pass on her left, the other on her right and the third straight at her. Her shield deflected the slash from the man on her left, the man on the right missed as she moved left and the third’s horse suffered a shield slammed into its chest which threw the horse off balance. Her counter-cut gashed this man’s side below the ribs and in a cry of agony, his sword fell from his hand and his entrails spilled down the horse’s side. The horse raced past after stumbling to regain its balance after the woman’s buffet with her shield. Pharone pivoted to keep the remaining pair in sight and watched the man, slowly slump to his right and then he too fell onto the ground, screaming in agony.
The pair wheeled their horses into rump-scraping turns, set heels goading the horses into the gallop once more and came at her side by side. Pharone braced, her shield took the blow from one, her blade parried the other and as before, again she leapt high and twisting about as she rose. Her now crimson blade swung, almost faster than the eye could follow and struck the man on her right a horizontal blow just above the shoulders, neatly removing his head. His corpse pitched sideways from the saddle and with a soggy thump, crashed lifeless onto the grassy midden. The continuation of the turn laid open the other’s side but not as critically as the other she had thus struck. Again, she landed on her feet, perfectly balanced and back in her fighting stance facing the receding pair. That last man’s horse continued on a few paces before slowing and veering off to its right. His sword fell from his hand and although the wound wasn’t instantly mortal, he was in agony and in slumping over and clutching his now bloodied fingers to the blood spouting wound. He had pulled the reins as he doubled-over, slowing and turning the animal as he slowly slipped from his saddle. Pharone, dashed forward but the man fell from his horse to land on his side, hands frantically pressed into the deep gash in under his ribcage and moaning in agony. Rheumy eyes rose to look at Pharone as she arrived to stand over him, sword poised.
“Spare me, please.” He implored with a pain-wracked voice, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. The shock was directed at how easily this woman had dealt with he and his companions. The surprise came when he saw in her blazing eyes, mercy was a trait, unknown to the warriors of Atlantis.
“I think not,” and with those final words, she impaled him through the heart. He convulsed once then joined his comrades in death. Pharone wiped her blade clean on his fine silk shirt then sheathed it in its scabbard. She walked down the road to where two of the horses had stopped, gathered their reins and led them back towards Roderan, gathering up the reins of the third as she passed by. The other two horses hadn’t stopped after losing their riders and were several hundred paces away and still running. Pharone liked the look of the black so she handed the other pair’s reins to Roderan. “I believe we no longer need walk.” She mentioned casually.
Roderan could not raise more than a hoarse croak. His eyes were wide open, and he could scarcely credit the evidence of his eyes. As he struggled to find his voice, Pharone slipped her shield and wiped the fresh blood off in the lush grass beside the trail before replacing it where it normally hung across her back. She then walked to where the man Fadden lay in the pool of his own blood and retrieved her golden dublet from the grass beside his lifeless hand from whence it had fallen.
Ls x
Extract;
Several mounted riders moved onto the trail ahead advancing towards the travellers. Pharone noted, the five she could now see weren’t armoured but all were armed. Roderan called his dog to his side which the animal promptly did.
“Liege-men from Lord Caliphos’s castle,” he mentioned softly as if his words would explain everything to Pharone. “These lands hereabouts belong to him and his men are fane to enjoy reminding all such is the case.”
The leader, or at least, the man who led the other four, was a big man astride a big black horse, well dressed in silks and an embroidered surcoat. The others wore less regal looking garb but none of it looked to be poor quality. None had drawn weapons as yet and simply rode at the walk up to where Roderan and Pharone stood.
Without any preamble, the big man spoke. “What’s in the bags, peasant and who is this woman?” He was eyeing the roll of skins and furs Roderan carried but curiosity bid him ask about the other portion on the load.
“They hold naught but goose-down, Lord.” Roderan replied. “The woman, I met on the trail.” He lied trying to distance himself from his association with her, hoping to avert trouble.
“She also carries a bag.” The man pointed at Pharone’s load as he spoke. “Think me not a fool. Being so willing to share your burdens, you can share with us. We’ll be having those furs and skins. Call it a tax for the liege lord.” He laughed softly as did his men.
Pharone dropped her bag, extracted a coin from her purse with the men warily watching her then tossed it at the lead man who promptly caught it.
“A golden Atlantean dublet, eh? You can share those with us as well.” He remarked, the avarice glowing in his eyes.
“There’s your lord’s tax paid.” Pharone barked in a voice that brooked no further discussion on the matter of tax-collecting.
”It was not a request, woman.” He replied, eyes narrowing, his anger growing and his hand went to his sword hilt. “Zavros, get the woman’s purse. We’ll determine the due to be paid, not you.”
The man Pharone assumed was Zavros dismounted, handed his reins to the man beside him and strode forward, his right hand on his sword hilt implying threat and his left extended, demandingly. “She’ll hand it over alright, Fadden, mark my words.”
“You want my gold,” Pharone replied firmly, and in a sudden move, dropped the cloak, reached over her shoulder, unhooked her shield and slipped her left arm into the bucklers. Next, her sword hummed into view. “I’ll pay with this.” She indicated her fearsome golden-hued blade. In a heartbeat, she threw her left leg forward a half-pace, crouched threateningly behind her shield in her fighting stance with just her eyes peering over the rim and sword poised ready to strike or parry.
The man, Zavros considered himself quite the exponent with the sword and he too drew his weapon. The shield was a nuisance but he knew a few moves that would cause this woman to move it to block a feint and with his expertise, a quick lunge would suffice to cripple or kill. Pharone did not move for the feint, she knew without knowing how she knew that it was merely a feint but when she moved, hers was not a move intended to deceive. The murderous blow severed his blade a hand-span from the hilt. With no lessening of the brutal power behind the stroke, Pharone’s golden blade clove the man on the shoulder opening him up to the sternum and the spray of the man’s blood splattered her shield in crimson streaks. She did not spare him another glance as the man doubled over and fell beside her with a groan. Before he hit the ground, Pharone was back in her fighting stance. “Is that payment sufficient?” She barked her question with a mirthless smile.
The four remaining looked to each other, unable to believe what had just transpired. All of them had witnessed examples of Zavros’s blade work before and not one had thought that at worst. a few moments and a few moves would be all that was required to lay the woman hors combat.
“Kill her,” Fadden barked, spurring his horse forward and drawing his sword. Pharone simply crouched lower, took his slash on her shield and as the horse passed by, she leapt higher than the man sat his horse and in a swift turning pirouette, drove a brutal slash at his back that severed his spine and opened his heart. The pirouette finished with her landing on her feet, once more crouched in her fighting stance and facing the three remaining. As with her last victim, she did not offer so much as look at him again. She knew that blow too had been mortal and the thud of a lifeless body falling from the horse a few moments later told her, such was the case. The three liege-men spurred their horses forward and the ground trembled to the gallop of a dozen hooves, one to pass on her left, the other on her right and the third straight at her. Her shield deflected the slash from the man on her left, the man on the right missed as she moved left and the third’s horse suffered a shield slammed into its chest which threw the horse off balance. Her counter-cut gashed this man’s side below the ribs and in a cry of agony, his sword fell from his hand and his entrails spilled down the horse’s side. The horse raced past after stumbling to regain its balance after the woman’s buffet with her shield. Pharone pivoted to keep the remaining pair in sight and watched the man, slowly slump to his right and then he too fell onto the ground, screaming in agony.
The pair wheeled their horses into rump-scraping turns, set heels goading the horses into the gallop once more and came at her side by side. Pharone braced, her shield took the blow from one, her blade parried the other and as before, again she leapt high and twisting about as she rose. Her now crimson blade swung, almost faster than the eye could follow and struck the man on her right a horizontal blow just above the shoulders, neatly removing his head. His corpse pitched sideways from the saddle and with a soggy thump, crashed lifeless onto the grassy midden. The continuation of the turn laid open the other’s side but not as critically as the other she had thus struck. Again, she landed on her feet, perfectly balanced and back in her fighting stance facing the receding pair. That last man’s horse continued on a few paces before slowing and veering off to its right. His sword fell from his hand and although the wound wasn’t instantly mortal, he was in agony and in slumping over and clutching his now bloodied fingers to the blood spouting wound. He had pulled the reins as he doubled-over, slowing and turning the animal as he slowly slipped from his saddle. Pharone, dashed forward but the man fell from his horse to land on his side, hands frantically pressed into the deep gash in under his ribcage and moaning in agony. Rheumy eyes rose to look at Pharone as she arrived to stand over him, sword poised.
“Spare me, please.” He implored with a pain-wracked voice, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. The shock was directed at how easily this woman had dealt with he and his companions. The surprise came when he saw in her blazing eyes, mercy was a trait, unknown to the warriors of Atlantis.
“I think not,” and with those final words, she impaled him through the heart. He convulsed once then joined his comrades in death. Pharone wiped her blade clean on his fine silk shirt then sheathed it in its scabbard. She walked down the road to where two of the horses had stopped, gathered their reins and led them back towards Roderan, gathering up the reins of the third as she passed by. The other two horses hadn’t stopped after losing their riders and were several hundred paces away and still running. Pharone liked the look of the black so she handed the other pair’s reins to Roderan. “I believe we no longer need walk.” She mentioned casually.
Roderan could not raise more than a hoarse croak. His eyes were wide open, and he could scarcely credit the evidence of his eyes. As he struggled to find his voice, Pharone slipped her shield and wiped the fresh blood off in the lush grass beside the trail before replacing it where it normally hung across her back. She then walked to where the man Fadden lay in the pool of his own blood and retrieved her golden dublet from the grass beside his lifeless hand from whence it had fallen.
Ls x