The perfect home for the most discerning of buyers. Two tiny bedrooms barely big enough for a double bed with no built in storage so you’re sure to run out of room quickly. A dark and damp living area that might be enough to be a small dinning and lounge room if you’re lucky, bust most likely you’ll have to eat on the lounge with tv tables. Poky and hard to use kitchen with no real space for appliances or white goods, and a rat infestation you’re sure to struggle to remove. Offers uncomfortable living and horrible entertaining at a price you’re sure to bawlk at, this home is truly one in a million.
The Kingdom of Hearts.
That place in my soul.
Where you walk, you run, you thrive like so many others.
Mother, father, sister and you filling up inside of me like I am a balloon and you are the air that I breathe.
Sometimes I feel as if I could drink nothing else but you, like I could quit life and replace it with you and be endlessly happy.
Life doesn’t work like that.
Most days you are not there.
Life is life, it is normal, regular, and you are just you and we are seperate.
But lately, lately its like you are me and without you near I am dieing.
I am dieing to be with you.
I just want to be with you all the time.
Please, please can i be with you?
But no, I can’t.
How do I get over this?
How do I return to me and love you like normal, instead of it filling me so much I’m about to burst, so much that it hurts, it hurts, SO MUCH!
I miss you.
I love you.
Journal Entry 226 August 23rd 2012
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to write this journal. The war is getting intense. If the fighting doesn’t end soon, all will be lost. I’m keeping it short. I want to keep as much as possible and use as few words as possible. We need the fighting to end soon.
I read over my entry from yesterday, looking for blank spots. I could see none and heaved a sigh of relief. But how much longer could we go on like this? I looked around my apartment and scanned the room, thinking how at first glance the war did not affect my home. The comfy lounge room with its cushy chairs and dusty free widescreen looking as inviting as ever, the small kitchenette clean and tidy and ready to cook up a storm, overall there really wasn’t much you could see. But all you had to do was look at the petite bookshelf and you’d notice something a little odd. Lots of books with blank titles and no authors. I shuddered to think that this is the world we are living in, look at where technology has gotten us now?
It started with the upgraded prison system, keep them all locked away using technology; bright idea till they all break loose! Every word in the English language locked into one big prison, living in relative ease, with obvious words confined to solitary such as War, Fight, Hate, but overall the system worked well. They lived our lives and we lived ours. But when they broke out, all hell broke loose. The most malicious banded in teams – War, Fight, Hate and all the rest – and started to argue about how they would take over the world. Peace, Love and Unity formed a peace party, trying to establish harmony amongst the words, but they would take none of that. Eventually the fighting escalated as the teams argued over who should rule the world until we were faced with the worst war in history; the War of Words. They chose their battlefield and began raging war, sending countless troops out to fight, weaker words being used as cannon fodder. It has been theorised for many centuries what would happen if a word was killed, how it would affect our culture, but no-one ever knew.
After the first day of fighting, people searched for signs of changed but could find none. We knew words had died but without knowing which ones, how could we know what had happened? After a few days of fighting, and a few 100 causalities, it became known the effects and spread on news throughout the world. When a word dies, all knowledge of that word dies, all history of that word dies; it is gone forever. Any written version of the word disappears, any memory of the word disappears, and we are unable to speak, write or even think of the word. Of course the reports were hard to believe at first; you’re telling us a word is dead but you can’t tell us which word and even if you could we wouldn’t remember it or be able to find it written anywhere? Like that doesn’t sound like the biggest bullshit-cover-up ever! But slowly and surely we began to notice words missing. Our books had blank tittles, blank spots all over the pages, when yesterday they were full. And in films, actors would suddenly stop mid-sentence, gaps appearing throughout all films and TV. Some of us start to panic at the realisation of the danger we were facing; we could loose language, loose the ability to speak, write, create! Others were less concerned. Most the words lost in the early war were superfluous, they said. Synonyms for words often used, synonyms for words protected by the big powers in the war, I mean who cares right? But how could we know that? With no knowledge of which words had died, we were literally in the dark, unable to realise our loss even when it is too late! But what could the authorities do? Send in our own troops and risk more word causalities, send in aids to help the wounded? None of these methods were agreeable, and with Peace, Love, Unity and their team in hiding negotiation to settle the war seemed only a dream.
“Take a powerful memory from your early experience (traumatic or otherwise). Describe not the event, the narrative context, or the emotion experienced, but what you can recall with your senses - what you saw, heard, smelled, touched, tasted. This could be achieved by building up a ‘word bank’: a list of words which you associate with the memory. Try to evoke the emotion in the reader by this poetic rendition of the moment.”
Heavy weight on chest.
Bed soft beneath.
The taste unmistakable
like sweaty skin, grimy, not cleaned.
Not like your arm tastes,
not like your lips,
the unmistakable taste of your most private extremity.
Or maybe it’s the smell that is unmistakable.
The smell of arousal,
of pubic hair,
of what lies beneath,
like sweaty ass crack.
The smell, the taste, they mix into one.
Dogs bark in the background.
Shut up you mangy shits
the neighbours voice rings out.
His skin feels taught under nails
sharp nails, it grates against them as they drag.
The burning effort of pushing,
muscles feeling futile,
his muscles resist against force.
Arms feel tired.
All that looms above flesh, mangy hair close eyes!
His voice above “Take it you slut!”
Deep. Loud. Aggressive.
Feel it hitting the throat, sliding down.
Convulsions, gag reflexes, bringing up lunch.
Or lack there of.
The taste of stomach acid
of sweaty skin grimy not cleaned
the pubic smell
sweaty ass crack
Tastes mix together, mix with the smell.
Nostrils flaring as air rushes in and out in rapid waves.
Eyes closed eyes sting,
cheeks feel wet.
Then it shoots out and hits the throat
convulsions gag reflexes keep it down!
Nostrils flaring as air rushes in and out in rapid waves.
Chest burning, feels like it will explode.
Heart hammering in ears
can you hear it or can you feel it I don’t know.
The pain tight tension
make it happen
make the swallow.
Eyes sting more.
Cheeks even wetter.
Slower, slower now.
Feel heart less, feel smoother air flow.
Chest still feels heavy.
Chest being rocked.
But muscles relax.
Feel of dead weight sinking into the bed.
Mouth left dry, taste milky, sickly, acidic.
Muscles ache and strain to close mouth.
Fresh air pilling in smelling sweet and clean.
Chest freely moving.
Fresh air pilling in feeling sweet and clean.
Bed shifts beneath.
Eyes still shut.
Cheeks still wet.
Body still feel of dead weight.
Did you enjoy that baby?
“Choose a photograph or painting and use this as the starting point for a poem: you can either try to describe the image, or use it as the departure for an imagined narrative, or trace the associations the image triggers in you.”
Smiley Ball, smile no more.
It hurts when you smile,
Please Smiley Ball, smile no more.
“Choose a well known fairy tale and use this as the basis for a narrative poem, perhaps commwnting on/subverting the fairy tale, or employing it to make a comment about contemporary culture.”
Tale as old as time,
song as old as rhyme,
beauty and the beast.
A beautiful woman,
trapped in a dead-end job,
finds a beast, wild and untamed.
She brings it home,
caring for it despite its hideous nature,
too sweet to let a stray dog die.
It rips apart her home,
it shits on everything,
there is no appreciation of her efforts.
Barely even friends,
then somebody bends,
She starts to love it and treat it like a pet,
it starts to behave and treat her like a friend,
suddenly they are pet and owner.
Time goes past and their best friends,
but she’s lonely without a man to call her own,
her beast her closest companion.
It doesn’t take long before her needs become too great,
she cant take it anymore,
she needs company.
It starts off by accident,
he nudges her groin,
she can’t deny it feels good.
Suddenly she’s doing it whatever it takes to feel it again.
Peanut butter on exposed flesh,
He just can’t resist.
Then she finds it can be more than that,
he’s in heat, so is she,
and it’s just so easy to slip it in.
It’s not weird because he wants it to,
she sees the man inside,
more capable of love than you could ever imagine.
She doesn’t hide it because it’s wrong,
she hides it cause they wont understand,
who could understand their love?
Tale as old as time,
song as old as rhyme,
beauty and the beast.
“Write a ‘found’ poem by taking lines from a variety of sources (newspapers, instruction manuals, advertising copy, etc) and compiling them in some sort of rythmic order. Try to imagine what symbolism or linguistic statement could arise from your arrangment before redrafting. Try incorporating (perhaps in paratactic fashion), you own lyric descriptions, metaphors or statements about poetry. Try to play with devices such as enjambment, the slash, stanzaic form, etc.”
She first heard about Romance through director John Galliano.
“I loved it I absolutely love it” Ken Downing, fashion director of Neima Marcus, gushed.
A few days later.
“I love to see myself in a new Light”.
Colin’s bubbly personality is as bright as the jewels and clutch bags she designs.
If you have had sexual intercourse during that time, there is a possibility.
And you may need emergency contraception, perfect to treat yourself or share with family and friends!
System recommendation – use the Swartzkopf 3-Step System.
The repair formula with active Coenzyme Q10 stimulates. You will be protected against pregnancy.
NOT TO PRIME IS A CRIME.
She might be a grown woman but Collins imagination is still just as.
This lavish mood has also infiltrated the world of beauty where it suddenly seems we no longer need to apologise for embarrassing luxury.
Cough up blood, available in a range of mouth watering flavours to suit any occasion!
How to use:
Take the tablet you missed AND complete the pack as normal.
If you miss your period twice in a row, you may be pregnant and should seek advice from your doctor.
“This exercise encourages you to consider the perennial and omnipresent distinction between showing and telling. Write a micro-fiction in which you tell someone’s life story from birth to death in 250 words. Then take one event from that character’s life and construct a 250 word scene in which you show the action of the event. To what extent can this scene be emblematic of that person’s life?”
Crystal’s life started and ended at 14 when she first started using drugs. Everything before that was inconsequential and everything afterwards a downward spiral. She got pregnant with Dean at the age of 16, when she hooked up with a couple of guys at a party, and couldn’t remember which ones had used protection, or for that matter if any had. So she raised the child alone. At 18 her mother died of a drug overdose and Crystal found alternative means of income, to support both the child and her drug addiction. It wasn’t until he was four years old that she first hit him, lashing out because he was crying and upset that she had sold his toys for drug money. But after that their relationship only deteriorated as she continued to do whatever it took to get the drugs she needed. When dean was 16 he moved out and didn’t see her again for another 12 years. In that time she had done not much else except sell more belongings and more of herself to feed her addiction. When they did meet he gave her money to go into rehab, get help and fix herself up. Three years later he returned to find she’d used all the money for drugs, and was living in a rat infested hell hole. He screamed at her and hit her and she knew she’d never see him again. After the fight she was reduced to nothing and ended up living on the streets, dying of an overdose two years later.
Action Scene (Showing)
Dean slid through the hall, his gag reflex almost failing him. A rat ran over his foot as lights flickered above. When he faced her door his hands were shaking and his breathe came out raggedly. His knuckles wrapped against the door. He stood tapping his feet for a few seconds before he turned away. Behind him he heard the click of the door opening.
“Dean?” she croaked out. He turned back his eyes running over her figure; taut face, dark circles under her eyes, her flesh non-existent. He swallowed hard, unable to stop his eyes widening considerably.
She averted her eyes, shuffling back into the apartment and dragging the door shut behind her. He reefed his hand out and stopped the door. Inside his eyes scanned the studio apartment; mattress on the floor, clothes scattered around it, and the kitchenette overflowing with dirty dishes and cockroaches. He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth before turning to her.
“Where is it?” he demanded. Her eyes flew up; she took a step back and stared at him, shaking her head slightly.
“The money, where is the money? Where has it all gone? What happened to rehab? What happened to a better apartment? What happened to getting better? Three years and 50 grand, where the hell is the fucking money Mum?” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he waved his hands around.
She swallowed hard. “Gone.” She breathed out in a barely audible whisper.
He threw his fist into her face then turned on his heels and slammed the door behind him, never to return.
“Write a piece which deliberately breaches narrative conventions, such as: a first person narrator who knows more than they could possibly know (ie omniscient access to the thoughts of other characters, or the the future); a third person narrator who enters the fictional world to become a character; switiching narrative voice and focalisation within the same paragraph, etc.”
In a world not too unlike our own, the only real difference being some advancements in technology, there was a woman who’s life was fraught with the same problem’s as any modern woman’s is; monthly hormonal imbalances requiring expensive ice-cream and many boxes of tissues, relationships with men who didn’t respect her enough, men who expected to much and gave too little, and men who were just simply dicks.
Living directly across the hall from her in the second story of her apartment complex was a man, smart sophisticated, and dealing with pretty much the same problems of the modern man; not enough sex, not enough alcohol, and too many crazy, psycho girls who wanted love or commitment or your toe nail clippings to add to their shrine.
The two of them were completely oblivious to each other despite all the opportunities to get to know each other. They saw each other in passing quite frequently – a small smile from her, an acknowledging raised hand from him – and of course living across from each other they had ample opportunity to have a real greeting, to really say hello, to even learn each others names, but alas they never really did.
Instead they went about their business, unaware that their perfect match was really just a few metres away. Sarah went about her business as an interior designer, ordering material, showing clients samples, outlining homely yet efficient designs for hotels and working madly whilst still finding time to daydream about the perfect man, the perfect marriage and the 3 dream kids; Oliver, Raymond and Angelica who were perfect angels of course.
Greg went about his day, the long travel to the boring desk job, sitting in the office pointedly ignoring his paperwork as it piled up, in favour of play Texas Holden online, as he imagined some kind of action adventure job where he’d wrestle bears or survive like Bear Grills in some wild location or maybe even rescue a lot of people from some ungodly death and be forever known as a hero. Both of them too busy daydreaming to seeing anything in front of there eyes.
That is until I came along. I didn’t really know either of them, I didn’t really have to. I already knew that he was the man she dreamed of, and she would lead him to the action adventured he waited all his life for. Maybe not exactly what he dreamed of, but certainly an action adventure all the same. All it took was one little push – quite literally. Both walking towards their apartments, both coming home from work tired and lonely, and I just push her to the ground and like a clumsy woman tumbling all over herself, they tumbled in love. And he had his chance to be the protective man as he stood up against me, the rude stranger.
“Hey mate, watch where your going! You could have really hurt her!” he yelled at me. He then turned to her, his voice softening considerably, almost a whisper, and his tone full of concern, asking if she was ok, if she was hurt. She nodded and smiled up at him, their eyes locking, their hands accidently brushing.
And then when he looked up again and saw I was walking away he stood up, his rage instantly swelling again. “Hey, don’t just walk off! What’s your problem? Fucking Dick!” he yelled after me as I turned and left the hallway. So he turned back to her and helped her up and that began their long and happy relationship. Of course it was never easy for them; there were fights with screaming and crying and hysterics, but who ever said it would be easy? I certainly didn’t.