"I used to have a life before The Colorless"

Join a laid-back, close-knit community of mixed interests Get a free account!

  1. CL Literature 2.0

    #622862013-08-07 05:54:45 *--Jack-- said:


    I felt that we needed a fresh writing thread. This isn't a contest or project.

    This thread is for literary expression:

    Post Format Change (See below)

    • Poetry

    • Stories (see details further below)

    • Intros, prologues, and story ideas.

    • Illustrations for your own, or others work (with consent) is also permitted for those who write and/or draw..

    • Must be completely original and appropriate. Fan-fics, nsfw, and plagiarism will be flagged and removed.

    Writing is a very ancient form of expression, near the birth of civilization. Writing is a way of using words to let others see your ideas. To speak without sound. Whether your sitting at home in the rain or snow, out under a tree with your phone or tablet, the wind blowing and clouds flowing above, or in the city watching the lights flicker on as the day ends, I'd like to see what the newer and older writers of CL can express here.

    Format Change!

    Since people's posts are lovely-but-too-big walls of text, I'm afraid I need newer post-methods.

    If your post is larger than 300 words (and thats a fair paragraph or poem) I need you to link to it, with an openable file if it's too big. To accurately have stanzas, and not take up a lot of space (Feel free to look at my first post as an example of how it takes up space) Please have all poems that require stanzas in documents or otherwise linked. An example of a poem type that does not need to be put in a document is free-verse or without stanzas, like This poem by Pigboss

    The existing posts will remain, but from now on let's keep things more compact.

    Due to the small post change, It's fully accepted to post stories of any length, even if it's ridiculous. Just be sure to make the post with the link nice and to-the-format.

    • Mediafire links

    • Dropbox Links

    • Links to your written deviation's page (If on deviantart and is yours)

    • Essentially, something that's clickable and can be opened instead of just downloaded.

    Treat this like you're submitting to the Writer's Corner, but the links are a bit more lenient. Consider the thread a practice for making a good presentable story or literary work in a document, as well as a free expressive place.

  2. #622872013-08-07 06:03:59 *--Jack-- said:

    Poem Title: Aftermath

    Minimalist poem I guess.

    The ancient king

    Wings flutter away

    Archways crumbling

    Blinding light astray

    Plants reclaiming

    Sacred thrones

    Blossoms bloom

    Covering bones

    The Kingdom flows

    Forgotten halls

    wrought with gems

    And sullen stone

    Golden Arms

    Of warriors gone

    Held by nature

    Their true home

    Winged beasts

    Coddle bones

    Long unmoved

    And fate unknown

    Danger gone

    The end of war



  3. #623262013-08-08 03:46:55 *--Jack-- said:

    I'll share a short story idea that I've had in my head for a while. Hopefully a lot of other users will post in the meantime.

    Part I of 5

    The grey walls flew by; he barely noticed them. Sitting on the refined bus seat, he watched the other passengers fiddle with their own affairs. Eyes casually drifting, he saw the ceiling; it was grey. The seat he sat on was a slightly darker grey. White light was the only separate color on the bus, and to him that was only a lighter shade of grey. To ask of his name is to ask of something unneeded by the people of his time's standards. He was simply addressed as 4862131.

    He stood with the others as the bus reached the designated stopping point near his workplace. They all shifted evenly, shuffling to leave the crowded grey box. Walls were not to have colors, only shades of grey.

    "To avoid unnecessary distractions," 4862131 remembered one of the many public regulation advisers say in their addresses, "All colors will be prohibited in the workplace as well as in urban districts, also applying to all objects in public airspace." 4862131 was unsure how to feel anymore. He had always been in the world as it stood around him, but he never had time to contemplate it until he had bothered to take vacation time from work. He did not do much, and had recently felt that he was becoming very cynical. The main things one does to occupy their time is as follows: watch television (only the mandated channels allowed to be aired), work, organize personal information, eat, use restroom facilities, sleep, and other miscellaneous bedroom activities. Books are strictly forbidden due to their nature of inspiring readers with ideas considered to be "out of the norm". Paintings may only be displayed within one's home and are not allowed to be reproduced or sold, discouraging art as a full time activity. All these public regulations must be enforced in order to protect the safety, both physically and mentally, of the population.

    4862131 did not feel depressed, but was not happy. He did not really know how to feel. Time seemed to flow by without a traceable measure. Weeks drifted like days at some points, days drifted like weeks at others. It was as if the grey blur of the world was round, friction-less, and had nothing to drag or slow down time. The Government enforced a curfew before sundown as well, except for people who had night-laborer's permits. The sunset was now considered an "irrelevant distraction" and did not need to be viewed for any logical reason. Working throughout the day, 4862131 did not waste time. Needless to say if he did, it would be frowned upon. Names did not exist, only numbers. All people, at work or not, were required to have a name tag displaying the 7 final digits of their human identification number. The other two digits and letters at the beginning were only used to determine national district, residence, and location. 4862131 held the platinum-colored little tag in his hand as he re-adjusted it.

    "...and as names differ, so do misconceptions. We at the public regulatory agency feel that this establishes too much favoritism and provokes prejudice..." the unthinkable historic moment did not have the correct impact on him, he had always had the number. He had no concept of names, no ideas of individuality. He was 4862131...and only that.

  4. #623902013-08-10 01:04:05 *--Jack-- said:

    Well I suppose I'll keep this relatively bumped while I post these. I don't want to simply stop at 1 of 5 and let the thread die with it unfinished.

    Part 2 of 5

    4862131 sat in the cold, blank office.

    "I've been told that you have become depressed. Your productivity is lacking. 4862131, is something wrong?" He listened to the man's words. The office counselor, 9467235, wore an identical grey uniform like everyone else did, including 4862131.

    "I don't know how I feel.." 4862131 responded blankly.

    "Well? aren't you happy? Before now you had one of the highest rates of production on the floor..." 9467235 said, attempting to be nice and understanding.

    "But why should I be happy...about that?" he slowly responded to 9467235.

    "What do you mean? You've won two awards for being so efficient." 9467235 said, reading a case file for 4862131.

    "I...I don't think work and happiness are connected like you say it is." 4862131 said blankly, looking upward at an angle. There were all sorts of instructional books, files, guides, handbooks, and conflict resolution instruction books on the counselor's bookcase (All of them very approved books. No entertainment value but very educational.).

    "4862131, I believe you have a serious case of depression. I advise that you take some mood-elevating tablets."

    He went home that day, annoyed. 4862131 was not able to ignore the new thoughts circulating in his head. He had never really stopped to ponder things before. His time had always been absorbed by his work, his productivity, his "purpose". He went to the window after he reached his apartment, knowing the curfew and how it denied the dusk sky from them. The small "adequate" window was very restrictive. He had enough. Taking to the stairs of his apartment building, he crept up to the emergency access to the roof.

    The sky was ablaze near the horizon; blood red melted into a fiery orange, slowly blurring into a pink haze and stretching across the sky into purplish night above him. He had never really bothered to see a sunset before. It brought slight tears to his eyes. The colors so vivid, unknown to the calm, slate-colored world below them.

    "Why is this overlooked?...Who could possibly think of this as pointless?" 4862131 quietly spoke to himself, refusing to break his gaze at the pink and orange glazed clouds. As it slowly crept down past the horizon, he could see it; the dank, grey world devoured it's beauty--fading away, unseen in the silence. 4862131 did not know how sad he was until the sun had left the world. Stars hold many wonders, but he could not focus on small things after seeing such a brilliant sight. Anger gripped his hands, sorrow filled his soul. He stepped to the edge, unable to see any purpose. Before he jumped, a glimmer of light caught his eye, if only for an instant. He looked down and saw a single window, lit with curtains and opened slightly. Through the small window he could see someone, a woman was painting, and wore a sharp blue and orange colored... He did not immediately know what to call clothing that wasn't grey; the realization bothered him deeply. Painting was not forbidden, but it was considered a shameful thing. The Government and Public Regulations did not directly outlaw creativity if it was kept private, but they did their best to remove it indirectly. Many colors of paint and all craft-related supplies were no longer available anywhere. The only colors that were available immediately were shades of red, but that was for emergency-related work-supplies at hospitals and crime-scenes. Somehow she had the gusto and connections to get enough supplies and be able to express herself in that little place...surrounded by blankness. There were risks when playing on the border of public regulations. If you violated them you were branded as a "dissenter", which the public often equated with "terrorist" or some other slanderous term.

    "I..need to meet her...I have to.." he said to himself with a small glimmer of hope. He stepped back from the edge.

  5. #624252013-08-10 23:37:52--Jack-- said:

    @kosuke Heh, yeah. I had actually wrote this before I learned how to dialogue correctly like in the anthology. All I've been doing is correcting my copy-paste errors that pop up in chrome. I should probably edit the dialogue. Thanks.

  6. #624722013-08-12 03:58:47--Jack-- said:

    I've actually enjoyed digging this up and re-reading it. I can tell people are reading due to the likes, but this thread isn't for me alone.

    Part 3 of 5

    He watched the woman paint for a while, sitting on the roof. She painted wonderful flowing colors that reminded him of the sunset. Before long, she removed her colored outfit and put on a coat and regulation uniform. As the lights went out he realized something; she was a night worker. He counted the floors, and windows. 4862131 was determined to find the apartment that the painting-woman occupied. The next morning he called in sick to work, then went to the building across the street and began knocking on doors. As he passed two people in the wrong apartment, he reached another identically grey door. Knocking, 4862131 was feeling a bit uneasy, worrying that someone would recognize him and somehow reveal that he was not actually sick from work. He pushed the paranoid thought away as a woman opened the door. She was a bit drowsy and wore a baggy sleeping outfit.

    "Can I help you?" she asked flatly.

    "Oh, I'm very sorry! I didn't mean to-" he started, remembering the whole reason she'd be home during the day.

    "Just tell me what you want, alright?" she asked, putting a slight amount of tone in her voice.

    "Well I was wondering if I could chat, but you're sleeping I should-"

    "Well I'm up now...Fine, fine...It's still a while before I have to be at work anyway." she said, sounding more like a person and less like a ghost. 4862131 was welcomed inside as he looked around the walls. Nothing. He was getting a sinking feeling in his gut, but knew it was her, he recognized her bright red hair.

    "Well? What is it you needed to talk about? Have I met you somewhere before?" she asked, her voice becoming less annoyed by the minute.

    "I...um.." he started. She raised an eyebrow. He noticed a number printed on the sleeping clothing (tags were too uncomfortable to sleep with). Her name was 4924375. 4862131 was struggling for words when she furrowed her brow.

    "Please tell me you're not a stalker..." she asked.

    "Oh no..no of course not. It's just that I...I saw you yesterday."

    "You work at night?" she asked.

    "Um..no. It's not that...I-"

    "Listen buddy, I don't know about you, but you're sounding an awful lot like a stalker.." she said, confused.

    "No..I was out on my roof last night, watching the sunset. It was..."

    "Amazing? Yeah. You need to be careful that no police see you if you do that. Was it the first time you'd gone to the roof?" she asked him.

    "Well I was...going to...jump." he admitted. She put a hand to her mouth as she pulled back slightly.

    "...but then I saw you." he said. She stood up quickly.

    "I knew you were a psycho. Get out of my home!" she said angrily.

    "No no..I wasn't stalking you I've never seen you before last night!"

    "Just get out..." she said loudly.

    "But your paintings..." he said. Her eyes widened.

    "What did you say?! How did you?!"

    "...your curtains were open..." he said glumly, moving to the door.

    "Wait." He turned to see her angry face now softening.

    "Do...you want to see them? My paintings?" she said softly.

    "Yes! Absolutely, but where are they?" he asked happily. She led him over to a door in the corner, locked. She opened the door and led him inside the bedroom. 4924375's bedroom was completely painted. The walls, the ceiling, even the tiles had been colored in the corners of the floor. Murals wrapped across the walls and the door; a shining sun and landscape flooded over the door as she closed it behind them. In the corner near the window sat a stack of pages and paints. On them were wonderful drawings, paintings, abstracts, and more.

    "Where'd you get the paint? I thought colors were not allowed to be sold?" he questioned.

    "You're right, they aren't. I....have friends. We all paint and create. We can't move the paintings we make, but can paint freely within our own homes. The legality is really sketchy." she explained.

    "The paint itself is not illegal to own, but only when you keep it within your own home. Any time it is outside of your home and in public, all colored paints, clothing, paintings and other things like that are strictly forbidden. It IS a complete violation of our rights. We'd have to break the laws when we obtained and took the supplies to our homes, so we do it very discreetly." He listened intently, his mind full of a mix of anger and enthusiasm.

    "How many friends do you have that...know about this?"

    "You'd be surprised," she said, smiling. "Why do you ask?"

    "I want to change it." he said deeply.

    "Change what?"

    "Everything. How we are restricted, the regulations, the grey conformity, the blank callous days that blend together..." She cut his rant short.

    "You can't simply change the world like that. This freedom I express is all I have, they could take that away if we try to revolt." He was silent for a short moment.

    "But, this is not freedom, this is cruel. I'd rather die expressing myself than lay down and be restricted." She sat for a moment looking at her walls, the colored paintings never to be seen by the world, the drawing destined to be lost unseen and unknown. 4862131 spoke softly again.

    "This so-called 'freedom' you have now...It's hollow, not real." He looked to the floor as he said it. She sighed, then smiled with a gleam in her eye.

    "Well... Then we'd better get the others involved too."

    That day 4924375 called a paragraph worth of phone numbers, mentioning words that 4862131 could tell meant other things. She mentioned a place called "The Market" which was obviously not an ordinary market. She hung up for the last time.

    "Let me change, then we'll go."

    "Go where?" he asked, a little excited but puzzled.

    "The place I get my supplies."

  7. #626032013-08-14 03:18:22lolikitsune said:

    Neat. Love the cover image for the thread.

    I have a story I'm writing about a college anime club. Sound like Genshiken? It's pretty different. Focus is on the main character's social progress as she struggles with her hikikomori lifestyle. :)

    I'll post some scenes here once I'm happy with them.

  8. #626072013-08-14 04:05:46 *--Jack-- said:

    -no comment-

    Part 4 of 5

    The streets were slowly getting emptier. 4924375 led him off the bus and they walked for another block. Both wearing dark-grey outfits with the number tags in the upper left corner like regulations dictate, they walked through the identical crowds until they crossed a barely used street and followed a few small alleys into a quiet part of the city.

    "Where are we?" he asked.

    "That's precisely why it's here." she said slyly. She turned his head as they looked to their left. A large warehouse stood with no noise for yards in every direction.

    "This is the place. Follow me, and remove your ID badge. We don't like those." He unpinned it and placed it in his pocket as 4924375 opened the side door quietly. Inside there were lights dimly lit and many people wandering between stands set up in aisle-fashion.

    "The only rule is that you make as little noise as possible when you work or browse the marketplace." she said quietly as she led him past other people that watched the door close.

    "There's a man I want you to meet." she said quietly as they weaved past people. There must have been at least one-hundred people in the building. He was sure that there'd have to be others too.

    "I..didn't even know any of this existed two days ago..." he said quietly as they moved to a small room in the back.

    "..as far as I knew I was the only dissenter-minded person in the world.." he continued. She smiled.

    The room was excluded from the rest of the market, and fifteen to twenty people were scattered about. They all had on the same uniform, but no IDs.

    "Well, here he is." 4924375 said as they looked 4862131 up and down.

    "Um...hello." he said quietly.

    "No need to be hush, boy!" an older man said from the back corner. He had bristled hair that was whiter than the grey suits. Large goggles were strapped to his forehead, as if he was finished welding.

    "I own this place, an' I make the rules in it!" he spoke jokingly.

    "The name's Rolfe. What's yers, boy?" the old man asked.

    "48-" he began but 4924375 stopped him.

    "He doesn't have a real name yet. Only a number." 4924375 said.

    "What do you mean? It is my name." 4862131 protested.

    "A number ain't no name, boy. We're humans that are different, not some ol' tools that need cataloged!" Rolfe said. The room fell silent for a short pause.

    "...and you're all painters?" 4862131 asked.

    "The term's artist, and yeah we all are. We are creative and defy the rules wherever we can. Some places like this need to exist so we can continue to defy them at every free moment." said one man sitting at the main table in the room.

    "We're all unique, we all have outside names." 4924375 said, moving over to the rest of them. 4924375 spoke up first.

    "My name is Star. We only use our numbers when we aren't free." Star (4924375) was accompanied by some of the others, one by one.

    "My name's Lily."

    "My name's Theo."

    "Name's Crow."

    "Mine is Ruby."

    "It's Rolfe, boy.."

    "We are the real humans." Star said after their introductions died down. There were many of them, each with unique names.

    "How do you all remember each other's names without losing track? Without name tags?" 4862131 asked.

    "You get used to it..." Rolfe said.

    "Well?....tell them what you told me!" Star said to him.


    "Here's as good a place as any if you're gonna rant, boy!" Rolfe chuckled. A building feeling was moving through 4862131's body.

    "Well...what I had been ranting about is probably something you've all considered...We shouldn't have to hide our expressions against our will. We shouldn't have to avoid being influenced by material because it's "unique". We shouldn't have to keep color from the outside world. The sky is blue and the sunset is every beautiful color imaginable. That is natural, not a grey mazed hellscape! We can't keep living this way!...There must be enough people! Enough to resist, enough to change the regulations, enough to destroy the regulations!" The room was dead quiet after 4862131's rant.

    "You're right, we have considered it." Crow said, glumly looking down.

    "We'd need a lot of people...I dunno" another person said.

    "What if they just call in the army? They'll gun us down before we make any progress." The room fell silent once more.

    "No. If we get enough supporters they won't stop us...we'll have momentum. But we'd need to do something big and public."

    "There's no use..." another person said under their breath.

    "There's no use in fighting? Really? If it weren't for 49-....Star's paintings, I'd have been flat on the pavement last night." The people seemed to stop at what he said.

    "I would have dove off the roof of my apartment building if I hadn't seen. I'd rather die than lay down and do nothing."

    They all remained silent as Rolfe slowly walked up to 4862131. He put a hand on 4862131's shoulder.

    "There are two kinds of crazy in this world, boy. Good 'n' bad kinds." Rolfe said dryly. 4862131 began to look down, but stopped at Rolfe's words.

    "I hope you're the kind who can fix this mess!" he said with an unnaturally hearty laugh. Star smiled with joy, others followed suit. They began to stand up and form a big circle near 4862131 and Rolfe. Even Crow, a gothic and mean artist, stood too, having previously disagreed with the idea of revolting.

    "Well if we're doing this, we're doing this. No sense in going out without a fight!" Crow said with an aggressive smile. They all waited with enthusiastic looks at Rolfe and 4862131.

    "Um..." 4862131 sounded, looking to Rolfe for guidance.

    "Oh, don't look at me, boy. You encouraged 'em...that means you gotta lead 'em!" Rolfe said with another chuckle and grin. The rest of them simply nodded or smiled.

    "Well? Are we doin' this or ARE WE DOIN' THIS?!" Crow shouted with aggressive enthusiasm. They waited as 4862131 froze, thinking.

    "We'll need time, and a lot of supplies."

  9. #627392013-08-16 21:58:59PigBoss said:

    At the end of the world

    God's time was ours to sit on

    To ponder the buildings

    To draw new patterns in the sand

    To scheme our schemes

    And to breathe, at last

    One clear moment of humanity

    Before plunging back into the fray

  10. #627652013-08-18 07:24:34 *Toku said:

    Hope this formats right: Rain and Thunder

    She sat upon her old wicker chair, her old crippled hand holding the knobs on the end of the rests. Rain came down in a fine mist upon the roof of the porch, sounding more like slate than a calm fall rain. She stared out at the wild prairie, deer and other animals came through the storm, passing through the clearing and then jumping through back into the other side of the wood that surrounds half of her old manor, which has with age grown more and more beautiful and elegant, and has picked up more the scent of a kitchen than a writer’s escape. Yes, she is a writer. Well, was, her hands are now too weak to hold a pen, and she refuses to say what she wants to write, for she says : “a writer is only truly a writer if their hands write the words, not someone else. Their words must be their own, written by their own hand.” She is stubborn. And thus she lives, stories forever flowing through her mind, forming, dissolving, and forming anew, keeping with the rain and sun, as she sits and drinks her coffee and/or tea.
                    The rain has grown heavier, falling harder on the roof, the smells of fresh leaves and early fall washing through the screens, sending her into dreams again. She remembers when she first published her works, what the publisher said, how she could never be a good writer if she wrote everything and focused on nothing. She wrote mysteries, romance, horror, poetry, biographies, all which interested her in the worlds she had within the library which was his room. He being her husband, who passed away all those years ago, when love was still deep in bloom, and her now frail form, was an Aphrodite, and full of so much longing for a man that she forgot food and drink and sleep, and when sleep finally fell upon her, dreamt of her man. But he was gone, and that form which was beauty, showed only age. She did not call herself ugly, but always remembered her husband’s words: “I will always love you, for, my love for you is like a fine wine, and grows only finer with age.” He was a poet; the finest, but not wanted by the world.
                    “Thunder crack and thunder roars lightning cracking upon the sky, rainy days, and beautiful rays shining down upon her.” She whispered, quoting him anew. These rainy days were their favorite kind of days, it made new from old, and brought peace from anguish, and let them be together, arm in arm, without worry of disturbance, without worry of pain.
                    Her hand began to ache, and she winced slightly, and rubbed her hands together, the rainy days bringing memories and pain to her aching, wilting bones. She knew not if she could have lived with any other man, and so did not try, all others hated these days, called them gloomy, thought women were housekeepers, mothers, not writers, thinkers. She sighed and wished again, as she does so many times, for her sweet Aaron again, praying to God to keep him safe, and to make sure he would be there when she slipped into heaven’s gate.
                    Opening her eyes, she smells the Spring which was Fall. Time and time again has brought this rain. His sons and daughters come with the rain, with all their families, and kiss her, and hug her, and ask her how she is doing, and she says ‘better’, since they are there. She holds the little ones, and sees innocence which is pure, and tells them stories as the rain falls. But, now they have grown old, and their children have children, and one of them has a child as well. Which means she must be old, she says jokingly when they come and the little ones hug her legs tight, making her young again. Then they leave, and she sips her coffee and/or tea alone again, as she is doing now.
                    The rain has begun to let up, and so remembers that it’s time to take her nap, her aching bones feeling up to a walk and some writing, for though her hands may be frail, her body aged and weary, her mind is young and sharp, full of thoughts she must write, and she is a writer, so she must. So, she picks up her cup, takes it to the table, and moves to her room, with her old fat tabby, purring contently, she rubs her tabbies ears, soft and smooth, crawls slowly into bed, and sleeps, the dreams she had, starting anew; under the light of the midday sun.

  11. #628312013-08-21 04:44:52--Jack-- said:

    I've finally thought of a fitting name for this short story:

    The Colorless

    Part 5 of 5

    Years Pass

    The cold ground was trampled by grey feet and grey legs. I stood there, within the crowd, attending one of the now-regular Regulatory Agency public addresses. A man in a uniform just like us stood at the podium, with two guards at his sides. The stage was moved into the small plaza area to show his face and voice to everyone who'd attend. The walls of the buildings around me were all equal, all grey. I stood with the hundreds of others like me, ID badge pinned to my chest, grey public uniform devoid of color or preference, and mind very neutral. As the Regulatory Agency's representative continued through the dry speech, I became bored. Dissenters will this, dissenters will that, he rambled on. I did not really care anymore.

    The guards around the representative were still, watching the crowd with little interest. Before I knew it several people dashed from the crowd, identical to everyone else. They ran to the guards and tackled them in large numbers, taking their weapons and throwing them out of the way. The people whistled loudly. I did not understand until I heard the screams of confused people around me, looking up to the buildings in utter bewilderment. There were people hanging out of the windows, throwing paint on the walls of the buildings around the plaza. Reds, blues, greens, yellows, purples, all of them ran in drips down to the ground. People let long banners of murals fly loose in the breeze, hooked in the upper windows of the buildings. I had never seen such pure colors before. All of them. As this happened, more people from the crowd rushed the stage.

    "No more!" some of them shouted as they threw paint on the walls from the ground. Then I saw the representative left at the podium, horrified by the revolt. A man walked up from the very front of the crowd, climbing the side of the stage until he stood beside the representative, who was barking orders like he could still maintain control.

    "Who are you, worker?" he said to the man on the stage. The voice made it through the microphone and out to the public. Everyone stopped.

    "I said state your number, worker! Where is your ID badge?" the man barked. The numberless man grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, holding him almost off the ground.

    "I am not your tool." the man said, throwing him aside. The representative tumbled and scurried away with fear. The people around me began to cheer, and I did too. It was monumental. The beauty, the power. They were right. The rules were no longer realistic. They were meant to protect us, at the cost of what we lived for. I remember the moment when the man took the podium mic. The words boomed for what seemed like forever, in the hearts of all people listening, dissenters or not.

    "We are not blank. We are different. We each hold a world of our very own. To deny that expression is to deny us of our humanity. A world of grey is a world worse than death. I am not a number...I am human!"

    I remembered his face. He had been standing by me before the assembly began. He was just another face only moments ago. I looked down on the ground, only to see his glimmering platinum nametag on the pavement. I picked it up to see what it displayed.


  12. #629532013-08-25 13:40:32Kirn said:

    Some sophisticated poetry.

    CL, this site for me is sweet and sour,
    There are nice things and there is crap.
    I come here, seeking for dramatic fire
    To choose someone and fuck him up.

  13. #630952013-08-29 22:20:59PigBoss said:

    On a muggy afternoon

    right by the creek where I used to

    whittle away the soft hours of youth

    was an old friend of mine

    his strong arms beckoning

    So I hung around,

    until the last breath escaped me

  14. #630962013-08-30 02:14:07Toku said:
    I know some will hate the grammar, but I write how I speak it: Slowly, quietly, emphasizing words and speaking the sentences like a roller coaster ride. This is a random start to something I may never finish, just an FYI.
    "'The priest spoke of the Old Gods, not ones of bone and flesh and finely chiseled forms, but those of madness and pleasure, disturbing thoughts and lustful embraces of what could not be. They were not material things, we could not touch them, but they could touch us. When we woke within the darkness of our quarters gripped by a bleak despairing sliver within our hearts and our minds, it was Inanae; Insanity, attempting to twist us and move us in ways only those fool enough to want to could understand. Such Gods we no longer worship and attempt to embrace, we let our lives be determined by those Gods which we made ourselves, who encompass not one realm, but all. We see a mad man speaking of truth, and we call him a prophet. We see a sane man speaking of such falsehoods, and we call him a heretic. What words can be spoken that can do justice to the things we think, to the thoughts we have, sadistic and seductive both. Nothing can be done, which has not been done before by the providence of the Old Gods speaking through their chosen soul.
    Some of the Gods of old, do not wish to simply be the idle fancy of a mortals passing thought, some take matters into their own hands. They make mad men of those once sane, and make those once strong of faith fall far. Fire and brimstone does not rain from the sky, only rampant ecstasy and derangement through the streets do we know that we're eternally connected to them.
    The Old Gods live on, no matter the lies we speak to ourselves.'"
  15. #631162013-08-30 19:34:10 *Transpose said:
    Some old short story I wrote out of boredom. It has no name. n_n (Formatting is kind of messed up, but oh well. :P)

    He awoke to complete darkness. Breathing heavily, he frantically tried to rise to his feet only to
    be greeted by an intense pain in his legs. He could not stand. His legs were broken. A strong
    sense of terror came over him, bringing with it countless questions never to be awnsered.
    "Why is this happening? Why am I here?!", he shrieked into the hollow blackness.
    Although his screams were loud, his voice carried no echo.

    Broken legs or not, he had to find his way out of the dark room. Using the strength left in his arms to crawl around, he begun his search for the exit. He set off in a straight line with the hopes of reaching a wall. Walls lead to doors, and doors lead to freedom. Crawling for what seemed like hours, the man began to wonder how big his prison might be. Had he picked the wrong direction? Was his exit but a mere yard from where he began? He shook the thoughts out of his head. "You've already come this far, you can't quit now." He said. "This place can't go on forever." He commenced his slow crawl once again.

    Having no sense of time, the man had no way of knowing how long he had actually been crawling for. For the life of him, he could not recall how long it had been. He felt as if he had been dragging his surely dead legs for ages, yet at the same time it felt as if but a few minutes had passed. At times a gust of ice-cold wind would rush over him for a second or two at best. This didn't happen often, but it always seemed as if the same amount of time had passed between each visit. He used them to determine how long he had been crawling. So far he was up to 127 visits.

    Gradually the texture of the floor began to change. This sparked some hope in the recent paraplegic.He was finally getting somewhere. What started as a smooth marble like surface had now become rough and uneven, only getting worse as he proceeded. As the ground became more and more warped, the ghostly visits became more frequent. He must be nearing an opening, where else would these frozen travelers be coming from?

    He grew tired, and cold. The quick breezes of frozen air were coming in what now seemed
    like, (he could only assume), 5 minute intervals. To make matters worse, he had developed quite the stomach ache due to lack of food. He had not encountered another man, creature, or object throughout his entire journey in the endless chamber. It would not be long before he met his end to starvation.

    In an effort to keep himself sane, he had started speaking to his hands. His left hand was named Joseph. A very loquacious hand, Joseph always kept the man in good conversation. His right hand was named Marcus. A joker at heart, Marcus was always trying to add a little levity to the situation. "You know it could be worse, right?" He would say.
    "We could have ended up as french speaking hands, then where would you be?"
    The appendage would burst into shrill laughter, while the man never joined in. Instead he would scold his hand and remind him that it wasn't a laughing matter. The three continued on, and while one kept the man's attention, the other would pull them forward.

    The air had become so completely cold, and the man had last almost every ounce of his strength. He was exhausted, and on the brink of starvation. It was then, while Joseph carried them forward, that Marcus decided to make another one of his terribly funny jokes.
    "Those legs of yours; all they do is hold you back." He sneered.
    "Why not remove them? We'd make way better time." At this the man could not help but wonder. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He could eat his legs and kill two birds with one stone. Not only would he save himself from starvation, but he would be able to traverse his wasteland at a much more solid pace. It seemed the next course of action was obvious.

    The first bite was the worst, but once they got past the fleshy-dead taste it actually wasn't all that bad. The man and Marcus consumed his legs while Joseph, the left, could only watch in horror. It did not hurt the man to eat his legs, for the nerve endings had long since died. Besides, he was pretty hungry. When he had eaten his leg up to the knee, Marcus urged him to stop. "You've got a long journey ahead of you. Better not eat them all at once."
  16. #631282013-08-31 07:00:29 *devilina_kaneris said:

    it's a poem about the sky and other elements

    The Rain falling into the ground

    With the Storm roaring in happiness

    The Thunder and the Lightning strike through the darkness

    The Cloud floating freely

    The Mist hiding himself

    Upon the Sky, the Sun shine brightly

    The Sky is pure

    The Sky is blank

    The Sky is always be their Sky

    The Sky who embrace all

    Their true Sky is one only

    With Them, the Sky doesn't lonely

  17. #633362013-09-06 02:32:19--Jack-- said:

    Older Names!

    Girls Names:

    Ada Adelaide * Adeline * Agatha Althea Amelia * Annabelle Arabella Athalie Augusta Aurelia Beatrice Bertha Belle Beulah Camille * Cecilia * Cecily Celeste Charlotte * Clara * Clarinda * Clarissa * Claudia * Clementine Constance Cordelia Corinne Christabel Cynthia Daphne * Delia Dolores Dorothy Edith Eleanor Elise * Eliza * Ellen Elnora Eloise Elsa Elspeth Emmeline * Erma Ernestine Esme Estelle Ethel Etta Eudora Eugenia Evangeline Felicity * Francine Frances Genevieve Georgia * Georgiana Gillian * Gladys Gwendolyn Harriet Hazel Helen Henrietta Hester Ida Iris * Isadora Jemima Josephine Judith Lavinia Leona Leonora Lila Lisette Louisa Loretta Lucia Lucinda Lucretia Lydia * Mabel Marion Martha * Matilda Mavis Melinda Mena Meredith * Millicent Miriam Myra Myrna Myrtle Nadine Naomi Octavia Opal Pearl Phoebe Priscilla Prudence Ramona Regina Roberta Rosalind Rosemary Ruth Simone Sonya Stella Susannah Sylvia * Theodora Theodosia Ursula Vada Viola * Violet * Virginia Vivian Wilhelmina Willa Winifred Zella

    Boy's Names:

    Abraham Abram Alastair Albert Arthur Bertrand Braxton Bruce Byron Cecil Cedric Chester Clark Clement Clifford Conrad Cyrus Darius * Dexter Dorian Edger * Edmund Edwin * Elias Elliot Emmett Eugene Evander Ezra Fabian Felix Franklin Frederick Gilbert Graham Griffin * Harvey Hector * Herbert Hirum Hugh Ira Jarvis Jasper * Jonas Julian Lance Laurence Leander Lemuel Leo Martin * Miles * Milton Neville Niles Oliver Percival Rueben Russell Sheldon Sherman Silas Stuart Thaddeus Theodore Tobias Vincent * Warren Willis Wilmur

  18. #642922013-10-06 04:39:59Rune said:

    Hey, so I was like just checking on some threads here on CL and I found... something...


    Yeah, umm... this story is rather... interesting... Well actually now that I read this again, I feel like "The hell, when did this happen?" but at the same time, despite the lack of structure, plot, planning, or thought that was put into this thing, it was surprisingly coherent! Okay, maybe not "coherent" coherent but I feel like it's a genuinely usable story idea.

    So now, why am I posting this here? Well, I dunno, I just thought it might be helpful to people. I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't despair in your writings too much, just realize that if you take your mind off it and come back to it later you might be able to approach it from a new perspective and actually have a pretty cool story that somehow got interrupted by tigers!

    (Also, Original Story / DO NOT STEAL)

  19. #652642013-11-02 13:46:16PrettyPinkPastel said:

    Stupidity This world is full of those with opinions and wont let new ideas be part of this discussion. If you thought about it just cause it's there doesn't mean that you have to accept it no, but don't make up these stories so that others will block out this idea. What does it mean to believe in a world that other's hate you and hurt you, I have been their and it isn't pretty. What my monologue asks is who are you to make a any person no matter what their difference is to make them feel like shit for being that way.

  20. #661392013-11-13 07:49:27 *Kip said:


    I, with hands so small and body so frail, stand before you, whose face is stone and words are ice.

    Drowning, am I, in what you have called our existence.

    Beaten, burned, and exhausted,

    I, with hands so small and body so frail, stand atop of you.

    I, with these small hands, cease air to your lungs and squeeze until there are no more words.

    For you, there will never be forgiveness.

    I pray that your last moments are as agonizing as the life you have given me,

    and before your empty eyes close, I whisper between ragged breaths,


  21. #663472013-11-19 19:39:09 *--Jack-- said:

    Bump -- Let's talk poetry


    A Cinquain is a very short very simple poem, made up of only five lines and one stanza. 1 word, followed by 2, 3, 4, then one in the last line (Which is supposed to be the same as the first). Every word in the middle is supposed to be an adjective, describing the central theme. Since this type of poem is small and supposed to be aligned to the middle of a page, I just took a picture of the example: