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It's Like Montparnasse All Over Again

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A renaissance? Nov. 30th, 2005 @ 11:42 am
Last night, while digging around my desk, I found a few pieces I wrote for this community, and I felt sad that I had stopped being active here. Are there others who would be interested in bringing this back to life?
Current Mood: hopefulhopeful

Prompt #4 The General's Evening Thoughts Apr. 10th, 2005 @ 11:07 am
Since it is spring, and spring brings forth creation and birth, I will suggest a new prompt. This prompt is about the General in any past war or fictional war, and his last thoughts before his greatest battle. It can be either poetry or prose. Let us withdraw our samurai, pack our gun powder, and stock the grenades... The war has just opened her mouth for feeding.

New Prompt May. 25th, 2004 @ 09:50 pm

I apologize for the lack of prompts--bugger deadlines and all their progeny. Let's get back on track:

Prompt #3:

Write a poem or short (less than 500 words) fiction piece which uses imagery or a setting/character derived from the history of the Catholic Church--saints, transubstantiation, relics, whatever you like. If you aren't familiar with Catholicism, particularly, this is a good resource:

The Catholic Encyclopedia

This isn't a religious prompt, just a challenge to use the imagery of a specific tradition. Have fun!

Oscar's Offering. May. 20th, 2004 @ 01:48 pm
Hades-in-Hose is a recurring character of mine who refuses to stick to any coherent or concurrent plotline, but often makes cameo-appearances (that is to say, appearances wearing cameos, often with camisoles) in my writing diary, the great What, and in The Tower. Regarde-la.

Part One: Of Sacrificial VirginsCollapse )

part 2: Of Virgin Sacrifices.Collapse )
Current Mood: sans dénoument.
Current Music: South Side, Moby

Daliesque by Robert Apr. 26th, 2004 @ 04:02 pm
Her beauty overwhelms me. Marked by thorns and briars, brushed raw with the silk of a thousand forgotten roses I stand trembling over her recumbent form. With a scored and stinging hand I brush away the cobweb coat of gossamer, the white and sticky stuff that has coated her sweet face, an imagined shroud for a living girl.

Her lips, plump and puckered lure me in with the tasty freshness of a wine ope in its season, aged to perfection and ripe to be enjoyed. I have braved the briars, hacked the branches, done what princes before me attempted to do without success. I have scaled the rusting castle gates, navigated the crumbling ruinous staircases past grinning skeletons leaning on rotting furnishings to reach this lonely tower, to rescue this princess lost in time.

I am a true prince and therefore a true hero.

The swell of her apple-round breasts tempts me forth, brings me to ground with longing. She will not awake if I do not kiss, so I do not. I reach out a bleeding hand and gently caress the flesh for which I have suffered. My gods! She is still warm!

Slowly, slowly I peel back her petticoats like layers of an onion. First one, then two, then many ... the puzzle of her garments seems interminable. Turning her I find that she is warm throughout, she breathes yet she sleeps on. My perfect princess. This will be our secret, yours and mine. If anyone dares ask you will think yourself a virgin auto-sodomized by her own chastity, my beautiful slumbering girl.
Current Mood: creative
Current Music: Miranda Sex Garden - Caravan
Other entries
» 2nd prompt ~ Vita

first draftCollapse )

» Kiki on neglect (prompt #2)
She was
A part time job, Scheduled in for odd hours with minimum wage dedication. From Wednesdays, three thirty to five fifteen. Tuesdays from ten to one thirty. Something slid in between lunch and other activities.

He used her up the way people do punch cards, one coffee drink at a time, or a meal embarked upon without relish or hunger: left soggy by the wayside on the sidelines of a plate. When he departed, the god left the temple of her adoration and she was left, gathering up her underwear and scraping it off into the laundry bin, all her tasty bits consumed.

She wished she were daintier, like a pastry or a minute, something consumed in one sitting or given away just once. Her body in the mirror was the sort to be mounted on a ship and admired or turned around and around all night in his arms as if he were fashioning her waist by wearing her out with touches. There was no sugar to her breasts, no sugar to her thighs and waist, her sex smelled musky and her breasts had the perfume of warm, baked summer smell wafting off her skin.

She envied the young virgin, auto-sodomized by her own chastity. Better left dry and violated than to be as she was: a woman only partially penetrated, the love act just short of orgasm, a love affair truncated by the limits of a bus schedule, forgotten never but only partially accounted for. She was saturated like cakes in honey with the bitterness of indifference.
» Prompt #2

I'm so pleased you have all participated so fully--let's try to comment a little more, though I understand that there was quite a deluge of posts. I was overwhelmed myself.

Time for Prompt #2! We''ll keep this to a week, I think. I'm feeling a little funky, so...

Write a poem or prose piece which includes somehow the following line (which happens to be the title of a famous painting):

Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by Her Own Chastity

Good luck!

» Anais on Suicide

I didn't put up this piece because I thought most of you would have seen it on darkest_peru , but it's my suicide response, so I'll put it under the cut in case you have. I tried to write something entirely else about my one suicide attempt in the voice of my fifteen year old self, but I got bored, because fifteen is kind of a crappy mental age to be. So there is this, which is short, but I think there might be a nascent poem in there somewhere.

Directions for BurialCollapse )

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