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  • Modern Alchemist….
    Fraternity is not a choice made by man. Therefore, I am thankful for those who can Hear my words. The Hearing only comes by the Application of...
  • Modern Alchemist….
    Hi, there. I would like to say that you sound like you are a really good writer. I have recently come to this website and decided to read what was...
  • Modern Alchemist….
    Personally, I see something much more profound. The removal of the Sword from the stone, revealed something I am not at Liberty to reveal openly...
  • Farewell
    Katrina was utterly "true" to herself and to the world. Her poetry came from that truth.
  • Farewell
    This is a beautiful tribute to such a talented poet, Neetu. Thank you

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Carefully locking the deadbolt behind him, Roger left the house, shaking his head at the state of his siding. Once it had been royal blue, but time and weather had reduced it to bluish gray. “I’ll have to get that taken care of,” he said. “Maybe the new album will get some money coming in.” He unlocked the car, a twelve-year-old Nova in babyshit green, and stowed his guitar in the back seat. The vintage V8 roared into life as he turned the key, without depressing the gas pedal...
Fallen Earring A novel by Duane Pesice updates posted weekly last update 05/04/2010 prologue As in the old saw about the kingdom and the nail, things often depend on chains of circumstance. The more tenuous the link, the more tangential the connection, the more likely that something interesting can happen. Often the smallest event, the tiniest detail, can cause the largest change as the ripples spread outward. Science theorizes about parallel worlds, about a multiverse...
Rosie Cahill is a crazy old bat, with swollen man hands and a flower in her hair. She says that she's an artist, a dressmaker, and she used to be quite pretty. She sometimes wears a lot of make up and says she thinks of me when she puts the blue on her lids. But hers isn't neat like mine, and she sweats a lot. One time I had to give her my mirror and a tissue, because it was streaking down her face and I knew she'd cry if she got home and realised. She cries enough as it is. She...
In honor of my lady's birthday yesterday, I humbly submit this further example of what I call verse: Paean As I sit... Missing you As I stand... Missing you As I lie... Lonely again, missing you And the scent of vanilla wafts through the air I remember: The first sight of you The first half-shy smile Our first embrace The feel of you against me and the promise of tomorrow As I smoke... Missing you As I dream... Missing you As I lie... my bed once...
Because I'm feelin' brave, here's an example of what I laughingly call poetry. This piece was originally published in a slightly different form in a now-defunct printzine called atmosfearics, way back in 1983. False Idylls the revolution will be televised the revelations will be disseminated by covert action read between the lines disinformation will be commonplace this information will be available for public display in keeping with the signs of the times the revolution will be...
In my office my hiccupping co-worker and I just got serenaded by a man in a purple T-Shirt. His eyes were crossed, his jeans were acid-wash, and his tune was half-baked at best. He asked first if he could sing to us, which was nice. Other times I've been serenaded against my will by shirtless boys and air guitars. Today he asked, and I said, "For how long?" He said, "For sixty seconds." "Go ahead then." He sang a song about three prostitues, I don't think he knew the words. And he...
The Big Dumb Object is a science-fictional plot device, as described in the linked wiki entry. Examples would be the Ringworld, Rama, Gaea, or Jack Kirby's Ego, the Living Planet. I got to thinking, while driving cross-country and sucking caffeine to stay awake, about big dumb objects. More specifically, I started thinking about the planet Carcosa as a big dumb object. Carcosa is an Ambrose Bierce creation that has been subsumed into the realm of the Lovecraftian, and serves as the...
"So how do people talk?" he asked. "Like this. In fragments, I mean," she replied. "Don't people go, um, ah, er a lot? And interrupt each other?" "In real life, yes. In stories that doesn't work so well." "So in stories, people don't talk like they do in real life?" he said. "No. Dialogue in stories always has to move the story, show character, elaborate on a theme, or have some other definite purpose." "Anything in particular to avoid?" he expostulated. "Yup. Avoid...
My friend Dan Shoemaker made his first million when he was twenty-four. He used to joke that he'd have enough money when he could go all day without seeing anything he didn't own. He went bankrupt when he was twenty-six; by thirty he had emigrated to the US and started new companies selling pensions, life assurance and investments. Ten years later, he was slightly richer than Croesus. Dan certainly hadn't made any friends on his way up, and hadn't kept any from his days at Cambridge...
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