Log in

No account? Create an account
free writing's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
free writing

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

He's like stained glass [04 Jan 2012|10:49pm]

[ mood | complacent ]

Please read and comment! It's a really lame rant about... someone! Kekeke.
He’s quiet in a way that isn’t shy, just not talkative, and he’s got a smile that makes me nervous and achingly happy at the same time because it’s sharp and watching and like when the light shines through a stained glass window and hits your eyes with those bright, classic, precious stone colours. Just a bit taller than me with a square jaw, bright eyes and a mess of hair that he doesn’t seem to ever do anything to, he’s handsome in a way that doesn’t lend itself to being noticed, in a way that lends itself to sardonic grins and quizzical expressions, one word answers and sitting at the back of the room and not working in pairs when you’re meant to. He’s something just a little bit different.


Read more please!Collapse )

Stained glass windows used to have to be stuck together with pieces of lead because when they threw the molten glass across the pools of water to cool it, it was so thin that it shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces of shining colour, something that must have been beautiful and painful to watch at the same time. They used to have to collect all of the broken pieces and bring them together with lines of lead, so all old stained glass windows have dark veins running through them, holding all the saints and the angels together. He’s a little like that, this boy, all shining pieces held together with clumsy, charming, hurting detachment. Sometimes I think that it’s like the sheets of glass, like if all those attributes hadn’t been scattered between those lines of lead then he’d be too much, too right. The truth is, though, that I don’t mind anyway. Like how the lines in a stained glass window don’t make it any less beautiful, his awkward responses and constant fidgeting and all those glitches and traits just end up making him that bit more more.

The thing, though, about stained glass windows is that they’re unattainable, distant and separate and only in churches and cathedrals because it took so much work and money to make them that they’re too special for normal buildings. They’re not something you live with, not something you get used to and grow warm towards. When I was a kid growing up in green, abandoned villages I used to stand on ledges and pews so that I could press my fingertips and nose to the musty fragments of ancient glass, breathing in the novel beauty of a world filtered through old glass and forever colours. “Novel” because a stained glass window is something separate to you, always. And he’s like that, clear and making the world look better when he’s around, but distant and dispassionate enough to make it useless to even hope for anything more than a conversation and one of those sharp, a little bit crooked, smiles.

3 comments|post comment

My attempt at story-telling [12 Nov 2011|10:55pm]

Read my story here :)Collapse )
post comment

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS [24 Aug 2011|11:17pm]

To all writers, poets, parents, and people who are over ten years of age:

Nina Pelletier, a friend from G+, and I are starting a new project, and we want your help! Every day, Nina posts a writing prompt for interested people, and today's was particularly evocative.

What would you write if you could write a letter to your ten-year-old self? What encouragements would you give? What would you warn against doing? What nostalgia would you feel?

What are You Doing? Accepting Submissions for a free e-Chapbook

What are You Looking For? 300 word or less letters to your ten year old self. Or stories about people writing a letter to their ten year old self. Or stories in reaction to the letters that others have written to their ten year old selves. Also, we're looking for art that can be used for breaking up pages, or being related to the subject.

When do You Want It? Ideally, as soon as possible. However, we will accept submissions till September 23rd.

How do We Do It? Go here: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/ccc?key=0Ag53sJnzF2itdGhCUUNfaHZPN21ieHhSVDFhWGY3Z0E&hl=en_US#gid=0 and put in your information. Nina and I will circle you, and update you regularly with information on how, specifically, to submit. Since some people will choose to write stories about other people's letters, we'll be sharing a select group of said letters with the entire group.

What Will You Do With It? When submissions are complete, Nina and I will edit everything. We'll collate everything together into a nice PDF, with a nice cover, and put it up on the internets somewhere for free. People will be encouraged to make a donation, and the money that THEY donate will be donated to a literacy advocacy group. We're taking suggestions on what that group should be.

What if I Have More Questions? Reply to this post, or email us under our profiles! Or email us directly: drewishdrewid AT gmail DOT com and/or ninapowers155 AT gmail DOT com

Let's get started! This could be another really cool collaborative effort!

Looking forward to seeing what you all have to offer:

Nina and Drew
post comment

[24 Jul 2011|08:46pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

The voices from the purgatory claim,
Let your body dissolve in the nothingness of words.

Hundreds of armies will rise upon the dead,
Before you wake up to another sun.
Can you hear us?

Graciousness killed by uncertainty,
And the weak growling of love spreading like cancer.
Who was that behind the mask?
I’ll ask you again, who was that behind the mask?

Anna! Anna!
They’ll stumble up and down until you give in,
There’s no one out there, it’s all inside your head.
Swallow your cosmic dreams and battle them with your fist,
Your blood is metallic and your bones are liquid.

They’re wining!

You’re dead.

post comment

Brand New Lit Mag seeking submissions [12 Jul 2011|10:33am]


Hello, fellow writers! I'm an editor for the new online literary magazine, Flies in His Eyes and I'm looking for writers in online writing communities to submit their work.

Flies in His Eyes is seeking flash fiction, poetry and photography for our Fall/Winter issue. We like odd pieces, genre pieces, and any piece that catches our eye and is well-written.

As a newbie on the lit mag scene, we are trying to spread the word as best we can to find both writers and readers alike.

Email us your work at fliesinhiseyesmagazine@ymail.com and we promise a prompt response.

You can also learn more and read our submission guidelines at our website, fliesinhiseyes.weebly.com/
post comment

[21 Feb 2011|09:38pm]

i need to write
and i need to write my own thoughts from thin air sometimes.
writing inspired by images and songs, musics, is good at least sometimes but i'm doing that with some particular images and i'm just stagnating right now
like a pool of water that sits there in the bathrrom. in a cup.  like the cup on the bathroom that got saw dust in it (or soemthing ) from my dad fixing something in there. yuk. put it to wash.
smoky smoking smells the bad, the bag, makes it smell...bad.  gotta cense it, (per)fume it, gotta go...
gotta make it go...crazy...like with  my typefingers.  my brain.  gonna be another longish night? probably not too long.
just need to know my own thoughts, my own mind, my own bottom of the brainpool, espeically when it lies still. undisturbed. or little-disturbed.  like some kind of zen pool.
zine pool.
5 comments|post comment

My novel [02 Nov 2010|08:12pm]

[ mood | anxious ]

Hi there I'm new here:)

Well in my journal I'm posting my novel which I still didn't finish and it takes some time to post it because I write it in my language and before posting I have to translate it to english. But still I would like to gain some readers so I'm doing some "advertisement" here:) I'll post here some information about my novel and post the direct link to the first part. So if there is someone who is interested, you should leave some coments at my journal:)
So here are the information about my novel:

Title: sorry it doesn't have it yet:)
Author: greenanny / H.A. / andreja1989 (there are all my nicknames:D)
Story: is told by a woman (Mabel) and a man (Gail). there are times where someone ends telling the story and the other one continues it. Bouth tell about their lives.
Content: It happens at some time (is not told) somewhere in the past, undefined place. The country is divided in four smaller parts/countries (which together seem like an island). All parts have its ruler which mostly have great relationships. But relationship between the northern and western countries are bad and have a lot of conflicts.
Mabel Dawn lives in a small vilage, Dara, that lies in western country but is on the border with the northern country. One day, her vilage is attacked by soldiers from northern country, some villagers, even Mabel and her childhood friend Naja, are taken to the northern country, to the city Ranae, leaving her village burned to the grounds. What awaits Mabel in this different country. The ruler Ulric Laken and his son Gail? New friendships? Unhappyness? Discrimination? More conflicts? Revealed truths about her, rulers wife and about the conflicts between bouth contries? Or maybe attraction to the rulers son, Gail?
I hope there is someone who is interested:) here is the link to the first part (like I promised):

post comment

Want [20 Feb 2010|07:29am]
Hide me in your dreams
make me an unknown
my mask will be my refuge
my pain is my safety
and in this pain, I live to know

Don't say you love me
I'm afraid of what I'll do
I can hear your voice in your letter
but I am not comforted
Confused.  In denial.  Hurting.

I need you...
I don't know...
I'm afraid to want, but i do.
Hide me now.
Take me away from you.

3 comments|post comment

Feelings [10 Nov 2009|02:01pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

Just as a wave is lifted by the shore,
Then breaks across the slowly rising sand,
So as I watch you weep my feelings pour
Across the wash of what I understand.
I wish I could just take you in my arms
And all your pain could melt into my chest,
And all the violence of passing storms
Could pass through me and finally come to rest.
No words can set things right or presence lend
A miracle to light your darkened way,
But there is solace in a loving friend
And comfort in what I don't have to say.
Whatever circumstance you cannot bear,
Just turn to me, and you will find me there.

post comment

1:01 Chapter 1 (Story) [07 Nov 2009|03:11pm]


Summary: Jordan Larson and Kazuya Hasuka are detectives who work in Miami's Secret Office. They solve cases that normal detectives can't handle. Together, they are able to solve any case. Both hold an unbeatable record. They've solved cold cases, hard cases, and weird cases. But Jordan and Kazuya are faced with a case they've never seen. A serial murderer is on the loose and is killing random people in various ways. For some odd reason the victim is found at 1:01. Is the murderer smarter than Miami's best detectives?

Read if interested. =]Collapse )
post comment

[06 Nov 2009|10:48pm]

the best time was had
higher than a kite in my room
all alone
it's happening now

a series of beats flowing
from where my heart would be
down my palm
and into my finger tips
and back again

i'm so happy
i'm so
really goddamn warm

i could choke right now

i really could wack myself
bloody right now
post comment

Who really needs to take meds [21 Oct 2009|08:01pm]

I've been diganosed with several mental disorders and have been taking meds for years now and I really question some days who should really be the ones on meds.   These days it seems like sometimes the people I have to interact with when I do leave my comfort zone are either taking better meds than me or should be on their own meds.   I like to think of myself as excentric in my own small way but yet even that is a mild description of parts of my personality.   I enjoiy people watching cause it gives me a bit of sanity knowing that  there's really no "NORMAL" anymore.   Is anyone able to put a definition on what is "NORMAL; SANE" these days?  I think the only thing under those definitions these days is finally electing a president of different ethnithicy and legalizing medical marijuana!!!!!!
post comment

The Mirror [18 Sep 2009|09:10pm]

[ mood | okay ]

The Mirror

Warning: minor swearing, experimental, mention of cutting. possible controversy.

Note: My inspiration was "the man in the mirror" philosophy, but this is from the view of today's youth in society.

Summary: Look at yourself.

This way...Collapse )

1 comment|post comment

[06 Sep 2009|07:13am]

Her breathing hitched as she stared at the boy, no, man in front of her. He had grown so much, well defined body, and an aristocratic face to match. It had been forever since she had seen him, her childhood best friend. They had lost all contact after graduating high school. Often at times, she thought about him, about how they forgot to keep in contact with each other. It was only natural, she believed, since they were pursuing different majors, him in science and her in education. But never did she think that she would see him again. After all, she mused, fate has their ways of surprising people.

He had noticed her across the room, her striking blond hair and her icy blue eyes stood out in the sea of redheads and brunettes. She was clad in a pale periwinkle dress, up to her thighs and not skanky at all, he assumed. He could hear the whispers as he began to venture towards her, mostly from the jealous girls. The closer he approached, the prettier she began to be. Inwardly, he snorted, because she had never been pretty in his book. They were childhood best friends, the type where they would play tag and bully each other. To be honest, he had missed her, even though they fought often.

" Hello Ruth, " he breathed.

post comment

[10 Aug 2009|06:37pm]

Flowers For Anne

Every morning, Roy leaves flowers for Anne. Sometimes violet, sometimes red, but mostly yellow because those were from the dandelions found in the spring patches of lawn peaking between thin crusts of snow. Anne is sixty-seven years blind, and she cares little for the color, can hardly remember most of them... but she likes the thought of a man doing such things for her, which is strange, because she can't touch the petals for fear of ruining the flower, and rarely can she decipher what it looks like at all. Roy likes to describe it with lush detail that compare her eyes to pollen, and sometimes this is enough to make her smile, because she does like the thought of a man doing such things for her.

She also likes to smell the fragrance...Collapse )
post comment

[30 May 2008|11:01pm]

Hey guys,

I'm doing a creative project and I hope you can help me out... answer these two questions for me....

What pisses you off about the world we live in today?


What are you going to do about it?

I want to get as many people as I can to answer these questions as honestly as possible... Its totally okay if your answer to the second question is "nothing". I just want to spark some thoughts inside your head.

Feel free to answer any way you like, ask anyone you would like and, post anywhere you would like... the more people the better.

Gandhi said we must be the change we want to see in the world... so where can we start?

Thanks and love
3 comments|post comment

Inspiration [25 May 2008|10:19pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

Elegant hands moving in patterns as old as civilization. The motion of the brush as it passes over the paper. The sound of the hairs as they glide over the surface, the ink staining its path with a permanence that will out last our lives. A testimony to thought, a window to the mind, a guide to the future and an insight to the past. We can build worlds with words, we can give hope and inspire. Defy death; defy the limits of time and language. Write to the world and find a home in the minds of others.

1 comment|post comment

tears.... [18 May 2008|02:31am]

On the hills thtoughtime, my visions run like hell.  The burning fire within them rolls and whirls around like it's trying to escape the insanity. Tears flow through through my veigns while I pour a cup of blood for anything that wants to drink tea with the certainty of getting healthier by crying. That's ritght, they'll learn you how to shed some tears for the amusement of getting you're illness out of your head.  Stone walls facing the music coming from the sea, whith the two suns, moon-lit craters on their frozen darkness in the sky. Alluring melodies of beverages in a chair. An armchair on deck, like anyone else sits here.  I'm here, drinking, watching the sky skid by and feeling the drops of sour tears sinking down in the fabric of my pants. They'll freeze over in the cold rushing seawinter. I'm all alone here, the ship's called the Mary Spoonhedge and it's heading for the steet of wherever they needed it the most. The port is made of glass houses and cheering people. They're probably waiting for our arrival on the wooden terrace.  Waving in oldfashioned clothes. What bad news I have for them. I'm all alone here. A ghost on a ghostship.  A fitting end with no steering weel. Like me, it will drink and cry soon at the bottom of the sea. Listening to tomorrow. Resting.
1 comment|post comment

still... it's here [12 Apr 2008|02:06pm]

It's here, still pounding and pumping through my everlasting veighns of social structrure awareness, I like to start with a long sentence, it gives me purpose and joy. The female terminator of words, longer legs and better steps.  I woke up today.  Surprisingly engough that's a fact. Like I can see a fist coming through the smoke, a history lesson well learned.  The Olympic flame a symbol of nothiness, a Southpark episode on wheels, under protest.  The dogs type their little stories in the form they want so the local newspaper can sell out today, and after that we'll all go online and fly around in silly suits. Skijumping, fathopping and bunny-riding on the gigi-grid of love.  So we're there, the special occasions.  On stage they are fabulous I hear.  They address the public and drink tea while the groupie is trying to give the drummer back his lost sticks. Her hair was always a mess when she came out. Lying on a couch and thinking about how she's only a glithc in the program. The drummer moved on. Two houses and a wife, or the other way around until the buldozer comes and tears it all down.  I wished you all the best last week, jet you came no closer to a conclusion. Fried patatoes in honey and eggs.  The fatness of our lives will not withold us from being succesfull transmitters of millions of one's and zeroes.  Even in 3-D we'll still look the same,... the matrix action figures on dope and the superheroes on an allround camping trip.  I've watched whipped cream bikini bull riding once you know.  Nothing will get better anymore because we're all logged on to the same hub, on the same old round server with not extra's in sight.  A planet on it's own. Owls in the night do nothing more.
1 comment|post comment

Part 2 [09 Apr 2008|01:26am]


The wet-asphalt smell hung heavily in the air. The heavens had let loose with a storm so violently beautiful it was almost a sin not to stare in wonder of the clouded sky and fat raindrops. Water fell from the sky in sheets, whizzing through the air like rockets before exploding on the ground in mini mushroom clouds before setting into the streaming rivers flowing over the concrete. The city was left in a haze. Street lights, traffic lights, headlights, they were all distorted with the falling rain. Everything was foggy and muted.


The night air was cool in contrast to the warm spring day. Inhaling deeply she welcomed the thick smoke of the cigarette into her lungs and exhaling left a trail of smoke to circle over her head. She stood, her back resting against the brick face of a building, having the need for shelter from the pelting rain she retreated under one of the many decorative overhangs to each quaint little shop. If only this were a nice area, and she wasn’t leaning against the broken face of a run down apartment building.


Her room upstairs was too stuffy, confining with its plain white walls and one overhead light; peeling wallpaper and ugly brown tile floors. At least here she could breathe. He was crouched close to the ground; knees bent and back hunched just waiting, for what she wasn’t quite sure, but it looked as if he could jump up at any time. His face was stone, eyes focused on something across the street. He was still, poised, waiting.


The only sounds were of the rain pelting and the occasional car that would drive by. When slowly, he began to sing. His voice was soft at first, gently gaining volume until she could hear him clearly. The song was one of his own, one that gained him his reputation, and the one that said he wrote the day after they met.


Her hands lifted to fuss with her hood, pulling it up over her dark hair while pushing herself away from the wall. She lowered herself beside him and sat Indian style on the damp cement. She joined in the song, her voice not as trained as his, but sweet and soft. The two of them sang together. Her eyes were distantly focused on something across the street when slowly memories started to stir and the present faded into the past.


The colors of that day were muted, the sun was on its slow decent and was retreating to its bed in the west, but the day was still warm, the suns heat lingering in the air long after it was gone. She felt like she hadn’t slept in days, probably because it was true. Her nights were an endless string of alcohol, parties and drugs. Her body, weak and tired was hinging on the edge of a black abyss, one that which she fell into, there would be no return. Her life had been constant pain, and never once was she in control of her own destiny. That was, until he came along.


His one outstretched hand grazed her fingertips and pulled her back from her demise. Away from the impending darkness and away from all things ugly. Since she had seen his face, there was nothing but beauty in her world. Tired eyes would become rested and her renewed sense of vision let the colors back in.


“You were full of contrasts then.” He said softly, “Alive, but so close to death.” His blue eyes glanced over at her, only catching a glimpse of her profile underneath her hood before looking away. “I couldn’t let you fall.”


Suddenly, he sprang up, seizing her upper arm in his hand, he hoisted her up as well. He dashed out into the pouring rain, dragging her out under from her shelter. The rain made quick work of their clothing, soaking through to the skin in a matter of minutes. His hand slid from her arm, down to her hand letting their fingers intertwine.

post comment

[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]