Under The Sun Every Day Just Comes & Goes discussion

Rule 1) One entry per person per contest

Rule 2)
A. Please only enter your own work.
B. As long as you wrote it I don't care when you wrote, if it has to do with the theme of the contest enter it.
C. I don't care what it is, whether it be a poem, a short story, a chapter of a book your writing, a verse of a poem, a song, or whatever. Again as long as you wrote/made it please by all means enter it.

Rule 3) Nothing too sexually graphic. Please be considerate to our younger members.

Rule 4) When voting time comes around NO VOTING FOR YOU OWN WORK. That is kind of like... cheating.

And the Final Rule (For now) Please Name your work. Only so when voting time comes I have something to call it when I write up the poll. Thank you and the best of luck to you all!

*NOTE*
When it comes to themes it is whatever the theme makes you think of. Like angels make some people think of hope while others think of God, and others just good people. I personally always think of Armageddon... dunno why...

One million people equals a million ways to see the world.
_____________________________________________________

Hmmmm... I don't want to go themeless again this month... does that sound dirty to anyone else? Anyway I think I'll just ask you to listen to a song and do your thing. Making something completely new from something else.

Sounds like a deal. *puts in earbuds*

You going to enter this one? lol cause you missed the last one.

I realized that when I saw this contest up. I've been swamped with writing projects and getting ready for college, so I totally forgot to copy-paste my entry in. XS

I don't mind we had a lot of entries last month... well a lot for us... lol

I'm starting a contest at our school next week. The first year we did it, we got three dozen entries. That was a busy time for me because all our judges backed out after they saw our entries. :D

Why?

Because 3 dozen is too many for a lazy high school student, I suppose.

Lazy fuckers...

Meh. They all left my writing group soon after because they felt like their writing was "too good to share."

I... have no idea what to say to that... How can writing off all things be too good to share? It's writing... it's worthless if not shared... or is that just me?

@Kyle
Literary snobbishness indeed. The one who I pulled that quote from entered last year's contest. Between three blind judges, her short story got the lowest score…even lower than the stuff she wasn't competing against (from other categories). It was awful and Savannah and I marked it up with red pen then had a ceremonial burning. She's normally not rude like that, but she thought it was necessary.

I think I'll enter this one.

@Tebow
That is hilarious...

A mask engraved with lies.

There’s a girl in the classroom, a kind young soul,
Who smiles like the sun,
Whose eyes shine like diamonds,
There’s a secret she hides, tucked away behind warm eyes,
A smudge that taints that flawless sparkle,
And steals her warmth if just for a moment.

Her face is a mask engraved with lies,
Constructed from make-up, from the need to stay hidden,
There’s a boy next door who watches it all,
Who sees the routine, the everyday charade;
‘Slap on the make-up, put on the mask,
No one sees it when she cries.’

He watches at the window every day,
Not sure that she will stay,
Hoping she will stay,
Until one morning she is gone,
The routine of lies broken by death.

-------------------------------------------------------

Written listening to 'Numb' by Linkin Park.

I love numb! But I have a better versio

"I've become so dumb I forgot to breathe, My face is turning red, soon I will be dead."

@Richard

The sad thing is, there are a lot of young writers who think that way. They say they're amazing, but won't show you how amazing.

As for me, I'll say I suck and hope I prove myself wrong whenever I share something.

The only thing that worries me about sharing my work is it being copied. Not that I think my work is worthy of copying but I'd hate for my ideas and/or words to be used by another. That would irk me.

Good logic Taylor. (I usually say 'Its a bit weird...I really have no idea where it came from...' because its kinda true. Most of my poems are a bit weird and I really do have no idea what's coming out of my brain until its already on the paper.)

@Tebow
Exactly! I like that attitude. I don't think I'm an amazing writer. I don't even think I can qualify as a writer. Btu when other people like my shit I'm glad to be proven wrong.

VK

nice

I've seen ppl do that and it sucks. I've seen it right here on GR, this one girl wrote a story that was so similar in comparison to this other girl's it was ridiculous. There was even a sentence that almost read word for word. smh

Hi Richard,
I'm sorry I got too late to your email to vote in the March contest. Congrats to the winner!
I was reading about this month's contest and it struck a chord-(bad pun) with me. I have recently written some poems on what music means to me I would like to share one:

Never get out of these blues-4/12/14
by Emily Sturgill

Listening to John Lee Hooker, singing that, he'll,
"never get out of these blues alive." and I am jamming to old music on my MP3 player.

Wishing to become,
somebody easier-
less undone.

Wishing to capture
My Muse,
who mystifies me.

Wishing to capture,
yet another
poem-song into my teeth.

Trying to take a bite,
out of a word
that sounds right.

But they glide on,
right by me,
the words;
do not stay or settle.

they frenzy-fight
skirmming off the margins
skipping off the pages.

Dancing as I struggle,
with writers block-
words they tease me,
and then they flee.

Free to leave me
empty. Never get out of these blues-Alive.

Emily wrote: "Hi Richard,
I'm sorry I got too late to your email to vote in the March contest. Congrats to the winner!
I was reading about this month's contest and it struck a chord-(bad pun) with me. I have re..."

No problem.

The following was written while listening to my looped "depression" playlist. I put it in spoiler tags because of the length.

(view spoiler)[Chad’s fingers slid across the sweat-slickened keypad of his cell phone. Why weren’t they picking up? His mom said if he ever needed anything, even a designated driver, he could call and she would be there. It wasn’t too different from the skinned knees and swallowed bleach of childhood, but today, it was more dangerous.
His roommate’s bed was bare and still warm. He’d driven home for the holidays less than an hour before, and the air still stank of the cheap cologne he put on every day. It was that stench that reminded Chad that his heart was beating fast enough to shake his vision.
Chad was about to dial his mother’s number for the fifth time, but something about the deadpan drone of the dial tone held him back. Was the cell phone taunting him? Reminding him that his mother would probably be about as cold and uncaring as the monotony of the dial tone?
To break up the constant hum, he started punching her number. This was the fifth time. His mom was indeed like the dial tone -- same thing every time. The fifth time he’d fallen off his bike, she was there. The fifth time he’d failed term finals, she gave him sympathy and a punishment. The fifth time he’d been caught reaching into the medicine cabinet, she cried.
Ring. Ring. Ri--
“Chad?”
Chad’s eyes burned. Mom!
The stink of the air seemed to fade away as Chad listened to his mother’s breathing. He couldn’t wait too long, or else she’d hang up. Then it would be back to the same dead sounds and warm beds.
“Mom...I need a ride.”
He could almost picture her warm brown eyes blinking in confusion. “What for? Don’t you have your car? Did it break down?”
Chad didn’t say anything. What could he say? No, not the car. Not that machine. This one. This little engine who could and could and could until he couldn’t. He mixed the cadence of his breathing with hers.
His mother ended the duet of air with something that sounded like a moan. “Oh, no. Chad, not this again.”
“I just...don’t want to be alone. I can’t.”
“Chad, you’ve been alone for the last three months. You can make it a little longer, right?”
“Tonight is different.”
“You’re an adult now. You can--”
Chad hung up the phone with a quick motion of his thumb and threw it across the room. The battery detached when it ricocheted off the wall. The phone lay in two pieces on his roommate’s bed.
She was like everyone else. She thought he was this hill-climbing machine who can do anything. Well, if he was, he was so full of the coals of hell that he just couldn’t take it anymore. Now he’d burned away the last balloon ribbon that might help him float out of despair.
With shaking hands, the blank-faced young man knelt down at the edge of the bed and fiddled with the battery. Somebody out there could help him. He was sure. Who could he call? Where could he go?
He considered a few options. His roommate would be long gone by now. It was probably safer to drive himself. But then he thought of Lidia. That crazy girl in English 1010 who wouldn’t shut up as long as someone else’s voice was asking for attention. And yet she’d always listened to him. She’d even wanted to listen to him all through the holiday break. “Come over to my place,” she’d said. “My parents make funeral potatoes that are to die for, pardon the pun.”
He'd half heartedly agreed to think about it, and he had just made up his mind.
He knew where her apartment was. The checkout period ended in an hour. If everything was just like in English, she’d be doing it last minute. He had time to get over there. Maybe he could spend some time with her.
He’d have to tell his mom about the change of plans. He didn't know if he could do that. And if he stayed silent, maybe she'd briefly panic about what he might have done. Perhaps he would be treated less like an efficient automaton and more like a person.
But he already felt very mechanical. The gears of his mind had already turned him towards the door of his dorm room and his piston-powered legs carried him through the door and down three flights of stairs. He always knew the difference between AI and human intelligence was a sense of emotion. Maybe he wasn't so human after all. He was a broken watch, tick tick ticking away calendar days, weeks, and years. He held no purpose. Nothing separated him from the dump with all the overcooking toasters and cracked-case remote control cars.
Except maybe this Lidia girl. He'd promised he would think about the Christmas visit. Would she be okay with his file-sorting mind? His pumping motherboard heart? His mechanical purposes might scare her away. Perhaps this is what Asimov was afraid of -- the machines within everyone taking control.
He felt water trickling down his left calf. Was it raining in December? No…but he certainly wasn't a machine. Computers didn't piss their pants.
Maybe he shouldn't go to Lidia. She'd see his mess. She'd see how his automaton body was programmed for silence more useful than speech.
And yet, his legs, now veined with urine, still carried him to Lidia's apartment. Maybe they knew something he didn't. That's what his algebra teacher taught him in seventh grade -- "that machine in your hand knows more than the one in your head."
The door was just the same as all the others. One in a long line of neglected features to any living space. He mechanically rapped on the door three times. It swung open almost immediately.
The girl in the doorway looked him up and down. Was that a look of disgust on Lidia’s face? No. It was simply shock. Her eyes lingered on his pee-stained front.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, reaching out a hand to grasp Chad’s arm.
Perhaps it was time to clean up a little. (hide spoiler)]