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"Tell me your troubles young man, and I shall tell you more. I shall tell you of the wars that should never have been fought and of battles that never were. I shall tell you of the Isles of Carmdia and the sweeping dunes of Haraan. I shall tell you of princes and kings and their women slaves. I shall tell you of oxen and plains and rivers so wide no man can cross. Yes, tell me your troubles, you innnocent lad, and I shall tell you of the hell-holes of the world, the foxholes, the pits, the dungeons. You think you have troubles, my son, but now, hear me."

"You, old man? Your feet have long since ceased to walk and your eyes no longer see. You hold a cane in your knargled left hand while with your right you gesture madly and pluck at your withering beard. If ever you had days of glory or of woe, they've long since disappeared. Cease your mutterings and be still."

1. Maybe if you hadn't kissed me, I would've pressed send.

2. There was a reason I said no, even if I still dream about you.

3. You're wonderful, but they're right; we could be twins.

4. Sometimes paper cranes are straight, and it's okay.

5. You're too innocent;grow up.

6. I don't want you.

7. For Christmas, I gave you my words, and for my birthday, you gave them back.

8. Maybe they assumed, or maybe they just never cared.

The cabinets rattled as she came into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator with reckless abandon, looking for something on which to vent her anger. The shelves were filled with beer, whiskey, wine, anything that could induce a drunken stupor.

She stood still for a moment then grabbed one of the beer bottles, her face expressionless to the point of sociopathy. Holding it carelessly she positioned it over the sink and brought her arm down in a punching swing that looked eerily familiar to the sane part of her mind. Beer flew everywhere as glass rained down with a clinking sound, like quarters in a jeans pocket. It sounded like rain in Arizona, the first droplets bringing blessed release, maniac smiles on the faces of even the most sensible people.

"Mom, What if I took off my tracker bracelet?" Elaen asked as she scratched at the hair's bredth line that she knew was where the bracelet opened.
"You'd get lost, honey" Her mother replied as she passed vegatables under the refrigerator's food ID, "And worse."
"But what did they do before tracker bracelets?"
"What do you mean?" She paused, celery halfway under the scanner. It beeped "Incomplete scan" and she pushed the celery the rest of the way under.
"People didn't always have tracker bracelets, Mom. They couldn't have"
Her mother's eyes glazed over. "Tracker bracelets are so wonderful They keep track of how many calories we consume. They get us where we need to go. They work as IDs and constantly check us for diseases."

I had the choice to say no
But I chose to say yes.
I had the choice to stop and not go farther
But I chose to keep going.
I had the choice to wait for him to use protection
But I chose to hold on to him for dear life
And not think about the consequences.
So I guess this is what I get for
Making all the wrong choices.

Fire...

She loved watching the little flame, wavering, curious, peeking its orange head over the top of the clear purple-blue lighter, reflecting off the fingers that gave it life. She killed it quickly with the flick of her thumb, then brought it back a moment later, a phoenix, reincarnated...

She lit leaves, tiny twigs, isolated in shallow pits she scraped in the cool September dirt of the park. It was sandy soil that didn’t grow much but stiff-stemmed grass. Dried rivulets and gullies snaked across the field, steep-carved little canyons downhill. To a mouse, the tiny streams were giant lakes, slim rushing oceans. The girl’s small flames were bonfire signals that flashed against the night.

I tried this once on an old blog I had, to no avail. That's because it requires participants...

I'd like everyone who sees this to submit three of your favorite phrases, words, or even whole sentences as a comment. From there, I'll... put them together.

This idea has never worked yet, mind you. I'll need a response to continue.

Remember this:

1. Please, all original works.
2. Poetic devices such as metaphors, alliteration, and word/rhyme structure et cetera help a lot.

/gradster(1)/

They're not going away,
I suppose its only there to tell me:

Write it all out.

i.
I can't help but think I loved him too much to help myself (but that could be backwards, couldn't it?)

ii.
You haven't spoken to me for three days.

iii.
His brown eyes glittered as he listened to my laugh in the rain today. (too bad I'm only sixteen. He was drinking a Long Trail Ale and I knew when he asked where I lived it wasn't just out of curiosity.

iv.
My favourite jeans don't fit me.

v.
Damn. I'm scared I'm not good enough to be an artist.

vi.
I feel different. as though something inside me is me, but this shape I'm trapped in is not.

This is the latest philosophical installment. Viktor Frankl was a Jewish doctor in a concentration camp during WWII.

_______

He closed his eyes tightly and jumped, taking a leap of faith.

"It was a dark and stormy night."

Stan walked down the hallway, dress shoes clicking. He turned into the dim-lit room where Arnold Argron sat behind a smallish desk in a shabby-looking swivel chair.

"Sit down," Arnold pointed to a cushioned chair infront of the desk, facing him.

"Thank you."

"Why do you come to me?"

"I have come for a favor," Stan replied. "I need tickets."

"Why do you need the tickets," Arnold asked. "Why do you ask this of me?"

"I need it for . . . something . . .," Stan said, hanging his head. "Come on, Argron. You know me. It will be put to . . . good use.'

"You come and ask me for these tickets. You never come anymore to my house. But, you need it and I am here for your needs, and . . ."

"Arnold, this isn't 'The Godfather'."

"Well, yeah, but its cool."

"Anyway . . ."

"Yes, I will let you use my tickets. You may take tickets almost anytime you want. But, you must give me all of your tickets and must always pay off your debt."

"Of course."

Time
Trapped
True
Time-less
Don't let me go.
Don't tell me
How long ago
I don't
Wanna know.
Don't let me fall
Take me
And don't let me go.
Don't think about it
Just don't let me fall.
I'm slipping a little
Don't let me go.
Keep me
For you
Because
Whatever you do
I'll always
Love you.
You think
You know
But please
Don't let me go.

6/30/08

I'd given it thought, the idea of quitting. I'd spent an entire hour of practice slouched backward, legs splayed, my head against the pegs and staring at the wall.

The wall. Now, that was an interesting thought. Wasn't that what I was experiencing? There’s something about slamming into a wall repeatedly that hurts...

This was normal, I assumed. It had to be. Dedicating myself this long had to mean more than this. In six years I'd never quit before, I'd never even wanted to. Did I really want to give up now?

My shoulders are bruised and the inside of my head is mangled--like someone’s been suffocating me too long...

I'd lost my direction, and with it I'd lost my drive. My sense of success had been battered, and I could hardly talk about it with anyone but myself. Myself! I was my own worst nightmare: my constant internal monologue threw insults at me, critiqued my every thought and motion.

Written last night at some ungodly hour.

They're back. The dreams.

It's those girls again, the ones who dance and glide their way into my sleep with their smooth curves and long hair that tangles itself around my limbs until I'm trapped in them and it's too late. Too late to do anything but smile and drink in their laughter like sweet syrup, let it coat my lips until they glisten and beg to be touched. They play music, the girls, creating notes with broken instruments that sound like freedom. They smell like patchouli and the ocean and they're beautiful like nature is beautiful, beautiful in their symmetry but also in their imperfections and their energy.