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Galefore Wrote Something WHAAAAT

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Galefore
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Galefore Wrote Something WHAAAAT

Post by Galefore » Sat Feb 11, 2017 12:33 pm

It was inevitable. I can't read so much and not be inspired, I suppose. I've been writing poetry and the occasional small scene or mood piece, secretly, and kinda sharing nothing publicly since my post-Gunjin years. This, however, is the first written work I've done in a while that I feel confident in and really want to share. I appreciate feedback!
--------------------------------
He Could Have Walked Out
--------------------------------
He thought then with a slightly dizzying gulp of air that he could walk out on the check. Nobody was watching really, lost in the lunch chatter in a low end pizza place. Next to his table, a curly haired little **** was squawling at the sight of him, or at the sight of the holy majesty of being, or whatever it is that gets them screaming. His voice was strong, strong lungs, little blue eyes and one tooth, like a cartoon character, ill defined but forming thing. This noise was drowned out, no matter how loathsome the cries became, by this fantasy of small-time robbery. He could walk out on this check, yeah, because hey, it's 7 bucks and a tip and who's gonna care, really? He could do it this once and then help a lady with her walker or something and karma would let it pass, or God, stroking his beard, would think it was funny and scrub it off the books with a big cosmic eraser. He needed that 7 bucks. But he had been hungry hungry, it was late afternoon, he had laundry going, and he was above all lazy. Cooking would ruin his pre-work relaxation routine. He'd sit, smoking cigarettes and watching his movies or peering aimlessly or masturbating, and then eventually stir and put some pants on. Some reason, usually a half-assed chore. Then, back to no pants, more smoking, and maybe some sort of existential dread so he can feel a little awed and afraid.


But today he was angry at the entire whole damn world because, damn it, he was entitled to his identity. Boss and boss and boss had spoken to him, each in different condescending marks on some scale of sardonic, slimy business speak. He was to hide his bushy, well beloved beard, his mark of pride and his surrogate identity, he would tame his wild hair, growing unkempt for months and lazily swept back. He could not be the slovenly image of his inside, and somehow that erupted within him distilled rage and he fumed and fumed. But just then he was eating and thinking about buying a new shirt with his last few bucks and getting his trims and trying to compromise so he didn't have to feel all earthwormy in his stomach and knot up with irrational blood-quickening stupid statements and all of the resisted swings and flipped tables when his many-time mentally rehearsed confrontation with the system finally happened, knotting his pride up and trying to swallow it but feeling sick. He was at times as ape as his hairy body had gotten him called in high school and beyond, by friends and not-friends around bars and in uniforms like his but cleaner.


So he would compromise, he reckoned, but for a second that fury and pride and that stupid statement or maybe a lot of stupid statements found some common ground and mingled, so he thought today was a day where a man could just walk out. Now, in his brain, with three stacked plates of mostly dry pizza that had something like bacon on it sitting next to his wallet, he saw himself dancing out of the door, plates still sitting, drink full, because in his head he would leave when the very very good waitress got him a drink, and he would feel bad for her, oh noble patient server of unscrupulous men like him, but she was the sacrifice for this concentrated act of rebellion. Some sort of breaking of some rule. Now in his mind he saw his walking out of the door, having paid nothing, having eaten his fill of ungodly dry pizza and hard cinnamon sticks, proud but instantly chillingly blackened in his heart, feeling nothing but something unclean and unsatisfied. And then the helicopter landed.


As if it never had to approach at all, as if it materialized, it took its perch in the parking lot, the helicopter's blades whooping out a slicing force in the wind, huge and sharp and dreadful to think about walking into and feeling for the moment of sensation before death. There was a tense moment of dizziness before the SWAT team stepped out, and, wordlessly, pepper sprayed him.


Agony like he had probably never felt, or at least he supposed he hadn't rather loudly inside of whatever rational thought could etch into the storm of firing neurons and feral screeches. His glasses were caught by the spray so even as tiny glimpses of vision pierced the fog of tears and searing spice he could only see wads of muddy color through the lenses. He thrashed his arm and flayed hand into his face and pushed his glasses off, and he heard a voice say “Last straw, ****” and he was lifting somewhere.


He tossed and screamed and he lost track of time, but it felt like a long time, and even through his agony he was paranoid enough to think it was longer than it was for most other people. Tougher people, he guessed, and then he guessed nothing for a few more minutes of writhing and moaning and then he was able to see, somehow his glasses and vision cleared without his help, and he saw a cage no taller than six feet, no wider than six feet, a cruel barred cage of rust, tiny space between bars not quite wide enough to fit a hand and forearm all the way through, and he was in it in the middle of a dark room, only lit enough to see the form of the cage around him by a small square window in the only visible door, pouring in some flourescent light, something from whatever jail outside was letting him rot, instantly, without question, in their worst cell. Or maybe there were worse cells here, and this was the entry level, and prison had been prettied up by the media all this time only to hide the torture paid sadists put these men through.


And then he realized there was no telling when, if ever, anyone would come.


That caved in his mind for a moment. Still slightly red eyes filled with tears, but he was not crying, he was not really even afraid. There was a stretched moment where his brain was blocking the cage entirely. He thought, maybe I can sit down and sink and sink and then slip, like smoke, through the ground. Then he tried this with a low moaning sound, letting in the flow of a fear buried deep in every mind, a fear of his unyielding containment, too short for his tall frame, not long enough for his legs, this lonely discomfort and ruining of joints, and he let that moan turn into a flurry of confused screams and noises and half words. Then, after that, exhausted silence. He fell, after hours of staring and running a circle in his mind, into a back-strain hampered and shallow sleep.


Awakened by a shrill siren into sharp throbs in the legs and horrible grog, he looked up to see the eyes first, those eyes that immediately dispelled any built up ego or comfort, eyes, creased with an unseen smile that did not show on his thin lips, unflinching with dark blue marbles in the center, fixed and unwavering and never even dancing. There was nothing to be before those eyes other than silent. He waited because inwardly he knew this was what it was to be to hear his crimes read to him like in the morality plays but nobody spoke for some time of strangled silence. The cage seemed to eat the time and air around him, and as he had sat in his cage and let his eyes leave Marble Eyes and drift to the rust-splotched roof just a few feet above his head, he let his mind create a small pocket of world where this slowness was central to him, in this cage, a single fixed shift, so the man outside may be staring at him, locked out of his timeline, waiting to speak in hellish slow motion and indict him, over hundreds of years, for all of the bad and the idiotic and the shameful.


The figure with the marble eyes opened and shut his mouth, then opened it again and cocked his head, letting something like a choked laugh out. His voice sounded present, thankfully, not slowed to terrible growls, so the caged man relaxed his shoulders a bit, still stuck in the tractor beam of Marble Eyes' gaze. The caged man finally adjusted his still somewhat blurry vision to the figure, tall, in poorly fitting baggy clothes like you'd see a coffee-blooded detective wear in a 90s procedural. He had a thin, peppered goatee, and he was long-faced, slender in every aspect. Though he had a short tuft of hoary sheep-like curls for hair, he had an air of gravity, somehow, through his sloppiness, and that was all, maybe, in those awful eyes.


Finally the voice that Marble Eyes used, a little papery, but timbered with cigarette gruff, said “You will surely be aware of and understand the following reasons for this imprisonment. I'm telling you now, the facts are all together here. We know your mind. You are not a good enough talker to get away with anything. Now I'll tell you why you are here, of course, oh, but first, hey, be my guest, here, light a damn cigarette. One more time. Try to remember it.”


Thin spider-limb fingers flicked him a bent cigarette and a matchbox. The caged man wanted to exert pride and let it sit and continue to stare, but the silence became so thick so quickly that he scrambled, eventually, to get his arms positioned to pick up his small boon and fumble with the matches and take that first flawed drag and think about his stupid life like Marble Eyes wanted, so that maybe the silence wouldn't reach out and grab his tongue and pull it until it drew out his entire created essence. But even as he thought this, some sudden rumble occurred, and his cage fell suddenly and violently to the side, his arm catching between two of the closely-placed bars and the bones inside absorbing, poorly, harsh fall impact, too much not to crack. His body trembled with the shock of fracture and lay in agony, thrashing and then halting silently in positions dictated by the mockingly small cage, while something unseen happened to Marble Eyes, or maybe a few Marble Eyes because he heard a multiplicity in the single paper voice that was rising in distress. Then, a silence, but a brief one shaken by another fat rumble of earth.


So Marble Eyes opened their mouth and screamed, and then the caged man's eyes seared afresh with boiling red and he rolled, mouth open in silent pain, and passed into a sleep.


He woke up angry, again, for some reason, this feeling demanding to be felt before pain, and even before questioning the lack of pain, and even before remembering he was just at a pizza restaurant eating a slice of now cold, still dry pizza from a lunch buffet, and he hadn't paid yet, and he had laundry going.


He munched his last slice, paid, tipped generously, and walked home.

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Post by ScottyMcGee » Sat Feb 11, 2017 6:15 pm

I used to be part of a writing forum so when I opened this thread I immediately had this automatic reaction to take out my "red pen" and critique it.


[QUOTE="Galefore, post: 1621846, member: 29027"]
He thought then, with a slightly dizzying gulp of air, that he could walk out on the check. Nobody was watching really, lost in the lunch chatter in a low end pizza place. (Do you mean to say nobody was paying attention to him because he was lost in the lunch chatter? Then I suggest something like "Nobody was really watching; he was lost in the lunch chatter at a low-end pizza place.") Next to his table, a curly haired little **** was squawling at the sight of him, or at the sight of the holy majesty of being, or whatever it is that gets them screaming. His voice was strong, strong lungs (strong lungs sounds awkward because you had just written strong), little blue eyes and one tooth, like a cartoon character, ill defined but forming thing. This noise was drowned out, no matter how loathsome the cries became, by this fantasy of small-time robbery. He could walk out on this check, yeah, because hey, it's 7 bucks and a tip and who's gonna care, really? He could do it this once and then help a lady with her walker or something and karma would let it pass, or God, stroking his beard, would think it was funny and scrub it off the books with a big cosmic eraser. He needed that 7 bucks. But he had been hungry hungry (I'm not sure if hungry hungry is a typo and you repeated it or you're going for a style. But I actually like it so I say keep it), it was late afternoon, he had laundry going, and he was above all lazy. Cooking would ruin his pre-work relaxation routine. He'd sit, smoking cigarettes and watching his movies or peering aimlessly or masturbating, and then eventually stir and put some pants on. Some reason, usually a half-assed chore. Then, back to no pants, more smoking, and maybe some sort of existential dread so he can feel a little awed and afraid.


But today he was angry at the entire whole damn world because, damn it, he was entitled to his identity. Boss and boss and boss had spoken to him, each in different condescending marks on some scale of sardonic, slimy business speak. He was to hide his bushy, well beloved beard, his mark of pride and his surrogate identity, (Period there and start this sentence new with a capital He) he would tame his wild hair, growing unkempt for months and lazily swept back. (Except that doesn't sound very much like taming - more like. . .a very tame tamer. If he were really going to "tame" his wild hair, he'd comb it all the time. At least, that's how I view it. But he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to tame anything so long story short - don't say he tamed his wild hair.) He could not (I think say "He could no longer") be the slovenly image of his inside, and somehow that erupted within him distilled rage (Try: "and distilled rage erupted within him") and he fumed and fumed. But just then he was eating and thinking about buying a new shirt with his last few bucks and getting his trims and trying to compromise so he didn't have to feel all earthwormy in his stomach and knot up with irrational, blood-quickening, stupid statements and all of the resisted swings and flipped tables when his many-time mentally rehearsed confrontation with the system finally happened, knotting his pride up and trying to swallow it but feeling sick. (Okay whoa - that sentence definitely ran on. I suggested cutting it once somewhere - or if possible making it roll better) He was at times as ape (apish) as his hairy body had gotten him called in high school and beyond, by friends and not-friends around bars and in uniforms like his but cleaner.


So he would compromise, he reckoned, but for a second that fury and pride and that stupid statement or maybe a lot of stupid statements found some common ground and mingled, so he thought today was a day where a man could just walk out. Now, in his brain, with three stacked plates of mostly dry pizza that had something like bacon on it sitting next to his wallet, he saw himself dancing out of the door, plates still sitting, drink full, because in his head he would leave when the very very good waitress got him a drink, and he would feel bad for her, oh noble patient server of unscrupulous men like him, but she was the sacrifice for this concentrated act of rebellion. (I understand this run on sentence because by now we know the character has some really obsessive thoughts, so the running is fine here) Some sort of breaking of some rule. Now in his mind he saw his walking out of the door, having paid nothing, having eaten his fill of ungodly dry pizza and hard cinnamon sticks, proud but instantly chillingly blackened in his heart, feeling nothing but something unclean and unsatisfied. (I suggest rearranging that sentence to make it flow better, particularly the later part about his actions blackening his heart.) And then the helicopter landed.


As if it never had to approach at all, as if it materialized, it (the helicopter) took its perch in the parking lot, (End that sentence there. Start new here) the helicopter'sblades whooping (whooped) out a slicing force in the wind, huge and sharp and dreadful to think about walking into and feeling for the moment of sensation before death. There was a tense moment of dizziness before the SWAT team stepped out and, wordlessly, pepper sprayed him.


Agony like he had probably never felt, or at least he supposed he hadn't rather loudly inside of whatever rational thought could etch into the storm of firing neurons and feral screeches. (That sentence was weird. I suggest fixing it.) His glasses were caught by the spray so even as tiny glimpses of vision pierced the fog of tears and searing spice, he could only see wads of muddy color through the lenses. He thrashed his arm and flayed hand into his face and pushed his glasses off, and he heard a voice say “Last straw, ****er” and he was lifting (lifted?) somewhere.


He tossed and screamed and he lost track of time, but it felt like a long time, and even through his agony he was paranoid enough to think it was longer than it was for most other people. Tougher people, he guessed, and then he guessed nothing for a few more minutes of writhing and moaning and then he was able to see, (End that sentence there and start new one here) somehow his glasses and vision cleared without his help, and he saw a cage no taller than six feet, no wider than six feet, a cruel barred cage of rust, tiny space between bars not quite wide enough to fit a hand and forearm all the way through, and he was in it in the middle of a dark room, only lit enough to see the form of the cage around him by a small square window in the only visible door, pouring in some fluorescent light, something from whatever jail outside was letting him rot, instantly, without question, in their worst cell. (That sentence ran on unnecessarily, since you were just describing things.) Or maybe there were worse cells here, and this was the entry level, (THIS IS JUST THE TUTORIAL LEVEL MWAHAHA) and prison had been prettied up by the media all this time only to hide the torture paid sadists put these men through.


And then he realized there was no telling when, if ever, anyone would come.


That caved in his mind for a moment. Still slightly red eyes filled with tears, but he was not crying, he was not really even afraid. There was a stretched moment where his brain was blocking the cage entirely. He thought, maybe I can sit down and sink and sink and then slip, like smoke, through the ground. Then he tried this with a low moaning sound, letting in the flow of a fear buried deep in every mind, a fear of his unyielding containment, too short for his tall frame, not long enough for his legs, this lonely discomfort and ruining of joints, and he let that moan turn into a flurry of confused screams and noises and half words. Then, after that, exhausted silence. He fell, after hours of staring and running a circle in his mind, into a back-strain hampered and shallow sleep.

Awakened by a shrill siren into sharp throbs in the legs and horrible grog, he looked up to see the eyes first, those eyes that immediately dispelled any built up ego or comfort, eyes, creased with an unseen smile that did not show on his thin lips, unflinching with dark blue marbles in the center, fixed and unwavering and never even dancing. There was nothing to be before those eyes other than silent. He waited because inwardly he knew this was what it was to be (like) to hear his crimes read to him, like in the morality plays but (except) nobody spoke for some time of (in) strangled silence. The cage seemed to eat the time (Be more declarative: write "The cage ate the time and air around him") and air around him, and as he had sat in his cage and let his eyes leave Marble Eyes and drift to the rust-splotched roof just a few feet above his head, he let his mind create a small pocket of world where this slowness was central to him, in this cage, a single fixed shift, so the man outside may be staring at him, locked out of his timeline, waiting to speak in hellish slow motion and indict him, over hundreds of years, for all of the bad and the idiotic and the shameful.


The figure with the marble eyes (Just call him "Marble Eyes") opened and shut his mouth, then opened it again and cocked his head, letting something like a choked laugh out. His voice sounded present, thankfully, not slowed to terrible growls, so the caged man relaxed his shoulders a bit, still stuck in the tractor beam of Marble Eyes' gaze. The caged man finally adjusted his still somewhat blurry vision to the figure, tall, in poorly fitting baggy clothes like you'd see a coffee-blooded detective wear in a 90s procedural. He had a thin, peppered goatee, and he was long-faced, slender in every aspect. Though he had a short tuft of hoary sheep-like curls for hair, he had an air of gravity, somehow, through his sloppiness, and that was all, maybe, in those awful eyes.


Finally, the voice that Marble Eyes used, a little papery but timbered with cigarette gruff, said, “You will surely be aware of and understand the following reasons for this imprisonment. I'm telling you now, the facts are all together here. We know your mind. You are not a good enough talker to get away with anything. Now I'll tell you why you are here, of course, oh, but first, hey, be my guest, here, light a damn cigarette. One more time. Try to remember it.”


Thin spider-limb fingers flicked him a bent cigarette and a matchbox. The caged man wanted to exert pride and let it sit and (he) continue to stare, but the silence became so thick so quickly that he scrambled, eventually, to get his arms positioned to pick up his small boon and fumble with the matches and take that first flawed drag and think about his stupid life like Marble Eyes wanted, so that maybe the silence wouldn't reach out and grab his tongue and pull it until it drew out his entire created essence. But even as he thought this, some sudden rumble occurred, and his cage fell suddenly and violently to the side, his arm catching between two of the closely-placed bars and the bones inside absorbing, poorly, harsh fall impact, too much not to crack. His body trembled with the shock of fracture and lay in agony, thrashing and then halting silently in positions dictated by the mockingly small cage, while something unseen happened to Marble Eyes, or maybe a few Marble Eyes because he heard a multiplicity in the single paper voice that was rising in distress. Then, a silence, but a brief one shaken by another fat rumble of earth.


So Marble Eyes opened their mouth and screamed, and then the caged man's eyes seared afresh with boiling red and he rolled, mouth open in silent pain, and passed into a sleep.


He woke up angry, again, for some reason, this feeling demanding to be felt before pain, and even before questioning the lack of pain, and even before remembering he was just at a pizza restaurant eating a slice of now cold, still dry pizza from a lunch buffet, and he hadn't paid yet, and he had laundry going.


He munched his last slice, paid, tipped generously, and walked home. [/QUOTE]


I understood this piece as a man who has some OCD. He wants to do something different, however small but immoral, and he gets warped into a whole new reality because of it. I really like that idea. I also kind of saw it coming - sort of. The idea crossed my mind at least once halfway through. But that's not to really say it was a bad idea. Some people just think ahead. I think this reminded me of American Psycho now that I think about it. But it's different.

I went back and forth as I read this either liking the run-on sentences or wanting to correct them. On one hand, I took it as the main character's style. Like I mentioned, they worked well when we were wrapped up in the main character's thoughts. But then when you were describing actions or scenes, it became tedious to read through a single sentence with comma splices. I really advise reading your work out loud several times so you understand where you need to naturally take a pause (and thus a comma or a period).

Overall, I liked it. You just need to tailor it more.
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Post by е и ժ е я » Sat Feb 11, 2017 6:20 pm

Will check this out when I can, mate. If you'd like edits or feedback, I can help out.
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Post by Galefore » Sat Feb 11, 2017 6:58 pm

^^Most of what you corrected was done for stylistic congruity and heavily influenced by the writers I read, so it's more about strong voice, rhythm, and tone. Trust me, I know a run-on sentence when I edit. It's more of a musical piece intended to sound breathless and horrified. However, I certainly see a few of your points and appreciate you catching the typos I missed. I just feel like you grade too much like an Comp 1 teacher. You suggested a whole bunch of stuff that would make my sentences sound too clunky and academic for my taste. :tongue:

Also, I was pointing out that he would have to sweep back his hair from now on, not that he did it voluntarily.

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Post by ScottyMcGee » Sat Feb 11, 2017 7:32 pm

[QUOTE="Galefore, post: 1621880, member: 29027"]^^Most of what you corrected was done for stylistic congruity and heavily influenced by the writers I read, so it's more about strong voice, rhythm, and tone. Trust me, I know a run-on sentence when I edit. It's more of a musical piece intended to sound breathless and horrified. However, I certainly see a few of your points and appreciate you catching the typos I missed. I just feel like you grade too much like an Comp 1 teacher. You suggested a whole bunch of stuff that would make my sentences sound too clunky and academic for my taste. :tongue:

Also, I was pointing out that he would have to sweep back his hair from now on, not that he did it voluntarily.[/QUOTE]

Ah okay. Cool, cool. Sorry if I appeared pontificating. I have no idea of your writing background so I assumed some things. But like I said, I thought it worked well in some parts but not in others. I wonder what it would be like in first-person.

And, well, that's how we critiqued each other in the writing forum so that's why it appears like a school teacher's editing :tongue:
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Post by Galefore » Sat Feb 11, 2017 8:27 pm

Oh, yeah, I feel ya. I look at every art form I participate in as a partially improvisational medium, and this was written all in one great rush as a sort of "where will the thought travel" experiment. I agree that, upon this fresh rereading with your notes, there are some clarity issues that I can fix. I may edit those fixes in later tonight, after work.

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Post by Galefore » Tue Mar 28, 2017 1:29 pm

Here's some poems I've written that were scattered around. Two of them (Call and Weak Words) were written as songs but took more conceptual shapes because I was kinda veering out of writing lyrics at the time I wrote them (they are both older pieces, from 2015). The Gacy poem is from today, and the two untitled poems are from November of last year. I had actually forgotten about the Sufjan song about Gacy, though now that I refresh my memory to double check to make sure I didn't unintentionally tread the same ground, I see that Sufjan and I have slightly different interpretations of Gacy. His tormented existence is a dark mirror, it would seem.

--------------
Weak Words

i felt a brush from a weakened arm
i fell apart in sensation
i fear the breaths between going on
i felt the rush and it haunts me

and when it works
and when it works it sends its eyes
right over me
and when he heard
he took the pen
and wrote a treaty to his target audience

i found a crutch near discarded friends
i forced a wedge into their spines
i feel a hum in the pavement below
i felt the rush and it left me

and when it works
and when it works it sends its eyes
right under me
and when i heard
i crushed the pills
and took them all into my crusted
body

hold tight onto your chest
the weakest words

----------------
Call

Who's calling
I can check but I already know
Screen is flipped and dimly lit

Do you notice
When I care doesn't line up with you
So I care a little less

Wires in view
Cutting windowsills
Maybe I have an answer that you don't
Fires on lakes
Across your point of view
Stick your hands in, I don't know your name

Stop falling
I can beg but you don't need to know
Why I still get back to you

I'm nothing
If at least aware of regrets
But I keep forgetting important pieces

Oh no

----------------
Poems, November 2016

Good morning, almond-eyed
Smart and quick and slow and fierce.
Good morning. You beg for my attention
And I can't break from my cloud.

------

We build little worlds in boxes.
The infinite thing we stare into above us entices us
That never and forever that bathes us in questions
A menacing eye, a magnificent sea of air
But with no roof, no end, no reason.
So we tidy up that cosmic nonstop
We tidy it up because we wish we were so infinite
We hope we could dot it anew with our own breathing being
But our little worlds in boxes are all we've got.

--------------------
Gacy

He spread gnarled tobacco hands
He spread webs of sticky control
And spilled red boiling-iron scented blood.
He spread the freckle-branded chests
Of cracking, jagged glacier boys,
Pure ivory sculptures he sought to demolish,
Saw them sun-bleached and starving for life.
He saw, despised, consumed innocence,
Flayed eternal the face of every clown.

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