Thursday, 25 September 2008 6 responses

Clockwork sun, and clockwork moon,
You have your paths to take.
And on this earth,
This clockwork earth,
We follow in your wake.

Clockwork life, and clockwork death,
We're built from wood and tears,
Inside these eyes,
These clockwork eyes,
I hide my deepest fears.

Clockwork smile, and clockwork laugh,
I bring all people joy,
But in this place,
This clockwork place,
I'm nothing but a toy.

Clockwork gears, and clockwork spring,
To move is clockwork's will.
But in the end,
That certain end,
All clockwork must stand still.

© Nathan P

Nathan is an aspiring writer of poetry and prose. Currently he is working on a book about the mysteries of this world and the many subtle details and moving moments that people often overlook. Nathan can be contacted through his writing blog: Imagination Manifesto.

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The Forest Person

Friday, 19 September 2008 4 responses

On both sides of the narrow two lane road pristine wilderness pushed against the tarred surface where plants stopped growing and the pavement began. Ancient trees lifted their limbs over the road, forming an arched canopy that filtered out the last fading rays of dusk before they could illuminate the shadowy tunnel humans had created.

In the quiet of approaching night a single car swished along this forest road, its revealing headlights shining through the brush at the road's edge, glinting as they caught the luminescent eyes of forest animals peering out shyly from the darkness. The car was the kind of mediocre conveyance purchased at any used car lot: underside slightly rusted from the salt used to melt snow and ice in the winter, scratched and dented, functional but not glamorous.

Inside the driver sat wearily in the worn cloth seat: a middle aged man, a few pounds overweight, the first few strands of gray highlighting his brown hair. He was driving home after a long day of work, the car engine humming like a comforting lullaby. Somewhere at the end of this forest road there was a home where the man's family waited for him to return. He had called them earlier that evening, just a few hours ago: "I'll be late again, I have a few things I need to take care of before the weekend." He had heard the disappointment in his wife's voice, but it could not be helped. "I love you," he had said as he hung up, eager to finish his work so that he could return. Now he was on his way back, a few miles from home, his mind already at his destination.

The car was speeding around a bend when suddenly the headlights caught a dark shape up ahead on the road, just a few yards away. The man stiffened, slamming on the brakes and jerking the wheel to the left, towards the other lane, but he wasn't fast enough. There was a sickening impact as something passed under the right front wheel, jarring the car and deflecting its course slightly. But the man barely noticed, for he realized to his horror that he had over steered, and now the car was hurtling up the earth embankment on the left side of the road, aimed toward the dense forest where solid tree trunks stood like the palisades of an ancient fort. The man threw the wheel back to the right—too far, too fast, and the car ramped off the embankment. Later the man would often reflect on that brief moment of silent airborne trajectory, before the tires touched down on the road, screeching as the car spun around to a stop facing back the way it had come.

The man sat still for a few moments, shaking in the aftermath of the accident, his shoulder aching where the seatbelt had pressed into his flesh. Over the noisy gasping sound of his own ragged breaths the man could hear a hot metallic pinging coming from the stalled engine. As his heartbeat slowed the man shifted in the seat, thankful that the car wasn't wrapped around a tree at this very moment, thankful that he had made it through the accident with nothing more than a few bruises. He realized that he was still tightly gripping the steering wheel and he let go, reaching down to dry his sweaty palms on his slacks.

Grabbing the keys dangling from the steering column he turned the ignition key forward, praying that the car would start. The engine ground for a few stressful seconds before springing to life. The man sighed in relief, leaning forward in the seat to inspect the car's hood. The entire right front of the car was dented and crushed, the headlight smashed, the hood creased. "What on earth did I hit?," the man wondered, looking along the road, back where the accident had started. The car's single remaining headlight cast a yellow glow along the road, and in its beam the man saw a crumpled figure lying on the pavement.

The realization surfaced slowly, but it hit the man with the sickening sour taste of overwhelming dread. "Good God!" he cried aloud, "I've hit a child!" The dark crumpled form had two small arms and legs, and the face could be seen from the side, in profile. The man threw open the door of car, his heart beating wildly again. Rushing up to the small limp figure, he dropped to his knees on the pavement beside it. A sickening smell of burnt tire rubber hung in the air, and the man coughed as he bent over the small body laying beside the dark skid marks.

Terrified to think that perhaps the child was already dead, the man picked up the thin wrist to feel for a pulse. His fingers brushed along the wrist, once, twice, and then he recoiled in horror, dropping the wrist back onto the pavement. The skin beneath his touch had not been the soft, warm flesh of a human, but rough and woody like bark.

His mind racing, the man took a closer look at the figure laying before him, trying to find some explanation, some justification for what he had felt. The figure was small and thin, with dark skin, but it was skin the color and texture of bark. The body was small like a child's but the face was that of an adult, and there was something strange and unexpected about it, similar to a human's and yet slightly different in a way that the man could not determine. The body appeared to be clothed with vegetation: leaves, bark, and twigs, torn away and crushed by the impact. Broken gashes and cracks scored the tiny figure and a dark fluid oozed from the wounds—not blood, but a thick sap that dripped down off the body like maple syrup. The man backed away a few feet, wondering what this was, what creature, or person, or being it was before him.

But even as he watched the figure stirred slightly, moving its small arms and legs jerkily, with obvious pain, and it turned its head in the man's direction, opening its eyes to reveal two dark orbs, completely black in color, like smooth wet stones at the bottom of a creek. The wooden lips moved as if the being was trying to say something, but it couldn't. The man moved back a few more feet in mixed horror and wonderment, but then, in his mind, he heard a quiet, peaceful voice, like the sound of wind in the treetops or water spilling over a waterfall. "I forgive you," the voice said, "There is nothing you can do to help me. Move away from my body."

The man was shocked to hear the creature's voice in his mind, and at first he didn't understand what it was telling him. "Move away from my body!" the voice repeated more urgently. "Quickly! For your own safety." The man stumbled backward, his eyes still on the broken figure before him. As he watched the dark eyes slowly closed and the body went completely limp, settling downward into the limpid state of death.

But then the body stirred and lifted slightly, not with life, but from the disturbing movement of some external force. The man stood in place paralyzed with shock, watching as a thin twig stretched upward from the broken abdomen, thickening as leaves began to unfurl, twigs growing outward until it was a small sapling growing from the dead body. Faster and faster the small tree grew upward, branches pushing out and up, leaves rustling as they filled in along the branches. Then the pavement around the body began to crack as great roots pushed up from the ground like muscular snakes, crumbling and shattering the surface with a tremendous tearing sound.

Now a great tree stood where the body had been, gnarled bark with lines and whorls like cryptic hieroglyphics, a solemn column standing watch in the middle of the road. The man turned and ran toward his car, and as he jumped in and slammed the door he saw that vines and bushes were beginning to sprout up around the tree, dense vegetation and underbrush sprouting up where the road had been a few minutes earlier.

The man gunned the engine, whipping the car around, the tortured frame creaking in protest. The scene in the rear view mirror was a wall of plants and trees lit up by the red glow of the tail lights. The man accelerated away, looking behind in awe. At that moment he realized that he could never view his world in the same way again.

© Nathan P

Nathan is an aspiring writer of poetry and prose. Currently he is working on a book about the mysteries of this world and the many subtle details and moving moments that people often overlook. Nathan can be contacted through his reading and writing blog: Inkweaver Review.

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dream colors

Friday, 12 September 2008 10 responses

i dream in blue,
as a quiet, flowing arctic sea
leaching upward into the frozen ice
a stain of sky in liquid hues
fallen from above to rest in peace
beneath the cold cloud canopy

i dream in gray,
in swirl hues, a droplet dance
cold kisses from the wraiths
dripping off the empty black twigs
in welling drops as clear as crystal glass,
as large as a falling world

i dream in red
in crimson velvet, thorns and petals
bejeweled with frigid dewdrop tears
lying on the dark polished granite
where visitor's faces are reflected
as dark eyes that look out from the stone

i dream in black
searching hues like deep waters
a charcoal sketch in powder smudges
slipping across the cream white paper
like veins in a dying brown fall leaf
clothed with frost and snowflakes

i dream in yellow
below the swinging sunlight fringe
of her golden springtime dress
bare feet trod the virgin earth
and grass grows in every soft step
like a carpet for her feet only

© Nathan P

Nathan is an aspiring writer of poetry and prose. Currently he is working on a book about the mysteries of this world and the many subtle details and moving moments that people often overlook. Nathan can be contacted through his reading and writing blog: Inkweaver Review.

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The Lost Buddhas

Monday, 8 September 2008 6 responses

Chinese Buddhist sculpture from Qingzhou

Asian Gallery, Ground Level
29 August - 23 November 2008

Lost for over 800 years – the discovery of some 400 Buddhist figures by construction workers levelling a sports field is considered one of the most significant archaeological finds of the 20th century. The sculptures were carefully wrapped and buried in the grounds of a long-destroyed temple for reasons that remain a mystery.
Created nearly 1500 years ago these are some of the most exquisite works of art made in the service of the Buddhist faith. They are extraordinary in their beauty and timeless simplicity.
Thirty-five of the best preserved and most exquisite sculptures will travel from China to the Art Gallery of NSW. This is the first time that these works will be seen in Australia.

[view the video]

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Thank to my top Entrecard droppers!!

Friday, 5 September 2008 14 responses

Merci!! Little french cartoon dude with champagne saying 'Thank You'
free myspace graphic by ian marsden

Mariuca's Perfume Gallery
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Chica & Pumuckl - 2 Egyptian Cats in Germany
Funny Blog about 2 Funny Cats. -----*****----- If you drop me your card please stay for a while and read my posts. Maybe you'll like it. Thanks!
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Lucent Dusk
Lucent Dusk is a community for fanfiction and fandoms. Writing exercises and challenges, fandom reviews, author interviews, and quality fanfiction all await you at Lucent Dusk.
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Cutie Booty Cakes
A discussion of my life as a work at home mother, my new business Cutie Booty Cakes - Diapers Shaped Like Cakes and how I keep it all together.
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A troublesome but sweet white Oriental Shorthair blogs about himself, his sisters, and human beans.
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Picture to People
Researches about Computer Graphics. Development of a new software for 2D drawing, authoring, composing and digital image processing.
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The Truth About Lies
Author Jim Murdoch discusses writing, his own and other authors, and muses at length about his fascination with the perversity of language. Veering from the nostalgic to the acerbic his blog will amuse anyone with a love of language and literature.
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Scraps of Mind
Scraps of Mind is a magazine style blog that provides a daily scrapbook fix for paper, digital and hybrid scrapbookers. And if you would like to give digital scrapbooking a try, click over to our sister site, Step by Step Digital Scrapbook (; a site that has been especially designed to help beginners to digital scrapbooking. Scrapbooking for the Now Age: with no mess, no fuss and best of clearing up afterwards!
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Sharon Hart
art politics philosophy musings art history current events painting
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Khaizee Blog - Everything Is Fine
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Cape Town news
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Book Reviews, Social Commentary, and Current Events
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"No Longer"

Wednesday, 3 September 2008 6 responses

When clutching my head,
and dragging my knuckles
across the ceramic floor
wasn't enough to escape
your abuse,
I threw myself on concrete
and prayed I would drown
in blood.
Quiet and unnoticed
But even that didn't work.
My body was a painting
of your destructive results,
and my shame and pain
added the final touch.
Because then I was too weak
to spill myself to the ones I love
Because then nothing else mattered
but you
but me
but us.
Now I no longer have the strength
to carry on your burden.
No longer will I risk
everything I have lost
all over again.
I grow sick
looking at these wounds
we have both given me.
And I cry every night
because four years with you
got me a contract with the devil.
I'll rip our hearts apart
and from the scattered pieces
I'll quickly pick up my remains

© luvikavi
I'm a 23 year old college student who has changed majors more times than she has changed her clothes. Writing is my therapy, and I am currently trying to get into the habit of writing at least once everyday. So think of it as my own personal diary. I'll write about anything I find interesting...anything that amuses me. Feel free to leave a comment, I love getting them!
Musings of a Struggling Writer

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A Spring View

Monday, 1 September 2008 7 responses

Tu Fu (c. 750)

Though a country be sundered, hills and rivers endure;

And spring comes green again to trees and grasses

Where petals have been shed like tears

And lonely birds have sung their grief.

...After the war-fires of three months,

One message from home is worth a ton of gold.

...I stroke my white hair. It has grown too thin

To hold the hairpins any more.

trans. Witter Bynner

Drawing: Kim Barker - 1981

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