The End of it All

Jesus, this thing needs an update. This is by MikeyC, in honor of the supercollider that didn't end the world the other day. I may have misinterpreted it, but I don't mind. Hope you don't either, mike.

The End of it All

Is it the end of happiness
Or the end of the world?
I know which I would prefer.
Without you here
The world
Might as well
Be over.

Bug Spray by sold

A bit of poetry from sold if largely because no one really knows why they like this piece. I guess all that matters is that they do.

Bug Spray

My school smells like bug spray
It smells that way because of the cleansing abilities bug spray
They use the bug killing solution
They kill all the bugs that would annoy the humans in the building

My school smells like bug spray
When I get home from that institution I don’t break free from it
I keep using my clean mind
My mentality is unmarred, and unmolested by the insects

My school smells like bug spray
We all lay down, late at night when we’re done with it
I think we’re addicted
Tomorrow we will go back and put more into our brains

My school smells like bug spray
When I’m walking in between rooms I can sense the scent of it
They spray it in the halls
They spray everywhere too, but I can think more in the halls

My school smells like bug spray
But sometimes I wonder if the bugs will break free and we will notice it
Out of sight, out of mind
It keeps the bugs out of the school so we can concentrate on our lessons

My school smells like bug spray
I wonder if anyone knows it’s there, can they too smell it?
I realize that we’re all the same
But I don’t really think they do care about those bugs at all

My school smells like bug spray
I secretly don’t like the bug spray, I really don’t like it
In the music room
My music pushes everything away

Cavity by galanteeshowman

Yeah. it's been a while. sorry. what more can i say?
today's piece is by galantee and i like it cause it's sad but a little silly. but more sad than that.

Cavity

At three o'clock
He goes to bed
After brushing his teeth
And thinking
Loneliness is having no one to brush your teeth for in the morning.

Requiem by designerlove

A piece from designerlove, probably the last one for June unless someone else posts as I leave for Italy on Monday and do not return until July.. I enjoy this poem because it reminds me of all the times I've looked for an analogy but could never find one with the appropriate depth. they normally come out as just surface descriptions which ignore the more intrinsic details required of a decent analogy or metaphor.

Requiem


you were light

not incandescent
(that would burn out)

nor yet fluorescent
(never long cold and blue)

but more like a candle
wavering, smoky, but

not a candle, either, after all
finally they melt

which you never did.
No, you were just light

or when reflective
the moon.

The bed I've made by bowers

a piece from bowers, because it's been a while and i like this one.... crazy brit.

The bed I've made

So I'll distance myself,
And I won't talk about it,
Even though it's the only thing on my mind.

But it was my decision,
My own mind which I made up,
My own mistake.

So I'll lie in the bed I made,
Full of nails and broken glass,
It seemed so much softer when you used to lie with me.

I'll lie there not with a broken heart,
But with a heavy one,
Full of regret, it weighs like a led balloon in my chest.

We can't, she says,
It'll get easier, she says,
I'm sorry, she says,
No regrets, she says,
I know, I say, and that's the worst part.

I should have tried harder,
I took the easy way out,
I shouldn't have taken you for granted, I can see that now.

So I'll lie here in the bed I made,
Full of nails and broken glass
It seemed so much softer when you used to lie with me

Glomy Sunday by ironypills

yes well. some ip for ya'll (because it's good for you). proof that this girl's got style.

Gloomy Sunday

Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless.

To play the blues, says my music teacher, you've got to be black, pickin' cotton, and oppressed. Lumbering in your dark-blue canvas overalls (we call that denim, now) out in the sun. Hot sun. Relentless. You've got to see the worst of the worst, and let it all fall out of you. Never rushing. Rushing is for Chopin and Beethoven. You've got to be slow and steady, your bare feet hitting the hard dirt, colouring them the same way it would colour a white man's. Or a white girl's.

Sunday starts the same way each week. Chaos on the day of rest. Especially the every once in awhile my mother gets distressed. Panicking that we'll end up in hell. Dragging us down to St Paul's or St Peter's or one of those p-named saints. St Paradox? God is just her reassurance that we'll be more than rotting shells. But I'll humor her today. I won't say anything about my profound hatred of Christianity's impact on post-modern society affecting a dissatisfied agnostic-atheist like myself. That's not me, really. This guy I knew said it once. Before he got kicked out of school and started working at the local Woolworths. Spending his wage on drugs he got from god knows where. God again. He sneaks up on you like that.

It's hard to avoid Him really, if you think about it. No matter where you look, there's always some reference. Obvious or subtle - all created as He intended. Me and my friends know how to handle it. Teenaged parties at a holidaying adults house. Lights turned low, personalities masked. People we know, not by name, but by alcohol. We are whoever we want to be in the dim Sunday gloom. We are also who everyone expects. Drinking, dancing, singing, shouting, fighting, cheating, smoking, fucking: Regretful youth. It breaks the monotony of school and jigsaw puzzles. The only other things to do in the God-unforsaken place. I wait for my father to yell at me, anticipating, excited, I am ready to be a disappointment. I used to party when I was your age too. You're kids having fun. You'll grow out of it. It's natural, you can't help it.

But I swear we do it on purpose a lot of the time. Loud music, swear words, hostile behaviour. It saves days, not believing. We don't want to be like our parents. We want to get out. It takes connections to do that though, and bravery. Things most of us will never have. There's one other way: Scholarships work too. Music scholarships for gifted students. There are enough classical pianists 'out there' , I had to learn something new. Have to learn something new - it isn't past tense. It's confusing, and I don't always understand what my teacher is telling me. History is irrelevant - I just want to play. The piano keys, they're black and they're white, without argument or violence. They work together and it doesn't matter what colour they are, because (unless you listen closely) they're not singular, segregated notes. They're a constant flow of equal rights and opportunity.
This is wrong, says my music teacher, you have to concentrate on what's being said, what do the pieces mean? It's more than acting, it's faith too. You have to believe, in what you are playing.

So I try walking, sometimes, to find the rhythm she talks about. At night mostly. The dark makes things easier, cloaking distractions. Some people are scared of it, because their minds tell them there'll be bad things hiding. Even in a small, lost town like this. They don't think there could be good things too. I'm not meant to be looking for those though. I'm searching for blues. My own, suburban poverty kind. For a soul twinging misery, like the sound of the black sea hitting an empty construction site. Waves and concrete were never meant to touch. I'm searching for known impossibility, like shining a flashlight toward the moon, hoping to show the world shadow puppets. Or something so lonely and desolate that my heart stops beating and my tombstone reads something cliched, like 'in pursuit of music.'

I don't have an image of this yet. I haven't found it, and I don't know if I should. But maybe one day I'll stop being scared and step outside with a song for locked cars and dead leaves. With only sepia-tinted street lamps to light my performance. Gritty film noir blending with my melody, which will be made from 'the worst of the worst,' the true sound of sorrow. Someone will walk down the wet footpath. Shoes getting ruined regardless of gender or class or race or religion. They'll listen for awhile, then keep on moving. Because it is cold and late and I'll be almost finished anyway. Then I'll get out of here, on one of those walking bass line trains, leaving behind a letter. The closed down shops, the overgrown gardens, and the crooked windows. A letter addressed to no one, or to God, explaining why I've gone.

Dearest,
The shadows I live with are numberless.

Look. Beauty.

I was going through the A list for the first time in forever, and came across this brilliant piece by the Sands that everyone else had discovered already. It stood out to me because it fulfills one of the main purposes of art, which is to give a new perspective on something that I thought I had a set opinion on. And so, to honor the author for being influential, I present: "Look. Beauty." by burning_sands.

There’s this thing about Photoshop and manipulating portraits. When you’ve been working with it for a while, you start to see things. I don’t mean those midnight, I’ve-got-a-headache-coming-on-and-it’s-been-way-too-long-since-I’ve-seen-sky kind of things. I mean little things.

You’ll be walking down the hallway and see someone with shadows under their eyes and you feel a finger twitch for the dodge tool and the tiniest touch of blur, on 73% opacity, brush size 29.

An unfortunate mole has you matching skin tones and wondering how distinctive it is and whether you should just make it prettier or if you can get away with doing away with it all together.

Acne and freckles make you wish for real life Gaussian blur with a radius of 4.1 pixels and opacity of 62. Smooth skin is only a few clicks away; all you have to sacrifice is texture.

Your colleague’s sloppy eyebrows could never survive two and a half minutes of liquefy and push. Brush size 18. The perfect arch and neat ends. Say goodbye to that unibrow, my good sir.

Double chins and thin lips hardly count as enemies; hooded eyes come close to formidable while you laugh at birthmarks.

You know you can make them beautiful; you see it in every face. A tweak, a push, one more click and you’ve made perfection.

They tell me that Photoshop ruins beauty, that it makes it too easy to be beautiful. It takes the earning out of perfection, makes women strive to be what only software can make them.

They say that I’m a part of the frontline, the offensive against women and their self confidence, their sense of worth and attractiveness. I tell them that the media only plays on the ignorant and continue my ceaseless clicking. There is beauty in there and I’m going to find it, flush it out, and bring it to its heights. I will wrench it from mediocrity even if only for the few seconds before I hit alt F4 and shut down my system.

Because I watch from sleep deprived eyes, with a nose I know is uneven only because I’ve fixed it a million times, and see beauty in every face that passes by. Instead of noticing problems, I find solutions and beauty emerges. What is underneath comes through and perfection is in the placement of a mole, the wrinkles in a brow, the bloodshot eye of your best friend. You start seeing things you don’t like but wouldn’t change. You learn to see people as they are even as you picture them as they could be. You see the wonder of normalcy even as you search for the faces which are impossible to manipulate; the good, the bad and the ugly. But there’s always something else your mouse can do, the turn of a lips, the shadow on skin, to make it better. Not everyone can be perfect but you’ll find that not everyone needs to be.

They say that Photoshop ruins things, but you soon find that Photoshop has you noticing the little things, the things you couldn’t recreate, that make a person unique, beautiful, spectacular.

Like the Sun by radtastic

a piece from radtastic today, which certainly isn't because she said nicenice things about my prose pieces, not at all. Actually used a line from this in my secret santa piece for her as well. not that you'll find it, tis very small. not that anyone reads this anyway. but i'm big on documentation and nostalgia and such and i think this will be a nice place to have in a year or so. hanyway. tis long but i'm going to get away with it. end of story. read, if you are already doing so.

Like the Sun

We’re sitting outside on the porch. The sky is darkening rapidly. I remember as a little girl I’d sit in the same spot I’m in now and try not to blink so I could watch the progression of the sunset. I wanted to study it, see how fast it took for the sky to go from bright blue to orange and pink to dark, dark purple. But it never worked. Every time I’d end up blinking, or my thoughts would wander for just a split-second, and when I looked back the sky would be dark, and I would be out of luck.

“The sky is sort of like humanity.” I say, and Matt looks over at me. He’s smoking a cigarette. The end glows orange, illuminating a small part of his face in the darkness. I hope it’s still light enough for him to see me glare. I hate it when he smokes.

He catches the cig between two fingers and brings it away from his mouth. A cloud of smoke follows the cigarette, then joins the air and floats away from us. “What kind of bullshit idea is that.” He says.

I pretend to look offended, but I’m really not. Sometimes I say whatever comes to my head, and most of the time it IS bullshit. I could just let it go, but I decide to defend myself. “It is not bullshit.”

“Convincing argument.” He laughs as he puts the cigarette back between his lips.

I stick out my tongue and ignore his comment about my immaturity when he notices the aforementioned action. “Will you quit smoking already? You know I hate it.”

“Don’t go all big sister on me.” I can just make out his facial features in the dim light, and I’m fairly sure I saw him roll his eyes. “I can smoke if I want. I’m a big boy now, and everything!”

Even though I want to stick out my tongue again, I don’t. “You know you shouldn’t. You’ve already had cancer once.”

“It wasn’t lung cancer, and it was a long time ago. I don’t even remember it. I was like, what? Two?” I watch the cigarette dangle in his lips as he talks, spewing its ash everywhere on the porch. Mom would kill him if she saw. I try to grab it out of his mouth, but he turns his head. Even though it’s quickly getting darker I can tell I’ve made him angry; he takes a long drag from the cancer stick and blows the smoke at me. I cough exaggeratedly and pretend to fall over. He doesn’t laugh.

I clear my throat. “Just because you can’t remember it, doesn’t mean the rest of us have forgotten.”

“I know. You were four, and you remember it just like it was yesterday. I was in the hospital all the time, the medicine, the big, life-changing surgery, blah blah blah.” He pulls the cig from his mouth and leans over the porch, dropping it into the flowerbed below. I resist the urge to say something sarcastic about how classy that is.

“Whatever, uniballer.”

That was a shot below the belt. Literally. He moves like he’s going to stand up, but I grab his ankle and pull him back down. He gives in but refuses to look at me. His eyes are out toward the sun. It’s just barely visible now, an orange sliver in a mostly dark sky.

“Look, Matt,” I start, “I shouldn’t have—it’s not funny to—”

Matt doesn’t move his eyes away. “Don’t, Kate. It’s fine.”

I nod, but I’m not sure why because he’s not looking at me. The silence between us grows for a long time, and when I am sure I’m going to burst if neither one of us talks soon, he pipes up.

“So,” he says, “how is the sky like humanity?”

His question makes me uncomfortable. I draw my legs up the steps of the porch and bring them to my chest, hugging them with my arms. “It isn’t. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“No, explain it to me.” He insists. I feel like I owe him now, after the joke I made about his unfortunate state of pants-affairs.

After another long pause, I state profoundly, “I don’t know.” He shoots me a look, and even though it’s dark I can still see it, if only in my mind. I continue, if only to entertain him. “It’s like when the sun sets, it tries so hard. It illuminates something until the very last second. It never gives up; it perseveres. Even when the darkness is inevitably going to win, and there’s no hope, and everything is unfair, it still tries to be a beacon…you’re right, this was a bullshit idea.”

“I get it.”

That’s the only thing that’s said for awhile, as we both lean back and let the warm, humid night wash over us. I look over at him as he watches the stars come out, and suddenly, I want to cry. “Everything is unfair.” I repeat. He glances over and seems surprised to find me staring at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to be like the sun. Humanity may be strong and willing to fight, but that’s because it’s a whole group. Break them apart and all you have is humans, and what can one human do by itself? Nothing. I’m not courageous. I’m just one lone, single me.” A tear leaks out of the corner of my eyes, and I’m glad it’s dark because Matt hates it when he sees me cry. “You shouldn’t have to fight so hard. Things should just be fair. You should be able to smoke if you want to. You should have two effing balls.” A few more tears follow. “Everything is unfair, and I’m not a sun. I can’t fight it.”

Matt’s quiet for a really long time. I think he’s noticed my crying, but he doesn’t mention it. I’m grateful for that. After a few silent moments, he says, “I’m glad everything is unfair.”

I stare at him incredulously. “What?”

“I’m glad everything is unfair.” He repeats. “I mean…think about it. Life being fair wouldn’t change people; just because someone thinks they’re a good person doesn’t mean they are. So you’d have all these people, living life as they are now…only they wouldn’t be happy.”

“Why not?”

He sighs. I can tell he’s frustrated with me. “Because they’d have to live with the knowledge that everything bad that has ever happened to them…well, they would have had to have done something to deserve it.” He sits up and twiddles his handles nervously. “I like to think that I didn’t deserve cancer, and that I ought to have two balls, personally.”

Without thinking, I sit up and hug him as tight as I can. He doesn’t return the hug, but that’s probably because I’ve got his arms pinned to his side. “I love you, baby brother.” I say, suddenly.

Matt chuckles a bit and ignores my proclamation. “The trick to being like the sun—to keep fighting—is to know that everything being unfair is to your benefit, even if it doesn’t seem like it. You’ve just got to do your best, and you can’t let anything get you down. You have to keep…what word did you use again,” He asks, slightly embarrassed, “…illuminating?”

“Sounds right.” I tell him, even though I have no clue.

“You have to try to be the light in the darkness—to have hope, because the world is unfair, but it’s also beautiful.” He shrugs. I can tell he feels a bit silly. “I mean…look at the sunset, right?”

I still won’t let go of my grip on him. He continues to be hugged whether he likes it or not. “Yeah,” I agree, “it was a beautiful sunset.”

Scream by golden_orchids

the man, the legend, the love: goldie

Scream


The noise bursts from lips red, raw and cracked
spreading out in burning lines through the air,
small harmonic echoes bouncing between the burning streams of sound
bursting in the ears/

/like flavour crystals burst in the mouth
before the scalding salty draught of sea water/

/before the wall of pain, flaming wash of hate filled noise
cascades into the darkness of the ears
and burrows into the hindbrain
trapping and ensnaring thoughts
blinding the eyes/

/Which blink.
Slow heavy lids, mascara streaked and long lashed
descending
slower than a snail
yet faster than mice/

/hands cover the ears
moving with a speed unmatched by any chrysalis'
matamorphosis in the trees
the long painted nails
clawing round
sheilding/

YOU CANT SHEILD YOURSELF FROM THE WORLD.

Antiquis Temoribus by kluny

In honor of the 4 hr AP Latin test I just took (and did ok on) here's kluny's Antiquis Temporibus

that is all.

Antiquis Temboribus

Here’s an angry young man
He got a gun in his hand
His years weigh heavy on him

Here’s a foolish old man
He’ll refuse to understand
He knows less than when he came in

The anger will fade to words on a page
The old man will die, forgot, none will cry

But a child who loves
The world they wrought
Will rule and live forever

An Indyfluency Christmas: Written for Galantee by foxinsox9045

a beloved piece, i think, that i did, myself, enjoy. in the hopes that one day we might all meet up somewhere and have the bangingest party that ever hit this earth...

a girl can dream anyway.

here's An Indyfluency Christmas by my friend foxy

Of course I would meet Galantee on a bus. After nearly being knocked over by the exiting passengers, I boarded and took my seat in between a man with a goatee and young teenager listening to something on her iPod at that volume that is audible enough to be annoying, but not loud enough to make me complain. Crowds make me feel nervous, stressed, and inadequate, so I looked up at the ceiling and decided for the hundredth time that I hated trying to travel anywhere during the Christmas season (I never learn- you must not leave your house within a week of Christmas).

Meanwhile, the bus-driver was swearing under his breath (about the same volume as the girl’s iPod) as he tried to inch through a blob of blatantly jaywalking pedestrians. He must’ve hit the curb or something; a sudden jolt wrenched my head from its upward gaze and brought me face to face with the man sitting in front of me. We proceeded to do that thing, where two people stare at each other because they think they’ve met before even though they definitely haven’t so it’s really more of a double deja-vu, and we did this for maybe a minute before I realized why we were staring at each other. His arm. I saw on his upper arm, just below the shoulder, the tattoo: printed neatly in a circle (Times New Roman), “IF.” I said nothing, but nodded and raised my sleeve until he could see the same tattoo on my arm. This time he nodded. At the next stop we both exited and immediately walked together in silence.

After about ten minutes, we came to an abandoned warehouse, the designated meeting place. We entered and beheld in the middle of the enormous room a similarly enormous Christmas tree, adorned, not with ornaments tinsel and baubles, but with disks of metal. On each disc, a poem had been etched in small print- Carroll, Poe, Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Kipling, Bashõ, Goethe…looking them over, I became certain that no one had been left out. Underneath the tree were presents, but of course we had to wait until everyone else had arrived.

I looked back up at the man from the bus. “Galantee, I presume?” I asked.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Totally wild guess. I figured if I met someone on the bus, it would be you.”
He chuckled and extended his hand for me to shake, “And you are?”
“Fox” I said, gripping his hand, “So, um, when does everyone else get here?”
“They should be here soon, I guess we’re a tad early. Let’s go look at our stockings.”
Galantee led me to the far end of the warehouse, where pinned to the wall were several stockings. These were just little treats, so we could have them while we waited.
“Um, who filled these stockings,” I asked, taking a small bottle of gasoline out of mine.
“Dunno, Brother Scorn?” Galantee answered, also removing gasoline from his stocking, “Santa wouldn’t touch this place. I guess gasoline is the new coal.”
Everyone had gasoline.

Still, no one had arrived. I was getting nervous, because I’m incapable of not getting nervous, and busied myself looking at the swirling rainbow patterns in my gasoline. Galantee was standing back at the tree, calmly reading the poems that covered it. Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the door flew open. They were here. Finally, in came MiladyAlise, Purple Haze, Golden Orchids, Neono, ITC, Bowers, Ironypills, Poison333, Radtastic, Burning Sands, Subliminal, Cyanide, Kluny, and the Milkman. They had all come for Indyfluency Christmas. We laughed and greeted each other (really, it was more of a brief, get-to-know-each-other orgy, because it is Indyfluency after all), and then sat down by the great tree to unwrap presents.


And because they were from Brother Scorn, they all contained sulfur.

Happy MayDay

Here, have some DOOM!

The esteemed Cyanide with Before the Machines.

After the bombings, the burnings, and the chaos, there was silence. Silence, save for the crackling of a few fires that hadn’t extinguished themselves yet and threatened to spread and consume whatever remained.

The twisted, melted skeletons of skyscrapers and office buildings loomed over the desolate, destroyed streets of this forgotten city. Once an empire, it has been reduced to ruins by its very creators.

Somewhere, deep within the bowels of the basement of one of these destroyed buildings, an abandoned computer sits on a desk. It sits, waiting. Waiting for a command of some sort. The silicone green letters glow ominously upon the screen. “Initiate System?: Y/N”.

A piece of ceiling tile falls onto its keys as the fire reaches a nearby gas main, shaking the entire city. By chance or some unseen force, it strikes the “Y” key before the whole keyboard crashes to the ground with a clatter.

There is a low rumble. The burning skeletons of these abandoned buildings begin to take life. Slowly, but surely gaining a sense of self awareness. They twist. They turn and weld. They grow into something greater, more powerful than what had been left behind.

And then. . . . there were machines.

Actually, MayDay ended about an hour and a half ago. I celebrated by hauling heavy office equipment into a truck and getting paid in beer that I couldn't drink because I was driving. Nonetheless, it's my favorite holiday. Cheers, all.

Forbidden Love by Poison

for those of us with unfortunate obsessions: Forbidden Love by Poison

Forbidden Love

I love him,
the soft touch… of his 90% cotton sweatshirt.
The sheer tangibility... of his half-priced leather shoes.

I love my mannequin concubine,
he who resides in aisle nine
of the local thrift store.

I shouldn’t,
but I do.

Running by bowers

kay so, I decided to put up the piece Running by bowers, largely because, although I am not a runner, I've always wanted to be in a vague, wistful sort of way. I've always been jealous of that ability to 'leave it on the track' as the cross country boys say, something I never managed to do while swimming, though our team's mantra tenth grade year was 'leave it in the pool'. So here's to the part of me that wishes I knew how to run.

Running

My feet pound heavily on the ground as I tear down the road; the only sound is the slow rhythmic breathing, my lungs and heart exploding in my chest with every stride.

I guess it’s my way of dealing with things. Whenever I’m scared, angry, frustrated, desperate, lonely, confused, I run.

It’s only when I’m out there, wind in my face feet ripping up the road, lungs begging for more, is when things become clear. Somehow I'm able to think by not thinking at all, concentrate on the road, the track, the mud, round the corner, over the hill, under the bridge, and sure enough everything else falls into place.

And when I’m finished, doubled over with exhaustion and pain, sweat dripping from every pore, muscles screaming for relief, my reward is a cold shower.

And whatever the problem was, the frustration, the desperation, confusion has dissolved as it where the road beneath my feet.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been for a run.
I could sure go for one right now.

Neo Day

I love libraries. I hang out in them a lot. That's vaguely why I chose this. Also, because I like the piece, and because it's about time someone featured our fearless leader. Or did B_S do that already? Nevermind...

Anyway, this reminds me a bit of Farenheit 451. It also seems a bit like what Poison would do if he tried prose. The best thing though, is that everyone tries to find deeper meaning in a piece like this, when in fact all it means is that nep felt like playing silly buggers. Or perhaps I'm totally wrong. Thoughts? Anyway, this is Library Spies by Neoeno.

Essential reading to understand: Democrats, Republicans unite against "library provision"

I was left in that cell for 3 hours. It remained just as dark and damp as when I was thrown in there. Footsteps patrolled the corridor adjoining to the one outside the door of mine, but even that was a dull monotony.

It was 2AM, I'd just been asleep around half an hour. Without any warning the door to my bedroom was bashed open. There was so much shouting and bright piercing lights, I was in shock. I expect that was the idea. It was lucky I wear bedclothes, I doubt they'd have given me time to change. They cuffed me and shoved me in their van. I felt a combination of fear and humiliation; they didn't take their eyes off of me, and I had no idea where or why they were taking me. At some point in this van they blindfolded me also.

Eventually we stopped. I was half escorted, half dragged into a building, and then into this cell. I counted at least 5 gates on the way. I couldn't see, but I could still hear.

Nothing happened for a long time. Until just as suddenly as before, I was blindfolded and taken to a new destination.

I found myself sitting in a chair across the table from a man who obviously wasn't here to be nice. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days, his forehead was creased and his eyes were squinted. We looked at each-other for a moment, he was obviously waiting for the full menace of his appearance to penetrate me.

Suddenly he smashed down a book in front of me, and − with his face inches away from mine − he shouted:

"Do you like green eggs and ham?"

Debauchery by sold

A quiet favorite by sold. kinda silly, kinda wistful and i likes it. wondering is good for you.

Debauchery

Sometimes I think, but sometimes I'm just staring.

When I'm alone, sometimes I dream, but you can't do that in public.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a Christian, or a Buddhist.

Sometimes I wish I were God.

Sometimes my thoughts come in angry spasmadic jolts of emotion, sometimes I even slip up a bit.

Sometimes I pretend I'm a statue and wonder what I feel like, smooth and stony, or covered in clothes that have texture.

Some people think dreaming is silly, you aren't allowed to do it in public, you have to do it secretly where they can't see.

Input, by Poison

'Sbeen a while kids, I'm sad to say, but I'll make an effort to update this at least once a week, hopefully this'll encourage others to post too.
Anyway, Input, by Poison. Allegedly written under the influence of some kind of drug, it seems rather self-depreciating to me, and self-depreciation is always good:

Guess what?
I am intoxicating.

I typed "s."
But it didn't type.

My fingers
I can barely feel


and

When comedy
meets tragedy
this incoherent
slur of words
gives you some sort of insight

into the

deeper meaning of it all.


with that being said,

I am the happiness.

Dandelion Wine by designerlove

Today, a piece by designerlove with sentiments I'm in a mood for feeling right now; a sort of fey mood mixed with the regret of that generation looking at this. Arthurian romance and pop culture, a better blend cannot be found.

Dandelion Wine

Fickle minds they have at fifteen
When even Lancelot du Lake
Can but trot swiftly in one ear
And out the proverbial other
Leaving nothing but a golden nugget
In his wake.

Swordplay holds little value
In the M-16 generation
How, indeed, can the graceful
Swish-clink of metal crossing metal
Compare to the supersonic rat-a-tat-tat
Of a semi-automatic?

Passionate lips’ embraces
Hold no intrigue for the girl
Whose third base was stolen last night,
Only narrowly avoiding her boyfriend’s
Imminent slide into home
With a teasingly chastising no.

Mighty chain-mail warriors
Mean nothing to the
Flesh-hungered Die Hard fans
Muscle-meaty men define
Heroism in adolescent minds.
Does chivalry mean nothing?

It is frustrating fighting fire
With sonnets that squelch
The erudite light in their eyes
Which they voice with the
Lethargic yawn and roll of eyes
At words I would trace with my tongue

They are too ensconced
In the banalities of life
To dip into the inkwell before them
Preferring to concern themselves
With the who and where and when
Than the more meaningful, why.

Yet, despite their complaints
Of too hot, too cold,
I find myself giddily drunk
From their dandelion wine,
Though they do not care
For it in the slightest.

Milkymilkymilkman

There was a time, in the ancient and glorious past, when the first thing a n00b would hear upon arriving at Indyfluencia was, "Watch out for Milkman." The second thing was also, "Watch out for Milkman." The third thing was Milkman demonstrating why you ought to watch out for him. Alas, those halcyon days have passed; the Milkman got a life (that being the e-equivalent of becoming a Scientologist in real life). We've hardly heard from the man since he started high school and got a girlfriend, but fortunately, his works are still with us. Here's an example of some classic Milkman for your pleasure and/or horror. "i think i can, i think i can."

Recently, I've taken up reading in public places.
See, this is important because this is how I met Megan.
Well, I had always had inhibitions about reading in public places. I always thought that there was too much going on for me to pay attention to one thing. One time I tried to read on the train but, you see, there was this baby crying. Now this was one of those fat red-headed babies, so not only was it horrible sounding, but you wanted to punch it. So after a few silent and unannounced staring contests with said baby, I gave up.
You won ginger baby. Happy? Are you happy? You prevented me from reading. You should be proud.
Another time, I tried to read at a coffee shop.
Now, you see, this sounds like something that would work! I mean, coffee shops, thats what they're for right? Other than surfing the internet on your laptop and making conversations with semi-cute girls, the coffee shop is meant for reading.
But, I must've came on a bad day.
There was this couple, young, pretty, probably in High School. To simplify this, I will demonstrate it in 13 easy steps:
1. Couple talking
2. Girl gets phone call
3. Girl gets baaaad news
4. Girl accuses guy of cheating on her
5. Guy denies it
6. Guy gets slapped
7. Guy gets angry
8. Couple argues a lot, and girl hits him more.
9. Guy gets really angry and hits girl
10. Someone calls police
11. Guy gets escorted into police car
12. Girl cries a lot
13. Girl leaves

This span over a two hour period, so I had no chance to read. At all.
Okay, now back to the present.
See, I had never been able to read in public places, so I tried again.
I decided to start out easy: The Library. Got through that. Alright. That was pretty easy.
So, I tried a little harder: Barnes and Noble. Halfway through, a man started playing harmonica. So, then I went across the store and progressed through Level 2.
Okay, now it's getting challenging: The Public Park. The children, why must the yell so loudly and so much. I got through it though. Wounded, yet still alive.

Now I'm getting through all of these very well, and I'm honestly proud of myself. I got a little skip in my step. But, I was anxious. Could I get through the next level? This is where is starts getting very, VERY hard.
The Train.

I stepped on the train. Coffee in one hand, The Virgin Suicides in another. I was going to DO THIS.
I had never been more serious in my life.
I was glad though, there were not many people in my train car. Maybe ten, at the most.
Cute girls, old ladies, middle-aged business men, and the rest.
I sat now. Nobody was within a five feet radius of me. I had found the perfect spot.
I opened the book. I sipped my coffee. I prepared for the beginning of the biggest accomplishment of my life.
"Hello, whats that you're reading?"
And I had failed. All the work I had put into this. The weeks of planning. The hours of training. It was all for nothing.
But, I wasn't angry.
I was feeling quite the opposite, actually.

"A Pronoun" by Sold

ITC here and I claim this to be my turn again.

Sold. Sold is an individual. One of the fantastic ones. I haven't heard much from sold recently, though that's probably my fault as I've been remaining relatively detached from the main site lately, though not by design.

Before I get off track, let's get back to Sold. Sold was an active part of the site before I came along, which was, like, two Novembers ago. I think the first pieces of Sold's I read were in his Junkyard of Eden series, which is deeping intriguing and an entrancing, if somewhat disorienting, read. "A Pronoun" however was probably the first piece I ever read on the site that made me go "whoah", and it stayed with the for the rest of the day. It is concentrated anguish, held in only by loose will until it becomes too much and erupts into confused aggressiveness by the end, then dissipates into fragile helplessness. Basically.

It

It is hard to express my extreme disdain
I feel chagrined, I feel the pain
I can sense a note flowing through my body
Now I'll write about it and sound really emo
But I don't really care, 'cause I'm just really angry
I cannot express what you can understand
I'm a freak in a show and I'm taking no stand
I know what you know and they hold no quarter

And the notes don't flow
The notes don't flow through my veins like the blood I need to survive to think I would just sit here and cry after holding it in for such a long time
I need to kill the thing I love most
I need to purge the perversion
The words don't work

I need something to fix it

But I'm too needy and I'm going to go mad
I'm going to get angry, I refuse to be sad
So the rage fills my veins where the void still cries out
I'm screaming in anger because it looks bad to pout
My cause is to kill
Now I'm in a war
Like one of nikeshlong's pieces

But I'm not doing anything because I'm still sitting here and writing this story
Just for you to eat it
Because no one fully understands the magnitude of what I've sold and what's yet to come
Something died
I didn't know how to help it live
Maybe it's not dead
But it's very tired and it's the only chance
The only chance is tired

THE ONLY CHANCE IS TOO TIRED

GET OUT OF HERE OR I AM GOING TO STAB YOU WITH SOMETHING

I'LL KILL YOU I'LL HIT YOU WITH SOMETHING

I can't exhale!

Before the Machines by cyanide

NEGLECT!!! NEGLECT!!!!

c'mon guys, it ain't even been a month! I don't want this to remain a klunyb_Sneo side show. work with me here. *huffs sulkily*

that being said, today I grace you all with a favorite of mine (why else would I put it up here?) Before the Machines by your friendly neighborhood cyanide. This piece has got some lovely imagery going on as well as this ominous sense of (dare I paraphrase Shakespeare? yes, yes I do.) a fear there will be worse come in place of the ruin so elegantly depicted. because of course, the machines are coming... and they're stronger than ever.

thus:

Before the Machines

After the bombings, the burnings, and the chaos, there was silence. Silence, save for the crackling of a few fires that hadn’t extinguished themselves yet and threatened to spread and consume whatever remained.

The twisted, melted skeletons of skyscrapers and office buildings loomed over the desolate, destroyed streets of this forgotten city. Once an empire, it has been reduced to ruins by its very creators.

Somewhere, deep within the bowels of the basement of one of these destroyed buildings, an abandoned computer sits on a desk. It sits, waiting. Waiting for a command of some sort. The silicone green letters glow ominously upon the screen. “Initiate System?: Y/N”

A piece of ceiling tile falls onto it’s keys as the fire reaches a nearby gas main, shaking the entire city. By chance or some unseen force, it strikes the “Y” key before the whole keyboard crashes to the ground with a clatter.

There is a low rumble. The burning skeletons of these abandoned buildings begin to take life. Slowly, but surely gaining a sense of self awareness. They twist. They turn and weld. They grow into something greater, more powerful than what had been left behind.

And then. . . . there were machines.

Thoughts on an Epic, by Burning_Sands

Time to take my turn again, I think! This piece just rolled around the end of my laughing-stock of a backlog today, and it struck me, because I am beginning to follow a course similar, at least in direction. On with Thoughts on an Epic, by Burning_Sands (x).

Could you do it? Could you leave home in a world without cellphones, computers, cars, internet connections, cruises, motor boats, weather predictions, GPS, or even compasses. Could you leave home without knowing if you’d ever make it back, leave others knowing that they may never learn your fate, go off to be a stranger in lands stranger than your own, to know terror and doubt and have no place safe to return to. To face every kind of danger, to live governed by your own rules, the laws of many, the code of few, to wake each morning to salt and sand and sky and to sleep each night with the gentle rocking of the sea. To do as no others have done, to follow where no one has led, to become a precedent to those who would come after.

To become legendary:

to hear stories abouts yourself, completely false, and yet less fantastic than your actual travels. To be a name known to all, a face known to few and a man known only to himself and the wind.

Could you do it?

I don’t think I could, but I would have loved to try.

I would have loved to try.

Luke by kluny

A lovable piece by kluny about a genius of a kid, named Luke, who's simply brilliant.

Luke

I made a car that runs on sin
You think bad thoughts,
Put them in and go
It works so well I can’t sell it

It has to be idiot proof
If you do a big sin, you might not stop
If you kill someone, you might
Leave the planet, not that we’d miss you

So back to my lab to find a new fuel
This one runs on pollution
Gives off pure air, water, gold if you like
The problem was so obvious I missed it

If you turn waste into treasure,
What does that make the treasure?
Waste. Gold waste. The hell with it
I’ve turned diamonds into garbage

Hi, my name is Luke. I’m a genius
Recovering, hopefully
I’m on step 9, confessing
Soon I’ll be just as dumb as the rest of you.

Asterisk by Phenylketonurics

ITC again. Today we get to focus on another favorite piece of mine. As you might could tell from the last piece I posted up here by Golden Orchids, I really really love pieces that can paint beautiful pictures in my mind. The more strange otherworldly the better, really, and this piece cements that, but with a different twist.

Phenylketonurics is an incredibly talented writer and one of the more modest ones I've come to known. Almost to a fault, really. She just keeps leaving the site for long periods of time! Maybe she just gets easily distracted. I found her at DeviantArt and was drawn by her character designs and interesting style. When I heard that she could write, I pointed her to IF and, well, the rest is delicious delicious soda.

Her piece, Asterisk is not her most popular piece, or her most voted pieces [which would be Conscious Converse, but someone may cover that one later], but it's definitely one of my favorites. It's filled with beautiful symbols and odd static, meaning something I can't be entirely sure about, but portraying an almost tangible emotion that I adore.

Without anymore monotonous praising, I now present to you Asterisk, by Phenylketonurics.
[phenny! come back!]

Wine dark and bitter black. I don’t know, I just see the asterisk on your shirt. An invisible tail of romping static follows closely behind you. I don’t see it, I just feel the aura you exude. Rabbit ears jut from the top of your head, gleaming white in the sun, blaring matte in the clouds. I don’t care, I just want you to exist.

“Things on a very small scale behave like nothing that you have any direct experience about.”

You quote Feynman and Whatshisname as if they were actors in a movie you liked.

But you don’t. You don’t have to because the people around you, the places around you, the satellites around you, the galaxies around you know exactly what you mean. Light comes to you in only certain size quantities, in particles. You gather everything up, like the happy foliage on earth, and manage to remain metastable indefinitely.

Buildings of interception stomp about in every direction, cracking the pavement and making the whitewash asphalt grin curly, dark smiles. You hang your head and marvel at a glitter between your feet. Once I see that, I want nothing more of the world, of the universe than to be that glittering speck. I’m trapped in the line absorption spectra, though. I’m part of the missing wavelength your vision will probably never experience.

Rusty raindrops hit your pristine rabbit ears, tinting the metal a temporary orange as they stick. You lift your chin a bit, causing the drops clinging to lose their grip and roll down the antennae. Some fall reluctantly to the ground and I want to weep for their loss. You tilt your head sideways, peering through the heavy tarnish of the fog to the dampened plaster wall I’m leaning against (these buildings want to crumble but the yellowed glass windows won’t let them). I have an asterisk on my shirt.

Diffraction hesitates because each colour has its own characteristic wavelength. You hesitate because some of me has polarized light during its pass. I’m imperfectly imperceptible.

“Everybody sees what you appear to be; few make out what you really are.”

At that exact moment, I realise I’m within a building. I’ve been absorbed because of the photoelectric effect that overcame me when I happened into your vision. You built the building around me. Sounds of static snap at the last lines of Machiavelli as I stare through a glass darkly, enlightened by the spectrum of sound.

I don’t exist. I don’t feel. I don’t see an asterisk. Wine dark and bitter black envelope my lack of self-consciousness as you tread the city of oscillating concrete and dusty electromagnetic sunsets.

Paperonink

Here's an old one. THE DAN actually commented on it.

I guess we all feel this way sometimes. God knows I do- writing poetry when i ought to be studying for mids, writing poetry when I should be writing my term paper, writing poetry when there are customers waiting for service in the store... and so forth. Congrats to paperonink for this cool poem. Whisky and Ink.

I hear every sound
But ignore every word
Absurd...
What's it been, three years?
Three years of wilting, weak writing, and wasting the day-
This day...
And, I'm off once more
Into a stupor, drunk on whisky and ink.
I cannot stop writing- can't think
But of nostalgia for nights never made
Degrade what little we had
With eclipsing fantasy of what we might make
It is, I know, no more than fantasy,
but this daydream sustains me.
Memories are all I can love.

Also, I want everyone to know that if you think something should be featured on the blog, but you can't be arsed to do it yourself, just tell me or neo or b_s. We might do it. Even if you have written something you are particularly proud of, send it to me and I might put it up. This will not be considered bragging- I think of this blog as a literary magazine, so when you ask me to publish something, you're making a formal submission. I'm going to go tell this in the forum as well.

Vigilante by AE

Well, this really isn't favoritism or nepotism or anysomesuch. This is just a piece I heartily enjoy that happens to have been written by my brother AE. A piece about the ultimate mysterious badass Vigilante. As I said in a comment, the last four lines are simply epic.

Vigilante

I’m a vigilante, a life on the run
The safety of many preserved by the power of one
Bathed in darkness yet shrouded by light
No one but me knows the reason why I fight
No need for a costume with briefs over my pants
Yet still somehow adored by foolish sycophants
I’m no genius, no matter how it seems
Just a regular guy chasing down broken dreams
Stumbling blindly because of wicked times
Finding my way and making people pay for their crimes
I need the crooks just as much as they need me
We’re all byproducts of this twisted society
Hated by the system because I can’t be controlled
They might raise the stakes but there is no way I’ll fold
For besides my life I have nothing to lose
Death by their hands or mine is the only thing left to choose
I’ve already sealed my fate, there’s no turning back
Must keep going forward as my sanity falls through the cracks
Moving swiftly through the night faster than your eyes
People think they see me but humanity is a good disguise
Keeping to myself as I keep to what is true
Everyone wonders why I do what I do
I don’t do it for fame; I don’t do it for wealth
Just trying to save the masses, while I save me from myself

Coffee Cup View, by Black Cherry

So today we have black_cherry, who is AE's or possibly poison(now 50% less evil!)'s friend/girlfriend/something. She doesn't have very many pieces up yet, but this, in my opinion, is her best. The others are rants about society and such, which are always fun to read when you're in that anarchistic mood. Here's hoping she'll continue posting and developing as a writer and such here in our little enclave. And now, Coffee Cup View, by black_cherry2002

I want everything to be distorted like in
My coffee cup.
Smooth and rippling,
Controlled by my shaking.
That way I
Can still exist in this life,
but with an
Altered perception so mellow that
It doesn’t care when it doesn’t
Belong.

There was this one time when nobody cared about anything., by inthecafeteria

Hey, neo again! Ya'll should encourage the other writers to post more! :P

Discovered this piece today, and it reminded me of the concept of the 'one fine evening' described by the French anarchists, the idea that in that evening the oppressed would rise up against the ruling class and seize the means of production. This piece is that, mixed with the fact that power only exists if both parties (the ruler and the subject) accept the arrangement. This piece describes inthecafeteria's vision of the day when everyone forgets those agreements, told in the casual everyman tone that is often found in his pieces.

So, there was this one time when nobody cared about anything.

I read all about it on a folded up napkin I found in the remains of a bulldozed apartment.

Apparently it only lasted one day, but during that one day, there was truly not a single person who cared about a single thing.

People woke up in the morning to the sound of their alarm clocks and turned them onto snooze without a second thought. Needless to say, no one made it into work on time that day. Most simply didn't go.

And even more didn't wake up.

The few store clerks who showed up didn't bother charging anybody for purchases, but no one ever took more than they needed, or hardly anything at all.

The streets were calm and friendly, and no one had anywhere to go anyway.

There was no hurry, there was no rush. There was no stress or fuss. People did what they felt like and not what they "needed" to. In truth, and for that one day, they didn't need to. Musicians played their music, singers sang their songs, painters created beautiful portraits of calm and ease.

Many babies were born without names.

The President got numerous calls from various overseas countries calling off their individual feuds and rivalries, and they all proposed that everything be cool between them forever.

Defendants were found innocent if they promised not to do it again. They promised and meant it.

If someone's television went out, they'd just shrug to themselves, recline in their chairs and stair at the ceiling, contemplating absolutely nothing.

Couples put aside their differences, many of which had been sparked years before, and made the most passionate love of their lives, filled with romance, kisses and "I love you"s.

That day held the most peaceful deaths in all of recorded history.

And the napkin goes on and on. It was truly a day in which nobody cared about anything.

Of course, come the next day everyone was pretty well fucked.

P.S: To me, the end is also interesting, for the same reason I spoke about in my preamble to Love Letters.

Caught In The Moment., by Cyanide

Seeing as though no-one's posted for today so far, it seems like it's neoeno's turn again!

Cyanide has reached her vote centenary, so I figured it would be fitting that she be exhibited here. This piece in particular shows off her skills with imagery. She creates a very vivid scene, so much so that I personally take on the emotions I would have if I were in it. Such skills of delusion are... MAD SKILLZ 4 WRITERZ.

You sit on the dock, twisting the filter of your lit cigarette between your fingers. You look at her, then back down at the waves crashing on the posts holding you up. The city lights are about a mile behind you, and as bright as they are, the sky is clear and the stars above the ocean are beautiful.

You take a pull, and as you take in the smoke, you take in the night. The smell of the ocean and the night overtake your smoke and you drown in the sensations around you.

The girl shivers and you take off your jacket and give it to her. All the small talk you have been making is lost in the ocean's crashing. And although lips are moving and words are being made, everything is silent and beautiful.

You're still talking, but there's a pause. Without thinking about it, you gently put your lips to hers. It seems the kiss was scripted, just meant to fit in that perfect moment. Your hand finds her neck and you move it upward to brush the back of your fingers against her cheek as you pull away.

She tilts her head and smiles at you, as if waiting for an explanation. You open your mouth to apologize, but your words are met by her lips and you find her tongue exploring your mouth. You return the gesture and find yourself pulling her closer. Still, nothing but the waves crashing and the occasional screaming of the gulls.

"To The Most High" by Golden Orchids

Alright, let's give this thing a shot. ITC here. I'm not much on literature. Books, I mean. I don't read all that much. I think the last thing I seriously read for fun was a Redwall book.

Oh man, I just lost so much respect right there.

But for better or worse, I'm still writing, and I've been surprised to find a new reason to read at indyfluency. I'm gonna go over one of my favorite authors today! Golden Orchids is a guy of great skill, particularly when it comes to putting the most serene and beautiful scenes in your head. He has such a way of painting these jewels behind your eyes that, well, I can't help but wanna steal them for my own. He claims that my writing reminds him of his, but I think he could easily trump me in many respects.

The following piece, To The Most High, is just part one to a wonderful trip of a series entitled Albion. This is also the piece that turned me onto him. I have yet to be disappointed.

Dawn light bathes the altar in its warm golden glow.
A man sits on the organ stool to the left, his hands resting lightly on the worn ivory keys.
"I can feel you, you know" His voice is gravely and cracked with age,
"I can see your shadow on the sun"
He presses the organ keys down gently.

**************************************************************************************

In the wild and overgrown cemetary outside, millions of sparkling, silvery butterflys fill the air.
Their wings and bodies made of clear glass.
Catching and refracting the sunlight into a thousand glittering rainbows, their tiny forms flutter and swarm up and around the ancient church belltower.

**************************************************************************************

The gnarled hands dance slowly across the worn old patina of the keys
And his voice rises steadily with the Butterflys outside
Sound washes from the organ pipes in a calm blue wave
For a moment the organ and its pilot are rushing through a crystal sky
Over and under sapphire seas
Through the fluttering rainbow swarm of the butterflys

**************************************************************************************

An eye opens in the fires of the sun high above the bell tower
A giant pupil, bigger than worlds, shifts to focus on the tiny organ and it's occupant
Wind howls and the organ is silenced
"You have such a beautiful dream."

Leftovers, by razlelelelzdazzlezzaz

For the record, Poison333 isn't gay. He was concerned about this earlier, so I'm just putting that rumour to rest.

I was going to feature Bowers here, but someone pointed out that he's already had 15 minutes, so it's someone else's turn for now. Any rate, Bower's Untitled can be found here. Yeah, so here is a piece by razzle_bedazzlez. She hasn't been seen around these parts in awhile, or not that I've noticed, but I'm not going to be snobby about that. She's quite a talented writer, (though a bit corny at times, but that's just me, I'm allergic to trace amounts of corn). Anyway, WE OWN HER NOW. Or at least some of her good works. Tada: razzle_bedazzlez, Leftovers.

I have been crying out the same prayer for years
I am no answer in the sky
I couldn't spell it out for you in the clouds
Or give you reasons why.
You should have stopped by a little later on
When my head's a little clearer
When I figure out who I really am
That's when I want you nearer.
Can I dial your number tonight?
I need an angel on the line
I never knew what Heaven could be
Till I saw it in your eyes.
I am no solution to your problems
Though I guess I could try to be
I could promise you the leftovers
Though,
There's not much left of me.

If Music Could Kill, by ITC

I really like ITC's pieces. I read this one a long time ago, and I've been seeing a lot of music lately, so it seemed fitting. Gosh darn music, so hard to hate it.

If Music Could Kill

What's up with music?

Seriously, who the hell does it think it is? I get up in the morning, eat breakfast, make some coffee, walk out to my car, start the engine and THERE IT IS! Right there in my fucking car! Did I ASK for it!? Did I personally request that music be played on my morning drive?

But I'm not normally a difficult person, so I bear with it. I could turn it off, yeah, but then it would win, right? I don't want some inanimate, intangible concept getting the best of me. No, I'm gonna come out of this thing on top.

So as I drive, I start to actually listen to the stuff, and get this. It's GOOD! I'm actually enjoying this crap! And I'm sittin' there, thinkin' to myself "My God, what's it's deal!?" I turn it up, thinking that maybe if I make it more obnoxious I won't enjoy it as much, but you know what fucking happened? I started nodding my head. TO THE RHYTHM! I shit you not, I was even tapping my toes! I don't even know what happened!

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of torture and humiliation, feeling mocked by every pluck of the bass and up-beat high hat, the song finally came to an end. At last, it was over. But before I could even wipe the sweat off my brow and pay attention to the road again, you know what music fucking did?

It fucking started again! Whole new song, too! I was only thankful it didn't have such a catchy beat like the last one. It actually started out pretty quiet, I could practically tune it out. But my mind being as easily stimulated as it is, I started listening to it more closely. That shit was BEAUTIFUL! Goddamn, I could have sworn there were angels in my speakers putting Shakespeare's greatest works to song! With every passing note, every crescendo, every rise and fall of the cascading strings, as the lyrics reached deeper and deeper into the depths, the heart of human emotion, tears threatened to well behind my eyes. How could I ignore such brilliant artwork. How could anyone brush off this masterpiece as mere calculated noise?

I don't even know how I made it to work without getting into a wreck or succumbing to hysterics [or more likely both], but I finally did. With a stern twist of the key I switched the engine, then battery off. I took a moment to savor the immediate silence, then breathed a long sigh of relief. And by God, I prayed I would never have to go through that shit ever again.

Fuck, if music could kill...

Love Letters, by mikeec216

Today is a piece that I really like, perhaps for reasons other than the author intended. To me, it's a piece that transcends itself to reveal a piece very much about the author.

For a long time I've been interested in the relationship between the writer and her creation. For example, why are there so many writers in films? What or who do the characters correspond to things or people in the author's life? One of the special privileges of being friends with a writer is that you are allowed access to a whole other dimension of their work.

Not quite the case in this piece, but it's related to the subject.

Enjoy, Love Letters, by mikeec216.

You look beautiful dancing through my memory. No I'm not some stalker watching from far away. I don't watch anymore. In the past I did, and you danced just for me then. Now you're just a memory to me, but I'm lost. I hope that you can guide me again; there's no one I would rather follow. I know that for sure now. Lead me on to that joy I remember so well.

Always,
Your Admirer

She put the letter back in its small envelope marked only with her name. She was so confused. She had no clue who it was. The script was so unfamiliar. Who had she danced for? After so many years of ballet it was hard to remember all the times she'd danced, and that was so many years ago too. She twirled a short braid through her fingers as she thought about the letter again. She took it out to read it over one more time.

---

He stood in the stairwell, his back against the door to her floor, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He could hardly believe that he'd finally slid the letter under her door he'd written nearly a month before. What was he thinking? He was the one that had given up on them before, not her. It had never been her fault, but after all these years it still felt like such a mistaken to him to have let her go.

Maybe she would just throw it away. Maybe she would not care, but what if she knew it was him? The letter ran through his mind over and over again. Did he leave any clues to point to him? He finally decided that his secret was safe, but what if she just guessed it was him? No, she avoided the heartbreak of seeing him face-to-face again as much as he did; she would not want to think of that. What if she wanted to get hold of him, to write back. He had not dared dream of that possibility until now. A curse escaped his lips almost breathlessly as he bolted down the flight of stairs to his room below to compose another letter to her.

---

It was a week since the first letter had arrived and she was still perplexed. As she walked back into her dorm from intramural practice it was the only thing on her mind. As she opened the door to her room wearing her flip-flops with her cleats in hand something touched her toe. Could it be another letter? She picked it up the envelope and turned it over. Her name stared back up at her in the same script as before. As she closed the door she peeled opened the letter. She laid it open on her desk and dug for the first letter in the depths of her desk drawer where she had hidden it from others. The handwritings were identical. She focused on the second letter and began to read it, intent to determine just who her Admirer was.

---

She never was much of one for dating in high school. She'd always thought that God would provider her with a husband some day, but she'd never bothered to look for the one she had wanted. God had always left her happy before. One day in college a friendship from high school turned out to be more then she had thought it was. One of her closest friends admitted that he had been infatuated with her almost since they had met. She didn't know how to respond as he asked so much of her. He wanted a decision as to how she felt about him, friendship she had thought, but as she thought about it it was more. She realized that she had feelings for him too. Their relationship went by almost in a whirlwind. He was almost always sad that she didn't feel as much for him as he did for her. They spent nearly all their free time on the phone with each other, but whenever they were together it didn't take words for them to express just how much they felt for each other. Then one day, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He told her that he was still in love with another who he had broken up with before. She was lost and confused but determined not to lose her friend. She kept in touch with him and they talked regularly. One day, without warning, he just stopped responding. They never spoke again. Jaded she left it up to God again, determined not to have her heart broken a second time. She wouldn't interfere again. If God had her a husband somewhere in the future He'd provide one for her, she wouldn't find one herself.

---

I hope that I have not scared you away. I can not tell you how long I have held in these words because I was too afraid. I feel I could write on forever about your beauty and grace, your talents, your wit, all because I have finally taken that first step, but I dare not say too much for fear of loosing you before I have even been close to you. The question at hand to me is how do I get to truly know you. I feel as if to some extent I already do, but surely there is something you wish to tell me. I know I have not told you much about myself, but I fear you knowing me. I know not why. What am I to do? If you ask me a question I will answer it, but how do you ask. I would rather continue this mystery of you not knowing who I am. The best solution I can come up with is that you tape your letters to your door while I slide mine under the same. I am sure this seems strange, if not even ridiculous, but I am too shy to meet you face-to-face just yet. Know me before you meet me.

Always,
Your Admirer

She read the letter a final time for the night, and there was no doubt in her mind; the letters were the same. What was she to do. So many question whirled through her head. She had so much she wanted to ask him. How did he know her and did she know him? Had they met before? Why her? Why the secrecy? What should she write? She pulled out a sheet of paper and it stared blankly at her until she finally gave up. There was too much going through her mind to put down a simple letter. Maybe she could find a way to meet him and ask him instead. The scheme began to brew in her mind as she turned off the light in her room and crawled under the covers to sleep.

---

Well this isn't the end of the piece as I envisioned it, but it is the end none the less. The girl I love, my inspiration for this story, says she can't love me anymore. That means I have given up hope. I'm done writing letters and I'm done with this story.

Conversation, poison333

Alright, enough of the bloody mutual admiration club, with their emo prose musings. I now present to you all some really good artz. Most of you have heard of poison333- he's something of a celebrity on IF. Whether or not he deserves fame is debatable, since all reports show that he's basically an alcoholic bum who can't hold onto a girlfriend.
However, his poetic talent is simply undeniable. This is reflected in the fact the he has more votes than practically everybody, and also in that I am horribly, ragingly jealous of him. This is one of his lesser known pieces, and one of my favorites. You're welcome, matt- this free publicity will probably take you right past pwnage.
Conversation

Dude, Marc.

That part of the wall
is

staring at me...



That's nice, Matt.



Marc?



Yeah?



It'd probably
not
be a good idea

to have me as a conscience.


I'd tell you to burn things.

Heat, by Burning_Sands

You might think that this is reciprocation for yesterday's post, but you'd be wrong. I couldn't actually read yesterday's post through my school filter, seeing as my writing is an obscenity that children should be protected from, so I chose her impartially. All allegations of corruption are denied, I did not have sexual relations with that woman.

However, and what a seguerious however it is, the subject of this piece did try, at least in sands' head. For me, it expresses the humiliation and disappointment one feels when one discovers that the depth you saw in a person was really just a very subtly painted paddling-pool bottom.

Enough of my pre-amble, though, to the piece:

He wants to fuck me, wants to rub his hands over my collarbones to trickle over my ribs and swirl over my stomach. He wants his lips on my skin and my lips against the stubble on his neck, fingernails clenched into his back, primitively marking him mine.

There’s attraction between us; the kind of heat people across the room can tan in. We converse, touch, laugh, run hands through our hair and sigh loudly whenever we are forced to break eye contact. We talk of life, love, sex and chaos theory, the dance of the planets according to physics, particle accelerators, the decline in ethics in teenagers, black and white photography, classic rock, web comics, haikus, Star Wars, siblings, behavioral quirks, masochism, poetry, pain, fear, the great outdoors, psychology… We touch on every subject over the course of a four hour discussion. There is much in common between us; I have finally found someone both stranger than me in ways I enjoy and intelligent.

But the night ends with my palm print firmly across his face when he drags me into a darkened room and goes for my belt.

He just didn’t understand: it was his mind I wanted to fuck.

All thy Heart, All thy Soul, All thy Mind, by neoeno

Today I bring you, oh most faithful readers of this blog, a most belovéd piece from the very hands of our creator, the uniter of poets: neoeno. If you have yet to grace your eyes with this text then you are quite possibly blind, lame and impotent and for that I am most truly sorry.

Thus on this, the sixth day of the third month of the two-thousand and eighth year of someone else's lord I bear unto you All thy Heart, All thy Soul, All thy Mind.

Read and stand in awe of the coming glory, a tale of choices, painfully made and of friendship, sorrowfully relinquished. Read, think, and may you never make a similar mistake.

~*~

"God or me."

"What?"

"You heard. Choose, God or me."

I looked at him, half confused half shocked.

"It's obvious that there's not enough room in your life for both him and me. We're two completely different entities. He'd sooner have you lock someone up than let them have an abortion, I'd sooner lock you up than stop them. I see sex as a wonderful and liberating experience, he considers non-procreative sex to be a sin. He strongly encourages procreation itself, I believe it to be nigh inexcusable for the informed person. He declares homosexuality a sin, I fuck men. I can't take it anymore, I doubt he likes it much either."

He looked into me, his eyes full of pain.

He left. I prayed.

No. 3: Gen Y, by foxinsox

Lately I've noticed myself uttering the phrase "old-people suck" at least 5 times a day. A lot of people do this in my circle of friends, and I have to wonder if we're getting to the point where it's not just normal teenage bitching, but an actual prejudice, with all the hate and ignorance that comes with it.

So I'd like to encourage everyone, including myself, to be slightly more understanding toward the old bitch in the grocery lineup, paying for her groceries by counting out the exact change veeery veeeeeeery slowly. Also, here's a poem that expresses the exact opposite sentiment.

Gen Y, by foxinsox.

Blog writer, dream buyer.
Impatient bitch, dirty liar.

Give a little, take a lot.
Retro's in, now it's not.

The iKids, the Dye-Kids,
The don't DIY or Try-to-Fly-Kids.

Pretend punk-rock, false love,
Pretend to bleed, false blood.

With no God, no Faith,
But still a part of Heaven's Lathe.

So don't ask, don't tell.
Older People go to Hell.

I insist on poetry

Damn, I was hoping I'd get the inaugural post. I guess it's only natural neo would beat me to it. I'm not sure how much of our own personality we're allowed to inject into these posts, but I'm just going to go ahead and do it my way until someone tells me to stop, k? I've had a pretty rotten week, so I want to feature something uplifting. Also, neo has a stated preference for prose- I'm going to go ahead and balance him with my own preference for poetry. Here's a fairly recent piece, with a slightly kitschy, but nonetheless very original title for a poem we can all relate to. Thanks, depressperado.

Baby, I'm a Capacitor in the Circuit of Your Love

I want to be someone to everybody,
or everyone to somebody.

My heart spewing smoke with every beat,
your roots wrapping it up and holding me tight,
keeping me still and safe and close to the ground,
and always close to you.

And a cold wind blows, and it pulls me hard,
and I'm dragged kicking and screaming across the cold hard ground.
but I pull back, and I hold steady, and I'm still here with you.

I need a life, I need music, I need friends, I need a job, I need you.
I need a firm hand, I need a safety line, I need sandbags, I need help.
I need to be weighed down, 'else I'm gone with the next stong gust.

It's not that I'm tired, it's not that I'm bored, you know how happy I am.
It's just so much easier to start all over, so much easier with a blank slate.
I don't like feeling this way, and I'm trying to fight it, but lord, you gotta know,
you gotta know how hard this is.

I need this heavy heart to hold me here, I need this weight on my shoulders to keep me still.

I've tried church, prayer and salvation to calm my head, to keep me from pacing,
When I kneeled before that altar, I didn't feel that warm light, no call from on high, no choir of angels,
I just felt sick.
I tried those drugs, they slowed me down, and made my head light, they cured what ails me,
that's for certain.

I found you, and you keep me grounded, there's no getting away and that's just what I need.

I want to be someone to everybody,

or everyone to somebody.

No. 1: No one to blame, by Bowers

Welcome to the first post of the Indyfluency journal, you all know the drill, I expect. If not, read the descriptions, they're good.

This piece was a pretty early one by IF accounts, and remains up in the clouds of the top-pieces board by a comfortable margin. It was written by the subtly emo Bowers, the man with the magical suit. Onwards, to the piece:

[link]

The body lay there now, broken and torn, twisted and bent, full of holes. Just another sad junkie with only himself to blame.

I open my eyes slowly and stare at the clock, its 10am, I should be up by now but I know as soon as I get up my day will start exactly as the one before, and the one before that, and the one before that. I've got a routine now, get up try and avoid it as long as possible, think about it, think how much I need it, think about how my life has suddenly totally spun out of control, get depressed and then finally give in to the aching sensation that throbs in every pore of my body. I'm a heroin addict. And I know it. It's not as if I want to be, everyday I wake up and say "This is it, today's the day" but it never is, the cycle repeats itself and there's nothing I can do about it.

I take a deep breath as I walk out of the double doors onto the playground. The sun is shining and soft white clouds float about the sky aimlessly. I jump as two hands are planted on my shoulders and a contagious laugh rattles in my ear, I grin and spin round and hug Kate tightly around the waist and pick her up.
"It's over!" I scream.
She laughs hysterically again as I put her down
"I can't believe it!" she squeals she grins and jumps up and down on the spot. A pair of arms wraps around her waist and a bushy head pops over her shoulder, Dae grins idiotically like the rest of us. Kate smiles and kisses his cheek lightly and laughs again.
"Summer starts tomorrow you two" Dae says excitedly and tightens his grip around Kate's waist
"I say we celebrate in style" Kate giggles with a small twinkle in her eye.
I smile "And what do you mean by that?"
She grins and pokes me playfully in the ribs "Oh you'll see, I guarantee you this summer is going to be the one that changes your life," she was right.

But I'm not alone in this, if I was I'm pretty sure I would be dead by now. They're the only ones who understand, who know what it's like because they're going though the same thing, they feel the same pain, the same torment. We all started at the same time, we all felt the same way, we knew it was bad, we knew it was wrong but none of that mattered. You get told almost every day of you life by your parents, your teachers, the T.V that "Drugs are bad" or "Don't do drugs!" but when that bag of green or whatever it is you're on that week is in front of you, it doesn't mater. You live life by the high and you'll probably die by it too, but that's the risk you take.

A warm pleasant breeze blows softly as I turn the corner and enter the narrow gate into the park, I instantly recognise Dae's huge head of hair, Kate sits next to him with her hands on his knee laughing softly under the oak tree that towers into the sky leaving dappled shadows playing across the ground, I smile and walk over to them. We lie on the grass lazily talking for hours, watching clouds and wasting time. As the sun begins to slowly droop over the horizon Dae rummages in his bag for something, watching curiously I see him pull out a small sandwich bag with what seems like herbs in, a lighter and some rizlas. Taking a rizla he nimbly folded it at the bottom and took a pinch of the herb and a pinch of tobacco and placed it delicately in the fold and rolled it into the shape of a cigarette. I finally caught on to what was happening
"Is that weed?" I exclaimed, my eyes widened as Dae placed the spliff in his mouth and lit it
"Of course it is" he murmured through "what did you think it was, basil?" Kate chuckled and patted me on the head lightly "Aww poor little Bowers, so innocent" she grinned and pinched my cheek while I sat there wondering what I should do. Taking the weed would go against all the advice had been given to me about drugs, the talks in school, the lectures from parents but none of that mattered. They always tell you not to be pressured by your friends, just because they're doing it doesn't mean you should, but it's not like that, everything is cool, relaxed, calm, I didn't feel pressured at all. I didn't do it because I wanted to do it, I guess I did it because I could; this was the one chance that I could possibly get away with doing something different. All my life I had been sheltered, protected whether by my mother or the way I had been brought up, a catholic, a good boy. I was sick of it I wanted to change.
I took the spliff in-between my fingers and sucked on it lightly, I coughed lightly smoke tickled my throat my eyes began to water. I laughed and coughed the rest of the smoke out and managed to choke
"Damn this is good shit" and cracked a grin. Feeling light headed and giddy I laughed and lay back on the grass to stare up at the clouds.

Pushing myself up from my bed I swing my legs over the side and sit there for a while, today was going to be the day, I could feel it. I stood up and wrapped my dressing gown around my distorted body and made my way downstairs, making sure that I didn't look at the third drawer down in my desk in the corner, "Not today" I said to myself quietly "Not this time". I stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, everyone else was out, not that it would matter anyway my family seemed to have given up on me, I don't blame them either I would have given up on me. I pause as I open the fridge and rummage through its contents, "I cant think like that anymore" I remove a carton of juice and with some effort hop up onto the work surface, "I'll make it up to them" I nod to myself and unscrew the cap of the carton, taking a swig of apple juice.

"This is it" I thought to myself "A new low" I sighed and closed my eyes tightly trying to forget the aching pain in my stomach. I grabbed my mum purse and emptied it of its contents before running to the door and slamming it behind me. I stumbled to the edge of the front garden and sat on the other side of the wall facing the road, my back to the house. Opening my palms I stared carefully at its contents "£30" it was good enough for now. I pushed myself up from the wall and began the long walk to the park. I'm not proud of myself, but desperate times call for desperate measures, what a pathetic excuse. I can't do this anymore, this is the last time, I'm not going to let this ruin the rest of my life, my fists tighten as I walk faster. I know I'm lying to myself, its not the first time this has happened and I know it won't be the last.

Finishing the juice I decide to go upstairs and get changed. Pulling the t-shirt over my head I reach for my jacket. It seems like ages since I've been outside, I look outside the window and see the apple tree across the road, it sways in the wind softly. "I should tell Dae and Kate" I walk over to my desk and pick up my phone, I hesitate as the drawer calls to me again, I know what's inside, my daily ration. I close my eyes tightly and clinch them phone in my hand as my body calls for it. "No, this ends now" I drag myself away from the desk and collapse on the couch. I turn on my phone and wait patiently as it loads. "I'll have to persuade them to quit too", we've talked many times, the three of us, about quitting but the conversation always ends the same way, the three of us ending the night at some dodgy dealers house sticking needles into our arm and smoking anything we can get our hands on. My attention is brought back by the light vibrating phone in my hand, a text from Dae;


Bowers, where are you?
Kate's sick
Something she's taken
Taking her to hospital
Get down here
Dae

My heat skips a beat. "What time was it sent?" I scroll down, 03:00 Am. Panic sets in, is she ok? What's happened? Another vibration from my phone, another text from Dae.

She's Dead
Overdose


My heart stops this time, "No, it cant be" I stare at my phone for what seems life forever, just reading it over and over again "She's dead" I sob uncontrollably its over.
Crying quietly I press the phone into my chest and crawl over to my desk. "I can't do this anymore" my shaking hands grope for the draw and reach in for the small bag of white powder, "there's no other way out". Tears drip from my cheeks as I empty the packet onto the desk and slowly push it into a line. I lower my head to the desk and curse myself quietly, in one swift sniff the line disappears. I sit back on my chair and stare at my ceiling, eyes now streaming with tears. I dream of better times, I dream forever now.

The Body lay there now, broken and torn, his heart twisted and bent, full of holes. Just a victim with no one to blame.