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Members' Choice Nothing like peer recognition! Nominate and vote on the work of fellow members.


Members' Choice Voting - March - June

View Poll Results: Choose your favorite for Members' Choice!
An Intricately Fractured Jewel - 5teve 4 20.00%
As the Law States - Neil 6 30.00%
Confessions of a Tortured Killer - ScribblerKing 3 15.00%
The Misconceived Symphony Of Synergy - MalikPeterson 2 10.00%
Isis - Chazzhart 2 10.00%
Riemann Cuts - Mistborn 0 0%
A Typist No More - Summerbreeze 3 15.00%
Voters: 20. You may not vote on this poll

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  #1  
Old 06-06-2010, 01:19 PM
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Default Members' Choice Voting - March - June


Time for voting on the Members' Choice Nominations! Please vote for the piece you feel deserves recognition in WBQ as our Members' Choice Winner.

Voting will end at midnight EDT on June 23rd.

Good luck, and thank you again for your nominations!

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Last edited by Devon; 06-16-2010 at 01:16 AM..
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Old 06-06-2010, 01:20 PM
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An Intricately Fractured Jewel - by 5teve

Watch the clockwork losing time
On gears of glass and teeth of light.
Worn smooth by their consistent grind
Scarce can they catch a brief respite

Watch the machine's unending dance -
A mesmerizing, unsteady affair.
Its peculiar, almost arrhythmic romance
Turns slowly upon the autumn air.

Watch the gears grind on with dread
As the facade eventually shatters.
Its final act before its dead:
Its immaculate innards scattered.

Watch the hands grow limp and and cold
As its face reflects the world no more.
And though a clock will cease to toll
Time continues moving forward.
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Last edited by Devon; 06-16-2010 at 01:16 AM..
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Old 06-06-2010, 01:22 PM
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As the Law States - by Neil

It was 10:45 at night when the young man came into the pool hall and sat down at the bar. He had intended to play pool but decided against it when he entered the building. He did not know why. The leftmost seat of the bar was unoccupied, and he sat down and folded his hands on the counter. The bartender, a young woman, approached him. She wore a football jersey, much mascara, and her hair was straight, though not naturally, she had used something to produce her look. It was one which many women wore and which always reviled him. But he said nothing. He smiled and nodded. She walked toward him.


“Hello,” he said.

“What can I get you?”

“Just a glass of water, please.”

She looked away from him, then. Her eyes went to some point over his shoulder, as if something important lay in the distance. “I’m going to need to see your I.D.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to see your I.D.” She made a square with her thumbs and forefingers, briefly met his eyes, then looked back over his shoulder.

“All I want is a glass of water.”

“I still need some I.D.”

“Alright,” he said, still smiling. “Yeah, sure. Here.”

He gave her his license. She looked at it then returned it to him. “You have to be over 21.”

“What?”

“You can’t be in here after nine o’clock unless you’re over 21.”

“All I want is a glass of water.”

“I can’t serve you anything unless you’re over 21.”

“Alright,” he said. “Okay.” He smiled and shrugged. “Well, that’s a bummer. Can I at least get a table?”

“Not unless you’re 21.”

“Excuse me?”

She sighed. “I can’t serve you a drink or give you a table unless you’re the required age. It’s in the rules, guy.”

“What rules?”

She looked at him. “State rules.”

He stared at her.

“Oh,” he said. “Well.”

“You can’t be in here, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Really?”

Some of the men and women at the other end of the counter now looked at him.

“You actually have to leave, yeah.”

“Yeah?”he said.

She looked at him. “Yes.”

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll leave, I’m sorry. But first I’d like a glass of water. Just one glass. I’m parched and I could use just a tiny drink. It’s a long walk home.”

“I saw you drive up and park.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” He smiled. “You’re more observant than you look.”

“Kid, don’t start any trouble.” A man with gray hair and glasses leaned back on his seat and faced him.

“You’re gonna have to leave,” she said. Now the five or so people at the bar were watching him.

“I can’t get a glass of fucking water because I’m nineteen?”

She was walking toward the phone. She picked it up and looked at him. It was at her ear. “Please leave,” she said.

He looked at her mascara and fake hair, and then at the people at the other end of the bar, who all looked at him, the conversations they had been carrying on were paused to watch him. He turned away from them and stared ahead at his reflection. He rolled his tongue in his mouth.

“Sure,” he said. “Just a glass of water, then I’ll leave.”

“Kid, just go.”

“Excuse me?” she said. He looked up. “Hi.” She was talking into the phone. He looked at his hands. He began to suck on his lips. “I’m calling from Fats, on Sawmill. I have a kid here who won’t leave. Excuse me? Yes, he’s underage. Yes.” She looked at him. “Yes, he’s hostile.”

He leaned his head back and laughed. It was odd to hear such laughter in that dark place, and he laughed so wildly that the other patrons briefly looked away from him, then back, then at the bartender, who stared at him with the phone still at her ear.

“I’ve asked him to leave and he won’t.” She watched him while something was asked of her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t – wait.”

He had stood up from his seat. He was walking down the bar.

“Never mind, he’s leaving.”

He stopped between the chairs of two patrons and reached over the counter. He extended his arm to her.

“Let me talk,” he said.

“Kid.”

“Let me talk to them,” he said.

The woman stared at him. “He’s asking for the phone. What?” She looked at the receiver. She put it back to her ear. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

She gave him the home.

“Hi,” he said.

A man’s voice came through. “May I ask to whom I’m speaking?”

“I’m the hostile kid.”

“Your name, sir. What’s your name?”

“Oh,” he said. “Johnny Johnson.”

“Mr. Johnson, you’re going to have to leave if you’re underage. You can’t be at the bar after nine o’clock.”

“It’s a pool hall.”

“It’s also a bar, sir. I know the place.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, why does my age matter?” the young man asked. “I wasn’t causing any trouble. I asked for a glass of water, and now this chick is trying to kick me out. I can’t play pool? I play pool here all the time, and this is the first time I’ve seen this chick.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The woman you were talking to. First time I’ve seen her.”

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave. As the rules state, people under 21 can’t be in the bars after nine o’clock, and if you refuse to leave, we will have to send someone down to restrain you.”

“Restrain me?”

Some of the patrons smiled. A young man who wore a beret and thick glasses said something to a woman at his side, and she smiled, then the two of them looked back at the young man.

“Yes.”

“I asked for a mother fucking glass of water.”

“Kid.”

“Man, shut the fuck up!” the young man shouted.

“Sir, I don’t know who you’re yelling at, but please calm down.”

“Fuck you too, faggot.” He dropped the phone onto the counter. The woman picked it up and said something, but he didn’t hear her. He sat down again and looked out the window. When the cops came, he was still sitting.

A woman and young man dressed in uniform came through the door. The bartender pointed him out before either could ask about the person in question, and when she identified him the two cops walked over to his chair and stood so that he could not have got up and walked away if he chose to do so then.

“Come on,” the woman said. “Let’s get up, son, let’s go. You can go home.”

“This is so fucking stupid.”

“This whole situation or the way you’re acting? Because the way you’re acting brought it about,” she said.

“Right.”

“You can still just go home, kid. Don’t be dumb.”

The young cop said nothing. The young man rolled his tongue and watched his hands.

“Guess you’ll have to arrest me,” he said.

“Are you this intent on being an idiot?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m very stupid, I admit.”

They asked him to stand, and he did. The young officer cuffed his wrists and they walked him outside. He said nothing as the three of them walked. They sat him in the cop car then took him down to the station. They asked for his possessions and asked if he had any immediate family he would like to call.

“I live alone,” he said.

In the morning they returned his phone and wallet and keys. He got lost while trying to find his way back to his car. Then a half hour later he recognized a street and followed it down to the pool hall, where he found his car as he had left it. He drove home. He checked his cell phone only after he had gotten inside his apartment. His manager had left a message, asking where he was and to please check
in if he was sick.

“Hey, Everett, this is John, just checking in with you. Ah, it’s ten thirty, you were supposed to be in at nine, so ah, just making sure everything’s all right. Please call me when you get this, just want to make sure everything’s all right. All right.”

He sat at the foot of his bed and stared at his phone. He put it on the nightstand then stood up and looked out his window. Outside, he watched a couple walk hand in hand down the sidewalk. They were laughing about something. The girl was beautiful and smiling and the boy looked very happy. He watched them go. He watched the place where they had been for a long time after they were gone. In this way he fell asleep, leaning against the window, and when he woke it was six o’clock. He checked his phone. Two more voice mails had been left while he slept. He read her name. Then he deleted the voice mails without listening to either.

The End
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Last edited by Devon; 06-16-2010 at 01:16 AM..
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  #4  
Old 06-06-2010, 01:23 PM
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Confessions of a Tortured Killer - by ScribblerKing

Tomorrow is nuptial anniversary number four for me and my wonderful wife, but it is not the particular date I dread this time every year. No this year--much like every other year before--Niki will smile, throw her long, dark hair across her back pleased with the very expensive gift I bought her (a silk bathrobe this time), but I will cringe in thought everyday until the usual time has passed and I can breathe easier.


"What if she figures it out this year?" I ask myself every single moment leading up to that one uneasy date, three months to the day from our wedding anniversary.

At the least she'll want you dead too! That incredulous and insane voice in the far reaches of my mind will shout. The same evil half of my psyche that forced me to act and dared to think I could get away with it forever.

And once again the paralyzing disease of writer's block will seize upon me for that 90-plus days, slowing down the progress of my next book or writing project. Getting back on track paying bills and meeting deadlines will take another month or two, relief arriving only when another family of wrinkles appear on my waxen and weary face.

At the time--illegal and immoral or not--it seemed like the best thing for me to do but now I am beginning to believe otherwise. The wear-and-tear on my emotions every year and the secret sessions with a shrink, to which I tell nothing of substance to anyway, has started to seep into my work and every-day life throughout the entire year.

Errant thoughts and anxiety attacks grip me at awkward times and more than once I found myself on the edge of spilling the story to Nikki, a priest...anyone who could then share the burden of knowing. Of course it was a sinister thing to do, but I cannot understand how one single event in time can persistently plague me so profoundly?

Guilt has to have some limit to it? The shame has to end somewhere? Is it normal for a thirty year-old man to have his blond hair peppered with gray from so much foolish worry?

Still, I do not know the answers to my own questions, and as such, it seems their duty to interrogate me almost like they possess a life of their own. Yes, this man's own unanswered questions will be the last of him yet...

The next three months will prick by slowly like the tale-tale pain of ants inside an open wound; a four year-old wound that stings and never completely heals. The end of this tense tribunal of days will come, bringing about the appointed day, the day of the yearly three-hundred mile drive to Montgomery to visit Nikki's dear Mother on her birthday. To visit her Mother and lay more flowers on that damned little grave, that mocking place where the puny whelp rots and festers in the cold dirt.

I want to tell Nikki how sorry I am to have done such a thing to her, asking...no...pleading for her forgiveness; nonetheless, I remain a coward steeped in his own misery.

And, as a coward, I suppose I must remain...

I have resigned myself long ago never to tell a living soul of the deed, yet I must get it out somehow...and so this is why I am writing of it here. I type in earnest hoping that my fears and worry will somehow filter out through my fingertips and into the ink that forms the words of this silent confession. I write this admission only for the sanity of myself and never mean it to see the light of day.

Perhaps I will keep it and one day give it to Nikki or leave it somewhere she is sure to find it? Perhaps, once it is done I will set fire to it and let it burn away without a trace, taking all my guilt with it in a cloud of cleansing smoke?

Perhaps...if only such burdens were that easy to cast away...

My Dearest Nikki...

If you do find this I want you to know how very sorry I am for what I have done to you. Without writing or excusing another word from me you know what I am talking about and are probably very angry right about now...angry enough to put rat poison in my own food without me knowing it...ready to sit back to watch me die...

I am sorry but I feel I need to be blunt...for if this is the end of us I wish you to know my answer to that one inevitable question: why? I am sorry that the old girl had to die but at the time it was either her or me. I just could not stand another day hearing her yapping and fussing at me while I was trying to write...you know we never did get along and I always had the feeling that if you and I were to ever have a life of our own she had to go!

Of course, as close as you two were I knew that in such a test of love I would certainly come in second place. Growing up I never had...see I can't even say her name...

Dang it!

I cannot stand it any longer...writing this has only convinced me to finally confess...

I know what I must do...

Tomorrow, before we exchange gifts and go out to celebrate I will finally tell Nikki...I will go today and exchange that expensive silk bathrobe for a new white poodle...

I will hold up the dog to Nikki and cry, "Yes...I did it! When we were staying with you mother right after we married it was me who killed your dog Fluffels!"
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Last edited by Devon; 06-16-2010 at 01:17 AM..
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Old 06-09-2010, 05:06 PM
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The Misconceived Symphony Of Synergy - by MalikPeterson

Why must I die....for you to live?
Do you remember all the joy that you used to give?
Maybe I’ve gone crazy.
Maybe I’m dead wrong.
Maybe I cut myself...
and I bled this song.

Why must I die?

Why must you create the hate...
that ingratiates the state of this evasive fate?
I’m perplexed in this pervasive place.
Am I a perpetual patron...
or a paper weight?

Do I buy now just to take away...
or sit and do nothing...just a vacant stay.
Do I fly high like paper planes...
or dwell nightly ‘pon memory
and hatred’s lane?

Am I proactively exchanging lanes...
or merely standing pat to await the reins?
Am I acting...to vacate these chains...
or simply lying flat...
content to wait...
for change?

Why must I die....for you to live?
Do you remember all the joy that you used to give?
Maybe I’ve gone crazy.
Maybe I’m dead wrong.
Maybe I cut myself...
and I bled this song.

Why must I die?

If the absence of evidence isn’t the evidence of absence...
then how do I explain how my lack of presence...happens?
While my body’s in a black pit...
my mind’s intergalactic...

My receptors receive static...
while I’m trapped in the attic...
the whiskers of a catfish...
tickle my synapses.

I’m disconnected from the masses...
they are all captives...
believing they are active...
... I’m beleaguered by these tactics.

I leave these worldly themes...
to the fiends and the fascists...
and retire to my space station...
overlooking Atlantis.

Overcooking the atlas...
my world is blazing...
the fact that I’ve been gone this long...
is just...
amazing.

Why must I die....for you to live?
Do you remember all the joy that you used to give?
Maybe I’ve gone crazy.
Maybe I’m dead wrong.
Maybe I cut myself...
and I bled this song.

Why must I die?

Disassociation of the entities....
a crisis of the inner kind...
or one of the identity?

If I motion to deny them both...

how much energy...
is left for the inner me?

The power and the synergy...
the showers of the imagery...
the hours of efficiency...
the blueprints and the finishing...

which led to this epiphany...

without a sound body and mind...
.
.
.
.
there can be no symphony
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Last edited by Devon; 06-16-2010 at 01:17 AM..
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Old 06-15-2010, 11:20 AM
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Isis by Chazzhart

Home. As Isis opened the door she was accosted with the smell of burning cheese. "Tash!!" Isis stormed through the living and dining areas into the kitchen. There was smoke spiraling up from the stove. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Shit, Iz I didn't think you would be home till after 4." Tash quickly threw the frying pan into the sink. She turned on the tap, even with the contents still in the pan, making all of the smoke in the kitchen double. "I... I was going to have this all cleaned up before you got home."

Isis started to laugh. Typical Tash, always experimenting in the kitchen, always the chance that something would catch fire. "What was it this time?" Isis turned off the tap and bumped Tash out of the way so she could see what the damage was.

"I just wanted an omelet. The usual chorizo, capsicum, three types of cheese…" Tash looked sideways toward a bottle on the bench.

"Oh don't tell me, you saw a cooking show that did some cool flame tricks so you tried to replicate it?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think brandy would go with the chorizo so I added tequila." Tash blushed, embarrassed by her creative faux pas.

Isis just laughed again as she picked the mangled omelet out of the sink and dropped, piece by mangled piece, into the bench top tidy bin on her right. Picking up some detergent she squeezed a good amount onto a yellow sponge. She surveyed the damage to the non-stick frying pan while Tash packed the other ingredients she had used back into too fridge. "This pan is beyond repair my lady love."

"Oh shit Iz, I'm so sorry! I'll buy you a new one tomorrow, I promise." The guilt Tash felt was evident not only in her voice but in her face as well.

Isis shook the water off the burnt pan, walked it over to the bin at the entrance to the galley kitchen and placed it in. She went to the fridge, found a lime and stepped over to the bench where the chopping board and a clean knife were waiting and proceeded to chop the lime into wedges. Isis then reached up to the overhead cupboard and grabbed two shot glasses. "Only one cure for this disastrous cooking endeavor." Isis found the offending liquor bottle and filled both of the shot glasses. She handed one to Tash and held on to the other for herself. "Cheers."

"Cheers" Tash looked grateful for the lack of anger on Isis's part. Even though she had lived away from the home she grew up in for three years now, she still had a fear of doing anything wrong and having anyone angry at her. Her father instilled that "gift" in her with years of verbal and emotional abuse. She should have known that Isis wouldn't be upset. She just wasn’t the kind of person who got worked up over nothing. And really, in the grand scheme of life, a pan was nothing. "Thanks’ Iz... For not being angry." Tash took a salt shaker to her hand, licked it off, followed with the shot of tequila and a suck of lime.

Isis gave her a warm smile. "Tash, I'll never be angry at you. It was just a pan. We will be in the city tonight and tomorrow anyway. I'm sure we can find something Tash proof at the shops there." Isis downed her shot with just a suck of the lime. She never added salt to anything, be it tequila shots or spaghetti bolognaise. Isis gave Tash a gentle hug. It may not have seemed like much but Isis knew that that brief bit of human contact would be enough for her friend to end her internal dialogue of guilt and shame. "Come on. Let's get our stuff ready. Chrissy will be here at 5." Isis led her friend out into lounge room where they parted ways into their respective rooms.

Isis walked into her large room. It had everything she needed when she wanted to get away from the world. Her desk was to the left when she walked in, a solid antique that was given to her by the landlord when she moved in. She dropped her bag on the ground next to it. She let her hand slide along the edge of the desk until she reached the computer, turning it on. A quick click to check her emails showed Isis nothing of interest.

Isis then turned to her bed, a king sized monstrosity according to some, a fortress of solitude according to Isis. She bought it when she moved to Ocean Cove. She had nothing but cash and a back pack when she came here. It wasn't that she was running from danger at the time. She was just running from everyday city life. She was sick of being surrounded by superficial people, who lead consumerist lives with nothing to live for than one-upping everyone around them. She felt herself slip into that world and she didn't like who she saw. So she sold everything and hitched a ride until she saw this little town and asked the driver to drop her off. Funny how she should end up working in and industry where you couldn’t escape the petty concerns of city living.

Her bed was the start of her new life. It was amusing to Isis that she wanted to leave a consumerist lifestyle, yet she marked that moment with buying herself a new bed and extravagant linens. It was a solid mahogany canopy bed, draped with deep purple satin curtains. All of her linen was 1000 thread count. Nothing but the best Egyptian cotton. All in shades of purple. It was royal in its decadence, over the top really. But it was the one thing Isis had never spared expense on as it was her sanctuary.

Isis sat on the edge of the bed, sliding her black shoes off her feet leaving them next to her bedside table. She then stood up and started to walk over to the right side of her room, unbuttoning her black Ocean Reach work shirt as she made her way to the ensuite bathroom. Opening the door she shrugged the shirt off her shoulders and threw it on top of the laundry basket in the bathroom. She then proceeded to unzip her black skirt, pushing it down her legs along with her black stockings. Everything in her uniform was black. The only colour to be seen was a grey wave logo with Ocean Reach embroidered on the right breast side of her shirt. She hated the black; it made her feel like a shadow, barely existing, but always there. The only individual touch she had in her day to day wear that was on show for the world was her eye shadow. Today she had bright pink with a touch of gold to tone it down from drag queen to everyday wear.

She grabbed a pack of makeup remover wipes to wash the colour off her eyes before she headed for the shower. She slid the shower curtain open and leaned over the corner bath base to turn on the taps. She let the water warm up while she wiped the colour from her eye lids. Putting the wipes back on the bench Isis looked in the mirror. Although she may not have had the supermodel physique that Chrissy did, Isis still liked what she saw when she looked at herself. She was slim and athletic, golden olive skin and while some may not think her bust to be big, her C's fit her frame perfectly. She untied her hair in front of the mirror and let her black-brown hair fall down her shoulders to her waist. It was the last thing she did to free herself of the anonymity of her work garb. Steam enveloped the large vanity mirror and Isis took off her bright pink bra and panties off and stepped into the hot shower.

Bliss, pure bliss. Washing off the dirt of the day was as good as the mediation Isis called sleep. She started by washing and conditioning her hair. Washed her face again. And then scrubbed down with coconut body wash, a smell she found relaxing and intoxicating. Once she was done, she turned off the taps and stepped out of the shower. Quickly covering herself up with a towel in the vein hope that it would prevent the heat from the shower leaving her body.
She used another towel to dry her hair and walked back into her room.

"Knock, knock!" It was Chrissy. And she didn't wait for an answer before bouncing into the room. "Hey can I jump in your shower? Max was hogging the bathroom at my house and I didn't want to be late getting here." Before Isis could respond Chrissy was in her wardrobe pulling a clean towel down from the top shelf.

"Sure, just let me get my make up." The taps turned on and Chrissy started stripping off her work clothes faster than lightning.

"Don't mind me, you’ve seen it all before anyway. Grab what you need." One thing was for certain, Chrissy was not shy about being naked, in front of anyone.

Isis juggled her makeup in her hands while struggling to keep her towel on. But she made it to her desk without dropping either. She quickly went through her drawer looking for a matching bra for the purple underwear she had just put on. "Bingo" She snapped it on in one go. She wasn't terribly shy about her body, but she wasn’t as comfortable as Chrissy was being seen totally naked.

"Boo!"

"Fuck!" Chrissy was positively hyper in anticipation of the girls night out. "You know if you give me a heart attack before we even leave there won’t be a girls night out to look forward to."

Chrissy laughed "True true chickie. Wise beyond your years you are." She then started to raid the rest of the makeup Isis had left in the bathroom. "I'm guessing you're wearing purple tonight?"

“Yeah… How did you-“

“Your spank me sexy undies told me so.” Chrissy had worked out the correlation between Isis's underwear choice and what she had decided to wear on her eyes.

"You know me far too intimately."

"Iiiiiiz?" Tash called from her room. "Do you think this is okay?" Tash walked into Isis’s bedroom clad in an outfit that looked like something you would find on a mismatched ragdoll. She had a Bright green hoddie, black knee length skirt, green fishnet tights, and white Converse All Stars on. At least the tights went with the jumper.

“Ohh Tash.” Chrissy was out of the bathroom, dressed to the nines and ready to go. Isis thought the ability to get ready in five minutes flat was a gift that only Chrissy knew the secret to. A secret she obviously hadn’t let Isis in on since she was the only one still in her underwear with no makeup on.

Chrissy strode up to Tash, with no respect for personal space; she unzipped the hoodie to see what Tash had on under it. “Now here is where the problem lies. The hoodie has to go.” Tash lived in hoodies and jeans. So to her what she had on was as dressed up as she got. “Why green Tash?” Chrissy asked.

“It goes with my eye shadow. See…” Tash fluttered her eyes.

“Fair call. But you’re not wearing this out tonight. Let’s go to your room and try again.”
As they walked out, Isis started to wonder if she really wanted to endure the hour long car ride to the city with the banter than would no doubt follow on from Tash’s mismatched fashion choices. But then again that’s what she loved about her best friends. They were yin and yang opposites, which always meant the conversations were interesting with endless possible outcomes.

With her almost neon metallic purple eye shadow applied and all of her makeup finished, Isis got dressed. She slid herself into a deep purple V-neck dress that dropped just above her knees. And put on a pair of black high heels to finish the outfit off. I really should lay of the purple in my life Isis thought to herself. “Are you two ready in there?” Isis called out as she walked out into the lounge room.

Chrissy entered followed by Tash. “I found her shoes and some different tights, but I’ll have to raid your wardrobe for a suitable top. I just can’t let her walk out of this house with a hoodie on. Can’t do it! Do you realise she actually had a t-shirt under that jumper?”

“I have a nice lime green top hanging in the cupboard somewhere, grab that. And can you grab my black shrug while you’re at it?”

“A shrug? Are you serious?” Chrissy said playfully. “God, I’m hanging out with the fashion rejects of Ocean Cove!”

Isis turned to her other friend. “Don’t worry Tash, it has long sleeves.” While Chrissy and Tash were friends, Isis was the catalyst that brought them together. Chrissy had no idea about the kind of life Tash had lived before Ocean Cove. No idea that her father used to call Tash a whore if she wasn’t covered from head to toe, even in the midst of a summer heat wave. That was the reason Tash had pulled out the hoodie tonight. Old fear robbing her of her confidence to show the world that she actually had a womanly figure under the layers of clothes she normally wore.

“Thanks Iz. I’ll get your bag if you don’t mind getting the car started?”

“No worries.” Isis was going to drive anyway. She hated being in any vehicle that she wasn’t in control of. That and her number one road trip rule was that the driver got to choose the tunes. There was no way Isis was going to spend an hour listening to either soft 80’s rock or RnB.

Isis walked to the front door and realized she didn’t have her keys on the hook.

“Looking for these?” Chrissy said as she threw Isis’s keys to her. Isis only just managed to make it look as though she caught them on purpose when she was hit in the face with her black shrug. “That’s what you get for wanting to wear a shrug.” Chrissy laughed as she pulled the front door open and carefully ran to the car that was parked street side.

Tash followed her with two bags in hand, dumping them in the boot before seating herself in the back seat.
Isis locked the front door, feeling the excitement of the evening finally bubble up inside her.

As she got into the driver’s seat of the car Isis looked at Chrissy in the front passenger seat and said “I don’t care what you think. If it keeps my arms warm and folds up small enough to shove my teeny tiny clutch purse, it’s a winner in my book!” Chrissy couldn’t argue that point.

As the car purred to life, Isis’s IPhone started playing through the sound system. Blue Monday by New Order began to play. Chrissy laughed. Isis knew exactly what she was thinking; the kids at work probably wouldn’t know this song, which aged her more. “Chrissy, don’t you knock my music. Or I’ll roll you out of this car on a busy stretch of the M1.” Isis pulled the car out onto the road and headed north for the city lights.
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Old 06-15-2010, 11:21 AM
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Reimann Cuts (Chapter One - School Daze) by Mistborn

Dante Culpepper sat perched at the edge of his seat, brimming with nervous energy. The clock, the focus of his attention, ticked steadily, its worn gears grinding slowly towards oblivion. Somewhere, far beyond the scope of his attention, a Trig class was going on, but that was no matter. Right now he was contemplating far more important things.

Three more minutes, 180 more agonizingly painful flexures of those cogs and he would be free, at last.

MR CULPEPPER

“What?!”, Dante stammered, suddenly shocked out of his stupor

“Mr. Culpepper if you’d be so kind as to awaken from your daydreaming and grace this class with your presence, the question on the board pleads your attention”

Dante glanced quickly at the blackboard, and then back at Mrs. Craven, “12.9” Dante chimed and then returned back to his post, monitoring the continuously changing face of the clock.

Two more minutes and he could return back to his work, he was so close, so very close.

“What?!”, Mrs. Craven garbled, obviously shocked by the celerity of her student’s response.

Working out the problem on the board, she found Dante, was indeed correct. The other students giggled, amused at the ease with which Dante had outsmarted their teacher.

Mrs. Craven was horrified. Obviously she could not let this stand. She had to assert her authority, her auctoritas, she was the teacher, the instructor and Mr. Culpepper, well he was nothing more than another snot brained adolescent, perhaps smarter than the bunch but nowhere near as experienced as herself.

Mr. Culpepper, one more question then, before you start to sleep on us again:

A ship is coming into a harbor on an unusually high tide. The ship has to pass under the harbor bridge but the captain doesn't know if the ship will fit. He uses a Theodolite to measure the angle at an unknown distance from the bridge and then re-measures the angle when he is 300 meters closer. The first angle measured is 2.3 degrees from sea level and the second angle is 3.3 degrees from sea level. If the ship's height is 35 metres out of the water, will it fit under the bridge?

The teacher grinned in satisfaction “Well Mr. Culpepper, do you have an answer?”

“Yes” , Dante Mumbled

“Yes?” Mrs. Craven snorted, her smile now a distinct frown, well then “what is it?”

“No I mean Yes, the ship will fit, The height of the bridge is 36 meters, one more meter than the height of the ship….therefore, the ship will fit”

Mrs. Craven’s cracked lips formed the shape of an O, just before she could retort the bell rung, at last. Hurriedly Dante picked up his book bag and textbook, racing to get home as soon as possible.
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Old 06-16-2010, 01:14 AM
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A Typist No More by Summerbreeze

Typitty Tapitty
and typing away
Just so much left
on a screen to say.

But there is someone here,
and that someone is real.
She's not another typist,
she's someone you can feel.

You look up for a while
to acknowledge her presence,
and then you're back
to a technological essence.

A blackberry? A computer?
Whichever it may be
It takes you away from her
Wake up! It's time to see...

See a world full of knowledge and art,
feel the breeze and play your part.
Do all the things you are meant to do
Make somebody happy, dance and smile too!

Embrace yourself for who you are,
Make the changes and break the bars.
Go for walks with the love of your life
Don't leave her standing there,
your love won't survive...

All these thoughts
and reality hit!
Back came life
with a grin and mighty wit.

Legs suddenly lifted,
now in midair,
"Who would save you now my darling?
My lady, so lovely and fair."
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