Morgaine

Posts Tagged ‘group: the lotus and papyrus’

“Ficlets” you ask?

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 13, 2007 at 9:46 pm

A ficlet is a short story that enables you to collaborate with the world.

Once you’ve written and shared your ficlet, any other user can pick up the narrative thread by adding a prequel or sequel. In this manner, you may know where the story begins, but you’ll never guess where (or even if!) it ends.

About Ficlets

Ficlets are shorter than short stories. Well, no, actually, they are short stories, but they’re really short stories. Really short, as in there’s not a maximum word count … there’s actually a maximum character count (1,024). There is also a minimum character count, and the number of that beast is 64.

If you wish, we’ll provide you with inspiration (photos, themes, suggested beginnings and endings, even other ficlets), but you’re completely free to blaze your own trail. Now, here’s where the real fun comes in: Each and every ficlet is modular in that, though you may have written a stand-alone story with a beginning, middle, and ending, your fellow ficleteers may choose to write a prequel or sequel to your story. In this respect, you can think of ficlets as literary Legos.

All ficlets are covered under Creative Commons, which means that if you wrote it, you own it. Period.

To give you an idea of what you can do with 1,024 characters, that is the exact length of this “About Ficlets” description.

Doesn't this sound like an excellent idea my dear Vox writers?

Ficlets

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Speak, Memory

In Too lazy to assign a category on February 22, 2007 at 8:58 pm

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Florence Wolfson kept a teenage “Mile Stones” diary from 1929 to 1934. Recently, the battered volume was reunited with its author. “I’m quite a busy young lady,” she said upon rereading it.

“THIS book belongs to …,” reads the frontispiece of the little red diary, followed by the words “Florence Wolfson” scrawled in faded black ink. Inside the worn leather cover, in brief, breathless dispatches written on gold-edged pages, the journal recorded five years of the life and times of a smart and headstrong New York teenager, a girl who loved Balzac, Central Park and male and female lovers with equal abandon.

Read the rest of this article in the New York Times

And … even more interesting, watch the Multimedia Presentation

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Writing

In Too lazy to assign a category on February 15, 2007 at 12:26 pm

Writing

Taking away
writing is
taking away,

so that
all I leave
is a flower-pot
standing brick-red
on the window-sill
and watch twilight
fill in a corner
of the room
like a pencil.

© Translation: 2005, Peter Nijmeijer

Schrijven

Wegnemen,
schrijven is
wegnemen,

waardoor
ik enkel nog
een baksteenrode
bloempot
op het raamkozijn
laat staan
en valavond
als met potlood
een hoek van de kamer
zie vullen.

© 1978, Roland Jooris
From: Bloemlezing uit de poëzie van Roland Jooris
Publisher: Poëziecentrum, Gent, 1997

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Book

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 26, 2007 at 7:52 pm

upon reading the book
my grandfather left me
when he passed away

the vulnerability
and fragility of
human kind

reflected
my very
own

[ Image by Cig Harvey ]

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Safar

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 26, 2007 at 6:55 pm

Safar

I walk in the clouds.
My horizon tinted dew.
Mirages are the myths,
My life has passed in vain
Looking for the true.

If a friend would ask me back
To the land of the sane,
I'd never leave the sands,
I'd never leave the track.

Thoughts stretch taut at night.
Desire is a light
That sparkles in the eye.
I am a mad song.
Like an echo, I fly.

Salman Masalha

Audio (mp3 – 1.193 Kbytes)

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Spring Giddiness

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 23, 2007 at 7:41 pm

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.
Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let's buy it.

Daylight, full of small dancing particles
and the one great turning, our souls
are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.
Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?

All day and night, music,
a quiet, bright
reedsong. If it
fades, we fade.

Rumi

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Confide

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 19, 2007 at 4:37 pm

Something I made a long time ago, and once was part of my blog skin.

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Mentholated kiss

In Too lazy to assign a category on December 28, 2006 at 12:31 pm

I wanted your mentholated kiss
by the listening station,

its pornographic synthesizer.
The moment, a still of a milkdrop crown.

I smelled your civet copycat perfume. Phosphoresence
on the back of your hand.

You held that book on making love.
You called me by my childhood name.

Tim Botta

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A thousand kisses

In Too lazy to assign a category on December 23, 2006 at 12:46 pm
da miSpace
you’re repeatedly sending me kisses and i am
going to let them linger, barely touching my skin.
they’ll get impatient and i’ll tease them some more.
slowly moving my body away from them as to
make them follow. until they explode.

originally posted in my poetry notebook

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The Guest House

In Too lazy to assign a category on December 21, 2006 at 9:56 pm
The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi

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