Escape from Elba
Exiles of the New York Times
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Author Topic: Creative Writing  (Read 27153 times)
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pugetopolis
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« Reply #990 on: June 11, 2007, 04:16:52 PM »

So do bill collectors and bald-headed lawyers from Ohio who
« Last Edit: June 12, 2007, 12:01:07 PM by pugetopolis » Logged

“Other people's obsessions
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—Vincent Canby, The New York Times
Beppo
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« Reply #991 on: June 11, 2007, 04:22:48 PM »

burn even quicker but not as quick as the Hood who, after insulting the Herbalist's mother-in-law, had gone up like a blue light and had come running back to a melting Gordon, whose mouth was now diametrically a burning ring of fire. The hood collapsed but there was a hero closeby whose lips were made of water and whose name was Beppo the Magnificent and down he went, and down again, giving the Hood the required mouth-to-mouth. Gordon was astonished
« Last Edit: June 11, 2007, 04:57:49 PM by Beppo » Logged
Beppo
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« Reply #992 on: June 11, 2007, 05:01:49 PM »

the Hood was insured..
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Eva
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« Reply #993 on: June 11, 2007, 05:07:53 PM »

Beppo the Magnificent?  He wouldn't need insurance!  Why, if anything all he would need (or really, really want for that matter) would be...
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kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #994 on: June 12, 2007, 07:45:48 AM »

for that friend of Chlothilde, Felicia Oh, whom he met at the iguana book signing to
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Don't dance on a volcano...
Eva
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« Reply #995 on: June 12, 2007, 10:17:18 AM »

help him use a fork and spoon
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barton
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« Reply #996 on: June 12, 2007, 10:42:11 AM »

to groom a Basenji.  Incidentally, they found Bart Nilson's suicide note that morning, taped to the back of a Basenji.  "My requirements," wrote the handsome and well-hung Nebraska poet, "for meaning and coherence in prose are slender; I set the bar very low for continuity; I can ride my mental kayak through the most turbulent stream of consciousness; but this world is crazier than a sack of rabid tomcats.  I'd rather have my eyelids taped open and have Robbe-Grillet novels strobed onto my naked brain 24/7 for the next five years than spend one more day here.  But thanks for punching my pool pass.  If I reappear in this continuum as a lascivious iguana, don't forget to wave!"


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kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #997 on: June 12, 2007, 10:44:54 AM »

And with that said lanky Bart-Poet took his Bic pen and machete
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Eva
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« Reply #998 on: June 12, 2007, 12:18:22 PM »

and began the tedious task of editing, slashing
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whiskeypriest
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« Reply #999 on: June 12, 2007, 12:23:22 PM »

himself very near the heart in a tragic editing accident
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Eva
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« Reply #1000 on: June 12, 2007, 12:52:54 PM »

I specialize in quim tea and I Ching predictions

'twas (not so) painful, but necessary, and no accident
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Eva
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« Reply #1001 on: June 12, 2007, 12:55:38 PM »

So do bill collectors and bald-headed lawyers from Ohio who


"This one in particular", the diapered horse snorted, was
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barton
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« Reply #1002 on: June 12, 2007, 01:57:44 PM »

one of those Spinal Tap drummers who didn't survive.  Killed in a bizarre editing accident.  They say he choked on his own dialog, though you never know -- kind of hard to dust dialog for prints.

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pugetopolis
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« Reply #1003 on: June 12, 2007, 07:16:23 PM »

"Charming, aren't they, Harold?"

"Yes, my dear. And so witty too..."
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Kam
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« Reply #1004 on: June 12, 2007, 09:56:47 PM »

As these events were transpiring before him, a very old man in a browning suit, a little too large for him, decided he would take the opportunity to leave this plane of existence.  Two times he had heard, or mis-heard the name of his old deceased wife.  He took that to mean she was whispering to him from the other world. This was all right with him.  386 years was a long time to live, by any standard except that of some trees.  Stanley wasn't 386 years old, but he thought he was.  He was almost 300 years younger than that.  But age they say, was in the mind. And Stanley felt old.  "It's my time" he thought.  He wanted to speak to mark the occasion, he wanted so much to have the right words to say.  And in a flash there it was.  He knew what to say.  It was so important that he say what he had to before leaving.  He so wanted the characters engaged in all the goings-on before him to stop for just a moment their busy existence and listen to the words of an old man bored with living.  He struggled at first to clear his throat but as his saliva slicked tongue raveled in his mouth he managed these five words before his heart slackened his old knees, sending a crumpled browning suit to the ground. 

He said to everyone and no one in particular "No man makes his mark".  And then he died.  And was forgotten.

Seeing a park bench had just opened up, Harold and his many visions walked over the dead man and took a seat.  "Hmm" He thought "Still warm".

Now where were we dear?
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You know when, like, you're little, your dad, you think he's Superman. Then when you grow up and realize he's just a regular guy who wears a cape.
-Dave Attell
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