Escape from Elba
Exiles of the New York Times
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Author Topic: Creative Writing  (Read 27207 times)
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pugetopolis
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« Reply #1785 on: September 01, 2007, 03:17:38 PM »



It was a dark stormy night...

It was the Night of the Living Dead.

It was raining cats and dogs...

She appeared out of nowhere...

She looked around the natatorium...

She yawned...

"What a dump!!!!!"
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barton
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« Reply #1786 on: September 04, 2007, 11:46:50 AM »

And thus began her journey of self-discovery, as she set out in her 1968 Dodge Dart convertible across the vast outback of Texas, with a turkey/swiss sandwich, a gallon of lemonade, a can of mixed nuts, some dried apricots, and a 12 ounce jar of hemmorhoid cream.
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1787 on: September 04, 2007, 01:53:01 PM »

Her mother had always taught her to watch those under-eye circles by treating the area with Preparation H.
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nytempsperdu
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« Reply #1788 on: September 04, 2007, 09:10:52 PM »

but her mother had not known what a boon to cross country travel by the obsessed astronaut diapers could be, that was a development that had to await...
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barton
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« Reply #1789 on: September 05, 2007, 10:20:34 AM »

cross-country travel by obsessed astronauts.

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nytempsperdu
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« Reply #1790 on: September 07, 2007, 12:41:41 AM »

who, as highly educated and extensively trained as the devisers of ways to divert public funds could make them, nevertheless lacked even the most rudimentary skill in...
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elportenito1
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« Reply #1791 on: September 07, 2007, 09:34:14 AM »

The Man from Snowy River


by El Portenito



THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
    That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
    So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
    Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
    And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
    The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
    He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
    No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
    He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
    He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
    And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
    There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
    And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
    And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you’d better stop away,
    Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend —
    “I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
    For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
  Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
    The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
    Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
    But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
    They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
    No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
    Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
    If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
    Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
    With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
    But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
    And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
    Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
    From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
    Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
    No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
    It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
    Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
    And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
    While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
    He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
    It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
    Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
    At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
    And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
    As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
    In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
    With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
    He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
    And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
    He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
    For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
    Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
    At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
    To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
    And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.


El Portenito, enjoy!

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in vino veritas
desdemona222b
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« Reply #1792 on: September 07, 2007, 11:59:17 AM »

who, as highly educated and extensively trained as the devisers of ways to divert public funds could make them, nevertheless lacked even the most rudimentary skill in...
...personal hygiene.
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barton
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« Reply #1793 on: September 07, 2007, 07:40:52 PM »

Git along, little dogies!
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pugetopolis
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« Reply #1794 on: September 09, 2007, 03:12:13 AM »


And thus began her journey of self-discovery, as she set out in her 1968 Dodge Dart convertible across the vast outback of Texas, with a turkey/swiss sandwich, a gallon of lemonade, a can of mixed nuts, some dried apricots, and a 12 ounce jar of hemmorhoid cream.
« Last Edit: September 09, 2007, 04:50:01 AM by pugetopolis » Logged

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barton
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« Reply #1795 on: September 09, 2007, 01:39:47 PM »

Somewhere out in the desert, on the edge of Canyon, Texas, the drugs began to take effect.  Looking across the stark and beautiful vistas of the Palo Duro, where Georgia O'Keefe had first discovered the enchantment of the Southwest (before her later journeys into New Mexico and subsequent settling there), Eva discovered that an enormous coyote was somehow keeping pace with her car, loping along effortlessly it seemed, though her speedometer registered 80 mph.  She squinted hard at this apparition -- was that a cigarette holder in its mouth? 

"Who are you?" she shouted.

The coyote grinned.  "You just shot out of Canyon, my dear.  I, however, was recently shot out of a cannon!  The universe connects us in interesting ways!"

Eva stared, her face a mixture of fear and loathing.  "It can't be!  You were nothing but ashes!"

 
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nytempsperdu
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« Reply #1796 on: September 09, 2007, 04:46:15 PM »

Quote
Git along, little dogies!
sang Banjo Patterson, beloved Bard of Oz, whose work so resembled that of Robert Service, the Beatles "Rocky Raccoon" and many another... 
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1797 on: September 10, 2007, 09:56:38 AM »

Somewhere out in the desert, on the edge of Canyon, Texas, the drugs began to take effect.  Looking across the stark and beautiful vistas of the Palo Duro, where Georgia O'Keefe had first discovered the enchantment of the Southwest (before her later journeys into New Mexico and subsequent settling there), Eva discovered that an enormous coyote was somehow keeping pace with her car, loping along effortlessly it seemed, though her speedometer registered 80 mph.  She squinted hard at this apparition -- was that a cigarette holder in its mouth? 

"Who are you?" she shouted.

The coyote grinned.  "You just shot out of Canyon, my dear.  I, however, was recently shot out of a cannon!  The universe connects us in interesting ways!"

Eva stared, her face a mixture of fear and loathing.  "It can't be!  You were nothing but ashes!"

 

"Anyway," she said.  "I can't be bothered with you Mr. Coyote, I'm heading to Amarillo!
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barton
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« Reply #1798 on: September 10, 2007, 11:14:14 AM »

"Ah, yes," said Thompson the gonzo Coyote, "the town whose name means 'yellow!'"

"And the town whose name means 'lunch,'" added Eva, who saw that her provisions were running low.  How had she gone through them so fast?

"Sorry," said Winona, whose godfather was Timothy Leary and whose former boyfriend was a good friend of Thompson, as she sat up in the back seat and let the fierce Texas wind blow the sleep from her big vacant eyes.  She adjusted her boobs inside her blouse and then smiled at the sensation of the madras cotton rubbing against her nipples, making them [writer takes 10 minute coffee break]

"What are you doing back there?" cried Eva.  "Last I checked, the Spanish Inquisition was working on your penance for shoplifting!"

"I was checking the garments in a natural light," said Winona.  "Besides, Torquemada and I worked something out on the side."

"The rental agency didn't say anything about taking an extra Ryder in my car," said Eva.  "One would almost think you have insinuated yourself into this situation, just so that I could..."





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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1799 on: September 10, 2007, 03:56:18 PM »

...point out how very out of place you are in west Texas.  We'll be coming up on Jimmy Dean's sausage factory in Sweetwater here in just a few, and here you are talking trash about Torquemada.  I can't wait to see your thieving little ass when nightfall comes and the stockyards start to take over everyone's evening."
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