Monthly Archives: March 2012


Here’s a little writing excercise we did in class today, writing about smells!:

“How does this smell?”

“Hmm… Quaint.”

“… What?”

Larry Jenson had a seemingly designless system of describing things.

In this case, his definition of a perfume scent, Curve by Liz Claiborne to be exact, struck him as quaint. However strange this might seem to an outsider trying to properly align the reasoning behind him saying this, there was in fact much reason behind that definition.

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Chaper Eleven- A Place Without Fear

I wretched violently, leaning against the counter I had been using as cover. I could not control the panicked spasms that overtook my body. My sense of reality began to fold in upon itself, creating a box that separated me from the world outside. Now the screaming and gunfire and explosions were only background noise, muffled by the walls of my introspective prison. I leaned over and vomited upon the blood soaked floor. I had killed them. I had killed all of them. Dozens charged through that door. Now only pulp remained. Shards of broken armour laid across the floor, a giant puzzle left forgotten. My eyes rapidly danced over my masterpiece, rolling across the whole of the small, war-torn room. The tiny concrete space seemed to never end. Gore splattered the walls, bodies drawn into fetal positions laid over every centimeter. Limbs were discarded randomly about, torn stomachs spilled innards across the floor. So many were dead. How could I have done this? How could I have unflinchingly murdered so many? How could I have run away from my only home, to take on a life like this? How could I have destroyed that home, destroyed it along with every single one of my memories, and every tiny evidence of a life that I may have had before?

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Shadow Town

Blackened eyes.
Blackened faces.
Broken smiles.
Crippled bodies.
Black rooms
Shared by many.
Stifling hot spaces,
In dark, shadowed places.
Shadows cast over
Eyes and faces,
Hiding traces
Of lies and promises
Left unkept.
Shallow breaths
Choke on scent
Of smoke and death.
Streets, like nightmares
Wind endlessly through the night.
Desolate buildings
Are haunted by the living.
Shallow stares touch a contracted horizon.
Black clouds of nothingness mask
The light of another lost day.
Stomachs churn with contempt
Of one another.
Hatred and disdain
Leave a dark stain on a dark world,
Shadowed by our greed and need
For a short-term fix.
Bricks are scattered
From structures never made.
Empty homes masked in darkness
Mark future graves.
In Shadow Town,
We starve for a light
We blotted ourselves
And will never find.

Those Who Write On the Line (Picture it and write #13)

Check out the main page on Ermilia’s blog!


War is printed in black and white
On a sheet before us now.
War is before us, upon our desk,
All we must do is bow
Forward and list our name,
Stating our favor to play such a game
As war.
War is such a short little word.
A single syllable, three little letters.
War is twelve point Times New Roman
War is centered, bolded font.
War is written as a short essay,
An essay exclaiming a simple question:
Yes or no?
Do or don’t?
Whether we will or won’t
depends on a few short names
Signed on a line.
And many lines
Fill with names
Of supporters of the game
As many lines
Are formed to play.
War is simple.
A yes or no question,
A one point exam
Surrounding millions of lives.
War is a paper
That leaders sign.
War is easy
For those who write on the line.

I Breath

I breath
I feel
Reality stings in my fingertips
I hurt
I heal
I breath and carry on
I sleep
I ache
I wake in transfixed silence
I grind
I break
I resuscitate
I crash
I burn
I learn from mistakes
and hopes misplaced
I think
I drink
From my fountain of youth
I think I am bulletproof
I cut
I bleed
I need support
So I contort
I breath
I feel
Reality stings,
Comfortless dreams
surround my transfixed silence.
As I lie awake,
Many breaths I take,
My panic drives
With locomotive strides
Towards a slowing heartrate.
It comes to a halt
As I adapt
To fill my gap.

Alone in the Dark

A number of us are alone at night.
We are awake, in a half aware state
Thinking and wishing that somebody cared.
We don’t really think about reaching out
To other nocturnal lonely souls,
We are too busy with ourselves.
No one has reached out to us very far.
No one has ever been with us for long.
We lie alone,
In half-hearted distress
Simply because that is how we are.
The night is lonely because of us,
We make it lonely just because
We don’t care for each other enough
To ease rough patches
And light bright matches
To illuminate the fact of the matter.
If we would help one another
There would be no other
Lonely soul, without love’s spark
Alone in the dark.


Underneath a cracking shell
A fleshy creature screams.
The surface battered
Rots away
Revealing a presence long hidden
From sight.
The creature inside
The cracking shell
For once sees light.
The act is over
And long forgotten.
Now the truth
Bears fruit in the eyes
Of those beholding.
The story told
So long
Of a beautiful thing,
A gleaming white
Armoured knight
Unbeatable, unbreakable,
Breathtakingly unmistakable
Is rewritten in our minds
To reflect the truth.
The truth of the ugly, tiny soul
Writhing inside the shining lie
Now cracked open,
Unable to hide.
The truth
That those who seem bulletproof
Are rather weak inside.

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