"School photo, found after the Joplin tornado" Laura Dimmit “Joey, 4th grade, 1992”
He’s been on the fridge since it happened, sneaking glances from underneath the cat magnet at our dinners, coffee habits, arguments. We posted him on the database of items found, hoping that someone would recognize his messy hair, Batman t-shirt, blue eyes, but no one answered the post or claimed him. Somewhere a childhood photo album is not quite complete, or a grandmother’s mantelpiece; an uncle’s wallet. One afternoon I got restless, flipped through my old yearbooks, trying to find him, looking to see how he might have aged: did he lose the chubby cheeks? dye his hair? how long did he have to wear braces? But he’s too young to have passed me in the halls, the picture just a stranger, a small reminder of the whirling aftermath when Joplin was clutching at scraps: everything displaced, even this poor kid who doesn’t even know he’s lost. I want to say love is this/desire to help even when I know I can’t,/just as I couldn’t explain electricity, stars,/the color of the sky, baldness, tornadoes,/fingernails, coconuts, or the other things/she has asked about over the years
Look and remember. Look upon this sky; Look deep and deep into the sea-clean air, The unconfined, the terminus of prayer. Speak now and speak into the hallowed dome. What do you hear? What does the sky reply? The heavens are taken: this is not your home.
Look and remember. Look upon this sea; Look down and down into the tireless tide. What of a life below, a life inside, A tomb, a cradle in the curly foam? The waves arise; sea-wind and sea agree The waters are taken: this is not your home.
Look and remember. Look upon this land, Far, far across the factories and the grass. Surely, there, surely they will let you pass. Speak then and ask the forest and the loam. What do you hear? What does the land command? The earth is taken: this is not your home. And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
"I Am But A Traveler in This Land & Know Little of Its Ways" Dean Young
Is everything a field of energy caused by human projection? From the crib bars hang the teething tools. Above the finger-drummed desk, a bit lip. The cyclone fence of buts
surrounds the soccer field of what if. Sometimes it seems like a world where no one knows what he or she is doing, eight lanes both directions. How about a polymer
that contracts in response to electrical charge? A swimming pool on the 18th floor? King Lear done by sock puppets? Anyone who has traveled here knows the discrepancies
between idea and fact. The idea is the worm in the tequila and the next day is the fact. In between may be the sacred—real blood from the wooden virgin’s eyes, and the hoax—
landing sites in cornfields. Maybe ideas are best sprung from actions like the children of Zeus. One gives us elastic and the omelette, another nightmares and SUVs. There’s considerable
wobble in the system, and the fan belt screams, waking the baby. Swaying in the darkened nursery, kissing the baby-smelling head: good idea! But also sadness looking at the sea.
The stranded whale, guided out of the cove by tugboats, turns and swims back in. The violinist will not let go her violin which is 200 years old and still on the train
thus she is dragged down the track. By what manner is the soul joined to the body? Answer: an arm connecting a violin to a violinist. According to Freud,
there are no accidents. Astrologists and Presbyterians agree for different reasons. You fall down the stairs with a birthday cake. You try to fit a blunderbuss into a laptop.
Human consciousness: is it the projector or the screen? They come in orange jumpsuits and spray the grass so everything dies but the grass. It is too late to ask Kafka
what he thinks. Sometimes they give you a box of ash, a handshake, and the rest is your problem. In one version, the beggar turns out to be a king and grants
the poor couple a castle and a moat and two silver horses said to be sired by the wind. That was before dentistry, which might have been a better gift. You did not want to get sick in the 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th or 18th centuries.
So too the 19th and 20th were to be avoided but the doctor coming to bleed you is the master of the short story. After the kiss from whom he will never know, the lieutenant, going home,
touches a bush in which birds are singing. I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky
Hah, hah, two posts in one day, weeee~! \o/ This is slowly becoming a fave of mine because ohemgee, the plot has so many potentials for angst and ;laseia;lskd;ald MPREG + ANGST = HAPPY ME (idk why I'm weird I know)
Just so you know, you can imagine Chinho to be any random Korean dude but if you want my opinion then the Chinho I'm envisioning looks like the ulzzang Song Chan Ho. Idk why but maybe it's because they almost have the same name HAHAHAHA.
Anyways enough rambling, enjoy your crappy fanprose XD /shot
Series: Expectations Adventure Thirteen: Just a Moment Part 2 of 3 Author: Aquariuslover Pairings: Yunjae, KyuWook, WooGyu Rating: R Genre: Crossover, Science Fiction, Adventure, Romance Length: Chaptered Beta: tahoeturquoise
A/N: This story is inspired by Star Trek and the Kpop community; the story is my own.
Thanks to everybody who commented on the last part! I promise I replied to all the comments...it's just that evil LJ ate them!
Summary: Ancient technology on a deserted planet forces some crew members to stay within arm's reach of each other...literally. As Jaejoong's pregnancy progresses, Jaejoong's telepathic and emphatic abilities fade. Startling admissions are made, and something is stirring on the ship.
Hello, everyone! I hope nobody's too sad about what they will read in this announcement because honestly, it's not as bad as you think it is.
Friday last week (May 10, 2013) I made an announcement regarding a possible plagiarism of And It Led Me Back to You. There's no solid evidence yet that it really happened, but the sender of the comment that started all this paranoia claimed that she "read it on aff," and even if we consider the possibility of a typographical error, why would they say that they "read it" there? Why were no words like "recommended," or even the phrase "found your story on a rec list"? It's too specific to be a typo, methinks. So yeah, I came up with a brilliant idea!
I'll just delete AILMBTY. :D
BUT I will make it available for download, because honestly it's not fair that the people who like the story have to suffer because of a wanna-be or a careless mistake. But I will only make the download available to those who request for a PDF of it. I will make a PDF Request Post later once I organize everything.
Some of you may ask: "Well, if you're going to make it available for download anyway, why delete it in the first place?" Good question. Let me answer in list form:
I want to piss off the person who plagiarized me (if it was indeed plagiarized). How hilarious would it be for that person to find out that they don't have access to the story anymore because it's no longer available online? LMAO
It's my way of protecting the integrity of my story, and my pride as a writer. Two AILMBTY's (under two different names) CANNOT exist in my book. I don't think I deserve that OTL
I'm lazy. Honesty, deleting AILMBTY would save me the trouble of posting updates. HAHAHAHA /shot
I think I have more reasons, but these are my top three. Hah, hah.
So that covers the first part of this announcement. The second part covers a revision of the community rules. Nothing drastic, just a few rules added in the profile.
New rules include:
One must be a member of Livejournal to be part of the community. No accounts from Facebook, Twitter, or the like will be accepted from now on. I'm still debating whether or not to remove the non-LJ users from the comm, but I'll contact each one first.
Do not befriend me if your reason for doing so is to join the community. Users who do this will be black-listed. (But making new friends is nice! :D)
If you were referred/drawn to this community or to a story of mine by a friend/because of a rec-list, please tell me by whom/where. Nothing serious about this one; I'm just honestly curious because people claim to see my story on some reclist all the time but I have no idea where. I'm also afraid of the possibility that relatives would find my stories, so please cooperate. XD
I hope this isn't too demanding or anything ;___; I've been wanting to change the rules for a long time but never found the opportunity to hah, hah. Guess I found one :P
Well, guys, there you have it. AILMBTY is still very special so it will still be available to you guys after I finish all the editing, have it beta-read and process the PDF and its security settings. I will delete AILMBTY on the 24th of May, but I HIGHLY DISCOURAGE saving it. The first few chapters of AILMBTY have gone through immense amounts of editing, so unless you're okay with the sucky version, I do not advise saving the chapters on this community. Plus, it's against the rules to save it :P I'll put up the PDF Request Post thing sometime this week, but most likely the complete version will be available in mid-June. The PDF will include extra scenes, notes, fanart (lol), drabbles and some of my thoughts while writing the story. Obviously, saving the fic as it is now won't give you access to that XD
Approving membership requests will be on-hold till the 24th
Expect stories from other fandoms after this month (I've gone back to FFVII and Naruto omg noooo XD)
No matter what, remember that I still love you guys. Thanks for your never-ending support, especially for AILMBTY. I hope you'll find it worthwhile enough to request for the complete version when it becomes available 8)
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car. Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction. The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver. As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed. We found her twisted and limp but still alive. In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears. Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her, Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame, Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog. Oh, and one more thing. I send my love/However long and far it takes—through light,/Through time, thorough all the faithlessness of men
I’m always thinking about Lot’s wife, wonder what her neighbors thought when she packed up her tunics and cooking pots and left town without so much as a fare thee well. Dave, the guy I work with says, “It’s because she was a sinful woman in a sinful town. You know where the word sodomy comes from.” I tell him, “Sodomy’s been made legal in Texas. I read it in the paper yesterday.” Dave has been known to get down on his knees and pray before a computer, but it never seems to work because it’s always messed up. “You see, Dave, if she’d had a name, maybe someone could have called to her, maybe she might not have turned back.” I’m obsessed with this, it’s true, but I can’t get the no-name-pillar-of-salt thing out of my head, and this woman who probably left with wash on the line and goat stew simmering on the fire. And, then there are those two daughters, who later lay with their father, there being no other men worth their salt in that mountain town where they ended up. “Good thing she wasn’t around to see that kind of sodomy,” I say. “Women need guidance. Remember Eve?” I tell him, “Let’s agree to disagree on this.” He glares at me; his face turns red; pimples stand out like, like angry mountains, I think. “Beside, Dave, Lot lingered—he lingered, and God took mercy on him. I want mercy for her. And a name, Dave, a name for God’s sake. Please call her something besides ‘Lot’s wife’.” Dave takes my hand, says, “Kneel with me and let’s pray for you, my disagreeable friend, and for all those sick people in Texas.” Meanwhile, the computer flashes: this program has performed an illegal operation. “How about Loretta?” I ask, thinking of my best friend from high school. I shuck off his hand and add, “It’s a good name, and Mary’s been used.” Poetry based on religious stories is fascinating to me, especially poems about Lot's wife and her role in the story that takes place in Genesis 19:1-26. Here are other poems I've posted on this theme: "Lot's Wife" by Gary J. Whitehead, "Lot's Wife" by Dana Littlepage Smith, "Wife’s Disaster Manual" by Deborah Paredez, "What Lot's Wife Would Have Said (If She Wasn't a Pillar of Salt)" by Karen Finneyfrock, "Lot's Wife" by Anna Akhmatova, and "Lot's Wife" by Kristine Batey.
The thinking/Of you where you are a blank/To be filled/In by missing. I loved you./I love you like I love/All beautiful things.