Reika
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Posted: Mon Sep 12, 2011 6:34 pm
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| Sometimes I like to bullshit. No, seriously. I have the urge to not care for a story. I don't want a direction.
I'm not sure how to explain it correctly, but let me give you an example:
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The days had been eaten by the moon.
There was only night now. The sun and moon hung in the sky unmoving. The sun was black, blacker even than the night sky which only had the moon to give off its own deceiving light. The moon had taken all of the light from the sun and now it glared upon the earth with its cold stare. There was no one else up there with the moon. The stars had already fallen. Even now, one last tiny star was floating down to the ground. It landed in silence.
But his feet were not silence. They were a shuffling sound that murmured across dead, dry leaves. They padded gently to the tiny star, stopping just a toe's distance away. Two beats and the light went dead. Dead as dead as a black toenail on a young child.
It was quiet, it was silence. But the silence had a throbbing sound. An angry, swelling palpitation of the heart. And He stood there with ferocity. Yet there was despair on his face.
For he was the Artist, and these were the times that lasted forever. In his mind, he knew there was End, but the light would never come. It did not understand his sadness. His misery. His frustration.
And so the beginning began in the middle, when the moon had glowered for so many long years and the sun was old and mummified and the stars had rotted away. It begins when the last star had fallen, and the Artist took the final step before the new Time arose.
Time, however, never had a definite beginning, and so when the Artist took the next step, the new Time had already begun.
The new time was not much different. It was still old and ugly. The star's blood had now formed a pool around his feet. It simmered there, without light but still with the memory of it. As he knelt slowly, his knees cracked. His stiff body had not been in motion over the years.
When the Artist looked into the blood of the star, he could see far down into the earth. There were stories there. Many endings and beginnings, and a lot more middle bits that floated around in the soup. The past and the future was there, and so was the reflection of the moon and the absence of the sun.
With eyes open, ears open, mind open, the Artist held himself to the sounds in the silence of the universe. |
I don't have a process, and usually not any particular inspiration. There's no direction. It's usually stagnant and descriptive, mostly imagery since I'm more familiar with visual art. But it feels good to write something once in a while. Maybe I will come up with some later C:
If you try some bullshit writing, you should show me
You know what? Bullshit writing should be a new kind of writing.
Rei's Rules to Writing Bullshit:
+ never think ahead
+ don't start at the beginning, never end at the end
+ characters are lame
+ write about fingernails and teaspoons and doggy parks
+ fingernails and teaspoons and doggy parks don't exist
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+ that last rule is invisible. If you understand this, you are now ready to write
thoughts? lol
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Reika
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Posted: Tue Sep 13, 2011 10:56 pm
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| I used to have a blog, but like many other's I abandoned it :'D
That's some nice writings there.
Most of my BS writing actually ends up as short phrases or paragraphs in my sketchbook. There was something about hating girls with too much perfume, but maybe I'll redo that later.
and then;
dreams tell fantasies, nightmares reflect reality. I know now that all my sleeping nights have been blessed with honest truth.
Not all of it is sad though xDDD Just most of the stuff I can find is. I like to read this kind of writing too because sometimes structured stories become tiresome.
That bs writing i put up before, I think I was a bit moody about making art.
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Maeve
Moderator
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Posted: Sun Sep 25, 2011 9:03 am
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| Why haven't I noticed this thread before?
Anyway, that's a very interesting bullshit writing. I really love how visual it is, yet it's still interesting and keeps you reading, and it's not just a boring description of, well, everything. Sorry if it makes no sense, the weather is annoying my poor little brain.
I don't even remember the lat time I did some bullshit writing. Heck, I don,t even remember the last time I wrote something that wasn't for school or for a role-play. It must have been a few years ago...
I do take small notes in my sketchbook, but most of them are just that, small notes scribbled in the corner of a page full of random doodles that have nothing to do with the said notes.
*ponders about starting some bullshit writing thingie*
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On semi-hiatus all the time during school year.
I'll reply to post whenever I can.
PM me if you need a quick answer. |
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Reika
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Posted: Tue Sep 27, 2011 12:22 am
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| i seem to write only when moody or unmotivated lol. But it's good to take a break from work sometimes, huh.
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Everybody's favourite colour is Red.
Cheeks are Red, flushed. Ears are Red, embarrassed. Noses Red, cold. Eyes Red, irritated.
Throat Red.
Dead.
Red is what makes life, what makes up life. Red is life, the four-count heartbeat of the human, Red blood forcing through valvesSWISH-SWOOOOSH SWISH-SWOOOOSH.
It is not a standard two, or staggered three, but 4. 1234. 4 counts in time,
1.
2.
3.
4-is-the-Cantering-of-charging-steed 4-is-the-
last-steps-of-childhood 4-is-the-times-
that-the-phone-rings 4-is-the-cracks-in-
a-broken-arm 4-is-the-times-that-hand-
beats-upon-this-brow 4-is-the-hand-of-fingers-
that-survived 4;
the number of times that the mayor of the town carves short lines, horizontally and long lines, vertically
upon this
back.
And so you must see now that 4 is the colour of Red, and Red the number of 4. We are Red inside, those quartered parts of us.
There they are, the children swinging in the park; 1, 2, 3, 4.
There they are, a couple kissing on that bench; joined clumps of flesh, Red.
We are the humans, springing from the muddied earth. We shine and those that look upon us, they see. Us.
They see Red.
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Yggdrasil
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Posted: Tue Sep 27, 2011 5:15 pm
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| That had me a bit confused but it was interesting.
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Yggdrasil is bored...
Watch Frieza Transform |
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Reika
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Posted: Wed Sep 28, 2011 12:29 am
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| lololol
Maybe you should go read the invisible rule again C;
Oddly enough, I was thinking about aliens.
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ChariHunter
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Posted: Tue Jun 26, 2012 7:34 pm
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| Ah I used to BS write so much fun my last one was about cheese and a bull I think my mind looses it and then hell on paper appears
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stazzy
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Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 10:39 pm
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| This is... just so beautiful...
Have any of you read homestuck? Because there is bountiful bullshit there. It's a bit boring at the start, but it gets better. Trust me.
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Juneberry
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Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 11:00 pm
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| I love bullshit writing. It's a great way to just let my mind free itself from captivity and hold no boundries. Sometimes I really end up adoring my bullshit writing more than my normal stuff, though...My BS writing is usually rather short and randomly coming, but it's fun and nifty all the same.
Also, I really like the first piece you posted, Reika. :3
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superbinka
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Posted: Thu Sep 19, 2013 4:27 am
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| BS writing is poetry in the form of prose. The kind of poetry that your English teacher calls "interesting". The enjoyment is in the writing, and the freedom of your hand.
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aaawhyme
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 4:53 pm
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| awesome writing! *A* I wish I could be that descriptive!
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| _________________ I am a 3D modeler for animation and Games and I love to draw and create art of all kinds! |
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