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Alvy

Writers: Share your work!

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It just occurred to me that perhaps many of us are writers, and would appreciate the opportunity to share our work (poetry, stories, essays) here on the literature forum.

:?:


Drop by The Grace Pages, a rest-stop for fellow pilgrims.

-- Dave aka Alvy

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Okay... help me remember... By the end of the week I will post the opening chapter to a children's adventure novel I'm working on as a gift to my 19 nephews and nieces.

I may also post the opening chapter or two from the more serious fantasy novel that's been sitting finished but un-submitted on my desk for, oh, three years now?

But I don't want to be the only one!

DanBuck... you were posting some fun short pieces before the board crashed the first time. Bring them back!


P.S.  I COULD BE WRONG.

 

Takin' 'er easy for all you sinners at lookingcloser.org. Also abiding at Facebook and Twitter.

 

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We have tons of great poetry and short prose over at:

www.thematthewshouseproject.com

Some professional stuff and some incredible amateur stuff. And believe it or not, we accept submissions and in worthy cases offer honorariums.


"...the vivid crossing of borders between film and theology may save the film from the banality of cinema and festival business, and it may also save the church from the deep sleep of the habitual and the always known."

(Hans Werner Dannowski)

Filmwell | Twitter

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Hm. I could have sworn he did at one point. Maybe that was on the old board.


"...the vivid crossing of borders between film and theology may save the film from the banality of cinema and festival business, and it may also save the church from the deep sleep of the habitual and the always known."

(Hans Werner Dannowski)

Filmwell | Twitter

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My songs (lyrics for use with fairly familiar hymn tunes)

They aren't much, but I enjoyed doing them. (and actually got a pittance in royalties about a week ago.)


A foreign movie can't be stupid.

-from the film
Armin

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As I recall, Jeffrey posted it for a few weeks, then (as he had planned all along) took it off so no one would pilfer his work. I could, of course, be wrong.

Dale


Metalfoot on Emmanuel Shall Come to Thee's Noel: "...this album is...monotony...bland, tripy fare..."

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I guess you could call me a Christian Fantasist, although my work is surreal science fiction: G.K. Chestreton meets Philip K. Dick. I would say a cross between The Man Who Was Thursday and Ubik.

Lately, I've begun an internet search in order to find contacts who may be able to assist me in finding a publisher for my fiction. It's neat how a lot of these sites are linked to each other in unexpected ways. I've lurked on this forum for years (on the old board, obviously), but in my search for Christian Fantasy, I found my way back here through a link to Decent Films from the Christian Guide to Fantasy site.

Anyway, I'm not expecting anyone to find me a publisher, but I'd like to set up a dialogue that may give me ideas on where to seek out leads in the field. Anyone's knowledge of this market niche may be helpful.

I've been sending out stuff to the typical F & SF markets for years, but as I move from short stories to outright novels (working on number 4), and as I analyze the themes and motifs that cintinually permeate them, I find that I need to seek out Christian Publishers who believe in Fantasy and Science Fiction.

So, anyone with leads or ideas?

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Dogleg Treasures

By Dan Buck

Tom was impressed. I told him about my investments and my recent success in the stock market as we played a round of golf. Neither of us were fantastic golfers, but it was a way to get away from the office. And I had just dropped $600 on a new Ping driver that I was anxious to try out.

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That's My Boy

by Jason Bortz

She holds his hand tight as he whispers reassurance, her pain immense.

All time stops.

The breathing, crash of waves upon the shore.

And then, as tide recedes, silence.

The muted sputtering of liquid, air is taken in for the first time.

The Father’s silence-interrupting thought, “That’s my boy.”

First steps taken, his arms reach wide to embrace the stumbling child.

One two three.

An unsure wide eyed stare turns into joy.

And bright he looks into her eyes.

His feet will carry him to lands unseen, road rising up to greet his calloused soles.

The Father’s joy pours forth in simple words, “That’s my boy.”

They hasten quick through streets choked with the masses unconcerned.

Where why how?

And back they way they came they make their way.

Up steps into a darkened room.

There stands the boy as teachers take a moment to learn anew, their hearts refreshed.

The Father’s words of truth within their hearts, “That’s my boy.”

A man stands choked in dust and grime, his voice the edge of razors.

“He is near.”

Dividing soul and spirit he cries out.

“Make way, your king will come anon.”

Until the man comes forth from out the crowd, at which he crumbles, heart broken wide.

The Father’s pride from out the clouds descends, “That’s my boy.”

Spirits flee, the lame are healed and hungry fed, he grants the blind new sight.

“Live in me.”

He calls them all before the throne alike.

All evil cringes from his glance.

He dines with friends and tells them of a house with many rooms, “Now eat and drink.”

The Father aches at blood and flesh consumed, “That’s my boy.”

He’s dragged from street to street across the stones at point of spear.

“Save yourself!”

His blood leaves darkened flecks upon their hands.

Three nails and lift and up he goes.

The piercing wood and steel and cries are not enough to drown the plea of one.

The Father hears the thief and nods assent, “That’s my boy.”

Between the black of sky and blackness of the heart he whispers soft.

“It is done.”

Forgiving, for they knew not what they did.

And silence for a moment reigns.

Until the temple curtain rends asunder, totality of night descends upon the face of man.

The Father’s anguished wail splits heaven wide, “THAT’S MY BOY!!!!!”

She holds his hand tight as he whispers reassurance, her joy immense.

“Touch my hands.”

His breathing, touch of heaven on her cheek.

Go now, and tell the world I’m here.

Embracing them before he gains the heavens, he says, Fear not, it will not be too long.

The Father welcomes him with tears of joy,“That’s my boy!”


[iNSERT SIGNATURE HERE]

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For Jackie

by Jason Bortz

...I try.

Lord knows, I try.

Y'know, sometimes it's very difficult to be a joyful Christian.

I knock on the table in front of me and feel the slight twinge my nerve endings tell my mind: This is solid. This is real.

No.

No, it isn't.

It isn't, and it doesn't matter. It will pass away, as all things pass away.

But the heart, the soul--will this pass away?

Doctrine, semantics, rhetoric and logic. Salvation, apostasy, speculation and assertion. Bitterness, joy, pride, sorrow. Passion. Insecurity. Humility. Self righteousness.

These are the paths upon which we tread in our ongoing quest for love.

Our narrow road fraught with overhanging branches, bumps, holes and the detritus of the storm without...the dead obstacles of this world littering the path to our final sanity, that which drives us mad in life, the goal, even Christ.

So many emotions. So much at stake. The need to profess with our mouths and have the others say Yes, I know how you feel.

I’m eating toast for lunch here at work, along with some ham, some eggs, and home fried potatoes—which is actually a lie, because they weren’t fried at home, but at a restaurant my In-Law’s frequent, and subsequently delivered via Styrofoam to my awaiting stomach.

And Solomon said there are only two things worth relishing in life: Your work, and what you eat:

A man can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment?
Ecc. 2:24-25

So I’m at work, on my lunch, eating breakfast. Doing both.

Surely I am wise!

This is not the time for a dissertation on this book of Solomon’s. I could marvel at some length in the wisdom therein—but I wouldn’t finish in the short hour allotted me for my brief repast.

Instead, I’ll take a moment to reflect on the lie of reality.

A much quicker topic to skim.

“Meaningless,” the author, the king, the monarch, the wealthiest man alive wrote. “Everything, a chasing after the wind.”

This table disappears. The room, the walls, the outside world through the windows and the lady walking her little dog is the only thing I see.

She houses a soul within the structure of her body, the confines of the watery mechanism we agree to call a human being. We know what she’s all about; the template of her existence has been well-established through her ancestry and, aside from ongoing bickering as to the absolute origin of this strange biped, it is generally accepted that this creature is normal and commonplace. Nothing new.

Perhaps the clothing catches our eye. Maybe the fact that she’s chosen to encase her canine compatriot in a nylon sheath due to the cold would cause a moment of distraction, but other than that, her course down the now-dematerialized sidewalk is nothing more than ordinary.

Nevermind the intricacy of the fleshly framework. Ponder not the electricity within, nor the impulse from brain to leg and back and go and go and go. Do not hesitate to consider the fluid propelled through and back and nanosecond rushing and another moment of life sustained and on and on. Don’t focus on the miraculous organ playing music through its snug and perfect valves, music which not only invokes emotion in the listener but in the musician herself, music with a quality unmatched in being or beast.

This is but the outer shell. Don’t be fooled. Don’t be suckered in by the astonishing normalcy of this earthen vessel.

Instead, gaze upon the being housed within.

The wellspring.

Another bite of ham. Those poor Levites might’ve been able to breach the curtain, but they sure missed out on ham.

You don’t have to like it, though. Don’t feel like I’m trying to state a fact. This is just me talking here.

The pleasure of the ham on my lips is starkly juxtaposed with the burning of tears in my eyes.

Each bite is difficult to swallow, even though I take pleasure in the charred surface; the constricted quality of my throat forbids me to eat as quickly as I usually would in my haste to waste the next minute of my life.

The five-year-old daughter of the pastor of our neighboring church died in her daddy’s arms on Saturday. Her mommy was there, and her 7 year old sister. She loved them, and they her. Very much.

I prayed for them about a month ago, and intermittently throughout, when they suddenly discovered that her amazing framework held a strange parasite called Death within its timbers, and this creature took the form of a swollen area of the brain called a tumor.

A month ago they discovered this.

Saturday, she said goodbye to the sky, to the trees, to the land and to the sea. She bid farewell to puppies and kitties and ice cream and cake. She closed her eyes softly to the beauty of the sun, closed her eyes to the stricken reassurance of her Daddy, the champion for God, as he held her close and stroked her hair and said those words we try to say as often as we can, “I love you.”

I love you.

I love you.

And in his mind the temple curtain might have rent asunder as his little Jackie ran with open arms to greet her daddy’s Daddy. And in his mind the table might have disappeared, the walls, and the world outside the windows where the lady walks her dog with a sweater on its tiny frame because it’s a bit chilly in the early days of March.

She closed her eyes to the pain. Her gentle, perfect lids blotted out the ignorance we face from day to day, shutting the door of that amazing mechanism as she innocently took her leave to play outside.

Don’t be fooled.

You read, you stare into the glass. You click the button and drag your eyes further down and across the page. You see the symbols you recognize as communication and interpret at well as you are able, based upon the teachings you’ve retained inside that mass of tissue in that solid case we call a “skull.”

But don’t be fooled.

What do you feel right now? What does that musical instrument inside your temple provoke within you? What song is played and sung to the world? How do the notes flow, and whose ears do they fall upon?

Doctrine, semantics, rhetoric and logic. Salvation, apostasy, speculation and assertion. Bitterness, joy, pride, sorrow. Passion. Insecurity. Humility. Self righteousness.

These are the paths upon which we tread in our ongoing quest for love.

Stop.

Please, for the Love of God, please stop to listen.

Don’t be fooled. This next second will pass and already did. And that one. And that one.

The words I Love You mean nothing until we realize that this illusion before us is utterly without meaning, that the only thing that matters are what’s inside those weak, fleshy cases ambling awkwardly about this broken globe. The words I Love You mean nothing until we recognize the table for what it isn’t, the wall for what isn’t, the window to the outside world and everything out there are false save for that woman with the heart to spare a helpless creature from feeling the cold cold air. Silly of her, to care like that.

Jesus Christ was a little child too.

He laughed and sang and played and held his Father oh-so-tight, just like that little girl who sailed away this Saturday.

What do you see when you look away from this monitor?

What do you see, looking up from the page?

What do you see out there?

And when you hear someone who tells you they believe in that space, that place where children of all ages soar with outstretched arms to greet their Daddy, what do you say to them?

Do you see them?

Do you love them, love them in the way a father loves?

Do you love them, love them in the way a Father loves?

Do you love them?

Do you love them?

Love them.

As a father loves his child who is soon to sail away.

As a Father loves His children who are soon to sail away.

Peace to you, and God be with you in every moment.

In love.


[iNSERT SIGNATURE HERE]

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The Bastard Son

by Denes House

Based on Luke 19:1-10 (Quiet time December 29, 2000)

Illegitimate

You


In case you were wondering, my name is spelled "Denes House," but it's pronounced "Throatwobbler Mangrove."

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Maaaaaaan, why do I always have to go on after Mando? Sigh...

(M) put this one on his website. That made me feel good. But he chose against this one...

Red

A rose for a season

You reached out for a kiss

Now pricked by your thorns

I lay dazed and amiss

Under the shadow

Of a scarlet bloom

Blood on my lips

Closing my eyes

Breathing your scents

Through my sighs

Of first love and then ache

Then the final take

Of a subtle blend

Of sorrow and tears.

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Hello. This is my first post here. My name is Brian and I write reviews for Infuze Magazine in addition to writing novels. My first novel, The Last Page, released through a small press last year. The entire first chapter can be read at:

http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/814613

Also, I just contributed a chapter to the online serial novel, The Singularity, at http://www.infuzemag.com. Check it out if you get a chance. biggrin.gif

It's nice to make your acquaintances.


The entire first chapter of my debut novel, The Last Page, can be read at http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/814613

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Welcome, Brian. Good to have you around!


"Could we ever know each other in the slightest without the arts?"

« Nous connaîtrions-nous seulement un peu nous-mêmes, sans les arts? »

Quoted on Canada's $20 bill; from Gabrielle Roy's novel La montagne secrète. The English translation, The Hidden Mountain, is by Harry L. Binsse.

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I'm Only...

Strength in fortitude.

Frailty in solitude.

Susceptibility in culpability.

Determination in tenacity.

I'm only as weak as I let you break me.

Intelligence in clarity.

Half-witted in obscurity.

Vulnerable in exposure.

Endurance in closure.

I'm only as oblivious as I let you blind me.

Desirable in captivation.

Temptation in devastation.

Hopeless in validity.

Defined in authenticity.

I'm only as useless as I let you use me.

Stubborn in authority.

Influenced in naivety.

Gullible in experience.

Trusting in innocence.

I'm only as led as I let you control me.

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I'll add to this thread in order to avoid the dreaded "ahem..."

I am currently shopping around a silly little space opera to various publishers, hoping it will catch someone's fancy. And the writer's block folks are familiar with the novel I'm working on now... I thought I would post the first three chapters of each for whoever might be interested in giving it a look-see.

http://www.dtcweb.com

The first one is supposed to be in its "final" form ("final" meaning "the way it is before an editor tells me what to change") but I keep wanting to change things. The second one is still in its preliminary draft form and will likely get a fairly thorough re-write.


It had a face like Robert Tilton's -- without the horns.

- Steve Taylor, "Cash Cow"

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Song I wrote for my band (www.harrisonsound.com)

Also have some (super) short story bits on the Arts and Faith blog here.

More at lonetomato.blogspot.com

We Are Free

there was a time when

you thought all their words were true

wrong and right were

black and white as a rule

but the world is wide as

the girl in the bubble was small

and you could not resist when

you heard curiosity call

and you found some things beautiful

and you found some things depraved

and you learned to be cynical

but you also learned how to be brave

they would call you

the prodigal daughter who

ran from home

before her time was due

could it be in the scheme of things

it's just part of some grand design

could it be we're just waiting for

all the water to turn into wine

we are free...

Edited by LoneTomato

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