Write Now! This is an experiment by Skydax and Wingwrite (both can be contacted at the address below -- the e-mail address, not the guest-book). We are people who love writers, readers, and anyone who appreciates the wonder of human language. If you would like to submit stories, poetry, wig-bubbles, blips, sketches or anything that expresses your heart and mind through words...please submit by the same address. Please do not submit graphics, as we do not have the memory capacity yet. We do welcome your ideas or suggestions. Please include your name and e-mail address with your submissions. Thanks!
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These are the most recent pieces of writing (most recent at top of page): ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Quiet Road by Robyn Nye She walked down the frozen road With nothing but her heart of gold. But little good was a heart of gold Against the fierce, freezing cold. So for a coat, her heart was sold, But without her heart, she wasn't cold. © 9/28/98 -robynN ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ untitled by Valerie Beasley © 7/18/98 a poem may be a rhyme or a piece of lines it could be about a dime fitted on a queen's behind any way that you find them they don't need to be written EVERY WEEK!!! with all my poetry love valerie ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Rae" by Robyn Nye © May, 1998 part one... Rae lived in a small, cramped apartment, but she didnít really mind. She spent most of her time at work, waitressing. She was one of only three waitresses plus the cook, Sam, and the owners, Carl and Anne. Rae wasnít really sure how The Open Inn could stay open. They had regulars, but only about seven, and they hardly ever saw new faces. When they did, they were usually out-of-towners, which meant they probably wouldnít be back. Rae was only twenty-two, but she had already worked at The Open Inn full time for over a year. She liked it there. It wasnít crowded, she knew most of the customers, and she had a lot of free time to think. She thought about all kinds of things, trying to figure out how or why things work, but mainly she thought about herself, her life. Sometimes she thought about the oddest things, like why people believed in God. Kids seem to naturally believe their parents about God and his/her existence, yet most of these kids donít listen to their parents about other things like drugs or alcohol. She wondered why that was. Perhaps because most had some sort of religious ceremony shorty after birth. They had been raised to believe in God since birth, not since their tenth birthday. ĎKnowingí something for that long, you donít question it. Or maybe a hangover just isnít as bad as eternal damnation. Religion was something that intrigued Rae. People seem so skeptical about most things, yet can put all their faith in one place without question. And you donít really have a choice. You follow whatever faith your parents were and their parents before them. And how can there be so many faiths? And how can each faith be so sure they are right and all the other faiths are wrong? What if itís your faith thatís wrong? Would you go to heaven and be denied entrance because you believed in the wrong religion most of your life? It probably wasnít even your choice. Sometimes Rae came up with explanations and sometimes she didnít. But she almost always ended up with a headache. Rae was not the most educated person, but she was always thinking, sorting things out. Rae had decided she was an Ďundefined character.í She listened to eulogies and interviews a lot and always heard what other people thought of the other person, but when Rae thought of how other people would think of her, she was confused. Perhaps they would say she was nice or kind or something, but overall, she had yet to be defined. No one would say she would do anything if you asked, or that she made her own rules to live by. Rae had come to the decision that she should become something. But she couldnít decide what type of person she was going to be. She wanted to be known as giving, her own person, determined, sweet, the kind of person who didnít tell a lie, didnít hold back their opinions, couldnít say a thing if it hurt someone else. But these all clashed. If you didnít hold anything back, you couldnít be one of those people who couldnít hurt anyone's feelings. Such a puzzle. Was this the type of thing you could choose? Are you just who you are? This is about the time her head would start to hurt. Time to watch a soap or something, her brain needed the break. Her Crowded Room On the top shelf of her closet sat a box Filled with old holiday and birthday cards. Closer to eye level, sat hats, Once her grandmothers. On top of a cabinet across the room Was a crystal box, Engraved with her grandfatherís initials. And spread across her desk and dresser Were pictures of friends and family. A pink stuffed elephant given to her ten years prior >From her best friend Was carefully displayed. On her dresser sat a trinket box, Received on her birthday from her aunt. Next to it, a card from her brother, in a golden frame. A leather pouch filled with tumbled stones from her father Hung off the bed post. And nearby, a music box >From her mother, played ďMy Favorite ThingsĒ many nights. These little things were carefully woven Throughout the room, Adorning it. Making it hers. -- Robyn Nye -- copyright 4/24/98 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ WILLOW TREE I am floating in a dark oblivion inside a willow tree. I donít understand. Itís an enigma to me. I think this oblivion holds all the things I am trying to forget or deny. Can somebody help me? I will take any reply. My posture is curved and my eyelids hang low. I have lost the will to live; I no longer glow. Can someone redeem me from this pain of mine? Make me smile let me shine? Can I place my sorrow in your hand? And will you crush it up into grains of sand? Or am I the only one who can redeem me? Swim out of this oblivion and chop this tree? Open my eyes and stand up straight? Start a new life with a clean slate? Can I glow; can I shine, If I accept the things that I decline? Love, happiness, peace and more Are the things I fear to explore. I guess I have to wake up and see, That I can only do this for me. Others tried to love me, but I pushed them away. And thatís what led me to fade away. Megan Hoover--2/98 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Last of the Pythagorians by Steve Mooney copyright -- 3/31/98 Banishing the subterranean darkness in glorious illumination, quicker than thought, the blazing inferno of Earth's sun rose to its ultimate apex in the azure noon sky. Finally the sun rose above the lip of a deep shaft, somewhere in driest East Africa to shoot tongues of fire upon the wretched inhabitant of a dusty hole. The occupant flinched back into a not-quite delirious state of consciousness. Clarity of mind returned to him only after burst of fresh agony as his broken bones wrought deeper despair with his body's shift of position. A hysterical laugh/moan rose from his parched lips, up from the hole in the ground to greet the sun, which was now exactly overhead. If this isn't the mother of all ironies thought the man in the hole. He was now confined to thinking (rather than talking) to himself, on account of his cracked ribs. How fitting. For centuries in light and in darkness (always in secret) we of the order of Pythagoras have met to render down the patterns of the universe. We have tried to break down reality; however in the end it is reality that breaks us. I, Anonymicles, disciple of Abd al-Azrad, last heir to the legacy of Pythagoras and destined to unravel the elder secrets of nature, meet my demise at the hoof of a malnourished donkey, and now succumb to thirst at the bottom of an unsanctified well in the backwaters of Africa. The sun didn't seem to recognize the humor of the moment, it just blazed with redoubled fury on the man in the hole, and the desolate landscape around. That landscape told the chances of the unfortunate fellow being rescued. Slim to none, odds favoring none. Against his will he found himself computing those odds, even though his chances were a matter of rhetoric. Possibly a merchant will pass by, see the well, and think there is water. Perhaps a shepherd will happen along. Perhaps... Computation and contemplation dwindled away to nihilism. What good are odds to a man dying of thirst? Can he drink them? Can the secrets of the universe bind wounds, deliver a man from suffering? Not even a dune or mesa to pay him homage. Just cracked hardpan and a low ridge of sandstone marking the grave of one of the greats. He gave himself a mental chuckle. In the long afternoon, night, and morning since his downfall his wearied mind had passed through dejection and despair to a mood of resignation. It was my dumb ass that landed me here, he thought neither in English nor in so colloquial a manner, but such was the spirit of his words. His actual thoughts conformed to the strict linguistics of Latin, (now not so dead a language) though with ease he could couch his thinking in Greek, in Hebrew, or (befitting this locale) Arabic. Again, he laughed in idle muse. Where is that stupid beast? He hadn't seen anything of the pack-mule since his unfortunate tumble. Most likely it would be halfway to Crete by now. Fitting: In three-week's journey into this cursed land, I can't goad that donkey to more than a leisurely stroll, despite cursing like a slave-driver aboard an Imperial war galley. Then the foul animal sprints away swift as an arrow at the first sight of an asp at its hooves, kicking and baying the whole time. Not once did his beast of burden peer over the edge of the hole since the two parted company. He replayed for the thousandth time the whole incident in his head as he giggled half mad. What are the odds? Just as he had finished his calculations, just after the sun had hit its zenith on the equinox, over a nameless place in the wastes, fate had intervened. He had recorded all his data as per the methods that led to true power. He was about to begin his interpretations. He needed to consult one of the dozens of scrolls in his saddlebags, hauled all the way from the library of Alexandria through the sheer willpower of man and mule to this dust pit, a little south and east of the Red Sea, across from Asia Minor. He needed to look up an exactly derived value of an exactly derived angle. He did not trust his copious memory of the resultants of the trigonometric ratios for a matter of this importance. The shape of the world to come depended on the accuracy of this project. A simple sine chart, the most accurate tabulation of the needed values that he could find in the Roman sphere of influence, would hold the key to this quest. Measurements and formulae and computations filled the inky papyrus in his hand as he strode around the lip of the well to his donkey, which was tethered to the crumbling water-raising apparatus. He started rummaging through the saddlebag. He fumbled with his materials, so enthusiastic was he with the zest of his discoveries. This is the day! he thought, giddy with excitement over the import of the computations he was about to make. The very shape of the world, even its approximate curvature and size, if my theories are correct! The harmonies, tapestries, patterns, and permutations of the natural world whirled stroboscopically through the mind of Anonymicles, last of the Pythagorean Order. All through trigonometry, using the angle of the sun in relation to the bottom of a well, which was serendipitously located on his proposed line of circumference of the earth, which like it or not was about to be proven round. This was the equinox, when day and night were equal, so the proposed angles of the sun would be directly perpendicular to the lay of the land, allowing one to see the bottom of the well in full sunlight. Along with the measurement of the time it took for the shadows of the well's sides to return to normal, and a few other measurements and computations, a mathematically-minded man could unlock the keys of the universe. The earth's size, its shape, the relationship between Earth, sun, and the heavens, all could be defined and calculated. All of nature lay open to the understanding of man. If the wise and the bold could only do as he had just done: think it through, experiment, and learn. This was his life's purpose. Men such as Anonymicles were rare as whiskers on a eunuch in the best of times, but now they were especially thin on the ground. He reflected on his motivations.Had I given one hoot for the Empire, I'd be engineering the rain cover of an aqueduct running uphill into an especially boorish and decadent pleasure-polis, and making civil servant's wages for the lot. Or perhaps computing the logistics of nail-manufacture for he legions, allowing me to contribute to the crucifixions of fellow free-thinkers throughout our beloved Empire. Bah! A Pythagoreans's place (any thinking man's place, for that matter) is in the field, discovering what needs to be discovered, putting order to a chaotic universe in the endless catalog of facts and truths... Just then, a dun-colored serpent slithered around a rock outcropping at the donkey's feet. The beast went wild, pitching scrolls, papyrus, and clay tablets everywhere, and managing to land its owner a telling kick to the stomach in its rage. The breath had left his lungs and he had plummeted down the narrow well, many times deeper than he was tall, to strike the dry and dusty earth at the shaft's bottom with the sickening crunch of bone. He knew himself dead when he regained consciousness many hours later. The well, curiosity of nature, was bone-dry, for all its importance to the great mathematicians and astronomers of the Western world. It was unforgiving upon impact, and he could not muster the strength to climb up the smooth flags of porous stone that lined the shaft. This area was nowhere near to civilization, and even if it were, he could not summon breath to make his plight known to any passer-by. He was doomed, and he could take comfort only in the knowledge that he who intercepted his wayward donkey in its wild flight would also find his notes: volumes of notes ,in half the civilized tongues of the world, that outlined this project in detail. Along with his preliminary research into the matter, and the calculations from other wells in other places (in accordance with the equinox), others would take up his work. His discoveries would not be lost, even though he would be. With wry amusement he mused that, upon the next equinox, his successor would find Anonymicles' dessicated body staring up from the bottom of the well, fully illuminated by the enlightening sun. Breath was getting harder and harder, but the mind worked on despite the flagging of the body. Calculations flickered through the heightened awareness of Anonymicles, equations and values swirling together in his last moments of genius. There. A pause...That's it? At long last, the size of the earth! The value shocked him, but as he checked and rechecked the work of his mind, there could be no doubting it. The world is a very small place. Continuing on its blazing track across the sky (or not, if Anonymicles' astronomical theories are to be believed) the sun's beams slowly departed the bottom of the well, and cold greeted the shadowed, shattered figure in the depths, leaving him once again in darkness. His hand thrust feebly outwards in a warding gesture, the pentagram branded upon his palm giving a last farewell to light. He reflected on his discoveries. I was wrong the whole time. Law, theories, formulas, logic? Maybe in a world without madmen, or donkeys, or asps, or anything else in the mix, you'd have to be a god to plot everything out, for good or for ill, and measure it, and quantify it, and back it up with solid proof. Luck, fate, accident, and error : these are the driving forces behind this universe. What are the odds? The mother of all ironies! Silence! He thought no more. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nonsense by Robyn Nye I am not stubborn I donít care what you say I am opinionated But I don't always have to have my way I am not stubborn And you will not prove me wrong I know I am not stubborn My will is simply strong But stubborn I am not And that I know for sure You are the stubborn one Thatís right! Not I, but her! She is the insistent one! Need I prove more? I am not the stubborn one And what are you staring at me for? -- copyright, Robyn Nye 3/30/98 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Forgotten Chant It was a chant I would say so softly and dear to myself each passing hour, It sent feelings through my soul that exploded the worldís outer limits, and were discarded as childís play to the passing bodies that were never capable of feeling such a miraculous thing. It allowed me to feel content with myself and made me beautiful in a land of shriveled minds. As a ship at sea, it paid no heed to the gulls overhead, for their foreign tongue spoke nothing of truth. It was a thimble upon my own finger, that guarded me against the inharmonious objects that pierced through the night. Holding me tight, as to not let me go, it restrained me from running paralyzed with fear from the formidable waves that came crashing down onto my cold, shivering body each and every moment, and stood beside myself with no empty breath between us, only one cold flesh pressed soundly against a warm soul, so as to stand firmly against the rushing, speeding liquid, and be capable of lifting our heads above the rush and roar, and place our eyes upon the sunlit sky that brightens the mind, and clears our thoughts. Growing old, it becomes lost among all the things gathered upon the shore. Now left to face fear alone, I recall sweet words that once touched my lips so often gather again, and whisper them softly, so that one day they may travel to the forgotten lying upon the shore, and bring life once again. -- Valerie Beasley -- copyright May, 1996 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~