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Downwrite - Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull; Rod Serling

Downwrite - July 2007

Max started to waddle down the isle. As he waddled across he heard a noise from the far-left corner of the herbs and spices isle.

“Grubba Zubba Noo!” Max turned around but no one was there. He kept waddling.
“RUBBA BUBBA DOO!” He turned around again but no one was there. He kept waddling.
“KUBBA WUBBA POO!!!” He turned around, an out of the isle came a Common Norwegian Nose-Gobbler!

“Aaaarrrrg!” Screamed Max and waddled away as fast as his extraordinarily short legs would carry him. But he waddled in vain. The nose gobbler jumped in front of him and gobbled his nose.

“Aaaaaarg!” screamed Max, poking the nose gobbler, then wielding his rubber chicken and preparing for battle. The nose gobbler sent fourth his trusty tong and ate the rubber chicken.
“RUBBA CHUBBA NOO!” It exclaimed.

“Errr yes, that’s all very well, but I need my nose back” Said Max. When the Nose gobbler refused to spit it out he pulled out the cane toad launcher out and aimed it at him. The Nose gobbler sent forth his tong again and ate it. Now everyone knows that Cane toads are poisonous, but few know the particularly terrible effect they have of Nose gobblers. The nose gobbler wibbled and wobbled, bubbled and fizzled, squiggled and boggled and then with a huge “BIP!” his nose turned into a cauliflower.

“Aaaaarg!” Screamed the nose gobbler. Max grabbed a bottle of not-so-mixed herbs from the shelf and bashed the nose gobbler over the head until it ran off and hid. He put the now-very-mixed herbs on the shelf and waddled down the isle. Soon he heard a rumbling sound. Max waited in anticipation, arming himself with a bottle of Basil. Around the corner came the lost grade seven class of 1992.

“Help” Whimpered the teacher. The grade sevens grinned maniacally, holding the teacher by the ear. Their hair was wild and woolly, and their teeth had mostly fallen out.

“Do any of you know how I can get my nose back?” called Max. One grade sevener said something and they all laughed.

“Nah, and we can’t help you either, we’re busy” Said the leader, who’s name was Tom.

“Doing what?” asked Max.

“We’re seeing who can throw the teacher furthest!” Said the fat second in command, called Dick.

“That’s terrible!” Cried Max.

“Ain’t it just? Wanna go?” asked third in command, a pimply fellow called Barry.

“Never! Your evil scheme must be prevented! I will fight to the death with my…” Max realized he was armed only with a container of basil, and the other students wielded jabbing-sticks. He dropped the basil and picked up the teacher and threw him all the way out of the shopping centre.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaăaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaāaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaąrrg!!!!!!!!!!!!” Said the teacher.

“Cool!” Cried Barry, and ran after him with all the other students. Max waddled out the isle as fast as his very little legs could carry him.
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Rise Above

July 28th 2007 12:42
Today
I chose to rise above society
Not throgh being better
More ethical or spirital
More self rightious
More restrained
More poite
Less Judgemental
More Kind
Less predictable

BUT

By finally accepting
That I, like the others
Have Not
And Never Will
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I am a Blog

July 26th 2007 02:33
I am a blog
I talk to you
I am nice
I am true
I am funny
You will smile
You will play with me
For a while
You will learn
I will teach
You'll feed of me
Just like a leech
You'll click ads
I'll make cash
I'll buy a USB
To add to my stash
You will add me
To R double S
Which reminds me of porn...
No, wait; I digress
You'll leave me alone
So sad and bored
Until I write more
To entertain the hord
You'll see my new post
On Google Reader then
And You'll come back
And we'll be together again.
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How to write good Microfiction.

July 23rd 2007 07:01
The rules of a good piece of Microfiction.

1. Be short. I know this seems obvious, but people tend to miss the obvious sometimes. Everything about Microfiction is short, not just the overall word count. If 'her breath was lucid with the deep musky tang of strawberry, wafting feintly though the air barely in front of my face, like a lost memory, cloaked in ambiguity,' then your're using too many words. You can be thrifty with words and creative at the same time


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WARNING. This article is an analysis of Harry Potter 7. Naturally it’s going to have some pretty heavy spoilers. Don’t want to know – STOP READING.

I first noticed how political the Harry Potter books were in number six, where the Wizarding world alerted the Muggle Prime Minister to the dangers of Voldemort. The dealing of prominent political issues through the world of magic fascinated and delighted me


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Jesus

July 18th 2007 04:45
Jesus came to Earth
Walked in the garden
Looked over to me

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kcuf.

July 17th 2007 08:22
It hurts
You know the pain
But I go back

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Piece of Girl

July 16th 2007 05:41
Boy reach out
To the travelling flock
Grime and kisses

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ME AND MY HAIR- FROM THE STORY.

July 14th 2007 12:54
Me and my hair
Once were both there
But now we are apart

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Fred was too lazy to go through the herbs and spices isle so he went out of Woolworth’s, and made his way towards the transporter shop.

“The ones that are grown by Aussie farmers!” Said a passing young lout with big ears.On the way there the ground suddenly shook.

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Is This For Real?

July 11th 2007 04:35
She was right behind me, sitting three seats back in the bus. Every once in a while I'd try to sneak a glimpse of her, even if only temporary. I didn't want her to know I was trying to get glimpses of her though she may have already figured it out, after all, we'd been taking the same bus for the past three months and everytime I had endeavoured to grab a few gazes at her, microseconds in length so that she wouldn't notice.

My friends would just ask me why I wouldn't talk to her, and everytime I'd reply the same 'she's beautiful and smart, I'm ugly and stupid'. Even today I'm not sure how true my statement was or to what degree I agree with it. Was, or is my self esteem really so low


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Sated Heart

July 10th 2007 14:16
PROMPT - Write a piece of Fiction starting with the sentence "He'd warned her about the book.


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BloodRats

July 10th 2007 09:56
He had warned her about the book. At first, six, maybe seven months ago, uploading it to the Internet alone in his room, he’d presumed there’d be no need for him to ever admit to writing it.

He’d used the pseudonym Lentil from a book his cousin lent him. However somehow, the impossible had happened. It had become wildly popular, circulated through MSN, P2P, websites and God knows what else. There was even a page on Wikipedia about it


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THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT

July 6th 2007 06:15


She thought of hope as this thing that went farther and farther away, and he went farther and farther away, and when she stepped closer, he would only stumble farther. She couldn’t complain, for what was there to complain about, what kind of ungratefulness did she truly deserve? It never rained it was always sunny but she was there. There was no sad song on the radio but she was there. Children laughed but she was there. She was there her curly hair. Her makeup and finger prints and fingernails and that extended, cruel silence – it had no beat, it had no rhythm, it had no up or down it was simply there and it chose not to abandon her. It embraced her whether she liked it or not. That silence, the cloudy drop. Where is he now, what is he eating? Where are you now? What are you eating? She did not know how, nor what breath she was seeing. And she met a man and paid him to tell her it’s not her fault, her heart would not halt for her body, it was not her fault. His smile was fake and his eyes were broken, and they lay on top of crumpled sheets, and he whispered, This Is Not Your Fault.
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GIFT FOR MASTER

July 6th 2007 04:56
Down in the bushes behind the Church, jumping enthusiastically across the dirt, flits a tiny wren. It’s movements create miniature dust storms, flecks sparkling in the breeze.

It continues to play in the dust, dancing like the breeze itself, merrily oblivious to the rustling in the grass behind it. Oblivious to the glowering yellow eyes greedily staring at it, the taught, tenses muscle crouched, prepared to pounce. The very thought of danger itself is far from it’s mind, until the very moment it feels itself knocked down, pummelled into the dirt, followed by the sensation of it’s attackers teeth, plunging through it’s insufficient skin, deep into its body


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It is said, that on your head
Once mortal coil is snuffed
Your hair will show, and continue to grow

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