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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 - December 2007

Stars in my Head; Part One Chapter 9

December 31st 2007 12:58
SHARNEE’S BOOK
Today the funeral is on.
Lola.
Sometimes it’s strange how strong words can be. Some people jabbering on for hours might not have an affect on our class.
You say ‘Lola,’ the room goes silent.

THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL;

Michael stood straight up. The ferns around him swayed crisp and green. His black jacket was too hot, his tie was uncomfy. Faith stood across from him, with her parents, tears pissing out her saddened eyes. She managed a tight smile at Michael, then broke down again. Michael nodded at her.

Sharnee moved up to stand beside him. Her face was sad, but she wasn’t crying. Unlike the other females, she didn’t wear a dress, but instead a tie and suit, much like Michael’s. She put her hand on his shoulder.

“Y’right?”

He gave a small shaky nod. It wasn’t raining, like on TV. It was a blue happy cloudless day.

They gathered, outside in bushland among ferns and palm trees. Lola had always loved this place.

Her coffin lay in the middle of the clearing. The sound of running water came from the distance. A small distance from the coffin sat an altar. No one had come to speak yet. There was no priest at the ceremony. Lola used to talk about priests at funerals, called them a waste of space. She believed in God, but not priests.

Tom stood among them, looking lost. He began to move up, leaning over to Lola’s father first to ask him a question, then going up to the altar.

“G’day,” He said. “I’m Tom. I have to… want to talk about Lola. She was a friend of mine, a friend I knew well. She was fantastic. A wonderful person. She had that weird out there-ness about her that we all admired.

I think we all wish there was something else we said to her. How much we cared for her, loved her. How we needed her. I wish I told her, told her that I was in love with her. You don’t know how I wish for that.

We surfed. Surfed together, me and Lola. I called her Loldog out there. It was silly, sort of. Silly but fun. And that’s what you have to hold onto – the good times. The love of it all. You, you have to hold onto that, and never let it go, cos it only comes along once.

Once surfing she hit the rocks real hard, screwed up where we were. Broke her leg. And we ended up at the bottom of this cliff and she screamed at me, to get her out of the water. I manage to get her to this spot, on land and she lay there, breathing hard and fast. I said I’d get an ambulance, and told her not to be scared.

And she told me, “I’m not scared. The water burns your lungs. I didn’t want to sink and hurt my throat like that. I’m not afraid to die. I’m not. If I was afraid to die I’d be afraid to live. Get help Tom. I like surfing with you.” That’s probably a paraphrase. When I got back she was fine, just about. She could have been chopped in half and survived, she had that amazing strength just burning inside her. When the car crash happened she should have died on impact, it was that hard. But she lived.

Faith requested I read something. A poem Lola wrote, with another verse by Faith.” He cleared his throat. “So let them come to my grave
Let them speak their words of love
Below the souls, crush they below
I lay not there but above
I touch your skin with breath
In hopeful wind I try
To seep in your soul
So do not cry
Do not cry at my grave
Laugh for my love
Don’t search for my body below
Invite my spirit above
Do not stand over my ashes, tears at your eyes.
Do not love me as a memory
Love me as my spirit above
And
Remember me.
Touch my soul
Let my spirit surround you
I am there with you
When you pummel through your life
In speeds of perfection
I am the stars
I am the stars in your head”

***
“Party’s on tomorrow”

They sat on the port racks, Faith and Michael’s on one side, Tom leaning on Sharnee, George sitting down.

“Y’did a good job yesterday Tom.”

“Thanks”

Faith looked away, then back. Michael put his arm over her shoulder and she leaned on him.

Sharnee raised an eyebrow.

She hated how other girls did that. She couldn’t just swoon merrily into some guys arms. It was all bullshit really. Just wanting to be owned. She couldn’t do that.

“Y’bringin’ alcohol?” asked Sharnee.

“Light beer. Maybe one or two fruit cocktail drink things. Not much.” Tom leaned over to Sharnee’s ear and whispered. “An’ none o’ your weird shit, eh Sharn?”

“Piss off. Y’know it’s over.”

“I’ve known that before.”

“When’s it start?” asked Michael.

“Whenever. Late-ish”

“Want me to pick you up Faith?” Faith nodded.

“You got a car to drive, Mike?”

“My brother does. He lives out at a flat now.”

“Cool”

***

Michael opened the door to his house and jumped at the sight of Maverick Bootlicks dressed in silver metal clothing from head to foot, his silver face paint glistening in the sun.

“What the hell are you doing here you daft chump!” Michael stepped back. The man really did not seem quite right in the head.

“I live here?”

“Is there a problem Maverick?” came his Grans voice, arching out from down the hall.

“This masticated little circus midget claims to live her. He’s invading my personal space!” His Gran marched out to the doorway and looked at Michael.

“I certainly don’t see the problem. For goodness sake Maverick, get out of the doorway and let my grandson, who I can assure you does live under my roof, come inside.”

“He… I’m so sorry Agnes! I had no idea…”

“It does not matter. Michael, Mr Bootlicks and I were discussing his electoral campaign. Would you be kind enough to temporally remove yourself from the area of our delicate discussions?”

“Kay” Michael left, dumping his bag on the ground.

“Now Mr Bootlicks… why the hell have I heard nothing of your goodness?! I want you to make an effort, to present yourself as the good guy of the community. Your results are revoltingly low! I cannot even try to invasion your success as you appear to possess a phobia of doing anything slightly nice!”

“I tried Agnes! I did! I went to collect for the World Escapeheart appeal, raising more that any other collector involved!”

“I thought that was the fake appeal, designed for illegal activities and cash embezzlement. Is this a different appeal?”

“No. But I didn’t know! And the next thing, all major supporters are getting jail sentences! I wiped my name off the list. So I can’t very well let it slip and hope word gets out can I?”

“Well. I don’t know what you should do. But, you must do it soon – the election increases with the speed of a hurtling meteorite.”

“Don’t worry Agnes. Failure is not something I am good at”

“Lost your touch recently?”

Maverick glared and left.
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Stars in my head: Part One; Chapter 8

December 27th 2007 13:53
SHARNEE’S BOOK
I’m looking forward to the party. It’s good to branch out, have some fun, a bit of a drink.
Why do people have such a problem with me drinking? Doesn’t affect them.
It affects me. And I control it. What shits me is how everyone reckons I do it to be cool. I do it cos I want to.
I don’t do things if I don’t want to. I don’t want to smoke. Don’t want to take pot.
All those with a problem with my drinking, raise your hand.
Now; shove it up your arse.


Faith sat at the table, scribbling in answers to algebra questions. The phone rang.

“Hello, Faith Detorris speaking.”

“Faith, it’s me.” She closed her eyes to the sound of Mikes voice. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Michael I…”

“Hang on. I just wanted to apologize. For whatever I did today. I didn’t mean it. I love you Faith. I really admire you. I think you’re beautiful, I love your hair, I love your white skin. I want to touch you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Woah. Thank you. I… shit, thanks. You… You did nothing. I just didn’t feel right. I’m so sorry I ran off. I just needed time by myself.”

“Sure. Sure, that’s fine. Hey, I’ve got your bra at my house. You kind of left it at the water tower.”

“Oh. Um, OK.”

“I’ll give you it next time I see you.”

“Sounds good. See ya.”

“See ya”

“*CLICK*”

***

“You filthy foolish scumbag!”

“Ugh” Michael rolled over slightly and opened his eyes slowly. His Gran towered over him, staring down at him angrily.

“Ugh? Mor- morning Gran.” WHUMP! A large puffy pillow belted his head. He moaned and pulled himself up.

“Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

“It was an accident?” he guessed.

WHUMP!


“I’m sorry?”

WHUMP!

“LOOK JUST TELL ME WHAT I’VE DONE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”

WHUMP!

WHUMP!

WHUMP!

WHUMP!

WHUMP!

“Arrrrg!”

“Do not presume to speak to your Grandmother in such a fashion. You should know very well what you’ve done.” And with that she held up Faiths bra.

“Oh, shit.”

WHUMP!

This was it. The end. Enter, the apocalypse. This spelt the end of Faith, the end of girls forever. His Gran was fuming with silent rage. She would destroy him. Decimate him. He would be made a priest or worse- a Gelding. Unless…

WHUMP!

“Speak, fool!”

“I, it’s… It doesn’t belong to a girl”

“Oh really? Who then does bestow the honor of wearing such silky laundry?”

“Err, it’s mine.”

And for the first time in his life, and possibly in the universe, his Gran was speechless. He continued.

“Er, when I ah, met Faith, the girl that is, I ah, no, she ah, she said I was a, to much of a, ah, manly man, so I uh, she ah, wanted me to be less of a manly man so I uh, tried to discover my feminine side?”

“Oh. I see,” said his Gran, in a tone that indicated she clearly didn’t. “So… to what extent do you plan on carrying this… experimentation to?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

His Gran proceeded to have a large coughing fit, then looked at Michael, as though she had coughed a very obvious question she expected answered.

“Do you… do you plan on experimenting with homosexual relations?”

Michael choked on his tongue.

“Er, no.”

“Oh.” His Gran gave a weak smile. “Well. That at least is a relief. Uh… yes, well. Hmmm. Yes. Well then, um, if you ever need to talk… no, stuff it! You can talk to your friends. OK. Yes. Hmmm, well. I’ll, see you later. Bye.”

She left his room, leaving Faiths bra draped over a cupboard. Michael sat on his bed and picked up a yo-yo and spun it in relief.

‘Nice Save,’ the yo-yo seemed to say.

***

Faith and Michael walked across the road, bags heavy with books, returning wearily from school.

“How far away is your house?” asked Michael.

“Round the corner an down the road.”

“Kay.” They continued down the road and turned at the corner. A series of quite large houses stood block by block in a line.

“Your house this big?”

“Round about”

They passed two more houses before Faith turned to the door of one and unlocked the door with a key from her pocket.

The door creaked open and sunlight filled the room. Mike took off his shoes and put them on the ground, along with his bag. Faith kicked off hers, walked down her hallway and opened the door to her room.

Her room was very white. A large corkboard with various pictures hung over her bed. A bookshelf full of books sat to one side of her room. A small cupboard with a digital clock, and an inactive lava lamp on the top. Michael moved up to the board to examine the pictures.
There were various animals, horses, polar bears and dolphins. Various articles from magazines among quotes. Plenty of photos of friends and relatives.

In the middle was a photo of Lola, dressed in a singlet and tight pants. It made a sort of sadness leak into Mike, right into his guts. This was how she always would be. They would grow old, have kids, jobs, lives and homes. Lola would always be the same fifteen year old memory. Just below the photo lay a poem.

Hey Faith,
This is just a poem I wrote a while ago when my uncle died. I thought I might like to show it to you.
It’s so sad!!! 
So let them come to my grave
Let them speak their words of love
Below the souls, crush they below
I lay not there but above
I touch your skin with breath
In hopeful wind I try
To seep in your soul
So do not cry


Do not cry at my grave
Laugh for my love
Don’t search for my body below
Invite my spirit above
Do not stand over my ashes, tears at your eyes.
Do not love me as a memory
Love me as my spirit above
And
Remember me. – By Lola Banks.


“It’s good eh?” Michael turned to see Faith looking at him.

“Yeah”

“You know the funeral is on tomorrow”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. It should have been on earlier but someone screwed up.”

Michael was silent, then sat on her bed. Faith sat beside him and held his hand.

“I love you Michael.” Michael gave a small smile. He kissed her mouth, his kiss becoming more passionate, pushing her down, down into the bed. The electricity returned.

Suddenly Faith pulled away, out from under him.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up. He tried to hide his annoyance but failed. It was like hiding a steak in a pitbull impound.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

“Bullshit y’don’t mind. I can tell. You think I’m frigid.”

“I don’t!”

“Michael. Don’t lie to me. You can’t lie for shit.”

Michael was silent.

“Course you think I’m frigid. Most people do. I’m just… something happened, right? In grade eight.”

“Faith, I…”

“Shh. You should probably hear this. There was this guy right? Doesn’t matter who, just a guy. We went out a bit. And he took me to his house one day, into his room. He kissed me, and I was nervous but like, going with it. And he, started … did other stuff… I told him to stop and he wouldn’t listen…”

“Did he fucking rape you?!”

“No! Like hell I’d let that happen. But he did other stuff. And the whole time I was horrified…”

“You should have stopped him.”

“I tried. Look, don’t fricking judge me on this orrite. I probably shouldn’t have told you that. But it was important, for you to know. I just, I’m not quite ready for anything. It scares me, sorta. I love you. I know you won’t hurt me. But I just can’t… not yet anyway. I need to do this slowly.”

“OK.” And the way he said it made it all so perfect again.
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Stars in My Head: Part One; Chapter 7

December 24th 2007 12:58

SHARNEE’S BOOK
Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.
Why can’t I be like that chick on TV? Wave a little incense, meditate, all that bullshit. Oh, I love myself.
I’ve got nothing to love.
Bitch.


It was war along the streets of Townmountain. Posters everywhere fought each other to the bitter end.

VOTE 1: Arnold Adams
VOTE 1: BOOTLICKS, Maverick
VoTE 1: Barry Garrys
VOTE 1: ROBERT GRIDDLE
Vote 1: Tanya McJoseph


Michael’s Gran stormed past them all and turned the corner to cross the field to between the shops and the Herreby House. While passing by the posters unwatched, she also took the opportunity to give Tanya McJoseph a goatee and a Hitler mustache.

Being subtle was not one of her greater attributes.

She crossed the field to the Herreby house. Her hands tightened on the documents she held. Crossing the ground, she arrived at the door and pushed the doorbell.

‘Ding dong,’ it said, in a tone which clearly suggested it was bored of being like every other doorbell.

The door opened and Maverick, metal covered and silver faced appeared in the doorway.

“Tell me something good, and tell it to me fast. I have a performance to leave for in twelve minutes. I won’t be late”

“Well for Gods sake, take that stupid hat off while I’m talking to you. Now, I’m afraid the news is unfortunate. You’re losing the poll. Badly.”

“Dammit! I told you this would happen! It’s all because of that typo! People want to be controlled by people who know their way around the Scrabble board.”

“Quite on the contrary Mr Bootlicks. The person topping the poll has thrice the mistakes made on the poster advertisement. And despite your generous expenses in order to gain a fruitful result, he appears to have ignored the offered olive branch and deter from humbling our television screens with his noble presence. I shall tell you way you appear at the bottom of the biscuit barrel. It’s because they hate you.”

“Well how am I supposed to deal with that!? I don’t have time for kissing babies! And who knows what germs they carry.”

“Well, to your misfortune the time for silly little stunts like that is long over. Your only hope now is to perform an extreme act of obvious kindness. Adoption and donation are meant to silent, so that’s no good. Working at hospitals is clichéd. You need something new. Something… pure. Kind. From the bottom of your heart”

“The bottom of my heart is bullshit Agnes, all I want is to win this thing and let me tell you now; I will not be overthrown like last time. I will do anything. No matter how pathetic or cheesy. You just tell me what to do Agnes. Now, I have a show so, excuse me.”

He pushed past Mikes Gran, slamming the door and storming into his car.

“Goodbye Agnes!”

***

“I’m havin’ a party,” said Tom. Lounging over the port racks, George, Sharnee, Mike and Faith turned to face him.

“When?”

“Saturday week. M’parents are doing some trip thing, house is mine on the weekend. You mob wanna come?”

“Yeah”

“Hell yeah!”

“Kay”

“Um,” said Faith. “I’ll check.”

“Sounds good.”

They sat, leaning against the port racks for some time. There really was nothing better to do.

***

Faith and Michael sat, in the dead field between the Herreby house and Faiths house talking in low voices.

“You coming to Tom’s party Faith?”

“Dunno. I sorta want to, if you’re there. But I don’t like George. He scares me. And Sharnee’s not good with parties. She takes a bit of an excess. Of everything. Anyway, they’ll be drinking and smoking…”

“Sharnee doesn’t smoke.”

“George does. And I think Tom might too.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad. Almost definitely alcohol but nothing too bad.”

“I hope not. In grade nine, last year, early, when Sharnee was still into all that weird shit, I went to one of those parties. I remember Sharnee coming home with me, stoned out of her brain, and me telling her parents she was just tired. And every so often she’d say ‘Pleat!’ and burst into laughter and her parents would ask me again and I’d tell them she was tired. Then she’d say something like, ‘What do you call a stinky shoe?” and her dad’d say ‘What?’ and she’d say ‘Pleat!’ and the whole thing would start again.”

“I don’t reckon it’ll be like that”

“I hope not.”

“May I kiss you now?” The question took Faith off guard.

“I… yeah. OK.”

Michael smiled and kissed Faith on the mouth. Their lips slid over each other like sexy seaslugs. Michael put his arms around Faith. Suddenly Faith began to pull herself away. Michael released her.

“You right?”

“Yeah, just… we’re just a bit, y’know. Exposed.”

Michael looked out to the Herreby house. Faith followed his gaze.

“The water tower?” He suggested. Faith nodded.

They ran across the field, laughing with controlled insanity. At the water tower, Mike opened the door to the small brown cottage under the tower’s long white legs. They ran in, and leant against the walls. Gardening tools surrounded them, rakes, hoes, machetes, spades and other assorted whatnots hung in every possible place. Michael pushed a small family of rakes to the ground and moved Faith to have her back on the wall, then kissed her.

This time it felt different. Faith felt a strong, mad energy burning in her, electricity sparking at her fingertips. It was like a giant green beam of power was rumbling madly in her chest, rebounding off her heart, threatening to blow her into tiny pieces at any moment. It was like…

…A mass of stars had exploded in her head.

The energy only grew stronger as…

“SHIT!” she screamed, grabbing Mike and hurling him to the ground. A red metal pitchfork whirred over his head, crashing into the wall.

“Yaaaaaaahhhh!!!” screamed George, crashing through the cottage and swinging a metal rake madly, trying to totally and utterly assimilate anything in his way. Faith jumped to her feet, trying to help Mike pick himself up.

“What the, BHLARGH!” cried Mike as George belted his chin and sent him hurtling back into the wall, pounding into the wood. George swung repeatedly and ran at Mike, who tore another rake off the wall and clashed it against George’s rake. The prongs entwined and Mike spun his, flinging George’s into a row of leaf blowers. He then jumped forward and whacked George across the face, then threw his rake to the ground as George scrambled to his feet and grabbed a hoe. Faith grabbed Mike and pulled his arm, urging him out the door.

They ran, George swinging the hoe maniacally, the cruel sharp prongs missing Mikes neck by a centimeter. As they shut the door the three hoe prongs smashed out the door in a cracking splutter of splinters.

“Stay out! Stay out! Piss off! Go away! Leave me alone! Alone y’hear! Alone! Piss off!”

They stood, panting, leaning up against the wall.

“I think George’s lost it,” said Mike quietly.

“He never had it. He’s a nutcase.” There was a silence for a few minutes. Michael turned his head to Faith.

“You wanna come to my house?” asked Michael, then moved over to kiss her again. But the energy was gone. Faith kept still a few seconds then pulled away from him.

“I’m sorry.”

And she left, crossing the field to her house.
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Christmas

December 22nd 2007 09:45
That Time of Year When Everyones Always Happy For the Reason They Should be Happy Always
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Stars in My Head: Part One; Chapter Six

December 20th 2007 12:58
SHARNEE’S BOOK
Faith is better. So it seems at least. She rang me up last night, saying oh how great Michael is and, Oh how cool he is. She didn’t actually say how cool he is (cos he isn’t) but you get the picture.
I can’t believe I’m so jealous.

[ Click here to read more ]
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Some People Don't Share What We Want

December 17th 2007 10:28
Deep into a forest
Taking snow by storm.
Fire is like a friend


[ Click here to read more ]
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1 Bad People are Pretty Cool. I don’t mean to defend the whole pimp, serial killer, drug dealer, pornographer scene. What I do mean is that when a Heroin dealer is hanging out at the pub with his mates, he isn’t wearing a scowl and a trench-coat and a scowl. He’s just an average everyday bloke enjoying a laugh and a cold one – and he just so happens to deal Heroin. I’m not telling you your bad guys can’t be bastards – just that they can’t be comic book cut outs. Don’t write about ‘Killers’ and ‘Dealers’. Write about interesting character who also ‘Kill’ or ‘Deal’.

2. Things that end up OK aren’t always complexly resolved. It really makes me cringe when you read about someone really badly offending their friend or relative, and never apologising or making amends. However, this is a good cringe – it means someone has captured the reality of unresolved-ness.

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(this is a continuation and re-imagination of the previous unfinished series 'Guilt and Me', the main character has been renamed Jack, all other details remain the same).

The next day there was numbness inside of me, the healing from my wounds were starting to heal already. I didn’t want it to but I had to accept it, wounds heal, new wounds open. Brendan didn’t say much that morning as we prepared for the long march ahead of us, the long march for the long day in the longest night of my life. Sweating from the heat we headed out, through the mud, through the trees, the bodies of water, through the jungles intestines we soldiered on carrying our heavy gear along with us


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Big And Little

December 11th 2007 01:40
Big and little
Sit on a bridge
And Big kills Little

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Ton's Ten Pieces of Advice for Writers

December 10th 2007 13:20
1. Know how to spell. If you’ve read an Irvine Welsh novel you’ll know that you don’t have to spell well. As Welsh might write ‘It’s nae gud tae stick tae the rules if thae dinae git things interestin’. However the reason Welsh can mess with the English Language so intensely is because he has some idea of what the rules are, so he can break them effectively. If we can’t read your draft because we keep hitting words like ‘nessisery’, you’ve already lost your credibility (and your potential publisher.)

2. Blog. I know that all you Starbucks writing snobmongers will turn up your precious little noses and wave your quaint little copy of Heart of Darkness at me and tell me that a ‘blog is barely a form of art’. It sure as hell isn’t, but the first few days of a kid learning drums sure isn’t music. Blogging doesn’t amount to good writing, but it does amount to constant writing which really does one thing for you in a massive way – it helps you develop your voice as a writer. Once you have your voice, the rest is easy(ish).

[ Click here to read more ]
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Bus Stop

December 9th 2007 10:55
PROMPT: Depict an interaction between three characters.

The man reaches into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette, shifting uncomfortably on the bus stop seat. He stuffs it between his lips and tries unsuccessfully to light it


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Pepsi Vs Coke, The Epic Battle

December 8th 2007 05:07
Coke Identifies 'wif da yoof'
I know it's true and here's the proof;
They know what music means to me

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Fatty McFatt

December 7th 2007 09:52
Fatty McFatt
Sat on a Cat
The Cat was Flat

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Stories on Blogs

December 3rd 2007 12:38
Jack Kerouak On the Road Scroll
We need to stop thinking of stories on the Internet as Adaptations of this kind and instead consider them as a NEW art form.


Stories have been around for many, many years. Before literacy skills were widespread, they were often spread by word of mouth. After the invention of the Gutenberg press though things changed. Stories when written would emphasise words with large text – when spoken, would have important bits spoken with emphasis. Complex places and creatures could even be drawn rather than described


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