Sixteen chickens were now living on 'Ol Joe's farm. They were sitting and clucking around and not knowing exactly what to do.
The mom chicken gave birth to one; it was a boy. It was excited, clucking around. The sky was free and everything flowed like a feather in a breeze. It was great. Everything was good. It was the only chicken born to the mother. He wanted friends or siblings. "-Cluck- I need to have to fun -cluck- We could run around on this clucking farm together -cluck-"
It was another boy that was born! On the same day and same time that the first chicken was born. Happy. The first chicken was extremely happy. He looked at the new chicken, it looked almost exactly like him. Twins. However, it was more strange because the new chicken seemed to be the same age as the old chicken, even though he was just born. "-Cluck- Big ol' twin" The new chicken smiled at the old chicken. He seemed quite able for his age. The future seemed to be friendship.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. This chicken even bigger. There were three chickens now and they were clucking and confused. "Cluck" " Yes, this is strange. This chicken seems to look like both -cluck- of us" It did. This chicken seemed to be the same as the others. Three year old chicken born at the day. They were all clucking and confused. "Cluck" "Cluck" "We're friends!" said the new chicken.
They were happy but overwhelmed. Their ideas were conflicted now. Were these chickens the same age, because it seemed like they were. Or were these chickens separated by a year, because it seemed like they were. "Cluck" They clucked a lot on the farm. That's all they did for a little bit in silence. They decided to keep enjoying their time together and continuing on with life.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. All the chickens had grown significantly. But out of the egg in 'Ol Joe's farm, that chicken was the same size and seemed to be the same age. Were they all the same chicken separated by a year? -cluck- -cluck- -cluck- or what? They did not know what to do, they all had become great friends. They were thinking of two ideas, but continuing to cluck.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. Things were feather free still. This chicken was the same size and age as the other chickens. However, the chickens had gotten older. and became more intelligent. It is confusing because the new chicken was just as intelligent. They looked at each other with chicken eyes and clucked again.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. It became to be an uncomfortable malaise. The chickens did not know what to do. They loved their brother but were more -clucki- -cluck- confused. They decided they need to keep on going. "-Cluck- Let's play hopscotch" "Yes"
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. It was the same size, mind, and seemed to be the same age as the other chickens, j
The theme isthere, nothing written happensof the pines. From the homesthe fall of an ordinarykind, inhabited and tedious that the pagan isby nature one. Music didnot insist on the smallestnumber, insteadan empty world, thishallucination just asold the wisdomof a youngtree. What I hear isdemented, ormore politely,one thing.
I can't really say that I ever know what to write. So much of my time is spent stuck in the constant turning-over of thoughts in my brain that writing becomes a practice of rehashing what I've already thought of, making it more of a chore than I would like it to be. The conversations in my head tend to be so loud that they muffle the voices of those around me, so I don't tend to speak to a lot of people. What's there to say when you cannot listen? There are many people who often start a conversation with me only to quickly become bored or uncomfortable due to my short (or lack of) response. These people then begin to believe that I am arrogant, off-putting. I wish it were the case that I was so smart that I was somehow above conversing with people. No. It is simply that I do not know how. It's as though words dissolve in my chest before they can even make it up my throat. My face remains stoic as they wait on a response, not sensing my distress, my inability to form words in my mouth. I simply stand, stagnate, choking myself with the words I can't seem to say. My head's so low that the only things I can describe in accurate detail are my shoes. I believe my quietness to be a product of too much solitude. There's a sort of mystique that revolves around the quiet, brooding type: they must be deep, they must be intelligent, they must be...whatever - not normal - something like that. Perhaps that is me, though it is not what I would consider valuable, nor necessarily accurate. I wish it were true; that quietness equaled genius. If solitude bred genius, then you should find the deepest, darkest pit in the world; from there, take the man resting his head on his knees, staring blankly at the ground beneath him, and you will have found the wisest man in the world. Ask him any question you wish, and you will receive the most thorough and detailed of answers. Ask him things which he has never experienced: friendship, love, care, spirituality, reason, theory et al. Ask him these things and he will answer them for you more properly than the greatest wiseman the world knows. Tell him about yourself, and he will remedy any pain or loss that you may feel. He will listen until your throat has dried up, and then, because you have the answers which life has so cruelly confused you with, you will leave into the night sky, heart aloft amidst the understanding this man has brought to you. From then on, life will go a little bit more steadily, a little bit more comfortably. "Beware the heavy things," he will have told you. "Behold the light." And then, torn from the wonder and beauty of the world through new eyes he gave you, you will hear from the depths a quiet moan, a stifled gasp, a strangled sob. As though you're capable of calming him, you'll return to where he was. In the middle of a field, you will find him, head on his knees, weeping. "What's wrong?" you will say. His jaw will stutter, his lips will shake, his breath will catch, and finally, he will say the first words t
Today's writing prompt: Write two pages of being too tired to stand up.
That’s it; I’m done for, I thought as I gave a weary sigh. My work for the day was complete. It had all started a little before 6:00 in the morning and finally, at 7:00 PM, it was the end of the workday for me. As I pulled myself to into the car after locking the warehouse up, I allowed myself to just sit there for a moment. There seemed to no longer be higher brain functions. Mentally and physically I was a rag doll and perfectly content with that. As I stared dumbly at the steering wheel, I numbly considered how apt my thought of me being done for seemed.
A few moments passed. My limbs were completely limp and if not for the car seat supporting me, I would not be able to keep myself in a sitting position. Not that the cloth seat was comfortable, by any means. Right now that just did not matter. I was reveling in the fact I was no longer standing. There was no longer concrete under my feet, I did not have to walk anywhere, I did not have to pick anything up, there was nothing to stack or restack it. No one was calling my name or asking me questions. There were no other tasks that needed to be preformed. Now I only needed to get home.
Instead of lifting my arm to put the key into the ignition - the all-important first step to getting home - I moved from contemplating my steering wheel to staring, unblinkingly, at my steering wheel cover. Thoughts drifted across my mind in a sluggish, sad sort of way. One could almost pity the effort they took to be acknowledged by my conscious self. The most prominent one at the moment was that this was summer. Summer was supposed to mean a break from school, a job to try to get some cash stored up, time with friends, relaxation brought about by no homework. Not this. Not 10+ hour workdays. Not less sleep than what I got in the weeks leading up to exams. I was supposed to be in a position to enjoy the sunshine, to frolic and dance through the flowers. Instead, I was working two part-time jobs. My mornings began about the same time the sun decided to come up: the butt-crack of dawn. I got up this early to make breakfast for kids attending the local summer camp. Arriving early, I spent the 7-hour shift on my feet; first to make breakfast and then to get lunch started. For this, I was paid a combination of real money and what I had dubbed “Jesus Brownie Points.” Working for a Christian church camp means you are doing a service. So I served the food and got a little bit of money for my efforts.
I liked the job well enough. The people made it worthwhile. But slaving away in the middle of July over a hot stove or in front of a hot oven was far from relaxing. When 1:00 PM rolled around, it was time for me to leave. I had completed my mission of serving campers and counselors to the best of my ability and with the best ingredients the limited budget allowed me to purchase. Usually, it was an edible meal. From there it was off to the next job.
My second summer job was possibly hotter, stickier and more grueling than working in a kitchen. Where I could
the door beckons
seconds tick by
time does not fly
the world outside
is of freedom
the world inside
idle i sit
my nerves tense
ready to bolt
Welcome to the new and improved XRIVO, writerly friends. Powered by endless supplies of kit-kats and chocolate milk (it’s an obsession), Alex and I have managed to implement these new features to make XRIVO simpler and more intuitive, while working to bring you cleaner, fresher designs. There’s a lot of work going on in the comforts of the XRIVO headquarters, and we’re excited to show you exactly how they work to make your stay at XRIVO relaxing, safe, and simple.
First of all, thanks to all of you for your wonderful feedback. It’s made this process of refining XRIVO’s writer’s tools easier and more fun. For those of you who don’t know already, XRIVO’s been featured in a number of publications in the Illinois-Iowa area. It’s exciting to see the name going around.
Anyways, writers, we kind of want to show off the new XRIVO, and the way we’re going to do that is to give you three simple instructions: Write it, workshop it, share it. Think of XRIVO as that simple tool you use to practice writing. Akin to that journal you always have tucked into your jacket pocket, XRIVO is meant to be that safe place where you can share what you want, when you want, to who you want. The security and safety of our writers’ work is our number 1 concern, which is why XRIVO has a number of elements in place to make sure that your writing stays yours.
Your Copyright Protection
Once you submit work to the site, you will receive an email with a timestamp verifying you own the writing that you just put on XRIVO. Keep track of these emails! This is your copyright protection. Think of it like the easiest way to obtain intellectual property rights over your writing that you can manage. We are constantly optimizing the security of the writing our users submit to the public community, and work to continue to bring you the finest security available. XRIVO isn’t designed to share with a public community only, though, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Remember, when you’re experiencing that little itch to share something…
Write it down
Free Writing is the most direct method to begin exercising your literary muscles. Think of it exactly like that: free writing. There’s no bars held against you, here. This is your place. Want to keep it as a simple journal entry? Perfect, click ‘Save’ to keep it private. You can access this work from the ‘Edit’ button at the top of the page or by clicking ‘My Works’. Try sharing a couple journal entries with the community sometimes, too. It can be a lot of fun to get honest feedback from the community on something as simple as a journal entry. Just click ‘Publish’ and the work is readily available on the Discover page.
Workshop it with your Peers
The Writing Workshop on XRIVO is tailored to be like the writing classes Alex and I experienced at the University of Iowa. Thorough feedback is what we gave and what we received, and this is exactly what XRIVO’s tools are prepared to give you once you click ‘workshop’. Be sure to
and you, you're a magnetism;
tether-taut, heartstrings complected in a
coupling of locution, though obscured,
a saccharine guarantee
and I, I'm a zephyr;
wafting on your subtle exhalation
twined with words writ of softened breath,
of auditory emotion undulated
that stirs a flutter long inanimate.
just a lid, slow-motion shut
screams of contentment, of don't-stop-the-texture,
of fingertip elicitation
and I'm-your-translator skin
and we, we're twixt like vines;
our lips, exploratory, saltate forth & fro
ebbing as a tide, nudging in & out like curiosity.
a snag of brevity made a series,
once interlocked & mortise-made
renders the senses electric
& our lungs, our nerves,
our neck-hairs & fingertips
personified by widened eyes
shutting slow & liquified;
hindsight an accompaniment to
lighten chest & shorten breath,
a calm perceived by susceptibility
and while surrender evolves into
an orchestrated act
(the motions predisposed,
the words set in stone)
memories of endings always remain
history repeating &
fatalistic reasoning, a suture pulled
drawing fro the curtains to reveal
an organ of mythological proportion
beating in&out& faster now
like a prodigal child shoved onto stage;
widened eyes, shutting not & petrified
he knows the lines, mouthing in
you don't see through my eyes...
Whether you use the XRIVO.com workshop function to revise and get feedback privately or share with the entire community, you’re taking a very necessary, though terrifying step in the creative process. The XRIVO feedback process is modeled off those workshop courses to give you the ability to thoroughly respond to work. Now, through XRIVO, you can get and give line-by-line feedback on any piece. All you have to do is highlight what you’d like to comment on and type away in the “Comment” box. As the author, you can filter what feedback shows up by user to make the comments easier to peruse. All you have to do is run your mouse over the comment to see what they’re commenting on.
But there’s more to getting the most out of sharing your work than just detailed revisions and discerning readers. Sharing your writing can be daunting, yes, but here are some things to keep in mind to help everyone get everything they can out of XRIVO.com. Here’s a simple guide: 4 keys to giving and 4 keys to getting feedback on your written work.
Here's something I just recently put together. Simple, short. I'm not very poetic, and I know very little about modern poetry, so I'm mostly just slapping words on paper.