As I'm sure you've all suspected, I just live for creative writing. That's why I haven't done any fiction in over 20 years - I'm saving and internalizing that muse's song, intending to let it explode in an literary storygasm one of these years.

No, not really. Don't have much feel for it at all, in fact.

I've been, however,  tagged and nagged, but at least no one is trying to have my blog shut down over it, so what the hell. This came from here.


I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)

"That's strange," I said out loud to no one in particular. My fingers slowly reached towards the jar again. My body experienced a wave of apprehension as weighted blanket covering me as I did so. The jar was completely frozen.

I picked it up and stared at it, my fingers stung with little knives of chill. "What the..." again I spoke aloud. Then I realized what had happened with a shock. Suddenly the jar flew from my hand. It shattered creating a collage-like mixture of frozen applesauce and glass shards on my kitchen floor, the lid lazily rolling to a stop across the room. (FranIam)

I stood for a moment considering what all this meant. Oh, I knew what it meant, I didn't need to waste time thinking about it. He was back. And he was mad.

I ran down the hallway and flung open the door at the end. I was immediately hit with a blast of cold. I took a step back as I tried to catch my breath. I bent over, hands on my knees panting. He always had this remarkable effect on me. After so much time, it no longer scared me, but it was a shock nonetheless……

"You know," I panted, "There's no need to break things to get my attention." (Politits)

I woke up in the same position as in my dream, on my knees. I was sweating even though the room was freezing. (Mathman6293)

I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one a.m. when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn't been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)

The nightmares began during the following spring. The apple trees came to life in my dreams. At first the trees spoke and I thought they were amusing. That changed when the messages arrived. Lately, their anger was directed at me. (Mathman6293)

There is only one thing to which I can attribute this shift. Since the shock wore off of realizing that Coker's P-Day "festivities" had split me into two identical, morphable beings (what did it take - two, three weeks?), I spend much of my time trying to advance to the simultaneous rather than the sequential. I haven't progressed to an understanding of the chronological differences of the continua, nor am I absolutely sure there are just the two. But from everything he's displayed to this point I know Coker can't be happy that I am making progress, and so it appears that somehow he's broken through and is giving me shit during the only time I can recharge. I've got to find a place where I can focus one hundred percent. This cold weather combined with a slowly increasing Green Time isn't helping.

How many more are there like him? And are all of them as paranoid about their power? Surely there's an individual out there, a collective perhaps, that's hip to newbies and sees spreading the knowledge of the planes as the only way back to sanity, the only way toward the sublime society that Vandreau advocated for so many years before the fucking wheels fell off. (O' Tim)

Perhaps, I thought, I should just kill myself. After all, who can truly say which is better - to escape the pains and heartaches of life, or to fight against them in the slim hope of winning? The Sleep that is Death would be a rest from all the pain that life brings. I could really use a rest like that. But suppose, in this "sleep", I begin to "dream?" That could be a bitch. After all, the sort of "dream" might one expect in the final sleep is a daunting thought to consider. That's what can make a long life such a sad thing. I mean, who would put up with all of life's bullshit - oppression of many sorts, insults, the betrayal of false lovers, slow justice, infuriating politicians, and abuse from people who have no right or call to abuse- when he could just put a dagger in his chest and get away from it all? Who would bear the burdens of this world and sweat and drag himself through life if it weren't for the fact that fear of something that may happen after death, from which no one can return, makes us think twice about trading the problems we have for something potentially worse, like Hell. These second thoughs can make cowards of all of us, turn determination into hestation, and prevent us from attempting something grand.

Oh, look - here comes that hot little bitch, Ophelia. Darlin', I hope you remember me in your prayers.   (Joe the Troll)