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Thread: My Art

  1. #581
    lol, my brother likes the outside of Kiwi, and my mom likes shrimp ramen noodles. I mean, I love ramen noodles, and I like shrimp. But when they are mixed together...

  2. #582
    heres some of Mark Rydens art.. I, myself, like it.

    find more at http://www.earlmcgrathgallery.com/ga...den/index.html

  3. #583
    or at http://www.markryden.com/ .... lol. Now that ive shown you sad pictures, think joyfully. I will show perty picture!

  4. #584
    Punkish, um. . .interesting. I think I saw Christina Ricci in there a few times

    Are you familiar with the work of Edward Gorey? You may appreciate his "sense of humor." He seems to be becoming pretty commercially popular these days. (Well, his work anyway--he's no longer with us!)
    Here's a page from his Gashlycrumb Tinies , an "Alphabet book" about children who meet their untimely demises in very odd or disturbing ways. The caption for this one is:

    "Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin"

    P.S. Poor image quality--sorry! There are lots of sites on the web though.
    Attached Images Attached Images
    Last edited by AliceBShoe; 07-06-2003 at 11:34 PM.

  5. #585
    Well, punkish... those are interesting, yes. In a way, they're kinda "relieving" (hmm, not sure if that's the word I wanna use...) because it shows that somebody out there is more depressed than I am. Has darker humor than I do, and I guess has to live with these kinds of thoughts running through their mind. It creeps me out, yes, gives me images I'll prolly see in nightmares... but in a weird, twisted way... is sort of comforting.
    Confused yet?

  6. #586
    can i have your heart? unexplained's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2002
    hmm punkish Interesting. I will not step in this thread when I'm surfing at night again.
    You select the person you want to be with, and then you let that person have the opportunity to select you. -Shayla

    "The mind is its own place, and in it, self can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n." -John Milton, Paradise Lost.

  7. #587
    Punkish, that's some site he has. I like his picture and the things around him. I also see he has a little satrical streak in his paintings.

  8. #588
    Fade to black
    Join Date
    Mar 2003
    I see this thread has kind of died of late, which is unfortunate - I do enjoy seeing everyone's artistic contributions and sharing my own. It's fascinating to see so many different interpretations. (love the pictures of the cat's eyes punkish, and of course your poetry ix) For the sake of keeping this thread alive, I'll post a chapter from a short story I wrote. This is the second chapter. The first chapter is a little too graphic for this site, but I'll provide a reference to it and the entire story at the end. To understand Chapter Two it helps to read it, but as a frame of reference Michelle is a fifteen year old who ran away from home after being physically and sexually abused by her step-father. This short story is written in third person, from a female's point of view, both narrative style's that I usually avoid. It was very challenging, but it remains one of my favorites.

    Play Again, Chapter Two

    The one good thing, perhaps "Dad's" only redeeming quality, had been that he gave the girls each an allowance of $100 a month. Michelle had saved most of her allowance, and had taken the liberty of stealing whatever money she could find, including her sisters and her Mom’s.
    She herself had saved a little over three thousand; her sisters had contributed a couple thousand apiece, and the rest of it came from her Mom's purse. She had apologized to her sisters in the notes she had left them, sure they would understand. She counted the money that night in a cheap, one hundred dollars a week, motel room a mile from the Mexican border. It was the kind of motel room that smelled like air freshener and cigarettes, and where the bedspread had probably been there for the last ten years. Michelle took a whiff of the money spread out before her, but it reminded her too much of “Dad,” so instead she went back to the menial task of separating and counting the crumpled up bills. Eight thousand two hundred and twenty one dollars. And a quarter. It was a lot of money for a fifteen year old girl, but she had no home, no place to go, no job, no friends, and Michelle knew she would need every last cent of it - even the quarter.

    Michelle spent her first days of newfound freedom walking along the beaches and boardwalks of Chula Vista and Mission Beach, ignoring the hoots and catcalls that seemed to follow her wherever she went. She had even been offered a job by a runty Mexican with a pencil thin mustache named Luis. Unfortunately for Michelle, Luis was a pimp. She walked away, laughing for the first time in months, flattered but insulted. She ate cheaply, buying stale bread, peanut butter and store brand jelly from the Ralph’s grocery store down the street from the hotel. To wash down the dry sandwiches, she would drink the murky, sour water that came from the tap in her two foot by two foot bathroom.

    Two weeks after she ran away from home, Michelle could be found sitting on the brick wall that separated the beach from the sidewalk. The ocean breeze would ruffle through her hair like a fan and the chlorine smelling ocean lingered in her nostrils. She was reading the help wanted ads of the San Diego Tribune, looking for the one ad that would be searching for a fifteen year old runaway with no clue of what her social security number was. That was one detail she failed to remember and now she was regretting it. A tall, lanky black man sat down beside her, glanced over in an unnoticing way, and asked if he could borrow the sports page.

    When he handed it back to Michelle ten minutes later, he thanked her and walked away without saying another word. Two days later, in much the same spot, and at about the same time, he came back and again asked for the sports page. Michelle had thought little of the man at first, but now she wondered who, and what, he was. Enough that a week later she finally said something more than "your welcome" when he thanked her for letting him read the sports page.

    “So, what’s your name,” she asked, looking away. No one had ever intimidated her like this, not even “Dad.” He laughed and then started to walk away.

    “What’s so funny? Why are you leaving?”

    “Cuz’,” he answered, his feet still carrying him away from where she sat. “Yous a lil’ girl. You ain’t nuthin but trouble."

    The next day she asked him his name again, and once more he laughed. Michelle was persistent, though, and on the third day he finally just muttered "Kenny. Kenny Wayne," as he walked off. "Kenny Wayne," she thought to herself that night, as she doodled her name and his on a ripped out page of a Bible. Next, she asked him how old he was, and for two days he merely laughed like before. On the third day, she found out he was 26. Within a month, she managed to find out that he worked at Ralph's on the graveyard shift as a stock clerk, he liked rap music and sports, and that sitting on the hard brick wall of Mission Beach reading the sports page and talking to her was his one true pleasure in life. Kenny lived in a cheap one bedroom apartment with two other co-workers, white guys, who he couldn't stand. One day, Michelle asked him if he wanted to crash on her other bed, and Kenny never again spent another night in the Vista Loma apartment complex he had called home.

    One night as Kenny's tall outstretched frame dangled off the small double bed he had been using, he looked over at Michelle, hesitated, and in a quiet, unassuming voice told her he loved her. Michelle felt her throat tighten up, and her heart skipped like two kids playing hopscotch. How could he love me, she wondered? They had never slept together. They had not even kissed. And here was this grown man, with his thick black curly hair, his dark eyes and soft deep, voice looking at her -- a fifteen year old runaway with nothing -- and telling her he was in love with her. At that one moment, Michelle was certain she had never been happier.

    When Michelle found out she was pregnant three months later, Kenny cried. Michelle had never seen a grown man cry before, and was not sure if his response was due to happiness or anger.

    "What's wrong?" she asked, hesitating a little, afraid he might be upset. Kenny was quiet and just shook his head.

    "Baby?" Michelle looked at him, her eyes begging him to talk.

    "F***." Kenny said.


    A fist flew down on the square, lifeless pillow and a small cloud of dust puffed up into the air. Michelle had never seen Kenny get this mad. It reminded her of "Dad" and scared her so much her hands started to shake.

    "I... I can get an abortion," Michelle said, her voice raspy as her breathing quickened.

    "No," Kenny said. "No."

    "What is it? What do you want me to do?"

    "Nuthin. It's not you. It's me."

    Kenny walked to the window and pulled back the drab brown shades that only somewhat protected the room from the glare of the street lights. He turned and looked at Michelle sitting up on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, tears running down her white but tanned face, as hair stuck to the moist portions of her cheek.

    "You know I love you. For real," He said.

    "Yea baby. I know you do."

    "I gots to go," he said, quickly grabbing his pillowcase full of clothes and walking out the door.

    The quick, pertinent thud of the door rang in Michelle's ears. She wanted to get up and chase him, wanted him to come back and hold her. As if she were an apparition, Michelle floated over to the window and looked down at Kenny as he bounced down the stairs. As he reached the bottom he turned and looked back up at her. Michelle pressed her hand against the window, looking like a child does the first time they ever ride on a plane. Kenny smiled - a sad, regretful smile - and put his hand up slowly, blew her a kiss and waved good bye.

    Would you like to play again?

    Michelle clicked the little gray button.


  9. #589
    Hazy'a back! Did anyone else miss him or am I just a nerd?

    Hazy, I enjoyed what I just read of your story. Part of what I like to read is a lot of good narrative and you do that VERY well!

  10. #590
    The Truth Is Out There ixcrisxi's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2003
    Moorhead, Minnesota
    I agree, eldee. You are very talented, Hazy. You'll have to tell us when the book comes out(you are publishing all of this, aren't you?).
    MULDER: It's still there, Scully. 200,000 years down in the ice.

    Leave it there.

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