(no subject)

[realexplodingcat]

Today I wrote a poem using other people's words. The non-italicized words are my own, the rest are from three other sources (one of which I actually don't know if there's an author to credit). Bonus points to those who recognize the other two. Should be fairly obvious if you like the same sorta stuff I do.

Home is where the heart is.
The heart is under three planks from the flooring of the chamber.
It was a low, dull, quick sound,
beating a rhythm to the vision that's in my head,
a beat to the sight of me lying.
That unmistakable sound I know so well.
Tear up the planks!--here, here!--it is the beating of his hideous heart!

Comments

[daddys-girl.livejournal.com]

how interesting... predominatley Edger Allen Poe, I see...

[quasigeostrophy.livejournal.com]

Mmmm... Poe...

Sorry it took a bit to get back with you but this is what I have.

[adoka.livejournal.com]

It all sounds a little mad now, I know, but at the time I was so unnerved. I left the Bluff City in a rush, crossing the ‘old bridge’ in a car that I liberated from the drive way of some homeboy in Peach Tree Square. It was a big Lincon Towncar with no alarm and duct taped seats. The plates were good, the engine was remarkably quiet. In no time at all I was in the wind. The rucksack that I took from the hole in the wall in my closet sat on the passenger side floorboard, lost in the darkness of the night.

It was uncomfortable to drive with the thump tf my chest. The vest had taken the brunt of the low velocity slug, but a hit like that still hurts. Who knew the little rat had the balls to pull the trigger. I sure didn’t. Well, I put stamped paid to that ticket. No need to return to Memphis now.

I had a passel of money, a plan, and a destination. All I needed to do was cross through Arkansas under the cover of darkness before the law could catch me and bury me in 201 Poplar, or worse, The Bull or his gumbahs catch me and nail me to a tree. No, they wouldn’t leave a body. I would take a one way trip out to the river and be food for whatever mutant fish called the Mississippi home. The more distance I put between me an Memphis the better.

I drove. Interstate forty took me through Forrest City and lead to Little Rock. I would have to catch I30 west but felt I needed to pull over before then. I kept having to make myself relax, and lean back in the seat, untwist my fingers from the wheel and let the pain in my chest ease up. I didn’t think anything was broken, really. I was sure that I just had a severe bone bruise. Corpus Christi was a fair piece. I wasn’t going to be able to drive it straight through.

It was at an all night diner and filler-up that I started getting crazy ideas. Belize was my end goal. Belize was always the lure in my mind. The gulf coast, sunny weather, scuba diving, my own bar where I would run my own games, maybe a few women on the side in a real high class way of course. I started to get an itch way down and I didn’t think it was a hemmeroid.

I liked Memphis. I like Memphis in May when the heat just starts squeezing the mercury to the top of the glass. Why should I have to leave when I could just go back and clean house. I could do it, I thought. It wasn’t the smart play, but if I worked it right, I could send the Bull and buddies to the bottom of the big Muddy instead of me.

I wrestled with that idea for a long while before I turned the key on that old Ford. I pulled out onto the road and headed deep in thought to the on ramp.

my new installment

[adoka.livejournal.com]

writing 101 my second installment of co-op writing project
I drew my piece out of the bag, checked the clip and slid it back in. It was a good pistol. No one thinks of the Czechs making good weapons but the CZ-75 is an good piece of work and it takes a silencer with a bit of work from a gunsmith. Ok, I told myself, it's probably only a security guard. Ratchet it down a notch. You don't need to whack a Wackenhut goon.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/adoka/183861.html#cutid1