Can you write?

Question

For fun. Lets write a story, poem, Song, Love note whatever. Best one gets the best answer.... Please lets not rip on anyone's stuff and keep it original.

If there too long E-mail them. Then answer with title.

Answer 1

And it starts like every day before it.

The second sounding of the alarm clock that signifies last call to the waking world, the subtle nudge from his wife that it's time to leave the land of the sleeping and confront his daily demons. His left foot hits the foot and sends an icy shiver up his spine, which startles some sense of consciousness into his mind, followed slowly by the right, and they begrudgingly lead him into the bathroom, where the sudden burst of light upon the flick of a switch causes him to wish for a death less painful than this. His eyes slowly adjust and he wipes the last shreds of sleep from them, as he sheds his clothes and steps into the warmth of the shower. The falling wet warmth lightens his spirits, and helps him to shed his daily remorse of how life has lead him into this cycle of emptiness. He stands there motionless, the water streaming down his face helping to hide the tears that have started to form in the corner of his eyes as he thinks of what he should have been, when his faintly hears his wife warn him that he'll be late if he doesn't hurry. He chokes back his regrets, and quickly puts an end to his shower. A quick moment to dry, and then he pulls on the clothes his wife has laid out for him at the foot of the bed. "I hate this suit," he thinks but maintains his silence, as he tightens up his daily noose around his neck. A crisscrossing of laces on his favorite black shoes and he's ready to confront the world that awaits. One last glance in the mirror to ensure he's made up, and the thought of "I look like a corpse waiting to be laid to rest" causes him to sadly chuckle to himself. He grabs his daily burden, and lays an empty kiss on his wife's cheek as he heads out the door.

"Traffic's not bad this morning" he thinks as he hums along to his favorite cd. A quick fifteen minutes of solitude that pass much too quickly for his liking, and soon he confronts the hell made of brick and mortar that lies before him. A half-hearted wave to the security guard as he pulls into the parking lot, and he makes his way to his usual parking spot at the back. A grimace crosses his face as he kills the engine, grabs his briefcase, and exits the car. "I really need to wash the car," he says to no one in particular and he starts to make his way toward the entrance.

He swipes his card and passes through the barren door marked 'Employees Only', and suddenly he feels as if his soul is being sucked away by the fluorescent backdrop. He notices the paleness of the blue carpet and finds it sadly funny that it's like an ocean he's drowning in every day. "If only..." he mumbles and sets off in search of his day's tasking. A few heartless good mornings as he passes the different grey divisions of space, and he finally arrives at the desk with his name attached to it. A pile of papers awaits in his inbox, and he sighs to himself as he sets his briefcase under the constructed particle board that passes as a desk. He plants himself in his lightly padded chair, and reaches for the power button on his desktop. As he waits for the faint glow of the monitor, he looks over the smiling faces of strangers framed upon his desk, and wonders if they've forgotten him as he's forgotten them. "I imagine they have..." he whispers, and then he notices the red face of time in the corner."Only seven hours and fifty three minutes left," it tells him. He groans and turns back to the now warmed up computer. The quick stroke of keys...I, space, H, A, T, E, space, M, Y, space, L, I, F, E, period. A quick deletion, and he picks up the first paper and begins the quiet typing that will fulfill the rest of his day.

"Sweet Jesus, will this last three minutes ever pass?" he thinks. He's been packed up for the last hour, making a few extra bucks wasting time playing cards on the computer. Finally, the clock ticks off the last seconds that remain before six, and he grabs his stuff and makes a beeline for the exit, only stopping to swipe the card that tells how much of his life he's wasted in this place on the way. The door swings open, and the faint hint of fall fills his lungs as the sun has already begun its descent into the western hills as he makes his way across the now barren parking lot. "I wonder what the ***** is cooking for dinner" he ponders as the engine finds life.

He pulls into the driveway and he can see the table is already set through the dining room window. He makes his way into the house, already dreading the idle chitchat that's about to descend upon him. "How was your day, dear?" he hears before the oak door can even find its place back in its frame behind him. A few minutes of empty words, and then they quickly move to the dining room. He sees the spread before him and thinks "Lasagna. I should have known," but just smiles politely and says "Looks delicious, dear." He picks up his fork and begins what will just be another meal where the only conversation is the sound of silverware meeting the china.

And so begins another night where the only two questions to be answered are "What will I watch on TV?" and "I wonder whether she'll moan four or five times when she fakes this orgasm." The pattern is unnerving, but he's too scared to say what's written all over his face. He already knows she's seeing someone else, but then again, he was the one who spend their wedding night in the arms of another, so maybe it's just what he deserves. "Nobody is ever really happy anymore," he thinks as he watches the soap opera unfold upon the glowing set in front of him. He watches the handsome young actor swoon over his lover, and he thinks back to when he was young and idealistic like that about the female form now occupying the far end of the couch. "She's so pretty, " he thinks, "but is it enough? Is this how it's supposed to be? Am I supposed to mindlessly wander through each day until I die? Or have I already died?" Deep down, he already knows the answer, but he changes his thoughts so he won't have to do what he knows needs to be done.

"I'm going to sleep, dear. Goodnight. I love you."

Answer 2

take heed to a crap load of song. because the guitar is for sure very simular to a piano, i come across listening to many classical products, speradically places some thing into my head. another ingredient, I many times commence out playing a riff incredibly sluggish. i'm talking like 15 to 20 BPM. this grants me a precise sense for what i'm playing from the starting up, being waiting to get rid of lost notes, or maybe an complete scale. Then at the same time as escalading the speed extra issues come to mild. So in my obscure procedure the starting up to a riff could be an same or complete oposite from the unique at the same time as 20 BPM turns into 2 hundred BPM

Answer 3

I love to write fan-fiction. My favs are SciFi so, thats what I write....