introduction
Name: Miranda
Age: 18
Writing Experience: I've been writing since I've been able to (when I was six). I've never entered any competitions.
Preferred Genres: Prose, short stories. I also want to get better at poetry, and I hope I'll be able to write a full-length novel someday.
Education: I've just completed my A-levels and will start studying Physics at University this year.
Country: I'm from Austria, but I'll live in the UK from now on (I'm attending university in the UK)
What do you hope to get from this community? I hope that it will inspire me to learn and grow as a writer. I love to write, but I lack the motivation to start a new piece very often.
Where did you hear of us? I think I found you in the LJ search engine.
I've written this about one year ago. I would probably do it different now, but it is still one of my favourites.
The Muse
It is like this: the stroke of a feather, a drop of blood against white linen, glazed light through green glass, the foreboding of a smile, dead flowers on bleached paint; beauty. A hint of jasmine in the air, a soft breeze, the slight movement of the draperies. Then like a black wave of molten rock, the last jerks of a dying tree, the inward-reflection in a puddle, the sharp cry of a shape in the sky. Silhouettes turn into sentences, little creatures slowly creeping towards your eye, black, white, thought and stain.
It seizes you like a gale, a gust in the mid-evening air, like blood suddenly sputtering from the gash, shrouding your body: the embrace of the Muse.
Yield. Ignorance equals death. You crouch over cluttered paper, you protect it from evil stares, disintegrating in the dark - purulent eyes. It is cold, the heat has fled your body long ago: the blue veins on your skin like ornaments in the Alhambra. You are the palace of genius and dementia. Yield.
It does hurt at first when the quill touches the skin. You are tired, tired. The Muse, though, forbids sleep. A blood-letting commanded by The Gods. You cannot fail. You are tired, the Muse forbids sleep. Sleep ceases, retreats into the shadows as if it was a murderer who abhors his victim’s blood instead of admiring it. How strange.
It ends like this: Enlightenment, desire, the Gods. The flame of the sky blazing blue. The fire of red glass filled with poison. The eye a swollen mass of flesh, the hand a lump of blood and bone. Mind, after all, much worse: a scattered assembly of rotten thoughts, misguided splutter, ironic; lifeless object filled with mercury. The orphic tongue, ripped out. Open throat, stump of sound and vocable.
He’s written it, over and over again, a hymn, oh praise her, praise her. Almost as if he was unable to stop, to stop writing. Praise her: for the muse forbids sleep.
I'll start commenting from now on! (lurking is no fun)
Age: 18
Writing Experience: I've been writing since I've been able to (when I was six). I've never entered any competitions.
Preferred Genres: Prose, short stories. I also want to get better at poetry, and I hope I'll be able to write a full-length novel someday.
Education: I've just completed my A-levels and will start studying Physics at University this year.
Country: I'm from Austria, but I'll live in the UK from now on (I'm attending university in the UK)
What do you hope to get from this community? I hope that it will inspire me to learn and grow as a writer. I love to write, but I lack the motivation to start a new piece very often.
Where did you hear of us? I think I found you in the LJ search engine.
I've written this about one year ago. I would probably do it different now, but it is still one of my favourites.
The Muse
It is like this: the stroke of a feather, a drop of blood against white linen, glazed light through green glass, the foreboding of a smile, dead flowers on bleached paint; beauty. A hint of jasmine in the air, a soft breeze, the slight movement of the draperies. Then like a black wave of molten rock, the last jerks of a dying tree, the inward-reflection in a puddle, the sharp cry of a shape in the sky. Silhouettes turn into sentences, little creatures slowly creeping towards your eye, black, white, thought and stain.
It seizes you like a gale, a gust in the mid-evening air, like blood suddenly sputtering from the gash, shrouding your body: the embrace of the Muse.
Yield. Ignorance equals death. You crouch over cluttered paper, you protect it from evil stares, disintegrating in the dark - purulent eyes. It is cold, the heat has fled your body long ago: the blue veins on your skin like ornaments in the Alhambra. You are the palace of genius and dementia. Yield.
It does hurt at first when the quill touches the skin. You are tired, tired. The Muse, though, forbids sleep. A blood-letting commanded by The Gods. You cannot fail. You are tired, the Muse forbids sleep. Sleep ceases, retreats into the shadows as if it was a murderer who abhors his victim’s blood instead of admiring it. How strange.
It ends like this: Enlightenment, desire, the Gods. The flame of the sky blazing blue. The fire of red glass filled with poison. The eye a swollen mass of flesh, the hand a lump of blood and bone. Mind, after all, much worse: a scattered assembly of rotten thoughts, misguided splutter, ironic; lifeless object filled with mercury. The orphic tongue, ripped out. Open throat, stump of sound and vocable.
He’s written it, over and over again, a hymn, oh praise her, praise her. Almost as if he was unable to stop, to stop writing. Praise her: for the muse forbids sleep.
I'll start commenting from now on! (lurking is no fun)