#101
Posted: 7/15/05 at 3:41pm
THis provides an excellent tim for y'all to discuss what's been going on, wink wink.
Iscreama Menstrual - Chapter 8: The Prologue — Page 5
#102
Posted: 7/15/05 at 3:42pm
*flail*
noooooo!
A work of art is an invitation to love.
noooooo!
#103
Posted: 7/24/05 at 9:37pm
Alright, I am a bit busy, so here's a little something to tide you over!
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
#104
Posted: 7/24/05 at 9:37pm
Chapter 7
Since she first met Kwana, she has been having the same dream about the bomb every night. It has been a week now. Each night the dream begins and ends the same way. By now she could picture the strange face in her mind, but couldn’t think of to whom it belongs.
The snow fell lightly onto the road. It was dusty, but thick. It fogged the visibility in Times Square. The snow swirled around, like and angel full of tequila. Scri slowly turned away from her New York City snow globe to look at Kwana.
He was sitting sternly on the chair, smoking a long pipe. Deep in thought, Scri could see the creases in his forehead buckle under the pressure of his scalp. He was very intense. He had been forcing her to train this past week. No looking for the Unnamed Producer. No going online. No talking to friends. Forget about work. And perhaps least bearable of all, no seeing shows.
Kwana has been forcing her to be able to use the Flail. To get it under control. “You don’t want a Prom devastation, killing everyone aimlessly. You must learn to control the Flail.” She did. She tried. It was more difficult. The more she worked, the angrier she became. As she grew angrier, she lost control of the Flail. By now, however, she learned how to keep it controlled. How to force her anger to other places of her body. To channel it into laughter. Into tears. Not into flailing.
She was sitting in a bright red Adidas jumpsuit eating a bowl of Cherry Garcia Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. She bought it on sale.
“Who do you think the UP is?” she wondered.
“I have no idea. At first, I thought it may be….”
“May be who?”
Kwana leaned forward. His demeanor became sullen. “I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to tell you this.” She looked grave. He looked graver. Together they were a bunch of grave bodies in a gray room, minimized of any gaiety. “Well, at first I thought it may be Scal, you know, trying to get himself more attention. But, something happened.” She began to speak, but he raised his hand to silence her. “Scal was taken to the ER the other day. He was found bleeding, unconscious in a dark alley.”
“I don’t understand. Was it the Unnamed Producer? Do the cops know what’s going on? Fingerprints?”
“The NYPD is completely clueless. Their lead detective is out and about protesting with his cross-dressing boyfriend. Their best cops aren’t on the case. They do think it to be foul play.”
“Foul play? Well, obviously.”
“Anyway, I think we should go down to the scene of the crime. Maybe we can find something. Some clue. Wear your jumpsuit. We may be doing a lot of work.”
A dark cloud moved over head. Scri was scared.
She picked up her umbrella, and walked with Kwana out the door, locking it carefully,
Since she first met Kwana, she has been having the same dream about the bomb every night. It has been a week now. Each night the dream begins and ends the same way. By now she could picture the strange face in her mind, but couldn’t think of to whom it belongs.
The snow fell lightly onto the road. It was dusty, but thick. It fogged the visibility in Times Square. The snow swirled around, like and angel full of tequila. Scri slowly turned away from her New York City snow globe to look at Kwana.
He was sitting sternly on the chair, smoking a long pipe. Deep in thought, Scri could see the creases in his forehead buckle under the pressure of his scalp. He was very intense. He had been forcing her to train this past week. No looking for the Unnamed Producer. No going online. No talking to friends. Forget about work. And perhaps least bearable of all, no seeing shows.
Kwana has been forcing her to be able to use the Flail. To get it under control. “You don’t want a Prom devastation, killing everyone aimlessly. You must learn to control the Flail.” She did. She tried. It was more difficult. The more she worked, the angrier she became. As she grew angrier, she lost control of the Flail. By now, however, she learned how to keep it controlled. How to force her anger to other places of her body. To channel it into laughter. Into tears. Not into flailing.
She was sitting in a bright red Adidas jumpsuit eating a bowl of Cherry Garcia Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. She bought it on sale.
“Who do you think the UP is?” she wondered.
“I have no idea. At first, I thought it may be….”
“May be who?”
Kwana leaned forward. His demeanor became sullen. “I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to tell you this.” She looked grave. He looked graver. Together they were a bunch of grave bodies in a gray room, minimized of any gaiety. “Well, at first I thought it may be Scal, you know, trying to get himself more attention. But, something happened.” She began to speak, but he raised his hand to silence her. “Scal was taken to the ER the other day. He was found bleeding, unconscious in a dark alley.”
“I don’t understand. Was it the Unnamed Producer? Do the cops know what’s going on? Fingerprints?”
“The NYPD is completely clueless. Their lead detective is out and about protesting with his cross-dressing boyfriend. Their best cops aren’t on the case. They do think it to be foul play.”
“Foul play? Well, obviously.”
“Anyway, I think we should go down to the scene of the crime. Maybe we can find something. Some clue. Wear your jumpsuit. We may be doing a lot of work.”
A dark cloud moved over head. Scri was scared.
She picked up her umbrella, and walked with Kwana out the door, locking it carefully,
#105
Posted: 7/24/05 at 9:43pm
You know, just today I was going to ask you to write more! 
A work of art is an invitation to love.
#106
So much writing I have done today.
I will write a "real" one at the end of the week.
Posted: 7/24/05 at 9:45pm
So much writing I have done today.
I will write a "real" one at the end of the week.
#107
Posted: 7/24/05 at 10:15pm
"The snow swirled around, like an angel full of tequila
Well, at least now we have a tequila analogy to tide us over until next week...
Well, at least now we have a tequila analogy to tide us over until next week...
So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.~Office Space
#108
Posted: 7/25/05 at 12:51am
COVER:
This idea was sparked by KelRel!
This idea was sparked by KelRel!
Updated On: 8/3/05 at 12:51 AM
#109
Posted: 7/25/05 at 1:00am
Oh.
My.
GOD.
A work of art is an invitation to love.
My.
GOD.
#110
Posted: 7/25/05 at 1:08am
BSo, you are going to Broadway with this book!!!
#111
Posted: 7/25/05 at 8:28am
Nice job BSO, I really wish I had photoshop so mine could have looked that good. Oh well at least the idea is intact lol.
"All the while making faces like a baby platypus who forget to take some Beano before eating a chimichanga." FindingNamo in reference to Jessica Simpson's singing.
#112
Posted: 7/28/05 at 11:48pm
Do you think someone will musicalize it?
#113
Posted: 7/29/05 at 3:56am
It'll shape the Broadway of the future, I'm certain
I like the cover!
I like the cover!
J'ai compris tous les mots, j'ai bien compris, merci.............
#114
Posted: 7/29/05 at 8:32am
*head.screen.*
I love this!
A work of art is an invitation to love.
I love this!
#115
Posted: 8/3/05 at 4:37pm
"The snow swirled around, like an angel full of tequila"
Well, at least now we have a tequila analogy to tide us over until next week...
I think that is my best analogy so far.
Well, at least now we have a tequila analogy to tide us over until next week...
I think that is my best analogy so far.
#116
Posted: 8/3/05 at 4:41pm
Bumped in honor of upcoming event?
A work of art is an invitation to love.
#117
Posted: 8/3/05 at 4:43pm
fun stuff. Very nice cover.
This is my signature.
#118
Posted: 8/3/05 at 5:02pm
Perhaps, Em, perhaps.
#119
Posted: 8/11/05 at 5:04pm
Tonight will be an event!
#120
Posted: 8/11/05 at 5:57pm
Gah an event...there better be crepe paper and punch...nay, spiked punch...an event is just not an event without spiked punch and crepe paper...
So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.~Office Space
#121
Posted: 8/14/05 at 4:59pm
I have not written in a while, so:
Chapter 8: The Prologue
The rain was falling fast, like a camper who just pranked another camper by dropping a bucket of paint when the cabin door opened. Like Ashton Kutcher punk’d Frankie Muniz by stealing his car. Like Mario Cantone’s spirit after telling a joke, the rain was falling hard.
Kwana and Scri walked to the subway, huddled under Scri’s little umbrella, which was made of the comics section of the newspaper, plasticalized.
They went down the dark, cold, concrete steps to the train. They hopped on (one just arrived), and headed down to Times Square: The Theatre district.
“So, what’s our next step?” Scri asked, puzzled like a piece of cardboard after going through a jigsaw.
“I have set you up to meet someone, who may know more about Scal’s life than Scal himself.”
“Who is it?”
“For now, let us call the person ‘Aunt Honeywrap.’”
The train came to a dead stop. The doors opened and Scri got up. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked when she noticed Kwana did not get up.
“I have to go look into something. You will be meeting at the Starbucks on 51st. I will find you when I need you. Good luck.”
Scri left the train and began walking to the Starbucks, nervous.
Chapter 8: The Prologue
The rain was falling fast, like a camper who just pranked another camper by dropping a bucket of paint when the cabin door opened. Like Ashton Kutcher punk’d Frankie Muniz by stealing his car. Like Mario Cantone’s spirit after telling a joke, the rain was falling hard.
Kwana and Scri walked to the subway, huddled under Scri’s little umbrella, which was made of the comics section of the newspaper, plasticalized.
They went down the dark, cold, concrete steps to the train. They hopped on (one just arrived), and headed down to Times Square: The Theatre district.
“So, what’s our next step?” Scri asked, puzzled like a piece of cardboard after going through a jigsaw.
“I have set you up to meet someone, who may know more about Scal’s life than Scal himself.”
“Who is it?”
“For now, let us call the person ‘Aunt Honeywrap.’”
The train came to a dead stop. The doors opened and Scri got up. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked when she noticed Kwana did not get up.
“I have to go look into something. You will be meeting at the Starbucks on 51st. I will find you when I need you. Good luck.”
Scri left the train and began walking to the Starbucks, nervous.
#122
Posted: 8/14/05 at 5:09pm
I love how I inspire you.
A work of art is an invitation to love.
#123
Posted: 9/5/05 at 11:21pm
Chapter 8: Meeting Aunt Honeywrap
Scri walked down the street, feeling estranged, as if she has been out of her body for weeks. She did not know what to expect. Who was Aunt Honeywrap? And better yet, did she just pass the Starbucks?
Scri turned back in one quick movement fell hard to the ground. The concrete, cushioning her head from the fall, was cold and wet. Wet like a child’s bed after a long sleep.
She looked up and saw that burley man, from Studio 54. He looked down at her, and in a rough voice, growled, “I advise you not to go any farther.”
He stepped over her. She didn’t know what to think. Suddenly, she could feel his heavy foot stop behind her. She looked back and so he was standing over her. He raised his hand, and his eye began to twitch.
“Do you have 2 bucks for the subway?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a five. “This is all I have.”
He snatched it from her hand and gave her a good, heavy kick in the face.
The rain poured into her wounds. She couldn’t move. People were walking by her, throwing lose change at her. She felt like something right out of a horrible musical about garbage bums. Her mind wandered back to once upon a time when she believed in love and that love would conquer all.
She was beginning to lose all hope in mankind. Where was the decency?
“Where’s the decency!?” she screamed out.
“Shut up, ya bum!” some lady retorted.
Scri laid her head back to the ground. Suddenly, another shadow crept over her.
“Scri?” it asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Aunt Honeywrap. You may call me Auntie.”
She helped Scri up, and brought her into the Starbucks. Auntie sat her down at a table in the back corner and went to order coffee.
“Here, drink this. It’s good for you.” Scri sipped some. There was silence. Except for the large crowd of tourists wondering why ‘grande’ wasn’t in their English-Whatever dictionaries.
“You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here. And who I am. Well, for the ease of this conversation, just listen. Do not speak. I have some inside information on what happened to Scal. Apparently, your friend from outside works for the UP and was told to destroy Scal. Fortunately, for Scal, the man is a buffoon and only injured Scal. But therein lays a problem. The UP will not stop. And he owns many people in this town. Scal is not safe in the hospital. A nurse or a doctor is likely to come to him and night and do something nasty. And not ‘Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights’ nasty. More like ‘Bust a cap in dat foolz ass cause I can mo’ fo’’ nasty. And that’s the worst kind of nasty. Fo’ rizzle.
“So I suggest tonight you break into the hospital and get Scal the hell out of there. If you fail, we may lose him forever. And perhaps he can lead us to the UP. But it is getting late, and you have much work to do. Here’s my card. Call me, when you need help.”
Auntie got up and left. Scri, still bewildered, looked down at the card. It was blank. She turned, and Auntie was out of site.
What was happening? She still wondered who Auntie was. This was all happening so fast. It was all so confusing and so sketchy.
Like an actor without a script, she knew she’d have to improvise her next moves.
Scri walked down the street, feeling estranged, as if she has been out of her body for weeks. She did not know what to expect. Who was Aunt Honeywrap? And better yet, did she just pass the Starbucks?
Scri turned back in one quick movement fell hard to the ground. The concrete, cushioning her head from the fall, was cold and wet. Wet like a child’s bed after a long sleep.
She looked up and saw that burley man, from Studio 54. He looked down at her, and in a rough voice, growled, “I advise you not to go any farther.”
He stepped over her. She didn’t know what to think. Suddenly, she could feel his heavy foot stop behind her. She looked back and so he was standing over her. He raised his hand, and his eye began to twitch.
“Do you have 2 bucks for the subway?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a five. “This is all I have.”
He snatched it from her hand and gave her a good, heavy kick in the face.
The rain poured into her wounds. She couldn’t move. People were walking by her, throwing lose change at her. She felt like something right out of a horrible musical about garbage bums. Her mind wandered back to once upon a time when she believed in love and that love would conquer all.
She was beginning to lose all hope in mankind. Where was the decency?
“Where’s the decency!?” she screamed out.
“Shut up, ya bum!” some lady retorted.
Scri laid her head back to the ground. Suddenly, another shadow crept over her.
“Scri?” it asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Aunt Honeywrap. You may call me Auntie.”
She helped Scri up, and brought her into the Starbucks. Auntie sat her down at a table in the back corner and went to order coffee.
“Here, drink this. It’s good for you.” Scri sipped some. There was silence. Except for the large crowd of tourists wondering why ‘grande’ wasn’t in their English-Whatever dictionaries.
“You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here. And who I am. Well, for the ease of this conversation, just listen. Do not speak. I have some inside information on what happened to Scal. Apparently, your friend from outside works for the UP and was told to destroy Scal. Fortunately, for Scal, the man is a buffoon and only injured Scal. But therein lays a problem. The UP will not stop. And he owns many people in this town. Scal is not safe in the hospital. A nurse or a doctor is likely to come to him and night and do something nasty. And not ‘Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights’ nasty. More like ‘Bust a cap in dat foolz ass cause I can mo’ fo’’ nasty. And that’s the worst kind of nasty. Fo’ rizzle.
“So I suggest tonight you break into the hospital and get Scal the hell out of there. If you fail, we may lose him forever. And perhaps he can lead us to the UP. But it is getting late, and you have much work to do. Here’s my card. Call me, when you need help.”
Auntie got up and left. Scri, still bewildered, looked down at the card. It was blank. She turned, and Auntie was out of site.
What was happening? She still wondered who Auntie was. This was all happening so fast. It was all so confusing and so sketchy.
Like an actor without a script, she knew she’d have to improvise her next moves.
#124
Posted: 9/6/05 at 12:02am
Ooh another "rousing" edition...on a scale from a mini m&m to a Mega m&m...I'll give you a solid shrek themed m&m...
So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.~Office Space
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