"Out of place" - the OFFICIAL non SW fic thread in Fanfic

NOTE: I did not get any response from any admins pertaining to this thread idea in Communications - so, this _could_ be against policy. This is an OFFICIAL thread, so all non-SW fic should be kept in this thread. If the admins don't want it, I'll lock it (if I still can edit it).

****

Do you have a short story/poem that you have written taht doesn't necessarily have anything to do with SW, and you want people to read it? Or are you having writer's block (pity you!) on your fic(s) and can't seem to write, and are writing something non-SW to try to get back on track? Well, you can post it here. Here, you can post non-SW stuff, just not novel-size stuff. They should be all posted at once, rather than be an ongoing fic (like many of the fics in this forum). So, do ou want people to see what you've done, not necessarily in the realm of Fan Fiction? This is the place to post it.

--Mr. P

 

I've been thinking about writing a non-SW fic, but I didn't have any readers, up until now. I'll write something. I got a great idea!

 

Ok, I'm draging this out of the depths!

I have a Dark Angel fic that I'd like to share. http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=229384

Kind of a songfic, not really though. You travel to the year 2023 and see Logan's point of view as he remembers the good and the bad times he shared with Max, including the day she died. Major angst and tears ahead! Shippers, this is for you! Don't forget to R&R!

Peace.
-LadyCallie

 

ok, here's an origional. I wrote it for a writing program I was in over the summer and it was printed in their anthology at the end of camp. (that's the reason I still have it on disk).



[start]
Author: Elizabeth May
Grade: 10
Title: Bridge Burning
Genre: Fiction

Bridge Burning

Hands enclosed my arms suddenly. I struggled, but it didn?t help. They lifted me up as I tested their strength against me. Sweaty palms shoved against my skin tightly, leaving marks.

?Here he is, sir!? The ones holding me shouted.

I struggled to see through the large hand covering my eyes and face. I could see the dock burning, burning because my explosives had blown it up. I had finished the job I set out to do. The job I had been ordered to do and had accepted it gratefully. After this, they would never underestimate us again!

?Ah, the criminal,? the head man said slowly, accenting the last word so it would reverberate in my mind. Criminal, criminal, criminal. A cruel reminder of what others saw me as. A sabotager, a rogue, a terrorist, a criminal. Criminal, criminal, criminal. A cruel reminder of what I am. Of what I am now. Not what I used to be. Criminal, criminal, criminal. I'm not ashamed of it! Criminal, criminal, criminal.

?Yes sir.? The ones holding my arms answered. The others grunted their agreement as I tried one more time to free myself of their grips.

?Well, criminal,? he sneered looking down on me. I could just make out his brown, hateful eyes through the thick fingers obscuring my vision. He continued. ?How would you like to see your work, up close and personal, criminal??

Panic. When his words came through to me, when I understood what he was saying, I couldn?t believe it. Weren?t these supposed to be the ?good guys?? This is how we avenged ourselves on people who sabotaged our stuff, but they were supposed to be above us, better than us. These were the straight men, the good guys, the heroes on the white horses with the white hats, who ride off into the sunset. Yeah, right, sure. There wasn?t much time left, I knew. I had to get out of here, now. I straightened, flexing my muscles, as if attempting to get out. At once, I went slack in the their arms and sagged. My last chance to escape was fouled by the fact that they had anticipated it. Their sweaty hands had a good a grip as ever. My spirits, what were left of them anyway, crashed. There was no way I was going to be able to get out of this. I knew I was going to die. The only choice left to me was how I was going to go down.

?Well, criminal?? He asked again. I spat in his face. ?Should I take that as a yes?? I spat again. ?Tie him up!? He yelled to his men. I could see ropes being brought from somewhere out of the corner of my eye and felt the snake-like slither of them going around and between my arms and legs, making it impossible for me to break out of them. I tried anyway. It didn?t work.

On his order, the men swung me once, twice, three times and with a yelp I was thrown into the flames. The burning punctured my consciousness, demanding to know what in heavens name was going on, the heat entered my body making me sweat more than on a summer?s afternoon, I couldn?t breathe for all the smoke that was coming into my lungs. Coughing, I fell through some burning wood. The last thing I heard before the fire took me was the low, fading, mocking, laughter of the cops.

[end]

 

My usual warning about posting original fiction and poetry online. If you're just doing it to share your stories and get your name out there, good; that's fine--you can use it to practice writing generally. But if you have a thought of polishing the story and trying to sell it, don't post it. You'll lose first rights by "publishing" it online (more properly, you've exercised first rights by doing so), and a lot of markets aren't interested in second rights.

 

I know. THat's why I posted that one and not one of my origionals. Not getting that one really published, it's not good enough for one thing, so I'm posting it whereever.

 

This is an original poem by: myself.

I was 15 when I wrote it (16 years old now)



FAREWELL


If never again we meet upon the anguished earth
And nevermore shake hands in good and friendly mirth
If the times be hard to tell
Farewell,farewell,farewell.

Should our swords turn to rust
And our bones reduce to dust
Should the air be filled with the sound of tolling bell
Farewell, farewell, farewell.

Should death come between us friends
And bring us all to bitter ends
Should we go from hence, to where spirits come to dwell
My Dear Friend......

Farewell, farewell, farewell!

 

I publish my poetry on the Internet with reckless abandon, though I recommend taking JG's advice if you want to pursue selling a piece.

That said, my most recent poem, which is being put into my uni's writers' guild anthology:

"illuminating the pantheon"

if there were such a thing
as a goddess of night
I am sure
she would not want your
ILLUMINATION
when you glide along
the pantheon
with your public prayers
and your speeches in tongue

 

Hey, cool! I almost forgot about this thread!

I'm not much of a poet, more of a story person. I'll try to get something up (there's something I've been polishing since about november - it may be a bit too much on the side of the horror genre for this forum, though), eventually.

--Mr. P

 

WOW! Those were really good!
_____________________________________________
DISCLAMER: I thought this up, it is my own brainchild. I?m making no money off of this. Please don?t sue me!

DEDICATION: I wrote this in Drivers Ed. This poem is dedicated to all of the people who have died because of a drunk driver.

AUTHORS NOTES: Every 23 minuets a person dies as the result of a drunk driving accident. 1 in every 3 people will be involved in a drunk driving accident sometime in their lives. Don?t let yourself be one of the statistics, don?t drink and drive. Or if you do, plan on a designated driver. If you do become intoxicated please let someone who hasn?t been drinking drive or call someone for help.

I?ll never?
By LadyCallie

I?ll never see you smile.
I?ll never see you cry.
I?ll never hold your hand.
I?ll never hear your voice.

I?ll never dance with you.
I?ll never kiss you hand.
I?ll never sing our song with you.
I?ll never rub your shoulders.

I?ll never see that new yellow dress you bought.
I?ll never taste your sweet lips.
I?ll never rap you in my arms.
I?ll never hear your heartbeat.

I?ll never do anything again.
All because someone chose to drink and drive.
_____________________________________________

Peace.
-LadyCallie

 

Great thread idea. I highly approve!

Nice work LadyCallie. I think I'll go over to ff.n and review that. I'm also going to put you on author alert.

Here's the link to a song I wrote several years ago during the crisis in Sarejevo. It's called When Will It End. Here is the link:

http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=97732

~*~Bria

 

I just wrote a poem about being flammed..... anybody interested in it? It's not SW, but the title is inspired by Jacen in Balance Point.

I Will Stand Firm
http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=236276

~*~Bria

 

Here's mine. I wrote this in november...

I still can't decide whether to have the title be in the Latin or english translation.

--Mr. P

*****

I think, therefore I am
-j. lustig


Joel Edgarton looked at his alarm clock to the his right over his shoulder, noting that five minutes had passed since he had last looked: now it was 11:30 a.m. on a very dreary Monday morning. He stared blankly at his unfinished math homework; math was his worst subject.

The incessantly repetitive and incredibly annoying pitter-patter of the rain outside his window was almost as dreary as the conditions inside his body; with the flu and a 103.3 degree fever, he was most definitely going to stay home from school. His mother wouldn?t have it any other way. _He_ didn?t have any problem with it, except he felt like his head was being squeezed in a burning-hot vice. He had never felt anything like it in his seventeen year-old life.

Leaning his head back against the blood-red wall behind the head rest on his bed, he thought: //Will this ever end?// as he sneezed ? again. Perhaps someone would hear him. He hoped that dying didn?t feel like this. He wasn?t afraid of death ? he was only afraid of the path one had to take to get there. He sipped his orange juice, and spied his bookshelf across the room. English was his favorite subject; it was something he could grasp, as opposed to math, which was totally abstract.

He got up with a groan, and scanned the shelf for something to read. He had read each one of them at least three times both backwards and forwards. Pulling off a copy of _Unfinished Tales_, he relaxed on his bed, and opened the book to a random page to start, and began to read ? until he realized he had to hit the john.

* * * * * *

When he got back, he opened the book up, again, to a random page ? and found that the page was blank. He flipped through the rest of the book, and was surprised to find that the whole book was like that, a great vault of blankness. //What?s going on?// It could be many things ? the one that worried Joel foremost was that he might be going mad, going insane. Recently, he had been considering it

_(totally possible)_

a distinct possibility, as work piled up and he got more and more edgy with every passing moment.

He took another sip of his orange juice and closed his eyes as he felt the cold, slimy substance go down his throat like fire. It didn?t make him feel good. He took off his glasses, setting them on the night-stand where his alarm clock rested at 11:28 a.m., and rubbed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, he felt for his glasses, but didn?t find them. He didn?t have his glasses on, so he couldn?t find them ? a frequent problem of his. He looked closer, and found them gone. They must have fallen on the floor.

His vision wasn?t that bad without the wire-frames; he didn?t need them to see, but still, without them, everything was blurry. His eyes focused, and went back out of focus, and back again; he looked around and was surprised, again, to find more missing: his book, his stereo across the room, the light next to him. What was odd was that the radio was still playing, and the light still came from the nonexistent lamp.

//This is odd...// he thought.

_(am i mad...)_

//Madness! Where did everything go?//

Swiftly, things began to change: first, the bedspread, then chair at his desk, and his desk itself. The bookshelf fell down, hundred of books of all genres piling up with a thin veil of dust rising above. He could have been imagining it: his eyes could be going bonkers. One by one, everything disappeared, while Joel sat transfixed at all that happened. What if he got off his bed ? and he disappeared as well? Perhaps everything was actually a dream ? and he was just waking up, to a totally different life; perhaps he was only six weeks old ? or sixty years ? and this... this was all fake, all a dream.

The door to his room, locked and shut, and his pale, faded blue carpeting were the next victims. Slowly, everything was disappearing: it was the stra

 

That was very good Mr.P! I wouldn't change the title.

This poem is dedicated to my first best friend April. It is based off of true events.

My first best friend.
A first best friend is a very special person.
She is the first one that you do ?best friend? stuff with.
We went to the zoo and rode on a train.
We wore the same dress (one that we made together).
We liked the same things.
We played all the time.

But then I had to leave you, and go far away.
I missed you a lot.
You missed me too.
We wrote letters to keep in touch.

Time passed.
You came and visited me in my new house.
What fun we had, you and I.
The years go by.
We are older now; we talk on the phone.

I still miss you.
I have new best friends and so do you.
Sometimes you forget old friends who live far away.
But I know I won?t forget you, my first best friend.

AUTHORS NOTES: I own this poem. It?s mine so you can?t sue me! Haha!!

-LadyCallie