Istoryan Writers

[huslabiatch]

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oh by the way back in garde school and high school I used to write stories..heheheh iono.. I was like the writer of the barkada.. I got like tons of it and none of it were finishd..hahahah sayang sad.. linagw ra ab toh dah..i still hav em in one box..

[splendid moonlight]

whoa! it's weird how other people's writings influence you. the first two story had a character that died. the second one hinted at someone dying. and i just noticed my own story speaking of dying too (only in a diff. manner). it's weird. or maybe it's number 1 (an old man crying) and number 2 (bloodied diary) that did it.

@ husla: share your stories. :mrgreen:

[blade101]

well I guess t'aint much of an influence.instead it's more of the choices we were given and the associations we make of these choices.ma associate man gud nato dayun ang death sa images na gi hatag in pnoiz2k4 so it would be no surprise na we write about it in that context

[pnoize]

blade101: i definitely agree with you. we really think alike. hahahaha

[MrBiddle]

definitely agree with you. we really think alike. hahahaha

OT: Kaila ba mo ni ignotus...

his posts are all carbon copies. and if he came, surely he would concur.

[blade101]

Oh I most certainly agree with your points!

Toink!

[riko diko]

hey guys. i don't write, but i read. there's this group here in cebu coming up with a full-color top quality magazine. the magazine showcases art, culture, and music of the Philippine South. the mag is yet to release their maiden issue in 2-3mos., right now the team is still forming the 60-page magazine.

i believe the team is sill inviting writers to write for them, so why don't you guys check them out. what's cool about this mag is that it isn't the usual "paporma" magazine. it's totally new and cool. email them at knackparty@yahoo.com. mao ra to! thanks.

[Wafted]

i write for my own purpose... to satisfy my inclination for it.
i don't peddle writing to please, fascinate, or humor anyone.
i seek it for my own. i won't bargain it to suit anyone but me. me.
if nothing would work out
and the rest would suck me to the depths
if i grow tired
and just slump weary
in this forsaken corner
if they all leave me here
then at least id write
and wont have to search
for something else
but the liberation of my thoughts
the thing that means the most
on my labored chase
for an elusive purpose

[thisbe.ara]

@pnoize2k4: my pathetic attempt.. hehehe.. read on..

Tap…tap.. tap.. the sounds of his wooden cane echoed through the cemented front lawn. It was raining. His daughter, Rebecca would have freaked out had she known he escaped from his room again. The fact that the drizzle minutes ago is starting to appear like the beginnings of an autumn storm will not put Becca that much of an ease. Oh, Becca… She was the only one who cared for him now. Sweet, sweet Becca. Old Man Mallory remembered how he held her in his arms and baby girl Becca would demand, “Poppa, pls sing me a song.. “ And then he would strum his guitar and compose a song out of the blue. Becca was her number one fan. Up to the times when he reached stardom, sold album records, Becca was at her side. Her presence always brings rainbow in his life. Unlike Becca, his wife is the exact opposite. She is married to herself. Damn, Lorie was beautiful. No, she was enchanting.. She was a spell, a lovely poisonous spell. And the fact that he fell in love with her was one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Lorie loved only one person. And that is herself. Everyday, she would stare at a mirror, worrying about invisible wrinkles, invisible warts.. Oh, how he hated that mirror! Once in a heated argument, he broke the mirror. To Lorie’s rage, she also tore Old Mallory’s diary, his most prized position. The shreds of glass that tore Malloy’s skin gave him a deep wound. As he retrieved his diary, drops of blood trickled on the torn pages, leaving a memory of pain. Each of them retreated to a deep agony after that. Old Mallory never wrote again on his diary, Lorie continued to stare at her mirror, the broken mirror. She would still look at it, imprisoned by the memory of her beauty.
Tap, tap, tap.. The rain poured.. Its sounds reverberated on the tin roof. Such was the irony of old age. The more you try to save it, the deeper it goes down the drain. The rain reminded him of a luxury he once had during his youth- dancing in the middle of it. And like a devil’s advocate, a child with a walkman danced past him, dancing in the rain, listening to a beat he alone could hear. The child stopped and said, “Sup oldie!” He was about to give him the finger, but his arthritis won over his urge. Aahh… the shame of old age.. One cannot go to the toilet alone, all the good food is gone, and now.. he can’t even raise his finger!! And like a fool, a deep laugh started as a grunt, then erupted into boisterous, crazy laughter.. The boy stopped and looked at him quizzically, “You’re a loon”.. And hearing that, he stopped and walked all the way to the riverbanks…
The rain had with it howling winds but it didn’t stop the old man. He sat in his favorite spot of grass near the river, listening to the growing storm. Being here in the cold is suicide, for that he’s aware. But what the heck.. His life is like an old song.. never ending. Once, it was a song of the many. Everybody loved it. .Along the way, it will be forgotten.. As time goes by, someone might be able to remember it. But then again, in one way or another, it has touched lives.
Tap, tap.. tap.. the beating of his heart goes.. His memory raced. His parents, his childhood, Becca. Lorie. His band, his life.. his music… A tear trickled down his cheeks, the first of a flood. Who would bother? No one.. The rain has washed away his tears. And in one final ounce of strength, he threw away a certain object he’d been holding a while ago.
Tap, tap, tap.. the seconds would tick by. How many did seconds did we ever treasure in our lives? Tap, tap, tap.. Should we wait until the last second before we appreciate it?

The rain stopped. Becca was frantically looking for her father. And in a few minutes, she would see the remnants of a book. A bloodied diary. On the covers, tattered letterings: “The Broken Guitar”..


Tap.

[jack_d_wack]

This is the thread for

1.) all professional istoryan writers...
2.) istoryans who love to express themselves through writing
3.) istoryans who would love to increase their skills in writing
4.) istoryan writers at heart

If you are a writer, what is your forte? and why?

say anything about writing (experiences,etc.) and how important writing is in your life...

OT: maybe we can group together and write a journal or something..hehehe..

i was a feature writer in our high school paper...but i took up an engineering course instead...hehehe...once in awhile, i write poetry, features, and most of the time, nonsense that would eventually sound sensible...how i wish i would have the best of both worlds?...writing and engineering...lolz...