Desitny's Frailty (poem, sonnet)

Crazy as the night is to consume the day
The passing of all that comes my way
My will hears my thoughts, tastes my cry to stay
Nothing but white noise to perpetual motion

Blue as the song of sounds voice
A maze that’s lost me in its choice
Turn up the volume, I can’t stand the noise
Fate has consumed, entombed, and concealed

Lost as the self in the world of the lost
Reality’s dimension sees my end, my cost
I know not the time that’s flown past
My eternity’s there, but I am where

I am here, and now, and how I so desire
My will is ember bound, my fate from the fire

Itch (poem, lyric)

By Constance R.


Pull back the hammer, sound the bell
Clap of thunder, all is well
Hunger fed, heart made still
Test of patience, war of will

Sickened grin and nervous laughter,
Problem solved, tied to rafter
Breath not drawn, nervous twitch,
To and Fro, can't scratch the itch

Eyes a'flicker and tongue of flame,
Earth shatter, falling rain
Hands held tight, swept away
Briefest dark, red-ridden day

At the Back of My Mind... (prose, short story)

by Ada

My tremulous shoulders reveal an emotional outburst, but I hide my swollen face in a mascara stained paper towel clutched in my trembling hands. All around me I can feel my well-behaved relatives shooting glances in my direction, feeling sorry for me, but wishing I could get my act together and behave like the civilised human being I was brought up to be. Dressed appropriately in black, they feel they have a right to judge me, the rebel in jeans and t-shirt.

Take a bow, Sheila. You’ve earned your applause. Now drop the act.

No, not today. There’s no acting today. A bit of hiding, but no acting.

The valium I took earlier makes me feel detached, almost like I’m floating underneath the ceiling. But I’m still connected with my feelings. And with my memories. I’m bringing all of that up there with me, staring down upon the rest of the people, quietly absorbed with their hushed grief. Which is how I can tell that even the people behind me are staring at me, and wondering.
“Sheila’s upset,” they whisper. “Look, her shoulders are shaking, she’s crying so hard. I didn’t know they were that close.”

Well, there are a lot of things they don’t know.

Like the fact that his eyes are staring at me through his closed eye lids from the closed casket. And that I can see his hands, scrubbed clean, folded upon his chest as in prayer. They’ve washed his hands of this world for him, and made him ready to enter the next one. I close my own eyes, and see an image of his heavy body in the cold, damp earth, so real I can almost smell it.

His hair and fingernails still growing.

Worms feasting on his rotting flesh.

My head aches, and as I rub my temples I feel a nausea coming on. And I remember things so vividly that I can hear and feel them. His voice, telling me to lie still or else. His hands, always clammy against my skin, ever since I was too young to understand what he was doing. I can’t focus on what the minister is saying. His compassionate voice seeps through only in bits and pieces: “…a real tragedy… at such a young age…”

What does he know?

I finger-brush my hair away from my face with both hands, and look up finally. Teary eyed, putting a hand in front of my mouth to stop the craziest of sounds coming through it, I let the world see me for what I am.

It’s my cousin’s funeral, and I can’t stop laughing.

“This is life,” my uncle says, standing in front of the casket. He turns around and looks at the wooden walls concealing his son from him. He swallows heavily, and when he continues, his voice breaks appropriately. “Loving and losing. That’s what it’s all about.”

And I just can’t stop laughing.

The Voices (poem, unconventional)

What is what
They’re in there
No if-and-but
It’s me they share

Through influence
And logic’s lies
They make my sense
And paint my skies

One says left One says right
Then turns round Stands their ground

Right along Left in wrong

They race and run
Shout their madness
They have their fun
Fun relentless

Hahi Hehe Hoho Hahe
Confusion sought Conclusion’s rot
No sight, you see Nowhere, you’ll be

There’s one, no two
They multiply
It’s never through
Through either eye

Go here, go there
They order on
We get nowhere
As equal pawns

I like it here What’s there to fear
Well-known showing Keep on going
I’m right you see Listen to me

Leave me to moan
Don’t drone my mind
Leave me alone
My way I’ll find

Now to think straight
Voices at bay
No time to wait
I’ll go that way I’ll go this way

Made of Matches (prose, short story, cont.)

by Constance R.

Jean flipped open the phone and dialed, her glare fading into a soft, helplessly hopeful sulk, finally giving in to company-desperate temptation. It seemed to ring for an eternity, her heart sinking with each tone, the tears drawing closer and closer to spilling over and her jaw clenching tighter and tighter until her teeth were sure to crack. But when a male voice answered 'Hey' she nearly burst into hysterical laughter.
"Ryan--Hey, Ryan!" Jean sputtered, her heart racing with exhilaration. "Oh my god, it's so great to hear your voi-"
"Hey, this is Ryan. I'm not home right now, so leave me a message and your number and I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!"
As Ryan's voicemail beeped to commence in leaving a message Jean remained silent, her hand holding the phone beginning to tremble and her breathing starting to quicken. She snapped the phone shut with such ferocity that she dropped it, her hands curling into fists. Her nose twitched with anger as she slowly bent her head down so her chin settles against her collar, tears silently flooding down her cheeks and seeping into her shirt.
"...So you can take the time to change your god damned voice message, but you can't take a minute to call me?..."
In a jerk, all the air that had been held tight in her chest let loose in an aching moan, her hands uncurling and moving up to cover her face. With each gasp her tears momentarily surged, her body rocking back and forth in her chair and her skin chilled and goose bumped with longing.
"Damn it, Ryan..." Jean barely managed through sobs, her lungs becoming quickly sore and her sides pricking with pain. "Damn it, I miss you...Why can't you call me? Why won't you call me?...Am I really that bothersome?... If you'd just ask, I'd have gladly let you alone! You didn't have to go and deliberately avoid me like that!"
With a shudder and groan Jean gently slid off her chair, leaning against the wall and continuing to talk to no one as she cried.
"I didn't mean to pester you so much...I just love you, you know, and I hate being away from you, I hate being alone...it makes me feel so stupid--why are you punishing me? What did I do wrong?"
She was unable to get out anymore as her sobs overpowered her voice. She had often made such accusations in the past month in her head, cursing those that 'avoided' her and then cursing herself for causing whatever unseen trouble that must keep them at bay.
It was quite some time before her tears finally stopped and she took a deep breath, picking herself up off the floor and scooping up her phone, stuffing it fiercely into her pocket as she continued to scold herself in her head.
After standing there silently for a breathless five minutes Jean was finally able to compel herself to leave the living room and move instead to her apartment's small bedroom, perching herself in front of her patiently waiting computer and accessing the Internet. She didn't bother checking her email, which proved more hopeless and barren than the lack of phone calls, and instead went to scrutinize her horoscope. She began reading it with fading interest, her head resting on her hand.
"Virgo: Today is not the best day for you. You would do well to remember to keep away from fire elements--their unpredictable and sometimes misleading behaviors may make you think they are something they're not, and in turn can lead you to feel depressed and neglected. Keep in mind that you are a wood element, and that things made of matches burn easily. Keep your head, and always look on the bright side, even when things are rough and unpleasant. Everything may not be as it seems."
At this Jean returned to glaring. This message that had promised each day to be uplifting and encouraging by predicting the day's events only pained her more so. Her hate for the world and its lack of interaction with her grew with each moment as she sat staring at the message displayed on her screen. She abruptly slammed her hand down on the desk as she felt the tight return of anxiety surge through her chest; Her hyperventilating did nothing to cool the headache that clawed at her temples, and as the panic attack went on she broke into a sweat, her breathing shifting unevenly and beads of perspiration slowly sliding down her forehead. She wasn't entirely certain what had set her off this time--the horoscope's accusations, maybe, or her own.
"No," She gasped "St...Stop...being...ridiculous..."
Jean grabbed at her chest as she struggled to restore calm, her hands shaking and the throbbing in her head remaining persistent, nausea beginning to twist in her gut. A moment later and it ceased, Jean leaning back in her chair as her breathing settled, her leg bouncing with unrest and her hands trembling slightly in her lap. She despised her panic attacks--they always felt like they were lurking right around the corner somewhere, especially during her long weeks of confinement, and she had begun scolding herself each time one came on, trying to force them to stop and to keep some sort of steadiness.
Pushing herself up from her chair, Jean sluggishly shuffled over to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door as she entered; After all, who was there to walk in on her? She began running water for a bath, sighing as her stomach persisted to ache with nausea as she commenced undressing. All she needed to do was relax--for a fleeting moment she convinced herself that she was just stressed about work and school, and that Ryan would come around when he felt like it.
Stripping down to the likeness of a jay bird, Jean submerged herself in the pleasantly hot water, turning it off with her foot and snuggling down so that water reached her chin. Her eyes drooped closed and her body relaxed somewhat; but as she sat, she could feel her face growing hot. Not from the water, but from the fresh batch of tears that threatened to spill over. She held them in with all her strength, sucking in her breath and trying to keep it from shaking. There had to be something more than the loneliness, she though to herself, but she knew there wasn't--all she wanted was company. To feel Ryan's arms, in particular, wrap around her and hold her tightly--and not just because she's asked him to, but because he wanted to. She wasn't all too sure if that would ever happen again, though.
Jean's eyes shut themselves tight as she submerged her head, her hands gripping the sides of the tub with determination and her jaw clenched firmly. A steady stream of bubbles escaped from her nose, her dark brown hair swirling about her face as she focused on keeping still. After 30 seconds her lungs started to ache. At 40, they were beginning to burn. She didn't know what she was doing, or why, but she was set on finishing whatever it was. 50 seconds and her head felt light. After a minute she lost count, her torso jerking involuntarily and her lungs feeling like they were slowly collapsing in on themselves. She sucked in water as they screamed for air, her fingers digging into the sides of the tub with the intent to kill. Her torso jerked again, more violently this time, her head feeling hollow. Opening her eyes she saw only faint colors fading to black, and as she choked a burst of crimson erupted from her nostrils. The only thought that seemed to ricochet off the inner walls of her mind was that if she were made of matches, she would douse herself with water to keep from burning up--to keep from being played with by the reckless. To keep from being hurt.
Jean unknowingly flung herself over the side of the tub, coughing up water as she sputtered and convulsed. Her mind remained a dark muddy pool and her eyes refused to register anything but black. Breathing in ragged gasps, Jean's head lolled to one side, water streaming from her nose and mouth. Tears cascaded down her face as her mouth gaped open, her chest heaving and her body trembling with the chill brought on by her selfish act. And then everything faded into a dull, hollow emptiness.

When Jean finally came to her senses, the once steaming bath water was cold and tinged a dirty pink, her hair half-dry and her ribs, nose, throat and lungs aching. Her head was pounding resentfully as she squinted about the dizzying bathroom and her ears gave a painful throb as her phone gave a seemingly shrill beep. Coughing, Jean weakly reached out for her pants, which lay in a heap just out of reach, her fingers fanning out in a desperate attempt to snag a corner of her clothing. She whimpered slightly as she leaned further over the edge of the tub, taking hold of her pants and numbly searching the pockets with increased clumsiness. Once her phone was revealed she could see the status light on the front blinking rapidly: one missed call. Flipping open the phone, Jean stabbed the talk button with her index finger to listen to her voicemail, her heart pounding with excitement and causing her dizziness to surge.
"One new message and 12 saved messages." The jerky automated voice said. "First new message, received at four twenty eight p.m." Jean hurriedly flipped the phone over-- 4:32.
"Hey, Jean--" Ryan paused uncertainly, Jean's breath becoming caught in her chest and causing her to wince. "Yeah, sorry I haven't called you back--everything's been so crazy. My sister came in from out of town a few weeks ago and I was preoccupied with that, and then my dad called up and said that my mom was back in the hospital again--you know, her back and all--so I was up to see her and help my dad out around the house. I'm really sorry I haven't called you, or been over there. Gas money is tight, and I really don't have much to spare--but I should have gotten up there at least to check if you were alright. I'm sorry..." he paused for a long moment, and Jean could hear him exhale hard through his nose like he did when he felt he'd just done something wrong. "...I miss you...actually, I think I'm going to come over there. I just have a bad feeling...I don't know, you know how that goes. I'll see you in ten minutes. I love you." another pause. "...bye."
Jean let the phone gently slide out of her hand and onto the floor, dragging herself out of the cold bathwater and snagging a towel from a nearby hook as she shakily brought herself to her feet. Stumbling, she made her way out of the bathroom, wrapping the towel about herself and making her clumsy way into her bedroom. There she struggled with her dresser's drawers, jerking out clothing and sluggishly pulling them on, letting her towel drop to the floor. Once dressed, she made another dizzy trip out to the living room, collapsing onto her couch and listening to the pounding of her heart in her head. Soon Ryan would be there... and everything would be alright.

Shiny, Shiny Boots of Leather (prose, short story)

by Ada

She knows she's not being followed, yet she keeps walking steadily on. There's nothing or no one to be seen, and ahead of her and behind her the lanes stretch on for miles of visible road.

Empty.

She should be tired, but she's not. Her feet should ache, but she's too numb to feel it. She staggers on, in her high heeled leather boots and torn stockings. Her right hand clutches a purse, its reins hanging towards the ground, swinging from side to side in sync with her movements. Her fingernails are painted red, but several of them are broken, and the polish is peeling off. Her index and middle fingers are scratched where she scrapes them against her teeth above the toilet bowl twice a day, after tying her hair in a pony tail at the back of her neck. The hair hangs in greasy, dirty blonde waves around her face now.

Her age is hard to determine. She's dressed up to look older than she is, but underneath her makeup hides a face that might not yet be out of her teens. Her skin is white, apart from her cheeks on which a fake blush is powdered, and black mascara and eyeliner gathers in a tiny net of wrinkles around her eyes. Mimic wrinkles witnessing of a better time, with things to smile about, not so long ago. Her red lipstick has been rubbed off, and her bloodless lips are visible through the remains of it.

The sweat running down her back is cold, and it clings her tank top to her body as if it were the forecasted rain that never seems to show up. She pulls the fake fur closer around her with her free hand, and shudders. The zipper is broken, and she holds it shut against a wind that out of nowhere starts pulling at the trees around her. There are no shadows on the ground in these final, grey hours before dawn. No colours, no contours. Through this washed-out world she shuffles, like a somnambulist, one foot absent-mindedly placed in front of the other.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

And she stumbles. Falls down on her knees, crawls a few steps before getting back up, without stopping. Moving forward being her only purpose, she doesn't pay attention to anything else. The sharp pain shooting up from her right knee, where a patch of crimson is emerging through her stockings, doesn't stop her. If anything, it gives her something to focus on, something to take her mind off something else. It's no different from the cuts and scratches on her arms, straight, parallel wounds on top of straight, parallel scars.

Her fingers are stained yellow by the cigarettes she's now craving. She's got a package of Virginia Slims in her purse, but she knows there's only one left. Her hands are starting to shake, and she moves her feet quicker, as if trying to walk away from her nicotine withdrawal, but she ends up taking shorter steps, and just gets nowhere faster.

Clouds are gathering above, and with them a promise of rain, finally. But she doesn't notice. The weather means nothing to her, apart from the immediate discomfort of it. Her skirt, tight and short, is riding up her skinny thighs, but she neglects her usual habit of pulling at it to keep it in place. He hates that habit. Or, he hated.

She stops. For the first time since she left his house in the middle of the night, she slows down and stops. She stops, just as the first few drops of rain falls down on her, and on the thirsty ground around her, not believing its luck. In disbelief it leaves the drops where they fall, forming small pearls of precious water on top of the sandy ditches and the dark tarmac, before greed outwits the incredulity, and the treasure sinks into the earth, leaving only a damp patch on the surface.

She's rummaging her purse, seeking the cigarette pack in a panic that increases as quickly as it overwhelmed her. She finds the package, and - hands trembling - she shakes out the last one. Fumbling to put it in her mouth at the same time as searching for the lighter, she drops it to the ground, where it soaks up the droplets of rain that fall with it.

She's immobilised for a moment, just staring at the white, broken cigarette, like it's a worm coming up for air after its underground tunnels are flooded by the overhead rain. Then, with a high-pitched sound, like a shriek of pain from a wounded animal, she falls to her knees as the events of the night overwhelm her.

In glimpses she can see his face above her in his bed. Her hands tied to the headboard, she has no choice but to endure the cold blade of the knife against her skin, wondering when he'll actually cut her. For three nights a week he loves her, controls her, consumes her, and then hates her. It's the way he likes it and it's what he pays for.

No more.

With his back to her, getting dressed, she was the one to take control, knife in hand, and an uncontrollable rage surging through her.

Now, miles and hours away, she's crying so hard that her sobs become gagging, and she retches dryly a few times without throwing up. She sits in the ditch with her legs stretched out in front of her, like a rag doll. She has no strength left in her, and just sits like this, feeling all the aches of her body submerge into one, all consuming pain.

Now, after claiming her body back, and her control back, the fear and shame has been replaced by emptiness and solitude. And more fear. And more shame.

Above her, the sky opens up, and lets out an ocean. With the water drip-drip-dripping from the tips of her hair, down her face, commingling with her mascara-black tears, she grabs her purse, and, clutching it in her fist as before, she gets up upon her high heeled boots, and keeps on walking.

Rainy Weather (poem, sonnet)

By Icnived

Round the corners edge
Down the charted ledge
Through the withered wedge
Past the hidden hedge

Past the forest tree
Through the mazes three
Down the mounts decree
Round the rivers free

Round and round we go
Down in hope we show
Through the world we flow
Past sanity for all we know

We are the life to life
Water rain, this is our strife

Wave (prose, short story)

Sitting in the windowpane, staring down at the people walking by in the street, I pulled my legs up under me and leaned my head against the cool glass. Jim Morrison on the stereo, singing Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name.
“Deirdre,” I whispered, “Deirdre is my name.”

It was Coral’s second suicide attempt. The first one was still fresh in our minds when we again got the call from the hospital. Between them I would lay in bed for hours, on my back with my hands under my head, lights off, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance as cars passed by underneath the window. I kept putting off buying curtains, and it never got completely dark. Sometimes I lit scented candles, and put them in the windowpane. The draft from the window, which had made white roses of frost on the inside of the glass during the coldest days of winter, made the shadows from the flames flicker unpredictably over the room, and spread through it the smell of roses or lavender.
We had quite the absurd conversation in the hospital bed, Coral and I. She had made room for me to lie down beside her, under the covers, as I had just come in from an icy summer rain. The umbrella had kept me dry enough, but I was still shivering with cold as I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, and the bed was invitingly warm and dry. I kicked off my shoes and crawled in next to her.
“I had my suicide note all worked out,” she said. I didn’t know how to tell her I didn’t want to know about it, so I cuddled up next to her with my head upon her shoulder, saying nothing. “I had this perfect quote I wanted to use, and everything. But then I forgot to write it.” Her voice broke off, and the silence that followed was painful.
I put my arm around her and found her hand, and, above it, the bandage covering the wounds on her wrist. I couldn’t help fingering with it. It felt strangely intimate. Even though I wanted the conversation to end, I heard myself asking, “Which quote is that?”
There was a slight pause, then “That to die is to wake,” she said simply.
I didn’t know what to say.
When she again spoke, I could hear impatience in her voice: “P. B. Shelley. ‘He hath awakened from the dream of life’.”
I cried silently into her shoulder. I don’t think she noticed.

On my way home, I leaned my head against the cool bus window, blindly gazing at droplets of polluted water snaking their way down the glass, crisscrossing each other as they went. It looked wrong. The young boy behind me was listening to loud music in his head phones, and I could make out a familiar melody, and found myself adding the lyrics I couldn’t hear.
I’m too messed up I should’ve followed you. Where’d you get that smile and the fine hair?
On the aisle across from me a woman my age was reading The Catcher in the Rye, expressionlessly, and it somehow didn’t make sense, as if I was watching a movie and someone had swapped the familiar soundtrack to something that didn’t fit at all. I broke my promise, and read the small piece of paper that had been put in my hand just before I left, with the instruction that I was to wait until I got home before I read it. Four short lines in her handwriting. I recognized the words immediately from a CD she had once borrowed and somehow never returned.

Wave thou art pretty
Wave thou art high
Wave to the city
Wave wave good-bye

The first thing that hit me as I walked into the apartment was the red-blinking light on my answering machine, and the knowledge that I should never have left the hospital.

Made of Matches (prose, short story)

By Constance R.

Though her dark eyes appeared to be looking out the window, Jean did not see the scenery outside, nor her reflection. She didn't see the handsom robin that pecked around in the front yard or the small violets that surrounded the house in a purple barrier. The fence, too, was invisible, as well as her own daunting glare. The only thing she registered was the glass itself, that thin, glinting pane that seperated her from the outside air. She continued to observe it with such intense loathing that any onlooker would have expected it to crack and shatter. But alas, there was no such onlooker, so it remained whole and Jean continued to stare.
Now, the fact that no one was there to watch was precisely the problem--Jean hadn't seen or spoken to anyone in over a month. Well, she had seen people, like those she passed in the grocery store and such, but no one had stopped by to visit for quite some time. Everyone was either on vacation, across the country, or too busy, and didn't have the money or the courage to get herself out of the house and visit them instead.
Jean was dying to talk to someone, but was too afraid to call. She had terrible penmanship and felt all her letters were too sappy or had 'pity me' stamped al over them. E-mails felt too pestering and ingenuine, and if she did pick up the phone she knew she'd only get an answering machine, which proved to be poor at engaging in conversation.
At around 2 a.m. every night Jean would jerk awake with the strange hopeful expectation that a certain someone would be lying next to her; But alas, she always awoke with the cold absense of arms about her and resorted to mopping up her tears with the pillow she desperately clung to. The hours of sleep she was able to capture dwindled little by little until she simply curled up by her window at night and stared off into the darkness.
Often she would hold the phone, finger poised above the talk button, ready for it to ring at any moment. When it did and she would answer with an over enthusiastic 'Hello?', an automated voice would come on and request that she take interest in whatever product or scam they were trying to sell. A day or so ago she had resorted to re-listening to voicemails she had saved, cherishing ever word the long-ago caller spoke, hanging on every 'um...' and sobbing at each 'g'bye'.
So there Jean sat, hateful and more lonely than a single violin player in a deserted concert hall. And to make matters worse, it was Sunday. Jean had always said that if she were ever going to kill herself, it'd be on 'The Lord's Day.' Besides, wouldn't that make it more convenient for Him? With all the energy of a herse-driver, Jean rested her forhead against the glass, letting out a long and heartbroken sigh as she glanced down at the cellphone that lay in her lap. It stared mockingly up at her, as if it were trying to tell her that no one would ever call--But she didn't need an inadimate object to tell her that. It was already blatently obvious that the world had ceased to care for her existence.

To be continued

Crazy Couplets (poem, couplet series)

By Icnived

My minds’ in here, right this very here
Stretch the east toward west and steady steer

A Narrow path but it’s wide to roam
Prompt placid pandemonium shown

A lack of marbles, noodles, or nuts
There’s just no substance left to share the cuts

Has the fog become crystal clear yet
Lost in this fun home of mine I bet

I’ll lead the way, now where’s that (trap) door
Left tile from the right of the carpet floor

Do not fear, there’s no want to worry
As you steer the end is near, better hurry

We close ourselves at half past sane
It’s then the madness falls like rain

Now sail, no glide, no time is left to hide
But before you go, in you I must confide

I’m not all here, I’m not all there
In fact I’m not all anywhere

I told you of my substance lack
And my ounce of sanity wants it back

So before you go, within this threshold of sanity
I leave and engrave in you this desperate plea

Adopt this only wish of mine
And search for the marbles of my mind

I do not wish to escape, only to have some control
But look the time is up your stuck, it’s ‘your’ sanity that I stole

Welcome to The Footless Rabbit!

While I'm waiting for you guys to RSVP, I'd like to ask for everyone to please not post or respond to anything on here--still trying to work out kinks and get things set up, but if anyone has any questions or concerns please feel free to email me at erland_lupus@yahoo.com

Also, this post will later be re-made into a general rules reference, so Rules will be posted here for now.

Anyone who'd like to become a member please email me at erland_lupus@yahoo.com

Thanks, guys!


The Rules

1. Since this is a Writer’s Circle, we highly encourage that everyone read as much of everybody else’s submissions as they can, as well as comment and deliver constructive criticism, praise, and other mumbo-jumbo. If you are not contributing to the group enough, we’ll give you a warning—you can’t just post and run! If you continue to not participate, well… maybe this isn’t the place for you. This is a place to share work and help one another in our literary strives and goals, so let’s all join in and pay at least somewhat attention, alright? That doesn’t necessarily mean, though, that if you can’t get around to a few stories we’re going to boot you out. We realize that everyone has a life outside of the computer realm, and we’d like to respect that.

2. Only 1 submission of literary work per week per member. Revisions of the same piece of work can be posted twice during the week, as an exception. This is so that if somebody suddenly has a writing spree and wants to post a million poems and/or prose, they can’t clog up the sight and leave everybody in homework up to their knees. Also, if you have a particularly long piece of prose, (usually more than 15-20 paragraphs is rather extensive), please split it up between weeks. This is just so that everything will stay under control and people won't get too discouraged when they see this huge entry that seems to go forever down the page.

3. At the end of each week (Saturday) you should have something up and ready to post, whether it be revisions or a new piece or a continuation. If you find that you have no inspiration, or life is preventing you from getting around to writing, please email Constance at erland_lupus@yahoo.com so we don’t think you’re just skipping out. If you are unable to get an email to me right away, just do it as soon as you can so I know you didn’t fall off the face of the earth. If you’re going to be absent for a while, please send me an email saying so and an estimated time of absence. We’d hate to be waiting in anxious anticipation for three months while awaiting your next installment of a poem or prose.

4. Always be kind and curtious, and don't take criticism personally! We're here to help one another, not accuse anybody of anything. and HAVE FUN!