tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75405782011-07-14T19:35:10.059-05:00We were all 16 once, right? And we all fancied ourselves poets and writers, right? Re-live your misspent youth here.Staciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00561469646694792394noreply@blogger.comBlogger61100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7540578.post-1089847597891911622004-07-14T17:55:00.001-05:002004-07-14T18:31:02.543-05:00

Read part II here. One of the nurses wiped the vomit from Michael's mouth. His heart monitor continued to beep regularly, slowly. His chest rose and fell from the force of the oxygen. "Jesus Christ, Tara, are you okay?" Jennifer appeared in the doorway. Tara looked briefly at her best frient with confusion. Her eyes grew wide and bloodshot. She rose from the floor sharply and lunged toward her

Staciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00561469646694792394noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7540578.post-1089579630052839802004-07-11T15:48:00.000-05:002004-07-11T16:00:30.053-05:00

Read Part I. And check out some of the language here -- "union of her stomach?" Dear lord. The participating members of the group gathered in a circle on the floor, around a silver candle. There were eight participants altogether, four of each sex. Tara sat next to a long-haired boy named Alex, and her fourth-grade crush, Bryon. She crossed her legs nervously, wondering if, in her vulnerable

Staciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00561469646694792394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7540578.post-1089324539976889512004-07-08T16:49:00.000-05:002004-07-08T17:08:59.976-05:00

Contributor's note: This is from circa 1991, when I had moved beyond pure gore but still had a fascination with the occult. This also marks the first use of "Tara" to represent the "me character." (Most of my friends from high school appear in this story, under different names.) I still use "Tara" as an occasional psuedonym today, on mailing lists and sign-in sheets. I'll be serializing this, a

Staciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00561469646694792394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7540578.post-1089247430867290352004-07-07T19:07:00.000-05:002004-07-07T19:43:50.866-05:00

Since this is my first post, I thought I would divulge my first real attempt. The following is the first piece I ever wrote, I was so sad that day. . . This is Schwartz circa '91. I could lament on the zeal and zest, Or perhaps nurse the milk from your breast Sing songs about the days to come Mourn the days under the sun. I could share the feelings in my heart And how they feel so torn apart

Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18146470913026988861noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7540578.post-1089242049120511092004-07-07T18:07:00.000-05:002004-07-07T18:14:09.120-05:00

Contributor's note: I was more of a prose person at 16, but I unearthed this little bit of Bloody Awful Poetry™. Enjoy. Wonder, wait, anticipate Ponder deep a clay dog's fate Sprinkle seeds, avoid the weeds Prepare for your Chia Date. Spread them out, lest you forget Be sure to keep them warm and wet Leave it out until it sprouts And now you have a Chia Pet! Sit around and watch it now Turn

Staciehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00561469646694792394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7540578.post-1089240392675924962004-07-07T17:23:00.000-05:002004-07-07T18:12:36.896-05:00

The wind blew in the late evening causing the lamp next to the stereo to fall over. The sky was blankly grey, fringed with white vapors. The blasting winds ripped their way through the bending trees. In the distance, thunder rumbled slowly down from the darkened heavens striking the accustomed earth. The fresh smell of new rain filtered through the window of the house, pushing out the smells

Clant Gordhachnoreply@blogger.com4