I’m interested to see just how creative my fellow Dopers can be when they have their SDMB back, all safe and sound. So post your LITERARY (no non-fiction please) writing here, and try not to make it too long. If you’re good, Auntie Anubis might just post one herself. :rolleyes: (really, she might if she’s feeling high, so you have a good chance)
About all I have are Star Trek fanfics (please don’t hurt me!).
jayjay
Ahem …
DEAD HORSE, NM
By [Johnny L.A.]
Munch. Munch.
“Seen Mom?”
“Are you kidding? It’s so dark in here I can’t see a bloody thing!”
“Ha. Ha.”
“What?”
“You said ‘bloody’.”
“Oh.”
Munch. Munch.
“Where are we, anyway?”
“Dead Horse.”
“No shit. Really, where are we?”
“New Mexico.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Dead Horse.”
“God. If I had limbs I’d pummel you.”
“Look. We’re in a dead horse in Dead Horse. Dead Horse, New Mexico. Got it?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Horse’s name was Ernest.”
“Oh, shut up and eat.”
Munch. Munch.
Munch. Munch.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m pupating, you larval lunkhead.”
“Pupating! You’re NOT going to metamorphose without me! Hey…! Hey, I’m talking to you…! HEY!”
And so the maggots ceased fighting in dead Ernest, and held a truce until they became flies. But that’s another story.
Or how about…
Solidity of Hamlet
By Will Shake’n’Bake
And [Johnny L.A.]
TUBBY, OR NOT TUBBY. Fat is the question.
Whether 'tis globular in the hind to buffer the seats and benches of outrageous hardness, or thick in the arms or in a chin that’s doubled by impressive ingestion.
To diet, to eat no more. And by a diet to say we end the heartburn and the Thousand Island slop we subject our flesh to.
'Tis a consommé devoutly to be dish’d.
To diet, to fast; to fast, perchance to revert. Aye, there’s the rub: for after that Fast of Death what creams may come when we have stuffed ourselves with mortadella must give us pause.
There’s the respect that makes calamity of such a backslide.
For who would forego the trips to stores and bakeries,
To birthday parties, to company luncheons,
To outdoor barbecues, to fast-food restaurants,
Suffer the pangs of horrid hunger and the too-slow reduction of unwieldy weight when he himself might his surrender make with an open fridge?
Who would exercise, to grunt and sweat under free-weights, but that the dread of excess heft, that social stigma from which no fat person is free, troubles the will?
Thus weight-consciousness does make dieters of us all, and to banquets of great diversity and amount we must therefore say good-bye, or lose the game of attraction.
Hark! The fair Oprah! Be all thy sizes remember’d?
Just remember – in theory, anything posted here become property of the Chicago Reader.
The stuff above © 1991 by me. May not be used without my express written permission.
(What about the St. Exupéry quote? 
)
Erm… Except in this particular thread, since I posted it here for people to read.
Creative. Hummm, let’s see:
Call me Ishmael… No, wait. I think that’s already been used.
On another note:
Where have you been, Anubis ? I didn’t see you at all on the temporary board. And what news of your runnin’ buddy ozonebaby ? If you two wanted to be really good friends with the rest of us dopers, you wouldn’t disappear like that, would you? More than one of us was worried, fearing that you two had been eaten by wolves or somethin’.
Not only does it, in theory, become property of the Chicago Reader, but, in reality you’ve just published it for the first time. What that means is that if you’re looking to publish it for real and the publisher wants first publication rights you can’t offer it.
Well, according to Euty there’s a chance I too will be in an upcoming issue of Teemings.
Also, I have written a couple of plays (one of which has been performed,) currently working on a third which has a good shot of getting performed, and am also writing a book (but it’s technically non-fiction…well, I guess it’s main catagory is humor…it’s along the lines of one of George Carlin’s books, but with more other stuff. It’s hard to describe, but you’ll know when you see it. (I’m fairly optomistic about it being published.))
If your good, I’ll post links to the plays.
(They haven’t been published by anyone, and I would just put them up for download on my website…maybe with a password so no one can steal them and claim they wrote it.)
Here’s one from my collection of “Really Short Stories” I have posted on my Web site. So I’m not compromising my first publication stuff. In fact, I believe this is third publication, as I posted this story to an e-mail list before I put it on my site. It’s just a silly little writing exercise.
SILVER GOBLET
Prince Valerian the Recently Humbled, having narrowly escaped with his life through the Swamp of Slimy Things, the Gorge of Eternal Peril and the Woods of Woe, groaned as he gazed upon his final challenge: the Mountains of Madness.
With a sigh, he rolled up his once-expensive white silk sleeves and began climbing, wishing he had listened to the advice of his servant Humbert the Runny-Nosed, who had advised him to wear a disguise, or at least some practical clothes. Having heard this advice, Valerian the Formerly Vain to a Degree of Stupidity had worn his finest, least practical clothes, which were now tattered and covered with the sweat of his journey, the blood of his adversaries and the slime of the Slimy Things.
Having reached the top of the mountain, he met a half-crazed little old man whose frizzy gray hair and beard covered most of his body. Valerian abased himself before this man, who he knew in truth to be the Great and Famous Wizard Zifnif. He groveled all over the gravel and made quite an ass of himself. The old man giggled at the display and told the prince he should go visit the hermit next mountain over, as that was the true Zifnif.
Valerian, who would have been miffed had he not been so Recently Humbled, clambered down the mountain and up the next. There he found the real Zifnif, who looked pretty much the same as the last half-crazed old hermit.
“O Great and Famous Zifnif,” Valerian said, though without so much gravel-groveling, “I am seeking the hand of the beautiful and rich Princess Bertice the Overly Picky, who is not a nice person at all but whom I wish to marry because for some inexplicable reason I think her attitude will improve once she’s settled down. Also because before I started this journey, I was nearly as vain as she, and we would have been a perfect match–even our servants said we deserved each other. But she will not consent to wed me unless I present her with an exact replica of the Historically Important Silver Goblet of Callay. Even the most talented silversmiths have been unable to create such an object. I wished to ask you if you with all your powerful and scary magic would make one for me. Your reward shall be anything you ask.”
“Eh?” asked Zifnif, the Nearly Deaf.
Prince Valerian patiently repeated his request a little louder, but the wizard still did not seem to hear. Even the most recently humbled will get tired of repeating himself after awhile, and finally the prince shouted “WILL YOU PLEASE MAKE ME A SILVER GOBLET!!!”
The wizard, a bit taken aback, frowned as though still not sure what the prince had asked. Then he shrugged and said, “All right, if that’s what you really want.”
POOF! There was a thick cloud of tickly pink smoke that smelled of overcooked cabbage. When it cleared, Prince Valerian looked down at himself and shrieked in anger. “GOBLET! GOBLET! NOT GOBLIN!”
But Zifnif, who in truth did not really think Valerian had said “Make me a silver goblin,” but who in fact was in the mood for playing a prank, had already vanished.
At least now Valerian didn’t have to marry that awful Princess Bertice.
Like jayjay, most of my fiction is Star Trek fanfic, which can be found here. I’ll post my shorter non-Trek pieces when I find them and convert them to straight text.
Okay, found one. I wrote it ten years ago, so be gentle:
MEMORANDA by Bryan Ekers
The floor manager of Farnham's Department Store's floral department pored over the notes on his desk in excruciating boredom. Most of the papers were interdepartmental memos, shuffled and reshuffled until everyone knew the same tedious, useless facts. The manager, David Harken, read one from the
Sports Department on the sixth floor.
From:Sports Dept. Mgr.
To:All personnel
Re:In.Golf
And so it continued. The "In.", meaning in the store's jargon an "incident", was a shoplifter who'd been caught trying to steal a putter by sliding it down his pants leg and stiffly walking out the door. The man had been picked up by Security and the store intended to make an example of him.
Granted, it was important; any report of shoplifting in Farnham’s merited attention. It was just that Harken was sick and tired of his job in this dreary old place. Even the floral department, normally a bright spot, had lost its appeal.
At any rate, it was six o’clock. The store was closing for the day and he wouldn’t have to think about it until opening tomorrow.
His secretary, Miss Brown, came timidly knocking at his door. “Mister Harken. I’m afraid we have a problem.”
Harken sighed to himself. Why did these things have to happen at closing? “What is it?”
“Two customers, sir. They refuse to leave the floor.”
With another sigh, Harken pushed himself out of his chair. “Where?”
“They’re in the carnation section. Security is asking if they should send up a few men.”
“Tell them never mind. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harken knew the floral section like he knew the layout of his own apartment. He found the couple quickly enough, a man and woman. They were well-dressed and both in their late twenties, by the look of them.
Wearing his best manager’s smile, Harken walked up to them.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a syrupy tone of voice.
“No, we’re all right,” replied the man. He sniffed delicately at one of the myriad of carnations.
“Well,” said Harken uncertainly. “I’m afraid the store is closed.”
“Yes, we know,” said the woman. She looked at the moulding over the elevator. “Look, George, they haven’t changed since 1961.”
The man nodded. “So I see.”
Harken frowned. Neither of these two looked old enough to have even been born by '61. “I’m sorry, the store is closed.”
“Don’t worry,” said the man calmly. “We just wanted a second look, on the anniversary of the day we were killed here.”
That made Harken blink. “I beg your pardon.”
“On this day in 1961, a man and woman, my wife and I in our former lives, were shot accidentally during an attempted holdup.”
“I…see.” Harken’s mind was working furiously. The holdup, the only exciting moment in his early stockboy days, was a dim memory. “Well, haven’t you, ah, relived the moment enough?”
“Hmm? I guess so. Come along, Susan. We can’t keep the store open any longer.”
Wearing pleasant smiles, the two disappeared down an escalator. Harken was immensely relieved to see them go. He went back to his office.
The papers on his desk reminded him there was a necessary duty to perform. Even though he hated the idea of it, he would have to write a memo explaining why the closing had been delayed. Better to do it now and get it out of the way before tomorrow morning.
With his habitual sigh, Harken peeled a blank memo sheet off a pad on his desk and started to write:
From:Floral Dept. Mgr.
To:All personnel
Re:In.CarnationsI suppose I could post a few links, since Bryan Ekers has bravely broken the trail. 
I don’t think first publication rights are an issue, anyway, as I can’t publish Star Trek fanfic for profit and they’ve already been published on both alt.startrek.creative and the archives thereof.
So, I present Enterproz, CheQMate, and La Danse Macabre, probably the one I’m proudest of.
Enjoy. Or vilify. Your choice.
jayjay
Hasn’t anyone ever told you how lame writing fan fics is? No? Me neither, but I think it’s going to happen at some point
Mine are a strange hybrid between the X-Files and Dawson’s Creek (not as weird as it sounds though) www.geocities.com/theevilwriter/mulderscreek.html
A couple of listy-type pseudo-poems such as might have been written by the bastard offspring of Jack Handy and Richard Brautigan (but with less talent):
the book of interminable canfright.
-
Interminable canfright is often caused by lonely spirits descending upon hapless alcoholics.
-
The spirits settle into the corpus collosum of the unwitting victim, staking out a certain amount of neural bandwidth, as it were, for cable and other amenities unavailable in the ethereal realms.
-
Although unable to communicate directly with their hosts, the spirits find a certain amount of pleasure in once again inhabiting a skull and take comfort in the proximity of a still-living soul.
-
They choose alcoholics because spirits tend to admire addiction, deeming it the noblest of human conditions.
-
Unfortunately, their presence and synaptical hamfistedness cause severe cognitive dissonances in the people they inhabit.
-
The most common of these dissonances is interminable canfright, an existential dread of cans and all that they contain.
-
Because after all, what’s in those things anyway?
How to create your own polyyam.
-
Figure out how to take several objects and merge them together so they become one object yet retain their individual qualities.
-
Get some yams.
-
Merge them together so they become one object yet retain their individual qualities.
-
Enjoy your polyyam!
I was there. Under the Alias of 42. Im not sure about ozonebaby though.
http://pub4.ezboard.com/fhomeawayfromhomefrm3 for the round robin stories being told by several Dopers. Go! Look! Enjoy!
Okay, I found another one. this baby won me a contest in 1993 or therabouts. I was given a title, a piece of paper, and one hour. I was thinking about making a cartoon out of this one.
The Cloud by Bryan Ekers
Jim lay on his back in the grassy field. The sun warmed his face, calmed his spirit. A slow easterly wind blew a small cloud into his range of vision. He watched it lazily, seeing shapes within its cottony form. A castle, a spaceship, a woman, a lion. Jim’s attention drifted away. He closed his eyes and thought of nothing.
Behind his eyelids was a soft orange, the penetrating light of the sun. Very suddenly the orange faded to black. The change took several seconds to register to Jim. He opened his eyes. The cloud had drifted between him and the sun, putting Jim in its shadow. Deprived of the direct sunlight, Jim began to shiver. Annoyed, he waited for the cloud to move on.
A long time seemed to have passed, impossible to tell exactly because Jim had no watch, and the cloud had not moved. Jim glared at it. It no longer seemed so cute and harmless.
With a great effort, Jim hauled himself to his feet and walked into the sunlight. Selecting a good spot to lie down again, not difficult in the uniform field, he relaxed and in a few minutes was half-asleep.
The coldness awoke him, however. The cloud was again blocking the sun. The sleepiness was gone from Jim’s eyes as he glared at the interfering cloud. He jerked himself upright and walked a hundred meters across the field. He was about to lie down again when he noticed the cloud’s shadow moving across the grass directly at him. He looked up at the cloud and watched it obscure the sun from him…
Jim ran, sprinting until his lungs forced him to stop. This time the cloud was directly over him before he could catch his breath. He ran a figure-eight on the field, a zigzag, a wildly unpredictable course. He was never quite able to get out from under the cloud.
“All right!” he yelled. “You win!”
The cloud descended until it was at Jim’s eye-level. The camouflaging dry-ice effect faded, revealing an automated class six ultraviolet monitor.
“Apologies, sir,” said the monitor’s onboard computer. “But you have passed safe ultraviolet limits. The function of this unit is to—”
“I know,” interrupted Jim. “‘…to prevent potentially damaging levels of ultraviolet radiation from reaching humans.’” He glared at the device. “Well, you’ve ruined a perfectly good day. I may as well go home.”
Angrily, Jim turned and stalked across the field, back to the house. The monitor rose to a level of five meters and followed him.
Jim fretted. Humans had conceived this machine, designed and built it.
And here he was in its shadow.
On Poor Children
A nine-year-old girl is found in the stairwell of a crack house in Chicago. She has been repeatedly raped. Her stomach contains gasoline. On her body is the mark of a gang insignia, a pitch fork, made with something like a magic marker.
When she is found she is unconscious. Blood, drool, and semen smear her face. Her eyes, swollen from strangulation, stare bloodshot straight ahead. Even the kindness of death has escaped her.
Her fingers, cracked by brute force against futile resistance, are curled up in weird angles at the ends of her limp, bruised arms. Her chest heaves involuntarily as her heart works desperately to pump a few more times.
The stairwell spirals in both directions, echoing moans and screams that, like the wind, seem to come from everywhere and go nowhere. A light between the sixth and seventh floors flashes bright elecric blue-white, then dies, leaving a dank, horrible twilight.
The tall building is in a row with others like it, in a neighborhood with other rows. The sounds are of busyness, of car horns, of shouts, of occasional gunfire. The sights are of bars and broken glass, stripped cars, and people chasing, people fleeing.
The blighted neighborhood is nestled among other finer neighborhoods, where good citizens have paid their taxes and settled their debts with the statistically poor, out of sight, out of mind.
The president is having coffee with a millionaire from an enemy state. The congress is arguing over four billion versus six billion out of two trillion. The judges are deciding what all of it means.
Above the din of American society, amidst a wild and chaotic blend, the lone thought of a helpless girl cries out to an angry God, “Where is my mother?”