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365 Group 12

Gargoyles Part III

Sebastian finally finds a Gargoyle. Nothing how he expected it would be. And he’s forced to fight for his life.

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30 feet tall, the size of a small house, the gargoyle stands before Sebastian. It’s body covered in rough stone armor. It shrieks like Godzilla and spreads its hundred foot wingspan across ready to pounce.

Sebastian finds himself caught between excitement and fear. He found exactly what he came to see. Events unfolding different than he’d imagine them. He takes off dashing into the woods.

Again, the gargoyle shrieks. It stomps behind Sebastian crashing down the trees as it proceeds. It gains on the boy with each slow giant step.

The woods tear apart behind Sebastian with the roar of an earthquake. The ground beneath his feet shakes viciously. He can barely keep his footing. Noting the gargoyle closing in he opts to attack it instead. He turns around and unloads one beam of deep purple energy out from the palms of his hands. They ineffective against the creature. The panic sends Sebastian running again.

“I didn’t even scratch it,” he says. “What am I going to do?”

He thinks back to whether or not he’d read about a weakness in Isaiah’s book, but only it’s armor was explained.

“If I can get rid of it’s armor I can attack that weak point,” Sebastian says out...

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Gargoyles Part II

Sebastian investigates the church and discovers it to be a prison. Finds only a priest and no gargoyles.

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The chilly early autumn night breeze flows through the trees. Shhhhh, it silences the rest of the woods.

Sebastian eats up the excitement. The large church before him stands tall, a cathedral. Using the woods for cover he creeps over. Careful to not crack too many leaves or make any movements visible from outside the woods. Eyes peeled for priests and celestials. His eyes keep marveling up at the large gargoyle statue on the roof of the church.

In front of the church he dives behind some bushes. A priest comes out and stands at the bottom of the stairs from the entrance. Several seconds later the priest walks off into the woods. The coast is clear.

Out of the bushes and into the church Sebastian races. Hides between the pews and crawls to…

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Gargoyles Part I

 

Curious about the animals from the celestial realm, Sebastian sets off to find and see one in person.

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Floating dust particles shine through the sun rays breaching the window. A loud snore fills the air. Sebastian tries to tune it out, nose buried in Isaiah’s books. There’s hundreds of them. They’re everywhere. On chairs. On couches. On the dinner table. The man’s only activity appears to be studying. Not common for someone so rude and obnoxious.

‘Gargoyles’ written in big golden letters on the spine of the book Sebastian’s holding. He stares with wonder and intrigue, fascinated at the creatures hand drawn onto the pages. Tiny cliff notes fill the corners of each page pointing out the different parts of the creatures. Weaknesses. How they attack. And he reads every word.

“I could definitely beat that one,” he says to himself poking the monster on the page. “The gargoyle. A bird with stone armor. Capable of flight,” he reads, “it can either stand up-right or run on its arms and legs. Like a gorilla that can fly.”

“That’s amazing!” Sebastian yelps as he springs to his feet.

Isaiah moans. Opens his eyes. Turns to the kid. Then says, “Goodnight mom,” and falls back out of consciousness.

Sebastian, shrunk nearly waking Isaiah and sits back down. Nose back in the book. “Only ever found at churches. A type of animal from the celestial realm.”

The gears in the kid’s head begin to spin. He’s remembering a…

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Fabric Structure

People play pretend quite often. They pretend they know there is a God. They pretend they know there isn’t. They pretend they understand the reasons they behave the way they do..
But they don’t know. None of us do.

Jack shares his thoughts on this.
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It’s not what it seems.

Reality might be beyond the processing power of anything within it. It’s beyond the physics of our universe. Beyond imagination.

The underlying truth is that nature is too vastly complicated. It’ll never be possible to comprehend.

It remains a complete mystery while we're surrounded by it. While inside of it. Even while part of it.

It’s so magnificently intricate that it’s small-by-comparison components remain floating question marks.. What’s in or beneath the ocean? What’s consciousness? What’s out there in the cosmos?

The confusion, dramatic. How much is known about any one thing is unknown.

It’s a string of pretend games.

Imaginary guidelines for the simulation of order..

Arrogant while ignorant.

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Turn Tables

Having tracked and cornered Arthur, the detective has the tables turned on him.

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Static charged, the manic man at large wrecks havoc as he travels far
Terror through fear, like the fuhrer from years ago, then goes steers clear and disappears
Near the sand he stands, hands in the sky, he’s mad, the detective failed his plan
Didn’t matter how hard he tried, the crazed guy got the jump, now the good’ll die
Cries and pleads for life, but the look in those evil eyes say, “nice try”
The gun fires, it’s dark like he’s tired, visions of his dead father he admires
Volume down, all goes quiet, total absence of a riot
Memories fade, euphoria fills the brain, insane malice won the day
  

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The Investigation, Part 1

After Arthur managed to escape the asylum and ravaged a small family the state designated his recapture a priority and an investigation into his psychology was initiated.

The detective roams the house in search of clues.

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The rooms smells of burnt carpet and charred coal. You’d think the scent would have faded by now. If not for the dust and dry air it’d be easy to confuse as fresh.

Candy wrappers, crinkled up papers and broken glass crackle beneath my boots as I move through the abandoned house.

Shattered picture frames and porcelain dolls rest on the coffee table center of the living room. Yellow tape still play the roll of bedroom doors. No one’s stepped foot in the house since the tragedy occurred.

His bedroom is the only part of this godforsaken place that isn’t a complete disaster. It’s untouched. As if he’d not once been inside. As if every waking minute was of each day were wasted compulsively cleaning and organizing personal belongings.

Minus the excessive neatness, nothing seems off.

The report said the family was quiet. Private. Then the incident happened.

What could drive a man to so brutally…

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Those That Make

What you’ve done in the past will influence your future. More so if you’re a creator.

A thought on creativity.

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The ability to create is a muscle in the mind. If exercised there is no limit to the imaginative capacity it might contain.

All forms of creation affect the understanding of all other forms. They cross over. The same amount of improvement you gain from using your imagination in one area will show in the rest. The base tools are what get enhanced. Critical thinking. Problem solving.

The more varied your methods of creation are the more you have to offer in any one area. What you bring is the experience of what was made or attempted in other mediums. And with an elevated understanding of creation you’ll begin to see how what worked for that, with a little tweaking, can work for this.
Re-imagination is the strongest weapon a creator holds. Knowing what old tricks make new art.

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Mara's Book

As humans we hide. We avoid facing our problems and pretend everything ceased existing.
Buried in our vices.
A poem

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Shady tree
Knees pulled up
Book in hand
Quiet
External static
The adventures of a manic hero
Buried in the pages for ages
Battling mages and dragons
Stopping havoc from passing
Adored by all as it is
But the portal back home
It’s closing
Been dozing for way too long
The demons from the frozen homeland
Where evil roams much to often
If the gate shuts and there’s no luck
It’d be easy to get stuck
Fine and dandy
To get away from the madness
No one will miss me

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It Was Said With Love

Let loose, be unfiltered and uncensored. Play with your craft and stop being scared of what others might think.


Jack writes a twisted poem playing with random thoughts in his head.

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Miserable, missable, invisible
Dis the bull get the horns
Get recorded watching porn
Sell the tape in black market
To the underwear gnomes
I know the underworld’s flows
Hang with zombies roasting brain wondering about peculiar things
Wrapped around my hot dog
That hot broad’s buns come hot off the stove
This Hot Rod runs with nowhere to go
Interconnected, my thoughts sense it
Write like I forgot to have breakfast
My behavior all reckless
By the water cooler angry calling…

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The Designer

The mind of a creator is a place where magic and tragedies are one and the same.
Whatever happens happens when they take their work seriously.
And the one’s that don’t get left behind.

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Much on the plate to eat. This and that. The want to eat it all while faced with the impossibility. Could take a bite of each thing just to get a taste, but not one thing would get finished.

Building glass towers…

Running out. The bomb is ticking and there is not time to sit and think of how to stop it. It’s time to act and make a move. To feel like something was attempted. So that if the bomb goes off it feels like at least the best was tried tried. In case one thing doesn’t defuse the it, it should all be considered. Lives are at risk and being helpless is not an option.

Sculpting away at the block…

This doesn’t belong here. Being capable of correcting this error makes it a duty. The weight of when it’s right or wrong to make a move is overwhelming. What if it’s the wrong call? What if the decisions have the capacity to…

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Aimless

The easy way out shortens our sight and understanding. Rationalizations against methods meant to discipline only prevent learning.

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Lost while handing directions

Claiming knowledge of the swiftest shortcuts

The path with the least resistance

Here is what is needed

Here is what is not

All these innovative designs to ease the journey never taken

These wastes of time are how getting lost began in the first place

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Loosen The Grip

The most difficult challenge a writer faces is learning to be less critical of themselves. To allow the work to stand on its own. Learning when to stop editing themselves and how to let go of the work when its time.

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Click, click, click… Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, months have gone by. A hundred thousand words on a manuscript. The deadline for the first chapter is in a month. It’s time to edit that first chapter. And edit. And edit. And edit that first chapter.

Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, a month has gone by. Ten thousand words edited to the fullest of my ability. All the little finalizations required get attention. That nervous shiver of whether or not something is going missed. Confidence is hard to have, but I know it has to be let...

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In Bed With Arthur

Arthur, after having liberated the evil from the corrupt family, was once again caught by the corrupt police and returned to his prison. The cage where they accuse him of insanity. He knows the bad guys don’t win. And he’s the hero of the story, so he will not lose.

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Eyes open, I’m in bed
Six years, been like I’m dead
Tech sticking from my head
Strapped, chain down
Dark room, no sound
Mind rush, go round
Fear, possessed now
No exit near while held down
Tears, the scream bounce around
Leering gaze from the shadows of the room
A crooked grin, hazy, sharp teeth, it’s hungry too
An abomination, with no hesitation it…

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Detach

Realize your Inner Monologue (Commenting Inner Voice) and your Conscious Mind (Perception, Awareness) are two different entities co-existing.
You are only your awareness.
To Listen is for the Conscious Mind to focus and the Inner Monologue to remain silent and without judgment.
Thus the floodgates of Perception and Information open.
Limitless Intellect.
Infinite Understanding.

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To Win The Fight

Martial arts. The performance of the brutes. A poem of fighting based on fighter.

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A fluid dance. The impact of precision. Movements morph from one to the other unforgiving, uninterrupted. Sequenced by desire and sought out by need. Survival in the form of elegance. Delicate and subtle shifts settle fractional inch debts with force. Bruised souls crumble when missed tipped toed landing heels out standing sore. Beautiful the twirl. The skirt. The umbrella. The dip, the hop. Shields to stop reception. Only the hurt happens without intention.

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In Your Head

A short dark and twisted rap about head.

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I’m a madman
Hanging out with Batman’s villains
Quite a bad man
Chillen with the sandman
Feelin’ kinda of goofy
When I’m feelin’ on the ladies that I’ve roofied
Breakfast in bed be the truth, G
Vitamin D for the bitches
I’m a brute, see
Her head be tripping
Stumble
My knees weak
I’m humbled when my dick she grippin’
Sippin’ that red wine
She’s takin’ her damn time
She wants to go home
But the glock to her head says it ain’t time
She don’t want to no more
I don’t want to joke her
But if she stops too soon I might…

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Gone in a Flash

Flash Fiction written in under ten minutes as an exercise. Jack dives into the first person perspective of the last living moments of a kid trying to impress a girl having gone wrong.

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This isn’t how it was supposed to go. There is no way to turn back now and it’s all a waste. Hindsight is 20/20. We only realize our mistakes could have easily been avoided had we given them just a little more thought. But there is no turning back now. There’s no way to save the moment.
All of this for a girl. Who would have imagined the lights would be cut off this way? To prove a point. To show off. Faster than a speeding bullet, yet even the Flash knew when to take a breather. When to take an extra second to think.
Now that it’s going this way, I’m not even sure I get what I was trying to accomplish. How could any of this have played out well?
As if time slowed down, nearly to a halt, this moment goes on forever. I see a second by second breakdown of the last plays of the game and…

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