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About Literature / Artist Member Ben DodgeMale/Canada Group :iconadepta-librica: Adepta-Librica
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Three months at least.  I've managed to find the time to throw up a character sketch--(i.e. "Paragons")--but nothing else.  Doing my best to type or write anything aside from hard news stories and the three features I have on-the-go in various stages of completeness.  I've had very little luck.  Thank you, post-secondary.
  
I've resuscitated my blog for the fourth time.  Find it here.   Going to try and actually use it this time for its intended purpose--another space for projects, but also a space to throw curious or bitter or contemplative words at.  The goal is one a week at least, but given the choice between fiction and blogging, I'll throw out Blogspot with the bathwater without a second thought.  Might post a few of my longer works there and give links in the Journal bar.  In other words, I might dangle short fiction I'm proud of as blog-to-blog click-bait.  We'll see.

Been getting into podcasts recently.  Started off with an introduction to "99% Invisible" through an interesting compendium of podcasts called "Radiotopia."  Doing my best to branch onward from there. Radiotopia's quite the fix if you're OK with your literary drug of choice being served through your speakers.  Fiction junkies, look here  Design/architecture/innovation enthusiasts, look here.  All of it is free, online, and audible without downloading or subscribing.  

Radio's an incredible medium for writers.  The cheapness and structure of podcasting even more so.  Seriously thought about buying a decent audio program (i.e. not Audacity) and trying out a few scripts or short pieces.  Got any recommendations?  Good 'casts or good programs?  I'd be interested in hunting them down, if only to kill my commute.  
  • Listening to: "Ten Thousand Years"--99% Invisible
  • Reading: "The Best of All Possible Worlds"--Karen Lord
  • Watching: "The War on Journalism"
  • Playing: I wish
  • Eating: Homemade Turkey Soup
  • Drinking: Virgin Caesar
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore and strong language)
The city is piling up at her feet and she's laughing.

A hefty matron in shredded summer dress and a black-pearl noose of a necklace folds at the waist, empties green-grey intestines across the rotting remains of toes. Disemboweled, the edge of the fireman's axe flipping in a grotesque thumbs-up. She shoulder-checks the ravager aside and down. Adds to the collection oozing in twenty-four inches of broken bones and burst tumours.

Empties clatter, wind chimes fit for a firing range.

A slick-haired pizza boy shambles neurotically, slips alongside the blood-encrusted pedestrian bridge. Bony fingers grasp for handholds. An index finger is missing. The rest are worked to the bone, through it. She swings, a textbook decapitation. Steel-toed boots grip the gratings underfoot as a still-snarling head flies a dozen feet out and fifty down to an artificial current, still tugging trash and starvation victims along. The turbines died eleven months ago.

The city is piling up at her feet and she's holding.

She stares down Elysium. A public park atop an urban island, ringed by an artificial river system in downtown Hades. The names only ever clicked in February. Or when bleak winter accented the droves of ravager-dead trampling designer gardens and memorial benches to feed on the warm proles from uptown.

Oh, the irony.

Gibbering, the wrecked remains of a riot cop drags itself along thirty yards of dripping bridge. Uniform pants are violently hemmed at the knees. Hacked carcasses draped around the suspension couplings provide purchase. It shuddered and slurped at the carnage and her ankles. She takes her time. Two kicks; one to splinter the nose and wrench the neck, another to drive her heel through the brainstem and end the ravager's spree.

The city is piling up at her feet and the grind isn't enough.

"No," she snaps to the overweight sharpshooter Samaritan with 'Hades Defense Force' stenciled across his jacket. Beady eyes squint over a badly-gripped Bernelli shotgun, fingers throttling a hair trigger. Pieter. Idiotic enough to pay her nine clanking blade brutes as muscle. Didn't understand the points system, the mentality, the guns they'd all refuse. Or didn't care. Bottling out came up for all the wrong reasons.  

Sounds wrong, anyways. Bottling in is more accurate for the Paragons.

The AK-47's dead. Pieter's twelve-year old son tears out a spent mag and hollers for more.

A grey-toned construction foreman hefting a wrench and killer halitosis gets a hit in. Smashes her shield up and aside, pain sinking teeth along multiple lines of bruising. At least two fractures. She howls, lashes a backhand into a knot of raised veins along the collar. Bites deep, centres the hexagonal fused-sign shield as blood and worse splatters in a seven-foot cone to fade in among chipped red paint and the occasional white block letter.

It stumbled, caught itself on the dead tide surging forward. Mangled comrades draped and rolled over the edge. Lineups formed on the opposite shore as the ravagers locked rotting limbs and leering teeth, setting. The infectious skeletal pile-driver stubs out her adrenaline crash, doubles her vision as she hefts her ax and makes--

--contact. A rotting fist snaps out, disintegrates under a sledgehammer swung from overhead. A growl erupts from the ravager's throat: frustration, not agony. The stump slumps in a peculiar pause they all understand. One, two--

--impact. A final swing compresses a chipped skull into a crumbling neck. Violently. The dead fill the breach and the living oblige. A pair of Bowie knives to her left disassembles a groping hand from fingertips to elbow, biting a path up biceps twitching in rigor animatus. Combat boots with toes like mirrors sweep-kick the ravager aside, lends momentum. Shiva; muscle shorts, tank top, an androgynous welterweight.

Gauntleted hands grab under her arms as the almighty sledgehammer splinters a Wal-Mart store manager's shoulder like concrete. She nearly tears them off their sockets. He'd stopped to drag her out; slather hot blood across a dozen superficial cuts they'd both gathered over the last eighteen hours.  

"Taylor?"

"Loco?"

Her standing is third overall, second to Shiva in stand-up kills. She doesn't use drugs, doesn't plan to. She'd owe him assists.  

"Yeah?

Sloan leaps overhead, machete clipping the ear off a plastic surgery patient, still bound in hospital gown and facial gauze. Slips, tumbles face-first into a mass of torn stomachs still steaming in the winter winds. He doesn't try to stop the heels of the mob's first rank stomping down, down, splintering vertebrae and another one of the originals.  

Ninth, tenth? They've never kept track.

"Get off."

He kept dragging her, past a swearing Angle propped up against the rail, clutching a soaked rag to her wrist. A decapitated punk with liberty spikes the colour of Kool-Aid lay in the way. Not long enough for her to see the rag's red beginning to purple. Green splotches dotted the edges.  

"Guiding you, sister. Didn't notice your knee, did you?"

Achilles stepped overhead and parried a hacksaw, Excalibur hand-and-a-half sword turning slow glistening circles. Oilcan fires backlit the blade, caught the point and enormous pupils as it cleaved a schoolteacher in two. A wrist-guard lashes out, close-lines a sprinting ravager in blue tracksuit.  

"It's fractured, I know.  Get back to your score."

Oilcan fires backlight the blade, catch the point and enormous pupils as it cleaved a marauding schoolteacher in two. A wrist-guard lashes into the throat of a sprinting armless ravager in tracksuit and a Nike sweater. Sidelined, meat for Shiva's heel. The Captain misses a high block, loses a wrist to the blade section of a paper guillotine. An office assistant snarls, dreadlocks flapping. Horsetail banners, stained an unforgiving red.

"Fractured? Try seriously fucked, dear, unless you've got any talent for contortionism."

True. Her knee scrapes along soaked concrete, a kink under a shin-greave she wish she hadn't seen. Adrenaline highs crash as hard as morphine, and there's nothing to blame but adrenal glands and the code they'd all sworn to.

"Creep."

Almost out. The sweeping, organic curves of the observation deck's railings coiled into the gloom on all sides. Double-sided park benches cradled the screaming and the dispatched.  

"Couldn't forgive myself if I let a drop of hot blood seep through that lovely face o' yours."  

She opened a dry mouth as--

--her eardrums explode. Over, and over, and over. The dull cracks of M14 rifles, the snaps of M9s, the throaty booms of Remington over-under hunting shotguns. Twangs from high-tension crossbows. A ragged chorus of munitions ascending to the heights of tinnitus as the hordes shuddered and slipped and fell apart. A line chef lost his stomach to buckshot. A nurse had both knees and one elbow cracked. A teenager hefting a scooter like a Scottish hammer took a round that snapped his head back, and off.

"---fire! Cease fire!"

Six of the self-declared Hades Defense Force are left; the old, the sick, the tired. Rusty shells in fumbling hands, slipping through bones clothed by MRE's and canned peaches. Pieter lowers his Bernelli, forgets to flick the safety.  

Ten yards past the entrance. Casings and nine-millimetre lobotomy victims line the concrete lip of the shore. Dozens draped across the bridge; maws open, limbs splayed and ajar. Oilcans smouldered. A barricade flickered a hundred meters away, piled cars tied off with electrical wire. The last exit. East onto Styx West, out to the highway and the inherent safety in speed--until the needle tapped 'EMPTY' and the maws closed in on a dark, lonely turnpike.

The city is piling up at her feet and she's alive.  

A solitary rifle cracks, denting concrete two hundred metres across the water. No hits. Several thousand of the dead milled to trample the results of their condo fees. Ethanol engines grumble across the observation platform, figures throwing blankets and backpacks and the leavings even the vultures refuse to snatch.

"Is this endgame?"

Death is a disappointment to Loco.

"He wants us for the highway ride. So, yes."

"Wants?"

"Needs. You think they'll survive the ride out?"

The bridge is silent. The dead are dragging and heaving their weary hungry thousands into a proper rush, a semi-organized flying column known to outlast bands of survivors lucky enough to receive UN Containment airdrops of assault rifles and M3 light machine guns.  

Shiva snorts, sheathes a knife and kneels beside Angle.  

"Checked their ammo count a few hours ago. Only Han and Chi-Minh have anything more than a box mag.  Can't shoot straight standing up with no cross-breeze."

They leaves the rest unsaid. Flips Angle's body over, letting the other knife slip across a still and silent throat. Quick and quiet.  

"Final score?"Loco asks.  

"Nineteen hundred seventy five. That's including a bonus for the punk." Shiva is generous when they're impressed. Taylor shrugs and doesn't challenge. Same goes for Loco. The rest are catching ragged breaths and finishing off anything still feebly clawing at their boots.  

She slips the shield off her arm, lets it fall into a puddle of half-melted snow swirling across the tarmac. Gazes at half-inch spiked black hair, muddled nose, torn cheek. Counts the dents along lacrosse-padding pauldrons , notes the hip-to-hip fingernail scratch across the bulletproof vest. Tallies of near misses, charts of adrenaline highs. The point of it all.

The city is piling up at her feet and she's haunted.  

Pieter draws close. Wrinkles his nose, takes shallow breaths. Lets his shotgun droop to his angles, swinging from the trigger guard and shaking through several levels of adrenaline and PTSD.  

"We leaving?" she asks.

Silence, gasping. A shrug from Loco.  

"We're leaving," Pieter gasps.

Thousands drone across the water. Flooding dozens of skyscrapers, rampaging across board meetings and paper and empty glass apartments under empty skies above.  

A look from Achilles. A downward glance from Shiva. Angle's dead eyes, critiquing from under a pile. The others, exhausted and sharp. Waiting for the cracks to prove the code is broken, easily and readily and often. Waiting to give the rough kind of release.  

She wouldn't be the first.

"Yes," she says. Hefting the fire-ax, testing a frayed grip. Swings a loose circle, feels the stitches and braces and back-alley bone staples grind and hold as dozens pile into another column. Sections collapse

"That's the point," she murmurs, rolling her shoulders, limbering up for the next onslaught waddling across shattered limbs and a sea of broken teeth. Twenty on the arrowhead, a hundred fifty or more behind. Half clutch table legs ripped from Home Hardware, socket wrenches, the bludgeoning necessities of a dozen garage sales.

The city is piling up at her feet and she's bored.

"Wedge?" They approve, shuffle into the lethal triangle. Shiva, Mint and Cora in back. Falcon and Gawain in middle. Taylor on point, as always. Weapons clink and slam into palms greased with insecurities masked as nothing. Armour rattles. Bets hiss between the gasps of breath. Fists clink, necks crack.

A shotgun blasts. Pieter racks the slide. Drops the shotgun, sends it skittering across the tarmac fifteen feet to nudge against Taylor's boot. Spittle swings from a maw wrenched open by incredulity.  

"Don't be insane! There's food, clean water, shelter, transport!"  

A Pontiac van sunk under another thrown garbage bag of cans. Children's hands dangle out the side windows; five kids and two teenagers. All wailing, all sick, all hungry.

"I promised good--"

"Sport, survivor.  That's all we ask for." Taylor's biting her lip as the familiar rush sinks deep hooks, grips her forebrain with barbs soaked in raw nihilism. Miles and lifetimes and countless improvised headstones hold steady in a skull dull with eighteen hours of holding actions, mad sprints, last stands. The thrills of diehard mentalities.

Pieter's hand drifts aside.  

"Ask?  You promised--"

Shiva whips out another as the Bowie knife stops vibrating. Pieter coughs. Twice, three times before blood seeps into his boots and drips off his vest like rapids. Screams carry across the tarmac. A bearded figure in an overcoat throws a boy into the back of the last overloaded F-150, swings out a Remington bolt-action--

--but they're already beginning the creep; the slow march that builds into a sweating swearing bleeding ram that never runs empty or gets repetitive. Arms lock in. Her world evaporates to left and right. PCP forces grating howls from several throats.

No shots. Why shoot the living dead--life traitors, nihilists-- and waste a decoy?

Eighty meters. Fifty. Thirty. Irises shudder and blink. Fists clutch rolling pins, ladles, meat knives draped with precise lines. The customer is always right.

The city is piling up at their feet and they're all addicted.  

"First to a hundred," Taylor chokes. Score is low tonight. The drills are at her skull, and the whirring won't stop. She knows she isn't alone, but she knows only she'll worry.

This is it.
Paragons
Final rewrite for "Paragons".  A character sketch piece I found myself sucked into at the beginning of September.  I'd finished Telltale's "The Walking Dead", and I had a few thoughts about turning zombie/survival stories on their head: for starters, will adrenaline junkies exist after the apocalypse?  Short answer: read above.  Long answer: stay tuned.
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Se'o began living after the apex-floater skull stopped tugging at the skeins.  

It had spent three spins skulking among a warren-cracking spine of ammonia ice seeking a nest, one of millions hissing and cracking and melting along the nitrate reefs pole-side of the Great Cleft.  Waiting, as work-claws chafed into cracked exoskeleton sheathing.  Torn by the calamity.

Ozone flooded his glands during the waiting.  Designs traced themselves through its brief reflection-cycles, half-formed and abstract; mad.  The signal of the warren enveloped any within in a simpatico unmatched from pole to pole.  Tools, meat, homage-seed--designs became commodities, transferred through biting pheromone-glands.

A triad a 'span above its head abandoned centrifugal force and compressed against each other as a great trawler-float shattered the calm of the reefs to all sides.  Threw splinters into its plans and shards into its thorax.  One penetrated.  Green-purple gushed into the void as Se'o wound the skeins tighter across humming 'claws, hauled in the 'skull.

The signal grew too strong.

Savoured the pain by diverting the burning.  
Overcrowd.

Three legs swung into a claw-span of infestation.  Apex-flesh clung to bacteria, which sunk itself into the marrow to evade the winds and the chill and the slow smouldering death of the ammonia reefs.  Se'o sunk a fourth leg inward, felt the reactive hiss.  
Scores of swarms and broods screamed as their designs melted through their skulls, or deformed, or seeped through orifices and flood surface tunnels to the brim.

A relief.

The flickerarc spat.  Se'o toggled the ignition-knuckle, spurted searing methane across the blue-green skull.  Sunk another leg inboard, swept sideways, repeated.  Squealed in agony as the bacteria rubbed against the open shard wounds stitched across its thorax.  

The remainder are slaves to broken synapses: brilliant designs trapped by the psyche-brand of millions overlapping: feeding, mating, projecting loose threads of half-formed nuances, fermenting in a pollution of speculation none could handle.  Cohesion turned septic.  
Focused, drove the spare work-claw into a reeking eye-socket.  Clenched.  

It survived.  

Clung as it always did.  Howled as it purged the rot and the flesh and the filth, cowering in a different sort of darkness as the trawler-float blocked out the dull green of the stratosphere.  The flickerarc became the only spark, the only source.  

Bright in light of itself.  

Se'o carved.  

***

A chunk of spinal cortex fell over the side as the flares began overhead.  Vivid yellows, searing blues: pulses of raw heat imitating star-heat for the shortest of moments.  Atomic splitting.  The hot whites and blues of lifescour sol bursts.

War vessels, hunting across the fluctuating stratosphere.  Incursions occurred constantly.  The last flattened an out-warren when Se'o still fed on the biting pheromone-glands of design mavens, eight orbits ago.  

Se'o watched, eight legs anchored inside its crude trepanning of the floater-skull.  Reflection-cycle evaporated from its lonely simpatico.  A sole design weaving into itself was harsh, reserved for the worst pariahs.  

Empty hulks bled of warmth or crew cinched the upper atmosphere of Nu'Ek'So from pole to pole.  Dozens of scout frigates, thousands of interceptors.  Millions of orbital mines, floating silent as the tomb-shrouds they intended.  

The harsh reflections and undisputable lines of reality were worse: an algae terrace set into a thin film of brain matter had dried out during the dark cycle.  Steady winds had carried the skull into a drift of loose ice spanning the horizon.  Storm fodder.

The deeps still lured.  

Another three arcs chiselled searing blues lines across the skies.  Twin tails on the prevailing streak fizzed and spat into three, four, five as gravity pried the remains into thirds.  The ice belt's upper layers disintegrated under molten wakes.  Crystalline remains rode out the entropy.

Prey still fell to the bait, with oily mammalian paws and seductive slogans still whispered in the darkest of caverns in the slickest of designs, dripping in alien binaries of ambiguity.  

They should have bounced off a twin-peaked ice flow two thousand lengths above the skull to shatter.  Two penetrated just under the peak; the third hit the lee side.  All of them ripped out of the mountain a third of the way down, edges and tip red-hot.  Threw ammonia flow in an erratic yaw roll, triple wakes tracing afterimages across a billion diamond tips before the flow--

The tongues of terrestrial empires--

--collapsed under a silent onslaught from above, chipping the peak to splinters and the splinters to gravel in blinding blurs.  Sonic booms crushed dozens of floes to all sides.  The skull rattled, knocking visceral scaffolding into the rolling green murk below.  

This planet still shook to the tumbling pieces.

The wrecks tumbled into the murk for half a cycle.  Some trailed plasma lines, outlining flared-box fuselages and cavernous ammunition silos that howled as they caught atmosphere and dragged.  Others fell apart, gargantuan engine modules tearing apart to crush glaciers in slow, distant, disturbingly blurred crashes.  More joined the rain: escort vessels, drones, apex interceptors.  

War-gods encased in brilliant alloys resistant to any hunter-bacteria.   Diplomat-explorers mirrored perfect, impossible syntax as they tripped over promises of boundless, irrefutable inter-species symbiosis.  Memeologists concocted insidious rhythms to play on every nuance of understanding.  Se'o recalled.  Micro-designs lay etched into the forebrains of every Dreamer spawned since the skirmishes began.

Shockwaves spilled Se'o out the trepanning hole, set it bouncing across a glitter-ice array set up the cycle before.  Shattered it, as its thorax fell over the skull's brow.  It flailed out, clutched at the remains of the nasal bridge with a single work-claw; felt it give and slip a length down.  Crashing drilled into its auditory cavities.  
Since the war-gods and diplomat-explorers and memeologists polished all doubt from every conceivable meaning of the Dreamer syllables signifying `design.`

The skull tipped.

Since the insidious rhythms unravelled their very creators.  

Detritus slid sideways into the deeps.  Terrace lips sluiced with its own waste products.  Tooth-shrines, unfinished and abandoned.  Crystal harvesters crafted from web-skeins and leftover cartilage.  Homage to the simpatico it abandoned in the warren; bleeding and lifeless.  

Droned in too many ears, incited for too many reasons, inscribed across too many banners.  

Honours to the nest-brood flopping, tumbling as premature larvae tumbled, just--

Too many beacons.  

Ugly hooks, sinking septic barbs into stuttering designs gone--

--cloying with the stench of--

--forever.  Tumbling.  Falling.
The Simplicity Fracture
Weird xeno-fic piece I've been tinkering with in between working on "Instant Gratification" and a few longer short stories to send off to magazines.  It isn't done, but the next section is on my laptop, unedited.  Continue?
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Find it here.  I've fallen in love with the illustration after seeing it go by on my Facebook feed.  Thanks to Darcy Rozen for creating it.  It isn't what I imagined, but it fits the atmosphere (literally) of what I was intending.  Thanks once again to the Story Shack for being a place where I can publish on a semi-regular basis.  To anyone out there who writes short fiction and is looking for a place to send their stuff, I can't recommend them enough.  
  • Listening to: \"Dead Eye\"--Middle Class Rut
  • Reading: \"Dies The Fire\"--S.M. Stirling
  • Eating: Oatmeal
  • Drinking: Nothing
Three months at least.  I've managed to find the time to throw up a character sketch--(i.e. "Paragons")--but nothing else.  Doing my best to type or write anything aside from hard news stories and the three features I have on-the-go in various stages of completeness.  I've had very little luck.  Thank you, post-secondary.
  
I've resuscitated my blog for the fourth time.  Find it here.   Going to try and actually use it this time for its intended purpose--another space for projects, but also a space to throw curious or bitter or contemplative words at.  The goal is one a week at least, but given the choice between fiction and blogging, I'll throw out Blogspot with the bathwater without a second thought.  Might post a few of my longer works there and give links in the Journal bar.  In other words, I might dangle short fiction I'm proud of as blog-to-blog click-bait.  We'll see.

Been getting into podcasts recently.  Started off with an introduction to "99% Invisible" through an interesting compendium of podcasts called "Radiotopia."  Doing my best to branch onward from there. Radiotopia's quite the fix if you're OK with your literary drug of choice being served through your speakers.  Fiction junkies, look here  Design/architecture/innovation enthusiasts, look here.  All of it is free, online, and audible without downloading or subscribing.  

Radio's an incredible medium for writers.  The cheapness and structure of podcasting even more so.  Seriously thought about buying a decent audio program (i.e. not Audacity) and trying out a few scripts or short pieces.  Got any recommendations?  Good 'casts or good programs?  I'd be interested in hunting them down, if only to kill my commute.  
  • Listening to: "Ten Thousand Years"--99% Invisible
  • Reading: "The Best of All Possible Worlds"--Karen Lord
  • Watching: "The War on Journalism"
  • Playing: I wish
  • Eating: Homemade Turkey Soup
  • Drinking: Virgin Caesar

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DodgingTheBeat
Ben Dodge
Artist | Literature
Canada
While not otherwise occupied, I splurge prose onto a page and worry afterwards about things like coherence or meaning. In short, I'm a writer and journalist hoping to make it as a professional novelist, screenwriter, graphic novel writer, or investigative reporter. If that means starving, so be it.

I've been published four times at The Story Shack (online flash-fiction website).

THINGS I ATTEMPT: Writing, music, occasional filming, devil's advocacy

GENRES I ATTEMPT: Sci-fi (trans-humanism, cyberpunk, military), low fantasy, contemporary fiction (punk especially), historical fiction, or anything rattling around in my skull or in my notebook.

THINGS I IDENTIFY WITH: Humanism, anti-capitalism, direct democracy, socialism, human rights/social justice. Add a pinch of punk, freelove, and free-thought.

THINGS I'M NOT A FAN OF: Capitalism, fascism, human rights abuses, hypocrisy, extreme ideologies, polemics, mass media (especially tabloids), empiricism, low pay for the arts, Stephen Harper, American politics, nukes, Starbucks coffee.
Interests

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:iconkatnissart2014:
KatnissArt2014 Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2014  New member Hobbyist Traditional Artist
hi
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:icondodgingthebeat:
DodgingTheBeat Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014   Writer
Hey.  Thanks for the Llama, sorry about the delay.  Appreciate it!
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:iconkatnissart2014:
KatnissArt2014 Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014  New member Hobbyist Traditional Artist
np :)
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:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2014  Student General Artist
Happy birthday!
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:icondodgingthebeat:
DodgingTheBeat Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2014   Writer
Thanks!
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:iconsmurfboy21:
smurfboy21 Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2014
Thank you for the favourite! 
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:iconpursuingthecerberus:
PursuingTheCerberus Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2014  Professional Writer
thank you SO MUCH for the watch!!
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:icondodgingthebeat:
DodgingTheBeat Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2014   Writer
No problem- I'm not a big poetry guy, but I'll read Bukowski.   And you did him justice.   Will definitely be checking out your gallery in the next few days
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:iconpursuingthecerberus:
PursuingTheCerberus Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2014  Professional Writer
I appreciate that more than you can imagine, especially from a fellow fan of his. 

Bukowski is my biggest influence.  It wasn't until I found him that I knew poetry could be any other way than I remembered it from school. He loosened me up, taught me another way that poetry could be written that wasn't so heavy and constricted.  Since discovering him I've become a poet myself and put out two books.  I became friends his ex-girlfriend Pamela Wood (Cupcakes) infamously called 'Scarlet' in many poems of Love Is A Dog From Hell. She told me I should submit some poems to the Charles Bukowski Anthology and I did.  This poem along with two others got in.  It's very exciting for a fan like me to get recognized honoring him.   

To be 100% honest with you, my gallery on here doesn't represent my poetry in the greatest way.  My poetry books really do.  I hand select certain poems to put up here (almost like a band releasing three singles from an album) but I craft my books to be very cohesive and atmospheric throughout, with quite a lot of autobiographical stuff that people can relate to.  Perhaps I can send a few copies your way at some future point (?) I said all of this because I was not a poetry guy either, a mere eight years ago.  I hated it.  Because you like Bukowski, I think you will really enjoy my books. 

Thanks so much for the interest!
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:iconravensscar:
RavensScar Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Hey, thanks for the fave. :D
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