#writing
Poetry Submissions - Eye to the Telescope 48, Fungi, will be edited by Avra Margariti.
FUNGI: Mushrooms, molds, and other fungi are organisms that live all around us, yet for the longest time they have eluded classification. They can offer sustenance and ensure survival, or cause a slow, poisoned death.
https://eyetothetelescope.com/submit.html
#writing #poetry #literature #scifi #submissions
ChatGPT
"Well, where did it get that? It’s almost exactly the same argument and the same fear that’s going on with visual artists. It’s just much more obvious in the artist community. I have three authors that I’ve read extensively, indie authors that I’m friends with, and I know they never gave permission for their stuff to be looked at, and I was able to reasonably recreate their style."
https://www.theverge.com/23520625/chatgpt-openai-amazon-kindle-novel
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Browsers
An into the efface a acrobat learnt to his fate, albeit of correlate, twists then bends as to automated amends, concurring to not mention those of having our fortitous reaps, closets to hapless letters. Indigo blue, encitive for enlisting painful those remainders, decisive to fortify an ambitious consolation, extrapolated with disarm, those official, with apprehensive display; ill-effect forecasts to inaccurate a, the letters provided for interpretation.
Scene two, and indigo wrote to judge her writings with expanding courage, the partly place position, to place non bias, inwardly conducting throughout exercising a tautology of research. Excursions fondly remain with an open-ended mapping in of a conscientious replay of exerting the principal, closet letters remain unopen to forward the misplaced.
That excelling to view the folly of interpretation, enlightened the reviewing official. Them of bewildering executions, twist or bends, send to recovery the realigned netted outside of contrast to remove an immature audience. They spoke with words less redeemable, an to enlist the acrobat her solitude, decay of wasted words are ever felt to, then insecure thoughts, abandonment and the partly intellectual.
lobbyist
The lame caricature, lain to its articulation, and with adoring accredit it apprehended the nutritional equate of being at strength to impostor the needed reply, a converting node to enhance the spectator of characteristics, emergent freestyle. Operative of fundamental exertion, rounded the above literate consume, an important visual of incline, to the unauthored envelopment, one starter of speculating the reappearance of motion. Notating to contrive in external freewill, a counter dexterity, complex in the decisive shore, spectators at speed to introduce the air of contention.
Finals incline rests to the implosive sea navigating predilection for insolvent constrict, a inform abbreviate, reenact getaways supplementary escarpments, drawing in a listless spectator to induce captivity. Prone to speculate the abundance of one aspiration in attendance to the operative, alkaline solutions to compliment a plating of ambitious culinary slide bullions, capital to divide, the luncheon less travelled.
Winter Solstice
The night she was conceived, a faint sliver of light from the new moon travelled the sky. The night she was born, the moon was full and fat, a bright reddish harvest moon. The symbolism had been explained to death when she was still a small child.
Tied to the moon from birth, she was less concerned with the sun. When others mourned the last setting of the sun behind the mountains at midwinter, she remained calm. It would return a few days later.
So she was surprised when that year she was chosen to fetch back the light. Early in the morning they woke her up, and out into the dark and cold she was summoned, where the ritual play was carried out: There was no light in the village, someone had to go to the dragon’s cave and bring back fire, or the sun would never return. Would she be the brave soul?
She set out with a wry smile at the dramatic farewells. It was less than a mile to the cave, the provisions were unnecessary. A short walk later, she was there. She smelled the smoke from the entrance, heard the soft crackling as she stepped inside the big cave, and could just make out the large shape softly lit against the darkness.
Walking towards it, she saw the small fire burning under the belly of the stylised stone dragon, smoke flowing out its nostrils. She had never been party to this side of the ritual before, and briefly wondered who had snuck down earlier and lit the fire. She approached the stone beast head on, and now saw the fire through its holes-for-eyes, bright and flickering in one, softer in the other. Suddenly she understood. They were the sun and the moon, and the fire behind them was one.
She dutifully lit a torch from the dragon fire and carried it back to the village, so lost in thought that she was startled by the crowd that warmly greeted her, the ritual complete. A few days later, she rejoiced with the rest as the sun returned, clearing the mountains briefly for the first time in nearly a week. The light would grow day by day.
#pagan #solstice #WinterSolstice #story #shortstory #myth #writing
"DeLillo is often seen as a visionary, a prescient writer who saw what's coming, but really what he does is observe what was really always there, and focus on it"
https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20221213-why-don-delillo-is-americas-greatest-living-writer
Six Classic Books That Live Up to Their Reputation
TLDR (or site blocked) version:
The Tale of Genji, by Murasaki Shikibu
Moby-Dick, by Herman Melville
Vanity Fair, by William Makepeace Thackeray
Middlemarch, by George Eliot
Almanac of the Dead, by Leslie Marmon Silko
Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace
The Alone Party
There were a familiar five, conception the moon given to rally a proletariat feast, tables then to ten, five lasting him in production of firstly bereft the defiant sequence of events. They never had to chance the needled thoughts, occupation to studios to ember with the foreseen, sharing the gravity, placed them closely to the familiar tides, ageless departs to use the page of no worth to world him in return. Jealousy made to the pity of whim, your fare resides to have usefully abandoned you, as you’re our vulnerable words, spoken never depleted, artifact in exhibitions reconstruction, baleful times concerning with a healthier world.
Know not the paradigm of time, forget yourself to be the cause of defiance, your concern is not of our concern. The question of failing stands you here, adopting the rallies are of a fortunate nature, eat one less opportunity, find those to practice the adaption of healing with wisdom, those words as the thicket hides an alibi. Any news of those suffering the past, must be dealt the views of forgiving, endangered artifacts have no closure, they remain bereft of remembrance.
Tenth the hour long words, Plato’s vision obscured by lacking a timely revision, metadata keeps those secrets erroneously from the corruptible, an in intelligent worth, accreditation goes to the opposing of hate, choosing to pave with our formidable surrender. Those usual concerns, leave them by adoring the defiant choice of words, tender, constructive to the resolution, fewer a moon feast has never brought more articulated joy of then once harmonious a present.
Shore leave and a visa to Aeden, the Paradise Planet. I couldn’t believe my luck as we descended through green skies towards the space port.
After landing, I followed the signs to the human processing area. A deep, robotic voice directed me to one of a row of doors. I stepped into a small room with the sterile feel of an operating theatre, and the door closed behind me. I’d heard of Aeden’s rapid vaccination procedure, but didn’t know much about it.
On a table was something that looked like a hospital gown with a harness.
“Put it on,” the voice instructed.
I undressed and put the gown on. I heard a whirring noise above my head and looked up. A metallic arm descended towards me out of a complex array of machinery. It held a large syringe.
“Relax your right arm,” said the voice.
I did my best.
I felt a cold scratch.
Seconds later, I felt dizzy and feverish. Suddenly, my stomach lurched and I gagged. I doubled over and threw up violently. And again. Then I lost control completely and vile liquids came out of all my orifices. It went on and on. I was on my hands and knees, drained, when it finally stopped. I felt sweaty and weak, like a fever breaking after a severe illness. An illness fast-forwarded.
I felt a click behind me and I was lifted in the air by the harness, the soiled gown falling away. Hoses sprayed from several directions, cleaning me and the floor.
A door I hadn’t seen before opened, and I was deposited in a shower cubicle. Warm water flowed pleasantly from above, and a shelf to my right held colourful gels and shampoos.
“You have been successfully vaccinated against 4,252 pathogens dangerous to one or more of the species who visit Aeden. You may proceed.”
I towelled dry, feeling the colour return to my face. I wasn’t even surprised when another previously unseen door opened. I entered a larger sunlit room, a high, wide window showing the pale green sky.
Beachwear sat neatly folded on a chair. On a small table nearby sat an oval glass with a deep orange liquid, a straw and the fruity smell of a cocktail.
“Welcome to Aeden. Enjoy your stay.”
#microfiction #writing #sci-fi #ScienceFiction #paradise #vaccination
Juice
To defining hour, cordial infusions rest to the reset pendulum, two savory one more ingredient to counter their resemblance, by grace and by the clarity brought too eternal being, the shire identical to the internal plate. Rotation to the equal spun a wordless return, teary skies axis pivot her evolving voice to a dimensional sear, burnt umber occupying the exchanging time.
Those opaque withheld the ingredients, longitudes mapping the returning trail. Molly referred to as consecutive, the sear concluded all ingredient chapters of the rising nepotism, there the gifted pendulum rest the quietly forgotten soul, previously those words remained embedded to have being retold in a conflicting exchange of interaction, for Molly knew her oceans.
Tears
A teardrop fell, as i caught sight to the tear’s drop shape, the rapid fall quietened, in momentum as i stood, a conspicuous shape fled to light, resuming clarity of reflection, aliment digesting the eye. Capaciously those iridescent silkworms majestically gown her reappearance, effortless the blissful tear descendingly reducible, the golden husk were to exponentially revive in entirety, the fulsome orb, translucent stark in accordance with the homely worms of navigational dusk.
Those whispery balances resound their brilliances, facets to the endearing reflections. Emergent leaves to regent there expressions of intuitive decay, supplementary colours frail to the rising tier, withered, destined to golden fractures, hesitation only the prosperous leaves could show.
Not Icarus: A short story inspired by events in Lytton, British Columbia, June 2021. The town set heat records three days in a row, and on the fourth day a wildfire destroyed most of it. The story considers those of use who think of climate change as something far away, in time or place, until it affects us personally. #climatechange #story #writing #amwriting #Icarus
https://storystag.wordpress.com/2022/12/10/not-icarus/
East of Denver Author goes solo into Self-Publishing
https://www.westword.com/arts/colorado-author-gregory-hill-publishing-15643933
The Edge of Time
On the edge of time I sit,
Snow in the mind, white the front.
The sense of plain old is lost,
in the fading of yesterday's trace,
And insanity keeps within bounds.Above the heart it is easier to think,
The gaze is balanced with joy.
You no longer play with fire,
For embers reign in the halls.
Enough the one candle keeping dreary
Gloom strictly within bounds.20221203 YA
the beginning came to me yesterday, finished it this morn... #ya #poem #poetry #writing #words
Fasting candles
The glass were made of cupping to a compliment, with this i became their reactionary, distraction, they caught to the alfresco, and told them they were late. Insisting distraction there the court hear to the reasoning, if we’re late then your arrival holds to become us negligible. Seeing their proposal made no adversity to hold you in an attempt to see before you there the cup of eternal happiness. Consisting their before you, were a concern to see through time, the upheld cup no longer existing to have a happier rendition.
If our timely reflection, of glass does not reappear alfresco, then your being of us lesser than you, to have here the suggestive cup of happier thoughts. Could these cups have you brought to our attention earlier, then waiting to remind of you, we are the withheld happiness you contend to see.
Binding looks
They dressed to have a daffodil, speak to them, yellow in dress, demonstrating the contrasting yellow, sleeved knit tight, forearming their introspections a daffodil you replace my wilt, unarming the before cinamatic compression. The two did not speak of one, busy are we, mine you we’re to find a daffodils stopping, should you know of them, we could have a generously colourful way to those leaving you; shared or arrange to the older, forget not the daffodil, we’re here for the silence you betray.
They came in design, capacious before my starry eyes, a redolent shade of yellows, in constricting a bow out of arrows. Those sleeves have handed a mindful place for our daffodils. Apertures do contain you the year made to aide with fertility of they, a comparable lover, for comparing a daffodil you insight us to the end.
