Prose vs Poem

[Katzaniel]

Have you ever had an idea and wondered whether it would be better as a poem or as prose? Well, I have, and it gave me the idea for an event.

 

Either take a poem and convert it to a short-story format, or take a short-story and convert it to poetry. The elements that get reused are entirely up to you; if you assure me that the vital idea remains the same, I'll trust you.

 

The logistics: 20 geld for one poem and 20 geld for one story. You may earn 40 geld by doing one of each but two or more of either is still only worth 20. Please post Poetry-turned-Story in this thread and Stories-turned-Poetry in the thread in the banquet room. Include a link to the original. I'll post an example in each, soon.

 

 

Edit: After having actually competed this exercise, I'm upping the geld amount! 20 is much more appropriate to the effort involved. I may ask around and up it again actually, I'm pretty indecisive...

Edited December 16, 2004 by Peredhil

[Katzaniel]

Today I had a conversation with a woman I'd barely met before. She came up to me to ask a question about a computer program, but before long we were discussing language barriers, prejudice, boyfriends, and more. We left having decided to do a major programming project together in our spare time. She comes from Asia and I've lived my whole life in Canada so you might not think we would have much in common, but during that conversation I felt a distinct connection of the souls. We understood each other completely and both of us felt entirely comfortable talking about the stories of our lives. I thought about that conversation the whole way home.

 

Yesterday I had a conversation with a woman I might never meet. She came to me, timid-seeming, but we ended up discussing some things quite frankly and I felt like this is someone I would really like to spend the time to know more about. Many think that the internet as a medium is cold and distant, but chatting with this woman, so many miles away, so many years older, so many cultures apart, felt almost like chatting with another aspect of myself.

 

The other day I had a conversation with a woman I didn't know. At the time I didn't know her, that is, but now she is, as the others, a good friend of mine. I might never see her again, but I hope that's not the case. I hope we keep in touch.

 

These people are, I can't help feeling, in some way a mirror of myself. There are many different points of view coexisting in me, and each of them represents some major part of that. It's like we're but different shades of the same colour, or different hues of the same rainbow. Or both at the same time, which is probably truer, since the analogy leaves room for our diversity and our similarities at the same time.

 

I wonder if every stranger I pass on the street has some shard of the same mirror within their soul.

 

Full-Length Mirror

[Wyvern]

Several aged men in business suites sit around a large rectangular table, mumbling greetings to one another and occasionally lifting themselves from their seats to fetch a fresh cup of coffee from a nearby machine. At the far end of the table rests a blank television set, next to which a younger-looking man dressed in similarly formal attire sits. The man fidgets with his tie and fumbles for a breath mint every five minutes, patiently waiting until the seats surrounding the table have been filled before lifting himself from his chair. After clearing his throat to insinuate silence, the man turns to the audience and exclaims:

 

"Ladies and gentleman of the FCC, thank you for attending this urgent meeting at such short notice. Ths issue at hand is a new music video that has surfaced on the B.E.T-Pen Network, also known for its controversial coverage of the Jade poem 'The color of my skin.' The video details the endeavors of the vigilante rap group - excuse me if I mispronounce the names - "Weevmettic and the Dope," along with their resident D.J "Yan 'The Man' Ganaffi." The video not only subliminally advertises Almost Dragonic Brand Products every five seconds, but also presents a corrupting influence to our youth in its graphic depictions of poor taste. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... the 'Miscallaneous Weevmettic and the Dope Freestyle video.'"

 

With that, the man whips out a remote control and flips on the television set, seating himself next to the other members of the FCC and sighing as the music video starts up...

 

Darkness... then, a platform on which a set of turntables sits appears, illuminated by a single spotlight. Yan 'The Man' Ganaffi steps up to the tables, his Almost Dragonic Brand Rainbow Sunglasses™ obstructing his vision and causing him to bump into them. The D.J cringes slightly, hiding his pain and grinning towards the camera while flashing a thumbs up. He digs through a bag he carries and then pulls out a record that has the word "[bANNED]" stamped on it, and tosses it onto the table. Adjusting his Almost Dragonic Brand Baseball Cap™ so that it completely covers his face, he moves his fingers over the record, scratching up a quote from a familiar-yet-not-quite-identifiable former Pen member.

 

"G-g-G-g-G-Go on as you will, I w-won't outrap you!"

 

Subliminal advertisements begin flashing by the screen at an alarming rate as the phrase is scratched multiple times, and a recycled synythesisized keyboard beat cues up in the background as the scene switches to a library. All of the crowd studying there is wearing blinged out gold chains and reading books on how to mack correctly, and an old female librarian is breakdancing on the reception desk. Weevmettic then jumps out from behind a large stack of "Naughty Nymph" magazines , wearing a large coocoo clock that's been permanently set at 12 AM around his neck and backwards baggy pants with holes in them, which his tail sticks out of. On his scorpion stinger is a plastic diamond, and he moves to the motions of the birdy entering and exiting the coocoo clock as he raps:

 

"... the Dope, and the Mighty Wyvmettic/ They're all the type of crowd that'll spit some intellect."

 

The Dope jumps in at that moment, flashing a smile of gold teeth and holding enough platinum around his neck to make ice golems jealous. Throwing one hand in the air up and down to the rhythm of the birdy moving in and out of Wyvmettics clock, he spits:

 

"we bustin out the illest rhymes so somebody call a medic."

 

A doctor in the library crowd jumps up upon hearing this and begins waving a stethoscope in the air. Wyvmettic answers back:

 

"On the mic, while the opposition just sit and stare

 

Dopey nods, rapping:

 

"sitting in a chair out in the crowd over there"

 

The camera turns to Knight seated in a chair next to a desk, his armor painted in white KISS patterns around a death metal jacket. He headbangs and throws a hand up in a devil horns sign.

 

"Exchanging verses, with Dope we share"

 

"we dont have any worries, either that or we dont care"

 

The scene switches to a boulevard outdoors, where Wyvmettic and the Dope ride around on blinged out scooters. It's raining geld from the sky, which is causing the ground to become hazardous for their "vehicles". The Dope swerves from side to side, still in sync with the coocoo clock birdy motions:

 

"we so fresh n so clean, n we be gettin that green"

 

Wyvmettic strikes a B-boy stance on his scooter and begins flailing for the geld falling from the sky, not managing to scoop up a single peace and paying no attention to where he's going.

 

"And leave the wack rappers saying 'Where's my CREAM?!'/ Cash rules everything around me, ya know/ So don't steal my mic, you gonna die tonight bro!/ Stepping up to Wyvmenttic? Ha! You already lost/ M.Cs that front on the realness get tossed."

 

Wyvmettic's scooter crashes into a large pile of geld just as he says this, which sends him flying until he lands in a large vat of Almost Dragonic Brand 10% Dairy Tossed Cream™. The Dope jumps off of his scooter upon seeing this, jumping up and down to the motions of the coocoo clock birdy that surfaces and sinks from the tossed cream vat. Pausing and throwing his hands up, the recycled beat stops and he exclaims:

 

"yo wyv i got ur back if some 1 is in ur face, we'll know when we win, they'll look like a discrase"

 

Upon hearing this, Wyvmettic lifts himself from the vat of cream and nods macho-style, looking like a disgrace himself. The credits for the video cue appear in the lower lefthand corner of the video as Yan 'The Man' Ganaffi begins scratching another phrase from the "[bANNED]" record.

 

"r-r-ryme isnt quite my game - a bloody shame - i-if it was id have more fame!"

 

The credits read:

 

Wyvmettic and the Dope featuring D.J Yan 'The Man' Ganaffi

"Miscallaneous Wyvmettic and the Dope Freestyle Video"

Wyvmettic and the Dope IRC Freestyle

Almost Dragonic Recordings, 2002

Directed by Wyvern.

[Zariah]

I wrote this poem a while ago and found it in the previous entries. So I will post the poem and respond with my prose entry.

 

Kiwi

 

Poor tiny birdie,

Named after a fruit.

You can't even fly,

Yet still remain cute!

 

Beak searching for food,

Eyes focused on dirt-

Careful small kiwi,

You might end up hurt!

 

How quickly you move,

Enjoying your roam.

You don't belong here!

New Zealand's your home!

 

 

 

I was walking down the path, when a bird approached me. It gave me the opportunity to express my feeling for its kind. So I said to it,

“It’s so unfortunate for you, dear bird. No one was creative enough to give you an original name! You have no ability to soar high in the sky. However, you still have your looks which are deemed by some as adorable.”

 

It cocked its head to one side, as if curious to hear more, and so I again spoke.

 

“Like most birds you search for food, but you have a beak which is unique and helps you on this search. Your eyes are focused on the earth to find the right bug. You should be careful, because if you don’t watch out for other people and animals you might get eaten or stepped on!”

 

I had in more comment to make, and as I sat on the ground, the kiwi hopped to my side and showed signs of appreciation.

 

“You move so quickly! I think you truly enjoy yourself and I think that’s neat. Did you know you are actually from New Zealand?”

 

The kiwi shook it’s head in a “no” motion and again cocked its head to the side.

 

“If you want to come live with me, we can make plans to visit your native land….are you interested?”

 

The kiwi nodded and hopped into my lap. We got up and I carried the kiwi down the path toward home.

Edited December 17, 2004 by Zariah

[Peredhil]

We'll never know

 

It seemed as if he saw her everywhere. In the mornings getting out of her parent's car. Getting on or off the bus. In the hallways. Worst of all, in his history class.

Like now.

 

He was nearly hypnotized by the shimmer of the slanted sun playing with her golden hair. Amber really. Like old amber, not yellow, not gold, but dark and rich and natural with the odd streaked highlights she'd had since childhood. He'd used to tease her about her touseled hair, which could never stay combed and straight, but never made obedient curls. Now his eyes would loop and lose themselves trying to trace the colors.

When she bowed her head to write notes, her hair fell like a curtain of honey to hide her face. Only the gentle curve of a cheek's shadow on the veil played peek-a-boo with his sight. He couldn't seem to see her face enough. He kept trying to trace the lines, put together the pieces, determine just what about her kept his eye fixed. There were other girls, and a few of the teachers who were fair more beautiful than she. He heard enough about them from the guys, and he made the appropriate responses, but all the while her face was in his mind.

In his dreams, he was Lancelot to her Gwen. He was Columbus to her Isabella. He would be happening to walk along just in time to save her from a hundred disasters and inconveniences. Her smile was always reward enough, he'd wake himself in outrage if it became something as coarse as a television show or movie.

 

He was in love with Love, and she was its form. He was inspired to a thousand stories and poems and she was his Muse.

 

He never told her. He didn't talk to her, expect to respond with a hello.

 

They graduated and he cheered her as she walked across the stage, neither first nor last. And he didn't see her again for ten years, although he saw her in every woman who caught his eye, in every sunset he wished she was there to share, in every dream of every night.

 

Older, fitted into the groove of life and making its daily round about to begin again, she remained the shining light of his heart, his might-have-been, his what-if-we-met might be dream.

 

When his reunion came, he bought the ticket, paid in advance for the dinner, and looked through deadly annuals and listened to deadlier music, pierced a thousand times by the past and relishing how it hurt so good.

 

On the day to fly, he stood at the airport, looked at the lines, and went home.

 

He received the email from the organizers, sorry you couldn't make it and hope to see you at the twentieth. The event album was inclosed as he'd paid and he saw her again. She was more beautiful than he'd dreams, had matured into her face.

 

He was bitterly happy he hadn't gone. His heart ached and poured out words. Being honest in himself, he realized he'd chosen the inspiration of a fantasy over the chance of reality ruining it all.

 

Thus does love of Love make a coward of the poet, and inspire a thousand words of regret.

[Zadown]

Dead Calm

 

I shade my eyes with a hand and look around me, knowing I will most likely see nothing. The sky is dark blue to every direction, a few clouds drifting below me, the sky changing to almost black straight above. I adjust my mask slightly and walk back to my little hut, my steps careful and slow on the rubbery, bouncy surface. At the door I pause, brace myself and look downwards. The distance to the wisps of green and brown floating in the blue water below makes me dizzy and weak at the knees as always, but I do not turn my gaze aside. I grasp the flimsy doorway harder, my knuckles white, and try to see what is happening far away on the ground, even though I know it is in vain.

 

After a while I sigh, the sound a hissy roar inside the confines of my mask. The wind makes me shiver, even if only strips of skin are exposed, and I retreat to the shelter of the hut. The airlock sighs as well, mirroring my mood, then opens. From the inside the building doesn't look quite as ramshackle. I take off my mask and massage my cold face, blink a few times to get rid of the ice on my eyelashes.

 

There it is, my glider. It weights almost nothing, its wings more graceful than the ones nature has given to the birds, the bones lighter and yet more durable. Of course, it has to be better than a bird to carry this heavy thing anywhere. I reach forward and caress its tech feathers, its glass eyes and electronic brain. Reverently, I whisper to it the same words I've said a dozen times.

 

"Soon, my love. Soon."

[Gwaihir]

She sits against the wall, it is an ugly wall--cinderblock and stained. The paint is old, peeling and probably poisonous too. She doesn't look old (though her clothes do) but she does look relatively poisonous, particularly her mood.

Sometimes her thoughts flow in words, but other times they're just emotions (mad, unfair, wasted life, jealous, lonely, frustrated, disgruntled, mad) other times she complains aloud, in words.

Today as she sits she chews on unbrushed hair and sips gin out of the bottle. She mumbles "the rich cats don't do half the work I do, but everyone knows who they are. Damn secrecy bullshit." The rest of her mumbles aren't coherent words and the woman doesn't care. She's only speaking to herself anyway and eventually she's passed out. As close to happy as she ever gets.

 

(wow, that changed a lot from the original, but neat)

 

From Disgruntled