Skip to main content

grrrr

Someone just accused me in a review of plagiarizing myself. In Vino Veritas – In Wine (There is) Truth is posted on The Burrow and Lumos (on Sycophant Hex), TPP, OWL, two LJ communities, and on here. The reviewer writes:

Did you really write this story? I saw something exactly like this in The Burrow part of Sycophant Hex. That author wrote a sequel to it too. Or maybe I am mistaken, and you just posted it again on this site.

Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive about this - or worse yet, someone's lifted my stuff again (and then I'm going to have to search the internet to find out where and then make noise until they remove it) - but I'm afraid I wasn't very kind in my response.

Response:
Did you bother to look at the post date of this? This was written in May of 2006... I never posted it at the Burrow until a few weeks ago because I never considered doing so. You might want to check your frigging facts before you offhandedly make comments like "Did you really write this story?". Yes, I really DID write this story - and I find your insinuation that I did not (AND THIS IS POSTED on OWL, Petulant Poetess, my Livejournal as well as two Livejournal communities, under this PEN name) offensive.

Now that I re-read what I said to her... I'm feeling vaguely guilty... but not guilty enough to amend it (at least not yet).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Could Have Been

when the words no longer flow expression becomes stilted sliding along the edge of something yet blanking towards the pain of nothing he thought to trap me in a cage of words to mute my voice with his subtle interest vindictiveness was never my forte neither was virtue yet the pale walls scream like a blank page I know why the caged bird sings boredom propels it to seek in art what is missing why does it seem like everything is missing funny how silence rings in your ears or is that the blood pumping the need for words scratching at the surface of my skin is love suppose to feel like this the bed squeaks its answer his body next to mine hot and sweaty my brain screaming to be released he thought to trap me in a cage of words wrapped in a licentious promise going nowhere fast and furious yet here I am again with nothing between me and the paper but a pen that does not move and a memory of what could have been

Meaningless

this truth drives me insane as if the wounds of careless words goes unhealed I wait patiently for the moment to come wrapped up in apprehension I feel so undone I know relief is there just beyond the door but sometimes I wonder when the wind whispers if there is more my tears know nothing but this pain a waking nightmare of useless despair I once believe in the golden promise your honeyed words like a balm how foolish I was It feels as though I’m trapped in the web of wants needing the truth with the substance of cotton candy too sweet to be real so I wait stretched taunt and thin for the adoration of your love never knowing it was false how could I loose myself so utterly to the nothingness that is left a wake for fools will I be mourned at last unbidden they come like rivers of hot pain as I wrap deep inside my misery hidden from all except the night in moments of clarity I lie to myself as if pretending will make it a...
it gnaws deep within my breast a beating demon screaming as I tear into the corner hiding like some callow coward afraid to face the mirror no longer recognizing the face that stares out this body which was once mine feeling odd disconnected what once was my shield my shelter my salvation from the pain the illusion I present to the world the gruesome mask to push away the world has become my prison it is my curse my rage turning into snakes slithering through my hair my price for protection as flesh became more than I can sometimes bare instead of turning men into stone my visage only deaden interest but this was the plan my penance a shroud of defense this was what I desired Athena was not instrumental in this perversion of myself I created this mask of my own volition I had become use to my existence the seclusion a balm to my weary soul hiding from the terrors turning to stone the insecurities of my foolish heart how I often wish it too could become cold marble the barren field did ...