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My Creative Writing Class
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Author Topic: My Creative Writing Class  (Read 20778 times)
Bean
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« on: October 31, 2006, 01:35:01 AM »

In my quest for more feedback on the stuff I'm writing, I turn now to you, the FT forum-goers, seeking your opinions and suggestions concerning some things I've written recently.  Each selection will be in a separate post, but I'm going to keep them all in this topic unless one randomly sparks some very serious conversation.  Please understand that many of the things I've been writing recently have been experiments with various forms, so if the way something is structured doesn't appeal to you, it's prolly 'cause the form gave me trouble.

Here's the first, an English haiku (and therefore not bound by the Japanese 5-7-5 syllabic form):

       Blood-red rose
  At dawn: damp petals
     Hide sharp thorns.


-Bean
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Bean
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« Reply #1 on: October 31, 2006, 01:38:40 AM »

And now the second, a 3 stanza sextilla in which I experimented with rhythm and repetition.  There was a fourth stanza previously, but I have removed it on my professor's recommendation.  This is preliminarily titled Broken Promise.

Looking out through lying eyes:
Whispers, shadows, mother's tears,
Turns of phrase that play on fears;
Justice when a good man dies:
Sacred word, in blood and death
Echoes on each exhaled breath.

Looking down through lying eyes:
Gasping mouth, joints bloated so
Weak, they twitch but to and fro;
Justice in the buzzing flies:
Sacred word, in blood and death
Echoes on each exhaled breath.

Looking in through lying eyes:
Mocking laughter, silent tears,
Brazen pride encircling fears;
Justice in each new disguise:
Sacred word, in blood and death
Echoes on each exhaled breath.


-Bean
« Last Edit: November 02, 2006, 11:49:14 PM by Bean » Logged

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Bean
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« Reply #2 on: October 31, 2006, 01:41:58 AM »

The third and final work I will be posting right now is the first scene of a short story I'm working on entitled "The Mystic and the Demon."  As part of an exercise in class, after I finish this version, I am going to try and retell it from the very end, almost entirely in flashbacks, and using different scenes.

The Mystic and The Demon
Version 1: From the Very Beginning

   The young boy sprinted up the grassy path, trees and underbrush whizzing by, his bare feet leaving prints in the damp earth.  One thought repeated over and over in his head: Must tell the Mystic, Must tell the Mystic, Must tell the Mystic.  The slope began to flatten out and the boy slowed and squinted up the path, then, eyes wide in surprise, stumbled and fell. 
   The man at the end of path was small in stature, like the hut behind him, and the tint of his sun-dark skin was not dissimilar to that of the wood used in its construction, but that was pretty much where all similarity ended.  The man was barefoot, and wore only a pair of plain leather leggings held up by a belt from which hung a very strange looking assortment of bones, carved rocks, and pieces of tree bark with unnatural looking symbols writ on them, probably in blood.  But even more than this, it was the fantastic designs painted on his arms, chest, and head in all different colors; purple, red, orange,  green, yellow, and two shades of blue.  The lines swirled about, seeming almost to move and flow, but they never once crossed paths. 
   The boy began to untangle himself, shaking his head as much in surprise at the strange man as from the shock of the fall.  Getting up as far as his knees, the boy suddenly noticed the painted man was now sitting cross-legged just a few feet away and froze, caught in the man's deep, strange eyes.  Then the man smiled, and the boy recognized his wrinkled face and toothy grin through the paint. 
   “Mystic...” he panted, “Demon...in the village...said he would burn...the whole valley...”
   “Slow down, boy, catch your breath.” the Mystic spoke calmly.  “The elders will be able to stall him until I arrive, I am certain.  As soon as you are recovered, we will go.”  And he smiled again, that toothy, everything-will-be-all-right-not-a-care-in-the-world grin.


-Bean
« Last Edit: November 02, 2006, 11:48:56 PM by Bean » Logged

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gregorpie
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« Reply #3 on: October 31, 2006, 05:32:59 PM »

DAMMIT!!! That last story was amazing i actuallly wanna read the rest BUT THERE IS NO REST YET!!!! it was just like reading any other story u would find on the shelves in a bookstore. if that was the prologue or somet similar i wud have bought it straight away!!! perhaps some work needed on the title though..but don't take advice from me i suck at storywriting.
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« Reply #4 on: November 01, 2006, 06:58:59 AM »

The first scene of the short story was really really good. I liked the style and the descriptive prose and am looking forward to seeing the next iterations of the story.

I also liked the haiku, despite breaking the traditional japanese form it keeps to what a haiku should be, seasonal reference, natural subject, ceasura.
Posting haiku in the FT forums strikes me as particularly appropriate, tht haiku somehow reminded me of Mika.

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« Reply #5 on: November 01, 2006, 12:44:47 PM »

on the topic of the short story I have no choice but to agree with gregorpie and thorn. great job!  Cheesy
as for the other two, I would rather go with broken promise then haiku, but they're both good

tl
-more of the story soon, I hope?
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Bean
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« Reply #6 on: November 03, 2006, 04:36:07 AM »

Thanks for the positive feedback!  That really will help me to get motivated, which is my main problem when writing.  The opening of the story is approximately draft 1.5, and I'm already seeing things I need change, mostly just a word or phrase here and there, but I might add a few more details, too.  I haven't had time to work on it recently, but with any luck I'll be able to hammer out the transition and the next scene within the next week or two.

Thanks again, gregorpie.  The title is more of a working one than anything else.  I just couldn't think of a good one, so I named it after the two characters who will feature most prominently.

Heh, I could give you the first sentence of Version 2: From the Very End, but I think that might spoil things.  Actually, thinking about things now, I already know for sure that the two versions will be using different scenes (basically, they're complementing halves of the same story, or at least, they will be), so I might just make it all one story and divide them into Part 1 and Part 2.

Also, this is kind of an afterthought, but I figure dropping it into this post is more efficient than making another.  I sort put together this poem instead of paying attention during my classes the last two days, and I think it's decent enough to warrant outside opinions.  I'm not sure if I'll be using it in class or not, but hopefully it will fit one of my assignments.

A Storm Breaks
From where I sit on a park bench
In a cold wind, under a gray sky,
An argument grows louder.
They have been at it an hour now,
Grumbling and rumbling back and forth;
The pattering rain does not cool tempers,
But builds with them.  The sky darkens.
They begin to push and shove, violence
Begets violence: there is a sudden flash and
Roar!  The whole world is lit for that one
Frozen instant, then washed away by the
Rain, pouring out like blood upon the earth.

-Bean
Hmm, I like thinking with my fingers.

EDIT: Further bulletins as events warrant.
« Last Edit: November 03, 2006, 07:44:38 PM by Bean » Logged

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« Reply #7 on: November 03, 2006, 07:13:18 AM »

oh, nice, very nice.
two persons standing in the cold, first arguing with words and then they resort to violence? where have I seen that already? Tongue
no really, a great way to spend your classes!  Wink

tl
-storms are so cool...
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Bean
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« Reply #8 on: November 14, 2006, 04:18:42 PM »

Well, unfortunately I simply haven't had time to really get anything done with The Mystic and The Demon, due to a variety of other commitments.  However, my professor wanted us to turn in a new story she hadn't seen before, so last night I typed this first draft, and this morning I edited it for grammar and spelling.  I'm pretty pleased with it, although I'm having trouble titling it as usual. 
The working name is Four.


   A little bell rang, warning the empty bar that a blast of cold air and a swirl of snowflakes were about to come through.  The suddenly open door revealed a tall, well-built man stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together, dressed up in the manner of a medieval king about to ride forth to battle.  His shining mail was certainly a magnificent (and probably expensive) replica at the least, and the snow white (the same color his skin would be were it not so cold) fur cloak that hung from his shoulders was definitely real.  But the thing which most caught the bartender's gaze was the crown resting atop the man's blond head.  It shone like pure gold. 

   “Getcha something?” the bartender asked carefully.  It wasn't fear that put the edge of caution in his voice.  No, this man would cause no trouble; even if he wanted to, the 16-gauge under the bar would certainly keep him in line.  It wasn't the strangeness of his costume either.  After all, a man who goes about questioning the mental stability of his patrons is a man that will soon find himself out of business, especially with times being so hard.  No, it was something else about this tall blond man that made the normally stoic bartender hesitate, something not quite right.  Maybe something about his eyes...

   “Do you have any champagne?” The man asked, letting the door swing shut on it's own.

   “Champagne?  No offense buddy, but do this look like a place that's got champagne?”  The bartender flicked his eyes back to the television, where a bit of static had begun to obscure the game.  His team was losing, and now it looked like his only potential customer of the day was a nut job.  What a shitty day, he thought.

   “No fear, my good man,” the nut job said, “In lieu of a celebratory drink, I might as well warm up a bit.  Vodka on the rocks, if you don't mind.”  The bartender turned his tired brown eyes back to the stranger's vibrant blue ones, his interest renewed now that the man was a customer.

   “Ain't that weather somethin'?” he set out a glass and dropped some ice into it. “I swear it's getting' colder sooner every year.”  He poured out a third of a glass of his better vodka.  No sense angering the man.  If he likes it, he might buy another.

   “Ah, yes.  Well, it is you know.  To be expected, what with things going the way they are.”  Now there was an odd thing to say, thought the bartender.  Still, there was not much else to do, and glancing once sullenly around at the staticky game and the empty bar, he plowed ahead.

   “So, what's with the fancy get-up?  Headin' to a party somewheres?”

   “Yes, you might say that.” The blond stranger chuckled.  “Actually, it's what I came into town for.  I am to meet a few friends here first, though.”  He sipped the vodka, and then frowned at it, looking as though he were unsure if he'd gotten the right drink.

   Just then, the bell over the door jingled again and another burst of cold air flowed through the bar.  The blond man looked up with interest, and then started laughing.  The bartender stared open-mouthed at his latest patron.  The woman stood nearly as tall as the blond man, and, dressed in form-fitting plate-mail, painted blood red, looked like something out of one of those Japaneses games kids used to play.  The enormous sword sticking out of its sheathe on her back did nothing to change this thought.  The hair blowing about in the wind was coal black, as were here eyes, and her skin was a brown, almost reddish tinge, made brighter, no doubt, by the cold evening air.  She was perhaps the most beautiful woman the bartender had ever laid eyes on.

   “Don't laugh, hun, this is the style these days.  Don't you watch TV?”  she said with a grin.  A burst of static from the television punctuated her sentence.  The blond man sipped his vodka again, calming himself.

   “If you say so.  And yes.  Still, you look ridiculous.”  He chuckled quietly.

   “How about a drink, sugar?  Bloody Mary, extra bloody.” The blond man barked out another laugh, then quickly took another sip when she glared at him.  The Indian woman (she must be an Indian to have skin that red, thought the bartender vacantly) walked over to the bar and sat down next to the man, moving with surprising grace considering that her costume and sword looked to weigh almost as much as the real things would've.  Snapping back to reality, the bartender grabbed another glass, gave it a quick, apologetic wipe, and poured the drink. 

   “Sugar, would you mind turning that off?  It's gettin' on my nerves,” said the armored Indian beauty, pointing towards the increasingly staticky TV.
   “Uh...I...” the bartender hesitated, unsure of what to do.

   “Oh, let the man watch his game.  It can't hurt anything.  Besides, we'll be leaving soon enough.  You really ought to learn some patience.”  The woman downed her Bloody Mary in 3 swift gulps.

   “Oh, you're one to talk!  Always showing up early everywhere we go, trying to make the rest of us look bad.  You think you're really something, don't you?”
   “Yeah, I do.  And I know I don't have to take that kind of lip from you!” The blond man gulped the rest of his vodka and slammed the glass down on the bar, his mouth changing from that easy grin into a snarl just as furious as that of the Indian woman.  The bartender began edging down towards where he had the 16-gauge hidden, the woman's illusion of beauty drawn aside now to reveal the rage and hate beneath.

   Suddenly a voice spoke from the doorway.  “Am I interrupting something?  Honestly, can't you kids be together for two minutes without getting into a fight?”  The bartender hadn't heard the jingle of the bell announcing this one.  Must've been too focused on these two, he thought.  Gotta keep my cool.  Of course the crazies are out, I know what night it is.  Just gotta stay calm.

   “Another drink, barkeep.”

   “Ditto on that sugar.”  The two were grinning at the latest arrival, their quarrel apparently completely forgotten.

   “And I'll just have a glass of water if you don't mind,” said the short and skinny black man standing in the doorway. “How much do I owe you for these two?”  Judging by his experience of suits, which admittedly wasn't much, the bartender suspected this man could probably afford to buy the entire bar without a second thought.  He wore a gold watch on his skinny right wrist, and had a stylish stud in his left ear. 

   “Four for his two vodkas.  And six for her Bloody Marys.”  The television squelched again, and the bartender glanced over at it.  He could barely make it out through the static, but it looked like his team was making a comeback.  And so was his night, as the skinny black opened his wallet to reveal a large wad of cash.
   “There you are, and another ten for the trouble.”  The bartender nodded his thanks, collected the money, and poured out the drinks.

   “Good thing you showed up,” said the blond man.  “I would have hated to skip out on the bill.”  The bartender frowned.

   “Oh, I wouldn't have missed this night for the world,” the skinny black man replied.  The Indian woman snorted, and the man grinned widely, apparently at some joke the bartender had missed.

   “So what bus'ness ya in?” he asked the skinny black man, in an attempt to stay in the conversation.

   “Oh, I own various enterprises in the food industry.  You know how it is, a fast food chain or two here, a processing plant there, a supermarket in the other place.  It's all rather technical of course.  I really just own stock in them; I have little to do with day-to-day operations.”  The bartender did not know how it was, and was rather sorry he'd asked the question. 

   Sipping his vodka, the blond man interrupted his friend, who seemed about to continue, “Lay off it there.  I do believe you're boring the man.”

   “Hell, you're boring me,” said the Indian woman.  The blond man nearly spit the drink he'd just taken back into his cup as he tried not to laugh.

   Rolling his eyes, the skinny black man replied, “Hey, watch your mouth there.  I could take that as a personal insult.  And speaking of which, have you heard from our fourth?  He's just about late.”  Just as he finished speaking, the bell jingled yet again, and yet again a blast of cold air swept through the bar.  This time though, the door didn't swing shut like it was supposed to.  A man wearing an over sized black hoodie with the hood pulled up over his face stepped in.  His hands were buried deep in the pouch, which hung down low over the front of his faded blue-jeans.  He stamped the snow off of his pale green (puke green, the bartender thought) sneakers, and directed his gaze at each each of the three other patrons in turn.  They all smiled and nodded back, almost respectfully, despite the fact that from his clothes and stance the bartender would have guessed this man to be in his early twenties, and easily five or ten years younger than any of them. 

   Then a voice spoke from behind the new arrival, and the bartender saw what was holding the door propped open.  The dark shape in the doorway spoke up in a youthful voice, “Wouldja get a move on?  I'm fucking freezin' here!  We haven't got all night, ya know.”  The man in the hoodie turned around slowly, fixing his gaze steadily upon the shape.

   “Patience.  It is still early.  We have time.”

   “Yeah, yeah, sorry.  You know how it is though.  How I get sometimes.  Sorry.”

   “I know.”

   “'Kay.  I'll...I'll just wait out here.”  The bartender thought he heard the whinny of a horse over the wind before the door closed.  He dismissed the notion.  What would a horse be doing outside his bar?  'Specially in this weather.  Just a trick of the wind, and of this night, he thought.  Too many crazies out.  And now here's one more for me to deal with.

   “Getcha somethin' to drink?”  He asked the man in the hoodie.

   “No.  I will not be here long.”  The bartender grunted and turned back to the TV, only to discover that the screen had gone completely to static (“Salt and Pepper Wars,” his momma had called it when he was a kid). 

   “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, making his way around the bar to adjust the antennae.  Suddenly the man in the hoodie was blocking his path.

   “Do not be so hasty, all will occur in due time.” 

   “What the fuck are you talking about?  Get out out of the way, you ain't even a paying customer.”  Despite his annoyance at this man, the bartender noticed out of the corner of his eye that the other three were staring at the two of them in open mouthed shock.  He wondered if he'd made a mistake in calling out the smaller man.  Son of a bitch might have a pistol in that hoodie pouch, the bartender thought suddenly.  And I won't even get to see the end of the game.  Hell of a thing to think at a time like this.

   When the man in the hoodie spoke, it sounded surprisingly conciliatory. “Oh...I...it seems I spoke out of turn.  My apologies.”  Then he gave a long, raspy sigh, a slow and painful sounding breath in and out.  “Once again, my apologies.  It is my nature.”

   Suddenly the bartender stumbled backwards against one of the stools, one hand clutching at his left breast, at his heart, and one holding his throat.  He dropped to his knees in pain.  “Fuckin' hell...” he whispered, then fell on his side and lay still, struggling to breath.

   “Probably,” he heard the man in the hoodie say, “Although it's really none of my business.  I could ask.”  He had no idea who the man was addressing.  It didn't really matter. His chest spasmed again, and he tried to scream, but choked instead.  It had looked like his team was going to come back, too.

   “Hell of a thing to be thinking about at a time like this,” the man in the hoodie said.  “Still, I suppose that's how it goes.”


-Bean
A friend of mine suggested I write more in this story; I kind of like the ending though...
« Last Edit: November 14, 2006, 04:58:23 PM by Bean » Logged

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« Reply #9 on: November 14, 2006, 05:22:42 PM »

no, leave it. you should definitely leave it as it is. no changes, 'cause any change would probably be a change for the worse....
now, I've got only one question: do you know what were they doing there and who they are or are they just characters without much of a backstory?
please correct me if I'm wrong but Key is a horse, right?

tl
-will not connect any of this figures to the core D&D classes, despite how hard will that be...
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Bean
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« Reply #10 on: November 14, 2006, 08:46:35 PM »

Oh, I know exactly who all of them are.  In fact, almost everything about them, from their appearance to their drinks, was carefully chosen.  In fact, were I to tell you who they are, I suspect you would instantly recognize a great deal of it.  Of course, most people will be thrown off because I've interpreted the source material rather differently than the standard.  And no, D&D doesn't have anything to do with it, although I understand where you might get that impression.

I'm actually contemplating writing some separate stories for each of them, leading up to this bar scene.  Of course, with all of my classwork piling up like it is, we'll see when I can get around to that, not to mention putting out more of The Mystic and The Demon.

-Bean
gotta run
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Bean
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« Reply #11 on: December 11, 2006, 08:21:53 AM »

Well, my finals are over, and I've stopped binge-drinking (temporarily, to be sure) so I thought I might post a few more poems that no one here has seen.  I haven't written any more short fiction just yet, as a lot of my current efforts are more focused on preparing the Deadlands: Reloaded session I'm going to run tomorrow.  However, inspiration in that area can't evade me forever; it's just a matter of time before I have to write more.

Anyways, the reason I am making this post:

While Letters Build Up Like Dust
This poem has gone through several iterations, and is on its second title.  I'm pretty pleased wth this version though, and the title is my favorite line in the whole thing.

Tipped, a plastic bottle spills
Its pale pink pills, each escape,
escaped over-the-counter,
Burning bitterly in blood.

A laugh, choked off, spatters
against the mirror, where two
red-rimmed eyes stare vacantly
At the wet red teeth of death,

Smiling for four weeks in wait
While letters build up like dust;
No one knocks until the pin-
Striped man comes about the bill.

That fine suit was not so fine
When he left, brown and bitter,
Dripping down-chin just like that
Dry black laugh on the mirror.


Four Opinions On Death
This poem, two stanzas written in ballad form (I think), is drawn from the descriptions of four big baddies in a role-playing campaign I am building (everything I do is a work in progress).  Those four baddies are in turn drawn from something I once read in a book about the four most basic perceptions of death personified in people's minds.  I thought it was a really cool concept and it translated well from psychology book to campaign.  Whenever I write up a major player of some sort in a campaign, I usually try and come up with some sort of short verse that describes them.  So when I saw this assignment, I just went back to those verses and modified them to fit.

A fearsome beast, One stalks the dark,
A monstrous shadow on the wall.

A wise old friend, the last escape,
Two’s there when you, despairing, fall.

The golden voice, and twisted tongue,
Three lures you in, and then you’re done.

But Four, so cold, automaton,
He swings his scythe, and stops for none.


-Bean
"                    --You'll know
it's made right when you feel
that tightness in your chest." -me, in an unfinished poem
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Bean
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« Reply #12 on: December 11, 2006, 08:30:14 AM »

Oh yeah.  Might as well toss this one up here too.  I had to write a sonnet for my portfolio, and for a first try at a diffcult form I think it's not half bad.

Disenchanted

Until I met the smile in her eyes,
My grin was easy and my laughter free;
But there I saw the moon and starry skies,
And they a spell of trouble set on me.

By speaking out of turn to one held dear,
Whose pain the speaker's voice could not intend;
Words given meaning by the hearer's ear:
No flames of fury like those of a friend.

A prison built of silence we two made,
Inside whose stony cells our hearts were kept;
My hope within those walls began to fade:
It seemed that bound by pain forgiveness slept.

And now from her two eyes I turn my gaze,
The suns no more that light my darkling days.

-Bean
just...don't ask...
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« Reply #13 on: December 11, 2006, 06:36:57 PM »

I'm pretty pleased wth this version though, and the title is my favorite line in the whole thing.

I don't know if it is appropriate for me to say this, but mine too...
of the new three, Four Opinions On Death is my favorite, and seen how well it goes for you, I might try that verse thing in my next campaign, too. if I'll have time....
oh, just one more thing. isn't a sonnet composed of two times four plus two times three lines?

tl
-remembering some school lessions...
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Bean
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« Reply #14 on: December 12, 2006, 02:19:35 AM »

I'm glad you liked the line, and I hope you liked the rest of it.   Wink

Yeah, I really like working out short verses to describe them.  It's especially helpful if you need to make up some kind of ominous prophecy, or if your players are researching their enemies and you want to refer to them obliquely in an ancient text.  Plus, it's kinda fun.

You are correct as to the number of lines.  Two times four equals eight.  Two times three equals six.  Six plus eight equals fourteen.  However, there may be some variation as to the exact arrangement of said lines.  Popular forms include one octet followed by one sextet, which you described, or three quatrains followed by a couplet, which is what I wrote this one in.

-Bean
Bad men live that they may eat and drink,
whereas good men eat and drink that they may live.
(Socrates)
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