crowphoenix
Banned
I've got a bit written, but I'm not really feeling it. I can't figure out how cliche or trite it is. And the personal touch is going to be hard to execute without becoming annoying. I guess I need to sit on it a bit more.
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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #24 - "Madness"
- Thread starter DumbNameD
- Start date
- Status
A comic is a good example of a serial. The overall structure is different from a large story just broken up into bits, but it's more like an episode of Lost, where shit happens and ends in a cliffhanger, only to be resolved in the next ep with some other stuff that's only gradually resolved during the whole length of the thing.Captain N said:
crowphoenix
Banned
Me too, and I can feel time pressing in on me. Ugh. Ah well, I have an idea at least. Although, I'm not sure of how good.Cyan said:
dragonlife
Member
We can do it, crow!crowphoenix said:
Believe.
crowphoenix
Banned
Oh, I know I can make it. I'm just a little miffed at myself. I meant to write it last week so I'd have a good bit of time for editing and revision so I didn't turn in anything as sloppy as Ballance (Durr) again. Every time I sat down to write, I just ended up playing RE5 again. >_<
Aaron: I like the imagery. I like the cup as a grenade bit. You did a good job of making the piece feel tense. Though the piece as a whole doesn't feel as well put together as your prior entries. I LOVED the Shazbut!
AlternativeUser: Wordlength. Also I feel like I'm reading a joke only you get.
TimeDog: Wow, that was something else.
AlternativeUser: Wordlength. Also I feel like I'm reading a joke only you get.
TimeDog: Wow, that was something else.
"For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness." The scripture resonated in her mind.
The expertly placed blindfold on her face swallowed up all light, engulfing her in an inky darkness that seemed to tug at the corners of her soul. Air slipped through her nostrils, never enough to sate the lungs, the gag in her mouth blocking off more than just air. She struggled against the knots that tied her face down to the cold table, calloused wrists rubbed against the rope.
"Loose." She thought as the rope slipped slightly as she struggled, "I'll have to show him how to do it again."
Suddenly the darkness exploded into red like God creating light for the first time. Pain streaked across her back where the whip had hit and dissipated into a thousand fiery rivers of pain that swam through her nerves from her back to her limbs to her fingers and toes and back again.
She shuddered letting the pain work through her body. Cleansing pain. Holy pain.
"That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ:"
The words rang in her mind.
"Yes." She thought as the last tendrils of pain flickered away. She nodded giving the signal that she was finally ready for the next blow. She preferred to wait between strikes at first; giving each flash of pain the attention it needed. Relishing the red. Reveling in the fire, later giving up her control to her husband giving herself up completely to the rapture.
The next blow came harder than the first. She grunted against the gag in her mouth. Memories flooded back to her of how she had found her way, her salvation, years ago. She was much younger then, just a girl of 18 when she and husband married. That wedding night had been so horrible. She had been taught that sex was sinful and she wanted nothing to stand in the way of her and her Lord God. She saw sex for the dirty awful thing that it was.
She pushed back her husband and cried that night. Sex was for the animals. It was base, wrong and disgusting, like letting someone else stick their fingers up your nose. The bible said to replenish the earth, but the earth had been replenished and there certainly were enough babies being born every minute. No, she was free from that perversion. Yet, she felt unfulfilled. She read and pondered and prayed but for months nothing came and her husband was getting more and more irate. She had heard that women were made perfect by marriage, but she only felt like a bad wife.
Then one day the revelation came. While cooking breakfast her husband had struck her with a spatula playfully on her butt. She was shocked when she heard her voice say, "Harder". There was a loud smack as her husband complied. It had sent shivers through her body. "Harder." she found herself saying again. Another smack came. In that instant hundred of scriptures ran through her mind. Scriptures about fire, pain, repentance, cleansing, forgiveness, and salvation. It was a revelation. She had found it. She had found why wives were to be subservient to their husbands, why women needed men for perfection. "Harder." She said again as her fingers fumbled with her belt and slipped her pants down exposing virgin flesh to the full brunt of the strike. As the next hit came she felt hot tears fall from her eyes, tears of pain mixed with tears of elation. Between her legs a warm wetness matched that in her eyes.
Much like Saul became Paul and changed his life after his revelation she too changed her life. Her life revolved around church and her "cleansing sessions" with her husband. Her whole view of the world changed. She tried to tell her friends of her revelation but they didn't understand, thinking her perverse. She was saddened that Satan had gained so much power that what was beautiful and holy was viewed as perverse. They were the perverse ones, spreading their legs like craven whores for their husbands, never attaining that cleansing pain. They were all whores, they were just paid differently than the prostitutes on the street, and that made them worse.
When she and her husband adopted a child, they had to take care to keep their revelation secret. If adults couldn't understand, a child could not be made to. She and her husband had perfected the cleansings to an art. No bruising on the face, lest unwanted attention be drawn. She knew just the right amount of pain she could endure and still recuperate quickly for the next session. She spent time researching knots and teaching her husband how to tie them. Their cleansing room was sound proofed, the gags were introduced, whips carefully selected, schedule set and faithfully maintained.
Another slash of pain brought her back to her darkness. She felt her muscles tense at the blow. She forced herself to relax, the pain flushed in deeper that way. The next whip came unbidden slashing across her buttocks then came another blow this one on her back. The pace quickened with urgency until the inky blackness was replaced by a vibrant blood red. She bit down hard on the gag to keep from shouting out. The world swirled and melted away until all there was the cleansing pain, a spiritual forge, burning off impurities and imperfections..
A drop of sweat or blood, she didn't know which, rolling between her buttocks brought her back to the world. Her husband removed the gag then the blindfold. She squinted her eyes against the foreign light. Everything looked new; her lungs shuddered as she sucked in a long first breath. She stretched her arms out as they came free from their bonds. A salty drop of either sweat or tears slipped between her blood red lips. She had been born again.
The expertly placed blindfold on her face swallowed up all light, engulfing her in an inky darkness that seemed to tug at the corners of her soul. Air slipped through her nostrils, never enough to sate the lungs, the gag in her mouth blocking off more than just air. She struggled against the knots that tied her face down to the cold table, calloused wrists rubbed against the rope.
"Loose." She thought as the rope slipped slightly as she struggled, "I'll have to show him how to do it again."
Suddenly the darkness exploded into red like God creating light for the first time. Pain streaked across her back where the whip had hit and dissipated into a thousand fiery rivers of pain that swam through her nerves from her back to her limbs to her fingers and toes and back again.
She shuddered letting the pain work through her body. Cleansing pain. Holy pain.
"That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ:"
The words rang in her mind.
"Yes." She thought as the last tendrils of pain flickered away. She nodded giving the signal that she was finally ready for the next blow. She preferred to wait between strikes at first; giving each flash of pain the attention it needed. Relishing the red. Reveling in the fire, later giving up her control to her husband giving herself up completely to the rapture.
The next blow came harder than the first. She grunted against the gag in her mouth. Memories flooded back to her of how she had found her way, her salvation, years ago. She was much younger then, just a girl of 18 when she and husband married. That wedding night had been so horrible. She had been taught that sex was sinful and she wanted nothing to stand in the way of her and her Lord God. She saw sex for the dirty awful thing that it was.
She pushed back her husband and cried that night. Sex was for the animals. It was base, wrong and disgusting, like letting someone else stick their fingers up your nose. The bible said to replenish the earth, but the earth had been replenished and there certainly were enough babies being born every minute. No, she was free from that perversion. Yet, she felt unfulfilled. She read and pondered and prayed but for months nothing came and her husband was getting more and more irate. She had heard that women were made perfect by marriage, but she only felt like a bad wife.
Then one day the revelation came. While cooking breakfast her husband had struck her with a spatula playfully on her butt. She was shocked when she heard her voice say, "Harder". There was a loud smack as her husband complied. It had sent shivers through her body. "Harder." she found herself saying again. Another smack came. In that instant hundred of scriptures ran through her mind. Scriptures about fire, pain, repentance, cleansing, forgiveness, and salvation. It was a revelation. She had found it. She had found why wives were to be subservient to their husbands, why women needed men for perfection. "Harder." She said again as her fingers fumbled with her belt and slipped her pants down exposing virgin flesh to the full brunt of the strike. As the next hit came she felt hot tears fall from her eyes, tears of pain mixed with tears of elation. Between her legs a warm wetness matched that in her eyes.
Much like Saul became Paul and changed his life after his revelation she too changed her life. Her life revolved around church and her "cleansing sessions" with her husband. Her whole view of the world changed. She tried to tell her friends of her revelation but they didn't understand, thinking her perverse. She was saddened that Satan had gained so much power that what was beautiful and holy was viewed as perverse. They were the perverse ones, spreading their legs like craven whores for their husbands, never attaining that cleansing pain. They were all whores, they were just paid differently than the prostitutes on the street, and that made them worse.
When she and her husband adopted a child, they had to take care to keep their revelation secret. If adults couldn't understand, a child could not be made to. She and her husband had perfected the cleansings to an art. No bruising on the face, lest unwanted attention be drawn. She knew just the right amount of pain she could endure and still recuperate quickly for the next session. She spent time researching knots and teaching her husband how to tie them. Their cleansing room was sound proofed, the gags were introduced, whips carefully selected, schedule set and faithfully maintained.
Another slash of pain brought her back to her darkness. She felt her muscles tense at the blow. She forced herself to relax, the pain flushed in deeper that way. The next whip came unbidden slashing across her buttocks then came another blow this one on her back. The pace quickened with urgency until the inky blackness was replaced by a vibrant blood red. She bit down hard on the gag to keep from shouting out. The world swirled and melted away until all there was the cleansing pain, a spiritual forge, burning off impurities and imperfections..
A drop of sweat or blood, she didn't know which, rolling between her buttocks brought her back to the world. Her husband removed the gag then the blindfold. She squinted her eyes against the foreign light. Everything looked new; her lungs shuddered as she sucked in a long first breath. She stretched her arms out as they came free from their bonds. A salty drop of either sweat or tears slipped between her blood red lips. She had been born again.
AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
ronito said:
No joke. That is how I normally write when I am not writing comedic pieces. Writing poetry always seems to be much harder to me than writing comedy. I might make a Cliff Notes version of it if you want me to.
ZephyrFate
Banned
A really shitty thing happened to me recently so I'm not sure if I'll get an entry in for this one. I'm hella depressed and angry and I don't want that to mess up my writing coherency.
'She puts the weight in my little heart', I think. Wait fuck, is it 'weight' or 'wait'? God damn Interpol singer with your monotone croon and your down strumming exclusivity. Why am I thinking about this and why the fuck is this on? This was our record...
Fuck.
Seriously though why did I do this with door open? I mean, it's really this type of thing that got me in here, in her shit-zone. Fuck her shit-zone. I can't do right by doing right, so if I'm wrong to her right and her right is wrong, why can't I be right when I'm wrong? What? And why the fuck does a girl, a girl, not a woman, do this to me. I've flown enough fucking miles in a mental jet to not get anxious over this type of bullshit turbulence. And why the fuck have I not closed the door yet? God damn! This is going to be sweet for fuck's sake nobody have terrible timing.
Slam. Why did I start playing our record?! Fuck! Click.
Okay. Word. She's dead, and uglier, God necrophelia is just fucked - how could you fuck them after they've shit themselves? Just like farts, girl shits smell much, much worse than a guy's. Is that true? I mean, is it perception cause I want to be inside them and the proximity to that poo odor is enough to turn me off? No, they do smell worse. Maybe it's the mix of prefume and profane into luxurious fuck-all. Again. Why? What the fuck is wrong with me?!
Focus!
So this is like, floor seven? Six floors and a trunk. Six floors and a trunk. So like twelve rooms a floor, one bend, a stairwell and an elevator. I'm sure the average person goes elevator, so the stairwell makes much more sense. Should I carry her down though? Well fuck. I could drop her in something and just count on good faith if someone shows up. They'd assume suicide and I could just book it. Or, well - damn. What am I going to even carry her in? Should I do it in parts? No. Fuck. If they catch me I'll look malicious, and I fucking love her, even though she's ugly now. God, do I even love her? That girl? She was fucking beautiful. Wait. Fuck. That's it. That's it. I don't love her I love that gown that covers her all the god damn time. That simple smirk to the way her eyes rolled up in her for the last time. Fuck. It was sort of like cumming when I drove that shit into her neck. Is that a form of necrophelia? God, that's fucked. At least now I can stop worrying about the if's of being fucked and just... Run. Okay.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I typed this in about 10 minutes, yay. Also, don't judge a writer by his writings. The personal touch is Interpol (which I just had come up on my iTunes). More fucked up than intended.
Fuck.
Seriously though why did I do this with door open? I mean, it's really this type of thing that got me in here, in her shit-zone. Fuck her shit-zone. I can't do right by doing right, so if I'm wrong to her right and her right is wrong, why can't I be right when I'm wrong? What? And why the fuck does a girl, a girl, not a woman, do this to me. I've flown enough fucking miles in a mental jet to not get anxious over this type of bullshit turbulence. And why the fuck have I not closed the door yet? God damn! This is going to be sweet for fuck's sake nobody have terrible timing.
Slam. Why did I start playing our record?! Fuck! Click.
Okay. Word. She's dead, and uglier, God necrophelia is just fucked - how could you fuck them after they've shit themselves? Just like farts, girl shits smell much, much worse than a guy's. Is that true? I mean, is it perception cause I want to be inside them and the proximity to that poo odor is enough to turn me off? No, they do smell worse. Maybe it's the mix of prefume and profane into luxurious fuck-all. Again. Why? What the fuck is wrong with me?!
Focus!
So this is like, floor seven? Six floors and a trunk. Six floors and a trunk. So like twelve rooms a floor, one bend, a stairwell and an elevator. I'm sure the average person goes elevator, so the stairwell makes much more sense. Should I carry her down though? Well fuck. I could drop her in something and just count on good faith if someone shows up. They'd assume suicide and I could just book it. Or, well - damn. What am I going to even carry her in? Should I do it in parts? No. Fuck. If they catch me I'll look malicious, and I fucking love her, even though she's ugly now. God, do I even love her? That girl? She was fucking beautiful. Wait. Fuck. That's it. That's it. I don't love her I love that gown that covers her all the god damn time. That simple smirk to the way her eyes rolled up in her for the last time. Fuck. It was sort of like cumming when I drove that shit into her neck. Is that a form of necrophelia? God, that's fucked. At least now I can stop worrying about the if's of being fucked and just... Run. Okay.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I typed this in about 10 minutes, yay. Also, don't judge a writer by his writings. The personal touch is Interpol (which I just had come up on my iTunes). More fucked up than intended.
Musashi Wins!
FLAWLESS VICTOLY!
AlternativeUlster said:
You "normally" write like that? Why?
That said, I loved the piece.
crowphoenix
Banned
Hey, this is writing. Just let it all out. Maybe you'll fell better.ZephyrFate said:
I'm sorry, man. I hope things get better.
Good idea. I was in a kind of bad mood, then I read this post and channeled it all into a totally different story than the one I had planned. Worked nicely, too. Dunno if it's better than what I'd been planning to write, but it's definitely different from my usual stuff.crowphoenix said:
dragonlife
Member
I'm gonna make it...!
I was doing other stuff today and couldn't get much done, but I'll probably work on it all day tomorrow and finish.
I'm having a blast writing it and hopefully you enjoy reading it.
I was doing other stuff today and couldn't get much done, but I'll probably work on it all day tomorrow and finish.
I'm having a blast writing it and hopefully you enjoy reading it.
crowphoenix
Banned
Can't wait to read it.Cyan said:
I'm still struggling with finding the voice for my story. I've written like two half finished drafts, but neither of them sound like I want them too. It's kind of frustrating.
Mengy
wishes it were bannable to say mean things about Marvel
I woke up groggy, slowly opening my eyes.
I must have fallen asleep. I dont remember falling asleep, the idea was almost humorous. Sleeping while floating out here, adrift, alone, with no bed. For a moment I wondered how many more times that would happen.
What did it matter, I was going to die out here anyway. I might as well just release the helmet clamps and get it over with now, why wait for death to slowly come for me?
No. No, that was a defeatist attitude. As long as I am alive, there is hope. Maybe they will somehow come for me, somehow find me. It is possible. It IS possible. I have to believe in that.
The pain in my stomach, hunger pains, must have been what woke me up. It sure wasnt any sounds, the silence out here was absolute. Perfectly still and utterly empty of noise or movement. I looked around to get my bearings, but was quickly reminded how silly that notion was out here. Mars is too my left. Just a little red dot in the distance, and yet it looks surprisingly large compared to the multitude of stars around it. For a moment I chuckled as I wished I had a telescope with me. The sun is behind me, I can tell from the shadowing on my suit.
And there was The Earth, currently above me, half illuminated by the sun, the other half dark. The sunlit half was so blue, so beautiful and colorful, even the clouds had millions of colors of white and gray in them. Africa was clearly visible, so many shades of green and brown! Out here, in the absence of color, the painted Earth seemed like a canvas of every color in existence. Even the dark half was glorious, the lights of cities and towns speckling its blackness more densely than the stars surrounding them.
It was so far away now, and yet it looked huge, just hanging there among the little specs of starlight. It was so much farther away than it was before I fell asleep, I was moving faster than I thought. Or maybe home was moving away from me? Again the seemingly monstrous odds of anyone rescuing me almost drove me to tears. There was the Earth, home, so far away and yet it seemed close enough to touch. Like I could just reach out and grab onto it.
The accident came back into my mind. I looked hard for Palmer Space Station but it was no use, I was too far away now to see anything in orbit. I still wasnt sure exactly what had happened to send me hurtling through space. It was some kind of explosive decompression, but what caused it I had no idea. I remembered seeing the side of the fuel cell burst apart. Had Jackson made a mistake with his welding? That would have been his first mistake ever. I wondered if he was alive or dead, how many other people were hurt. Maybe they thought I was dead, was that why no one had come for me yet? I was probably extremely lucky to be alive at all, after an explosion like that.
I tapped the communications pad on my wrist, keying the talk button, but I was still getting the error code. I wasnt broadcasting at all. No way to talk to anyone, no way to let someone know I was still alive. There was no way of knowing if the error was in my suit or if the stations communication array was down. Maybe the damage to Palmer Station was more severe than it looked from my perspective? Again desperation crept over me.
I looked at the pad on my wrist again just to be sure I hadnt imagined the blinking button. I wondered how long I had been drifting out here. It was timeless in this black void, surrounded by primordial starlight. And yet it was utterly beautiful. But more than that, it was making me feel unimaginably insignificant.
I looked at my wrist pad, at the oxygen status button. All of these stars, no matter where you looked there were thousands of them looking back at you. They surrounded me. The view had always been the reason I entered WASA, I had wanted to live among the stars as much as possible. But free from the orbit of Earth, away from the atmosphere, the view was so much more grand, so much more clear. It felt much safer to look at the stars with the shining blue ground beneath you. Here, away from a floor of any kind, the black blanket that covered me was both smothering and liberating at the same time. I could actually see all of the constellations at once, they were all so easy to distinguish. The Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Sagittarius, Virgo, the Pleiades cluster, they were all so clear in such splendid detail. It was magnificent. And yet it was terrifying.
Yes, I saw it correctly, the oxygen status button was blinking. I knew what that meant: I was in my reserve levels. I would have to press the button to find out how much time I had left. The curious part of me wanted to know exactly how long I had to live. Another side of me didnt want to know. That side wanted to simply drift among the stars here, looking around, enjoying the view that few ever truly experienced, for whatever time I had left. The concept of dying alone out here away from my family and loved ones depressed me greatly, but yet I was undeniably enjoying myself. Some part of me was elated to be out here among the stars, adrift, forever.
I decided not to release my helmet clamps and end it quickly. I also decided to ignore the blinking oxygen levels light. I accepted that I was not going to be rescued, not in time; even if they were coming it was too late. I had no idea how much time I had left, but I was going to enjoy and make the most of whatever amount it was. This was my fate, it was out of my hands, and the reality of that washed a peace over me almost as eternal as the stillness I was enveloped in. I wasnt scared anymore. Was that rational, or was it insane?
Perhaps it was both, a reasonable madness, among the stars
I must have fallen asleep. I dont remember falling asleep, the idea was almost humorous. Sleeping while floating out here, adrift, alone, with no bed. For a moment I wondered how many more times that would happen.
What did it matter, I was going to die out here anyway. I might as well just release the helmet clamps and get it over with now, why wait for death to slowly come for me?
No. No, that was a defeatist attitude. As long as I am alive, there is hope. Maybe they will somehow come for me, somehow find me. It is possible. It IS possible. I have to believe in that.
The pain in my stomach, hunger pains, must have been what woke me up. It sure wasnt any sounds, the silence out here was absolute. Perfectly still and utterly empty of noise or movement. I looked around to get my bearings, but was quickly reminded how silly that notion was out here. Mars is too my left. Just a little red dot in the distance, and yet it looks surprisingly large compared to the multitude of stars around it. For a moment I chuckled as I wished I had a telescope with me. The sun is behind me, I can tell from the shadowing on my suit.
And there was The Earth, currently above me, half illuminated by the sun, the other half dark. The sunlit half was so blue, so beautiful and colorful, even the clouds had millions of colors of white and gray in them. Africa was clearly visible, so many shades of green and brown! Out here, in the absence of color, the painted Earth seemed like a canvas of every color in existence. Even the dark half was glorious, the lights of cities and towns speckling its blackness more densely than the stars surrounding them.
It was so far away now, and yet it looked huge, just hanging there among the little specs of starlight. It was so much farther away than it was before I fell asleep, I was moving faster than I thought. Or maybe home was moving away from me? Again the seemingly monstrous odds of anyone rescuing me almost drove me to tears. There was the Earth, home, so far away and yet it seemed close enough to touch. Like I could just reach out and grab onto it.
The accident came back into my mind. I looked hard for Palmer Space Station but it was no use, I was too far away now to see anything in orbit. I still wasnt sure exactly what had happened to send me hurtling through space. It was some kind of explosive decompression, but what caused it I had no idea. I remembered seeing the side of the fuel cell burst apart. Had Jackson made a mistake with his welding? That would have been his first mistake ever. I wondered if he was alive or dead, how many other people were hurt. Maybe they thought I was dead, was that why no one had come for me yet? I was probably extremely lucky to be alive at all, after an explosion like that.
I tapped the communications pad on my wrist, keying the talk button, but I was still getting the error code. I wasnt broadcasting at all. No way to talk to anyone, no way to let someone know I was still alive. There was no way of knowing if the error was in my suit or if the stations communication array was down. Maybe the damage to Palmer Station was more severe than it looked from my perspective? Again desperation crept over me.
I looked at the pad on my wrist again just to be sure I hadnt imagined the blinking button. I wondered how long I had been drifting out here. It was timeless in this black void, surrounded by primordial starlight. And yet it was utterly beautiful. But more than that, it was making me feel unimaginably insignificant.
I looked at my wrist pad, at the oxygen status button. All of these stars, no matter where you looked there were thousands of them looking back at you. They surrounded me. The view had always been the reason I entered WASA, I had wanted to live among the stars as much as possible. But free from the orbit of Earth, away from the atmosphere, the view was so much more grand, so much more clear. It felt much safer to look at the stars with the shining blue ground beneath you. Here, away from a floor of any kind, the black blanket that covered me was both smothering and liberating at the same time. I could actually see all of the constellations at once, they were all so easy to distinguish. The Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Sagittarius, Virgo, the Pleiades cluster, they were all so clear in such splendid detail. It was magnificent. And yet it was terrifying.
Yes, I saw it correctly, the oxygen status button was blinking. I knew what that meant: I was in my reserve levels. I would have to press the button to find out how much time I had left. The curious part of me wanted to know exactly how long I had to live. Another side of me didnt want to know. That side wanted to simply drift among the stars here, looking around, enjoying the view that few ever truly experienced, for whatever time I had left. The concept of dying alone out here away from my family and loved ones depressed me greatly, but yet I was undeniably enjoying myself. Some part of me was elated to be out here among the stars, adrift, forever.
I decided not to release my helmet clamps and end it quickly. I also decided to ignore the blinking oxygen levels light. I accepted that I was not going to be rescued, not in time; even if they were coming it was too late. I had no idea how much time I had left, but I was going to enjoy and make the most of whatever amount it was. This was my fate, it was out of my hands, and the reality of that washed a peace over me almost as eternal as the stillness I was enveloped in. I wasnt scared anymore. Was that rational, or was it insane?
Perhaps it was both, a reasonable madness, among the stars
dragonlife
Member
Scribble said:
I'll have you know, dragonlife29 keeps his word!
Most of the time!
EDIT as of 3:23 PM: Curse thee, Scribble! I blame my slow progression on you! :lol
ZephyrFate
Banned
I wrote this in anger and didn't really care about punctuation or grammar, similar to a McCarthy novel or something. I don't know. I hope you enjoy it.
In and Out
Word Count: 990
Things change and end and sometimes we hate it but we live with it because that is what our society wants us to do. Many times its our fault and we cant fix it because...
Whats the point really?
We sit there and think, well, okay, I can just fix this and it will be fine. Some things dont have solutions. Some things are irreparable.
My name is Gayle. I used to have a good friend, who, like every other good friend, was always there and was so much fun to be around. We had the best of times, the worst of times, and every fucking possible thing in-between. College went by at a rapid pace. Nights of drunken debauchery became blurred between the next and all we could remember was the fun and the bliss and the euphoria. But things changed.
Like everything does. Like this god damn universe and all of its fluidity.
One night I had gotten belligerently drunk and depressed, repelling everyone's attempts to help me out because of... I don't know.
He never really talked to me the same way afterwards. And the world kept spinning.
Our friendship was rejuvenated somewhat, then deteriorated again. The same old shit, but this time with no clear way of preventing the outcome.
He decided to transfer to a different college after the next term. Forsaking the mistakes and drama he had here, the lack of happiness, the unimportance of me as a friend, to go back home and enjoy people who are like-minded (and similarly shallow, heterosexual, and Christian) as well as enjoy all those wonderful californian sluts.
He blamed it all on me. Said my problems destroyed his chance of happiness up here. But I knew it was more than that. And I knew that our friendship had an expiration date. Only somewhat longer than what you'd find in the milk aisle.
My anger became a microcosm of hate and misery and madness and depression that swirled together into a colorful, vibrant cesspool of red, hot anger. Feeding, licking at the bookends of my sanity. Crushing them like battering rams, singeing my brain and eroding my empathy, my sympathy, my desire to be humanitarian.
No.
I can't just let this happen. I mean, the times were so good, and yes while the times were bad we worked past it, because thats what good friends do. They work through their problems instead of giving up.
And thats what he did. He gave up. On the college we went to, on his friends, on the girl he liked... on me.
And for that, there is no word in the english language that can express my pure, unadulterated rage.
This wasn't all new. Friends have come and gone just as easily before. One friend lied to me, used me. The other, closeted homophobic and couldnt understand my problems. Now with Mason gone, I have another statistic... a combination of both.
You see, he tried to convert me. He tried to make me straight so we could relate more. It wasnt just friendly in-jokes, it was serious.
And like the flashing lights in a kanye west song, he becomes part of my memory's museum. Something I can look back on and wonder what the fuck did I do wrong, why cant I just use that 'time machine' and stop myself before I wreck myself.
Like turbulent oceans, our life and fate are interconnected. Forever changing, forever fluid. Nothing static. In that we find peace but we also find chaos and destruction. We find pain and hate and anger. We are just left with just going on, because that is all we can do. No point in giving up. No point in doing what he did to me.
No point in letting dead weight keep me underwater. Fill my lungs with its molasses, slide down my throat like a poorly mixed cocktail. Theres a world out there and if only I keep myself afloat I can see that island and see all the shiny happy faces and know that if I funnel my anger and madness into progress I can make it I can swim.
Use my anger as a tool. Use that insanity as a method, a paradigm shift so that way the next time around I wont fall prey to the same well-covered bear trap in this perpetual green lush wilderness we call life. No, im not going to get stuck in the trap with my leg bleeding out all my potential, all my purpose.
And yet, it is so easy to just get caught up in your worries, your paranoia, your reminiscence. You remember the good times. You remember the things you did for that person. The times when you were there for them when no one else was. And you think it was pointless. But maybe it wasnt. If you weren't there then they'd have had no one, they wouldn't be able to keep going. You kept them going. In the face of all this bullshit and all this drama you were that beacon in the darkness, the lighthouse to their tumultuous sea.
Im rambling like a madman, I can tell. I dont care if this story doesnt make sense, because it is what came out when my fingers touched my keyboard. It was the release of all this anger, all the bad dreams ive had every night with every possible scenario running through my head, because I cant quite move on. Ill find someone new and I know at that point, ill make a better friend than the last. I just need to be more cautious, feel them out, test the waters. In my world, where finding relationships is like wading into a pond and hoping not to find a frog, unlike the heterosexuals with their ocean, friends are so important.
So maybe I just need to stop fighting.
And take the first step.
There are many references in this piece, particularly in the title, that relate to my life. I'll keep that a secret.
In and Out
Word Count: 990
Things change and end and sometimes we hate it but we live with it because that is what our society wants us to do. Many times its our fault and we cant fix it because...
Whats the point really?
We sit there and think, well, okay, I can just fix this and it will be fine. Some things dont have solutions. Some things are irreparable.
My name is Gayle. I used to have a good friend, who, like every other good friend, was always there and was so much fun to be around. We had the best of times, the worst of times, and every fucking possible thing in-between. College went by at a rapid pace. Nights of drunken debauchery became blurred between the next and all we could remember was the fun and the bliss and the euphoria. But things changed.
Like everything does. Like this god damn universe and all of its fluidity.
One night I had gotten belligerently drunk and depressed, repelling everyone's attempts to help me out because of... I don't know.
He never really talked to me the same way afterwards. And the world kept spinning.
Our friendship was rejuvenated somewhat, then deteriorated again. The same old shit, but this time with no clear way of preventing the outcome.
He decided to transfer to a different college after the next term. Forsaking the mistakes and drama he had here, the lack of happiness, the unimportance of me as a friend, to go back home and enjoy people who are like-minded (and similarly shallow, heterosexual, and Christian) as well as enjoy all those wonderful californian sluts.
He blamed it all on me. Said my problems destroyed his chance of happiness up here. But I knew it was more than that. And I knew that our friendship had an expiration date. Only somewhat longer than what you'd find in the milk aisle.
My anger became a microcosm of hate and misery and madness and depression that swirled together into a colorful, vibrant cesspool of red, hot anger. Feeding, licking at the bookends of my sanity. Crushing them like battering rams, singeing my brain and eroding my empathy, my sympathy, my desire to be humanitarian.
No.
I can't just let this happen. I mean, the times were so good, and yes while the times were bad we worked past it, because thats what good friends do. They work through their problems instead of giving up.
And thats what he did. He gave up. On the college we went to, on his friends, on the girl he liked... on me.
And for that, there is no word in the english language that can express my pure, unadulterated rage.
This wasn't all new. Friends have come and gone just as easily before. One friend lied to me, used me. The other, closeted homophobic and couldnt understand my problems. Now with Mason gone, I have another statistic... a combination of both.
You see, he tried to convert me. He tried to make me straight so we could relate more. It wasnt just friendly in-jokes, it was serious.
And like the flashing lights in a kanye west song, he becomes part of my memory's museum. Something I can look back on and wonder what the fuck did I do wrong, why cant I just use that 'time machine' and stop myself before I wreck myself.
Like turbulent oceans, our life and fate are interconnected. Forever changing, forever fluid. Nothing static. In that we find peace but we also find chaos and destruction. We find pain and hate and anger. We are just left with just going on, because that is all we can do. No point in giving up. No point in doing what he did to me.
No point in letting dead weight keep me underwater. Fill my lungs with its molasses, slide down my throat like a poorly mixed cocktail. Theres a world out there and if only I keep myself afloat I can see that island and see all the shiny happy faces and know that if I funnel my anger and madness into progress I can make it I can swim.
Use my anger as a tool. Use that insanity as a method, a paradigm shift so that way the next time around I wont fall prey to the same well-covered bear trap in this perpetual green lush wilderness we call life. No, im not going to get stuck in the trap with my leg bleeding out all my potential, all my purpose.
And yet, it is so easy to just get caught up in your worries, your paranoia, your reminiscence. You remember the good times. You remember the things you did for that person. The times when you were there for them when no one else was. And you think it was pointless. But maybe it wasnt. If you weren't there then they'd have had no one, they wouldn't be able to keep going. You kept them going. In the face of all this bullshit and all this drama you were that beacon in the darkness, the lighthouse to their tumultuous sea.
Im rambling like a madman, I can tell. I dont care if this story doesnt make sense, because it is what came out when my fingers touched my keyboard. It was the release of all this anger, all the bad dreams ive had every night with every possible scenario running through my head, because I cant quite move on. Ill find someone new and I know at that point, ill make a better friend than the last. I just need to be more cautious, feel them out, test the waters. In my world, where finding relationships is like wading into a pond and hoping not to find a frog, unlike the heterosexuals with their ocean, friends are so important.
So maybe I just need to stop fighting.
And take the first step.
dragonlife
Member
Goddammit! I'm almost done but can't quite attain a satisfactory ending! I want to get done because I've been sitting on my ass (with a couple breaks) since the AM, just thinking of stuff :'(
I want to get done because I've been sitting on my ass (with a couple breaks) since the AM, just thinking of stuff :'(Mirrors of the mind
Word Count: 1,748
The old man stumbled in the fading twilight through a thicket of trees. Finally he fell to one knee on the mossy ground next to a tree and held it as if in embrace. He was breathing heavily into the cold spring air. Mirrors in the sun, he wheezed, Fire of a golden light. Minutes passed as he sat there, half hunched, mumbling these words. At last he sat down with his back against the tree.
From here he could overlook the valley below him with its familiar landmarks. The river, the old windmill, the neat rows of trees of the cider tree orchard near the horizon. He closed his eyes and began to make guttural sounds. After some minutes his eyes flew open and widened. But after a few moments whatever comprehension there seemed to be in his eyes dimmed away and was replaced by a look of despair.
Dew from the leaves of the tree fell on his head, seeped over his stubbled cheeks and fell in drops from his chin. Finally, slowly very, very slowly, he got up and meandered on through the forest.
*
The Toyota Lexus stopped at the end of the side road. The headlights illuminated an old sign that said Elsas Cider Tree Orchard. The gloved fingers of the man drummed on the top of the steering wheel. He turned to the fifteen year old boy next to him. Dont worry, Steve, we will find your grandfather.
They got out of the car. The man looked around and after some deliberation turned into a densely overgrown path. Uncle Jim! The boy tugged the mans sleeve I know a much quicker way to the cabin. The man stopped. Well, it has been a long time since I have been here on holidays. Lead the way! The man and the boy walked off the road and into the forest.
*
It was evening and the old man was sitting on a bench next to a coin operated telescope for tourists who wanted to enjoy the magnificent view from this mountain terrace. Now however, nothing but blackness stretched out across the valley, with a light here and there of a single cottage.
He sat there, trembling, with his head in his hands. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Maggy, he sobbed, Maggy, why why wh... Suddenly a series of convulsions seemed to come over the old man. The convulsions stopped as suddenly as they came and he got up and balled his fists. Kiele aloha!, he screamed Kiele aloha!.
*
One hour later the boy and his uncle had reached the cabin. It looks like hes not here., the man said to the boy, All lights are out and the door is locked. He sat down heavily on one of the benches next to the barbecue oven.
I think we should call the police now, the boy said. The man looked back at him with a look of astonishment. And what? Tell them what he did to my mother? You know how he gets when he doesnt take his medication. He does the craziest stuff. I told them they shouldnt be keeping a gun in the house, but do they listen? To me? Nope! Nope! Nope! They never listened to a word I said, and see where it gets them now!!!
He began to tap his foot in rapid succession. He stood up, looked at the boy, shook his head and laughed. Why do you look at me like that? He shook his head again, grinning and yanked a bench from under one of the tables and threw it in one fluent motion through the front door of the cabin, shattering glass everywhere.
The boy stood frozen as the man looked at him sideways. Just checking if the old fools not hiding in there. He reached through the broken glass of the door and opened it. You go back to the car, he said and tossed him the car keys. The boy stood there a moment longer, contemplating, and then turned around and walked away.
*
Half an hour before, the old man had reached the cabin. Before he went into the cabin he entered the password for the alarm system. It was a phrase in the favorite song of his wife called Mirrors by Sally Oldfield. He entered the letters on the keypad next to the door: Kiele aloha. The device beeped twice and it showed the message alarm system deactivated.
He entered the cabin and shut the door behind him. He had a feeling his son could be making a courtesy visit, although he thought it unlikely. Jim had always been bad at finding his way, and not only through life. He couldnt count the times he had to pick him up somewhere when he was a small boy because he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in someone elses yard. Of course later this trait had improved somewhat, but he doubted very much that he could find this particular cabin among all the other cottages and cabins in the dark.
He hurried through the dark hallways to the main living room. Already he felt the familiar grey mist of Alzheimer tugging at his brain. He knew he had to be fast or otherwise he could be crawling around in his own cabin for days. He felt blessed that the Alzheimers had lifted for a few hours, but he knew it was a one-off thing. Deep inside himself he knew it was the spirit of his wife that had blown away the cobwebs in his head. But not for good.
The trembling hands of the old man opened the medicine cabinet that was tucked away inside the massive bookcase that lined the far wall. He took the bottle of pills and sat down on the dark leather sofa in the living room. A sudden wave of tiredness engulfed his body. With the last bit of willpower inside him he took out two of the pills and put them in his mouth and swallowed. All that remained were dreams and darkness as he fell asleep.
*
Jim stood bent over the old sleeping man, his mind a swirling mass of fear and possibilities. He had noticed the Alzheimers medicine on the coffee table. That meant that when his daddy would wake up, he would be lucid enough to contact the authorities and notify them of what he had done. That was no good. No good at all. So now he had basically two options, kill the man, something he had no real desire to do, or lock him up somewhere until the Alzheimers kicked back in. And then what? the voice in his head said. He sighed. It had always been a dumb idea. A soft idea. He may be a drug addict, but he had always considered himself to be the less inhuman, less predatory kind of addict.
*
The events of the past few days had proven him wrong on that account. About 48 hours before, he had tried to steal some money from his mother and fathers house in the town nearby. His mother had unexpectedly come home early from doing some volunteers work and had caught him in the act.
His mother had begun yelling at him in the shrillest and loudest voice he had ever hear her use. In his panic and agitation he had taken a gun from out of one of the drawers and had tried to silence her by pointing the gun at her. This however had the opposite effect on his mother. She began to scream even louder and tried to pry away the gun from his hands. Like a mother trying to take a toy gun from a small boy.
He tried to shoot into the wall next to her, but her hand touched the gun at the ultimate moment and it went off into her stomach. Then he heard stumbling noises on the stairs. It was his father who had been sleeping at that time. He had planned his visit to coincide with the nap his father took from half past twelve until half past one in the afternoon. His father had stood there like a marble statue at the foot of the stairs, staring at the body of his wife.
The shock must have put him back into a state of confusion, because his father was now beginning to climb the stairs again, calling his mothers name in a feeble voice as if she was now upstairs. Quickly he took his fathers hand and led him into the kitchen where he set him down on a chair. He knew where the Alzheimers pills were and flushed them down the toilet. He wiped the butt of the gun with a cloth and put the gun into his fathers hand who looked at it with horror. He went upstairs to look for more money. Having found nothing he came back downstairs to find that his father had left. The gun was still lying on the table.
Minutes later his nephew, Steve, rang the doorbell. He hadnt let him enter the house and told him that his grandfather had shot his grandmother in the arm and that she was already in the hospital. It was the best story he could come up with on short notice.
Together they looked everywhere for him. The nearby coffee shop, the grocery store, the hospital (he had to convince Steve that now was not a good time to visit his grandmother) and even the police department. It was Steve who suggested that the cabin was the only place they hadnt looked already. He had forgotten all about the place.
*
There it was. He had to get rid of the old man and hed better do it fast. He looked around, saw the fire poker next to the fire place and picked it up. He patted the inside of his left hand lightly with the poker. It felt hard, heavy and lethal. No more time for thinking. He raised the poker over his head.
With a resounding crash the heavy bookcase landed on top of his uncle Jim before he had even a chance to let out a cry of surprise. Steve bent over his uncle. He was at least unconscious for a few hours. More than enough time.
Word Count: 1,748
The old man stumbled in the fading twilight through a thicket of trees. Finally he fell to one knee on the mossy ground next to a tree and held it as if in embrace. He was breathing heavily into the cold spring air. Mirrors in the sun, he wheezed, Fire of a golden light. Minutes passed as he sat there, half hunched, mumbling these words. At last he sat down with his back against the tree.
From here he could overlook the valley below him with its familiar landmarks. The river, the old windmill, the neat rows of trees of the cider tree orchard near the horizon. He closed his eyes and began to make guttural sounds. After some minutes his eyes flew open and widened. But after a few moments whatever comprehension there seemed to be in his eyes dimmed away and was replaced by a look of despair.
Dew from the leaves of the tree fell on his head, seeped over his stubbled cheeks and fell in drops from his chin. Finally, slowly very, very slowly, he got up and meandered on through the forest.
*
The Toyota Lexus stopped at the end of the side road. The headlights illuminated an old sign that said Elsas Cider Tree Orchard. The gloved fingers of the man drummed on the top of the steering wheel. He turned to the fifteen year old boy next to him. Dont worry, Steve, we will find your grandfather.
They got out of the car. The man looked around and after some deliberation turned into a densely overgrown path. Uncle Jim! The boy tugged the mans sleeve I know a much quicker way to the cabin. The man stopped. Well, it has been a long time since I have been here on holidays. Lead the way! The man and the boy walked off the road and into the forest.
*
It was evening and the old man was sitting on a bench next to a coin operated telescope for tourists who wanted to enjoy the magnificent view from this mountain terrace. Now however, nothing but blackness stretched out across the valley, with a light here and there of a single cottage.
He sat there, trembling, with his head in his hands. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Maggy, he sobbed, Maggy, why why wh... Suddenly a series of convulsions seemed to come over the old man. The convulsions stopped as suddenly as they came and he got up and balled his fists. Kiele aloha!, he screamed Kiele aloha!.
*
One hour later the boy and his uncle had reached the cabin. It looks like hes not here., the man said to the boy, All lights are out and the door is locked. He sat down heavily on one of the benches next to the barbecue oven.
I think we should call the police now, the boy said. The man looked back at him with a look of astonishment. And what? Tell them what he did to my mother? You know how he gets when he doesnt take his medication. He does the craziest stuff. I told them they shouldnt be keeping a gun in the house, but do they listen? To me? Nope! Nope! Nope! They never listened to a word I said, and see where it gets them now!!!
He began to tap his foot in rapid succession. He stood up, looked at the boy, shook his head and laughed. Why do you look at me like that? He shook his head again, grinning and yanked a bench from under one of the tables and threw it in one fluent motion through the front door of the cabin, shattering glass everywhere.
The boy stood frozen as the man looked at him sideways. Just checking if the old fools not hiding in there. He reached through the broken glass of the door and opened it. You go back to the car, he said and tossed him the car keys. The boy stood there a moment longer, contemplating, and then turned around and walked away.
*
Half an hour before, the old man had reached the cabin. Before he went into the cabin he entered the password for the alarm system. It was a phrase in the favorite song of his wife called Mirrors by Sally Oldfield. He entered the letters on the keypad next to the door: Kiele aloha. The device beeped twice and it showed the message alarm system deactivated.
He entered the cabin and shut the door behind him. He had a feeling his son could be making a courtesy visit, although he thought it unlikely. Jim had always been bad at finding his way, and not only through life. He couldnt count the times he had to pick him up somewhere when he was a small boy because he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in someone elses yard. Of course later this trait had improved somewhat, but he doubted very much that he could find this particular cabin among all the other cottages and cabins in the dark.
He hurried through the dark hallways to the main living room. Already he felt the familiar grey mist of Alzheimer tugging at his brain. He knew he had to be fast or otherwise he could be crawling around in his own cabin for days. He felt blessed that the Alzheimers had lifted for a few hours, but he knew it was a one-off thing. Deep inside himself he knew it was the spirit of his wife that had blown away the cobwebs in his head. But not for good.
The trembling hands of the old man opened the medicine cabinet that was tucked away inside the massive bookcase that lined the far wall. He took the bottle of pills and sat down on the dark leather sofa in the living room. A sudden wave of tiredness engulfed his body. With the last bit of willpower inside him he took out two of the pills and put them in his mouth and swallowed. All that remained were dreams and darkness as he fell asleep.
*
Jim stood bent over the old sleeping man, his mind a swirling mass of fear and possibilities. He had noticed the Alzheimers medicine on the coffee table. That meant that when his daddy would wake up, he would be lucid enough to contact the authorities and notify them of what he had done. That was no good. No good at all. So now he had basically two options, kill the man, something he had no real desire to do, or lock him up somewhere until the Alzheimers kicked back in. And then what? the voice in his head said. He sighed. It had always been a dumb idea. A soft idea. He may be a drug addict, but he had always considered himself to be the less inhuman, less predatory kind of addict.
*
The events of the past few days had proven him wrong on that account. About 48 hours before, he had tried to steal some money from his mother and fathers house in the town nearby. His mother had unexpectedly come home early from doing some volunteers work and had caught him in the act.
His mother had begun yelling at him in the shrillest and loudest voice he had ever hear her use. In his panic and agitation he had taken a gun from out of one of the drawers and had tried to silence her by pointing the gun at her. This however had the opposite effect on his mother. She began to scream even louder and tried to pry away the gun from his hands. Like a mother trying to take a toy gun from a small boy.
He tried to shoot into the wall next to her, but her hand touched the gun at the ultimate moment and it went off into her stomach. Then he heard stumbling noises on the stairs. It was his father who had been sleeping at that time. He had planned his visit to coincide with the nap his father took from half past twelve until half past one in the afternoon. His father had stood there like a marble statue at the foot of the stairs, staring at the body of his wife.
The shock must have put him back into a state of confusion, because his father was now beginning to climb the stairs again, calling his mothers name in a feeble voice as if she was now upstairs. Quickly he took his fathers hand and led him into the kitchen where he set him down on a chair. He knew where the Alzheimers pills were and flushed them down the toilet. He wiped the butt of the gun with a cloth and put the gun into his fathers hand who looked at it with horror. He went upstairs to look for more money. Having found nothing he came back downstairs to find that his father had left. The gun was still lying on the table.
Minutes later his nephew, Steve, rang the doorbell. He hadnt let him enter the house and told him that his grandfather had shot his grandmother in the arm and that she was already in the hospital. It was the best story he could come up with on short notice.
Together they looked everywhere for him. The nearby coffee shop, the grocery store, the hospital (he had to convince Steve that now was not a good time to visit his grandmother) and even the police department. It was Steve who suggested that the cabin was the only place they hadnt looked already. He had forgotten all about the place.
*
There it was. He had to get rid of the old man and hed better do it fast. He looked around, saw the fire poker next to the fire place and picked it up. He patted the inside of his left hand lightly with the poker. It felt hard, heavy and lethal. No more time for thinking. He raised the poker over his head.
With a resounding crash the heavy bookcase landed on top of his uncle Jim before he had even a chance to let out a cry of surprise. Steve bent over his uncle. He was at least unconscious for a few hours. More than enough time.
What the Hell (1301)
Someone left a note on my car. I knew it couldnt be anything good, but I read it anyway. "Hey asshole, try leaving some room for other people to park. Do you even have a valid driver's license?" I snorted, crumpled it up, and threw it away across the parking lot. It bounced, and came to a rest under a white van.
I looked around to be sure whatever jackass wrote the note couldn't be watching, then stepped back to take a look at where I was parked. Yeah, I was on the white line. It would've been a tough squeeze to get in next to me. But possible, unless you were driving one of those giant pointless SUVs. Oh well, what the hell.
I clambered into the car, turned on some music, and headed out.
I've heard it said that most people think they're above average drivers. It's meant to be funny, to point out that we all think we're special and all that crap. I don't. Fuck Mr. Rogers, I don't think I'm that special or unique and I never have. I'm just a regular dude with a crappy job, crappy friends, and a crappy life.
Nothing unique about crappiness.
Besides, I'm not an above average driver. I drive like an asshole. Especially when I'm annoyed.
Generator by Bad Religion came on and I cranked it up. Sweet song when you're in a bad mood. I stopped at a stop sign long enough to let a girl pushing a stroller cross in front of me, just to prove I could be a nice driver if I really wanted. She was slow as hell, pushing her special unique rug rat across the street, and I missed my light.
Fucking figured.
When the light finally turned green, I slammed on the gas and cut off the guy to my right, just to prove I didn't believe in car karma.
The guy honked, so I honked back. Then someone else honked for who knows why. Fucking 1812 overture of honking.
To the strains of I Want to Conquer the World, I wondered vaguely what the point was. Would it kill me to drive a little slower and safer? To not piss other people off for no reason with my driving? To make the world safer for the rug rats?
Fuck it. I gunned it and sang along to loud-ass music all the way home.
*
I parked my car more carefully the next morning, making sure my whole tire crossed over into the space next to mine. Hell, maybe the note-jackass would key my car this time, but I grinned like a dipshit all the way to the office.
As soon as I stepped through the door, the grin faded. That fucking place was a black hole. You could walk in with any kind of happy, positive thoughts, and they'd be ripped from your brain and sucked down into the vortex. I could almost see the energy draining out of me, circling slowly down, down the drain, down into infinity.
Stella waved from the front desk, held up her coffee cup, winked, and rolled her eyes. A grin started on my face again and then it, too, was sucked down the black hole. Vodka break already? Not a good sign--if Stella was getting hassled, the mucky-fucks must be on the warpath. And that meant it was only a matter of time before they came after the rest of us plebes. God knew why they always hassled her first; she was the only one of us who ever really did her job.
I sat at my desk and scratched vaguely at where my beard would be if I could grow one without getting yelled at. I had forgotten to shave that morning. Oh well, what the hell.
I could hear my boss in the next room, bitching somebody out. Only a matter of time before it was me. But you had to learn to grin and bear it, when you worked for jackasses.
Maybe it was one of them who left the note. I laughed quietly.
Half-formed thoughts flitted through my head as I sat looking past the blank computer screen. What would it be like to come into the office one morning with a baseball bat and just smash up all the computers? Then my boss, for good measure. Or maybe instead I could get my car going really fast and smash through the front doors. Then get through as many cubicles as I could. Well, except I might get Stella by mistake. What if I chucked Molotov cocktails all around the place? How did you even make a Molotov cocktail?
Sometimes I wonder if everyone has thoughts like this. About doing something totally crazy, about killing other people or themselves or just dropping all the social contract bullshit and doing whatever the hell they feel like. Maybe that's the difference between a sane person and a crazy person. We all have the crazy thoughts, but they'll act on them and we'll just keep them buried deep. Stay sane, stick to the contract.
A cool hand rested on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped.
"You want some, ahem, coffee?" It was Stella.
"Not yet." Too early for that stuff. "What are the mucky-fucks riled about?"
"Oh, some bullshit. Everyone's crazy this morning."
"Huh." I looked up at her. "Hey, what do you think is the difference between a crazy person and a regular person?"
She rolled her eyes. "Hell if I know. I heard one time that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result. That's the mucky-fucks to a T." She squeezed my shoulder briefly, then headed back off to her desk.
The same thing over and over again. I scratched my chin again. My grandmother used to have a bathroom where both sides of the room had a mirror. It was probably so that all her kids could use the bathroom at once, but the effect was that it felt like a massive hall of mirrors, where each reflected in the other, which reflected in the other, and so on, and there were an infinity of mirrors and toothbrushes and sinks that went on forever. I felt suddenly as if I were in that bathroom, and there were my days of working and driving and honking and vodka breaks and staring into space or out the window or at Stella, all stretching ahead of me and behind me forever, the same the same the same.
Maybe to stay sane, sometimes you did have to break the social contract. I felt a sudden whirl of sympathy for letter-writing-jackass, who I pictured glaring at the car that had blocked his day, wishing he could do something about it, then slowly overcoming his habit of never speaking out and never bothering anyone, and writing the letter, a wild look on his face and mad laughter bubbling up from deep within. Well if he could do it, why not me?
I got up and walked over to Stella's desk. "Hey. Let's ditch work and go do something fun."
"It's not even nine o'clock." She looked at me, her head tilted to one side, but there was something in her eyes, a hint of a gleam, or a momentary flare. Or nothing.
"You don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. What's the worst that could happen?" I reached down and took her hand.
She pulled her hand away, looked down. Then she looked back up at me. "Oh hell," she said. "Why not?"
My boss's voice was rising to a crescendo behind us as we walked out the door. We'd be in deep shit when we got back.
Oh well, what the hell.
Someone left a note on my car. I knew it couldnt be anything good, but I read it anyway. "Hey asshole, try leaving some room for other people to park. Do you even have a valid driver's license?" I snorted, crumpled it up, and threw it away across the parking lot. It bounced, and came to a rest under a white van.
I looked around to be sure whatever jackass wrote the note couldn't be watching, then stepped back to take a look at where I was parked. Yeah, I was on the white line. It would've been a tough squeeze to get in next to me. But possible, unless you were driving one of those giant pointless SUVs. Oh well, what the hell.
I clambered into the car, turned on some music, and headed out.
I've heard it said that most people think they're above average drivers. It's meant to be funny, to point out that we all think we're special and all that crap. I don't. Fuck Mr. Rogers, I don't think I'm that special or unique and I never have. I'm just a regular dude with a crappy job, crappy friends, and a crappy life.
Nothing unique about crappiness.
Besides, I'm not an above average driver. I drive like an asshole. Especially when I'm annoyed.
Generator by Bad Religion came on and I cranked it up. Sweet song when you're in a bad mood. I stopped at a stop sign long enough to let a girl pushing a stroller cross in front of me, just to prove I could be a nice driver if I really wanted. She was slow as hell, pushing her special unique rug rat across the street, and I missed my light.
Fucking figured.
When the light finally turned green, I slammed on the gas and cut off the guy to my right, just to prove I didn't believe in car karma.
The guy honked, so I honked back. Then someone else honked for who knows why. Fucking 1812 overture of honking.
To the strains of I Want to Conquer the World, I wondered vaguely what the point was. Would it kill me to drive a little slower and safer? To not piss other people off for no reason with my driving? To make the world safer for the rug rats?
Fuck it. I gunned it and sang along to loud-ass music all the way home.
*
I parked my car more carefully the next morning, making sure my whole tire crossed over into the space next to mine. Hell, maybe the note-jackass would key my car this time, but I grinned like a dipshit all the way to the office.
As soon as I stepped through the door, the grin faded. That fucking place was a black hole. You could walk in with any kind of happy, positive thoughts, and they'd be ripped from your brain and sucked down into the vortex. I could almost see the energy draining out of me, circling slowly down, down the drain, down into infinity.
Stella waved from the front desk, held up her coffee cup, winked, and rolled her eyes. A grin started on my face again and then it, too, was sucked down the black hole. Vodka break already? Not a good sign--if Stella was getting hassled, the mucky-fucks must be on the warpath. And that meant it was only a matter of time before they came after the rest of us plebes. God knew why they always hassled her first; she was the only one of us who ever really did her job.
I sat at my desk and scratched vaguely at where my beard would be if I could grow one without getting yelled at. I had forgotten to shave that morning. Oh well, what the hell.
I could hear my boss in the next room, bitching somebody out. Only a matter of time before it was me. But you had to learn to grin and bear it, when you worked for jackasses.
Maybe it was one of them who left the note. I laughed quietly.
Half-formed thoughts flitted through my head as I sat looking past the blank computer screen. What would it be like to come into the office one morning with a baseball bat and just smash up all the computers? Then my boss, for good measure. Or maybe instead I could get my car going really fast and smash through the front doors. Then get through as many cubicles as I could. Well, except I might get Stella by mistake. What if I chucked Molotov cocktails all around the place? How did you even make a Molotov cocktail?
Sometimes I wonder if everyone has thoughts like this. About doing something totally crazy, about killing other people or themselves or just dropping all the social contract bullshit and doing whatever the hell they feel like. Maybe that's the difference between a sane person and a crazy person. We all have the crazy thoughts, but they'll act on them and we'll just keep them buried deep. Stay sane, stick to the contract.
A cool hand rested on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped.
"You want some, ahem, coffee?" It was Stella.
"Not yet." Too early for that stuff. "What are the mucky-fucks riled about?"
"Oh, some bullshit. Everyone's crazy this morning."
"Huh." I looked up at her. "Hey, what do you think is the difference between a crazy person and a regular person?"
She rolled her eyes. "Hell if I know. I heard one time that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result. That's the mucky-fucks to a T." She squeezed my shoulder briefly, then headed back off to her desk.
The same thing over and over again. I scratched my chin again. My grandmother used to have a bathroom where both sides of the room had a mirror. It was probably so that all her kids could use the bathroom at once, but the effect was that it felt like a massive hall of mirrors, where each reflected in the other, which reflected in the other, and so on, and there were an infinity of mirrors and toothbrushes and sinks that went on forever. I felt suddenly as if I were in that bathroom, and there were my days of working and driving and honking and vodka breaks and staring into space or out the window or at Stella, all stretching ahead of me and behind me forever, the same the same the same.
Maybe to stay sane, sometimes you did have to break the social contract. I felt a sudden whirl of sympathy for letter-writing-jackass, who I pictured glaring at the car that had blocked his day, wishing he could do something about it, then slowly overcoming his habit of never speaking out and never bothering anyone, and writing the letter, a wild look on his face and mad laughter bubbling up from deep within. Well if he could do it, why not me?
I got up and walked over to Stella's desk. "Hey. Let's ditch work and go do something fun."
"It's not even nine o'clock." She looked at me, her head tilted to one side, but there was something in her eyes, a hint of a gleam, or a momentary flare. Or nothing.
"You don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. What's the worst that could happen?" I reached down and took her hand.
She pulled her hand away, looked down. Then she looked back up at me. "Oh hell," she said. "Why not?"
My boss's voice was rising to a crescendo behind us as we walked out the door. We'd be in deep shit when we got back.
Oh well, what the hell.
Great Rumbler
Member
Nothing from me this time. Sorry, guys. :'(
crowphoenix
Banned
7 words this time? I'll accept that.Great Rumbler said:
Edit: of course, I've got no right to make jokes. It's looking like I'll miss the deadline too. Stupid me. I'm just not satisfied with anything I've written.
Edit: Really not too happy with myself. That's twice I've done a rush job. Well, I did start writing earlier, but I scrapped it for that. I apologize. I'll try to do better next time.
crowphoenix
Banned
Deleted due to TOS changes.
dragonlife
Member
Phew! Just in time! I was like, "FFFFFFUUUUUU--" 'cause it came out as a big wall 'o text when I pasted from Word and had to manually fix it for GAF standards D: I'm not exaggerating when I say I spent all day on this XD It was fun, at least...now I can listen to a different song instead of the one I used in a loop for hours :lol
*switches to MadWorld music*
Word Count: 1,399
Jump the Dirge
A young boys shrieks terrorized the nights tranquil air as he ran feverishly in a sea of trees. His heart raced; his sweat dripped; his legs achedaway he ran from the things he did not wish to see.
Running was a fruitless endeavor, for he would never escape the nightmares that plagued his innocent life.
A sadomasochistic horde of hedonists surrounded the boy and reveled in his terrified screams. Ecstatic, the legion of monsters began to enact one of their grotesque methods of instilling trauma:
A symphony of morbid screams flooded the area and thundered upon the boys self, shocking its way up his spine and ears all too quickly. Already panting heavily, he increased his speed and begrudgingly turned his head every which way but saw nothing.
Instead of fading into nothingness, the screams ceased instantly as if they were never there, making the boy stop in his tracks.
He had gone deaf; and before he could react to the strange occurrence, his limbs were no morethey had never existed.
He fell upon the beautiful grass in a wonderful meadow and felt nothing. His eyes gazed blankly at the clear-blue sky he so longed to see.
His dystopian fantasy had become reality, yet, there he laydead.
***
Somewhere, a young boy came to. There, he came face-to-face with blindness; and though he could not see, he heard and felt distorted breathing on his faceit was close and alarmingly pleasant.
What do I do? Scared, he pondered what could not be comprehended. Why is it so hot? He thrashed about.
What is this? As he moved, he felt something coil all around him. He ran his fingers along his body until he came to his navelsomething there protruded and was slowly making its way up to his neck, as if underwater.
In the darkness, a flicker of enticing lights in an array of colors began to appear: one here, one there, one over there, up there, down thereit seemed completely random. Slowly, however, each individual color gained a twin.
Hundreds of colorful eyes now glared him down.
With each of his subtle blinks they crept closer and closer and the breathing got steamier and nastier.
He screamed and thrashed againhe wanted out. The more he struggled, the tighter his umbilical cord coiled around his neck. The more he tried to breathe, the more the cord constricted, blocking his airway.
Sadistic laughter echoed in the womb of the boys Mother as she was heard screaming in agony. She was unable to give birth to her child naturally and, against her will, merciless steel licked her flesh.
Up above, Heaven had split to reveal light and an unholy hand descended into Hell. The hand freed the boys neck from strangulation, whereupon doing so it ascended back into Heaven, abandoning the boy.
Heaven remained open and the boy made to reach it, but Hell was such a comfortable and welcoming place...
Before he could make his choice, up from Heaven came a facea face so beautiful and androgynous that it must have been an angel: its cream skin; its golden, perfect eyes; its sharp, flawless eyebrows; its tender lips; its strong cheekseverything belied a bottomless starvation.
The angels face assailed the boys eyes and nothing else mattered. Never once did the angel blinkits attention was fixed on the boy, wishing to make him its own.
In the dark forest hed always been in, the boy matured into a grown man and made no effort to scream as the angel tore at his stomach muscles with its majestic teeth. Blood oozed out and coalesced in a pool beneath the naked man, his face as apathetic as ever.
The angel feasted on his innardsleaving only the heartand bid him farewell with a stoic gaze as the man sunk from view into the abyss of his own blood.
As in life, down and down he fell with no destination. An insignificant derelict, no one would ever think twice of his disappearance. He existed, yet he did not; there was nothing special about him in an already special worlddying would be the same as living, for he was never cared for.
Down and down he fell in the crimson, bottomless pit, where invisible enemies tore at him with savage hands. Defiled already by the angel, his limbs were ravaged by disembodied arms: they broke his arms and legs at their joints and snapped off the rest and, in doing so, shattering a shell of his former self.
In the midst of all the carnage, the man regenerated completelyparticles of his being materialized and combinedonly to be dismembered over and over again: and every time they would defile him in varying methods.
Sometimes a hand would stretch and slit his throat with a ghastly nail and dig for his entrails with great flexibility. Other times they may cut above his heart to force it through his mouth. Some maimed his eyes out and crushed them on the spot. If feasibleno matter how morbidit was performed, all while the man had regained his senses but no one could hear his terrorized screams. It was better this way, for the agony portrayed was enough for anyone to wish for deathpossibly by granting it themselves.
However, every time the hands robbed him of his body he became younger and younger until he ceased to exist.
***
The boy was greeted by sadness once more: in the perpetual forests floor he still lay, forever cradled by its wickedness. Even as a young boy, he knew of inevitabilityhere, that meant he would die.
Tears rolled down his face as he looked upon the legion of hundreds and hundreds of monsters encircling himthings that resembled humans but clearly were not, for they were ghostly in appearance, yet anything but. Their ranks included men, women and children.
They howled a requiem to the pale moon just as they had before and rushed the boy en masse. The boy deftly but fruitlessly fortified himself to hopefully lessen the pain but, to his surprise, he wasnt trampled; instead, he was in an eerily familiar experiencetotal darkness.
The legion had enveloped the boy in oblivion; they were making ready to torment him when a motherly voice echoed through from another world.
Jacob! My son, where are you? screamed the boys mother. Please, answer me!
Mom! Mom, Im here! shouted Jacob in tears from within the darkness.
The legion dispersed and left the boy alone but they never left and watched from afar.
Oh! My son, I hear you! Comefollow my voice so I can save you.
His mothers voice warmed his heartshe loved him after all! He ran after her encouraging words, brushing away foliage here and there until, suddenly, the perpetual, dark forest was no more. He had reached a cliff that overlooked a raging ocean.
He heard the legions howling just behind himthey had given chase and blocked the path back into their sanctuary and his nightmarehe was trapped.
His mothers voice made its presence known and said, Sweetie, I know it may sound scary, but you have to jump into the ocean.
He took his eyes off the legion and peered down the base of the cliff; there he saw jagged rocks with tumultuous waves crashing incessantly. He felt uneasy and asked his Mother, Why? It sounds too dangerousIm scared.
Jacob, youre a sickyou see things. Youre asleep right now and are having a nightmare. You need to wake yourself up with a shock. Sensing her childs reservations, she added, Dont worry, honey; youll wake up and be back home, safe and sound.
The boy looked once more down the cliff, then back at the legion, who did nothing but stare. Then, he looked up to the depressing black sky where his Mothers voice beckoned.
He jumped as his mind and heart were finally in solace; his mind had been opened to the reality he did not wish to accept as it crashed into the jagged rocks and scattered every which way.
Above, the legion laughed manically as one of their own made their way to the front of the cliff and, changing the pitch so as to not echo, they said in the voice of the mother, The end.
I was like, "FFFFFFUUUUUU--" 'cause it came out as a big wall 'o text when I pasted from Word and had to manually fix it for GAF standards D: I'm not exaggerating when I say I spent all day on this XD It was fun, at least...now I can listen to a different song instead of the one I used in a loop for hours :lol*switches to MadWorld music*
Word Count: 1,399
Jump the Dirge
A young boys shrieks terrorized the nights tranquil air as he ran feverishly in a sea of trees. His heart raced; his sweat dripped; his legs achedaway he ran from the things he did not wish to see.
Running was a fruitless endeavor, for he would never escape the nightmares that plagued his innocent life.
A sadomasochistic horde of hedonists surrounded the boy and reveled in his terrified screams. Ecstatic, the legion of monsters began to enact one of their grotesque methods of instilling trauma:
A symphony of morbid screams flooded the area and thundered upon the boys self, shocking its way up his spine and ears all too quickly. Already panting heavily, he increased his speed and begrudgingly turned his head every which way but saw nothing.
Instead of fading into nothingness, the screams ceased instantly as if they were never there, making the boy stop in his tracks.
He had gone deaf; and before he could react to the strange occurrence, his limbs were no morethey had never existed.
He fell upon the beautiful grass in a wonderful meadow and felt nothing. His eyes gazed blankly at the clear-blue sky he so longed to see.
His dystopian fantasy had become reality, yet, there he laydead.
***
Somewhere, a young boy came to. There, he came face-to-face with blindness; and though he could not see, he heard and felt distorted breathing on his faceit was close and alarmingly pleasant.
What do I do? Scared, he pondered what could not be comprehended. Why is it so hot? He thrashed about.
What is this? As he moved, he felt something coil all around him. He ran his fingers along his body until he came to his navelsomething there protruded and was slowly making its way up to his neck, as if underwater.
In the darkness, a flicker of enticing lights in an array of colors began to appear: one here, one there, one over there, up there, down thereit seemed completely random. Slowly, however, each individual color gained a twin.
Hundreds of colorful eyes now glared him down.
With each of his subtle blinks they crept closer and closer and the breathing got steamier and nastier.
He screamed and thrashed againhe wanted out. The more he struggled, the tighter his umbilical cord coiled around his neck. The more he tried to breathe, the more the cord constricted, blocking his airway.
Sadistic laughter echoed in the womb of the boys Mother as she was heard screaming in agony. She was unable to give birth to her child naturally and, against her will, merciless steel licked her flesh.
Up above, Heaven had split to reveal light and an unholy hand descended into Hell. The hand freed the boys neck from strangulation, whereupon doing so it ascended back into Heaven, abandoning the boy.
Heaven remained open and the boy made to reach it, but Hell was such a comfortable and welcoming place...
Before he could make his choice, up from Heaven came a facea face so beautiful and androgynous that it must have been an angel: its cream skin; its golden, perfect eyes; its sharp, flawless eyebrows; its tender lips; its strong cheekseverything belied a bottomless starvation.
The angels face assailed the boys eyes and nothing else mattered. Never once did the angel blinkits attention was fixed on the boy, wishing to make him its own.
In the dark forest hed always been in, the boy matured into a grown man and made no effort to scream as the angel tore at his stomach muscles with its majestic teeth. Blood oozed out and coalesced in a pool beneath the naked man, his face as apathetic as ever.
The angel feasted on his innardsleaving only the heartand bid him farewell with a stoic gaze as the man sunk from view into the abyss of his own blood.
As in life, down and down he fell with no destination. An insignificant derelict, no one would ever think twice of his disappearance. He existed, yet he did not; there was nothing special about him in an already special worlddying would be the same as living, for he was never cared for.
Down and down he fell in the crimson, bottomless pit, where invisible enemies tore at him with savage hands. Defiled already by the angel, his limbs were ravaged by disembodied arms: they broke his arms and legs at their joints and snapped off the rest and, in doing so, shattering a shell of his former self.
In the midst of all the carnage, the man regenerated completelyparticles of his being materialized and combinedonly to be dismembered over and over again: and every time they would defile him in varying methods.
Sometimes a hand would stretch and slit his throat with a ghastly nail and dig for his entrails with great flexibility. Other times they may cut above his heart to force it through his mouth. Some maimed his eyes out and crushed them on the spot. If feasibleno matter how morbidit was performed, all while the man had regained his senses but no one could hear his terrorized screams. It was better this way, for the agony portrayed was enough for anyone to wish for deathpossibly by granting it themselves.
However, every time the hands robbed him of his body he became younger and younger until he ceased to exist.
***
The boy was greeted by sadness once more: in the perpetual forests floor he still lay, forever cradled by its wickedness. Even as a young boy, he knew of inevitabilityhere, that meant he would die.
Tears rolled down his face as he looked upon the legion of hundreds and hundreds of monsters encircling himthings that resembled humans but clearly were not, for they were ghostly in appearance, yet anything but. Their ranks included men, women and children.
They howled a requiem to the pale moon just as they had before and rushed the boy en masse. The boy deftly but fruitlessly fortified himself to hopefully lessen the pain but, to his surprise, he wasnt trampled; instead, he was in an eerily familiar experiencetotal darkness.
The legion had enveloped the boy in oblivion; they were making ready to torment him when a motherly voice echoed through from another world.
Jacob! My son, where are you? screamed the boys mother. Please, answer me!
Mom! Mom, Im here! shouted Jacob in tears from within the darkness.
The legion dispersed and left the boy alone but they never left and watched from afar.
Oh! My son, I hear you! Comefollow my voice so I can save you.
His mothers voice warmed his heartshe loved him after all! He ran after her encouraging words, brushing away foliage here and there until, suddenly, the perpetual, dark forest was no more. He had reached a cliff that overlooked a raging ocean.
He heard the legions howling just behind himthey had given chase and blocked the path back into their sanctuary and his nightmarehe was trapped.
His mothers voice made its presence known and said, Sweetie, I know it may sound scary, but you have to jump into the ocean.
He took his eyes off the legion and peered down the base of the cliff; there he saw jagged rocks with tumultuous waves crashing incessantly. He felt uneasy and asked his Mother, Why? It sounds too dangerousIm scared.
Jacob, youre a sickyou see things. Youre asleep right now and are having a nightmare. You need to wake yourself up with a shock. Sensing her childs reservations, she added, Dont worry, honey; youll wake up and be back home, safe and sound.
The boy looked once more down the cliff, then back at the legion, who did nothing but stare. Then, he looked up to the depressing black sky where his Mothers voice beckoned.
He jumped as his mind and heart were finally in solace; his mind had been opened to the reality he did not wish to accept as it crashed into the jagged rocks and scattered every which way.
Above, the legion laughed manically as one of their own made their way to the front of the cliff and, changing the pitch so as to not echo, they said in the voice of the mother, The end.
Down at the Front (1468 Words)
I need a new job.
Yeah? Dont like changing bedsheets? Or emptying bedpans? asked Ned, sitting at the front desk. He folded todays newspaper.
Or cleaning up vomit, said Lewis. Lewis sighed. With a cup of steaming coffee in each hand, Lewis set the one in his left hand down in front of Ned. Lewis leaned on the desk as he tried to scan the newspaper in Neds hands.
Neds eyes lit as he spidered his fingers around the top of the paper cup and swiveled the coffee to himself. Ned blew into the coffee before taking a sip. Or moving furniture.
I can still smell it, Lewis said. He faked a gag before bringing his coffee to his nose and inhaling the earthy aroma.
Or sanitizing doorknobs, continued Ned.
How an eighty-pound old woman can spew that much green-bean casserole I dont know.
Or driving the shuttle van.
Okay, shut up. I got you coffee, said Lewis.
Yes. Thanks for the coffee, replied Ned. He watched the automatic doors open and a nurse push an elderly man in a wheelchair into the atrium. He waved at them. Or hunting for dentures.
Thanks a ton, said Lewis. Real special pep talk there, Ned. I feel all fuzzy inside. Like a mouthful of wool from pulling on a Christmas sweater no one really wanted.
Ned put his lips to his coffee. Ow, said Ned. Thats hot.
You got any taste buds left in there? asked Lewis, stifling a chuckle.
Its a badge from living dangerously, man, replied Ned.
Youre not supposed to burn your mouth each time you drink coffee. HeyNow hows it that I always get the coffee, huh?
Ned shrugged as he took another sip.
Well, lets say next time you get it, said Lewis.
Next time?
Yeah, not me anymore. Next break you get the coffee. I always have to.
Look, youre Ned stopped as the familiar swoosh of the automatic doors interrupted him. A middle-aged woman in a buttoned sweater walked into the atrium. Ned held up a clipboard as he patted the desk for a pen. Lewis stepped to the side as the woman came to the desk and took the clipboard.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellis. Lemme said Ned, shuffling some papers on the desk. Lemme find a pen. Ned gave an aha as he found one huddled against the side of a telephone book. He clicked the pen and scribbled on his palm. He scribbled again, but no ink appeared on his skin.
I have began Mrs. Ellis.
Hang on, said Ned. He clicked the pen twice before shaking it like a maraca. He tested the pen again before scowling. Nothing.
I have a pen, said the woman, using it to sign her name on the paper attached to the clipboard.
Well, yes said Ned. Uh, you know the way. Have a good visit, Mrs. Ellis.
Mrs. Ellis nodded and smiled as she walked off into one of the hallways.
Ned slapped the barrel against his palm a couple of times, tested it, then tapped the pen tip against his tongue, and tested the pen again. Stupid pen, said Ned. He tossed the pen onto the desk in disgust and sighed.
Tomorrow. Watch and see. Youre gonna need a pen. Going to pick up that one again. Get all mad at the same pen.
Ned stared coldly at Lewis before shaking his head, as if to dislodge his dour mood. Lewis shied off and turned to watch the outside as a car pulled into the circle.
That was a nice sweater, Lewis finally said. Lots of sweaters around here, huh?
What?
Sweaters.
Huh?
This place has a sweater vibe. People come in wearing sweaters. Why do you think they do that?
I dont know, Lewis, said Ned. That was Mrs. Ellis, by the way.
Her?
You know her father?
Lewis shook his head.
Hes not all there. But she comes by once, twice, a week to visit him. Just to talk to him. I imagine its all gibberish to him, said Ned. Poor woman. Sad, you know?
Lewis shook his head as he passed his coffee cup back and forth in his hands. Thats a tad He stopped himself.
What? A tad what?
Oh, it sounds mean. I dont mean it to be mean, but it sounds mean.
Dont leave it like that. Just spit it out.
Well, you know what they say about insanity? Doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result?
Youre saying shes crazy?
Dont say it like that! Im just saying its kinda pointless. Thinking her talking to him How was your day? My day was fine. I went to work. The kids went to school. I bought groceries. I got mail. I got email. I got an IM. Lewis paused for a breath. Think her words will change anything?
Its a comfort thing.
Lewis shrugged. I suppose. He took a gulp of coffee and motioned to the newspaper. You fill out a bracket?
Yep, Im money this year, said Ned, beaming. You?
You better believe it, replied Lewis.
Well, whod you?
Who do you think? Which team do you think I picked to win the Final Four?
Ned slapped his forehead. Again? Seriously?
What?
You gotta get off that saddle, Lewis. Each year that horse leads you into the desert and
This year. Theyre gonna win it all.
You said that last year.
Last year, I didnt have a system.
But this year you do? You have a system?
This year I do. I have a system.
Now what sorta system is this? asked Ned.
The sort that wins em six in a row at the end of the season.
Im all ears, Lewis. Tell me this system. I am ready to learn heartbreaking from the heartbroken.
Two words, said Lewis, holding up two fingers. Lucky. Socks.
What?!? asked Ned, trying not to spit out the coffee in his mouth.
Green stripes on the left. Red on the right.
You are a fool idiot, Lewis.
Lewis held up his coffee cup in a toast. Cheers, Ned. If six in a row makes me a fool, then, well
The automatic doors swooshed open again. A woman rushed in.
Lewis! said the nurse.
Im on break, Lewis replied.
Look, Mrs. Metcalf said she saw Mr. Gordon on the roof.
The roof? You sure?
Well, Mrs. Metcalfs eyesight isnt too good, but Im going to get security. Can you go on ahead and check it out, Lewis? Make sure Mrs. Metcalf isnt confusing some birds for a person.
The roof? asked Lewis again.
Do you think hes going to jump? asked Ned.
Dont know. You know how Mr. Gordon is. But, Lewis, you check it out, right? Im going for security.
That crazy old man, said Lewis as the door to the stairwell clanged behind him.
He bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. By the third flight, a run of sweat dribbled down his sides, and his right ankle stung. His shoulder pushed against the door to the roof as he huffed. Though his vision was blurred by moisture and the slight quiver of his head as his lungs tried to grab onto air, he still saw the frame of a man near the edge of the roof.
Mr. Gordon? whispered Lewis. He tried again. Mr. Gordon!
What do you want? asked Gordon without turning around.
Look. Theres life. And theres more to it. And this isnt the answer. And this isnt Dont jump, Mr. Gordon.
What the fuck are you going on about?
You dont want to jump.
Jump? Fuck off, said Gordon. He turned around with a camera in his hands. Im taking photographs.
So youre not jumping?
Son, if I wanted to die, Id stick a gun in my mouth and blow my brains out. But not up here. Nope. Id do it in my room. Just sos youd have to clean up all the ejected frass.
So youre not jumping? asked Lewis again.
When Lewis returned to the front desk, Ned wasnt there. Lewis checked his horoscope for the day in the newspaper as he finished his coffee. He tossed his cup into the trash when Ned returned.
Well? asked Ned. Is Mr. Gordon still in one piece?
Yeah, it was just Mr. Gordon being Mr. Gordon, said Lewis. His latest hobby apparently is photography. That man has more hobbies than war stories.
Ned shrugged. He likes to try new things.
Ned held up his coffee cup. Hey, Im done. Get me another?
Lewis scowled at Ned.
Ill get the one after this, said Ned.
Yeah? said Lewis.
Promise, said Ned, holding up his right arm at a right angle. Next time.
I need a new job.
Yeah? Dont like changing bedsheets? Or emptying bedpans? asked Ned, sitting at the front desk. He folded todays newspaper.
Or cleaning up vomit, said Lewis. Lewis sighed. With a cup of steaming coffee in each hand, Lewis set the one in his left hand down in front of Ned. Lewis leaned on the desk as he tried to scan the newspaper in Neds hands.
Neds eyes lit as he spidered his fingers around the top of the paper cup and swiveled the coffee to himself. Ned blew into the coffee before taking a sip. Or moving furniture.
I can still smell it, Lewis said. He faked a gag before bringing his coffee to his nose and inhaling the earthy aroma.
Or sanitizing doorknobs, continued Ned.
How an eighty-pound old woman can spew that much green-bean casserole I dont know.
Or driving the shuttle van.
Okay, shut up. I got you coffee, said Lewis.
Yes. Thanks for the coffee, replied Ned. He watched the automatic doors open and a nurse push an elderly man in a wheelchair into the atrium. He waved at them. Or hunting for dentures.
Thanks a ton, said Lewis. Real special pep talk there, Ned. I feel all fuzzy inside. Like a mouthful of wool from pulling on a Christmas sweater no one really wanted.
Ned put his lips to his coffee. Ow, said Ned. Thats hot.
You got any taste buds left in there? asked Lewis, stifling a chuckle.
Its a badge from living dangerously, man, replied Ned.
Youre not supposed to burn your mouth each time you drink coffee. HeyNow hows it that I always get the coffee, huh?
Ned shrugged as he took another sip.
Well, lets say next time you get it, said Lewis.
Next time?
Yeah, not me anymore. Next break you get the coffee. I always have to.
Look, youre Ned stopped as the familiar swoosh of the automatic doors interrupted him. A middle-aged woman in a buttoned sweater walked into the atrium. Ned held up a clipboard as he patted the desk for a pen. Lewis stepped to the side as the woman came to the desk and took the clipboard.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellis. Lemme said Ned, shuffling some papers on the desk. Lemme find a pen. Ned gave an aha as he found one huddled against the side of a telephone book. He clicked the pen and scribbled on his palm. He scribbled again, but no ink appeared on his skin.
I have began Mrs. Ellis.
Hang on, said Ned. He clicked the pen twice before shaking it like a maraca. He tested the pen again before scowling. Nothing.
I have a pen, said the woman, using it to sign her name on the paper attached to the clipboard.
Well, yes said Ned. Uh, you know the way. Have a good visit, Mrs. Ellis.
Mrs. Ellis nodded and smiled as she walked off into one of the hallways.
Ned slapped the barrel against his palm a couple of times, tested it, then tapped the pen tip against his tongue, and tested the pen again. Stupid pen, said Ned. He tossed the pen onto the desk in disgust and sighed.
Tomorrow. Watch and see. Youre gonna need a pen. Going to pick up that one again. Get all mad at the same pen.
Ned stared coldly at Lewis before shaking his head, as if to dislodge his dour mood. Lewis shied off and turned to watch the outside as a car pulled into the circle.
That was a nice sweater, Lewis finally said. Lots of sweaters around here, huh?
What?
Sweaters.
Huh?
This place has a sweater vibe. People come in wearing sweaters. Why do you think they do that?
I dont know, Lewis, said Ned. That was Mrs. Ellis, by the way.
Her?
You know her father?
Lewis shook his head.
Hes not all there. But she comes by once, twice, a week to visit him. Just to talk to him. I imagine its all gibberish to him, said Ned. Poor woman. Sad, you know?
Lewis shook his head as he passed his coffee cup back and forth in his hands. Thats a tad He stopped himself.
What? A tad what?
Oh, it sounds mean. I dont mean it to be mean, but it sounds mean.
Dont leave it like that. Just spit it out.
Well, you know what they say about insanity? Doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result?
Youre saying shes crazy?
Dont say it like that! Im just saying its kinda pointless. Thinking her talking to him How was your day? My day was fine. I went to work. The kids went to school. I bought groceries. I got mail. I got email. I got an IM. Lewis paused for a breath. Think her words will change anything?
Its a comfort thing.
Lewis shrugged. I suppose. He took a gulp of coffee and motioned to the newspaper. You fill out a bracket?
Yep, Im money this year, said Ned, beaming. You?
You better believe it, replied Lewis.
Well, whod you?
Who do you think? Which team do you think I picked to win the Final Four?
Ned slapped his forehead. Again? Seriously?
What?
You gotta get off that saddle, Lewis. Each year that horse leads you into the desert and
This year. Theyre gonna win it all.
You said that last year.
Last year, I didnt have a system.
But this year you do? You have a system?
This year I do. I have a system.
Now what sorta system is this? asked Ned.
The sort that wins em six in a row at the end of the season.
Im all ears, Lewis. Tell me this system. I am ready to learn heartbreaking from the heartbroken.
Two words, said Lewis, holding up two fingers. Lucky. Socks.
What?!? asked Ned, trying not to spit out the coffee in his mouth.
Green stripes on the left. Red on the right.
You are a fool idiot, Lewis.
Lewis held up his coffee cup in a toast. Cheers, Ned. If six in a row makes me a fool, then, well
The automatic doors swooshed open again. A woman rushed in.
Lewis! said the nurse.
Im on break, Lewis replied.
Look, Mrs. Metcalf said she saw Mr. Gordon on the roof.
The roof? You sure?
Well, Mrs. Metcalfs eyesight isnt too good, but Im going to get security. Can you go on ahead and check it out, Lewis? Make sure Mrs. Metcalf isnt confusing some birds for a person.
The roof? asked Lewis again.
Do you think hes going to jump? asked Ned.
Dont know. You know how Mr. Gordon is. But, Lewis, you check it out, right? Im going for security.
That crazy old man, said Lewis as the door to the stairwell clanged behind him.
He bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. By the third flight, a run of sweat dribbled down his sides, and his right ankle stung. His shoulder pushed against the door to the roof as he huffed. Though his vision was blurred by moisture and the slight quiver of his head as his lungs tried to grab onto air, he still saw the frame of a man near the edge of the roof.
Mr. Gordon? whispered Lewis. He tried again. Mr. Gordon!
What do you want? asked Gordon without turning around.
Look. Theres life. And theres more to it. And this isnt the answer. And this isnt Dont jump, Mr. Gordon.
What the fuck are you going on about?
You dont want to jump.
Jump? Fuck off, said Gordon. He turned around with a camera in his hands. Im taking photographs.
So youre not jumping?
Son, if I wanted to die, Id stick a gun in my mouth and blow my brains out. But not up here. Nope. Id do it in my room. Just sos youd have to clean up all the ejected frass.
So youre not jumping? asked Lewis again.
When Lewis returned to the front desk, Ned wasnt there. Lewis checked his horoscope for the day in the newspaper as he finished his coffee. He tossed his cup into the trash when Ned returned.
Well? asked Ned. Is Mr. Gordon still in one piece?
Yeah, it was just Mr. Gordon being Mr. Gordon, said Lewis. His latest hobby apparently is photography. That man has more hobbies than war stories.
Ned shrugged. He likes to try new things.
Ned held up his coffee cup. Hey, Im done. Get me another?
Lewis scowled at Ned.
Ill get the one after this, said Ned.
Yeah? said Lewis.
Promise, said Ned, holding up his right arm at a right angle. Next time.
Who stopped the physics?
movement is a function of time. time is input, movement is output. Things move fluidly and without quantization. Fluid, infinitesimal movement. Like a sphere. Movement is to space, as a sphere is to shape. Space is related to shape, therefore movement is implicitly related to shape.
The physics are everywhere!
movement is a function of time. time is input, movement is output. Things move fluidly and without quantization. Fluid, infinitesimal movement. Like a sphere. Movement is to space, as a sphere is to shape. Space is related to shape, therefore movement is implicitly related to shape.
The physics are everywhere!
NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #24 - "Madness"
Ye Olde Entries:
Aaron - "Mashmellow"
AlternativeUlster - "initals: d-o-q-t-m-n-c-k stands for warsaw / none compis mentis / the creator's seven short days & 8th long one"
Timedog - "Of Death and Trash"
ronito - "Mammon"
I Push Fat Kids - "Untitled"
Mengy - "A Beautiful Horror"
Ward - "Beta and Psi"
ZephyrFate - "In and Out"
Zamorro - "Mirrors of the mind"
Cyan - "What the Hell"
crowphoenix - "The Radish"
dragonlife29 - "Jump the Dirge"
DumbNameD - "Down at the Front"
Ye Olde Entries:
Aaron - "Mashmellow"
AlternativeUlster - "initals: d-o-q-t-m-n-c-k stands for warsaw / none compis mentis / the creator's seven short days & 8th long one"
Timedog - "Of Death and Trash"
ronito - "Mammon"
I Push Fat Kids - "Untitled"
Mengy - "A Beautiful Horror"
Ward - "Beta and Psi"
ZephyrFate - "In and Out"
Zamorro - "Mirrors of the mind"
Cyan - "What the Hell"
crowphoenix - "The Radish"
dragonlife29 - "Jump the Dirge"
DumbNameD - "Down at the Front"
crowphoenix
Banned
And I was really looking forward to yours on this one. Darn us procrastinators. Darn us.Scribble said:
I'm gonna keep the comments short this time. Because I'm short on time and because crazy stories are kryptonite for critiquing. At least for me.
Aaron: :lol Took me a while to get it, but that's pretty awesome. The story lacks a good flow at the beginning, but gets into its stride by the middle.
AU: Surprise! I don't get it. You certainly embraced the theme, though.
Timedog: Nothing really to say about this one...
ronito: Strong piece. I like how you really took this one idea and ran with it. The MC is an interesting study. (I loved the line about sex being like "letting someone else stick their fingers up your nose")
kevtones: You know, madness doesn't have to mean murder and necrophilia.
Mengy: The guy seems awfully calm for someone who knows he's doomed. But I like the imagery.
Ward: Hospitals never do make sense, do they? Frog thing is kind of out of place--Allison works slightly better. I like that you ended on the decision rather than the result of it, but it should have been more of a decision.
Aaron: :lol Took me a while to get it, but that's pretty awesome. The story lacks a good flow at the beginning, but gets into its stride by the middle.
AU: Surprise! I don't get it. You certainly embraced the theme, though.
Timedog: Nothing really to say about this one...
ronito: Strong piece. I like how you really took this one idea and ran with it. The MC is an interesting study. (I loved the line about sex being like "letting someone else stick their fingers up your nose")
kevtones: You know, madness doesn't have to mean murder and necrophilia.
Mengy: The guy seems awfully calm for someone who knows he's doomed. But I like the imagery.
Ward: Hospitals never do make sense, do they? Frog thing is kind of out of place--Allison works slightly better. I like that you ended on the decision rather than the result of it, but it should have been more of a decision.
dragonlife
Member
Well, if it's already complete and your internet prevented you from posting it on time, I think you should submit it anyway. Maybe not to have a chance to pick the next theme (I'd prefer it as candidate, myself) but to just let us read it, at least.Scribble said:
Ha! I told you I would submit something...non-believer >:'(
ZephyrFate
Banned
I'm honestly not thinking people here are going to like my piece, it was purely cathartic for me. :lol
ZephyrFate: Metaphor and expressive language is your strength, but it's a little out of place in this kind of piece. Might've worked better if you'd played it straight P). P.S. I'm pretty sure McCarthy cares a lot about grammar, punctuation, etc... he just doesn't care about doing it the "right" way.
Zamorro: Might want to break up some of those big paragraphs to fix up the pacing a little. The dialogue feels a bit flat, and the POV switches are a little confusing. Poor old man.
crowphoenix: You're... a radish? Interesting imagery here, but I really don't get the radish bit.
dragonlife: Well it's about damn time! Anyway, this is pretty creepy. Though I'm not sure what exactly the middle section has to do with the other two.
DumbNameD: I like the relaxed, conversational atmosphere. The relationship between the two coworkers feels real. Nice and breezy, but a bit light on anything actually happening.
P). P.S. I'm pretty sure McCarthy cares a lot about grammar, punctuation, etc... he just doesn't care about doing it the "right" way.Zamorro: Might want to break up some of those big paragraphs to fix up the pacing a little. The dialogue feels a bit flat, and the POV switches are a little confusing. Poor old man.
crowphoenix: You're... a radish? Interesting imagery here, but I really don't get the radish bit.
dragonlife: Well it's about damn time! Anyway, this is pretty creepy. Though I'm not sure what exactly the middle section has to do with the other two.
DumbNameD: I like the relaxed, conversational atmosphere. The relationship between the two coworkers feels real. Nice and breezy, but a bit light on anything actually happening.
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