Creative Writing Thread

[SittingBull47]

This forum has a very good "communal poetry thread", I like to just scroll through there and read the poetry of other members. There's obviously a lot of talent. A "Che-lives Novel" thread was also employed, but was a dissapointment to those who actually put effort into writing for it. I have not seen a thread dedicated to short stories, ruminations, or just writing for the hell of it, so I decided to start one. Post your creative writing, your short stories, fantasy, fiction, theory, anything. If you feel like you have a knack for writing or just want to write, post in this thread and share.

[Enver Hoxha]

Well here's something I posted a few weeks back. Can only assume it was awful since no one responded.

November 6th 1962. Havana, Cuba.

Fidel Castro lit up another cigar, it was a rare moment by himself what with all the talk of World War Three and nuclear destruction going on. He knew wouldn't have that much time to reflect upon the situtation in quiet. Soon the Soviet commander would want to discuss the deployment of the SS-4 missiles and some annoying foriegn journalist would want to talk. Fidel really felt like telling them where to go. Until last month they didn't give a fuck about Cuba, now it was the centre of the world, well after Washington and Moscow he reflected. Not to mention they might be a CIA trained assasin or in the pay of of them them angry exiles in Miami.

Fidel noticed the guards outside salute, his rare moment alone was ended. But it could of been worse company, Che as he was known had arrived. Most likely he would give a passionate speech (though it was just the two of them) about defending the island till the last child. Fidel was in no doubt that it would take just that, and the people allready armed and deployed along with thousands of Warsaw Pact troops, the Cuban Army and above all them missiles would make the Imperialists pay. No doubt Che would add that the dialect and historical materialism was also on their side. Frankly there were easier ways to find out but no one was complaining. Victory or Death was the battle cry.

'Ah yes you really believe you can win'

'What who are you?, how did you get in here? how did you.....? Fidel demanded.

No sooner had Che Guavera and the two security personel knocked down the door then they were stopped in their tracks. Frozen.

'Oh dont worry about them, they'll be fine as soon as are little meeting is over. I believe you were about to ask how I read your thoughts? Well the answer is rather complicated. Suffice to say that I belong to a species far more advanced than you. Anyway mind if I sit down?'

The Alien sat down without waiting for a response. Fidel looked outside, everyone was frozen. The Alien struggled into the seat, although after adjusting his or herself he looked oddly comfortable since in terms of his or her 8ft and a half height and wings he or she shouldn't have.

'Well forgive me if I ask the most obvious of questions since I am still in a state of shock.'

The moment the words left Fidels mouth he knew he should of come up with something else. Anything else. Immediantly he did.

'You see the nation of Cuba is currently involved in a very deep crisis. War and invasion may occur, and.....'

'Oh please' The Alien answered angrily before continuing.

'do you honestly think we dont know that?, that's part of the reason why I'm here. Anyway I'll think I'll just explain the basic facts of the situation without any further interuptions from you thankyou very much. Dont worry you will have a few hours before these facts go into effect but that they will go into affect has allready been decided.'

'Erm okay' Fidel said not wishing to angry this Alien monster infront of him.

'Anyway as I was saying I'm from a species that is far more intelliegent than your own. Infact without wishing to sound as if I'm showing off it's a species far more intelliegent than any in the Universe. But that's beside the point. We monitor literally millions of worlds but frankly none has aroused as much interest as this one, your Earth. In the past we've experimented with taking other nations from various points in time forward and backwards in time. Oh dont worry this has all taken part in other dimensions and timelines, which we have taken are part in manipulating aswell.'

The Alien began to put his feet on the table and sip a cup of coffee. Fair enough Fidel thought, this must be as strange for this thing as it is for him. Then he reflected on that thought, no there seemed little chance of that. Otherwise it would be as speechless as he was. He was following though, until the Alien stopped and adjusted him or herself and began looking at the cigar. No sooner had Fidel thought of pointing out that was his the Alien had taken it.

'Hmm curious object, still most enjoyable. Yes anyway as I was saying this planet has aroused much interest and curiosity as any other. That's why the current crisis has occurred and that's why I'm here with you now. You see our species is divided in terms of who in the Universe represents good or bad as your world is right now.

That's simplifying it alot ofcourse, but you get the picture. Ofcourse that's not all of it, alot of our species simply enjoys interfering for pleasures sake, to see the consquences. We had a terrible world when some obscure Corporal was killed in the early part of this century.

Not that it affected us atall, but that was done so some of our members could see what would happen. They told the council that it would turn out for the better, but the moment they got wind of what happened in the years afterwards we decided on getting rid of that timeline for good.

Anyway enough of that it's time I got to real point of this. There are some who dont like any of your species and frankly would like to see Earth blown up. The reasons why they dont like you seem rather silly to me and the majority of us, yes you are hugely flawed but that's just like everyother species at this level of development. Indeed there are many a great deal worse who are far in advance of you.

It's just that this group who wish to see Earth destroyed hold considerable influencce. Not so much influence that they could do it themselves, our public would not stand for it and frankly the viewing figures for Earth are to good to have it simply go away. So they have decided to let someone else do it. A Empire from another galaxy. This lets them off the hook and also allows great viewing figures in the process.

Originally you were set to meet this Empire a hundred years from now, sometime around the 2060's, 2070's. To be honest you didn't have much of a chance then, we favoured the odds being 80 to 20 in there favor. Only through messing around with various timelines and wormholes the group has managed to make sure this Empire discovers Earth around the next ten years or so. This would frankly of made sure that the odds were 100 to 0 against you and would of eliminated any chance of Earth gaining potential allies in this Galaxy against them.

And believe me it's gonna be Genocide with a capital G for any species which falls to this Empire. They're not nice atall and it's kinda ironic that we dont have more in the council making plans to get rid of them. They're even more arrogant and stupid then you.'


Fidel still looked angry but had come to terms with it and was understanding what the Alien was saying.

'Yes very ironic' Fidel said with some sarcasm.

'So you say they are due to arrive in the next ten years, this Empire. If the odds are so stacked against us may I ask what is the point in warning us, or me in the first place?'

'Ah yes this is why I'm talking to you right now. You see the particular agency I represent is a fairly low level group, but we have friends in high places as universal saying goes. You are right as I said Earth would simply of been slaughtered if they arrived in the next decade, frankly people were taking bets if you would land on the moon before becoming extinct.

Because we are a low level organisation we aren't able to do much, that and our superiors not wishing to alert the minority who have caused this that they were aware of their plans has made you and this nation the key. We aren't able to do much at the moment apart from give Earth a fighting chance even if that chance merely improve by 5%. You see we cant warn one of the superpowers of this planet from now or the future since that would be to obvious. Nor are we able to send back a small nation from now or the far future since that would of been far to obvious.

Ah I can see you look confused. By send back I mean through time.'

'And this is what you mean to do to Cuba?'

'Yes that's precisly what we mean to do. It is unfourtunate that we are not able to send you back that far, since that would of also aroused suspicions. Our superiors have decided that as of tommorrow the Islands that make up Cuba, it's airspace and it's terriotorial waters will be sent back in time to the year 1916.'

'And what of this Empire when will they come? What of now, what happens>'

'My dear Fidel what happens here and now is not your concern. Frankly there was not going to be a war anyway, well that's what the public was betting on. What is your concern is what happens in 1916, the Empire will still arrive and still be intent on wiping Earth out. Putting your Island back 46 years may still arouse suspicions among certain elements. I can say with certainty that they will not appear before those 46 years is up, after that it is anyones guess.'

'And what do you propose I should do upon Cuba being, being well as you say thrown back to 1916?'

'If that isn't obvious then I'm not sure what is. Look I'm not going to tell you how to go about it, but I thought it would of been obvious by now that the reason your nation is being sent back is to give this planet a chance when the Empire arrives. For all I care you can go and conquer the world, but before doing so you have to think if that's the best option, even if it's possible. You have to do your best to make sure Earth and whatever allies you can get are ready.'

'Allies?'

'Oh damn I shouldn't of said that. Look there are some other species located near you, some advanced some less so. Frankly we doubt your'll be capable of making contact before the Empire arrives but it's doable. Be warned though as I'm sure your aware the locals or atleast there rulers in 1916 aren't going to be to keen to you and your particular ideology at the moment. Some of your potential allies will be far worse, some far more welcoming.

In the end it's up to you how you go about this who you tell and what you do. But go about correctly and you can save this planet and make a few people richer back where I'm from. Or you can please a minority and screw up big time making things worse. I'm sure you will favor the former.

Goodbye.'

'Wait what about?' Before Fidel could ask one of the dozen questions he wanted to the Alien had dissapeared and Che Gueavara and the two security personel collided into eachother.

'What happened?' Che asked as he lifted himself up of the floor.

'Sit down my most brilliant comrade.'

'You seem most happy. The Yankee Imperialists are likely to invade soon a most serious matter.'

'My dear Che, there is no threat from the Yankee Imperialists. Tommorrow they will be gone and I have a most important request to ask you, probably the most important I'll ever ask but first sit down and let me explain.'

Che looked surprised and curious.

Not half as surprised and curious as the world was the next day when out of no where Alien beings armed with magical weapons, fantastic technology and intent on stopping the Great War arrived. The Aliens of the Empire these were not, but revolutionaries they were.

[SittingBull47]

sorry. I didn't get a chance to comment on the above poster's writing because my friend wants me to put her writing on the board. This is from a "contemporary" as I say. We share very similar interests and we really only differ in the political forum. (as in she doesn't care, I do). It means nothing when it comes to creativity. she wrote this when she was depressed one day and I find it particularly good.


I woke up today breathing through deflated lungs
For I slept like an angel in hell and I dreamt the dreams of tortured souls
Their lives danced circles inside my head
And their whispers were no less than screams
Silent screams
Inside my lonely mind where nobody
Not even myself
…can escape.
But had I only known that my naiveté eyes had felt the fire
The intense heat of hell’s flames that dance upon a tattered earth
The hell that was what we call so lovingly
…home.
Hell that gleefully prances upon the graves of the children they’ve swallowed whole
our children
who we’d seen through frosted glass
And ne’er a tear shed
for the cutter whose fingers slipped
As the blade swept beneath snow white skin
Or the teenage mother who cared not for herself
Where a good night of fucking brought home a dishonest dollar
Or the addict who injected a single drop more into their bruised vein
and realized they had injected the fatal drop too late
Or the beaten who prayed daddy wouldn’t come home
and hid under covers shivering and hands clasped together
Or even the hypocritical, which hide behind dark lies
to make themselves feel safe
The children who had done not one thing to deserve
to walk in bare feet across hot coals
but were forced
because they had come into this life with a heartbeat
And it is these flames that smile with hungry satisfaction
with seductive mockery that swallows each of us whole
….every day.
in dreams we make metaphors for it, and in wake we live them
keep ourselves grounded in our living hell
For at least there’s a ground to stand on.
but today I woke breathing through deflated lungs
with a dormant heart, and a spoiled mind
Not hot nor cold, not bitter nor sweet
and before me was nothing, quintessential
when I woke I saw beauty in not seeing at all
Not blind but truly witnessing
the truth behind it all
in death
when there was nothing to be embraced by
no heaven nor hell to bind my feet or conscience
nobody to please and no place to call home
for there is no concept of home
is where we can be
in essence
….alone.

[Chad King]

I wrote this one day while I was feeling a bit crazy...

Me, Myself and the Man Within
written in the context of a madman

Taking a look into what makes me, me, is a pretty interesting thing, which is why I am looking into writing as a profession. I feel inside of me it is my job to save the world, somehow, yet at this time I know not how that will be done, yet I do know it will be know when the time is near. Not only that, but I want to be someone that people can look up to, or down on if need be. I fear immortalization though, and I mostly want to help everyone and anyone who needs it. Throughout this I want to find and capture the essence and heart of a modern day hipster and write about the road and what lies beyond it.

First and foremost, I was born at a very young age on September 16th, 1984. That say day, “Miami Vice” and “Punky Brewster” first aired on television. I am a Virgo, I guess that means something somewhere and somehow, at least to somebody. I am rarely quiet when in the company of strangers and am, quite possibly, overly-friendly. I was born into a family racked by suicide, cancer, and heart disease. I know my fate is grim, yet when mortality stares you in the face on a daily basis, you then to view everyday as a fresh and new beginning to the story. When you go to bed that night and feel the taint of mortality, you feel firsthand what it means to die and the actual end of the story. Being born into a family of hate and violence allows me to see the polar opposite in people, for that I am thankful. Being born under an abusive father also taught me the respect your fellow humans and a good lesson in fatherhood. Being born into a family where my brother, who is 10 years older than me, was conceived by my mother when she was 16 taught me the values of pushing back sex not for yourself, your beliefs, or God, yet for your future and the future of the child. That is my foundation, no matter the state I am in, those ring true, for that I am thankful.

I’ve grown up in Dayton, OH, Atlanta, GA and am now in West Palm. Even before becoming beat I saw how fun a new environment is, traveling to Mexico has been the greatest experience to date. Nothing can top driving a run down Volkswagen Bus around Mexico, drinking the water, and meeting the people and how friendly they were and the difference between Mexicans and Americans. Another eye opening experience, on a more dangerous note, was my intensive 3 year usage of drugs. Three years isn’t that long, yet from the ages of 15 to 18 has been 1/6 of my life to date. In the midst of heart of aging and working through the end of puberty, substances such as pot, hash, acid, mushrooms, crank, speed, crystal meth, opium, morphine, various pills, and the winner of them all, cocaine, were in and out of my body almost hourly.

In August of 2002, I decided to call it quits.
After losing my girlfriend of almost two years, a friend to a car accident and seeing yet another friend shot just a few feet from me, I binged on cocaine and morphine. After well over 20+ lines of fresh and un-cut Peruvian cocaine and countless ounces of morphine I passed out. I slipped into a somewhat comatose state for almost two days. I remember only seeing white and my own voice reflecting on what I was up until now. When I awoke, friends were sitting around me and hesitating to call for help. I went outside for a cigarette, alone, in the field that was my friends backyard. At that moment I knew I was done and that is where I found my thirst for religion. I was raised in a hypocritical somewhat Christian based household. I realized heaven was a figment of someone’s imagination, and in my full opinion, it’s used as a comforter for those uncomfortable with death.

Death? Been there, don’t that and didn’t buy a T-shirt.

I tell people this not to scare them, yet for them to begin to think for themselves, something I did not do. I admit drugs were fun as hell and dealing was the only time I’ve been financially stable. Yet damn near daily does the lifestyle creep up on me, I’ve suffered three major withdrawals and each time they get worse. I don’t know how many people can relate when I say you’re forced to sit curled in a ball, screaming and crying as every vein is feeding some internal burning fire and your only real movements are you tearing at your arms trying desperately to divert the pain and to make it go away. I have fully quit drugs and only drink anymore. I love the social atmosphere of clubs and the life and the energy people give off. Good times all around.

What I can’t stand to see though, is the abuse of women here in West Palm. Males go to clubs to intoxicate and take advantage of the ladies there. It’s sickening. Who is to blame? The question should more or less what is to blame. The atmosphere is, and that is culture. That is my way of looking at things. When pondering, I take three stances: both sides of the ‘argument’ and the step back from it. Typically thought processes are very long and take awhile for me to write out. I still have essays from years past I still work on and must finish.

Going further into my foundation, I was born into a technology based family and have been on a computer since I was at least 5. Although I dislike the lack of life based around computers, they are where my skills lie, so I’ve been put into a weird spot. Anymore I gravitate to my graphic design abilities in an attempt to pay the bills.

Death is neat, yet I am not a morbid thinker, for I seek truth. Life is an adventure and your experiences make you, you, and make you whole and you are completed in death. The moment you die and the period your brain is still alive is entirely fascinating to me, for what happens during that time period is exciting as hell. Death is an adventure as well and neither you, me, or God can say or determine what happens when we die, for no one has been through it fully and lived to tell the tale. Is it eternal darkness? Maybe. I think that is the single most scary part of death. Try to fathom the universe with no knowledge of science and your ignorance is scary. That is where I can draw a parallel between science and religion.
Science seeks answers for life and religion seeks answers for death. The battle between Particle Man and Triangle Man should not exist, see They Might be Giants.

Loop: See Loop.

“There is one thing I’ve learned about life, it goes on.” Freud said that, I beg to differ to a degree. For regardless of all the motivational and happy things you can say about moving through life, it still is over. Death happens, live with it, you have no say.

I love the spirit behind traveling and getting out. My affinity towards nature as a whole feeds that urge. At this point in time I am damn near 75% Buddhist and 25% Taoist. I am a part of nature and it is a part of me, we are one and the same. Taoism seems to have the most answers for both life and death and I feel Karma has a major working in there as well. I also believe that what I strive for might not be plausible as I’d like it to be in one lifetime. I will be reincarnated to continue with the struggle and the time when I die and my brain lives will be me preparing myself to move on and to carry with me my morals and ideals for the next lifetime.

The Struggle: Human vs. Human conflict. This seems to be everyday life anymore. If everyone realized and became aware of the coexistence between all humans and nature and could maintain a balance, a peaceful resolution or revolution would take place. Granted utopia is impossible within the boundaries of the balance of all things in nature, but awareness and education is the closest spot possible. That is how I will save the world. I won’t use religion or fear as a motivator, I will use thought and awareness to teach to the world so the message may spread. I also want travel to teach and most of all, to find home. I am Dayton raised yet my family there despises me, because of this I do not have a home there anymore. Florida is not home, is it far from humble and very unforgiving, I could not settle here. I am plagued with a feeling of homelessness and I can thank Kerouac for aiding me in my awareness of that feeling.

Through all of my searching I have come to a conclusion that, first off, reality is real and not a dream like LSD toting hippies like to believe, there are two realities: the reality perceived by man and the reality conceived by nature. Examples are society and gravity, respectively.

To look into how crazy I really am is a fair feat enough. I’m considering writing a series of short stories based around it and throwing it together and calling it a book. Through Ginsberg and Del tha’ Funky Homosapien I have been able to come to terms with the poetic side of it. Taking the darker side of human nature and adding a slightly comical twist is where I shine. Tonight, you, me, and my nine, we dine. Almost daily do I have some visions of violence pass through me very casually. While writing this section a man stuck his head out of a nearby door and screamed something to someone. How fun would it be to charge up to him as he stuck his head out with a Neostead Combat Shotgun loaded full of steel slugs and ask if he felt lucky. Pretty fun times if you ask me.

I am also a musician of sorts and have been playing the drums and percussion based instruments for the past 2 to 3 years. I have loved every second of it and play every chance I get. I was in a band for about 2.5 years and things were well, considering our bassist, Chris, committed suicide 6 months into the bands creation. We played out and were respected and gained credibility by the top local band, Blue Karma. We had some demos out and things were going well. Bobby and I called ourselves Army, for there were only two of us moving against the masses, and were considered the alternative grunge band of Dayton. Our influences ranged from Tool, to Pink Floyd, and much Nirvana. Bobby is now off to joining the Army as I have since moved to Florida.

That is a small look at my life until now. To go into much detail would probably require a series of books that would touch upon human mentality and insanity and the disparity of everything. For history does not repeat itself, the human mindset does and that is where the problem lies. I also offer no advice for life, yet I advise on how to live. I will give my honest and most earnest opinion of being fruitful and multiplying (as opposed to the Welfare method of multiplying and being fruitful). Yet one thing I cannot advise on is women, the accursed beings of pure beauty that haunt my daily. It seems so hard to find a normal girl in my eyes, and especially hard to find one that will give me a reason to come home and to actually call home, home.

And on that note, I release thee from my incessant babbling on things on a fairly general note, yet I refrain from creating idle banter on what-the-hell ever. I do not seek to fully answer, I only seek to ask and to aid in the answering.

Farewell,

Chad King


P.S.: I will retire in Mexico.

[SittingBull47]

what were you feeling when you wrote this. did you just mean it as a reflection? It seems like a biography.

[Kurai Tsuki]

Sorry, irrelivent post. T'was a poem -_-

[Chad King]

Originally posted by [email protected] 4 2004, 01:31 PM
what were you feeling when you wrote this. did you just mean it as a reflection? It seems like a biography.
Well, I had to have an essay done for English class (I had only gone 5 days of the quarter) and had to whip something out of my ass, so I did that and turned it in and still passed the class with flying colors.

But yeah, its somewhat of an autobiography.

[RedAnarchist]

As the horse-drwan carriage trotted into the industrial mass of Preston, Mary sighed with the happiest of smiles. Young, Irish, with icicle blue eyes, and the darkest night hair, Mary Callaghan was one of these women who could steal an heart from 50 miles. As she descended from the carraiage, and thanked the driver, she noticed a young man. He was standing on a platform, lecturing to a small crowd. Interested, she listened intentively as the man, with his broad Lancashire accent, filled the air with a revolutionary voice. Mary knew who this man was - James Scowcroft. A man of Communism, a worker's voice in this world of mills.


That's the bginning of a fictional story about my great great grandparents - Mary did come from her birthplace in Plumstead, Kent to Preston, but i dont know if James was a Communist.

[RedAnarchist]

I think that threads like this and the "communal poetry" thread are great ideas. They allow us to share our creative writing and also provide a sort of cyber-cook of poetry and writing by communists around the world.

[Free Spirit]

Interesting subject. So, after I’ve just seen it I wrote this.

What to write? What to say? What do I not say or write as if I’m not here, as if only these shoes keep me left on the ground while my arms wave to the blue freedom above me. The sun is not hiding, not shy behind the clouds. Nothing smiles nor cries, no voices to be heard, no cars driving with drunken people, listen! Not even the winds sing from the corners. There’s nothing there. I just heard the silence; I found the sand corn of the beaches of the earth. But still it’s not there, no silence. In the search you end up hearing the beats of your hart, slowly louder and louder as drum inside your ears, as beats of drumstick on your fingertips turning to burses in purple and blue. The music died and the silence reborn.
The feeling of that there’s no life left just made me feel more alive, my life as an individual was suddenly a bigger black spot in the white of nothing, black spot, more dark, more dead but yet more alive.
I’m gone from this ground; my shoes just got untied releasing me into the lucidity of how I’m alone next to a transparent nothing. I never dream cause there’s no such thing here as dreaming dreams in dreams at nights. I’m a dream. That’s my name. I’m the goddess of my own world creating what isn’t, hasn’t, wasn’t and never is nor will ever be. Welcome to my world where we don’t wear confusion only mind warps as necklaces.

[Dyst]

This is the 'intro' for something I am working on. It will be longer, but this is all you get:


Tediousness surrounds us once in a while, as black fog surrounds a clear blue sky. However, only the one who knows that fog is simply water in the shape of gas, will ever find meaning in life.

I woke up one morning. Was it this morning? I could not remember. Every morning semt equal to the previous, and every morning semt equal to the next. I had grown incapable of telling the time, of which I once so brilliantly mastered. Ah, well, I thought. I better get up. I turned my head and faced a giant mirror. It hung two feet up from the ground where I stood and reached up to the tall ceiling. It was illustrated with some golden inscription which semt to be architectured perfectly and aligned the borderlines making the whole mirror seem golden. I was overwhelmingly surprised by it's presence, which was not that strange, considering the fact that I had never seen such a huge and beautiful installment before in my long life, and it had just showed up next to my bed.

Clearing my sleepy eyes, I managed to read what was written in the golden inscriptions at the top. I read it out lowd; "Inescapability - Indestructability - Inerrancy." At the time, I was almost amused by the bizarre situation, yet I could not move my eyes away from the mirror. I researched it further and found it to be simply hanging in the air. It would probably be ovious to me right away if I weren't so tired, because there simply was no wall standing behind it. In fact, it simply blocked my exit out of the room. I didn't mind, though, I wanted to find out more about this mirror.

I looked back at the reflectional part of the mirror; the true mirror itself. That was nothing special, just me standing in front of my usual old room with brown walls and the grey bed in the corner, a mess as always. However, there was something I noticed, which seemed quite weird at the time. The mirror was completely clean. It gave off a perfect reflection, not something you see when you are looking at an average mirror. It was as if noone had ever touched the surface of it. That gave me the idea.

I pulled out my hand, and then also my finger pointed straight towards the surface of reflection. I thought that this situation was weird enough already, so who knows, maybe the finger would come out in some other dimension, place or time. It was an inch away, and I closed my tired eyes, waiting for something huge to happen. I sudddenly felt a small pain in my finger as I touched the reflection. Wait. It was not a pain. It was merely a feeling. I had touched it. Nothing had happened. I was surprised, relieved and dissapointed at the same time. This was what I had expected, right? I felt the dissapointment growing inside of me, and I almost became sad. I took the hand away. Nothing had happened at all.

As I took my hand away I did not notice that I had left a fingerprint on the mirror. Although clear as gold, my eyes were still sleepy, and so I went back to bed, never to see the mirror again.

[encephalon]

I wrote this one a few years ago.


Men of Steel
(encephalon)
______________________________________________


"I'm alive," Leroy proudly announced as though someone were listening. He discarded his blanket and hopped from the bed with a loud thump. "The sky is clear, and the air is warm. I'll get a lot done today." He raced to the restroom and half-heartedly brushed his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror as he flexed his arms. "One day," he thought, "I'll grow hair on my face, and have big teeth. I'll wear glasses, too, and they'll call me the man of steel." He laughed and spat in the sink, and skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen.

He arrived as his mother finished cooking. "Good Morning, sunshine!" she sighed and smiled. "You smelled breakfast all the way upstairs, huh?"

"No, the sun was shining in my eyes. What time is it?" Leroy rubbed his eyes and pretended they burned.

She handed him a cup of milk. "Eight o'clock, just in time to go get your brother up and have your dad come eat."

Leroy whined. "Do I have to? Dad never listens to me when he's reading the news, and Delaney's always mean to me." He tried to put on his saddest face, but couldn't conceal his enthusiasm for the day's work ahead.

She started to set the table. "Tell your dad that if he doesn't come right now, we'll eat it all. And if Delaney gets mean, you tell me and I'll take care of him. Now go on, before it all gets cold."

"Okay," Leroy said, and energetically leapt from the table to fetch his father. He timed himself, knowing that there were only so many hours in the day to work, and tomorrow there would be Mass, and the next day school. "Dad, it's time to eat," he yelled, spying into the living room. His father reclined in his chair and smoked, all but his fingers and legs concealed by the newspaper in front of him. A dark cloud filled the room and enveloped him. "Mom said that if you don't come right now we'll eat it all."

"I'll be there in a second, buddy," his father replied dryly and coughed.

Leroy ran upstairs and opened his brother's door. At eleven years old, Delaney was almost 5 years older than Leroy--and made sure the fact was understood. As soon as Leroy opened the door, a pillow flew across the room and hit him in the face.

"Ow, that hurt!" he howled falsely.

"I'm up, moron," Delaney sneered. "Get out."

Leroy checked his time: nearly a minute had passed. "At this rate," he growled, "I'll never get anything done!" He called for his father again then returned to the kitchen, holding his head in mock agony.

"What happened?" his mother asked, though she knew the answer. She squatted beside him and examined his face. "Did Delaney hit you?"

Leroy squeezed his eyes, sending a tiny pool of water down his cheek. "He threw something at me," he cried. More tears followed as if it were natural. "I hate him."

She frowned and gently lifted his chin. "Don't say that. Remember what Jesus says? You shouldn't hate anybody, not even people that are mean to you. You have to love them if you want to go to heaven." She sighed, and wrapped her arms around him. He sobbed. "I'll make sure he doesn't do it again, okay?"

Leroy sniffled. The sudden outbreak of tears perplexed him; for the pillow, of course, didn't really hurt--tattling was a convenient way of revenge--and he planned only to pretend slight physical pain. "Okay," he said and wiped his face repeatedly. She sat him at the table and began washing her hands. His distress subsided, and he heard footsteps in the hall.

"Those damned commies got what they deserve," his father bellowed from afar.

The mother continued washing her hands meticulously. "What?"

"Last night around 1:30. Some nuclear power plant exploded in the Ukraine. Damned fools, you'd think they'd of learned their lesson with Stalin. Now There's a friggin' radioactive cloud floating around the Soviet Union killin' all the red bastards for us!" He chuckled and sat.

His mother glanced over at the table, suddenly concerned. "Is there any chance of the cloud coming over here?"

"The government said it's not likely. It'll go all around Europe and the surrounding countries, and maybe even Alaska and parts of Canada, but we're safe. Hell, most of 'em over there are communists anyhow." He sipped his coffee. "They said it's probably going to kill thousands right off, and get millions over the years. They're saying the meltdown was a hundred times worse than Hiroshima was."

She finished washing and dried her hands as she spoke. "Well, I think that's terrible. All those poor little children..."

"Poor little children? It's in their blood, too. Ever heard of the Young Communist League? Nothing but a bunch of little spies."

"Well, spy or not, I think it's terrible. I'll pray for them."

His father laughed. "They don't believe in God, honey. Your prayers don't mean a thing. And these little children you're talking about are the same little children that wouldn't hesitate to murder our children."

She sat at the table and sighed. "Well, can't say we didn't know it would happen. I always knew God was on our side. Maybe now they'll listen to His word, since they've seen what He can do to them ."

"Why don't we like them?" Leroy asked, reminding them of his presence.

"They're bad men, Leroy. They kill people. They want to kill us, even." The father sipped his coffee.

"David, please. He's too young for these things," his wife started.
Leroy thought for a moment, unconcerned but curious. "Superman will stop them," he said triumphantly.

"I don't think even the Man of Steel could stop them alone, son." His father winked. "That's why you have to fight them, too."

"Do they have Kryptonite, then?" he asked.

"David, Please!" she raised her voice.

The father nodded, and tried to change the subject. "You don't have to worry about it anyhow, Leroy. Your going to be in outer-space."

"No," Leroy scowled, irritated. "I don't want to be an astronaut anymore, remember?"

"I remember," his father preached, recalling the day the Challenger exploded. "But you shouldn't let things like that stop you from doing what you want, son. What do you want to be now?"

"The President of the world."

His mother beamed, and glanced at her husband. "I like that idea much better, don't you, David?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me. Just make sure you stand up for steel workers, like your daddy."

Leroy suddenly remembered his plans for the day. "I know, it's hard work. I'm going to work hard after breakfast." He grinned smugly.

"Oh really!" his father declared. "And what kind of work are you doing in the backyard? I noticed you have some of the coal from the basement. Don't take all of it, now. We'll need it next winter."

Leroy planned on taking as much as he could. "I'm smashing it and making gunpowder."

"That's how you're getting so dirty!" his mother delighted, and toyed with her spoon.

"Oh," his father said, "and what are you going to do with the gunpowder?"

Leroy thought it was a dumb question. "Make bombs."

At this, his parents roared loudly and pounded the table, they're faces red with mirth. Delaney walked in the kitchen, bewildered at the joyous activity. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Delaney," his father said, attempting to regain composure. "It's about time you got up, boy. You're gonna make us all starve to death. Now let's say a prayer and eat already."

"Don't you go anywhere after breakfast, either, young man," his mother said, her face suddenly cold. "I'm going to deal with you." Delaney shrugged and rolled his eyes. She turned to Leroy, her expression again pleasant. "Leroy, why don't you say Grace today?"

"Alright," he said, clasping his hands and bowing his head. "Bless us, O Lord! and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord."

Leroy looked up at his family, and wondered how much gunpowder it took to cause such a dangerous cloud on the other side of the world, and how long it would take him to acquire as much. "There will be bigger clouds," he thought. Delaney lifted his gaze to him as he paused, his eyebrows wrinkled. Leroy stared back. "Then I'll be the Man of Steel."

"Amen," Leroy said, bowing his head again.

"Amen," the family followed in unison, and they ate an American breakfast.

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

Is this novel? Novel your damn right like fucking lucid snot you dumb fuck.

Why dont you dry your hair, afraid of nits, they are microscopic. what s the fear eh? fillingstein and this be che-lives, the chapter begins here beside the internet, yes offline./

if you cud but for day one would you just do it? I mean JUST fuckin do it, like a nike ad, just fucking do.

What do you think motherfuckers? Joycean I think.

Answers in a reply.

[Urban Rubble]

Joycean indeed Geist !

[robob8706]

You know that generic story of the man selling his soul to the devil in exchange for whatever he wants? Well for my english class I had to write my own version of that story, so here it is. Post reviews, or ratings, comments, etc.

Seth
January 6, 2013
Noon Sunday
12:00 P.M.

It was a long sermon. Pastor Don preached on the story when the devil tempted Jesus. As the story goes Jesus denied all offers from Lucifer. During the service Seth said a little prayer to God asking for the patience and desire not to be tempted by the devil. Seth was a man of The Word. He never did anything worthy of a bad reputation. He helped at the church and in the community. He enjoyed the peaceful godly life. Everything in his life was calm and serene.
He wore his tan khakis and his blue dress shirt. As he walked home he hummed the tune to Amazing Grace since the choir had just sung it. He walked by an elderly bum who then asked Seth for some spare change. “Eh man, you got any spare money? I could really use it.” His breath smelled of cheap liquor. He was drunk, as was also indicated by the bottle he held in his left hand. He had many layers of clothes on and a full beard. Probably hadn’t showered in weeks.
“Are you hungry?” asked Seth.
“No.”
“Are you thirsty?”
“Depends on the drink.”
“If I give you money will you spend it on liquor?”
“Eh man, I ain’t gonna lie to you.”
Seth understood why the man drank. He knew the Bible didn’t condone it, but Seth figured that this man didn’t have much else to live for. “Are you a Christian, sir?”
“I’ve considered it,” responded the man with a smirk.
“Would you like to be?”
“You can try, but I don’t think you’ll get much anywhere.”
Seth opened his Bible and turned to John 3:16. He then took out his wallet and pulled out a 5-dollar bill. He ripped the page out of the bible and gave away both the money and the biblical passage.
“I’ve read it all before, man,” said the unkempt man.
“You haven’t even looked at it. You don’t even know what it says.”
“That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.” He handed the page back to Seth as he said,” These words couldn’t save me…or you,” he said with a similar smirk like the one before. Both spoke of a secret that Seth had not been clued in.
Seth turned and walked away. With each stride he took he kept thinking about that man. How had he known what the page said? What did he mean that I’m not saved? Seth pulled his key out of his pocket and unlocked the door of his apartment. He noticed a burgundy stain on the carpet. He never anticipated what he would find in his house.


Rob
January 5, 2013
Saturday Night
12:00 A.M.

His legs were on fire. His heart felt like it would burst if he stopped breathing. Sprinting a mile and a half has that effect on you. As Rob sat lying in his bed he wondered. What the hell was that? What did I do? He ran the scenario back through his head, looking for anything that would clue him in to why this had happened.
“Hey great show huh?” said Mark.
“Yeah, it was pretty good.” Rob replied. They were at a local party. The local bands had all played their sets. There were some good, some bad. But nevertheless a solid show. “Hey I’m gonna step outside for a second. It’s too hot in here.” Rob opened the door from the house only to be welcomed by a cold dry wind. He looked around, only to see a few people looking back at him. A group of about 3 men noticed Rob step out. They paused for a minute as they inspected him. Rob noticed one of the men reach for a metal object around his belt. Rob started running because he knew what it was. And if he didn’t know beforehand he certainly did when two loud bursts were shot at him. Adrenaline flowing and legs pumping Rob ran as fast as he could, dashing through yards and hopping fences with fluidity. Nothing was going to stop him from getting home as fast as he could. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in his bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what had just happened. As he kept thinking about it, he felt more and more tired. He eventually fell asleep.
Cain
January 5, 2013
Noon Saturday
12:00 P.M.
Business was slow tonight. He had heard this place was a hot spot for crack cocaine sales. It was a tedious job so Cain pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lit one of them up and took a drag or two before he breathed in the cool night mist. The air smelled of pine as he was surrounded in a forest of trees. He could feel the cold metal of his pentagram necklace against his skin.
“Eh man, you got a light?” A shadowy figure slinked out of the woods. Cain grabbed his flashlight and shined it toward that figure. “Eh man, why you gotta do that?” An elderly man dressed in haggard clothing squinted as the light focused on his face. Cain looked at the man’s eyes and studied his face, noticing his gin soaked beard.
“Sorry, what are you doing out here?” asked Cain.
“Why does anyone come out here?”
“Right…so what’s your order?”
“How bout a dime bag?”
“Sure.” They made the exchange and Cain took another drag from his cigarette.
“You know I’m sort of a dealer also,” said the man with a smirk.
“Really, what business?”
“I deal with people mostly. I notice your necklace. Do you know what Lucifer means?”
“Yeah, that’s Satan isn’t it? I don’t know the meaning of the name though.”
The man pointed to Cain’s flashlight as he said, “It means morning light.” The flashlight grew into a bright glow. The button was in the off position. Cain shook the flashlight and it flickered until it died.
“What are you?” Asked Cain.
“Oh, I’ve heard so many names. Satan, Beelzebub, Mephistopheles…they all bore me. Call me whichever though.”
“I don’t believe you”
“Oh the flashlight didn’t convince you? Sometimes it takes a little pain to the brain of reality.” Cain felt a burning sensation on his lips. He cursed and spat out the cigarette. It landed on the ground and crumbled, as most of it was ash except for the small part of the filter that was held by his lips.
“What do you want?”
“Well like I said, I do business. Supply and demand, but in this case the price is your soul. So what do you say? What do you truly want?”
“My soul…” Cain paused a moment as he turned the thought over in his head. “All right, make me the local kingpin in this town. “
“I can do that, but I can’t say that it won’t come without trouble.”
“I don’t care, just make me rich.”
“Go home, I’ll meet you there.”
Cain walked home and as soon as he put the key in the lock the door flung open and that bum was standing there. He pulled Cain in and brought him to Cain’s hallway closet. There was a man tied to a chair, naked and blindfolded.
“This is the main dealer to the Olympia district. He is an underling, but a man of power nonetheless. You will take his place and everyone will know your name. No doubt you will find opposition, as he has, but that comes with the job. Here’s the contract, you kill him, and take his place, and in exchange for your soul which I will come to collect when I choose.” The bum pulled out a pistol. And placed it in Cain’s hands. Cain sat for a moment, pondering the opportunity in front of him. He pulled the slide of the gun back and loaded a round into the chamber. He placed the barrel against the dealer’s forehead. The dealer flinched at the touch of the cold metal. He knew what was coming. Cain squeezed the trigger, and the hammer cocked back, then released forward with an explosion.



Rob
January 7, 2013
Monday Night
12:00 A.M.
There was a knock at the door. Rob turned the volume down on the television and walked to his front door. He opened the door only to find no one standing in front of it. He shrugged, closed the door, turned around and was taken aback as a ragged man was standing in his hallway.
“How’s the business?” the man asked.
“Who the hell are you and what are you talking about?” Replied Rob.
“Don’t act like you don’t know who I am. I’m the reason why the numbers in your bank account keep going up,” the man said pointing to the ceiling.
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man studied Rob’s face. Looking it over for a minute. “You really don’t recall do you?” Rob shook his head. “You don’t remember meeting me Saturday night in the woods? …What’s wrong with you? First you’re a Satanist, then you’re the good little Christian, and now what are you?”
“I’m an agnostic.”
“Really? Now that’s an interesting ideology now isn’t it. Not sure whether to believe or not.”
“Yes, it is frustrating, now would mind telling me what your doing in my house?”
“Well whether you remember or not I still have your soul.”
“Wait what?”
“A few days ago you and I made a deal where you would be the local big shot in exchange for your soul. You signed the contract in that dealer’s blood.”
“What are you, Satan? Listen, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, you can’t take it back now, and if you try to run off to some church and redeem yourself, I’ll kill you before you get there so that I know you’ll be mine.”
Rob looked to his side and lying on the counter was a pistol that was spatter with blood. He grabbed it and pressed it against his temple. The man pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Rob. “What are you doing? Even if you do kill yourself God doesn’t accept atheists!”
“So it may be, but I believe that and omnipotent god should have the capacity to look past people’s mistakes and accept them for who they are.” There was a long pause as Rob waited for the man to respond. “I’m doomed with you, I’ll take my chances and hope that God is merciful. Rob’s finger pulled the trigger.

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

There you have, three notes and I dont play music but I'll strike a note with you. Fleeting, well you try retention, see it's gone already what was the last word before the word before that,

You silly boy, fifty times in love, are you in love with the wood?

[T_SP]

Originally posted by [email protected] 17 2005, 08:51 PM
There you have, three notes and I dont play music but I'll strike a note with you. Fleeting, well you try retention, see it's gone already what was the last word before the word before that,

You silly boy, fifty times in love, are you in love with the wood?
You're back Geist?!?! How long you been back old chum?

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

Since the annulment of december.

[Free Spirit]

You’re just a character in the painting wearing his gold, you’re blood is blue and clothing red of a 1600century rich man’s opportunity. Stop staring at me form the wall before I take my brush and paint you horns, give you your face behind the smile of golden teeth.
I hear your whisper, hiding in the dark while moonlight reflects on your painter’s tricks of art in your eyes. Stop staring at me! I’ll sell you to the carpenter down streets -he collects artworks of mischievous sprites. Leave me alone; stop staring at me in the dark with wide eyes as two cyrcles of candlelight -centre of dark. Where’s the moon tonight. Who took the moon? Did you take it in your pocket? Your disgrace, you stole the moon I see it in your eyes where you’re hiding it’s cold-grey deathlike enlightening. You’re wearing it in your pupil. What did your painter make you carry in your eyes? Your face tells a story of a bleeding look of tiredness, heavily carrying death in one human eye.
Stop staring at me you're just a character in a painting!

[T_SP]

Originally posted by [email protected] 17 2005, 11:22 PM
Since the annulment of december.
A more learned man no doubt! Where is parappa?? I liked him!

Are we to add to your Novella?

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

Never. It is a very individual text. You are allowed to write criticism however in the thread, Frederick I. Geist, which is devoted to that sort of thing.

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

Out and in, schoolmarish. I caught you looking at her and she was society young and you mentioned berrys which I though was swimming.

This is the title of the next chapter.

[I've Defected]

Here's a short composition i wrote:


I had this dream the other day.... well it wasnt quite a dream, but thats besides the point.

It was the end. Cars on fire, buildings in ruin... the sky clouded with smoke--yet the sunset still ebbed through, bathing everything in a warm glow. Everything was quiet, yet i could feel a vibration which was common to everything around me. It was the end (did i mention that already?).

Yet...yet I didn't feel afraid. I was oddly content, not what you would normally feel going into the apacolypse. All my worries were suddenly swept away and replaced with relief. I'd lived my life, and wasn't remorseful about any of it. I felt free.

There was noone else around, but i didnt care.... This was my end, and mine alone.

I went for a walk and noticed how plants had started to poke through the ruins of civilization. It was time to let go, perhaps time to give another speicies a chance to flourish and to destroy itself (or maybe not)

I was grateful that i was able to take one last walk amoung the decaying remnants of my life. It felt fulfilling.

As the sun dipped behind the hills i realised that i would never see it again. Oh well... the stars were up.

I closed my eyes that night lying under the sky. I knew it would be the last time. It was done with... finished... a weight off my shoulders.

As I drifted off to sleep, i felt the corners of my mouth curl into a smile.

[RhetoricalAbsurdity]

I actually wrote this for English class, we had to write an essay on what happiness means to us, and this is what I came up with.

Happiness is.

Life isn’t always a bed of roses. We all have our hardships, our problems. But it’s those rare moments-like rainy summer nights-it feels like the world is just too amazing to take in all at once. Those midnights in July when you’re just lying in bed, and it’s too warm to fall asleep all the way, so you’re still holding on to that last thread of consciousness-and you hear it. The soft pattering of rain against your bedroom window, and you don’t dare fall back asleep-even if you want to-and you look, just peek out the window, and you can’t see a damn thing cause the streetlights are out and what would you be looking at anyway? But you do look, and before you know what you’re doing, you’re putting on an old t-shirt, and you’re running out the door, shoes forgotten, or simply ignored. And you step out of your house, into the rain, and it’s colder than you expected, and the wind is harder than you expected and you wish you had brought a jacket, or something, but you can’t go back into the house, not anymore. Not yet. And despite the cold and the wind, you step off your porch, and you feel each drop as it soaks your clothing, passes your skin, and goes all the way to your core. And you’re shivering from the inside out, but you hardly notice. And you walk down your driveway, your bare feet splashing to the concrete through the thin puddle that’s beginning to form, and you look down the street, and you don’t see anyone, but you silently wonder if anyone’s watching from their window. You wonder if anyone’s watching you. And you walk slowly, meander down the road, kicking up your feet to splash in the little puddles collected in the gutter. And by now you’re thoroughly soaked, your hair dripping in your face, your clothes sagging with the weight of the water. And your feet are getting sore from the asphalt, but you tell yourself you don’t mind. And you stop for a moment, only a moment, and you look up at the sky, at the raindrops falling onto the ground, and into your mouth and eyes, and you think for a moment, only a moment, and you just have to smile. And you think to yourself in that single moment how beautiful everything is, life, and your parents, and brothers, and sisters, and friends. The world. And you sit down in the gutter, back to the street and feet in the grass, and you lay your head back, and you laugh. And you laugh, and you laugh, for minutes on end, to the point where it’s painful, and you’ve started crying, and now you’ve got tears and raindrops running into your mouth, and you want to stop laughing, because nothing is funny, nothing at all, but you’re too scared of what might follow the laughter. And suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore, and you stop laughing so abruptly you let out a lone hiccup. And you get yourself up off the ground, and you look at the sky, and you just smile more, and you spin, and twirl, and you dance all the way up to your porch. And you look out into the rain again, and it’s slowing down, and it’s getting later, and you go inside and shut the door on it. And you go and take a shower, and it feels like finally everything is right again. And at that point, you know it will be.

[I've Defected]

Love it. You have a great way with words man. incredible manisfesation of emotion through metaphors and blah blah....

kudos

[RhetoricalAbsurdity]

I wrote this tonight in about two hours. It's not exceptional, but I like it. I'm having trouble titling it, though, so any suggestions for that would be greatly appreciated. Critizism in general is also greatly appreciated. Thanks.

She stood at the sea, noiselessly watching the sunset, in awe, breathing life as her feet sank gradually into the supple sand, still warm from the rays of the setting sun. It made a glorious sight as it went, streaking colors in such a multitude of hues and tints and shades it was hardly comprehensible that they could all possibly exist. And the waning light dipped in and out of the clouds, performing a slow and intricate dance that she didn’t understand but found fascinating anyway. And it seemed to her that all eyes must be witnessing this, must all be inexplicably attracted and entranced by the beauty and extravagant wonder that was being created before her by just one thing and yet that seemed to impact everything at once. Looking out across the ocean, an indescribably vast, fluid, moving mirror, she saw the sunset echoed back in all its majestic glory, and she couldn’t say whether the view itself or its reflection was more captivating, though hard she tried. And she smiled, not a forced or fake or halfway smile, but a genuine smile, broad and bright and intoxicating and filled with deep and profound emotions-the rare smile that reaches the depths of a person.
She paused, her eyes resting for a brief second on a dulcet, fuchsia-tinted cloud, then looked to the south. She saw there-sitting blissfully in the balmy sand, entirely oblivious-a child. The girl could have been no older than seven, and was a thin, delicate, but not fragile child, with thick, disheveled, amber hair that fell in unkempt ripples past her shoulders. Her eyes were brown and darting and vivid, and shone with the unmistakable quality of childhood innocence and absolute felicity. And in their total, perfect simplicity lay a contagious joy, and the woman stood staring, engrossed, for how long she didn’t know. She watched, curious and enthralled by the precise, meticulous way in which the girl built a sandcastle. The child’s eyes went wide with honest fascination as her tiny hands shaped the sand into miniature towers. It seemed she was determined to put each grain in place with love and caring devotion. When finally she had completed her grand edifice, a great gust of wind suddenly rushed around them, and the castle became nothing. And the woman blinked, and the girl was gone.
And in response, she turned to the north, and found there an older woman, lying in the sand, looking out at the sea and entirely naked. The older woman’s hair was long and gray, and framed her face with messy waves. She had the same bright, lively brown eyes as the girl had had, but the childlike purity had disappeared and was now filled with a deep, wise understanding of the world that comes only with age. Her skin was a deep brown, a result of a life of exposure to sun, and had a leathery appearance to it. She had maintained a somewhat youthful figure over her years, and it revealed an allure that kept the young woman’s eyes upon her, interested in a nonsexual way; the woman was as a part of nature, full of raw and unpolished elegance. She glanced at the younger woman, seemingly looking through her, and smiled. Suddenly, a wind picked up around them. And the young woman blinked, and the old woman was gone.
And she looked back to the west, to the setting sun, and she watched as the last seconds of sunlight slipped away below the horizon, into the ocean. And she stepped away from the shore and walked up the beach, her brown eyes twinkling with a bright, wise innocence.

[JazzRemington]

This is the first chapter of a book I was writting, but abandoned for some reason. The book was called Der Zustand.


It was around six o’clock in the morning when Carl Hemersys woke up. The sun light ebbed slowly into his little apartment room in the middle of a crowded and dirty city, a steel empire in the middle of a vast, de-forested wilderness. By six-ten the entire apartment was lit with the warm, orange brilliance that only a large flaming star could provide. Carl calmly and tiredly rose from beneath the sheets on his bed and sat up, propping himself backwards on the headboard. He rubbed his eyes roughly to clear out what little sleep remained in them and opened them fully, surveying his room in the process: to the left of his bed was a little night stand, to the right was a dresser, across the room was his kitchen, and midway between his bed and the kitchen was his living room, which included his bathroom separated by a partition.

Carl studied his room for a few minutes, reflecting on the inherent dullness of it, before he got out of bed to begin his daily routine. He glided with much effort across the hardwood floor, making his way to the kitchen. Stopping at a small stove, he reached upward toward a cabinet that hung on the wall directly above it. He opened the door briefly, producing a tin can and sat it on the counter next to the stove. Carl then poured the contents of the can into a coffee maker and switched it on. The dull hum of the machine filled the immediate area, which for some reason prompted him to move to the bathroom so that he could take his morning shower.

He stood before the standup shower taking his clothing off and putting in a small pile next to the toilet and entered the shower, turning on the hot and cold water while equalizing them out to produce a steady stream of warm water that wasn’t too hot as to burn the skin. He stood in the shower, letting the water flow over his body and allowing it to wet his hair. Grabbing a small, green bottle labelled “shampoo”, he dumped a little bit of light peech color goo on the top of his head and rubbed it in until it reached a sufficient lather. He then ran his head under the stream of water shooting from the shower head and repeated the process. After washing his body, he turned the shower off, dried himself, and exited the shower, making his way to the dresser next to his bed.

Carl thought for a while about what to wear, filing through the various shirts and pants until he located a suitable combination for him to wear: a white dress shirt and a pair of black dress pants. Carefully putting them on, he then slipped his dress shoes on and returned to the kitchen. He proceeded to pour himself a small cup of coffee and noticed the small black and white television set he had bought himself a few months ago in a fit of shopper’s frenzy. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was
nearly eight o’clock, time for the Roy Emerson Show.

He reached for the power button on the small television, pushed it and returned to his original posture of leaning against the counter opposite the television. A warm, pale, and inviting electronic glow radiated from the screen flowing gently over everything in the kitchen and covering things with a light blue hue. Carl relaxed against the counter and watched with unmoving and robotic resolve. Every day when eight o’clock, noon, and nine o’clock rolled around, everyone watched the same thing that Carl was watching on his Serwitui 3600XX model 102-A with advanced shading technology and state-of-the-art bifactualator.

The Roy Emerson Show was your standard talk show with a large, pompous host who introduced the world to the daily news and entertainment, all wrapped up in three 30-minute servings per day.

“Thank you, thank you.” The large, pompous man named Roy Emerson said over a large crowd of people chanting his name as he walked on set and toward his desk. The camera zoomed in on Emerson, revealing his features up close and personal for all of the television viewers to behold. Still basking in the applause, Emerson began to fiddle with a small set of index cards he picked up off the desk and looked through them for a short few seconds before signaling for the applause to end, and so it did.

“I, your wonderful and charming host, have a wonderful show for you today, filled with exciting news stories and a few interviews. So let’s get things started first with a little news.”

By this time, Carl had finished his coffee and tossed the cup into the kitchen sink. Still listening to the television, he cleaned up the mess he had made while making the coffee. Ordinary people hardly, if ever, make a mess while making coffee; however Carl never really considered himself all the same as an ordinary person, even though deep down he knew he was: he had a boring and repetitive job, living in a horrible apartment in an equally horrible building, and did the same routine day in and day out. When he was finished with cleaning, Carl returned his full and completely dominated attention to the television.

“Last night, at around ten o’clock, an explosion ripped through the Central building on Rollins street, killing three. After a police investigation, it was uncovered to be an attack organized by the a random terrorist. A small pipe bomb made out of a plastic plumbing pipe and some illegally purchased gunpowder was the cause of the explosion. The police have no leads as to who exactly planted the bomb.”

Carl returned his gaze to the clock to see that it was almost time for him to get to work. He prepared to leave his apartment for his boring, tedious job at the records department at city hall.



Carl was walking along the sidewalk, the calm spring-time breeze broke through the nearby buildings to create a nice draft to cool him down. The city was teeming with life, from the lowliest street beggar to the taxi drivers to the simple child wandering the streets. On both sides of the street, tall buildings rose from the ground, like trees from dirt, great monoliths of steel and concrete that towered toward the heavens. The air was barely breathable, it was pumped full of smoke and smog generated from cars and factories that lined the outside areas of the city. It seemed that every fifty feet or so there was a giant billboard, which advertised some random product such as a soft drink or the latest album by the popular-at-the-moment music group.

A large television monitor overshadowed the street, showing the remainder of the Roy Emerson show. After the end, a commercial played.

“New, from Caltech Industries: the Abort-o-Matic 3000! Unwanted pregnancies got you down? Thought a second time about that bun in your oven? Then use the new Abort-o-Matic, today! The new Abort-o-Matic 3000 is 5% more efficient than the previous Abort-o-Matic 2999!”

Carl continued down the street to his office when suddenly he was stopped by a filthy looking man dressed in rags who smelt of hard liquor. The man held his hands out his hands with a look of absolute hope on his face. Carl just stood there looking at him, not quite sure what to do.

Just then, a police car pulled up right next to Carl and two men wearing all black stepped out and approached the man.

“You know the law, bum. No loitering” The first officer said, grabbing the man by the arm who then dragged him into the back of the car with brute force.

The second officer approached Carl and asked, “You didn’t give him anything, did you?”

“No.” Carl said while shaking his head.

“Good. You know it’s against the law to encourage those people. It’s bad enough they drain our economy with their constant pleading.”

“Oh, I know. They should get a job like the rest of us.”

“Exactly.” The officer then returned to the car and drove off down the street in the direction that Carl was originally going.



Carl finally arrived at city hall around eight fifty-five. He immediately walked down a long hallway, with identical doors lining both sides, and went into his office, sat at his desk and proceeded to work. In a small pile on the left side of his desk was a wire bin labeled “in” and on the right was another wire bin labeled “out.” Carl’s job was to fill out the forms in the “in” bin and place them in the “out” bin. The forms were just random bureaucratic papers authorizing this and authorizing that. Each one had to be filled out exactly, one error could cost him his job. Carl wasn’t allowed to read them, if he did he would have a strike recorded on his record. Three strikes and he was fired. Being fired was something Carl did not want.

He worked through the span of several hours, writing away. But however many papers he placed in the “out” bin, there were at least five more waiting for him in the “in” bin. No matter how ahead he believed he was getting with his work, there was an endless pile of more paper waiting for him.

Form A8-1. Form E-34B. Form G-8T. Form I-23B. Form X-29P. Form G-15. Form TW-81. Form GS-091-B. Form LO-239. Form 48176-B. Form TPS-99. Form J-5B.

Write down the combined total from line thirty-six from form T-31 and line eight from form 3-W on line one on form K-29A.

Subtract line five from the total expenses as calculated in section two on form G-98T.

Calculate total weekly losses by combining lines three, six, seven, and nine from form T-091 and subtracting them from lines eight, twelve, and twenty on form T-102. Write the result, minus line two from form W-21, on line thirty on the Weekly Expense Report form, page three.

Just when Carl thought he couldn’t write anymore, a prolonged beep sounded from a loud speaker at both ends of the hallway.

It was time for ego therapy.

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

There were more holding hands and she said she was a jihadi but I didnt get it because I didnt watch the news. I was excited though, being a boy and she so unfair, darkness but dark that is light and all this talk of race and i cant possibly understand.

This is the type of thing I dreamed of though, poesy and msn, msn you say but she didnt understand that because she didnt use the internet.

And thus civilisation crashes and the utter idiocy of order was revealed, all this and nothing happened.

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

She said she wanted to go home to see lions and animals that hadnt been oppressed but I took it as a slight what with my bad sight and all and she said, more than anything you are annoying. I told her I dont care too much for being funny or classy but she told me thats what divides us but who am I to understand, I am not even a generation of Kelloggs cornflakes.

[Pedro Alonso Lopez]

and she ate not eat her children at the same time as grooming her hair and this is all gravy where she comes from only the gravy is sacrosant and she sleeps on her belly too, that might just be erotic if Id just think about it a little.

[RedAnarchist]

He saw the mountain the far off distance. There it was, in all it's ancient glory - taller than all the giants of the land, older than the languages the people spoke, and more powerful than any king or queen. It's intimidating size was cut down by the light sprinkling of eternal snow on it's peaks and ridges, the occasional flower that grew in between the rocks, and the way the sun laid its warmth upon the rock.
Before long, he had reached the mountain's old feet. The entire base of the mountain was wrapped in a blanket of trees, which were replaced further up by the mist that gently caressed the midriff of the mountain, like immortal cotton wool. The sun in the sky was leaving in fear of the moon and the stars, so he set up camp for the night, planning to conquer the mount once and for all, in the morning.

[ÑóẊîöʼn]

Xphile - Powerful stuff!

I have always wanted to write utopian hardish science fiction that incorporates my political beliefs and ideas, here is an overview of the universe I hope to write about;

What century is it? the 51st. How far have we gone out? Unknown. Humanity has been spreading out ever since the last nations fell into dust circa 2900, Leaving an empty vacuum that was previously filled with the bickerings of the upper echelons of the human race. It was quickly filled as humanity came to realise that Earth was a cradle, and that we had already outgrown it. The time had come for the colonisation of the solar system, still with many secrets to uncover. But it was far from peaceful. Despite egalitarian living and universal comfort for all, in 2950 a debate over the fate then-recently discovered ancient ruins on Mars was inflamed into a small-arms conflict - both sides felt very strongly about the issue: The humanists wanted it destroyed in the process of terraforming, as a testament to Humanity's power and to eliminate any alien contamination of Human thought. The Transhumanists wished to relocate the ruins to a safe place for study. The very thought that either side could retard humanity's progress was an anathema, and the humanist' destruction of the south-east pyramid with an asteroid provoked a violent reaction from the Transhumanists, Who responded with a nuclear attack on a humanist genetic research centre on Mars' moon Deimos. Civil war on and around the partially terraformed Mars ensued.
This war of course delayed the terraformation of Mars, But in 2962 agreed to a cease-fire in their mutual interest. Mars was fully terraformed at the turn of the 31st century. The ceasefire between the humanists and the Transhumanists is still in effect.
The 31st century represented a period of great peace and advancement, overcoming great challenges such as terraforming Venus and the invention of the miraculous FTL technology known as the 'wormhole drive'.
The terraformation of Venus was no easy task. First genetically modified algae was released into the atmosphere to convert the bulk of CO2 into O2. This took several attempts, and even then scientists were stuck as to how to get rid of those clouds of nasty sulphuric acid that still hung about in great planet-covering clouds.
Another problem was the length of Venus's day - longer than it's year. A long trip to the Kuiper Belt at the outer edge of the Solar System retrieved a large object called 2002 AW197, a perfect match for the scientist's specifications. this 900km-wide object was promptly smashed into the side of Venus at a carefully calculated angle, just missing the target new day length of 24 hours by 3 extra hours.The fate of 2002 AW197 was to have a small amount of it incorporated into Venus's crust, about a hundred 10-kilometre chunks settled into a stable orbit, and the rest of it orbited the sun for a few years before falling inward.
Eventually the scientists worked out how to get rid of the sulphuric acid - it would be a lengthy process, but it was garaunteed to work and did not require the invention of a new technology.
Quite simply, they ground up several large silicaceous asteroids until they had nearly a billion tons of powdered rock. They then released the powder in explosive pods at strategic points along Venus's equator, whose high winds whipped the powder far and wide. Then, for the first time in millions of years, it rained on Venus. Acid rain.

Trickling down...

(Can't be asked writing any more. What do you think?)

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by [email protected] 4 2005, 11:17 PM
He saw the mountain the far off distance. There it was, in all it's ancient glory - taller than all the giants of the land, older than the languages the people spoke, and more powerful than any king or queen. It's intimidating size was cut down by the light sprinkling of eternal snow on it's peaks and ridges, the occasional flower that grew in between the rocks, and the way the sun laid its warmth upon the rock.
Before long, he had reached the mountain's old feet. The entire base of the mountain was wrapped in a blanket of trees, which were replaced further up by the mist that gently caressed the midriff of the mountain, like immortal cotton wool. The sun in the sky was leaving in fear of the moon and the stars, so he set up camp for the night, planning to conquer the mount once and for all, in the morning.
And then the morning rose, and the mountaineer woke. He stood up and scanned the landscape - wide, clean, untouched by the dirty hand of urban society. The sun beamed down onto the pure snow, onto the forest lower down, casting shadows onto the land. On he climbed, up towards the highest peak, from where he would see the world as if he was a majestic eagle, freer than most. The mountain was a monster of rock, snow and ice. Where the snow did not blanket the stone, tiny flowers of all worldly tints grew shyly out of the cracks of the ancient mount, fed only by the melting snow in the sun's warm glare.

[encephalon]

I'm actually looking for advice on this.. I'm having trouble, it seems, with people quite graspiing what I want them to from it. Does anyone get what's happened at the end?

A Glorious Ascension

Michael assumed his features to be taken from his father, though he had never met him. His skull was long like a rodent, but his face flat like an owl. His eyes set back into the recesses of his face and glowed a radiant green, and his nose sloped acutely. The only hair on him sat atop his head in mockery of his keepers--short, black and wiry. Even those areas that normally assumed more hair on others--areas the keepers found entertaining to point out--were bare.

Michael sometimes watched the keepers as they walked by his cage, and crudely imitated their laughter and their speech. Silently, he would sit for hours wishing he were more like a keeper and less like the kept. He would laugh, and move his limbs awkwardly, and pace from one end of his cage to the other, speaking to himself in language unfamiliar but soothing.

Once, his mother noticed the queer habit. "You ain't no keeper, Michael," she said, her round face rippling to the movement of her lips. He continued pacing, and asked: "What's 'purpose', mother?"

She snorted. "'Purpose', love?"

Whenever she attached love to the end of a statement, Michael knew she was becoming playful. "No, really. Why we here, and why the keepers here, and why--"

"And why ain't the trough closer to the bedding?" his mother grunted, her lips nearly parting under the weight of her cheeks to smile. She rose. "It's because there ain't no other way. How could there?" She stumbled her way to the trough and began picking through the sludge for her favorite morsels.

Michael persisted. "What was father like?"

"You know I met your father only once, Michael. We knew each other and you were born, and he was moved away to another sector. I was much thinner then." She finished her last bite for the moment and waddled to the stall, waiting for the needle to poke through the fence and fill her. "He had the most beautiful, short black fur," she said as the needle pierced her skin. The mechanical arm that held the syringe whispered softly, then whirred as it retracted out of their quarter and scaled the fence to the ceiling.

"Why the keepers wear them ties?" he asked.

His mother snorted again, her fat lips leaking a tiny bit of drool onto her chin. "Come here, child," she said in a light tone. "It's time to rest."

Michael glanced back through the fence at the keepers, who laughed and watched another unit, then limped over to her and fell on his side. "Your feet are swelling," his mother said. "You'll be getting injections, soon." Her eyes closed and her mouth fell open. Michael curled into her stomach and soon fell asleep.

During his slumber, the keepers came to him in their black suits and yellow ties, and indeed noticed his feet. They laughed at his bare and erect genitals, and made note to begin injections the following day.

Michael awoke before his mother. They were sweating like pigs, drooling like starved cows. He was unsure of how long he lay unconscious, but the hunger in his stomach told him it was far too long. He stretched, and ventured to the trough. His feet throbbed.

Michael was picky about what he ate. He preferred the liquid sludge in the trough to any of the meat, bone, or rotting vegetable that bobbed about it. Despite his mother's assurance, he was suspicious of the meat. If a piece happened to enter his mouth as he sucked the juices from the trough, he chewed it slowly and swallowed only tiny pieces at a time.

"It's good to see you eat, boy," a voice came from the left. He turned to see a black-suited keeper on the opposite side of the fence near the stall. He heard his mother rise behind him and stomp her way to the trough. The keeper pulled on his yellow tie in disgust. "Go to him, Michael," his mother said and nodded. She pulled a piece of meat from the muck and chewed it on one side of her mouth while speaking. "Show him how big you are."

Michael limped to the stall. The keeper produced a comb from his pocket, and while staring at Michael with cold, blue eyes he ran it across his own fine black hair front to back, front to back. Michael heard a whisper, a buzz, a whir--and pain. A sharp sting in his neck sent him squealing to the cotton bedding. The man cackled and swiftly concealed the comb. He coughed, then disappeared among the byzantine corridors. A weariness crept over Michael, and he slept.

***

Michael had a dream, but couldn't remember what it was.

He awoke to the buzzing of a large group of keepers. They laughed and talked as they approached his cage. Their black suits swished in unison, and through his blurred vision they seemed to merge, a maelstrom of yellow and black growing towards him.

"This here's Pasiphae and her son, Michael," a tall, thin keeper pointed.

"How old's the little one?" A voice called from the rear.

"'About thirteen, and we suspect he's full grown."

Whispers intermingled with the ruffling of their pants. "The boy ain't got no hair!" a man exclaimed. His left eye twitched as he spoke. "But for that black bit on top. Why, you could--"

The tall man scowled, and the herd silenced. Light danced around his head. "Yes, your assumptions are correct. It'll all be ready in a few weeks. That's why our company chose to call you."

Michael understood little of the conversation. The medicine still saturated his blood, but he could make out separate faces in the torrent, all spinning continually downwards into the tall speaker. The crowd scanned Michael with cold glares, but laughed humbly. The man with a twitch smiled, his small mouth slightly arcing to the side, and spoke again. "Well, where do we sign?"

A small eruption of nervous laughter ensued. The tall man resumed. "If you will follow me, gentlemen, we'll find somewhere more hosptible than these cages, and begin the process."

The keepers drifted away, and slowly the noise of their rigid dance faded. Michael stumbled away from his mother on the bedding and to the trough.

"Eatin' again, boy?"

The keeper with the comb stared at him only inches away. Startled, Michael fell. The man stared with his blue eyes, and spoke.

"You know what you gotta do, boy." he said. Michael froze on the ground. Though the drug coursed through him still, Michael understood. "I ain't gonna harm you," he said. Michael did not move. "I just want you to take your damned medicine, that's all." He spat on the floor.

Michael knew he should rise, and enter the stalls, and let the machine in--but he couldn't. His limbs were numb, his eyes full of water, his throat blocked with fear.

"I said take your medicine, boy," the man said. His voice amplified as he pulled a tiny black box with a single red button in the middle and pointed it at Michael. Michael stood still.

The man hesitated, his eyelids flashing rapidly. He grinned. "You see this box?" he said and pointed. "We use this little box here to put bad men into cages. It spits out a mist of chemicals, see--then it shoots enough voltage through the mist to knock a strong man across this farm, depending on how long this red button is held." He raised his eyebrows, playfully fingering the red button. His yellow tie bounced off his chest as he spoke. "Oh no, it don't kill you, boy. Just puts you in pain, so much pain. I heard there ain't no pain like it. Not swollen feet, at least. Not no needle in the world compares to this." Slowly, Michael inched his body off the dirty floor. "That's right. Go get that medicine of yours. That's all I'm askin'."

Michael did. Whisper, Buzz, Whir, Pain, Sleep.

For uncounted weeks, life had become a barrage of numbing pain. All else withered into dream. Thought became a luxury, remembrance an impossibility. But slowly the numbness faded, and the instant fatigue dulled. The needle piercing his skin barely bothered him, and his jumbled comprehension focused upon a new perception of his old world. He heard voices in the air.

"Love's growing up. Look at him now, his feet healed and his thoughts recovering so quickly. You'd think he's a hero, you would."

"Yep. I reckon it won't be long now."

"He asked purpose," a voice laughed. "There ain't no purpose now, there ain't. There just is, and there ain't."

A silence, then an audible grin. "We all gots a purpose, now. Just none of you knows how it gets there. We know. The machine knows."

"You know purpose?"

"My purpose is purpose, girl."

"And what's my purpose?"

A cackle. "You s'posed to feed the boy, now. You know."

Another laugh. "I guess so, I guess so."

***

Michael awoke calm and insignificant. His mother lay beside him on the cotton bedding, and the keeper eyed him through the fence. He combed his hair front to back, front to back.

"G'morning, boy." The keeper grinned and concealed his comb. Michael arose, and headed for Cronos IV. His limp was gone.

"No, boy, you ain't getting no more injections now. You all fixed." The Man smiled and pushed a button on the wall next to him. A click ricocheted throughout the building, and a tiny rectangular exit opened near the trough. "We got something better for you now, boy. C'mon out here."

Michael glanced at his mother. She slept on her back, her stomach falling at each side as though she were melting. The tiny brown hairs were less noticeable from the angle he saw her, and the white skin underneath looked dead. Her fat fingers twitched as she snored. The keeper sneered. Michael ventured past the trough, the sludge bubbling like hot oil, and stepped through the hole. The keeper tightly gripped his shoulders, and pushed forward.

He led Michael through a labyrinth of mesh wire fences. On each side of him, families of beasts went about their routine: eating, sleeping, courting the machine. Tiny four-legged creatures ran about their cages, squealing and sniffing. Michael noticed their white skin, how close of a shade it was to his mother's. Sometimes, larger ones would lay on their side as countless miniatures gathered around in mock worship.

"Them's pigs," the keeper said, pointing to the left. His index finger was long and crooked. "They ain't clean."

They continued. Cronos hummed above them, and the keeper provided a name for every beast along the wall. They turned to the left over and over, until the families along the walls became solitary beasts. They smiled at him numbly as he passed.

"They've all fulfilled their purpose," the keeper explained. "They're waiting for a glorious ascension." He laughed.

They marched on. The hallways lengthened and the cages emptied, and the sound of Cronos slowly faded until they stood in front of a white door.

"You gonna enjoy this one, boy," the keeper snickered.

The door opened. A first light enveloped them, and in his temporary blindness Michael could only taste an unfamiliar scent come upon him. It felt vibrant, dangerous, synergetic, and Michael became buoyant in spirit and wasted in flesh. He floated towards the source, and the door fell behind him.

In the beginning, a new color burned his vision. A vast green slowly focused into separate shades resting on a white background, interspersed with dots of orange and red, lines of gray and brown. Blobs morphed to crystalline shrubbery. Lines became trees. Dots became fruit. The ground filled with a sea of green grass. Michael sat, bewildered and amused. His eyes raised to the sky and a warped image of himself, encircled in green, anxiously stared back at him.

A butterfly landed next to him. Michael swore it was an angel. A voice boomed from above. "There ain't nothing here you can't have, boy, but them red fruits. Them fruits are poison. Don't touch 'em." A hum replaced the voice and faded, and birds sung from above.

For days, Michael explored his new world. He found it shaped much differently than the cage with his mother: it was twice as long as it was wide, with eight corners and twelve sides. It seemed as though two ancient corridors crossed, and the builders blocked them off together, deciding instead to make a room from them.

The white walls separated the room into five parts: the west, the north, the east, the center, and the southern longest section. The eastern section was almost bare, and Michael preferred not to spend his time in it. He noticed Cronos watching him from its furthest wall. The north contained no fruit, but it was cool and allowed Michael to rest easily. The west bore orange and yellow fruits, the center the red ones. The south contained strange trees that grew horizontally across the ground and carried small purple fruits that stained his legs as he walked, making his feet look swollen even when they were not.

Michael ate and slept for days, and wondered about his mother, until once again the keeper's voice invaded his ears.

"You got company, boy."

His blood thickened as a thin, fair skinned female came into view. Few hairs fell upon her but from the top of her head, short and blonde. A single longer strand fell and covered the center of her right blue pupil. Her lips hung from her face like petals. "Hello?" she called to him.

An queer uneasiness crept upon him. His uneasiness quickly became pain, then arousal, arousal to numbness. He could not remember how to speak. His heart pumped with increasing vigor, but the blood did not circulate. "Pig," he said softly, then hissed again. "Pig, Pig! Pig!" The little hair she had stood erect. "Pig!" he shouted a final time. "Pasiphae" echoed back to his ears.

Michael leapt from the green, and driven by madness came upon her, and knew her. A bush burnt beside them, and the air was foul and electric.

Whisper, buzz, whir, pain. So much pain. Sleep.

***

"You're a man now, boy," the familiar keeper's voice sounded. Michael rested upon a pile of hay. He sneezed and sent a dirty cyclone across the small fenced room. The Cronos machine buzzed to his left; a trough bubbled in front of him. The keeper in his black suit, yellow tie stood smiling behind the mesh. He combed his hair front to back.

Michael raised and cracked his neck. "A man?"

The keeper laughed. "A man, Michael. You did good."

"A man?" Michael asked. "What makes a man?"

The keeper concealed his comb. Desperation warped his face. The laughter of other keepers could be heard in the distance, and he turned away from the fence.

"What makes a man?" Michael asked. He walked to the trough.

The keeper shook his head and started down the corridor. His footsteps echoed throughout the farm. His voice was strained. "Men make men, Michael. Men make men." His black suit merged with the surrounding darkness, and the labyrinth swallowed him more with each step until he disappeared.

Michael cupped his hands, dipped them into the trough and brought the thick sludge to his lips. A film of short brown hair coated the top. A piece of soft meat gently landed on his tongue.

Michael chewed slowly, and pondered the meaning of life.

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by XPhile2868+Mar 28 2005, 10:01 AM--> (XPhile2868 @ Mar 28 2005, 10:01 AM)
[email protected] 4 2005, 11:17 PM
He saw the mountain the far off distance. There it was, in all it's ancient glory - taller than all the giants of the land, older than the languages the people spoke, and more powerful than any king or queen. It's intimidating size was cut down by the light sprinkling of eternal snow on it's peaks and ridges, the occasional flower that grew in between the rocks, and the way the sun laid its warmth upon the rock.
Before long, he had reached the mountain's old feet. The entire base of the mountain was wrapped in a blanket of trees, which were replaced further up by the mist that gently caressed the midriff of the mountain, like immortal cotton wool. The sun in the sky was leaving in fear of the moon and the stars, so he set up camp for the night, planning to conquer the mount once and for all, in the morning.
And then the morning rose, and the mountaineer woke. He stood up and scanned the landscape - wide, clean, untouched by the dirty hand of urban society. The sun beamed down onto the pure snow, onto the forest lower down, casting shadows onto the land. On he climbed, up towards the highest peak, from where he would see the world as if he was a majestic eagle, freer than most. The mountain was a monster of rock, snow and ice. Where the snow did not blanket the stone, tiny flowers of all worldly tints grew shyly out of the cracks of the ancient mount, fed only by the melting snow in the sun's warm glare. [/b]
As he stopped at the peak, to catch his runaway breath, he saw the defeated mountain, and a toothy grin stretched across his frostbitten face. He reached for a flag of deep red, and held it up high. The flag fluttered gently in the little wind that was, and firmly planted it, like a spear, into the snow and rock of the peak, a standard of the conqueror jubiloso de la montaña. He then walked towards the edge, as far as his brain would sanely allow him to be, and he closed his eyes, and he stood there. Quiet. Contemplative. He was the mount's one and only conqueror.

[OleMarxco]

Jazz Remington's story looks suspicably and remarkably alike "something" Chuck Palachniuak has written ;) I have done my own 'creative' - ORIGINAL work myself, but I'll add that later. Until next time, bi.....
TCH!

[JazzRemington]

Originally posted by [email protected] 3 2005, 10:29 AM
Jazz Remington's story looks suspicably and remarkably alike "something" Chuck Palachniuak has written ;) I have done my own 'creative' - ORIGINAL work myself, but I'll add that later. Until next time, bi.....
TCH!
I really have never heard that person.

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by XPhile2868+Mar 29 2005, 05:02 PM--> (XPhile2868 @ Mar 29 2005, 05:02 PM)
Originally posted by [email protected] 28 2005, 10:01 AM

[email protected] 4 2005, 11:17 PM
He saw the mountain the far off distance. There it was, in all it's ancient glory - taller than all the giants of the land, older than the languages the people spoke, and more powerful than any king or queen. It's intimidating size was cut down by the light sprinkling of eternal snow on it's peaks and ridges, the occasional flower that grew in between the rocks, and the way the sun laid its warmth upon the rock.
Before long, he had reached the mountain's old feet. The entire base of the mountain was wrapped in a blanket of trees, which were replaced further up by the mist that gently caressed the midriff of the mountain, like immortal cotton wool. The sun in the sky was leaving in fear of the moon and the stars, so he set up camp for the night, planning to conquer the mount once and for all, in the morning.
And then the morning rose, and the mountaineer woke. He stood up and scanned the landscape - wide, clean, untouched by the dirty hand of urban society. The sun beamed down onto the pure snow, onto the forest lower down, casting shadows onto the land. On he climbed, up towards the highest peak, from where he would see the world as if he was a majestic eagle, freer than most. The mountain was a monster of rock, snow and ice. Where the snow did not blanket the stone, tiny flowers of all worldly tints grew shyly out of the cracks of the ancient mount, fed only by the melting snow in the sun's warm glare.
As he stopped at the peak, to catch his runaway breath, he saw the defeated mountain, and a toothy grin stretched across his frostbitten face. He reached for a flag of deep red, and held it up high. The flag fluttered gently in the little wind that was, and firmly planted it, like a spear, into the snow and rock of the peak, a standard of the conqueror jubiloso de la montaña. He then walked towards the edge, as far as his brain would sanely allow him to be, and he closed his eyes, and he stood there. Quiet. Contemplative. He was the mount's one and only conqueror. [/b]
Then came the rumble that he feared. A loud echo cascaded over the peaks, followed only by the shrieks and screams of the few mountain goats. It was an avalanche. There was a larger mountain, Izquierda, near the one he had conquered that day. Except that it had grown sick of being called a mountain - when it was a volcano. As the snow and rock crashed down onto the valley floor, plumes of black ash and hellish flames struck into the sky, and decided to wreak chaos onto the land below.

[OleMarxco]

Originally posted by JazzRemington+May 6 2005, 05:35 AM--> (JazzRemington @ May 6 2005, 05:35 AM)
[email protected] 3 2005, 10:29 AM
Jazz Remington's story looks suspicably and remarkably alike "something" Chuck Palachniuak has written ;) I have done my own 'creative' - ORIGINAL work myself, but I'll add that later. Until next time, bi.....
TCH!
I really have never heard that person. [/b]

Well then, look it up sometime - I think he's quite good...and some of an maschostic author, too - He wrote the book "Fight Club", if you know what I'm sayin' - Which later became a film, strange you didn't know him...quite popular in some leftist-circles, yes indeed :rolleyes:

[JazzRemington]

I've heard of the book and the movie, but I didn't know about the guy. I've never gotten too far into leftist literature, unless you count 1984 and Clockwork Orange. I've been told it looks familiar to Fight Club, but this is only in the sense that the guy's job is boring and the location is overly commercialized. Plus, it's only the first chapter.

[RedAnarchist]

The slightness of the moonlight did not surprise him. It could reach through only the smallest cracks in the dusty window, which clouded the outside world, making it strange, making it dark. He went up to the window, and wiped away some of the dust with his cold, bare, aging hand and sighed. This is the world i did so much for, he thought. He saw the drunks screeching and falkling over themselves, he saw yobs running around - he was sure most of them were armed with guns even the Army didnt have anymore.

[RedAnarchist]

Originally posted by [email protected] 11 2005, 11:09 AM
The slightness of the moonlight did not surprise him. It could reach through only the smallest cracks in the dusty window, which clouded the outside world, making it strange, making it dark. He went up to the window, and wiped away some of the dust with his cold, bare, aging hand and sighed. This is the world i did so much for, he thought. He saw the drunks screeching and falkling over themselves, he saw yobs running around - he was sure most of them were armed with guns even the Army didnt have anymore.
He turned away from the window, and walked slowly to his old wooden chair, a timber antique which was next to a large oak table. He took a pen and a peice of paper, and began to write, as the chaos outside continued. All that day he wrote, until he had written every thought, every idea out onto anything he could. And this has all made him come to one conclusion.

[Kitbag]

OK, first off, let me express my appreciation for the great work I've seen on here, it's all brilliant. Well done, guys. Second, I'd like to say what a brilliant idea these threads are, they allow us to express anything, and that's a good thing in this capitalist institution of a world we live in. Here are two peices I've written, named Tired and Purgatory. The first is quite political, and the second is a bit dark, but don't worry, I'm not being all depressy and 'I want to die' here, it's just that I find it easier to write in a darker style. Hope you like.

Tired

Tired. So tired. Tired of the world and all its decaying life. Sure, the population is rising, but the spirit and soul is escaping like the smoke from a cigarette into the lungs of a child. Sucking the life out of everything. The spirit of life is being slowly weaved into our Persian rugs, our Swiss coffee tables and mobile phones. Tired of working our fingers to the bone, quite literally in some cases, for a piece of paper that means nothing. Nothing, really, compared to how fast the world is dying. If there is a god, why did he make the Earth tilt to the right? It started a chain reaction.
Surely the Holy Spirit must’ve noticed that. Even the open-minded are living in a tunnel. Even the open-minded have to realise that to make a difference you have to be explosive minded. And that takes a hell of a lot of open-mindedness. Tired of seeing the same annoying guys trying to sell us crap we don’t need and can’t afford because we have to pay for our families while the Director of the Firm has a nap or checks his emails or phones his colleague to organise a game of racket ball on the expensive court.
So god damn tired of everyone running around in their lives pretending to accomplish things that all they actually get from is a bit of satisfaction, or more precious money to spend on stuff that just eats the world.
The time has come for the world to change, magnificently, majestically. I hear the radio or television blare out in my mind:
“I will be the one to start this. The chain reaction to rival the first. Something to shock people. What controversy? Ladies and gentlemen, the world is at its wits end. It doesn’t know what to do with these stinking, lying, god-obeying idiots that try to run it. It is because of this that I propose a new style of government, what I call Hyper-Communist. I dream to go far. Further, in fact, than no man has before. The nation is in torment following the antics of Mr Bush. In conclusion, I shall bring the world back to the way it should be!”
Oh, if only. That could be me, or someone like me, in a couple of years, if it weren’t for all the tunnels.

Purgatory

There’s my body. Lying there…asleep? Or just resting. Eyes open. A stream of blood, like a beautiful babbling brook, trickling from my eyes. Replacing the tears. So young.
I can see myself. The white floor. Stained only with those tears. The white walls. Maybe they stopped here; maybe they stretched beyond infinity. Beyond the dreams of a thousand sleepers. The white ceiling, at which my motionless eyes stare. So openly. So innocently. So alive. Somewhere inside. Robert Plant’s words reversed, pulsing through my thoughts, up here looking down at myself a metre, or a mile, away.
A ray of purple light pierces my judgment. I’m swirling around in my mind. In my nice…Neat…Burned-out apartment…
There I am, in the private-screening cinema in the back of my head, me the star of the show, the Hollywood idol. Yeah right. There I am, with my secretary, a false angel, in a cheap hotel room in the heart of the city, my children a mere mile away tucked safe in bed. Me again, screwing over the decent man, just for an extra five grand a year. What was I thinking? My sushi and fancy suits. Mobile phones and action-item lists, all flashing through my mind. Talking to me. Telling me I’m going to hell, just because I designed a £200 shirt, or helped market some DKNY shoes? Crazy.
But wait, why am I here? I must have done something worth being looked over, worth being considered, worth sending me to somewhere other than my imminent fate. Helping my daughter through dyslexia? Standing by my wife during her depression? Deep down, I’m either good or bad, I don’t know, maybe that’s why I’m here.
A blinding force, I feel it through my thoughts, my mind, my subconscious head, I’m dead but still dying. I’m alive, I must be, somewhere, if I can be talking like this. I must be here for a reason. Oh look! A flake of rational thought just entered my mind; I’ll have to hold on to these, they seem to be getting less and less recently.
All those bad things I did. So wrong of me. But I felt remorse and guilt afterwards, didn’t I? Or did I? Maybe I was too caught up in the greed to notice my lack of compunction. I’m beginning to think, I’ve been in here for so long, maybe weeks, months, I just don’t know. I was mistaken to do those things, it was immoral I know, but surely I got my payback with the heart attack. No, that’s not how I feel. I was wrong, my life was a bad one, and I know that. These past weeks (or days, or maybe seconds, I really don’t know) inside this white prison I’ve been lying to myself, thinking I was good, I was a decent person deep down. Maybe I am deep down, but deeper down; I’m not a good person.
Immediately, the stain of blood on the white floor begins to enlarge, it grows bigger and bigger until there is a pool of deep, sickening red around my corpse, swirling around, always growing and spreading. It’s moving out around the floor, across a few yards and then it stops, in the shape of a perfect square. I look at it, puzzled, but with a slow realisation of what’s happening. I’ve admitted it to myself. That’s what I had to do all this time. The red starts to spread up the walls, up and up, until the whole place is now red instead of white. Black-red, like the colour of my decaying soul, and I think to myself ‘It had to happen, if you hadn’t have realised it, you’d be in that prison for eternity.’ The red is changing, slowly, so very, and agonisingly slowly into an orange. Flames. The colour makes me feel hot. But who is ‘Me’? My soul, I suppose. Or something along those lines. The heat is intense now, I’m drifting downwards, I know where I’m going, and I deserve it.

[mwolf]

For a school assignment, I had to write a piece -- it could be a monologue, a dialogue, hell, an interpretive dance -- about what I would say to George Bush if I had the opportunity to sit down and have dinner with him. Here goes:

My Dinner with W

I’m sitting in a conventional, nondescript restaurant in the mid-west. Suddenly the door opens and the Secret Service pours in, glancing furtively around. Being an amorphous, American white girl, I immediately get labeled as no threat. After the Secret Service inspects for about fifteen minutes, one man leaves and returns with seven other men, herding President George W. Bush towards a table. The people in the restaurant go crazy, gasping and clapping and setting off their camera flashes in quick succession. I frown slightly. Bush makes his rounds, shaking hands and smiling, chatting quickly with each patron.

I’m in the back corner of the restaurant, out of the way enough to be successfully ignored by the waitresses, where I went to sip my coffee and read the paper in relative quiet. But Bush spots me. He walks towards me, smiling largely. He sticks out his hand as an invitation for shaking. My brain seems to be a little slow on the uptake, because I’m simply sitting here, staring at his hand with a look of intense concentration.

I watch as his fingers slowly start to curl, like petals exposed to too much sun. He pulls his hand back and deposits it into the safety of his pocket. I look up at him then. He looks like he is trying to smile, but he has that same look of confusion and concentration on his face as I do. I open my eyes a bit wider as if it will help clear my head, which it seems to, because my tongue becomes disengaged from the roof of my mouth and breaks the lock on my lips and suddenly I’m talking: “You’re the president.” My statement of absurd obviousness allows him to speak as well. “Why, yes. Yes I am,” he says in his southern drawl.

His hand comes slowly out of its pocket like a frightened rabbit from its burrow. This time I meet him in a handshake. “Madalyn,” I say, taking initiative so he won’t have to go through the awkwardness of re-introducing himself. “Please, sit down. That is, if you have the time.” He nods in response and slips into the cheap, leather-imitation bench across from me.

I watch his mouth as the waitress comes and fusses over him, pouring him coffee, offering him the menu – ignoring me in the process, of course. His smile is pure and gentle and incredibly disarming; it’s rather frightening how easy it is to become comfortable around this man. I have to forcefully remind myself that this man is responsible for hundreds, thousands of deaths. I have to tell myself that I hate and despise him. But it is hard to feel that when he asks the waitress to kindly refill my coffee and smiles that disarming smile at me.

There’s a long moment of silence after the waitress reluctantly leaves. We are both nursing our coffee: mine black, his with a pinch of sugar. “So,” he says, breaking the silence in an amazingly graceless way, “Who do you vote for?”

I note the incorrect grammar, but choose to ignore it. “I can’t vote – I’m seventeen,” I tell him. “Guess I should try to recruit ya’,” he teases, but he looks tired. He is sitting low in his seat with his neck bent so his head can rest against the back of the bench. He’s taller than I though; his legs are stretched out until his soles brush the carpet next to my seat. I look at his eyes and see the pockets of flesh hanging below them. For the first time, I see him as a man, as a person. He looks so tired.

He looks at me then, meets my eyes fully. “What do you think?” Normally I would ask for clarification with a question this ambiguous, but today I know what I want to say in response. “You’re hurting us.” He nods, as if he completely understands. He looks away, at the cheap, scratched and pockmarked wooden table. “I know,” he says. “I know.”

And there’s nothing left to say. If I had been asked any other day what I would have said to George Bush, I would have spun a fantastical tale of beating him into verbal submission with facts about Iraq, the election, his integrity. But suddenly I see him as he is: a man who is struggling to do the right thing. I see him not as a puppet, but as an ordinary man overcome by pride and the need to impress others.

And then he starts to talk. He doesn’t admit to being wrong, or being bad, partly I think because it is ingrained in him to stick to his convictions, no matter what. But he tells me how sorry he is. How horrible it feels. How he doesn’t sleep. I watch his hands as he speaks. His forearms are resting against the edge of the table and his fingers are bent and spread as if they are cradling some invisible objects, a mango or an orange. He gestures with his hands, always in that same position, the movement originating in the wrists. He doesn’t articulate himself any better than he does in public, but he pauses for longer periods and collects his thoughts.

When he finishes, I’m crying. It’s very discreet, just a few drops in the lower lids of my eyes, but it’s there. I take a sip of my coffee to distract myself, but it has gone cold. After a moment, he stands, shakes my hand and walks out of the restaurant.

I pull down the rest of my coffee with a grimace and place my cup on the edge of the table, but the waitress is once again ignoring me.


--I'm not a Bush supporter by any means, but I chose to write it in a manner that portrayed him as a man and not a monkey; in addition, I chose not to make myself a linguistics genius -- which I don't happen to be.

[Xvall]

The Shed

Little William trembled erratically as limb after thrashing limb stuck along the sides of his face. The drying tears from his face began to blend smoothly with the crusted blood upon his cheek. A quick knee to the chin sent William reeling backwards into an unkempt pile of hay.
“Uncle…”
“Shut up!”
Uncle Ben never tolerated William’s chatter during afternoon beatings, and so he did what he usually did when Lil’ Bill decided to pipe up. The steel toes of his boots made a sound satisfying to Ben was William’s jaw was kicked around, causing fragments of tooth to spill onto the bloodstained floor. Lifting his hand, Ben wiped some of the sweat off of his face, and got back to work.
The beatings had only begun. Usually, Ben just kicked William around before really getting to work with the pliers, but Ben had an assortment of tools in the shed, and he would be damned if he was going to go through the same routine every day. The pliers routine was irrelevant anyways, considering that what was left of Lil’ Bill’s teeth was scattered all over the floor.
Ben didn’t hesitate at all as his muscular hand reached for the crowbar on the rack.
“You see this boy? You see this?”
William was dazed. He could barely hear past his heavy panting, and the words spoken by Uncle Ben seemed to be nothing but an auditory blur. Ben shook his head in disgust.
Propping William against the wall with his left hand, he clenched the crowbar in his right. The first blow to the stomach caused William to squeal helplessly in pain, but soon nothing but blood escaped from his bruised, mutilated maw. William grew limp as the crowbar repetitively slammed into his torso, until at long last he no longer moved, falling to the ground in shreds.
“Aw, shit!” Remarked Uncle Ben.
He had gone too far this time, and this was the third child lost this week. We was running out of relatives to baby-sit, and now he was going to have to go elsewhere to do his work. “The city,” he thought. “Lot’s o’ folks in the city.”

[»Evolu†ion«]

art
Subliminally, like it were merely a deluded dream, light filtered through the ominous grate and resonated what little sanity flitted fearfully through the grey. Orbs formed, swelled and imploded on themselves in a beautiful parody of nochalant misanthropy. Gluttonous pride is motive and means for pre-packaged living, an ideal which make my spinal tissue itch furiously.

Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.

The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.

In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.

(you may of heard due to previous postings on creative threads/forums.)

[OleMarxco]

------------------------
(I first posted this story at Red Apollo a few days ago, and
thought about postin' a story here but nevah' got the guts,
'tho...'till now. Call me weird...)

The Red Avengers

This is a story I made up as I write.
If you don't like it you can suck my phat fuckin' gizzard balls.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was an early blue monday, the start of the week.
..........Singin' monday blues on the radio......
it's the First hour, first day out, at work.
..........Blue-Collar workers, White-Collar bosses.....

Togheter it became....... Cyan.
Cyan Industries Incorporated.

Yet it wasn't totally Cyan, however.
More like, uh, vaguely light-blue,
but they'd like to potray it as
Cyan: An equal mix of Blue and
White. Blending. Screaming. Undeniable.

She got on her blue-work clothes and
headed out-doors. Around her, looks,
blending, screaming, undeniable....
They shunned her. She lacked STYLE.

--------------------------------

Meanwhile, at the Cyan Industries Incorporated.
The day manager, Ryan ("the", as some friends added) Cyan,
sat behind is deck, awaiting workers to check in for the
start of the day.

"Hurry the fuck up!" he yelled from his desk,
into the intercom. "We are loosin' profit here, big time!"
A siluette of Ryan showed trough the bullet-proof
windows of his. On the other end stood a line of
workers checking in to prove their arrivance.

*Check*
says the cards as the go trough the electric check-in
machine. Like the tip of an electronic razor.

---------------------------------

Meanwhile, at the bus station.
She hurried quickly to the bus station.
She was already late to the bus station.
At the bus station, there stood all kinds
of people. One was a man in a grey dress,
probably a lawyer or a buisnessman, one
could not be sure how alike they dress these
day, and a big burly man with togheter-grown
brows on his upper head, in a sweat-suit
with a cynical look on his face, perhaps a
construction worker, and obviously a journalist,
a woman dressed in sassy clothes with a sleazy
jacket, a bag and a lipstick in her hands.

Then the bus arrived.
----------------------------------------------

As the bus arrived, someone else arrived, at the
office. Not her...but they. The Avengers in Red.

"So that were the last worker in line. Hmm,
where are ms. Lee..? She's already late,
I'd better give her a punishment, like knock
her off the pay-ro..."

"No, you're the one who's gonna get knocked!"
The window smashed, the scene flashed
RYAN GOT HASHED
and the RED AVENGERS appeared,
un-smeared, non-copied.
Murderfogivens!

-----------------------

As she, Martine, stepped into the bus,
the driver gave her the EYE.
"You gonna pay, or not?"
The gas of the bus, shiffled out,
and the door had opened with a creak.
Definately rusty and old.
"But I have just entered!"
The bus driver shrugs, and
hurls his answer back like
a tidal wave:
"That doesn't matter. Time is
money, now hurry, honey!"
She pays the morning-grubby
driver and takes her seat,
at the back.

------------------------

Ryan yells into the intercom:
"I..I..CALL SECURITY!"
Then he takes the final breath.

The Red Avengers convey,
"That's 1 minute and 15 seconds,
Gary."
*click* says a stop-watch.
"5 seconds longer than last time.
We're not like, hurrying-up much
here, no! We got a personal
record to break, whoo!"
Red Avenger Nr. #1 smirked.

"Shut yer bunghole, Neelah.
we're not here up for a time-contest
or sumthin', we're here to liberate
the proletariat, whoo! Let's tell
'em on the intercom, folks!"

---------------------------

At the current time,
we have Martine at the bus,
patiently driving to her work.
As the bus passes the corner,
she sees her work....
With Windows Smashed
as Pumpkins hashed
Fire, Smolder and Smoke
rising out of the main door,
As infernal flame, eternal
Coming from the Internal
The whole quartal is flooded
by pedestrians running up and down
the aisle of the street

Martine abruptly hits the stop-button.
The message of joy was met with panic.
Just as Martine alerted the Bus-driver
to stop and call the firemen and police.

Beware of the
Red Avengers,
THE END.

------------------------------------------
Whaddya Thinkesth?

[TheReadMenace]

Wow, this is amazing.

Here's a little (well, a bit longer) piece that I wrote. It's weird, almost biographical, but at the same time I haven't followed the story to its ends in my life.

It’s Great to be Alive


“Hey, wanna have a go at a game?”

“Ah, no…I think I’ll be okay,” Thomas replied. He didn’t like basketball, and he much preferred to sit on the sidelines, anyway. It wasn’t anything new. He had always been uncomfortable. Always wanting to get out of “here,” wherever that was. It wasn’t a change of location, either. He got nervous around people. Left rooms if they were too heavily occupied. For some reason, it just felt…wrong. Out of place. It wasn’t fair that everyone else was so happy, and more so that he couldn’t relate. He envied them. He just wanted to sleep.

He began walking back to his house, thinking, occasionally humming or singing to himself. His mom was out of town on a business trip, so he was in no hurry to get anywhere. That’s why he walked. Everyone else was in a hurry, though. He never understood the rush. Was everything falling apart so fast? Depressing, really, the way everything was so fast-paced that you just couldn’t keep up unless you had the latest technology and spent your money on the newest useless things. So he took his time. He always had.

By that time it was only a few hours after noon. He didn’t have to work for a few hours yet, so he simply examined the results of urban sprawl: the lack of trees; lack of parks and open spaces; lack of animals. There sure were lots of strip malls, though. It was like they had sprung up in place of trees, as if corporations had been planted in place of seeds. So this is progress, he thought. He shook his head as he walked through his front door.

He always thought that the city was sad. Someone once told him how wonderful and beautiful life was. But he couldn’t help but disagree, especially after having looked through old photographs of the wild countryside, the hills, nature. Those pictures were taken years ago, before he was born. He liked the trees. He liked the stars. But now he could only see skyscrapers, smog, and streetlights. Hills and countrysides had been replaced with roads and buildings and busy people bustling to and fro as if something in this meaningless act was so important that everything had to be go, go, go so that whatever it was they were rushing to wouldn’t be gone when they got there.

The phone rang. It was his mom. “Don’t forget your appointment tomorrow,” she reminded him. She had signed him up to see a therapist once a week because he so often worried her with his “anti-social” and “abnormal” behavior. When he had first talked to his therapist, the first thing he told him was, “Now, Thomas: your appointment isn’t for a week. Don’t hurt yourself before then, alright?” Thomas smiled grimly as he remembered the time he passed out in the kitchen. His mom was gone on a business trip then, too. Luckily, the doctor said, she came home that day, shortly after the incident, because a stomach pump was all he needed. Thomas wouldn’t have made it if his mom came home any later.

Thomas acknowledged his mom’s reminder and hung up the phone. Don’t misunderstand him: he loved her, no doubt. But it was precisely because she was his mother that he came off so short. After all, he didn’t ask to be born – it was her decision. He could never bear to tell her, though, that she was really the cause of his abnormal behavior. Somehow, he didn’t think that would come out too nice. He knew she had good intentions, but sometimes good intentions only intensify a situation.

That night after work, his manager said: “Yer a damn good employee, son. You know that? You don’t ***** an’ whine. Ya see, I got a six-month old son back home, and that’s babysittin’ enough!” Thomas thanked him and smiled emptily yet amusedly at his manager’s stupidity, then he headed home. He hated working. He hated money. He didn’t understand how it was fair that his life had been turned into a profit scheme. Work stole his time, his life, and then reduced it all to a commodity and sold it back to him as if he owed it to whomever it was that stole it from him to buy back what was his in the first place.

All this raced through Thomas’s mind as it did every night on his way home from work. He really enjoyed lying out in the grass at night, though. The whole empty feeling subsided there. He had tried to fill that emptiness, he really did. He had become productive: he had a job; he volunteered around the city; he occasionally wrote stories and poems and even tried to get a few published. No responses, though. He tried the friend approach, as well. People would always tell him he was amiable, but he couldn’t see it. His few true friends had left him. They were the ones who knew him completely. Everyone else saw only a reflection in a dirty pool.

He recalled a book that he read that said you can’t find meaning so soon in life. It was like a movie: every piece is important but doesn’t make sense until the end. Apparently, that was life – a meaningless sequence of events that are important all the same. “Meaning will come some day,” the book told him. Honestly, though, he had read so much that it was sometimes hard to know what to believe, because everything made sense but at the same time made no sense at all.

He stepped outside and lay down in the grass, staring at the stars. He lost himself to thought. Suddenly, a tremor shook his from the depths of his soul. He shook and shook and curled into a ball and shook. He began to sob. That sobbing turned to crying, crying to wailing. He was empty, broken. But he couldn’t figure out why. He kept crying, and a well of water was released from his eyes, each tear falling for an eternity before finally leaving a crater in the ground into which Thomas sank further and further into nothingness, slowly leaving that hollow, vacant shell that he and everyone else identified as Thomas. Everything became nothing, and that nothing was everything.

When the tears subsided, Thomas lay pale and motionless and cold in the grass. He had no feeling, no emotion. Each breath was a shudder, a heavy wind that swept with an echo into the void of his self. He wanted to get out of “here.”

Time then didn’t exist. Ages, lifetimes, seconds – nothing was clear, but they all passed just the same, and he had no idea how long he had lain prostrate on the ground. He finally got up, went back into his home and began writing. He scribbled on a piece of paper, sat a few moments in thought, and then walked towards the restroom, thinking, humming, singing to himself: All is gone now, the hate and the pain… He slipped into the bathtub and stared at the ceiling. Time, though nonexistent, passed so slow. He closed his eyes, set, resolute, determined in his decision. He was more at home then than he had ever been. The bathtub began to fill and he opened his eyes to watch as life slowly faded, faded, black, blacker – All is gone now, the hate and the pain…

Thomas’s mom returned from her business trip a few nights later. She found a paper surrounded by piles of books on the dining room table and began to read the random scrawlings put down several nights before: “When men have learnt the secrets of death, then death will be as sweet and voluptuous as sleep in a lover’s arms” – “Death is life absent, thus no more pain” – and other almost incoherent musings (or so she perceived) that the mother could not understand and thus pushed back into the recesses of her mind simply to forget as she did with everything else Thomas had once attempted to communicate to her. She called Thomas, but received no answer. That was when she found him, lying in the bathtub with a smile seen on the faces of those finally released from great sorrow after many painful years, as though he had fallen asleep in a lover’s arms.

[rioters bloc]

A Soul Stolen



Fork down, spear, up, and into the mouth. Don't look at the camera, for cameras steal your soul. The food has no taste, but taste is just a useless accessory these days; like education it has become obsolete, has died, leaving behind it a bitter aftertaste and the will to forget. Chew, keep your mouth closed at all times, smile politely around the table and chew, and chew, and swallow. Dinner is now an ancient dance, motions without meaning and expressions without soul. Silence threefold around the table, an exercise in convention. A family's façade of love. Look down at the plate now, steak chips and peas, a healthy meal for a growing girl as father always said - when he spoke at all. Every day at sundown, this same healthy meal and this same healthy silence.

The camera whirrs in the background but I choose to ignore it. Plates are cleared and cutlery clatters in the sink as mother washes up while trying to avoid father's eyes. He leans back in his chair and smiles wanly, watching her. Knuckles snap as he stretches his arms behind his head, pale spindly fingers entwined like barbed wire. Climbing the stairs to my room, I pause in the middle and am confused by what I see, for what I see is nothing where an ornate mirror once hung. The camera has noted my momentary hesitation and a voice whips through my skull: "The mirror was taken down for cleaning." It comes back to me now - it has been taken down because they believe that mirrors also steal parts of your soul, and if this was true there'd be nothing left for the camera. So – in an instant - it is gone, and the viewers think that it was taken away to be cleaned. But I know that they will never see the mirror again.

In my room, a contented room; mushroom coloured walls and pale mauve carpet makes for a superficial happiness, yet I am not happy, superficially or otherwise. A warm glow of luxury hangs over my cell and it calls for complacency in the least but I enjoy my dissatisfaction. I remind myself of this as I draw ponies on my mushroom walls.


----------------


He leaned back in his chair and watched his wife with troubled eyes. She knew what he was thinking and what he was going to say. She moved her lips in time with his as he spoke, the same stale words he had been saying for the past 6 years: "Margot seems to be getting worse." She shrugged her shoulders, still avoiding his eyes, and went back to rinsing the already sparkling dish that she had been holding for precisely eight minutes.


----------------


Silence in my chamber, silence in my heart, only noise is that camera, recording me, the contented child, the obedient girl with the crucifix above her bed. Step to the clock and see, hands at 9 and 12, ten hours until my wake-up call, ten hours until monotony. Ten hours in which to do whatever I wished, for in my sleep I can dream and in my dreams the camera cannot enter. 3650 hours a year, 10 more on leap years, all to myself, the rest my audiences. I turn and smile now, a self-indulgent smile, expression vague; the walls, soft and dripping purple pearls of cream watch me. They do not know that I know they watch me, no, best keep it that way. Windows encased with skin instead of glass, hair follicles making a grand view as I whisper prayers through my lips and rage inside my skull.

Lying in bed with the covers drawn up to my chin, eyes closed and eyelashes just brushing like spiders against my cheek. What a pretty picture I must make to those who still watch should I escape and go on a moonlit adventure. My head seems to be imploding, my thoughts dissilienting and cutting into my soft brain tissue like a birch switch. I try and rise above the pain, an ill-gotten pleasure in sublimity. I clench my fists and imagine being on the operating table having my stomach cut up over and over and again, until the ground is slippery with entrails and there is nothing left to digest my dreams.


---------------


He lay in bed, a plasmatic fear gripping his stomach, listening for any sound through the thin walls lest she should be awake and in a frenzy. Stained glass fragments of the past imbedded themselves in his head, events that he had chosen to eliminate from his memory but which had now returned with ruthless force. Margot against the walls as a child, her thin childish voice rising to a hysterical wail, "Stop following me! Why do you watch me? Why oh why oh why oh…" Trips to the shrink that followed, her unwavering blank stare as the pale, bald enigma of a doctor tried to pry information out of her. The coldness that had ensued between her and her parents. Beside him, his wife took a deep breath and let it out through her mouth.


-----------


Dreams of white-frosted candles set in a blisteringly bright background of ice and calamity. Flames, rising, unflickering, ready to act on my behest; flames, burning twice as bright and half as much. Contemplation in strife, weighing up options and trimming down ideals. To leave or not, to step out into this new realm and leave my old self forever, leave the cameras and my viewers, and the parents with incriminating eyes and pointing fingers, finding in me a scapegoat always. Cut off the strands linking me to myself, cut off my air supply, and we're off. Into the curling and frayed oblivion, a Gilgamesh in disguise, World Without End, Amen.


-------------


Morning light collected on the pale mauve carpet, glinting off the crystalline crucifix and onto the pretty plastic corpse lying on the bed, eyelashes still against her cheek. Sonic orange tape surrounded the room in mock antiquity. The girl's mother stood outside with her husband, turning an imaginary dish over and over in her hands. Two strangers sifted through her belongings, looking for Clues, finding nothing. They shrugged their skeletal shoulders and moved onto the girl herself, undressing her with cold hard sweaty fingers, eyes widening at her frailty. Removing the girl's shirt and finding a small diary sewn into her upper arm, done recently, a strange abyss in her otherwise impersonal room. Tearing it open, incivility evident in their actions, expecting to find a dwelling of tints and transparencies, finding an epic of a young girl's descent into catacombs of madness. Flipping through the pages, poring over the remnants of her life and capturing remnants of her soul.


October 2001

[Jimmie Higgins]

The U.S. Election 2004, a play in one act.

The scene is inside a station-wagon which is driving down a road headed toward a cliff. Signs alongside the road read "Watch-out morons, it's a cliff". Bush is driving and Kerry is in the passenger seat. Nader is tied and gagged in the trunk.

Bush: I can't stress it enough, if my opponent has his way it will be dark before we make it to the cliff. I'm driving fine, and by January we will arrive at out destination.

Kerry: If we continue to let Bush drive he will get too tired to concentrate on the road and we might crash before we even have a chance to fall off the cliff. Now if you go to my website www.letkerrydrive.com you will see I have a plan that will allow us to stop for gas and buy a soda and still arrive on time.

Bush: Kerry's a flip-flopper: first he has a right-blinker on, then a left-blinker. He was navigating and he said: "we actually have to go south before we have to go north" now how can we trust him to know the right direction to drive?

Kerry: I have said consitantly said throughout my campaign: we need to stop at a country store and get directions".

Bush: See, that's the problem right there. I'm a leader and I know which way to drive you make decisions and don't stop for directions. Being the driver of this car is not about being popular in the halls of country stores.

Kerry: I don't want to stop at a country store, but the fact remains that my opponent's poor-planning has left us no alternative. If I had been driving I would have reminded everyone before we left to use the bathroom so would wouldn't have to stop later on.

Then they drive off a cliff.

The End

[Monty Cantsin]

In the back room a young boy sat watching television, mildly entertained by the spectacle of playschool. In Passive captivation, the vernacular life eroded away to a vicarious proxy stationed in front of a second hand couch. It was approaching half past ten local time for this house at the end of Steel Street, placed next to the railroad tracks. Beyond which a wasteland of red earth and short scrubs seemingly inappropriate for the coastal area was nevertheless wind swept with swirling clusters of dust rising only to be grounded.

Abruptly the monotonous routine of the boy was broken. The phlegmatic expression on his face had given way to a sharp intensity, as he began to vibrate on and with the couch. Immediately seized with trepidation, it encapsulated his heart violently casting it into a sunken state. Noticing as the television edged it way to a tenuous potion half on and of its base, the grey-blue wall seemed not to be moving like everything else.

“Alex, come here”

His mother yelled from within the kitchen, her voice sounding haggardly at the edges but piercing at hight points, an effect that later in life would send shivers down his spine.

Instantly Alex jumped to his feet and ran towards the kitchen, stoping next to a bookshelf with rattling photo frames still containing their content present upon sale. Peering through a doorway he saw his pregnant mother holding off a dancing microwave upon a dancing fridge, while holding a new born baby boy in her arms. Struggling with the strain the shaking finally stopped, allowing her short respite.

‘Did anything fall on you?’ she asked the boy.
‘No’ Alex answered.

As he stood next to an empty bookshelf its assorted contents scattered around his feet. In a couple days she would notice his small body covered in bruises. Fearing a second tremor they ran out of the house into their front yard. Outside Maria reiterated her earlier concerns for Alex safety. He had remembered himself full of question about the quake at this time, predominantly ‘why’. In actuality the boy said nothing mulling over the shock in silence.

The next door neighbour, a middle age single mother living with her young daughter had both reached the pavement. Both forgetting the commodity which sustained the mother’s career in day-care, a child stranded hysterical alone in the house. Screams of the child could be heard outside while the caring duo crippled by fear remained inactive. The trembling earth had long since stopped it’s convolutions before the older one broke her apprehension to return for the child. Novocastrians faced a general crisis but this family suffered a particular trauma. A close relative had bled to death underneath rubble with so many other patrons of the workers club. For the majority of people this earthquake meant a nasty shock and cracked plaster. Those too young to remember the earthquake it simply meant scaffolds and street barricades. Along hunter street scaffolds remained over a decade, littlie sign of progress they became an integral part of the Newcastle experience along with the other archetypes coal and steel. Though a minority think of their lives in terms of pre- and post-quake, they didn’t know this much yet.

Alex wasn’t sure where his father was, he was outside with them a few minutes ago.

‘Mum, where’s dad?’
‘His gone to get some food, we have to stay out of the house. There could be another earthquake.’

They sat waiting inside their car, with the oppressive heat and general boredom. Alex tried to amuse himself by occasionally playing cards and watching the desert like terrain beyond the tracks. He’d though of that landscape, even at that young age (or maybe a later infraction into his memory of more developed opinions) as a sign of desolation and isolation. Scanning it’s bareness for the occasional tyre or piece of corrugated iron, small marks of humanity which dominated the world behind Alex’s back. Time was passed particularly slowly for Alex, concerned with why his father was talking so long. He looked up to his father as most boys do, the protector, a source of safety and stability. When Marshall got back from the shops he’d brought a small box of food, drinks and news of collapsed facades and buildings. Alex found his favourite salt and vinegar chips and listened to the stories his father had brought back.

[Niall]

i lijke this thread, ive an idea for a novel, once ive got some of it down i'll post it here foryou guys to read. Oh, some grest stories by the way

[JazzRemington]

Here is part of an experiment in gonzo style of literature I recently attempted.


I was almost outside of the city when those vicious bastards finally caught up with me. This was a mistake on my part, as I had neglected to leave the vehicle in a suitable hiding place as I thought the best way to escape this urban hell hole was on foot. But it mattered nothing now for those twisted broken mirror images of criminal justice had found me. I pulled over the side of the road, right in front of a ma-and-pa deli that was packed at this time of the day with various go-getters, tourists, and just plain hungry folk. The cop car screeched to a halt behind me and the officer inside let out his first of many orders through his loud speaker.

“Alright, exit the vehicle slowly, keeping your hands out of the window where we can see them.”

I complied. Or rather, I tried to my damnedest. You see, it's rather to do anything slowly, or fluidly for that matter, when your mind is being molested by so many psychoactive substances. I remember getting out of the car at some point after the time the pig asked me to. I just don't remember how long the lapse between the order and my action was.

“I said, exit the vehicle slowly, keeping your hands out of the window where we can see them.”

“Alright you fucker, hold on.” I snapped back, forcing my hands out of the window. I slowly pulled the handle on the outside of the door and the door flew open suddenly, throwing me outside on the warm pavement right on my face. I looked up at a tall figure wearing black moving toward me slowly, while another stood just outside the copmobile holding something up to his mouth. Now, it may have been the drugs or I may have just developed a case of paranoid schizophrenia but the cop that stood by his car had an honest-to-god speaker phone coming out of his fucking mouth, with colors and non-Euclidean geometric shapes spewing forth from it. The one cop that was approaching me bent down, forced his knee on my back, and cuffed me.

“It's alright son,” I remember him saying. “Would you like some pie?”



At the station, they had me in a small room with a small desk in the middle. The cold, dark concrete walls were slowly moving in on me, letting out a small 10-watt hum that seemed to come above me, but moved all around me. The door in front of me started to throb like a heart, moving in and out, twisting its shape into bizarre and unreal proportions. The door seemed to morph along with a long, dull tirade of words coming from the other side. The words stopped, and so did the throbbing, when the door flew open to reveal a strange looking man in a black suit holding a briefcase. He sat at the table across from me, someone on the outside of the room closing the door behind him.

“Who the hell are you?” I recall asking in a slurred manner.

“I'm your lawyer. You called me an hour ago, ranting about how I better 'get my worthless middle class ass down here soon right now in the extremely near future.'” My lawyer sat his briefcase on the table, opened it, and produced a small tape recorder. “Now, I want you to tell me everything you know about the events leading up to your arrest.”

I dont remember the events I am sorry He asked me why not and I said I dont know why I cannot say but I think I know whyIdoIdoIdo fuckign currten over my brane i cant' remember antthing. Turnt that tv off, i'm trying to write a fucking story here you cock but no I cant remmeber the events in anway shapeorform. That snakeman in front of me keeps staring at me, wanting me to tell him something so I figure I better start now IdoIdoido.



The streets are filthy here. Why am I here, then? Oh yah. I was about three thirty in the afternoon oh my god that smell. I wish they would spray something in here. I hope everyone knows they are supposed to wash their hands before returning from the bathroom because I hope that people know who is serving their food. The smell is good though, they just sprayed something. The dull, black smoke cloud hovered around in the kitchen for a while longer before being dispersed outside. That's the real stuff the Mexican wrestling. I was watching it on TV the other night and I was telling my friend what was going on in the match. He was monitoring carefully a tape recorder thingy on the table. He had told me earlier that he was doing research for a paper he was writing for school.

ME: So, this guy you know, he hit this guy and he goes flying into the audience.

MY FRIEND: Really?

ME: Ya.

[Sound of murmering next to the table]

ME: Yes, please. And could we get some more bread?

[wishful thinker]

My 74 Dodge Charger raced; literally I was going 117 miles an hour, windows down, southbound along highway 61. I set out from Duluth, Minnesota in search of a better life. My past is filled with crimes such as petty theft, public drunkenness, and indecent exposure. How am I going to make my way in life with my scarred past? So southbound I go where I’ll end up, I do not know. The music blared; Johnny Cash was on the radio, the Folsom Prison Blues, to be exact, a fitting soundtrack to the start of my journey.

In the distance I could see a hitchhiker, a vagabond, going where the wind blows. How could I be so cruel as to pass him by? I began my slow descent from 100+ mph and pulled over in front of him. I signaled with a peace sign and he climbed in. He inhaled the sweet fumes of cancer and I asked him for a cigarette myself. He replied with “Don’t you know cigarettes are all a hitchhiker has besides his memories?” I chuckled and said “What about whiskey?” This brought laughter from the both of us and he handed me one.

I asked “So where do you come from?” “I know not, but I believe somewhere out west, Wyoming perhaps.” he said, and I inquired again “Where are you headed?” “I’m headed into the arms of freedom. I’ve lost an interest in the world of today. So to directly answer your question, I’m headed anywhere you want to take me.” “That’s good.” I replied.

“I’m thinking about going down to San Anton to make a living working for whoever will accept me then taking my skimpy pay to Mexico to live like a king.” He replied with “You’re looking at it all wrong, Mr… what’s your name?” “Josh” I said. “Ok, Josh, you’re looking at it all wrong. Money shouldn’t be the biggest concern on your mind, enjoying the sunny days should be your goal.” “But how am I going to enjoy sunny days without having a house to live in, without food to eat, without girls to sleep with? By the way what is your name?” I said. “My name is Proudhon.” “Proudhon?” I asked. “Proudhon.” he returned. “What kind of a name is Proudhon?” I asked. What he then said I would remember for the rest of my life. “Josh are you happy? Of course you’re not. I don’t know your past but I’d assume you wouldn’t be racing down this long, long road to San Antonio if you weren’t running from someone or something. Happiness cannot be found in piles of money, in expensive possession, not even in between the legs of a woman who sets your passions aflame. All this will fade leaving you cold, bitter, and lonely. You see you must look at today with a smile. Helping your fellow man out, such as you giving me a lift, will get you the happiness you desire. Now to answer your question Proudhon is a name I most enjoy. It was the name of a French utopian socialist from the 19th century. It’s an unordinary name but who wants to be ordinary anyway? How many Joshs do you know or know of? How many Proudhons do you know or know of? 2 now right?” With that he concluded and drew his hat over his head for a nap. I finished my cigarette and cranked the tunes thinking of the wisdom this vagrant possesses.

---------

just the beginning if someone enjoys it let me know and I'll post the rest

[Sir Aunty Christ]

One night, several years ago, whilst leafing through a battered copy of Das Kapital in a cottage in rural France, I started to drift off. (Well, have you tried reading that damn book?) As I began to lose consciousness I heard a banging on the front door. Jumping up, I wondered if the landlady would totter down the stairs. But she did not so it was up to me to answer the door which I feared would break at any moment, the pounding getting ever heavier.

The sight I met was one I shall never forget. A young man, probably my own age, stood before me. Bedraggled was he, sodding wet as if he’d been standing stock still in the torrential rain since it started. However, what confounded me was not his demeanour but his dress. He dressed as a Parisian peasant would in Revolutionary times.

My first guess was that he was a living history buff who had come seeking refuge as part of a re-enactment. But as I looked at him his stare grew more distant. He then took a few steps over the threshold, looked around and said in French:

“Home at last.”

He then collapsed. It took all my weight to hold him up and sit him in the chair I had vacated.

I did the usual things: checked his breathing – fine; pulse – fine; temperature – fine. I decided to let him sleep so I took a blanket from the kitchen, draped it over him and sat down on a much more uncomfortable chair.

I sat in the chair and tried to sleep but the stranger occupied my thoughts...

[wishful thinker]

^interesting, who could this wanderer be? what more, teller of tales?

[Donna]

oh yes i need to hear more

[Sir Aunty Christ]

All in due course.

Remember you heard of Henri de Gascon here first.

[Epoche]

Here's a little mediocre piece that I transformed into a satire. It was originally a hyperbole I posted as a response to a person I was arguing with at another forum. The person had mentioned during the argument a situation in the family where a relative was struggling finacially for certain reasons. I took her quotes and used them as a plot for a dialogue I wrote between a "resturant owner" who was struggling financially (who was the actual example) and a "motley revolutionary radical" using logic and the Socratic method of discourse to break him down, finally causing him to collapse emotionally. The radical then forgives him and offers to help, but only after the resturant owner is suddenly offered a dramatic proposition to join the revolution. Its quite absurd but a fun read.

I've named them "Tommy" and "Alfonzo." The names aren't printed before each part in the script, but you should be able to tell who is who by the format.

It begins with Tommy explaining the details of how he ran his resturant to Alfonzo.....

"Managers were paid far more, the the waiters and waitressess did indeed earn minimum wage $6.75 hourly plus tips. In the higher class restraunts this works into about $500.00 a week. Yes, they did receive health benefits, but with a $500.00 annum deductable. And I had two children to support, and a mortgage. I also ended up losing my business and then worked two jobs to pay the bills. You have no idea how hard it was!"

"You seem to be rather generous to your employees, Tommy. Those are decent wages considering the context."

"Yeah, I try to be more than fair."

"Tell me, Tommy, how did you come up with that figure, I mean, how did you decide what to pay them?"

"Simple. I took into consideration the average wage paid for those positions and I based my scale competitively. I paid my managers slightly more than the average rate expected to be paid for that position. Of course I paid my waiters minimum wage, because they make decent tips."

"I see. So really you only paid them more to raise your chances of keeping good employees, as a kind of incentive for them. But lets say that the average wage was lower than it was. In this case you would still pay a competitive wage, but it would be lower than the wage you would pay if the average wage was higher."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"I'm saying that what you did has nothing to do with "fair," but rather with the circumstances that you are present to. Had the average wage been lower at the other resturants, you'd pay a lower competitve rate, but it would still be higher then the others. This is not fair. It is proportionately contingent."

"You're wrong. It is indeed fair because I'm giving my employees a better alternative to working for another resturant that would pay them less."

"But you aren't concerned with that directly, Tommy. You are only concerned with running your business. Let me ask you this: if your managers did not know what the average wage was, and asked to be paid a wage that was lower than what you were prepared to pay, would you decline that offer and pay them more?"

"No. Why should I? What they do not know doesn't hurt them."

"Now we're getting somewhere, Tommy. You just got done saying that you were giving them a "better alternative" to working a lower paying job at another resturant. Then you turn around and say that if your employees are not aware of the average rate, and expected to be paid less then what you are willing to give them, you wouldn't pay them what you would have, had they known. So essentially what you call a "better alternative" is only in effect if they are aware of the worse alternative, which would be accepting a lower wage at another resturant. But they aren't...so you don't, because in the event that they do not know, you do not offer a better alternative because you certainly wouldn't pay them what you would have paid them if they knew the average pay rate. You admitted this here: "No. Why should I? What they do not know doesn't hurt them."

"Look, who do you think you are? Is this some kind of Socratic method?"

"Do you know what logic is, Tommy?"

"Of course. Its that stuff Spock talks about on Star Trek."

"Nevermind, Tommy. Let's proceed. I want to ask you about the tipping etiquette. What is it and how did it evolve?"

"I dunno. I guess it just became a tradition sometime in the past."

"Right. Do you think it is necessary?"

"I don't know if its necessary, but it sure saves me a lot of money."

"That's right, Tommy, it saves you money because the customers not only pay for the food you make them, but also for the labor of the waiters and waitresses who bring it to them."

"Yeah. So?"

"You think that is okay, Tommy? I mean who's the employer here, you or the guy eating the nine dollar cheeseburger? Why does he pay a "tip" for the labor and service of the waiter? Shouldn't you be paying your servers?"

"I do pay them. I pay them minimum wage."

"That's right. You pay them minimum wage because by the time the guy eating the cheeseburgers pays them again, they average a higher wage. Your profit depends on the etiquette of tipping, something that has no logical basis, and the customer ends up paying twice for what should be something that he pays once for: the food and the service of bringing it from the kitchen to the table. Why stop there? Why not create an etiquette where customers pay a guy for opening the door, a guy for walking them to their table, a guy for handing them their menus, etc., etc.?"

"Because that would be silly, don't you think?"

"No more silly than paying a waiter to refill my glass and bring me my food, Tommy. Paying the waiters is YOUR job, not the customers."

"Well, I never thought about it like that. I guess you're right, ."

"I'm always right, Tommy. [wink] So let's recap, shall we? You are lying about wanting to be "fair" because the opportunity you provide for your employees to make higher wages is proportionately contingent to the wage average of the other competing resturants, and also because you wouldn't tell them anyway that you would be willing to pay them more if they didn't know what that average was and that you would pay them more if they had known because- "what they do not know doesn't hurt them." Furthermore, the only reason why you do not pay your waiters more is because the customers do not question the tradition of tipping, not because tipping is reasonable in and by itself."

"Jeez, you're right. I feel terrible."

"Relax, Tommy, its not your fault. This disaster started hundreds of years ago. Now, as a revolutionary I should shoot your stupid ass in the face and put your head on a stick, but I'm not gonna do that because I like 'ya, and because I am personally going to distribute money that I have stolen from several politicans to each and everyone of your employees."

"Gosh thanks, Alfonzo. You're like a modern day Robin Hood. I would like to learn more about these economics if you are willing to teach me."

"We can't go there, Tommy. You haven't the intellect to understand. Its too late for that. You and your generation are screwed. Only the children matter now."

"So I'm hopeless?"

"Well I wouldn't say that. Can you carry a gun and do you know how to shoot against the wind?"

"Um, I could learn."

"Great. Here are some directions to a place where I want you to come to at midnight, and meet some "friends" of mine. [grin]"

"Oh, and Tommy, regarding your mortgage, I forgot to tell you that the present day economics are structured like a pyramid, so to speak. Just as you are unjustified in your exploitation of your employees, so to is the entire industry to its consumers. The house you are struggling to pay for is owned by an enterprise that in turn exploits workers to build, which will then be sold to a customer for far more than it cost to build."

"What do you mean more specifically?"

"I mean that the very same thing you are doing to your employees...the company that owns your house is doing to you, as well as the insurance companies that provide medical benefits for your employees."

"Holy shit! This is a terrible nightmare! Can this really be happening?"

"Sure its happening, but keep your chin up, kid. We're gonna make it come hell or high taxes. And just one more thing. You said you have two kids, right?"

"Yeah, and that makes it even harder financially for me."

"Well, I would say you shouldn't have had any kids in our present day political setting, but its a bit too late for that. My suggestion is to tone down your consumer habits and watch what you buy."

"Boy, that's gonna cause a lot of emotional problems for my kids when they go to school wearing cheap clothes and driving old cars. The other kids will laugh at them for sure."

"That's right, Tommy, and the industry feeds off that emotional dissonance- class pressure is the vehicle upon which the market rolls."

"We are so fucked, Alfonzo. I never thought it was this bad. [Tommy begins to panic as tears form in his eyes]"

"Hey, come here. [Alfonzo gives Tommy a warm hug] I'm gonna take care of you and your kids, okay? Meanwhile I want you all to stay in your house and study Marxism and Socialism [Alfonzo hands Tommy a few books]. I'll bring you money and food when I can. When you leave at midnight to go to that place I told you about, just tell your kids you have a meeting to attend to. We'll take it from there. Be cool, Tommy. I'll see you tonight."

[Monty Cantsin]

‘Why is melancholic art called realism and romantic art called idealised? Kafka’s trial is called expressionist. I don’t see the distortion, if I was in Joseph’s position I’d be anxiety ridden too’, Thought Alex a young man waiting for a train. He was staring at the book which sparked the tangent, he hadn’t read a line. Running his fingers over the old yellowed pages with creased coroners, the black font lost none of its lustre. To Alex this was quite peculiar, the very foundation of this text was degenerated and withering away but the writing itself seemed defiant. He always opened this book to page 235, where K. talks to the priest. Alex had his own theory about the law’s portrayal of k’s delusion described thus; the priest is apart of the court, in the pay of the court k is therefore firstly deluded to trust the priest. Secondly k is deluded to accept on face value the story as a source of clarification. The fable preferences the writings of the law, it functions as its own self-image. Just as the behaviour of the court seems arbitrary and confusing to k, the story confuses him further as if an ideological mirror of the courts behaviour. But Alex couldn’t stop thinking ‘if the trial serves as both social criticism and a metaphor for life, what’s this sections significance to life?’ This question stumped him ‘could it simply imply that life’s a mystery, impossible to quantify? Like the arbitrariness of an earthquake.’ he was never fond of those philosophies that set everything at nil.

Unable to read, he put away the book in his raggedly old backpack which he’d had ever since his years in scouts. Having just missed the last train, watching it race away as he walked down the hill towards the station, he had an hour before the next train to amuse himself. He thought about the heat. It was high summer; the flowers lining the car park were bathed in sun light their paleness contrasted by evergreens. Alex was alone of platform two; looking up and down the platform it arched concave so as on the outer edge one end could not be seen from the other end. ‘At least I’m not waiting for a bus, there more a matter of luck then trains. Buses are always early, late or broken down and not coming - no consistency’. Remembering that day Jon and he went to the beach and on the way back the bus had broken down near National Park Street, the deriver was talking up the service. ‘They break down from time to time but when was the last it happened to any of you?’ indiscriminately to the four remaining passengers. ‘yer, I can’t remember the last time - agers ago’ said a young man siting in the front seat, where everyone was huddling around. ‘Two days ago trying to get home from school the bus broke down’ piped up Alex in a rather peevish voice, Jon slapped Alex’s arm from behind like he’d said something wrong. The driver flatly replied ‘sometimes you get a run of bad luck’. The first occurrence didn’t bother Alex though, seeing as everyone had just left school there were many distractions about. The second one neither but they served well together for this cynic.

Alex looked up to the old analogue clock on his right side, a silver base, white front and black hands; he hadn’t seen one like it since school - a long while. It was approaching three o’clock Alex thought he’d better get his ticket. At the counter he peered through the glass to see if anyone was there - ‘no one, great, I hate using those machines.’ Soon as think the conductor appeared in front of Alex, ‘what will it be mate?’

‘One to Penrith’

‘That will be twenty one dollars’

Alex cringed as he heard that, the fairs had gone up again and he was a conservationist when it came to money, he only did odd jobs. He needed to find his way to Sydney though, so it was necessity to fork out this cash. Handing it over the conductor pressed a few buttons and the computer spat out the ticket in a second. ‘Thanks mate’ in his manliness voice as is the custom among Australian males. ‘Is the next train a limited stations?’ asked Alex, ‘yes, it shouldn’t take long to get here either’ Alex thanked him again and resumed his earlier seat. It wasn’t long before the dirty-steel coloured train curved itself around the station and passengers with precision timing hurried on, Alex among them. Viewing the inside of the train he was quite surprised, it wasn’t a country line normally used between major cities. It had long blue seats and air conditioning, this train was newer and used for inner-city travel. He took the first seat he saw and within seconds the whistle of the conductor sounded and the doors shut. As the train was moving along he glanced at an old lady around fifty who was knitting, she smiled and he pretended not to notice. Pulling out his book and beginning to read, the same chapter he always read.

Occasionally watching the passing landscapes was therapeutic for Alex; he’d done the same thing catching the bus to school sliding into a trance like condition as the road and in this case rail passed in and out of view. The cathartic nature of this trip quickly faded, by the time the train reached Morisset Alex realised the phrase ‘limited station’ counted for little. Every train is limited stations they never stop at every station, he’d asked the wrong question. He imagined they’d stop at Fassifern as sure he was they’d stop at Cardiff and Newcastle itself but not every insignificant backwater of a station.

‘Well they built the stations so at least some trains have to stop there’ his justification for a journey which he new would now take five maybe six hours, at least a whole extra hour tacked on. Now there were some extra passengers who boarded, fortunately he enjoyed ears dropping and studying people when ever travelling or waiting. Alex wasn’t a misanthropist as he liked to pretend with some of his friends, he was just introverted. There were six people in the same compartment along with Alex siting parrel to the sides of the train. Two old men, dressed similarly in white short sleeve shirts and grey shorts were chatting about the ‘lack of backbone in the new generation’. Two old ladies, one knitting the other siting silent pompously nose held high - she seemed to be the passive but proud attachment of the man siting next to her. There was also an energetic child, pig tailed, bright eyed and she reminded him of another little girl he knew. Alex liked the way children lived in the world rather then through it before everything became old and normalised. Her mother looked familiar but he couldn’t place her and said nothing, she was totally consumed with trying to keep up with the child.

The train finally reached Gosford, which serves as half way maker - everyone had to disembark the train was terminating here. Scuttling across the platform passengers scattered themselves into different segments. Alex was used to this style of train with its water dispenser at one end and toilet (which you’d never dear use) at the other. Light orange seats which pushed forward or pulled back to create the desired travel arrangement.

Across the aisle sat three Indian ladies with a middle class appearance and good English with a slight foreign accent indicating they’d spent a few years in Australia minimum. Their conversation which Alex listened to for entertainment largely consisted of relationship troubles and the latest gossip on female celebrities and friends. ‘She doesn’t wear makeup, as if it will get her into heaven’ one said to another, the reply was muddled and he couldn’t make it out. ‘Their speaking another language mixed with English’ realised Alex. It was difficult for him to make out a single word, every foreign language expect French and Spanish, which he could pick out a few words from seemed like gibberish spoken too fast and run together. Once while watching a film about a Cambodian girl who immigrated to America and struggled to win a spelling bee, he thought his vocabulary was tiny. Half the words this girl was spelling he’d never heard of, then he realised it was just the southern accent which emphasised different sounds ever so slightly that was throwing him off.

It wasn’t long before he got bored of his Indian friends chit-chat and Alex’s brain felt like it was falling out, after spending hours on a train it becomes a matter of endurance and stoic resilience to keep a semblance of sanity.

His apathy was impeded when a red haired bohemian girl appeared at the steps of the first floor section. She was average hight, slender and dressed in a long purple skirt with black webbing and a black top that hugged her curves. Alex eye’s followed her as she walked down the passageway. When passing him she smiled the most contagious smile giving Alex a shot of adrenaline. He hesitated in reply; struck unexpectedly he managed only a small smile. That simple exchange left him feeling reinvigorated, though unlucky because the train pulled into a station where the girl stepped off. ‘It’s the middle of nowhere; I’d get off and talk to her if I was crazy.’ He concluded ‘that’s properly the line between reality and the romantic’.

[FinnMacCool]

An Execution by Finn

I saw the traitor.

He sat beneath me at my feet, his eyes nervous and frightened. Tears swelled up in his eyes. This man was a traitor. He had betrayed us, his comrades, on several occasions. He was, perhaps, responsible for the deaths of at least four of our former mates.

Knowing this, I still faltered at the order. Fidel pronounced that he would have to die; my rifle suddenly felt a great deal heavier as I realized what one of us was going to have to do. My arms would not obey him. I did not want to kill this pathetic man, however distasteful he was.

I looked towards my fellow soldiers for help. We all were standing in a circle around the man, who was on his knees weeping like a little child. Their eyes constantly flickered nervously between the traitor, Fidel, and the rest of us.

Suddenly, there was rain. It started slowly, with only a few scattered drops but then there was the sound of distant thunder and the rain came down, with ferocious quickness. Fidel watched us there, his hair and beard damp from the water. His face was expressionless as he shook his head from one side to the other, and slowly turned, walking towards a hut, which was about seven yards from where we stood.

The long silence was only disrupted by the ceaseless blubbering of the disgraced comrade. We all watched him, indecisively. Only recently, he had been a friend, a true comrade. He laughed with us, reveled in our victories, and cursed our defeats. Would we kill him now?

I gazed over at Ernesto. He stood towards the left of me, watching the traitor silently. His eyes showed no hint of maliciousness but all the same it was a cold stare.

Suddenly I felt his eyes meet mine. I sensed his overwhelming certainness, his power, and his experience. He was not afraid and I knew it. I averted my eyes from his challenging gaze.

I stared at the mud for a moment, watching the rain fall from the sky down to the ground. It made a soft sound as it hit the earth. I watched it intensely, perhaps trying to understand what I was doing here.

I heard a sigh come from the left of me.

Ernesto had taken out his 38. pistol. He did not hesitate but pointed the weapon directly at the side of the traitors head, and fired.

The traitor died immediately. He slumped to the ground soundlessly. His face was headfirst in mud. The rain now hit his body. I looked at Ernesto. His eyes were calm. No hate, nor sadness, seemed to plague him.

He dropped down towards the dead man’s body. There was a golden watch upon its wrist. He grasped hold of it and attempted to unfasten it. Suddenly he let the watch go for a moment. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw some kind of emotion rise up within him. However it was quickly suppressed. With a violent jerk, he ripped the watch from the corpse’s wrist. Its hand hit the floor again, lifeless.

I had to wonder, why could he kill this man when none of us could? It was odd, but I noticed how his face was so set on what he was doing. I found myself wishing that I could be more like him.

As I watched the corpse now with a mixed feeling of sadness, shock, and grim resoluteness, Ernesto simply put his pistol away and slowly walked towards the hut which Fidel had taken cover from the rain in. I wondered, as I viewed him slowly crossing the field, what he felt about his cause, now stained by blood, not just of the enemies, but of his own people.

Was he still resolved in his ambitions or would he falter? I could not say, but from his actions I would think not. Instead, I began to believe.

I believed in Cuba, I believed in Communism, and, above all, I believed in Ernesto.

I believe in Che.

[RedAnarchist]

We should try doing a RevLeft novel again - some sort of political horror-comedy-romance-acton-drama-satire thing?

[loveme4whoiam]

Hmm, interesting idea. Perhaps a political novelette about fermenting revolution through the awesome power of RevLeft? :) I'd be up for that.

[RedAnarchist]

First we need characters, then a basic plot to the story.

[Soupspoon]

Feathers

We leave the road and walk off across a field full of some yellow stuff I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. As I trudge my way through it, crushing the bright blossoms with my size tens, I can’t help but feel that here is some profanity and that, somehow, I am taking part in an almost sacrilegious act. I realise my mind is wandering, and try to concentrate.

When we get to the long-abandoned farmhouse, (profanity squared) I am washed with a sense of having been here before, of having to come here again, I keep slipping in and out of memories, future and past.

We walk up to the carelessly whitewashed front door, the bottom scuffed to the wood over the years by the muddy boots of the impatient farmer. Cries of hunger and demands for food; fists and tears; then other days, sudden screams, fistfights, beatings, doors slamming, a shot, silence, quiet sobbing. Nights of drama and fear. A night of lust and death.

I wake up in an uncomfortable chair in the kitchen, the busiest room in any farmhouse, seeing the room alternately hung with washing, bakingly warm and humid, the rain slashing against the steamy windows, a voice humming and occasionally breaking into song with the sheer joy of hard work and achievement, the wireless in the background droning the Home Service days away, then later, the strong and deeply soothing smell of baking bread; other smells, roasts, onions, leeks, cabbage. My mouth, I swear, begins to water, even through the confusion.

Hands on my shoulders. ‘You alright, mate?’

Wrenched back to this terrible moment. Decay and nefarious doings in a remote abandoned farmhouse, Ron’s there, Buster, the rest.

‘Are we genna get this sorted or what?’ comes a voice from my left. I know this voice though I can’t place it. Whoever he is, he’ll die in a prison hospital. I know this.

Three, four, five bags are up-ended onto the table, on top of the ghosts of a thousand plucked chickens, blood seeping slowly into the ancient wood. Human blood, too. Feathers fly everywhere as the notes and bundles of notes, the postal orders, the bank drafts and who knows what else fill the table and flow over the edge onto the filthy, bloody floor.

This room is full of blood; like a giant heart, pumping history through itself day by day, year after terrible year. Yet the room is also the brain of the house, holding the memories to itself, opening, disclosing to only a privileged or cursed few like myself.

There are no feathers, that’s away in the past, although not to this room or me. The kitchen lets the memories become reality, unable to know the difference between the then and the now, and sometimes the never was.

Momentarily, I flicker back to now, the room lets me. I see the stack of money, six people sitting or standing, counting and counting, placing into piles. Another, trusted by all, separating into smaller stacks for distribution to the rest; payments to others not present, for cars, knowledge, weapons; goods and services.

Bites from sandwiches made up by loving wives and girlfriends, hoping they’ll see their men again; sending them off to another war, self-consciously praying for their safe return. Occasional sips from plastic flask cups full of steaming sweet tea, gulps from hip flasks or beer bottles, all empties carefully placed into bags, ready to be taken away. Nothing to be left. Only the house, the kitchen, pondering these mysterious visitors and their pile of paper amid the feathers.

The memories well up again, as though the house has heard my thoughts.

A Judas leads the police here, more by implication than in fact. The fear has loosened tongues, following the news that the old man could die. Murder. Hangings or lifetimes behind bars. I can see this. There are no hangings despite the eventual death.

Blood again.

Just lifetimes of heavy keys in ancient locks for all but one, and for him another kind of prison. Visits with no visitors. Slopping out, stinks and stenches, loss of pride. And worse.

The room feels my pain. It doesn’t care, doesn’t want to share it. It’s seen worse, smelled worse, in its time.

Blood and bars.

Blood and bars, money and feathers and the imprint of a shotgun blast across the years. I can’t have any part of this. I know how it all ends.

[RedAnarchist]

Thats great, Soupspoon. :)

[Morag]

Originally posted by [email protected] 25 2006, 01:56 PM
First we need characters, then a basic plot to the story.
I'm up for that. I've done that kind of stuff before in a different, non-political forum. It's a lot of fun.

[Soupspoon]

Thanks, ThisAnarchistKillsNazis. I've got thousands of very short stories! I'll try not to inflict them all on the forum. :lol:

[gilhyle]

Herbert Park Outrage
(Let them eat)
Herbert park is divided into two parts by the Herbert park road. The northern part is made up of tennis courts, a bowling green, a croquet court, and two buildings - a games house and a small open pavillion in the attic of which the IRA stored arms during the War of Independance. The southern part is centered on an elongated pond, on one side of which is an open grass area and on the other side of which are football playing fields, with separate access for the working classes who make use of the playing fields but leave the rest of the park to Dublin’s best heeled middle classes.

Since the pond is the dividing line between the classes, it was reasonable for Juliets’s mother to expect that by allowing her child to run ahead to the pond she could, on her own arrival, find the child being stroked on the head by some babbling old working class woman telling Juliet how lovely she was. She did not expect what she did find when she caught up with her five year old daughter staring intently at the ducks on the pond they had come to feed.

It was the season. Various green and dark grey coloured ducks were gathered around one of the brown ducks in a frenzy of excitement. One had her by the neck and was trying to mount her. Occasionally she escaped, and paddled off with apparent calm as if nothing was happening. Nonchalantly, they followed, gathered around her and began again - raping her.

Juliet asked her mother what they were doing. Her mother’s reply that they were playing did not quite satisfy her, especially as the proposed feeding of the ducks was promptly cancelled with the arbitrary provision of the dubious information that the ducks were not hungry. The offer of playing on the swings did not dispel her doubts.

The duck community heard of the rape with a mixture of indignation and resignation. Such rapes had until recently been the common form of mating and it was hard for many to forget their understanding of the old traditions. However, the law takes its ordained, if unpredictable, course and the case came to trial. The location of the trial was the eastern island within the privacy of the palm trees, the planting of which within an Irish landscape ninety years earlier had reflected some sort of Edwardian anticipation of a surrealist aesthetic.

It was widely commented that the choice of prosecutor displayed unusual canniness on the part of the prosecution service. Instead of ‘Fennel’ duck, a powerfull but unemotional senior counsel, whose name came from his habit of leaving the park to chew the plant of the same name, ‘Hard’ duck (whose name only indicated that he would be unpleasant to eat)was appointed. He was the most ‘liberal’ of the senior counsels. Aided by his junior, ‘Envoy’ duck (named after an ancestor who had represented the community abroad during the period of monarchy), he was expected to be able to arouse a strong emotional sympathy for the rape victim to counteract any residual indulgence of the practise of rape.

However, matters did not go according to plan. ‘Hard’ duck shared the general view that the brutality of the act itself would not be enough to move the jury. He spoke eloquently about the long traditions of the park dating back to the Great Exhibition of 1907; he pointed out the high level of grants recently provided to refurbish the pond and the Pergola. He held out the spectre of a breadless winter, if nice blue eyed fair haired little girls felt unable to skip down to the pond with the stale bread of their munificent households. The jury shuddered at these spectres and no one doubted the harsh fate awaiting the young hooligans.

Then the maverick ‘Verge’duck stood up. ‘Would this community be held to ransom ?’ he asked. ‘Why’, he continued ‘had the prosecution felt the need to depend on such scare tactics? Why had they spent so little time examining the witnesses and outlining the facts? Could it be’, he suggested, ‘because their witnesses were uncertain, because there was no way to say for certain that the ‘victim’ had not consented?' Her own background, he assured the jury, was far from pure.

The jury brought in a verdict of guilty only to boisterous behaviour. The judge's sentence of short terms of exile and a fine was attacked by ‘Hard’ on appeal, but once again ‘Verge’ was victorious, depending on rigorous citation of precedent in the form of the use of exile by the Greek city states and fines by the Celtic legal tradition, forcing the appeal judge to confirm the sentence.

‘Hard’ duck’s reputation was not impaired. He was seen to be earnest and forcefull. Yet thereafter he tended to defend only ‘liberal causes’ where rhetoric was preferred to logic and was not used again for prosecutions. On their return, the ‘lads’ confined the rapes to the bushes, well hidden from innocent humans.

[RedAnarchist]

edit - sorry, my post was messing up the page

[apathy maybe]

http://www.revolutionaryleft.com/index.php?showtopic=53539

This story was publised in the student rag.

[Sir_No_Sir]

You can't bring the soldiers lost back with retreats
You cant help the grandkids of union leaders with shit to eat
We cannot recreate 1968, 1917, or any other year.
The best we can do is change whats happening right now, right here.

We cant change whats morphed us to now
We cant be the next Castro, Trotsky, or Mao
But we can be the next us,me,or you
Lets not aim to be the past, lets aim to be the future,be the best



idk
i just came up with that off the top of my head..

[BurnTheOliveTree]

Howdy guys. The piece doesn't have a title, so I guess I'd like suggestions for that too. :)

Those who have read it so far have commented that it has to be read quite carefully to be properly understood.

Hope you enjoy it.

************************************************** *********

Tariq ran barefoot along the pavement, shivering from the cold of the winter's night. His feet were sore and cut. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and his eyes frantically scanned the darkness around him. He stopped. Still breathing heavily, he gazed, mesmerised by his breath in the still air, forming brief clouds. There was no sound, save the gentle and continuous hum of the street lamps, and the miscellaneous noises of the birds. Tariq sat by the roadside and slowly ran his hands through his hair, absorbed in thought. He was overcome quite suddenly by the need to sleep, and so shut his eyes, and emptied his mind of thoughts.

The cold woke him half an hour later. He cursed himself for sleeping. He cursed himself for taking his shoes off at the mosque. He cursed the bitter cold. He got slowly to his feet, flinching as the cuts on them came into contact with the rough surface of the road. Thoughts ran unchecked through Tariq's mind, and the incident played back in his head like a video.

It was Wednesday, and Tariq was tired. Tired not from fatigue, but from a different kind of weariness. This weariness ran far deeper than physical exhaustion. Tariq was tired of his way of life, and of the men who would condemn him for his secret, if only they knew. For so long he had restrained himself, and forced himself to respect the men who sneered as they intoned words of poison. He straightened himself, smiled, and entered the mosque for the last time.

And there the video stopped, suddenly. Blurs and patches made up the remainder of Tariq's memory.

The doors of the mosque opening. Shoes outside. Unbroken quiet inside. Mother and father kneeling in submission, or perhaps worship. The clerics make the only sound. The eyes of the women. Tariq kneeling. Knees shaking. The clerics make the only sound. The eyes of the women. The pages of the Qu'ran, turning. Nervous. Ashamed. Ready. The eyes of the women, watching. Tariq standing, sweating, nervous. The clerics stop. Silence. A voice speaking. Silence.

Tariq ran barefoot along the pavement, shivering from the cold of the winter's night.

One of the street lamps near Tariq began to flicker. For some reason, he found this hypnotic, and stared at the failing lamp, inexplicably fascinated. For this reason, the shuffling sounds from the undergrowth were unnoticed by Tariq. For this reason, he continued to sit, sill and un-disturbed, as the figure emerged from the undergrowth behind him. The figure surveyed Tariq's back. She watched the steam of his breath in the cold air.

When she whispered "Tariq" he whipped around, ready to defend himself. When he saw that it was her, he swore loudly. She clapped a hand over his mouth, and said "Tariq - For god's sake Tariq - Shhh. Shut up."

Tariq struggled desperately against the girl who restrained him, with little success. He gave up, and slumped against her legs. They lay there for a time in comfortable silence. Tariq watched the brief clouds of their breath overlap together, then fade. The street lamp that had been flickering stopped working altogether, and they lay together in a tiny oasis of darkness.

A while later, the girl gave the kind of sigh that precedes conversation, but then did not speak. Tariq stirred, and looked properly at her face. "Tariq... What will become of us?" she whispered. "When your clerics find us and..." she trailed off, and her eyes searched his for some comfort.

Tariq did not reply immediately, until the question was almost forgotten. Then he spoke for the first time since the mosque. "I don't know Leila. Perhaps they will punish me. Perhaps they will stop me seeing you again." It was then that the enormity of the situation hit Tariq. He realised he couldn't protect Leila from the clerics. He was overcome by despair, and proud as he was, he couldn't stop the first tear, or the second, from escaping.

Leila watched him cry with an emotional mixture of sadness, fear, and enduring love. She stroked his hair, tilted his head to that she could see his face. She kissed his forehead, and then his lips. They heard shouts from nearby. Tariq guessed from the tone of their voices that the clerics were close. He could hear the voice of his father, urgent, calling for him. He embraced her, for warmth, comfort, hope and oblivion.

Tariq and Leila ran along the pavement, without shivering.

The orange glow of a street lamp momentarily illuminated the Star of David, embroidered on Leila's sleeve.

************************************************** *********

-Alex

[BurnTheOliveTree]

Ach. Just noticed the creative writing sticky. Sorry.

-Alex

[An archist]

hmm, it's quite good
*thumbs up*

[BurnTheOliveTree]

Merci Beaucoup.

-Alex

[Comrade J]

Good, but I think you should use 'he' more often, the main thing I remember from reading the story is the abundance of the name 'Tariq,' especially at the start of paragraphs.

[firsty]

this is a good story, above and beyond the normal mud that i expect to see in internet forums, and usually do.

it's a familiar tale, but you treat it well. personally, i think you should give yourself some more credit. the story you wind up is worth paying a few more paragraphs attention to, and, while the "star of david" turn is somewhat expected, it's done skillfully (not as easy as it looks, for any nonwriters out there), but i think that the story you've wound up deserves something more than the simple unexpected ending.