Lost inside my mind, a mind that is lost inside itself.
my conundrum: What do i do? about you, what are you doing? what is wrong with me.
it feels as though the walls are closing in, and yet i am ever trapped, a distance greater than eternity, away from my goal.
Why has this happened to me? you have put me in such an undesirable situation. a situation which, had i contemplated prior to my entrance into such an affair, i most certainly would not have became a member. Why did i join? tell me now.
You, Sir (which is all i have ever referred to you as). Why have you put me here Sir? yet now you are at my mercy. you have some questions to answer. please start with the prior.
but Sir, Why me? what did i do to deserve such a cruel and unusual fate. why, out of the entire populous of the world, did you ruin my life?
You, Sir, You say you saw me as worthless. Sir: i had a Wife; her name was Elvira. i had 2 kids, Daniel and William. all of which i am currently unaware of their current locations. can you, Sir, Tell me where they are!
You, Sir i can't begin to explain why you believe that this is a correct way to accomplish any goal of your sorts. Unless, you, Sir, had hidden motives. Tell me now: How does killing my family assist you in accomplishing any sort of forward progressing motive? Sir, Are you evil?
Sir, what are you saying? the company has me so say that there is no way out. yet, i clearly have you right now. this is progressing into redundancy. if you shall not answer my questions, then the only remaining option is the elimination of you, Sir. Any last words.
Good-Bye, Sir.
{You see from the corner of the room, Sir is dead. you now decide to reveal yourself.}
you, my friend have made a grave mistake. there was none there. Sir never existed, he was just a test to, in a complete lack of any better words, figure you out. we now know you, we know who you are, and what will hurt. nothing that he has ever said was any semblance of the truth. however, now, we know exactly how to truly get to you. if you value the life of your family, you shall assist us. please enter the room ahead. you will build us that bomb. this my friend, is a fact.
Sir?..... Help me......
{the man standing in front of you collapses in front of you, apparently suffering from an epileptic seizures. after a couple minutes you approach him. he is no longer breathing. you find him to be dead.}
Staples
I saw a staple, and I wondered what one must go through as they were made - undulating and bending as though it was a reed in the midst of a thunderstorm, being shuffled to and fro from conveyor belt to conveyor belt and always at risk of being uprooted and carried off; as though it was an iron bar again, red, writhing in a kind of ecstatic agony inside the furnace before being divvied up into tiny, individual strands of melting silver, and then bent over at the corners and clumped together into a box, finally tame and silent. In front of me were staples, and I picked one up, bending the sides - they moved easily, like joints, and gleamed in the artificial light I was shrouded in. I opened the box they had been placed in and took four of them out - one for the arms, one for the legs, one for the body, and one for the head - they would not stay in position, but they were all bent into different shapes, the head an endearing box-shape and the arms and legs bent into positions that made it appear as though the staples were running, trying to escape, like they were all in the fire again, red-hot.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
I looked up and down the street. My mates were somewhere nearby, I just didn’t know where.
After several moments of frustration, I sought shelter from the sun by passing through a single row of tables that lined a hot cobblestone walk. The tables were sheltered by a large grass canopy that also provided shade for a long wicker bar.
I ordered a Corona.
The cruise ship I had arrived on the previous night rested over my shoulder; a great white monstrosity that towered over the town, which hadn’t witnessed the docking of a tourist ship its size for many years. The ship had been brought by chance, the result of a hurricane churning in the gulf, forcing a change in the captain’s itinerary.
I looked down and made eye contact with a short dark skinned man with a heavy brow. He was an obvious resident. In front of him sat a small glass, mostly empty.
I pointed at the glass and pointed at him. He said, “Si”.
A boy bartender brought me my beer. I pointed at the glass and held up two fingers. Soon there were two full glasses and I was handing the boy dollars.
We drank and the sun descended.
Though my new friend did not speak much English and I spoke little Spanish, I quickly learned his name was Juan, and it wasn’t long until we were joined by a couple of Juan’s friends.
The four of us drank more.
Long after the sun had disappeared, we walked out into the street, passing through the same single row of tables, once empty, now fully occupied.
I put out my hand in parting.
Juan said, “No, you come.”
“Come where?” I said.
Juan’s friends led me through the crowded street. We had to weave through many sounds, many faces and many colors. My senses seemed to bounce between monotone and stereo.
Down a street, down an alley, up some stairs, through a dark hall, up some more stairs, we arrived at the top of a building. Paper lights hung in the air. Gold and red colors dominated the scene.
In the corner, a band played. The area was crowded and people brushed my shoulder as they walked.
A young girl rocked backward, then forward, then backward in front of me. My left hand on her waist, her hand gripping my own, in my right hand I held a glass from which I couldn’t remember obtaining.
I lifted my arm, she turned. I side-stepped, she passed and then returned with a twist.
I saw Juan. He had carved his own space and was dancing with his own girl.
Motions happened slowly but time passed quickly.
Then a ship steward woke me. I was sprawled on a bench. The steward tilted a Polaroid my direction and I saw myself staring back at myself. A girl was in my arms, circled by a crowd of people. They were all smiling, as was I.
Guys, there's no need to worry. I'm here and paying attention. I didn't want to start a poll for only 5 stories, that's all. Expect the poll to go up in a few days.
The city burned, but the air was not nearly as hot as Baseal’s temper.
He ran a sharp black claw along his crimson skin, tracing his muscles as he sat impatiently in his opaque prison. Bloodlust coursed through his body as he dangled on a golden chain at his master’s side.
An eight-year-old girl, Baseal thought. How absurd that a child should command an Efreet.
Baseal heard choking as his master and his guards retreated into a stone passage. Baseal desired nothing more than to breathe the sweet soot filled air. The thought just irritated him more as he swung helplessly.
My master is weak. He is undeserving of me.
They entered a large circular room. A young girl sat on a bench, flanked by an old white haired man hunched by time and a single guard with his hands folded over the hilt of a great curved sword, its point anchored in the stone floor.
Cowardly decisions and poor leadership has led to the indignity of this collapse. Even at this late hour, we choose to run, not to fight. My master deserves shackles, not I.
Baseal seethed.
“Our time is short,” his master said, dropping down to a crouch so he could look at his daughter at eye-level. He opened the palm of her hand.
“With all my love, I give you what is rightfully yours by blood and by name. You will be Queen now.”
Baseal felt a sudden drop.
Like a fruit being separated from its tree, the bond between master and servant was broken.
Baseal felt a new life-force grip him. He fought back but was quickly defeated. Pain rushed over him. He fell to his knees. Flames leapt from his skin and he coward on the floor of his prison.
They were on the move again. Baseal was too weak to dare spy, but he knew they were on their way to the docks. Her subconscious told him.
Her soul was strong. He fed off its strength. It was a strength he had not felt for many generations.
So strong, Baseal thought as remained hunched on the floor, his sharp teeth biting into the red skin of his forearm.
Then she called to him for the first time and he felt an upward rush.
He materialized at her side, his eight-foot frame towering over her. Several guards turned at his appearance, fear and suspicion betrayed there faces.
She opened up to him. We have traitors amongst us. You are the only one I can trust.
“I have made other arrangements for my escape,” she spoke. “I will return in ten years and one day. The city will bow to my rule.”
He lusted for nothing more than to appease her.
She will be great, he thought. She will be the Queen of Queens.
"Kill them all," she said. "Leave the old man to carry my message."
Casey-who-was-not got up, and examined herself in the mirror. She looked like a Casey, but she didn't want to be a Casey (it was quickly decided). She wanted to be a Mark.
Getting up from her bed, she walked briskly to the door, shrugging on a loose-fitting shirt and pants, grabbing a belt and going down all 27 steps [her breasts bouncing up and down on each one, like a pedometer], and out the front door of her art deco-styled apartment, surrounded by exemplary, modern buildings that seemed to laugh at it whenever she looked [this is, perhaps, why her rent was so low]. On the far corner of the street was a machine that looked vaguely like a phone booth: 'Restructuring $5' was written on the side [with a slot, ostensibly for coins, directly under the words], and instead of glass walls they were made of a gleaming, white, and easily biodegradable material. Casey put a 5-dollar coin into the machine: a whoosh sound was heard, and the machine opened, a door appearing where none had been before. 'Please step in', a calming, female voice sounded, but Casey was in before the voice finished. Inside, the machine looked much the same as the outside: the only difference was a screen inset into where the door had opened, displaying selections.
"What style would you like today?" the voice sounded.
"Mark, please." Casey responded.
The machine whooshed into the ground, and a sedative knocked Casey out. Minutes later, the machine beeped in a tone only dogs could hear. Mark woke up from the sedatives, with no ill effects. As it swooshed upwards, the machine intoned:
"Thank you and have a nice day."
Mark stepped out of the machine. He was in a hurry: he had to catch the 9:15 train. Rushing, he barely made it.
'This shirt is a little off,' he thought as he entered the train. Looking around, he noticed an attractive woman, and sighed. It didn't mean what it used to.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
A thick layer of fog crept over the grass and the morning dew. It was dim outside; the first orange light of dawn glowed faintly in the distance. The sound of a car engine broke the nighttime silence.
“Cheryl, tell the representative from the union that the meeting has been moved up to six o’clock, and tell him right now… wait.”
The man pushed a button on the earpiece.
“Hello? No, I told you I can’t deal with that right now. The deadline for the project proposal is tomorrow and the workers are still striking… No, I said no! Just tell Patrick to get it done if it’s so goddamn important!”
He finished his coffee in one hand and turned the steering wheel with the other. Merging into the leftmost lane, he straightened out the wheel and turned off the high beams with his wrist.
“Cheryl? Get me Mr. Wright.”
He peered out the window, looking for any other cars. Seeing none, he accelerated.
“Hello, Mr. Wright? Yes, I sent you the e-mail last night… No, not tonight. I’ve got to work out the kinks with the union problem, and God knows how long that will take. You know how stubborn that son of a ***** Hoyer can be.”
A small black blur flew across the road, but the fog was too thick for him to notice. Suddenly he jolted upright, grabbed the phone and fumbled with the numbers.
“Julie? Is Christine there? Hurry up… Christine, why are you and Julie still there? You said you’d leave early with her to meet Luke at your mother’s house… Fine, I don’t care, just pick up Luke and get the kids home. God knows that’s probably all you’ll do today anyway.”
The man reached the top of a hill and turned onto an exit ramp. He threw his earpiece onto the passenger seat and picked up his egg sandwich. Suddenly, he saw a bright light. He swerved, but the light followed him. Shielding his eyes with an arm he slammed his foot and punched the horn. He moved his arm and the light was right in front of him.
Loud noises filled the air. Old Irvine looked out her front window to see a heavily armed mercenary brigade storming up the path, smashing a couple of birdbaths along the way. Quietly, she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. As the brigade of elite fighters banged on her door, she pulled china cups and a jar of teabags from the cupboards. As the kettle reached boiling point, the mercenaries decided they were bored of knocking, and cut into the doorframe with a fire axe.
The door smashed down with a crash of plaster to reveal Old Irvine standing there. The mercenaries leveled their guns, hesistant to shoot - they hadn't been told their target was an old lady.
"Won't you come in for some tea?" asked Old Irvine, odd tones reverberating in her voice. Strange expressions flitted over the faces of the mercenaries as the offer seemed oddly tempting. But one of them, realising something was seriously wrong here, managed to keep to his mission and fire a couple of shots off at Old Irvine. One hit her in the arm, and one in the head, but she showed no sign of noticing as she repeated her offer. This time, the mercenaries could not resist, and they put down their weapons and went inside.
"It's no good sir. We've lost another team, and they were professionals."
"Dammit!" said the general, thumping his desk.
"With all due respect sir, maybe we should forget about it. It's not going to cause harm, and we've already lost quite a few good men," said the lieutenant.
"No," replied the general. "It's one of the best weapons we have, and we're not just going to abandon it and all those years of research. Consign another team. We'll get a new approach this time."
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Vintage - Where second turn indestructible 11/11's just don't cut it anymore.
Hey, it's been 10 days!
Anyhoo.
Inspiration for this story = obvious, and I do have a couple others to input, but I like this one, and the song's been ... addicting for the last while.
Ana Ng
Make a hole in the ground perpendicular, to the name of this town in a desktop globe, exit wound in a foreign nation, showing the home of the one this was written for.
All alone at the '64 worlds' fair, 80 dolls yelling small girl after all – who was at the Dupont Pavilion? Why was the bench still warm – who had been there?
As I walked through the fairways I shook my head – it felt as though the air was dead – halfway across the world I saw a girl, and I would say so much if there was a me for you.
I'd say,
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence, Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
I went to the bathroom, and turned the faucet. Water was spiraling the wrong way down the sink. And I heard what sounded like a backwards record – a whirlpool, never-ending. I ran out the door, pants down, and nobody was there. I turned to go home, and the bench seemed odd – like it was where I was meant to be.
Sitting down, I watched the storm tangle up the wire – the one to the horn on the pole at the bus depot. And in back of the edge of hearing, these are the words that the horn was repeating:
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence - Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
The nothing I was and the nothing I became were almost unbearable, and I thought - they don't need me here. I know, Ana, you're there - where the world goes by like the humid air, and sticks like a broken record, everything sticks like a broken record, and everything sticks until it goes away.
But the truth is, we don't know anything ...
And down the fairway strolled a girl, and my jaw dropped, she looked at me, and opened her mouth, and out tumbled Chinese which I didn't understand, but later, she told me what she said:
“Sing,” she said in Chinese, “because you'll never have to again.”
It sounded to me peculiarly like a backwards record, the syllables odd and grating, and I sang – for what would be the last time -
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence, Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence, Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Ajar That little match’s spark wasn’t nearly enough to uncover the darkness of the room, neither was the red-burning end of the now lit cigarette, but it was good anyways to have one in her lips, and even better to have plenty more in her pocket, far better, anyways, than bleeding slowly on the ground, but it seemed that he wasn’t even bleeding anymore, even blood runs out. He wasn’t moaning, nor shaking no more, he was simply waiting, still and dead, for her to finish his cigarette, but when it was done and she stood up, he said nothing, and again he said nothing when she walked towards him to pick up the silvery knife that was still deep in his throat, because he was beyond words, still and dead, and the blood once his ran now freely everywhere near. Then she opened the only door, and for a moment it seemed that darkness left that room, and it was day again, but it was just a moment, and the door closed again. Alone, he took a deep breath, feeling part of the air supposed to go to his lungs escaping through the wound opened by that damned knife. Drowsy, he stumbled to the small chair where she has sited, watching him bleed. He would have given all the fingers of his hand in exchange for a cigarette, but that ***** had taken them all, and he was too weak to follow her. His wounds were steadily healing, and the throat’s one was now rather a scratch, but he has lost too much blood, and the fight had been exhausting. “Maybe I’m truly growing old now” he though mockingly while trying to imagine a cigarette, but her scent was everywhere, “hope she haven’t smoked’em all yet, otherwise there’d nothing to take when I’m through with her” and with that in mind he commanded his still weak legs into walking, and more in anger than in pain he left the room.
The first cut isn't always the deepest By Ben Kline
The Burger King was cleaner than most, which does not qualify it for an award but is worth noting. Brian had asked Alyssa to meet him there, it was near campus and they needed to catch up; she agreed. Brian was in his freshman year at the University of Minnesota, Alyssa in her sophomore, but their friendship traced back much farther, to the elementary school counselor’s waiting room when Alyssa had smiled at Brian. The two friends sat down across from each other at a table and began saturating the feast of microwave cooked meat and fat boiled fries, pausing to soak in caffeinated sugar water from their bottomless cups. After a transitory piece of this activity Alyssa broke the silence. “So how’s your first year going?” “Alright, I just had Pre-Calc; I fell asleep like five times.” Alyssa smiled which had an immense warming effect on Brian; Alyssa didn’t notice. “Yeah I think I got a C last year, at least you only need one class of it right? For your major I mean?” “Yea just one,” Brian didn’t look so confidant, “As long as I pass.” “Well I have to take Calc again this year.” “That sucks; I think I’d kill myself.” The second the words left Brian’s mouth he wished he could have them back; he had seen the flicker that crossed Alyssa’s face. “Are you feeling well?” “Yea, of course,” Brian seemed determined to change the subject quickly, “So, I wanted to tell you something Alyssa.” “Yes? What is it?” “I like you, I really like you.” “Oh…” Her eyes dropped slightly and his began to panic, he went on hurriedly, “…and I was wondering if you wanted to do something…sometime?” “You mean a date? That’s really sweet and all Brian but you have always been a friend to me, I don’t think I can see you as anything else.” Several light years passed between verdict and decree, Brian was staring down at his forgotten burger. “I’ve got to get to class Brian; we’ll talk about this tonight okay?” “Couldn’t you try?” “What?” “Never-mind.” I’m sorry, I’ll come by tonight I promise,” Brian looked up at Alyssa. He expected a kiss on the cheek, a hug, something, but she seemed determined to leave him no hope. “Bye.” “Good-bye darling.” He knew she couldn’t hear him; she was in such a hurry to get away, she couldn’t stand to look at him, she would though, she would have to. A minute after her body left the Burger King; with her scent now dissipating Brian stood up, discarded his half-eaten food aggressively in the trash and stormed off in the opposite direction of his unrequited love. He had a knife which needed sharpening.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Quote from Kijin »
It's funny because innocent people that were trying to pay the bills for their families were brutally murdered.
“Close. A Mr. Ferguson, coincidentally owner of the Peking Duck Bar and Grill whom, if you will recall, is attempting to procure a business license for an area prohibitively close to our very own Harry Carey-branded bar-and-grills, and you, noticing the threat this posed to our business interests therein, attempted to block the granting of a permit by the Mayor's Office. Failing that, you had a short chat with this 'Mr. Ferguson', intimating that if we were both next to each other while doing business that both of our sales would be sluggish, but you would come out ahead and so he would have to close, Harry Carey being a decidedly Chicago branding, and the stores in question residing in said city.”
“... Yes.”
“You don't remember? We had a business strategy meeting on Thursday.”
“Well, it's Saturday. Time has, as they say, flown. However, I suppose I should tell you that a short time ago, I would say a half-hour, I received a phone call from this Mr. Ferguson, him offering us both a chance to 'fix the predicament we find ourselves in' - his phrasing.”
“What did he say?”
“He offered me a vacation, a long one, where we would discuss matters of business, and neither one of us would take action: he hadn't realized we were in the area, he said, and would cancel the plans to move in nearby, but first he wanted to get to know me, and I him, and perhaps make a business relationship. He said that what I was saying was true, that anyone who would want to go to an Asian-themed bar, whose customers, it appears, all go for the sheer novelty of the idea, would not go if they could instead go to a bar named after a quite prominent local celebrity, one whom is special to the locale, while their business is spread out across the country, diluted by our own success.
“Our?”
“Their. Sorry, slip of the tongue.”
“So it appears the threat has ended?”
“The situation has changed. Thanks for coming up, but I don't actually need you. Sorry about that.”
“Well. See you later, then. I hope everything goes well.”
“See you.”
“...”
“...”
“Hello?”
“Hello, yes, I'm still here. ... Asian-themed restaurants are that successful?”
“Look at these spreadsheet numbers. This is our profit in the last five years.”
“Wow. I mean, WOW.”
“So you'll sell then?”
“Your overhead's that low?”
“It's very economical to drop rice in water and sprinkle crap on it.”
“... Well, it seems like an affront to business sense to keep running with this. I've been wanting to do something besides the tedious day-to-day work of this place for a long time.”
“...”
“One million and it's yours.”
“Sold.”
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Manny stared at the ceiling as her fiancé, Nick, made love to her. She tried to find constellations in the popcorn stucco. Anything to keep her mind off of Cole. Even now, several weeks after he walked her to the parking lot and he leaned a bit too close when he said goodbye, she couldn’t help but remember the faint musk of his aftershave.
Soon Nick would convulse and roll back to his side of the bed. Cole was different. They’d often skip class together and run to his dorm while his roommate was gone. They would make love and talk for hours. Cole hung on her every word; he was one of the only people that asked for her opinions because he genuinely wanted to hear them.
“Ouch, Nick, stop.” She rolled over to her side and attempted to think of something else.
“What’s the problem?” He sounded wounded, like he was looking up at her after she’d pushed him down a flight of stairs.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you still going to talk to Mom about the wedding cake tomorrow?”
Manny clenched her pillow case. “I don’t think so, I don’t feel that well.”
“Are you sure there’s no problem baby?”
She sat up and felt around the darkness for her clothes. “You know what; maybe I should sleep at my house. I don’t want you catching anything.”
She ignored Nick’s tired protests and left as soon as she’d dressed herself.
There was hardly anyone on the road at that time of night so it only took her a few minutes to get to Cole’s dorm. She convinced a drunk freshman to let her into the building. Three-oh-three. It was surprising that she could remember, this was the first time she’d come here without him. She brushed her fingers through her hair and studied the door for a few more minutes.
As she raised her fist to the door it flew open and a young girl burst out and ran into Manny.
“Oh, sorry.” The girl was tall and athletic. Her chaotic black locks and the bra she was clutching to her chest told Manny exactly what she'd been doing there.
“You must be Mike’s girlfriend, Maxine right?”
Manny stared at her.
“He’s not here right now,” she continued, “Cole’s the only one there.”
“I guess I missed him,” Manny said without inflection.
The other girl leaned in close to her, Manny could smell Cole’s aftershave, “Hey, don’t tell Cole’s girlfriend, ok? This is kind of a secret thing.”
“Cole has a girlfriend?”
The other girl smiled at her--a blind, idiotic smile. Bile rose in Manny throat, she’d probably smiled the same way around Cole.
As the girl ran down the hall, stuffing the bra into her jeans pocket, Manny follwed, watching the pictures that the patterned carpet made under her.
Well. Not many entries this week, or more accurately this ... month. Wow. I guess I'll take a second stab at it, got a decent story, anyways.
The Reader
It was recess in the playground. A boy was with a group of friends in the corner of the playground - they were nerds.
"I just finished writing my first fiction story, and it'd mean a lot to me if you guys heard it, ok?"
General assent was heard from the group, and the boy smiled.
"Oh, Neil, I'm sorry - I'm really bad at thinking of names, so I used yours. I hope it's not too embarrassing."
And with that, he launched into it:
"Once upon a time, there was a land without school, without rules. A young boy named Neil had been born in the other world, of work and despair, where your parents would force you to wash dishes and do other chores. One day he stopped working - and from there he was taken into the world without rules, to do as he pleased. All of his friends and family in the other world, with work and punishment, were very sad, but they persevered, and in time they were all together, to live happily ever after."
He finished, and opened his eyes - the world was moving in reverse, everyone receding into the distance, spinning faster and faster, and he himself could not control his movements as he was sucked backwards in time.
The rewinding abruptly stopped. He threw up. Looking up from the vomit now covering the ground, he saw Neil crossing the street, and a car roaring towards him.
"Stop!" he yelled, running at the scene: but he was too late. The car and Neil collided, Neil's body thrown to the ground a good 30 feet away from the initial impact. The car sped off.
The scene then began to speed up. Frantically he yelled, "No! Nooo!", but the screams became distorted by the speed, and as he continues to speed up he became unable to move, everything already being pre-done, his actions already laid out for him. Somewhere in the periphery of his vision, he could see flashes of a great white cross.
Once again, it slowed and stopped, and he was back where he had been when he started the story. The group of kids standing around him were looking at him with sympathy. Neil was not among them. He looked around: across the street and down a ways was a white cross, with a small plaque at the bottom.
"Neil! NEIL!" he yelled, sobbing, running as fast as his legs could carry him. The other kids looked on with sympathy.
"We all had to cope with it, somehow." one of the boys said.
"They were close."
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
“Later bro, see you Monday,” said Frank over the cube wall as he left. “Enjoy your long weekend.”
I stood in the Newark terminal. No carry on. No extra cloths.
“Ok Mr. Perez, your seat is confirmed. That will be $1453.87 charged to your VISA card. Your flight will board in about forty minutes. You will connect in Paris and should arrive in Johannesburg in 21 hours, which should be 8:00 PM South African time. Your return flight will leave Saturday night and you should arrive back in New York late Sunday.”
The flight was long.
Some drugs helped.
I slept most of the flight.
“Where?” said the cabbie.
“Carfax.”
It was a club, built in a gutted old warehouse.
There I met Trina. She had dark skin and hair. At first, I thought she must have been a mix of Indian and white. I found out later she was a bit of everything. She was thin and colorfully clothed. Deep brown eyes and a wide smile, she stood a foot shorter.
She approached me first. I wore all white. Linen pants with a white button down shirt, hung loosely.
We danced. The music was quick paced, techno and hip-hop based, with lots of cymbals and bass.
Trina introduced me to five of her friends.
I loved the smell of her hair the most. As the night deepened, her hair was a safe recluse from the musty air that accumulated over the dance floor.
We took some pills. I don’t know what they were, but they were amazing.
We ended up in a dark corner behind a wall of people. It drowned some of the sound, which allowed us to talk and kiss, and down several drinks.
She told me to come home with her. I did.
She made an amazing breakfast the next morning.
The next day I boarded my plane home. I paid for a second seat to New York.
The return flight took longer and there were delays in Paris.
I became a member of the mile-high club.
Twenty hours after Paris I was staring at my computer screen, bleary eyed.
“What did you do this weekend?” asked Frank.
“No much,” I replied.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Dunno,” I said. “At the rate I’m going, I might fly to Vegas and get married.”
I hoped I was joking, but I can’t honestly say for sure if I was.
Considering objectives, superfluous as it may seem, when discussing certain paranormal phenomena is paramount to obtain a thorough understanding of the subject at hand: therefore, without said consideration in such an investigation as this one, it is nigh-impossible to encompass the myriad of reasons that this spork, made out of only the finest space-age polymers and innovations in utensil design, could have theoretically changed positions, as it were, from my table, one with a certain ethereal quality, to a place heretofore unknown but one that I presume is a second table, humongous in scope, encompassing nearly half of the students in this supposed school, said school being a place of (or so THEY say) brotherhood and higher learning, said students being (metaphorically speaking) plucked from every color of the rainbow, the table a harmonious symbol of goodwill towards mankind, albeit one which I do not participate in because of a kind of phobia of other organisms, of other people, that causes me to lock up and lower my eyes when confronted by anyone and anything. According to my scrupulously detailed 'personal record', of which I obtained a printed facsimile May fifth, three days prior, I am referred to by the majority of psychologists on staff and teachers whom I have been under as a 'problem child', an aberration in their (again, metaphorically speaking) quilted patchwork of perfect students and gentle, smiling happiness. And one of them has stolen my spork, of that I am sure, as in the copious time it takes me, while avoiding any- and every-thing, to retrieve my chocolate milk, which is set up in such a way as to require a second trip but is my favorite section of the by all regards piss-poor buffet that the cafeteria workers hand out to us, supposedly nutritional but swimming with fat, sugar, and unhappiness in general (after every meal I sense a strange tingling in my stomach, and I feel ill-at-ease: I have requested being allowed to carry my own food-stuffs into the school, but I was denied the privilege on the basis of it being a difference from the others, the school attempting the homogenization of its occupants) and I feel something, evidently of man-made materials and not alive, under my foot; it makes an odd sound, much like plastic, when I prod it, and I look on the shining, blank floor, getting down on my hands and knees, chair swept behind me, and find what I was looking for.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Up in his clouded laboratory, God contemplated what he should create.
He realized that the clouded laboratory was a metaphor and concepted entirely in his mind for creative innovation, so he made that first.
Then he made reality, because clouds and laboratories couldn't exist without reality to support them. He left out language and English as creations, deciding that the realm of nouns, verbs, and metaphors should be written by some guys named Shakespeare and Rowling.
And then he created contrasts, because he thought it was good that things have opposites.
Feeling creative (the clouded laboratory does help ya know...) he conjured the earth. He did it with a flourish and it popped out of a magical hat.
In hindsight, he should have invented the hat first and maybe theatrics. An audience would also have been nice.
So there was heaven and earth.
Cool, God thought.
He took some time off, coined the phrase vacation, and went water skiing (also invented simultaneously). He couldn't see where he was going, so he invented some light to show him how awesome it was to water ski and do it while in darkness (created by the principle of opposites, and he wait, isn't he in the light now?!?)
However, God was kinda alone and didn't have anything to show his back flips and trim physique to.
So after his vacation, God came back to his clouded laboratory, and started working again (also invented on the fly).
He poofed into existence something green, and called it a plant. It fell through the clouds and plummeted to earth.
He gave the plant wings. It fell to the earth still.
He attempted to give it a mind to use the wings, but it fluttered around aimlessly and eventually crashed to Earth too.
Slightly annoyed, God continued to toil away on the plant, giving it all sorts of things that he invented in the span of a day. He changed his location from the laboratory; he moved his operations to earth, to light, to darkness, to ocean (that invention slipped in somewhere too).
Finally completely exhausted, he ended his efforts on something called a platypus.
Later that night, God invented alcohol and inebriation. God was so totally smashed that he invented quite a few things in delirium before collapsing into a drunken stupor. We should call it a menagerie of bad ideas.
When he awoke, God had created life and the hangover. Unbeknownst to him, he also created some guy name Adam thanks to some sexual fantasy.
Sometime later, when God found out Adam wasn't gay, he kicked him and his girlfriend Eve out of his apartment and the rest becomes history.
“No,” Thereal screamed, “Yaddrik is down. We’re going to have to kill this without a healer now. All of you have potions hot-keyed right?” The surviving adventurers ran around the giant pixilated dragon throwing out wave after wave of flashy rendered graphics at it. “Myssio, watch your life.” It was too late, the computerized knight’s life fell to zero and he faded from the screen. The beast shuttered and then fell. Vergrath couldn’t remember the last time he felt this exhilarated. He couldn’t even recall the last time he felt happy at all away from his computer. Memories unrelated to the game seemed dim, grey. Last week at the office they threw him a party. The frosting spelled out a name that barely meant anything to him any longer. “Marc.” He identified more with Vergrath, the ancient Elven Fire Mage than the 29-year-old administrative assistant. The epic loot and experience points was a far better present than the gift cards from his mom. “That was lucky,” appeared above Thereal’s character. They spoke in word balloons, but he felt closer to the Elven Thief than to anyone else. “Hey, Thereal, before we turn in the quest, do you want to go to that inn next to the sword shop?” Vergrath held his breath. He had been planning this for days. He wiped some more sweat from his brow. “Sure. Can you gate us there?” Vergrath smiled and typed out the command for his character to nod. In a few minutes their characters sat across from each other at a table next to the innkeeper. Even though Vergrath had never seen Thereal, or even heard her real voice, he knew that he loved her. Their conversation flowed with an ease that he could no longer duplicate. Getting to know her made him realize that love could really transcend any boundary. He reasoned that going out with Thereal would be more honest than any relationship Vergrath had ever known. It wouldn’t be based on qualities as superficial as appearances or even gender (he eventually came to terms with the possibility that Thereal’s player might actually be a man); the bond they formed was the only genuine part of his life anymore. Vergrath stood up from the table. “I’ve had a great time tonight,” he said. “I think it would great to extend our friendship into the real world. If I give you my number do you think we could arrange to meet somewhere and talk face to face?” Another character came in behind them and made the inn their home then ran out again. “Um,” she said finally, “I have to ask my mom first and she already went to bed. I should actually log.” Vergrath logged without saying goodbye. He imagined an adolescent boy on the playground telling his wide-eyed friends about the pedophile he met online the night before. Marc turned off the computer. He should have gone to bed a couple hours ago anyway; he had work tomorrow.
Haven't written in too long. Here's something I threw together for you guys. Hope you like it.
Style
His suit was charcoal-black, and beneath it he wore a shirt and tie the color of fresh cream. His wife said it made him look like a whitewall tire. He didn’t mind. Whitewalls were classy, and the cream contrasted with his dusky skin. Somewhere in his family tree was a Cherokee, but he’d never much cared.
The last of his stash of Cuban cigars smoldered in an ashtray next to a photograph of his wife and boy, their faces pale in the grayscale of the photograph. They were gone, now, sent away with most of his men. Good guys. Not up for fighting. He picked up the cigar and pulled on it hard, then finished combing his hair into place. It paid to look good.
The door to his purple-carpeted office creaked open a touch, and John, the barman for the speakeasy that evening, peeked in. His normally-pale face was pallid, and his jaw was trembling.
“He’s here,” John said. The man nodded and tossed a key to the barman.
“There’s a trap door underneath my chair,” he said, walking around the dark-varnished oaken desk. “The one we use to smuggle the booze in. If you go now, I think you’ll be safe.” John looked at his boss in shock for a moment.
“You’re a fine man, Mr. Clark,” John said, and offered his hand. He took it and smiled.
“Kiss your wife goodnight for me, John,” Clark said, and John knelt to unlock the trap door.
“Why aren’t you coming, Mr. Clark?” John asked, holding open the escape route.
“Because he’ll come after me if I do. None of you’ll be safe. Now go, or you won’t get out of the building in time,” Clark said. John nodded, hesitated, then slipped down into the little tunnel that they had used for years to sneak rum, wine, and beer into the bar. It had served cops, mayors, and even the very federal enforcers who were supposed to enforce the Prohibition that ruled the country, and had allowed Clark to sidestep the more unsavory parts of the rumrunning business. Unfortunately, it seemed that they did not care to be sidestepped.
Clark stepped into the main room of his speakeasy. There were four men there. Two had shotguns, and one carried a Thompson gun, the machine gun that was so heavy that you couldn’t feel the recoil when you fired it. The last was unarmed, and stood behind the others a bit.
“Mr. Capone,” Clark said, and sucked on his cigar again. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“You know why we’re here,” the unarmed man said. Clark nodded. “Any last words?”
“You’ll leave my family alone?” Clark asked. The unarmed man nodded. There was silence for a moment.
“Well,” Clark finally said, taking the cigar from his mouth, “If you’ve got to go out, you might as well go out in style.” The four men chuckled.
“Might as well,” the unarmed man said, and then the Thompson gun roared to life.
The average lion is approximately 190 cm long and 60 cm wide = 11400 cm2 = 0.00000114 km2
Now, if we take that times a trillion we get 11,400,000 km2 of lion.
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
i am lost.
Lost inside my mind, a mind that is lost inside itself.
my conundrum: What do i do? about you, what are you doing? what is wrong with me.
it feels as though the walls are closing in, and yet i am ever trapped, a distance greater than eternity, away from my goal.
Why has this happened to me? you have put me in such an undesirable situation. a situation which, had i contemplated prior to my entrance into such an affair, i most certainly would not have became a member. Why did i join? tell me now.
You, Sir (which is all i have ever referred to you as). Why have you put me here Sir? yet now you are at my mercy. you have some questions to answer. please start with the prior.
but Sir, Why me? what did i do to deserve such a cruel and unusual fate. why, out of the entire populous of the world, did you ruin my life?
You, Sir, You say you saw me as worthless. Sir: i had a Wife; her name was Elvira. i had 2 kids, Daniel and William. all of which i am currently unaware of their current locations. can you, Sir, Tell me where they are!
You, Sir i can't begin to explain why you believe that this is a correct way to accomplish any goal of your sorts. Unless, you, Sir, had hidden motives. Tell me now: How does killing my family assist you in accomplishing any sort of forward progressing motive? Sir, Are you evil?
Sir, what are you saying? the company has me so say that there is no way out. yet, i clearly have you right now. this is progressing into redundancy. if you shall not answer my questions, then the only remaining option is the elimination of you, Sir. Any last words.
Good-Bye, Sir.
{You see from the corner of the room, Sir is dead. you now decide to reveal yourself.}
you, my friend have made a grave mistake. there was none there. Sir never existed, he was just a test to, in a complete lack of any better words, figure you out. we now know you, we know who you are, and what will hurt. nothing that he has ever said was any semblance of the truth. however, now, we know exactly how to truly get to you. if you value the life of your family, you shall assist us. please enter the room ahead. you will build us that bomb. this my friend, is a fact.
Sir?..... Help me......
{the man standing in front of you collapses in front of you, apparently suffering from an epileptic seizures. after a couple minutes you approach him. he is no longer breathing. you find him to be dead.}
Well, that was a waste.
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
I saw a staple, and I wondered what one must go through as they were made - undulating and bending as though it was a reed in the midst of a thunderstorm, being shuffled to and fro from conveyor belt to conveyor belt and always at risk of being uprooted and carried off; as though it was an iron bar again, red, writhing in a kind of ecstatic agony inside the furnace before being divvied up into tiny, individual strands of melting silver, and then bent over at the corners and clumped together into a box, finally tame and silent. In front of me were staples, and I picked one up, bending the sides - they moved easily, like joints, and gleamed in the artificial light I was shrouded in. I opened the box they had been placed in and took four of them out - one for the arms, one for the legs, one for the body, and one for the head - they would not stay in position, but they were all bent into different shapes, the head an endearing box-shape and the arms and legs bent into positions that made it appear as though the staples were running, trying to escape, like they were all in the fire again, red-hot.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
After several moments of frustration, I sought shelter from the sun by passing through a single row of tables that lined a hot cobblestone walk. The tables were sheltered by a large grass canopy that also provided shade for a long wicker bar.
I ordered a Corona.
The cruise ship I had arrived on the previous night rested over my shoulder; a great white monstrosity that towered over the town, which hadn’t witnessed the docking of a tourist ship its size for many years. The ship had been brought by chance, the result of a hurricane churning in the gulf, forcing a change in the captain’s itinerary.
I looked down and made eye contact with a short dark skinned man with a heavy brow. He was an obvious resident. In front of him sat a small glass, mostly empty.
I pointed at the glass and pointed at him. He said, “Si”.
A boy bartender brought me my beer. I pointed at the glass and held up two fingers. Soon there were two full glasses and I was handing the boy dollars.
We drank and the sun descended.
Though my new friend did not speak much English and I spoke little Spanish, I quickly learned his name was Juan, and it wasn’t long until we were joined by a couple of Juan’s friends.
The four of us drank more.
Long after the sun had disappeared, we walked out into the street, passing through the same single row of tables, once empty, now fully occupied.
I put out my hand in parting.
Juan said, “No, you come.”
“Come where?” I said.
Juan’s friends led me through the crowded street. We had to weave through many sounds, many faces and many colors. My senses seemed to bounce between monotone and stereo.
Down a street, down an alley, up some stairs, through a dark hall, up some more stairs, we arrived at the top of a building. Paper lights hung in the air. Gold and red colors dominated the scene.
In the corner, a band played. The area was crowded and people brushed my shoulder as they walked.
A young girl rocked backward, then forward, then backward in front of me. My left hand on her waist, her hand gripping my own, in my right hand I held a glass from which I couldn’t remember obtaining.
I lifted my arm, she turned. I side-stepped, she passed and then returned with a twist.
I saw Juan. He had carved his own space and was dancing with his own girl.
Motions happened slowly but time passed quickly.
Then a ship steward woke me. I was sprawled on a bench. The steward tilted a Polaroid my direction and I saw myself staring back at myself. A girl was in my arms, circled by a crowd of people. They were all smiling, as was I.
“Some vacation,” the steward said.
He ran a sharp black claw along his crimson skin, tracing his muscles as he sat impatiently in his opaque prison. Bloodlust coursed through his body as he dangled on a golden chain at his master’s side.
An eight-year-old girl, Baseal thought. How absurd that a child should command an Efreet.
Baseal heard choking as his master and his guards retreated into a stone passage. Baseal desired nothing more than to breathe the sweet soot filled air. The thought just irritated him more as he swung helplessly.
My master is weak. He is undeserving of me.
They entered a large circular room. A young girl sat on a bench, flanked by an old white haired man hunched by time and a single guard with his hands folded over the hilt of a great curved sword, its point anchored in the stone floor.
Cowardly decisions and poor leadership has led to the indignity of this collapse. Even at this late hour, we choose to run, not to fight. My master deserves shackles, not I.
Baseal seethed.
“Our time is short,” his master said, dropping down to a crouch so he could look at his daughter at eye-level. He opened the palm of her hand.
“With all my love, I give you what is rightfully yours by blood and by name. You will be Queen now.”
Baseal felt a sudden drop.
Like a fruit being separated from its tree, the bond between master and servant was broken.
Baseal felt a new life-force grip him. He fought back but was quickly defeated. Pain rushed over him. He fell to his knees. Flames leapt from his skin and he coward on the floor of his prison.
They were on the move again. Baseal was too weak to dare spy, but he knew they were on their way to the docks. Her subconscious told him.
Her soul was strong. He fed off its strength. It was a strength he had not felt for many generations.
So strong, Baseal thought as remained hunched on the floor, his sharp teeth biting into the red skin of his forearm.
Then she called to him for the first time and he felt an upward rush.
He materialized at her side, his eight-foot frame towering over her. Several guards turned at his appearance, fear and suspicion betrayed there faces.
She opened up to him. We have traitors amongst us. You are the only one I can trust.
“I have made other arrangements for my escape,” she spoke. “I will return in ten years and one day. The city will bow to my rule.”
He lusted for nothing more than to appease her.
She will be great, he thought. She will be the Queen of Queens.
"Kill them all," she said. "Leave the old man to carry my message."
Baseal obeyed.
Casey-who-was-not got up, and examined herself in the mirror. She looked like a Casey, but she didn't want to be a Casey (it was quickly decided). She wanted to be a Mark.
Getting up from her bed, she walked briskly to the door, shrugging on a loose-fitting shirt and pants, grabbing a belt and going down all 27 steps [her breasts bouncing up and down on each one, like a pedometer], and out the front door of her art deco-styled apartment, surrounded by exemplary, modern buildings that seemed to laugh at it whenever she looked [this is, perhaps, why her rent was so low]. On the far corner of the street was a machine that looked vaguely like a phone booth: 'Restructuring $5' was written on the side [with a slot, ostensibly for coins, directly under the words], and instead of glass walls they were made of a gleaming, white, and easily biodegradable material. Casey put a 5-dollar coin into the machine: a whoosh sound was heard, and the machine opened, a door appearing where none had been before. 'Please step in', a calming, female voice sounded, but Casey was in before the voice finished. Inside, the machine looked much the same as the outside: the only difference was a screen inset into where the door had opened, displaying selections.
"What style would you like today?" the voice sounded.
"Mark, please." Casey responded.
The machine whooshed into the ground, and a sedative knocked Casey out. Minutes later, the machine beeped in a tone only dogs could hear. Mark woke up from the sedatives, with no ill effects. As it swooshed upwards, the machine intoned:
"Thank you and have a nice day."
Mark stepped out of the machine. He was in a hurry: he had to catch the 9:15 train. Rushing, he barely made it.
'This shirt is a little off,' he thought as he entered the train. Looking around, he noticed an attractive woman, and sighed. It didn't mean what it used to.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
“Cheryl, tell the representative from the union that the meeting has been moved up to six o’clock, and tell him right now… wait.”
The man pushed a button on the earpiece.
“Hello? No, I told you I can’t deal with that right now. The deadline for the project proposal is tomorrow and the workers are still striking… No, I said no! Just tell Patrick to get it done if it’s so goddamn important!”
He finished his coffee in one hand and turned the steering wheel with the other. Merging into the leftmost lane, he straightened out the wheel and turned off the high beams with his wrist.
“Cheryl? Get me Mr. Wright.”
He peered out the window, looking for any other cars. Seeing none, he accelerated.
“Hello, Mr. Wright? Yes, I sent you the e-mail last night… No, not tonight. I’ve got to work out the kinks with the union problem, and God knows how long that will take. You know how stubborn that son of a ***** Hoyer can be.”
A small black blur flew across the road, but the fog was too thick for him to notice. Suddenly he jolted upright, grabbed the phone and fumbled with the numbers.
“Julie? Is Christine there? Hurry up… Christine, why are you and Julie still there? You said you’d leave early with her to meet Luke at your mother’s house… Fine, I don’t care, just pick up Luke and get the kids home. God knows that’s probably all you’ll do today anyway.”
The man reached the top of a hill and turned onto an exit ramp. He threw his earpiece onto the passenger seat and picked up his egg sandwich. Suddenly, he saw a bright light. He swerved, but the light followed him. Shielding his eyes with an arm he slammed his foot and punched the horn. He moved his arm and the light was right in front of him.
Thanks to the [Æther] shop for the sig!
The door smashed down with a crash of plaster to reveal Old Irvine standing there. The mercenaries leveled their guns, hesistant to shoot - they hadn't been told their target was an old lady.
"Won't you come in for some tea?" asked Old Irvine, odd tones reverberating in her voice. Strange expressions flitted over the faces of the mercenaries as the offer seemed oddly tempting. But one of them, realising something was seriously wrong here, managed to keep to his mission and fire a couple of shots off at Old Irvine. One hit her in the arm, and one in the head, but she showed no sign of noticing as she repeated her offer. This time, the mercenaries could not resist, and they put down their weapons and went inside.
"It's no good sir. We've lost another team, and they were professionals."
"Dammit!" said the general, thumping his desk.
"With all due respect sir, maybe we should forget about it. It's not going to cause harm, and we've already lost quite a few good men," said the lieutenant.
"No," replied the general. "It's one of the best weapons we have, and we're not just going to abandon it and all those years of research. Consign another team. We'll get a new approach this time."
CLICK TEH LINK TO HELP DRAGONS GROW
http://solarion.dragonadopters.com/dragon_15323
Anyhoo.
Inspiration for this story = obvious, and I do have a couple others to input, but I like this one, and the song's been ... addicting for the last while.
Ana Ng
Make a hole in the ground perpendicular, to the name of this town in a desktop globe, exit wound in a foreign nation, showing the home of the one this was written for.
All alone at the '64 worlds' fair, 80 dolls yelling small girl after all – who was at the Dupont Pavilion? Why was the bench still warm – who had been there?
As I walked through the fairways I shook my head – it felt as though the air was dead – halfway across the world I saw a girl, and I would say so much if there was a me for you.
I'd say,
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence, Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
I went to the bathroom, and turned the faucet. Water was spiraling the wrong way down the sink. And I heard what sounded like a backwards record – a whirlpool, never-ending. I ran out the door, pants down, and nobody was there. I turned to go home, and the bench seemed odd – like it was where I was meant to be.
Sitting down, I watched the storm tangle up the wire – the one to the horn on the pole at the bus depot. And in back of the edge of hearing, these are the words that the horn was repeating:
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence - Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
The nothing I was and the nothing I became were almost unbearable, and I thought - they don't need me here. I know, Ana, you're there - where the world goes by like the humid air, and sticks like a broken record, everything sticks like a broken record, and everything sticks until it goes away.
But the truth is, we don't know anything ...
And down the fairway strolled a girl, and my jaw dropped, she looked at me, and opened her mouth, and out tumbled Chinese which I didn't understand, but later, she told me what she said:
“Sing,” she said in Chinese, “because you'll never have to again.”
It sounded to me peculiarly like a backwards record, the syllables odd and grating, and I sang – for what would be the last time -
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence, Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
“Ana Ng and I are getting old and we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence, Listen Ana, hear my words, they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you.”
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
That little match’s spark wasn’t nearly enough to uncover the darkness of the room, neither was the red-burning end of the now lit cigarette, but it was good anyways to have one in her lips, and even better to have plenty more in her pocket, far better, anyways, than bleeding slowly on the ground, but it seemed that he wasn’t even bleeding anymore, even blood runs out. He wasn’t moaning, nor shaking no more, he was simply waiting, still and dead, for her to finish his cigarette, but when it was done and she stood up, he said nothing, and again he said nothing when she walked towards him to pick up the silvery knife that was still deep in his throat, because he was beyond words, still and dead, and the blood once his ran now freely everywhere near.
Then she opened the only door, and for a moment it seemed that darkness left that room, and it was day again, but it was just a moment, and the door closed again.
Alone, he took a deep breath, feeling part of the air supposed to go to his lungs escaping through the wound opened by that damned knife. Drowsy, he stumbled to the small chair where she has sited, watching him bleed. He would have given all the fingers of his hand in exchange for a cigarette, but that ***** had taken them all, and he was too weak to follow her. His wounds were steadily healing, and the throat’s one was now rather a scratch, but he has lost too much blood, and the fight had been exhausting. “Maybe I’m truly growing old now” he though mockingly while trying to imagine a cigarette, but her scent was everywhere, “hope she haven’t smoked’em all yet, otherwise there’d nothing to take when I’m through with her” and with that in mind he commanded his still weak legs into walking, and more in anger than in pain he left the room.
By Ben Kline
The Burger King was cleaner than most, which does not qualify it for an award but is worth noting. Brian had asked Alyssa to meet him there, it was near campus and they needed to catch up; she agreed. Brian was in his freshman year at the University of Minnesota, Alyssa in her sophomore, but their friendship traced back much farther, to the elementary school counselor’s waiting room when Alyssa had smiled at Brian.
The two friends sat down across from each other at a table and began saturating the feast of microwave cooked meat and fat boiled fries, pausing to soak in caffeinated sugar water from their bottomless cups. After a transitory piece of this activity Alyssa broke the silence. “So how’s your first year going?” “Alright, I just had Pre-Calc; I fell asleep like five times.” Alyssa smiled which had an immense warming effect on Brian; Alyssa didn’t notice. “Yeah I think I got a C last year, at least you only need one class of it right? For your major I mean?” “Yea just one,” Brian didn’t look so confidant, “As long as I pass.” “Well I have to take Calc again this year.” “That sucks; I think I’d kill myself.” The second the words left Brian’s mouth he wished he could have them back; he had seen the flicker that crossed Alyssa’s face. “Are you feeling well?” “Yea, of course,” Brian seemed determined to change the subject quickly, “So, I wanted to tell you something Alyssa.” “Yes? What is it?” “I like you, I really like you.” “Oh…” Her eyes dropped slightly and his began to panic, he went on hurriedly, “…and I was wondering if you wanted to do something…sometime?” “You mean a date? That’s really sweet and all Brian but you have always been a friend to me, I don’t think I can see you as anything else.” Several light years passed between verdict and decree, Brian was staring down at his forgotten burger. “I’ve got to get to class Brian; we’ll talk about this tonight okay?” “Couldn’t you try?” “What?” “Never-mind.” I’m sorry, I’ll come by tonight I promise,” Brian looked up at Alyssa. He expected a kiss on the cheek, a hug, something, but she seemed determined to leave him no hope. “Bye.” “Good-bye darling.” He knew she couldn’t hear him; she was in such a hurry to get away, she couldn’t stand to look at him, she would though, she would have to.
A minute after her body left the Burger King; with her scent now dissipating Brian stood up, discarded his half-eaten food aggressively in the trash and stormed off in the opposite direction of his unrequited love. He had a knife which needed sharpening.
“Their. Sorry, slip of the tongue.”
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Manny stared at the ceiling as her fiancé, Nick, made love to her. She tried to find constellations in the popcorn stucco. Anything to keep her mind off of Cole. Even now, several weeks after he walked her to the parking lot and he leaned a bit too close when he said goodbye, she couldn’t help but remember the faint musk of his aftershave.
Soon Nick would convulse and roll back to his side of the bed. Cole was different. They’d often skip class together and run to his dorm while his roommate was gone. They would make love and talk for hours. Cole hung on her every word; he was one of the only people that asked for her opinions because he genuinely wanted to hear them.
“Ouch, Nick, stop.” She rolled over to her side and attempted to think of something else.
“What’s the problem?” He sounded wounded, like he was looking up at her after she’d pushed him down a flight of stairs.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you still going to talk to Mom about the wedding cake tomorrow?”
Manny clenched her pillow case. “I don’t think so, I don’t feel that well.”
“Are you sure there’s no problem baby?”
She sat up and felt around the darkness for her clothes. “You know what; maybe I should sleep at my house. I don’t want you catching anything.”
She ignored Nick’s tired protests and left as soon as she’d dressed herself.
There was hardly anyone on the road at that time of night so it only took her a few minutes to get to Cole’s dorm. She convinced a drunk freshman to let her into the building. Three-oh-three. It was surprising that she could remember, this was the first time she’d come here without him. She brushed her fingers through her hair and studied the door for a few more minutes.
As she raised her fist to the door it flew open and a young girl burst out and ran into Manny.
“Oh, sorry.” The girl was tall and athletic. Her chaotic black locks and the bra she was clutching to her chest told Manny exactly what she'd been doing there.
“You must be Mike’s girlfriend, Maxine right?”
Manny stared at her.
“He’s not here right now,” she continued, “Cole’s the only one there.”
“I guess I missed him,” Manny said without inflection.
The other girl leaned in close to her, Manny could smell Cole’s aftershave, “Hey, don’t tell Cole’s girlfriend, ok? This is kind of a secret thing.”
“Cole has a girlfriend?”
The other girl smiled at her--a blind, idiotic smile. Bile rose in Manny throat, she’d probably smiled the same way around Cole.
As the girl ran down the hall, stuffing the bra into her jeans pocket, Manny follwed, watching the pictures that the patterned carpet made under her.
Winner of the 2nd Design Survivor Contest
Creator of the Vorthos Card Contest
Winner of 12th and the 18th Short Story Contests
Creator of the Vs. Tournament.
--Runner of the Superhero Vs. Tounrament
--Runner of the Villian Vs. Tournament.
The Reader
It was recess in the playground. A boy was with a group of friends in the corner of the playground - they were nerds.
"I just finished writing my first fiction story, and it'd mean a lot to me if you guys heard it, ok?"
General assent was heard from the group, and the boy smiled.
"Oh, Neil, I'm sorry - I'm really bad at thinking of names, so I used yours. I hope it's not too embarrassing."
And with that, he launched into it:
"Once upon a time, there was a land without school, without rules. A young boy named Neil had been born in the other world, of work and despair, where your parents would force you to wash dishes and do other chores. One day he stopped working - and from there he was taken into the world without rules, to do as he pleased. All of his friends and family in the other world, with work and punishment, were very sad, but they persevered, and in time they were all together, to live happily ever after."
He finished, and opened his eyes - the world was moving in reverse, everyone receding into the distance, spinning faster and faster, and he himself could not control his movements as he was sucked backwards in time.
The rewinding abruptly stopped. He threw up. Looking up from the vomit now covering the ground, he saw Neil crossing the street, and a car roaring towards him.
"Stop!" he yelled, running at the scene: but he was too late. The car and Neil collided, Neil's body thrown to the ground a good 30 feet away from the initial impact. The car sped off.
The scene then began to speed up. Frantically he yelled, "No! Nooo!", but the screams became distorted by the speed, and as he continues to speed up he became unable to move, everything already being pre-done, his actions already laid out for him. Somewhere in the periphery of his vision, he could see flashes of a great white cross.
Once again, it slowed and stopped, and he was back where he had been when he started the story. The group of kids standing around him were looking at him with sympathy. Neil was not among them. He looked around: across the street and down a ways was a white cross, with a small plaque at the bottom.
"Neil! NEIL!" he yelled, sobbing, running as fast as his legs could carry him. The other kids looked on with sympathy.
"We all had to cope with it, somehow." one of the boys said.
"They were close."
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
“Later bro, see you Monday,” said Frank over the cube wall as he left. “Enjoy your long weekend.”
I stood in the Newark terminal. No carry on. No extra cloths.
“Ok Mr. Perez, your seat is confirmed. That will be $1453.87 charged to your VISA card. Your flight will board in about forty minutes. You will connect in Paris and should arrive in Johannesburg in 21 hours, which should be 8:00 PM South African time. Your return flight will leave Saturday night and you should arrive back in New York late Sunday.”
The flight was long.
Some drugs helped.
I slept most of the flight.
“Where?” said the cabbie.
“Carfax.”
It was a club, built in a gutted old warehouse.
There I met Trina. She had dark skin and hair. At first, I thought she must have been a mix of Indian and white. I found out later she was a bit of everything. She was thin and colorfully clothed. Deep brown eyes and a wide smile, she stood a foot shorter.
She approached me first. I wore all white. Linen pants with a white button down shirt, hung loosely.
We danced. The music was quick paced, techno and hip-hop based, with lots of cymbals and bass.
Trina introduced me to five of her friends.
I loved the smell of her hair the most. As the night deepened, her hair was a safe recluse from the musty air that accumulated over the dance floor.
We took some pills. I don’t know what they were, but they were amazing.
We ended up in a dark corner behind a wall of people. It drowned some of the sound, which allowed us to talk and kiss, and down several drinks.
She told me to come home with her. I did.
She made an amazing breakfast the next morning.
The next day I boarded my plane home. I paid for a second seat to New York.
The return flight took longer and there were delays in Paris.
I became a member of the mile-high club.
Twenty hours after Paris I was staring at my computer screen, bleary eyed.
“What did you do this weekend?” asked Frank.
“No much,” I replied.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Dunno,” I said. “At the rate I’m going, I might fly to Vegas and get married.”
I hoped I was joking, but I can’t honestly say for sure if I was.
Considering objectives, superfluous as it may seem, when discussing certain paranormal phenomena is paramount to obtain a thorough understanding of the subject at hand: therefore, without said consideration in such an investigation as this one, it is nigh-impossible to encompass the myriad of reasons that this spork, made out of only the finest space-age polymers and innovations in utensil design, could have theoretically changed positions, as it were, from my table, one with a certain ethereal quality, to a place heretofore unknown but one that I presume is a second table, humongous in scope, encompassing nearly half of the students in this supposed school, said school being a place of (or so THEY say) brotherhood and higher learning, said students being (metaphorically speaking) plucked from every color of the rainbow, the table a harmonious symbol of goodwill towards mankind, albeit one which I do not participate in because of a kind of phobia of other organisms, of other people, that causes me to lock up and lower my eyes when confronted by anyone and anything. According to my scrupulously detailed 'personal record', of which I obtained a printed facsimile May fifth, three days prior, I am referred to by the majority of psychologists on staff and teachers whom I have been under as a 'problem child', an aberration in their (again, metaphorically speaking) quilted patchwork of perfect students and gentle, smiling happiness. And one of them has stolen my spork, of that I am sure, as in the copious time it takes me, while avoiding any- and every-thing, to retrieve my chocolate milk, which is set up in such a way as to require a second trip but is my favorite section of the by all regards piss-poor buffet that the cafeteria workers hand out to us, supposedly nutritional but swimming with fat, sugar, and unhappiness in general (after every meal I sense a strange tingling in my stomach, and I feel ill-at-ease: I have requested being allowed to carry my own food-stuffs into the school, but I was denied the privilege on the basis of it being a difference from the others, the school attempting the homogenization of its occupants) and I feel something, evidently of man-made materials and not alive, under my foot; it makes an odd sound, much like plastic, when I prod it, and I look on the shining, blank floor, getting down on my hands and knees, chair swept behind me, and find what I was looking for.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
A Religious Fiction By WarOne
Up in his clouded laboratory, God contemplated what he should create.
He realized that the clouded laboratory was a metaphor and concepted entirely in his mind for creative innovation, so he made that first.
Then he made reality, because clouds and laboratories couldn't exist without reality to support them. He left out language and English as creations, deciding that the realm of nouns, verbs, and metaphors should be written by some guys named Shakespeare and Rowling.
And then he created contrasts, because he thought it was good that things have opposites.
Feeling creative (the clouded laboratory does help ya know...) he conjured the earth. He did it with a flourish and it popped out of a magical hat.
In hindsight, he should have invented the hat first and maybe theatrics. An audience would also have been nice.
So there was heaven and earth.
Cool, God thought.
He took some time off, coined the phrase vacation, and went water skiing (also invented simultaneously). He couldn't see where he was going, so he invented some light to show him how awesome it was to water ski and do it while in darkness (created by the principle of opposites, and he wait, isn't he in the light now?!?)
However, God was kinda alone and didn't have anything to show his back flips and trim physique to.
So after his vacation, God came back to his clouded laboratory, and started working again (also invented on the fly).
He poofed into existence something green, and called it a plant. It fell through the clouds and plummeted to earth.
He gave the plant wings. It fell to the earth still.
He attempted to give it a mind to use the wings, but it fluttered around aimlessly and eventually crashed to Earth too.
Slightly annoyed, God continued to toil away on the plant, giving it all sorts of things that he invented in the span of a day. He changed his location from the laboratory; he moved his operations to earth, to light, to darkness, to ocean (that invention slipped in somewhere too).
Finally completely exhausted, he ended his efforts on something called a platypus.
Later that night, God invented alcohol and inebriation. God was so totally smashed that he invented quite a few things in delirium before collapsing into a drunken stupor. We should call it a menagerie of bad ideas.
When he awoke, God had created life and the hangover. Unbeknownst to him, he also created some guy name Adam thanks to some sexual fantasy.
Sometime later, when God found out Adam wasn't gay, he kicked him and his girlfriend Eve out of his apartment and the rest becomes history.
Or religion.
Whatever.
Vargrath’s Final Adventure
“No,” Thereal screamed, “Yaddrik is down. We’re going to have to kill this without a healer now. All of you have potions hot-keyed right?”
The surviving adventurers ran around the giant pixilated dragon throwing out wave after wave of flashy rendered graphics at it.
“Myssio, watch your life.”
It was too late, the computerized knight’s life fell to zero and he faded from the screen. The beast shuttered and then fell.
Vergrath couldn’t remember the last time he felt this exhilarated. He couldn’t even recall the last time he felt happy at all away from his computer.
Memories unrelated to the game seemed dim, grey. Last week at the office they threw him a party. The frosting spelled out a name that barely meant anything to him any longer. “Marc.” He identified more with Vergrath, the ancient Elven Fire Mage than the 29-year-old administrative assistant. The epic loot and experience points was a far better present than the gift cards from his mom.
“That was lucky,” appeared above Thereal’s character. They spoke in word balloons, but he felt closer to the Elven Thief than to anyone else.
“Hey, Thereal, before we turn in the quest, do you want to go to that inn next to the sword shop?”
Vergrath held his breath. He had been planning this for days. He wiped some more sweat from his brow.
“Sure. Can you gate us there?”
Vergrath smiled and typed out the command for his character to nod.
In a few minutes their characters sat across from each other at a table next to the innkeeper. Even though Vergrath had never seen Thereal, or even heard her real voice, he knew that he loved her. Their conversation flowed with an ease that he could no longer duplicate. Getting to know her made him realize that love could really transcend any boundary. He reasoned that going out with Thereal would be more honest than any relationship Vergrath had ever known. It wouldn’t be based on qualities as superficial as appearances or even gender (he eventually came to terms with the possibility that Thereal’s player might actually be a man); the bond they formed was the only genuine part of his life anymore.
Vergrath stood up from the table. “I’ve had a great time tonight,” he said. “I think it would great to extend our friendship into the real world. If I give you my number do you think we could arrange to meet somewhere and talk face to face?”
Another character came in behind them and made the inn their home then ran out again.
“Um,” she said finally, “I have to ask my mom first and she already went to bed. I should actually log.”
Vergrath logged without saying goodbye. He imagined an adolescent boy on the playground telling his wide-eyed friends about the pedophile he met online the night before.
Marc turned off the computer. He should have gone to bed a couple hours ago anyway; he had work tomorrow.
Winner of the 2nd Design Survivor Contest
Creator of the Vorthos Card Contest
Winner of 12th and the 18th Short Story Contests
Creator of the Vs. Tournament.
--Runner of the Superhero Vs. Tounrament
--Runner of the Villian Vs. Tournament.
Style
His suit was charcoal-black, and beneath it he wore a shirt and tie the color of fresh cream. His wife said it made him look like a whitewall tire. He didn’t mind. Whitewalls were classy, and the cream contrasted with his dusky skin. Somewhere in his family tree was a Cherokee, but he’d never much cared.
The last of his stash of Cuban cigars smoldered in an ashtray next to a photograph of his wife and boy, their faces pale in the grayscale of the photograph. They were gone, now, sent away with most of his men. Good guys. Not up for fighting. He picked up the cigar and pulled on it hard, then finished combing his hair into place. It paid to look good.
The door to his purple-carpeted office creaked open a touch, and John, the barman for the speakeasy that evening, peeked in. His normally-pale face was pallid, and his jaw was trembling.
“He’s here,” John said. The man nodded and tossed a key to the barman.
“There’s a trap door underneath my chair,” he said, walking around the dark-varnished oaken desk. “The one we use to smuggle the booze in. If you go now, I think you’ll be safe.” John looked at his boss in shock for a moment.
“You’re a fine man, Mr. Clark,” John said, and offered his hand. He took it and smiled.
“Kiss your wife goodnight for me, John,” Clark said, and John knelt to unlock the trap door.
“Why aren’t you coming, Mr. Clark?” John asked, holding open the escape route.
“Because he’ll come after me if I do. None of you’ll be safe. Now go, or you won’t get out of the building in time,” Clark said. John nodded, hesitated, then slipped down into the little tunnel that they had used for years to sneak rum, wine, and beer into the bar. It had served cops, mayors, and even the very federal enforcers who were supposed to enforce the Prohibition that ruled the country, and had allowed Clark to sidestep the more unsavory parts of the rumrunning business. Unfortunately, it seemed that they did not care to be sidestepped.
Clark stepped into the main room of his speakeasy. There were four men there. Two had shotguns, and one carried a Thompson gun, the machine gun that was so heavy that you couldn’t feel the recoil when you fired it. The last was unarmed, and stood behind the others a bit.
“Mr. Capone,” Clark said, and sucked on his cigar again. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“You know why we’re here,” the unarmed man said. Clark nodded. “Any last words?”
“You’ll leave my family alone?” Clark asked. The unarmed man nodded. There was silence for a moment.
“Well,” Clark finally said, taking the cigar from his mouth, “If you’ve got to go out, you might as well go out in style.” The four men chuckled.
“Might as well,” the unarmed man said, and then the Thompson gun roared to life.
Magnificent Quote of the day: