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One Shots

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Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

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#121

Posted 06 June 2013 - 08:31 PM Edited by Mokrie Dela, 06 June 2013 - 10:57 PM.

Not sure the 'theme tune' works if I'm honest. Seemed slapped on for the hell of it.

The story itself made me laugh in a few spots. I like it, though you need to decide whether to have it americanised or British 'reruns' is an American term - over here we say repeats. The Murray mint and sh*tting ibts though; funny


Disgust


Oh my god! What have I done? Lucy thought. She turned her head - which was a gargantuan act in of itself. How much had she drink last night?
Not that much; she remember everything. The man beside her looked sixteen but was ten years older than that. A scrawny dweeb, a bad haircut and thick-rimmed glasses. Damned Yeagerbombs messed her up, yet she still drank them. Nothing like a stimulant and a depressant together to get the party started. Well, if the guys keep on buying...
She couldn't remember his name though. He looked like a heroin addict, and was wearing a pink polo t-shirt. What do you call a cross between a nerd and a chav? she asked herself, a nav? A cherd?
As it turned out, he was a horny little c*nt. It's always the quiet ones.

They were both drunk, of course, and the sex had started in the cab. He had fondled her averagely sized tits, and she'd given him a teasing handjob. The moment the door had shut, their clothes had been discarded and she had gone down on him; then him on her. They did it, on the floor, on the bed, cowgirl, doggy. How many times? Four? Had he not been laid for a year?
Probably not, she thought, seeing his boney ribs poking through his skin like a skeleton wrapped in cling film.
Was he clean? she suddenly asked hersel fin panic.
She wasn't questioning that when shed been the first to cum, with his face between her legs. At least she'd gotten waxed yesterday. That could have been embarrassing.

The final act of the night, at the peak of their drunkenness, involved her sucking his skinny little cock, and swallowing the water cum like a sour shot of cheap hooch. She could still taste it now, salty and bitter, and smelling of a mixture of her own juices and... Chlorine. What the hell was that about? She'd never tasted cum like that before. Was it the alcohol?
She ran to the bathroom to be sick, and with the retching came the realisation that she was naked with dried cum on her tits - she'd made him cum on there at some point, and the dirty animal had licked it off. It was hot at the time but now it made her gag -

The puke was basically fermented alcohol and sugar, and it tasted of the redbull. She looked in the mirror - which was dirty.
She was indeed naked, and even her tits - she had a good rack - looked unpleasant. Down one side was a dried patch of puke, sticky and sweet smelling, and her pussy felt sticky - from the godknows how many cumshots she had in it. She hasn't used protection of course but she did have the implant, so at least she wouldn't have a little sprog out of it all.
She needed a shower badly but not here. She ran out to find her clothes and put them on hurriedly - mostly back to front. She didnt even bother sneaking out. She ran, her shoes in her hand along with her bag (her phone and keys and purse were still in there, luckily). Her feet slapped onthe sharp concrete and she gt the inevitable stares. She didn't realise that was because one of her tits had fallen out of her top - she wore one of those with with huge arm-holes.
It wouldn't be too bad if it wasn't for the puke on her tit still.
Her head throbbed and tears welled in her eyes. It had been fun at the time but not now.

Finally she got home. She hasn't thought of checking the time and did her best to sneak in. She shut the door, catching her top in it as she did so. She pulled off her skirt, as the buckle had broke during her run, and turned.
Her top tore open, exposing her entire body - naked.
She couldn't miss the eyes in front of her.
She looked at the clock - 12:30.
She stared at the people in front of her.
"Gran?!" She shrieked in shock. How could she forget the entire family was round?


New theme: Starjumps

Mick.
  • Mick.

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#122

Posted 02 July 2013 - 11:23 AM

Starjump


The wind picks up from the west
A lonesome folk rides his horse
Sunlight shines off his vest
Not remembering where he came from
Or where he'd head next

He would crack his whip
Powering through the West
Killing the innocent
And torturing the rest

But one day
He fell like clay
With a clump
He hit his head so hard
He did a starjump

And from that day till
He hasn't killed
Nor killed to thrill
But he starjumped
He regretted that one bump.


---

That was absolute sh*t except for the first stanza.

Next theme: Kevin & his sailing boat

Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

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    Story/Poem of the Year 2010 "City of Lies"

#123

Posted 05 August 2013 - 10:37 AM Edited by Mokrie Dela, 05 August 2013 - 10:39 AM.

Right time to lift this from the ashes again


"Raise the sails!" Comes the shout as they leave the port.
On the deck men scramble about, as the boat begins to yaw,
And with an act of elegance, the ship turns north,
Heading to join the battleships, frigates, and a Man O' War.

Behind the wheel stands a man with ice in his veins.
In command of the vessel, and maps written in his brain.
His voice booms with authority; this ship is his domain,
Quickly the men obey, for they are well trained.

The sea grows rough, waves pushing and pulling them up and down.
But with a gentle grace, the ship carves through the watery hills' brows.
And standing there steadfast, behind the wheel, without so much as a frown,
In his elegant robes, the Captain, Kevin, of national renown.

From across the deck, comes the singing and cheering of men.
Old sea shanties and songs from the boys from the glens,
A new verse begins, just as another one ends,
Sung by the men from England, and their Celtic friends.

The ships sail strong, through storms and calm seas,
And behind the rain in his face, Kevin smiles with glee,
To be outside of the harbours, marinas and quays,
Out on the open ocean, sailing, being truly free.

The sun cruelly sets at the end of the day,
But with it comes sunset, in it's stellar beauty.
A hundred times more stunning than as seen from the bay,
Then comes long night, and its bitter cold breeze.

For several days and several nights they steadily float,
And at their destination, no one even thinks to gloat,
Quietly and proudly, but modest, dressed in his fine coat,
To a hero's welcome stands Kevin, in front of his sailing boat.


New theme:

Eternal Life

Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

    Ain't nothin' over til it's over.

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#124

Posted 21 August 2013 - 10:42 PM

1999.

Augustus Buckingham the Third sat on the roof of the Harkeridge building, his legs over one of the large, stony gargoyles that looked across the black horizon of the city. Rain lightly spat down from the thunderous cracks of the black sky above, but the thoughts of lightning coming down were only welcomed. With his long black hair lightly becoming moistened, Augustus rubbed his eyes and let fresh tears slip from there, but only did they itch when he did so. He slipped his hand into his dark, black trenchcoat and felt for the photo, but he did not remove it from his pocket.

“Thankyou,” Michael had said, his breath raspy and weak. Death would soon wrap its warm, gentle arms around him as the heart monitor slowed down to a rhythmic chord. Michael’s old hands wrapped gently around Augustus’s and he looked sincerely grateful. “Thankyou for everything my old friend, you are a gift from the heavens above, and that is why they do not grant you entrance.”

Michael’s skin sagged heavily now, retaining no perfection of youth. His dark blue eyes were coated with a light layer of white from the cataracts, but they too remained with a certain spark of life. No hair remained on his head, and had not for years.
Augustus remained quiet, he only nodded. “I’m thankful too, for everything your family has done for me over the past millennium.”

Michael rested his bald, wrinkly head back and closed his eyes. “Think nothing of it. You have followed us all on a journey, my friend, ever since Sicily.” Images of Michael playing badminton in the fields came to Augustus’s mind, with his shorts and blue shirt. “Hello, there, do you want to play?” The voice echoed with the sound of distant thunder that slowly crawled towards the window in the form of black clouds.

“It is nearly time, old friend,” he said as he craned his view to the window. “What a beautiful sight.”

“Do you have any regrets?” asked Augustus seriously as he leaned forward.

“Patricia told me you asked the same thing of Martha,” he said with a smile and squinted eyes, the same smile that had retained its perfection of joy over the last ninety years. Augustus did not falter. He only stared and gave a smile of his own, one that he had learned to feign. Michael lifted his hands from the gentle clasp of Augustus and raised his index finger on his right hand.

“Only one,” he gave half a cough, “I wish Martha and I could have had one child. But…don’t let that bother you, Augustus. I die as I lived, happy and in the company of good friends,” he smiled once more.

As Augustus sat on the roof, bathed in the stinking, polluted remains of the heavens above, he let the tears flow. Darkness surrounded him, only giving reflections of bright light from below in the reflections of the water. Looking up, he swallowed that painful lump in his throat. I miss you already, Michael. He missed them all. The entire Harkeridge family was gone now. This would be his fourth period.

Three hundred years had passed, and here he was. Five generations, fifty people, each one a vein to his own heart. And with the final breath of Michael, there came a deeper sadness then he had ever felt before. Perhaps now. He climbed from the gargoyle and landed onto the roof with a thud under his heavy boots. As the liquid onslaught above ceased to light patters, the yellow moon peaked up as the crackling monster slid from the city with faint rumbles. Augustus looked down to the street. Perhaps now is the time. “It’d be so easy,” he whispered to himself.

What’s the problem? A faint whisper, a heavier accent. “I’m deciding.”

You do realize that there’s no possible cure? “I’ll find one.”

The figure of North slowly faded next to Augustus, bright blue, his arms crossed, his raspy voice strengthened to the audible range of a human. He wore only a pair of trunks. “Christ, I can’t help you. You’ve been low before, you’ll be low aga—“

“You don’t realize,” he said as he sat down over the edge, letting his feet dangle, “I miss them already, and I grow tired of this charade. Three hundred years is an excessive amount of time. There is nothing to achieve, North.”
The ghostly blue evaporated through the roof and flew out, facing Augustus with a stern look. “This was never a choice, or a gift, Aus’. There’s no reason for it, we know that. It’s all about chaos in the end, and you’re just a victim.”

“Is there no cure for immortality?”

“Wouldn’t it be a direct violation for me to tell you?”

“Do not tell me then, but I will figure it out.”

“Augustus, you have to give this time—“

“Time?” he said with scoff. “I’ve had three hundred years of time. At one point the power revitalized my strength. I found some kind of enjoyment. The sex, the constant power was a rush, and it lasted for years, but now…”

“What made you think differently?”

“Love mostly.”

“That Martha girl?”

“No, the entire Harkeridge family.”

“So what is your plan?”

“I am done, North. I’ll find a way,” he said as he stood up. North floated around and planted his ghostly feet back on the roof. A faint breeze blew Augustus’s jacket lightly. “So much for the great Augustus Buckingham the Third,” he said with venom.

“My royalty died along with the first generation.”

“You are so determined to die, and for what? To see all of those generations again?”

“If it wasn’t for those generations,” he said as he turned away from North, approaching the other edge of the building, “I’d have gone insane many years ago,” and with that, he jumped off into the dark abyss below of water and lights, away from the ghostly apparition.


THEME: Forbidden Love.

Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

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#125

Posted 22 August 2013 - 09:39 AM

QUOTE (Ziggy455 @ Wednesday, Aug 21 2013, 22:42)
THEME: Forbidden Love.

Haven't we already had that?

EDiT: That was "forbidden attraction"

Not a bad piece. As soon as you posted i had a feeling you would take that sort of approach and i really liked the opening paragraph. smile.gif

blitz
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    lit

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#126

Posted 28 August 2013 - 03:49 AM

Forbidden Love

"Stay." Lauren begged, holding the hand of her beloved, forcing herself not to let go.

"I can't." Michael responded blatantly, "You know I can't." Lauren sighed, locking her fingertips against his. "My father's opinion shouldn't matter!" She yelled desperately. Michael held her in his arms and calmed her, whispering that it was going to be okay.

Tears strolled down Lauren's face, and she did her best to wipe them with her palm. "Your father will have me killed." Michael said, still holding Lauren tight. She whimpered, but didn't say a word. She knew he was right, his father had made it pretty clear that another sighting of Michael would bring troubles to both. "I have to go now." Michael said, expressionless, ready for a wave of tears. Lauren didn't flinch. She pressed her lips against his and held him close for an entire minute, which seemed like an hour.

Lastly, she pulled him away, "I'll be just like ripping a bandaid. Quick and painful." Michael said with a weak smile. Lauren smiled back, trying to choke back the laments on her throat. He stepped back, and entered the cab, where he rolled down the window and told the driver to go. As the card faded into the distance, Lauren didn't move, as she understood that keeping him close wouldn't possible. She looked at him, not as the boy she'd loved, but the boy she couldn't ever be with.


A little cliché, but meh, haven't even bothered to read it a second time, so excuse any mistakes.

Mischief managed.
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Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

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#127

Posted 16 October 2013 - 10:47 AM

Hot is the skin, holding fire in his hands,

A primed grenade,
the pin on the floor.

Hot as the sun, is the fire in his eyes,
his shifting look,
his fidgeting stance

 

The sway of his walk,
the pursing of his lips,
his voice patterns,
arrogant, cocky.

 

Is it acting out,
seeking comfort or attention?
Or just a selfishness,
that he feels untouchable?

Is there a softness
behind the steel in his eyes?
an emotional embrace
behind his fists

Is his arrogance a substitute for affection,
was he neglected, a victim of a disorder or afliction?

Behind the facade, behind the lies,
there's the same basic core inside
Whether mentally ill, or completely sane,
cut him, cut me; we bleed the same.

 

Nurture, cherish, encourage,
Rise up to the challenge,
He will one day grow,

but only if his mischeif is managed.

 

 

 

Theme:
Police in helicopters

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Mick.
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#128

Posted 27 October 2013 - 01:06 AM Edited by Coat., 27 October 2013 - 01:06 AM.

Police in helicopter

 

The air around me is close - deadly. My feet follow my body as I watch the headlights of a car turn a blind corner on a hill top. The glow of the headlights are absorbed by the thick darkness and heavy fog. The headlights begin to move closer and closer, and grow larger and larger. 

 

Trailing behind me, about a few meters away, is a ginger rabbit. Slightly larger than the average rabbit - more like the size of a cat. It's tail is pointed, rather than flat, it's ears are straight, rather than floppy and it's teeth are about the size of a hair clip. It's shadow from the moonlight caresses the gravel road and the pine trees surrounding hide us both from reality. 

 

I turn back to look at the on-coming head lights, my hand out in the air with my thumb up. In an instant, the lightly glowing, blue neon lights cut out and the road ahead of it slowly fades away. The sound of gravel crunching against tires vanishes. Yet, the rabbit behind me continues to hop along, now beside me. 

 

The deep woodlands of Oregon weren't the same as they use to be. In darkness or daylight. Something changed to it many years ago. As a young boy, my Poppa would take me hunting. We'd kill dear, mostly. But then again, ferrets and other rodents would show up and we'd clean them up nicely. But, it was always strange. On the odd occasion, a bunch of dead cattle would appear in the growth of the forest floor. The smell of rooting flesh wasn't smelt. They were fresh. 

 

"Get the f*ck out of the way," I voice wails past, as a small pick-up ute passes in a rush. No number plate registration, and two middle aged men hunched over on the back with their rifles beside them. It was the middle of winter, but it hadn't snowed yet. Only flakes of snow would now and again hail down from above. It was very different from New Mexico were the days were hot and the nights were cold. As here in Oregon, no-man's land, the days are cold but the nights are even colder. 

 

"I ain't going back," I shake my head and mutter as I slowly shiver. 

 

I was falsely accused of working a part of a Mexcian drug ring, south-east of New Mexico on the very bottom corner of the border. I was a hostage with three other men. These three men were welsh and from a fine family. I met them in Vegas, at a crummy beside hotel North of the city. I was just a lame bartender at crappy hotel. So crappy, that the only exciting thing about it was karaoke nights every Tuesday and when you were on pool cleaning duty. You never know what you'll scoop out of that cesspool. These 3 guys showed up, thinking that they could concur the world, and I believed they could. They had that karizma about them. 

 

"Anyone wanna come to New Mexico?" one asked, all standing at the near door of the bar, looking at the mildly loud room. My eyes pinned on them. I didn't think my life could get any worse. I threw in the towel and quit that night, leaving with them to New Mexico that morning - riding the desert roads in the pitch black hollow hole of the night. I knew the South like the back of my hand. The old trail roads, I use to break into and hunt for months. Everything was going fine, until one night when we stopped to take refuge in this make-shift shack. No doors, hardly any walls and no half of the ceiling missing. I can say it was a good night - watching the stars as they crossed the sky. Just speaking casually, and joking around. 

 

I didn't know, it was owned by one of the meanest and mundane drug empires out there. Why would they want this pile of flaming sh*t? It was originally owned by the very founder of the empire back when it was began. And to think, we were sleeping in the same place as it - was scary. We were beat throughout the night, and one of the guys died on the scene from probably a brain haemorrhage. I never saw the other guys again, but I'd say they never made it out alive. A year later, after absolute torture and pity, they left me there at the scene of a shoot-out. The police were bribed and I was accused of running this empire. I was sentenced to jail for two life sentences in Wyoming State Penitentiary. I was seen as the bad guy in the prison, and I was beaten every single night by the cell mate. He had a brother who was killed by the same empire I supposedly ran. 

 

In many twists of events, I took the prison into lockdown and escaped. The catholic church would come and visit the prison every fortnight, and I escaped by hitching a ride with them out of the place when sh*t hit the fan. From that day on, I was a catholic. They were heading to Washington, the state, and they let me off on the Oregon border. The state that I grew up in. Coincidence? I don't know. But it did bring a tear to my eye, as I stood at the toll of the border, with my suitcase and ragged clothes. I was home. 

 

Now, I stand here, trying to navigate my way through the rugged terrain. Completely lost in darkness, being dehydrated, hungry and delusional. V-oom, v-oom, v-oom. The sound shutters through the pine trees, and the ground rumbles at it's pit. I begin to pick up the pace. Beside me, a cliff face and to the other side up ahead, a turn around a sharp corner of a gravel road. This is it. The catholic bastards had turned me in to the border patrol and got a chopper on me. A beam of light shot across the forest canopy. As it shot the beam of light, the sound was tremendous. The glow of light passed me, and I stared back up at it in complete shock. They were the headlights of the 'car'. 

 

The ginger rabbit beside me darts off into the dense forest grove. My feet pound against the uneven road, and rock crumble under my feet. The sound gets louder and louder and I stare up to what looks like a metallic shaped craft. Lights of red, blue, green, yellow and all the colors imaginable flashing off it. Smoke and fog blur my vision as it passes over head. I stand still, at the corner of the bend and glare down at the steep drop-off. And than watching it slowly move away into the horizon. Sn-ch, sn-ch, sn-ch. The ginger rabbit appears beside me again. I look down at it's beady, black eyes and wonder. Our perspective of the world is warped.  

 

New theme: The banjo and the hobo 


Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

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#129

Posted 05 November 2013 - 11:33 AM

Well now let me tell you this ode,
Of the handsome drifter who wonders the roads,
Old shoes hanging from his feet,
And a toothless smile in between his cheeks.

He's a nameless man who wonders the earth,
The man i met first, outside Fort Worth,
From New York, they say he'd walked,
Heading west, to San Francisco's docks

Under the sun, moon and stars,
He would sit with his old guitar
Strumming old songs of ancient folklore
in return for food, and nothing more.

 

One cold day, while the angels were away,
Fate, not fortune, came out to play
as he played the old strings,
The broke with a ping.

This handsome old drifter,
He with no home,
With a broken guitar,
Wandered on alone.

Up north he headed,
No point heading west
With no instrument,
He had no quest.

But with the return
of fate came luck,
and besides some ferns,
By an overturned truck
A battered old case
Winked in the sun.
It was soon opened
by a tired old bum.

I heard his music, one more time,
Faster than before, with cheerful rhymes
His guitar gone, but he still put on a show,
sitting on a rock, with his God-given Banjo

May he reach his Golden Gate destination,
Lighting up the world, souls on his way
And that his music brings more elation,
And that we'll meet again some day.



THEME : Captivity


Mick.
  • Mick.

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#130

Posted 04 February 2014 - 10:47 AM Edited by Coat., 04 February 2014 - 10:50 AM.

Captivity

I was once a free spirit without doubts and regret. I lived a good portion of my early teens without double looking or thinking. The world was my oyster and I truly felt in the essence of control. At the time of this, I had a pet parrot. He was the most nearest and dearest friend to me. He had the companion ship of brothers at arms. He was everything to me. I was always preparing for the day we would shake hands and go our own ways. But it never occurred to me what would then proceed afterwards. How does one deal with the aftermath of a loss?

I never did like keeping him locked in a cage. Of course, I was a loyal owner as he was a loyal pet. I still remember the days were he would waddle around on the living room couch and talk into the mirrors - oblivious to the world outside him. And the day came unexpectedly when I was told by my frowning father, with a face of grief with the few words that pierced my ears and shocked me to the core, 'It's Milo. He got out.' I paused and stared into blankness, not sure how to feel. My body went cold and numb and my mind went blank in an instant. I knew his wings weren't clipped, so he could soar the skies of our neighbourhood. He was free. That day, at one point I had a sudden sense of happiness that he was free but was soon covered my grief.

Until this day I still wonder why I grieved him from the moment I was told he escaped from his cage. He was certain to be out there but the realism didn't kick in until days to come. Scattered, my mind was. Lost, my mind was. I still, to this day, try and not to remember what happened. I never want to forget what he left in my heart, but what he took away is something else. I am forever grateful he came into my life.

I was once a free soul and spirit. I thought I could concur the world. He was the one trapped, in captivity. The tables have now truly turned. My mind feels caged and insecure but the best part of me escaped in flight.

Next theme : Catch the wingless butterfly

Vercetti42
  • Vercetti42

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#131

Posted 04 February 2014 - 01:51 PM Edited by AceKingston, 04 February 2014 - 01:51 PM.

Catch the Wingless Butterfly:

 

The sun rises around me. Usually it is a symbol of hope, a symbol of peace, a symbol of joy, a symbol of religion but for me, it is a symbol of depression.

 

The clouds seem dark and gray, like old 1960 photographs. Everything seems difficult, from simple, effortless tasks like putting on my socks to others that require a medium of effort such as cooking my breakfast. Even catching a wingless butterfly seems like trying to get through 10 Giants at a time. 

 

My mind doesn't work. My interests are gone. My family and friends seem like they are in a different world, something which I can't describe. I've become short-tempered. My life is falling like a pack of cards.

 

I feel hopeless.

 

I feel empty and soulless. I believe in God but now I feel that there is nothing called God. I feel that that the people around me are mere projections and that I am the only true person in this world.

 

Suicide seems like a welcome relief. I want to do it but I can't. My brain has been divided. One tells me to commit suicide while the other tells me otherwise. My brain has become like my countries parliament. Both sides never agreeing at any point.

 

One day I found myself in my regular depressed state. I look up and even that takes a lot of effort. But I spot the wingless butterfly. I try to catch it for something tells me that is my path to freedom.

 

I catch it and the scene changes immediately, the sun rises to it's full extent, my family welcome me with warm hands, everything seems like paradise. Suicide seems like hell and I feel like a new person, I feel reformed.

 

That's the day when my depression ended. The day I caught the wingless butterfly.

 

Next Theme: Grand Theft Auto.


Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

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#132

Posted 04 February 2014 - 03:38 PM

Captivity

I was once a free spirit without doubts and regret. I lived a good portion of my early teens without double looking or thinking. The world was my oyster and I truly felt in the essence of control. At the time of this, I had a pet parrot. He was the most nearest and dearest friend to me. He had the companion ship of brothers at arms. He was everything to me. I was always preparing for the day we would shake hands and go our own ways. But it never occurred to me what would then proceed afterwards. How does one deal with the aftermath of a loss?

I never did like keeping him locked in a cage. Of course, I was a loyal owner as he was a loyal pet. I still remember the days were he would waddle around on the living room couch and talk into the mirrors - oblivious to the world outside him. And the day came unexpectedly when I was told by my frowning father, with a face of grief with the few words that pierced my ears and shocked me to the core, 'It's Milo. He got out.' I paused and stared into blankness, not sure how to feel. My body went cold and numb and my mind went blank in an instant. I knew his wings weren't clipped, so he could soar the skies of our neighbourhood. He was free. That day, at one point I had a sudden sense of happiness that he was free but was soon covered my grief.

Until this day I still wonder why I grieved him from the moment I was told he escaped from his cage. He was certain to be out there but the realism didn't kick in until days to come. Scattered, my mind was. Lost, my mind was. I still, to this day, try and not to remember what happened. I never want to forget what he left in my heart, but what he took away is something else. I am forever grateful he came into my life.

I was once a free soul and spirit. I thought I could concur the world. He was the one trapped, in captivity. The tables have now truly turned. My mind feels caged and insecure but the best part of me escaped in flight.

Next theme : Catch the wingless butterfly

That was a really nice piece. A few spelling errors but i won't nitpick. I could see where it was going, but i found it quite moving - almost like i felt you were actually telling me a true story.

 

Catch the Wingless Butterfly:

 

The sun rises around me. Usually it is a symbol of hope, a symbol of peace, a symbol of joy, a symbol of religion but for me, it is a symbol of depression.

 

The clouds seem dark and gray, like old 1960 photographs. Everything seems difficult, from simple, effortless tasks like putting on my socks to others that require a medium of effort such as cooking my breakfast. Even catching a wingless butterfly seems like trying to get through 10 Giants at a time. 

 

My mind doesn't work. My interests are gone. My family and friends seem like they are in a different world, something which I can't describe. I've become short-tempered. My life is falling like a pack of cards.

 

I feel hopeless.

 

I feel empty and soulless. I believe in God but now I feel that there is nothing called God. I feel that that the people around me are mere projections and that I am the only true person in this world.

 

Suicide seems like a welcome relief. I want to do it but I can't. My brain has been divided. One tells me to commit suicide while the other tells me otherwise. My brain has become like my countries parliament. Both sides never agreeing at any point.

 

One day I found myself in my regular depressed state. I look up and even that takes a lot of effort. But I spot the wingless butterfly. I try to catch it for something tells me that is my path to freedom.

 

I catch it and the scene changes immediately, the sun rises to it's full extent, my family welcome me with warm hands, everything seems like paradise. Suicide seems like hell and I feel like a new person, I feel reformed.

 

That's the day when my depression ended. The day I caught the wingless butterfly.

 

Next Theme: Grand Theft Auto.

Not bad. I found myself wondering what the wingless butterfly was in this, but i suppose it doesn't matter. One can interpret it to be anything - a girlfriend, the perfect job, winning the lottery... I like the turn around, though i felt a little of the imagery fell flat. "Depressed state" for example - too bland. It means nothing. For someone who has suffered from depression, it doesn't connect with me. It's like a statistic. It doesn't touch on the feelings. But still, i like the hope in this.



Grand Theft Auto

 

Kyle Fenwick was bored. Every morning he woke up, once a week to the jarring sound of the inconsiderate bin-men. Why did they have to pick up the trash so f*cking early?

He slipped out of bed, usually on his mother's fourth yell, took the worlds quickest shower - water, lather rinse, one minute; he hated showers - and dressed in the fa**ot's burgundy sports jacket they made him wear. They were a school, not a law firm. Why wear fancy sh*t clothes? fa**ots.

He didn't eat breakfast. Instead he took money from his mother's purse for some Twinkies in the 7/11 after meeting his buddies.

"f*cking school," James said. "What good does it do, learning about algebra?"
"Why not teach us about cars and guns?" Fin laughed.
"f*ck yeah, that'd be cool." Kyle threw the wrapper of his Twinkie to the ground.
"Hey!" a middle-aged voice bellowed from behind them. The three teenagers turned. "Pick that up?"
"f*ck off grandpa!" Fin shouted, spitting a thick one toward the man. They laughed and walked on.

 

"Hey," James said, "Why don't we skip school today?"
"i dunno," Fin said. "I got English today."
The boys stopped and stared at their friend as though he'd just defecated himself, their faces repulsed. James punched Fin in the arm and Fin stumbled back.
"f*ck sake, guys. It's with that f*cking slut of a teacher. You know Downes?"
"Oh, Miss Down's syndrome."
"What," Fin laughed. "She's hot."
Kyle laughed. "Just because she sucked off a student last year."
"I heard Smithy fingered her in the toilets," James added.
"Yeah," Fin said, "and you guys would turn her down?"
"I won't f*ck a retard," James said.
"Too old," Kyle chuckled. "Tits probably hang like... you know that thing in big clocks. Tick tock." He waved his arms like a pendulum.
"Laugh it up, you f*cktards. Think about how experianced she is. I bet she's better in bed than that Jade slut."
"f*ck, Jade." James almost choked. "f*cked her last year. f*cking sucks like a vacuum cleaner. Thought she was going to suck my balls off."
"f*ck it," Kyle threw his empty can of Red Bull in someone's yard. "Let's do it."
"What, f*ck Jade?" Fin laughed.
"No, you dimwit. Let's skip school."
"Now we're talking!" James took off his jacket and shirt, revealing a bootlegged N.W.A T-shirt underneath. "Too hot for this sh*t." He stuffed the jacket into his bag.

 

"So what are we going to do?" Fin asked.
"Got any weed?" James asked.
"Why you asking us?" Kyle replied. "We get it from you?"
"Ah, I'm out. Rob got raided yesterday. Six A.M they came for him."
"Rob the robber?"
"Yeah."
"Pale white guy, looks like Eminem, thinks he's Jamaican?"
"Yo' Mon."
Kyle laughed. "f*ck man, he had like a whole farm up in there."
"Yeah and it's gone. I know someone else tough. Steve's cousin. Lives not two hours up the road."
"Let's go then."
"What, just fly?" Fin said.
"Nah, man." Kyle said, leaning on someone's Ford Taurus. He slapped the roof. "Let's drive."
"f*ck, man, Kyles grown some balls." James said. "Let's do it."

Kyle grabbed the jacket from James' bag.
"Hey, you cocksucker, use your own --"

His fist wrapped in the jacket, Kyle threw a punch at the window. It cracked but didn't shatter.
"f*cking pussy," James said, lifting a branch discarded from a nearby tree. He swung it and the glass folded like a newspaper.
Fin laughed. "Can't even break the window you retard!"
"It's special glass, you moron." James threw the branch aside as Kyle slipped in the driver's seat.
"My idea, I'm driving."
 

They made it to the highway before the police caught up with them.
"f*cking Five-Oh, man." Fin sounded scared.
"f*cking fa**ots," Kyle shot back. "All look like YMCA people."
"The Village People?"
"How the f*ck you know that, you fa**ot?" James said, punching Fin.
"You mom told me last night. Your dad listens to them while wearing her dresses."
"f*ck off."

"Pull over!" the police ordered.
"f*ck that," Kyle said, veering from the highway.
"What the f*ck man, we offroading?"
"Yeah, I did this sh*t on the PS3 last night. f*cking cops lose if when you go off road."
"f*cking bang on man. Wish we had a gun, i could cap their tyres!"
"Yeah right, James," Fin laughed. "You ever shot one before?"
"I shot one all over your mom's face last night. f*cked your pillow right up. You still like Spongebob?"
"f*ck you," Fin said, flicking his middle finger up at his friend.

Kyle veered from the road and up onto the grassy verge. The car bounced and clattered. Fin laughed as he was thrown onto his side. James leaned out of the window and swore at the police.
"They're backing off!" James shouted, laughing.

What Kyle didn't know, however was the creek that was rapidly approaching. The car was bouncing all over the place and had very little traction. By the time Kyle saw the twenty-five foot drop, he had already lost control.

The was a crash as something tore the front quarter clean from the car. The vehicle leaned and began to corkscrew. For a second all was peaceful as they soared through the air. Kyle tried to steer in mid-air, confused why it wasn't working. Then the ground slapped him in the face. Hard.

His ears filled with bangs and squeals of twisting metal. His eyes flashed red, then black. Next thing he knew he was lying on the grass. Police and fire and rescue crews were running awkwardly down the hill. The highway above them flashed red and blue.

The Taurus looked like a crumpled tin can. He saw James through the passenger window, and he saw his arm twenty foot away. It had been sheer clean off in the crash.

Fin had fared even worse. He'd been flung from the car - as had Kyle. But where Kyle landed on the grassy hill, Kyle had careered through the air and had stuck the bridge's support pillar. A sickly red-brown splotch was smeared down it and at the bottom, Fin's body lay, his back and neck at impossible angles.

Kyle didn't need to be told. His friends were dead.

 

 

 

Next theme:

 

The worst rock band in the world


ainsz
  • ainsz

    Senor Dickhead

  • Members
  • Joined: 06 Feb 2011
  • England

#133

Posted 24 May 2014 - 01:18 PM Edited by ainsz, 24 May 2014 - 01:18 PM.

The Worst Rock Band..... In The World

 

-

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my guest tonight. He's the lead singer, bassist, drummer and writer for the band, Good Time Pikelet - It's Mr. Reginald Jefferys!" 

 

"Hey! We all having a good time!"

 

"Mr. Jefferys, Mister - mister Jefferys. How are you doing today?"

 

"I'm having a good time, Chuck. A damn good time!"

 

"I'm pleased to hear that Jeff. Can I call you Jeff?"

 

"This is what - my sixth time on this show? You can call me Jeff as long as we're all having a good time - Am I right folks?"

 

"Well, this is actually your eighth appearence on the - Chuck Grammer Show. So I'd say we're comfortable on first name terms."

 

"You got that right Chuck."

 

"So a bit about you Jeff, before we talk about your upcoming album; In case our audience, or of course our viewers at home missed the seven other episodes with you. Tells us what you're all about."

 

"Well, I like having a good time you know? I'm a good time kind of guy. When I'm not in the studio, I'm out having a good time. It's important to stay good and in time, you know? It's important because, if you're not having a good time, you're gonna have a bad time. I don't remember the last time I had a bad time and the good's been getting gooder since I started the band, Good Time Pikelet. So In summarisation, I'd say I'm having a good time."

 

"Interesting stuff. I see what you did there, Summarisation is the name of the first single off your new album. Care to share the details?"

 

"Well, I am here to plug my new album Chuck, that and have a good time - so I might as well go ahead. My new album, It's called Good Time II, and it's all about the good times and the gooder times, you know? My last album, if you can remember was called Good Time; that was also about the good times and the gooder times. You see, I see it as the mold of times coming together through the vision of musicality. You have these good times and you have these good times. Put them together and you've got yourself a good time record. The first album was all about that, my good times and the times that were good."

 

"Well that's a lot about your last album, which came out a month ago. But your new album, tell us about that; It's coming out this summer and--"

 

"Yeah, next week."

 

"Okay.."

 

"Well Good time II is all about the good times I've had since I started crafting tunes. My artistric vision for what I want Rocking Roll as a genre to pursue means good times ahead for all of us. I grew up listening to rocking roll as a kid and I was having a good time. Today I'm making the rocking roll and I'm having a gooder time and I want my songs to tell that good time story, you know? The first single, Summarisation, is a play on words about realising it's Summer and the summary feels you get that give you a good time. Summer is always a good time and that's what that song is about."

 

"That's some interesting stuff, Jeff. Now your band--"

 

"Good Time Pikelet."

 

"Yes, a one man band I understand."

 

"Yeah, yeah, because it's just me, you get some unique, good time sounds."

 

"If it's just you, how is it a band?"

 

"Because Chuck, It's about the equipment coming together with me that make the band."

 

"By equipment, you mean instruments?"

 

"Yes, the equipment is very instrumental to making good music. I play each equipment one at at a time, I could start off a song with the strums of the drums and then move on to the kicking vocals or even pluck a few strings on the guitar. No other band is ahead of the curve like me. And I'm having a good time."

 

"It is an interesting set up you've given yourself there Jeff. Before we run out of time, Good Time Pikelet is rated by many, to be the worst entity to ever disgrace the medium of music, an accolade that you have taken very seriously I'd imagine. The general consensus is that the success of your first album came only because it was so bad, everybody needed to hear how bad it was. It was like a shock to people, that music could be this bad. Do you think your second album won't have that same impact and therefore wont be as larger success?"

 

"No Chuck, see I don't believe that. I have fans, real Good Time fans. My hit song got over thirty million views on You Tube in one night, my fans know how to have a good time. And that's what I give people, a good time. You'll get haters every where you go, just trying to give you a bad time, I keep making good music and I keep having a good time, you know?"

 

"Well It's been a pleasure having you here again, Mr. Jefferys. I'm sure we'll see you on here again."

 

"Yeah, I'll see you next week."

 

"I'm Chuck Grammer and this has been The Chuck Grammer Show and to play us out tonight, is Good Time Pikelet!"

 

"I've forgot the words."

 

-

 

Next theme: Death by bookcase


Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

  • The Yardies
  • Joined: 01 May 2009
  • None
  • Most Talented Writer 2015
    Most Talented Writer 2014
    Most Talented Writer 2013
    Best Story/Poem 2013 "The Storm"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2011 "Justice in Flames"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2010 "City of Lies"

#134

Posted 25 May 2014 - 11:10 AM

Ha, was that a Jeremy Clarkson reference there?

The end made me laugh :^:

 

 

Death by Bookcase.

 

 

Crouching darkness in the corners of my mind,

Books disappearing one at at time.

The sun's going down,
and no one's around,

I'm all alone in this library of mine.

 

But something's lurking, crawling in the dark.
And unseen entity, hairs on the back of my neck.

They whisper unheard, I hear only the pounding of my heart.
And when I look, all i see is black.

 

The uprising of the lightbulp is batted down with lightless hands

No revolution of lumens manages to keep my fear at bay

Such an illogical fear that no one understands

One that will remain until the break of day

 

Wordsmiths sleep in their eulogistic scrolls
Tales of evil, tales of horror, tales from forgotten times
And on the stroke of midnight, that same book always falls
Pushed by an unseen force, a warning sign.

 

Through the ornate windows shines the bright and silver moon,

Large and low,

full and aglow.

And from the fireplace comes the crackling of embers on logs
of red and gold,

crackling against the cold

 

And from amidst the still night outside,
comes the most frightful sound,
One I've not heard here before tonight,
a long and chilling howl.

 

The wind claws at the rattling windows,
angry and so very loud

it rushes through the cracks

A chilling ghostly sound

 

Whispers in the night get louder,

The light levels, they get lower
Their enthralling power
Calling me, luring me over

 

That one and only book,
askew on the floor.
As I bend down to pick it up,
I hear laughter from the door.

I freeze and turn, rooted in fear.

and i call out to the night

"What is this that i hear?"
"What is this awful fright?"

 

But there comes no answer.
Just quiet, dark and eery.
"There's nothing there," I mutter

"Just an empty library."

 

As i place the book back in its home,
The cackling gets louder.

While I know I'm all alone,

From above, I feel their glowers.

 

But while I see visitor,
I hear their laughter.

Its not cruel or evil.
It's like a child, pure and gleeful
 

The creaking of wood's new to me.
I don't know what it is.
Until the books begin to fall,
and the bookcase tilts.

 

I turn to run, but the darkness stops me,
Thick, like cotton-wool
As the bookcase bounds down upon me
The library is quiet, once and for all.

 

 

 

New Theme:
WAGON WHEELS


Mick.
  • Mick.

  • The Connection
  • Joined: 21 May 2012
  • None

#135

Posted 25 May 2014 - 11:30 AM

Wagon Wheel.

I see a fridge. It's white. I feel the handle of it. It's smooth. It has four edges. I use force and pull. It's open. A white light flicks on. It embodies the inside. There is nothing. Nothing except a brown packaging. I lean in. I feel it. It's plastic. It crinkles in my grip. I pick it up. I turn around. There is a table. I put the brown plastic down. I slide the packaging off. There are chocolates inside. They are wagon wheel chocolate. I touch one with the tips of my fingers. It's cold. Very cold. I gently pick one up. I open my mouth and the coldness pierces my nerves. I drop to the ground. My head hits hard. The ground is cement. My skulls breaks. A shard penetrates my lower brain. My eyes flicker uncontrollably. I feel blood. It boils. It fills my skull. It leaks. My nose. My eyes. My eyes. I see light.


Next theme: Abstract state of mind.

Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

    Ain't nothin' over til it's over.

  • Andolini Mafia Family
  • Joined: 02 May 2007
  • United-Kingdom
  • Contribution Award [Expression]

#136

Posted 25 May 2014 - 02:13 PM

COAT DO'N GO'N AN' STOLE MAH WAGON WHEEL THEME. 


Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

    Ain't nothin' over til it's over.

  • Andolini Mafia Family
  • Joined: 02 May 2007
  • United-Kingdom
  • Contribution Award [Expression]

#137

Posted 25 May 2014 - 03:00 PM Edited by Ziggy455, 25 May 2014 - 03:02 PM.

His thin fingers slid around the worn, foggy-smudged handle of the fridge-door. Light bathed him suddenly, as if all of the heavens had decided to accompany him. As the angelic light filtered, slipping away, his eyes filtered the light and scanned the shelves; empty. There was no recurrence of life that had once been stacked here in all shapes and sizes. Pizzas, cakes, Sunny D, and even pizzas! Wait, hadn't he already said that? Maybe. Whatever. As he looked for the heavenly brown-wrapped package that was to channel his soul into the next ethereal vibe, he slapped his hands together and rubbed them, licking his dry lips. "COME TO DAD--" Alas. It was moved. No paper, no brown, no nothing but a frown, masked upon his face. Heavenly angels began to sing as the fridge remained open.

 

He turned, and noticed his room-mate on the floor, screeching to himself as he held his head in two hands. Blood seeped from every orifice. How strange, thought the man. The mailman should have been here today, cause it's a Friday, right? NO. WAIT. THE WAGON WHEEL. WHERE'S IT? He slammed the door shut, the angelic choir ended abruptly and with that, followed darkness. The man climbed over the pool of blood, seeping from the cracked head of his friend; Coatman. "So much blood, pah! I need to check the mail." 

 

For no man, no man like The Man, had ever had the right notions in his mind to call the police. He was more inclined to check the mail, and then...Then would come his time of reckoning. For the bountiful wagon wheels he had solely been searching for were on the table, opened, but no more eaten than they had been in the fridge. As blood seeped through the bottom of the door into the hallway, he realized there was no mail. The letterbox had no clattered, had no given any sign of life. 

 

WHO CARED? WAGON WHEELS. BLUE ONES. 

 

They were near...

 

NEXT THEME: Barren Horror


ainsz
  • ainsz

    Senor Dickhead

  • Members
  • Joined: 06 Feb 2011
  • England

#138

Posted 25 May 2014 - 08:58 PM Edited by ainsz, 25 May 2014 - 09:00 PM.

Barren Horror
 
-
 
Born again in a world that's full. Again in a place fit for all, fit to serve and fit to call home. His home; the walls, the windows, the hardwood, the carpets, the wing backs, the chesterfield sofa - all of it earned for, paid for and receipted and all of it his. He, who sits at his desk with nothing to move on to. His life, his world and his fulfillment has piqued. Contentment for him, is a stagnant pool, that once dived in to, makes no splash. From here, there's no where to go. Contentment is a feeling he knows too well. He cannot remember the last instance he was here but it is a state that bares a lucid familiarity for him. lounging against the back of his office chair, he takes in the current as a memory. An overwhelming sense of Déjà vu has taken the moment, he simply sits with no identifiable expression, in his mind he recalls the present. His eyes are focused on the computer screen but he does not look, his hands rest on the keys but he does not feel. He is content, he has completed his course of life and now he waits in his chair - for something he cannot remember. As always, he has shut himself from the outside, the curtains drawn, the doors locked, every measure taken to separate him from the outside interference, right down to the letterbox. Outside is where 'other people' reside. They prosper and they thrive on the outside, all trying to reach the same point in life he had already achieved. To him, other people were redundant in life. He found no worth in inter-human interaction. No need to have his pace slowed by the slurs of other and the slopes they presented. He had himself and himself was what he'd always have, while other's had the tendency to come and go, he was a constant. The outside held no interest for him, everything he thought he wanted or needed was inside - he hadn't missed a thing. He had finished and now he waited, waited for something.
 
Again, a new day is born. Again. He awoke to find the confides of his world as he left it. Another day of contentment, no wrong and no right and each one memorable. Every thing was perfect and would always be. He took the same walk he would take everyday around his house, entering each room, just to look; He would then finish in his office chair by his computer like always. Today was different however. On his routine look out the living room window, something was changed. He grabbed his keys that laid in the third draw down in his bedroom and unlocked the front door for the first time since he received his final mail order of his coffee machine. Outside he found the air was dead. No roar of the bypass, no bark, no tweet, no hissing of sprinklers, no shake of the leaves. Standing on his well groomed porch, he further observed his changed surroundings. There was no sound at all, not a bite. The general white noise that nature and the movement of others created was gone and a complete and pure silence was all that was left. It was the dead of night at high noon. The houses, the streets and the foliage was all there but not as he remembered. Everything stood in a frozen static, the usual fizz of the outside had gone flat. No other people passed by his house and all the cars were parked in their driveways. The only activity outside, was himself. Besides the feel of the fabric of his clothes, his bare skin was numb. He could breathe but he felt no air pass. The vacant breathing brought on a slight panic and the discomfort of which, lead him back inside. Inside, he had returned to his content, for only a second it was new found content but he was back in his directionless comfort that he had crafted for himself. He quickly gave in to the temptation of familiarity and closed the door behind him; now back in his confined perfection, he felt apathetic to the altered outside. While much had disappeared outside, he still had his constant self. Inside, nothing had changed, and that was all that mattered when the door was closed. He returned to his computer and killed the day like usual.
 
Ready for another day, again. Inside, there was still life to be found. artificial or not. His air conditioning hummed, as did the refrigerator; He could still feel the subtle cold on his skin as he waved his arms in his stride. His routine walk lead him to find more had been omitted outside as he peered out the window. The houses, the parked cars and the streets had vanished as though they'd been torn up overnight. Stepping outside again to further investigate, he found that in their place, was soil and grass. His house was the only structure that stood in the vast deconstruction of the outside. All standing foliage had disappeared and dull green plains stretched to the edge of the encompassing horizon. He was indifferent, he had himself and he had his inside and he swiftly returned to it without a second take. For him and his interests, nothing had changed. All he needed and wanted was on the safe, unaltered inside. Here, life still persisted. His world was perfect and unchanged and he was content. As he sat by his computer, he reminisced the present moment and waited for something to happen, something he couldn't remember.
 
Ready for another day, again. He opened his eyes to a bare sky. He crept up to look around to see his house had vanished. Where it once stood was now a black soil patch that was surrounded by a dull orange wasteland. Stepping out of the soil perimeter, he felt the same vacant atmosphere he was introduced to two days ago. On the inside of the soil patch, was life, air and contentment. He was indifferent to the changes, he held no expression and simply sat in the soil - waiting for something he didn't remember. He still had himself, the constant being that was left unchanged and he was content with the perfection he had created.
 
Everyday was same, he would sit in his soil patch, waiting. The patch was slowly decaying and would soon become one with the dull orange wasteland. He however, was unchanged. He was content and indifferent to his surroundings. He had himself and he was the only constant in his world. Nights he didn't care to count had and passed and his soil patch was no more. All in the world was blue and orange. Up and down. And him. He did not move, he did not mutter, he just waited. The only life was him, the content atmosphere his late patch had provided had gone and now he was just content in himself.
 
Nothing, he was ready for it. He had always been ready for it. He calmly sat as his world progressively dissolved in to a blank. Just him that sat on nothing, continuing his wait, for something, something he didn't remember. He was still unchanged and was still content in his perfection. Indifferent to all that had happened, he never thought on what once was. A crafted world that once teemed with life, opportunity and experience. It was all a fallacy. A world that was presented for him and he simply shut himself out, on the inside. He was ready for what he couldn't remember and now he was disappearing and nothing would be left. Slowly he vanished, finishing with his head - he no longer existed. A true and pure world was left and it was nothing.
 
-
 
Next theme: Alter Ego

Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

  • The Yardies
  • Joined: 01 May 2009
  • None
  • Most Talented Writer 2015
    Most Talented Writer 2014
    Most Talented Writer 2013
    Best Story/Poem 2013 "The Storm"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2011 "Justice in Flames"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2010 "City of Lies"

#139

Posted 25 May 2014 - 11:47 PM

COAT DO'N GO'N AN' STOLE MAH WAGON WHEEL THEME. 

Instant ban!

Oh and don't dp, ziggs! I'll read this tomorrow when i got a bit of time :)


Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

    Ain't nothin' over til it's over.

  • Andolini Mafia Family
  • Joined: 02 May 2007
  • United-Kingdom
  • Contribution Award [Expression]

#140

Posted 02 July 2014 - 07:57 AM Edited by Ziggy455, 02 July 2014 - 07:58 AM.

Screams rose, like the smoke that swirled and twirled through darkness. The reddish glare grew large, as the sirens repeated again and again, their loud, screech cacophony. The building was the Town Hall, a large, refurbished building which somehow had become host to one of the world’s oldest killers; fire. Fire engines lay outside, with firefighters spraying the large front which blazed like some angry demon was fighting to escape the front.

 

Edward strolled along, as he adjusted his glasses and ran his fingers through his hair. He held tightly onto his backpack and looked at the building as it continued to burn. “Oh, jeez,” he said to himself, strolling over to get a closer look. “Back it up! Back it up, move it!” yelled a skinny, muscular firefighter in hat, suspenders, and suit. His moustache shook as he continued to yell.

 

“There’s still a girl trapped inside!” yelled somebody in the growing crowd. Edward looked down at his chest, the soft fabric of his suit beckoning him. It’s too dangerous. No, it was. But did Spiderman ever run from a fire? Did Thor? Did Kick-Ass? Did any of them ever run away from the danger? No. They didn’t. And you know what, Eddy. You ain’t gonna either. So get in there! He grabbed the black balaclava from his pocket, slipped it onto his head, and dropped his bag on the floor. I’m the hero, he thought as he jumped the blockade of firefighters and sprinted for the entrance. “Who’s that?” screamed somebody?

 

 “Fear not, citizens! For I, HeroMan will save the entrapped woman!”

 

“You f*ckin’ idiot,” yelled somebody in the crowd.

 

“No need to thank me just yet, sir!” HeroMan said, saluting the crowd before he turned.

 

Firefighters screamed at the hero who ran through the doors, the adoration of apparently people cheering him on. As he made it past the pillars of the town hall, he turned, waved to his fans and ran inside. The frame of the door cracked almost immediately, falling on top of him. He didn’t feel anything as the flames coated his body, engulfing him, swallowing him whole. Edward only felt the crushing blow of the doorframe, and then blackness.  

 

NEXT THEME: Taboo.


Loosestring
  • Loosestring

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#141

Posted 03 July 2014 - 12:09 AM Edited by TheUnholy, 03 July 2014 - 01:45 AM.

Taboo...

 

There was a November afternoon. James Kern, a white young man, working as a civil servant, in his 30's was walking down a street filled with shiny street lights, cafes, bars... all you can name it, making his way back to home after a classic, tiring desk work. The place was seem like alive, but surely James didn't like here, because throughout his whole life, James was a good man that never touched drugs, drank alchocol, paid a woman to blow him off... all other them unpleasant things.

 

Then, an old man with a bushy gray beard and tatty clothes stood in James' way. Wrapped in his ripped, dirty green coat, the old man wanted some spare from James to get something to eat. However, James just pushed the man around, yelled him that he won't be supporting his "brown" addiction.

 

James continued to make his way in that flashy but gritty street. The corrupted population was getting more and more obvious. Suddenly, a brunette prostitute stopped James in the middle of the street, asked him if he wants his penis sucked and revealed her rotten teeth which are probably results of an overgrowth meth addiction, while talking. James brushed the prostitute off, as well while roughing her up by saying it's no appropiate for her to sell her body in order to make money. 

 

Soon after, James entered a narrow alleyway where a couple of potheads were smoking their usual stuff. One of the smokers offered James his joint, although he rejected and tried to get back on his way. However, the same pothead grabbed him in his arm and told him to take a hit. James hadn't smoked weed before, with one toke, he though he would lose his dignity. However, eventually the potheads managed to have him sit on the wooden boxes they were sitting on, and gave the blunt to James, who was all skeptical. James took a huge toke from the blunt, and got the smoke through his throat and lungs although he experienced difficulties while doing that. The momma's boy, desk worker James felt like he could conquer the world when he felt the smoke inside him. He started to sing aloud, shot some vodka in a local bar while his pants were down.

 

James felt like he was a pussy throughout all his life. He was exposed to an unnecessary amount of "watch out for drugs", "don't drink alchocol", "disregard prostitutes" things during his early years. Well... that's for sure, drugs were not good things, or getting hopped on alchocol would make you look like a loser, but approaching them with extreme prejudices make you live the life without knowing, and of course leave you open for every danger. James felt like he found himself when he smoked that pipe. However, it was not because of that strong rush of marijuana, it was James himself that who finally got over his taboos. Sometimes, it's needed for redemption to fight with the taboos, which could be poisionous, make someone feel like a fiend, with a heroin syringe stuck in his veins... and maybe someone's taboos would make him feel dizzier than a big rush of LSD can make him feel so.

 

Next Theme: Corpse in the trunk.


Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

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#142

Posted 03 July 2014 - 09:24 AM

Driving down a dark desert highway is bad enough at the best of times. Out here, there's not a single building, and barely any plants. Just, flat, empty, barren ground. It's like an alien world, I'm tellin' ya! Creepy, makes the hairs on the back of my head stand up.

I wasn't alone that night though. Paulie was with me. Ah, Paulie, say what you will about getting attached, but he was a stand-up guy. Do i feel bad for what happened? Course I do. I mean, that's my job an' all, and I'll do it, but I can't help but feel I betrayed a friend. Paulie wasn't a bad guy. He wasn't. He was just a victim of circumstance. Oh, and lucky. He was lucky he stopped that robbery when he was twenty. I try not to wonder what happened to the culprit. I think we all know.

 

Aside from me an Paulie, there was Alberto. He was sitting in the back, puffing on one of his cigars. He was in charge, but I guess you know that already. He wasn't a bad guy, either, but he knew what he was doing - it most definitely was a choice for him. He loved it. The money, the power. So what if someone got squished?

 

And there was Freddie and Timmy. God, Timmy was just a kid, what, twenty-two? Like Paulie, he didn't have much on his horizon. A dead-end job once he grew sick of repeating grades. I guess he got sick of that, too, working in some cruddy deli off Sixth Street. I'd been to that place - the meat was terrible. So hard to get some decent Baloney around here...

 

Freddie was the person who got Timmy killed. There's a sort of status quo goin' on. One crew, family, whatever, wouldn't touch you if you were doing certain smalltime jobs - boosts, knocking over liquor stores, that kinda thing. Well, assuming you didn't do it on their turf, not that territory was that clear, mind. But Freddie? He thought he was bigger than he was. Thought he could cross the lines and knock over another family's restaurant. Can you believe that? I mean, give the guy some credit, for his sheer audacity. f*ckin' balls must be the size of spacehoppers. But you don't do that. Wars break out that way. The Antonellis were quick to detach themselves from him, and our guys? Well they wanted retribution.

Thus, that night's drive. Out into the desert, with Freddie and his unfortunate apprentice in the trunk, with the lime and shovels.

I wonder how many bodies are buried in this desert. sh*t, how long until one's dug up accidentally while trying to bury another? I'll bet a month's wages that half of the missing persons reports could be solved by this desert.

 

"This'll do," Alberto said with a gruff growl. Guy smoked too much. He'll die in prison.

I stopped the car and we all stepped out. I remember looking around; there we were, all in the middle of nowhere, and I felt that. At any moment I thought Alberto would whack me, put me down there with Freddie and poor Timmy.

Paulie and I dug. It was a cool night, but we still worked up a sweat. I was glad I took off my jacket and shirt. By the time we were done, Paulie's pink shirt was deep red. I wasn't too bad in my vest, but sand stuck to my arms.

Obviously Alberto wasn't going to get his hands dirty, but he was there, calling the shots. Under his orders, Paulie and I dropped the bodies into the pit. Alberto threw the sack of lime at Paulie's feet and took me aside. He gave me a lecture about flying straight, not talking and not being a rat. That lecture seemed to last for a month, a year, a whole f*ckin' lifetime. He knew, I thought, he f*ckin' knew.

 

If he knew, I'd be down there with Freddie and Timmy.

Paulie was involved, just as much as me. Sure, he didn't pull the trigger - that was Antonio, Alberto's own lieutenant. Did I see it? You bet.

 

But i fear that the deaths of Freddie and Timmy are not enough. Not for someone like Alberto. His reach will extend beyond the bars - and despite what I said before, I don't think he'll be in there for long. He knows me. He knows my family, my friends.

 

There is no running. I should have known that. At first it was my job, but they became my family, and I betrayed them. There is no escape, I know.
Shame, it wasn't a bad life, really.

 

The funny thing is that I thought it'd be Paulie that would be my executioner. Hell, even Alberto himself. No, it's Jimmy. Goddamned Jimmy, that little kid that served us drinks in the bar on Friday nights. The kid that parked our cars, took our coats. That same Jimmy I treated with more respect than anyone else; Alberto scowled at him and spoke to him like he was dirt. Jimmy reminded me of Timmy, of Paulie. He reminded me of me, and I tried to mentor him, to straighten him up.

 

And he's the one that will kill me. Funny, that.

 

 

 

Theme: Junk Food.


ainsz
  • ainsz

    Senor Dickhead

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#143

Posted 04 July 2014 - 05:59 AM Edited by ainsz, 04 July 2014 - 06:15 AM.

Junk Food

 

-

 

"Frank, Frank you can wake up now."

 

"Huh, how long has it been?"

 

"You've been in an induced coma for just over four hours. Fortunately for all of us, the treatment is going quicker than expected."

 

"That's good to hear, so when do you think i can finish up and get outta here?"

 

"Err. that's something you'll have to talk to Doctor Fleischer about. What I can tell you is - we have a few more products we want you to test first."

 

"But, you said, you promised - in the meeting, I'd only be here for a week."

 

"I'm afraid I'm not in the position to make promises Frank. The contract states, you are required in our place of business until all tests are complete."

 

"But I need to go home, I need to see my family. Have they received a pay cheque yet?"

 

"I'm sure if they haven't - it's well on it's way. Now you need to get some rest Frank, you had a bad allergic reaction to that last test."

 

"Allergic reaction? I'm in a hospital bed after being in an induced coma!"

 

"Yes, the worst allergic reaction. Get some sleep Frank, I'll back to check on you in a few hours, m'kay? 

 

-

 

"Ah, Good morning Mr. Harpaz, so good to see you! Are our happy subjects in good health for tomorrow?"

 

"Same to you Doctor Fleischer. Erm, I've spoke to many of the patients in the ward this morning, while in good health, they are in bitter moods over the poisoning from their test meals."

 

"That's good to hear, contact the chefs so they can start preparation!"

 

"I'll get right on that. But sir, I must warn you, extensive testing on these subjects could lead to fatal results. For them and for or business."

 

"Nonsense! Our food is of the finest biological quality! Besides - Our subjects know what they signed up for, they knew the risks they were taking on. And our in house doctors can remedy all ailments our food may conjure up. Now, get on the phone to the chefs."

 

"Okay, well here's yesterday's reports. I'll trust you'll analyse them thoroughly Doctor."

 

-

 

"Okay Frank, third on today's product is another hamburger. It's made up of 88% water and 4% meat, leaving a tiny margin of other ingredients that the company withholds from outside knowledge."

 

"This isn't going to make me feel like the inside of my stomach is burning again is it?"

 

"I wouldn't anticipate it. That last product was a complete anomaly."

 

"All right. well - the taste is weird. The meats kind of crunchy in the middle. And oh - uhm, oh god."

 

"What is it Frank?"

 

"It's - it's happening again. f*ck it hurts!"

 

"Oh dear, I'll call a nurse."

 

"Quick for f*ck sake! My stomach feels like it's gonna blow uhh!"

 

-

 

"Doctor Fleischer, a word if I may."

 

"Yes! What is it Mr. Harpaz?"

 

"We've had another incident at the meal testing."

 

"Yes I heard."

 

"Right, well all but one of the subjects are in intensive care units at a hospital. Only one called Frank managed to recover in the ward."

 

"Well then he's our last hope to get this new meal range right!"

 

"Sir, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I think it's best we let him go and do a rehaul of the new recipe."

 

"Out of the question! Our budget is already overblown, we cannot afford another rehaul. Think of shareholders!"

 

"So what do you suggest."

 

"We continue and we test the product until we get it right! Get this Frank boy ready for another round of testing."

 

"Right away sir."

 

-

 

"Please, I can't eat another. I want to go home, I want to see my kids."

 

"Frank, if this recipe is right, then it's the last one you have to test. The whole company is counting on you."

 

"You don't understand, I think I need to see a doctor, a real one."

 

"You're perfectly fine Frank, now here's the new, improved burger. Try it!"

 

"No! No! It's still the same! Call the doctor, I'm spewing up blood!"

 

"Oh dear, again Frank!"

 

-

 

"Afternoon sir, another report for you."

 

"Ah thank you Harpaz. What's the latest from that Frank boy?"

 

"He's still recovering. It's taking much longer for him to come round this time, the doctors say it may be a few more days yet until he's fit to stand on his feet. Sir, I must advise you again, it's best that we let him go. re-do the whole thing."

 

"We could get new subjects in."

 

"What and let more people fall ill over the food."

 

"No you're right. It would be a PR disaster. What we'll do is feed him the test product at his bed."

 

"Seriously Sir. What about his family?"

 

"Err, inform them. Tell them that the trial has been such a huge success that we've decided to extend the contract. Yes, get on that now Harpaz." 

 

"Yes sir."

 

-

 

"Hello there, I believe your name's Frank!"

 

"uhuh, that's, that's right. Who are you?"

 

"Why I'm glad you asked! My name's Terrence and I'm going to be your feeder!"

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Yes we need to get this test food just right for Doctor Fleischer!"

 

"No please, no more! I don't think I can take anymore."

 

"Oh! But I thought you liked junk food?"

 

"I do, but this --"

 

"Oh! So you do like junk food do yee! Well here's all the junk food in the world!"

 

"Please no!"

 

-

 

"Another report for me Harpaz?"

 

"Yeah, right here doctor."

 

"So how is that Frank boy doing?"

 

"Not good sir."

 

"No?"

 

"No, he's losing weight rapidly, much of his hair has fallen out, he's got diarrhea, breathing problems, he's slurring his words a lot. He's in a bad way sir."

 

"Oh, that's tragic."

 

"He's getting worse with each day sir"

 

"We'll get it right. Get him another banquet ready as soon as possible.

 

"Right away sir."

 

"I just can't understand it."

 

"Understand - what sir?"

 

"What is it about horse meat that the human body just won't accept?" 

 

-

 

Next Theme: A found betamax tape


Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

    Ain't nothin' over til it's over.

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#144

Posted 04 July 2014 - 06:36 AM Edited by Ziggy455, 04 July 2014 - 07:49 AM.

1980

 

Growing up without a father was not the hardest endeavour, as many people claim it to be. Living in America, and being somewhat of an outcast, also, was not the hardest endeavour out there. An Irish immigrant within the community of Brooklyn, New York wasn’t what you’d call unwelcome, but there were times. Shaun MacBride knew as such, and why they hadn’t been here for long, he already knew he was going to like it. As he pulled boxes out from the U-Haul truck with his mother, Cathy, he smiled. “Dad’s gonna be happy to come here when he gets back from the war,” said Shaun as he slipped past her in the doorway, a box of clothes in his hands.

 

“Yeah, I s’pose so—He’s gonna be glad to be away from that War though.”

 

“Yeah,” Shaun said, more to himself than anybody else. He hadn’t seen his dad as far back as he could remember. There were vague memories of him when he was young, and then the War came, and so he had disappeared. Mom said once he was supposed to come back, but something big had happened out in the War again. Shaun was a patient kind of kid. He knew his father was probably out there fighting, so he didn’t have to come back here and fight. He understood that. As he strolled outside, ready to grab another box, the thought of him fighting made him realize that he was an extremely brave person. Shaun could never imagine leaving his mother, to go out and fight people day after day. He was glad to have a dad like his, and he’d tell him when he got back next week.

 

He grabbed another box, yet the crashing sound of plastic shook him out of his daze, he realized that a bunch of VCR tapes had fallen on the floor. Oh, cool, he thought as he scooped up a strange-looking one, the tape on it had been peeled off, and only the word SORRY had been scratched into the front of the plastic. Very cool, maybe mom’ll let me watch it!

 

There’d be no need to ask her though, really, he thought, as he gazed at the strange, violent etchings of the word SORRY. He strolled up the steps and headed upstairs. Mom had the VCR set up next to the bed, because they were watching TV earlier, and mom was using it for something. He stepped inside, the main, empty living room with only an abundance of freshly-laid boxes in the corner. Shaun eyed the TV, went over to the VCR, and slipped in the tape. The clicking sounds of his mom’s heels disappeared back down the stairs as he perched in front of the TV and crossed his legs, ready to see what was on.

 

The screen flickered with static wildly, and then the black and white fizz, fizzled into the shape of a face; a man’s face, with tired, reddish eyes and grey hair. He looked very familiar, thought Shaun as he watched the man fumble, lowering the camera towards his chest as loud bursts of what felt like metal hitting plastic went off. The man sniff, and then he slipped backwards onto the floor. It was clear he was in a hallway, one of mad scrawlings, and of dirty clothing. From above hung a loose rope, and he sat, sniffing, letting it dangle close to his head. “So uh,” he rubbed his naked chest, and looked down. He looks like Tarzan! which he did resemble, as he only wore green pants on his frame.

 

“So—I uh,” he lowered his face, and remained with his hand, covering it as he shook wildly, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” he let out a stammer of tears and then rubbed his eyes. “Oh, God—I’m pathetic, Christ.” The screen suddenly screeched with static, and then the camera had moved, dislodged as the man sat to the camera, crying slowly; taking in gaps of air when he could. His thin, gaunt frame shook as he covered his face and stammered out more tears. “Okay—“ he looked down at the camera, as if staring Shaun who remained still.

 

“Cathy, I know it’s been a long time runnin’. I’mma uh—I just think that we’re on dif’rent wavelen--,” he let more tears trickle down his face, as he spoke more clearly. “I’m afraid Cath...I wake up every night, hearin’ screams, y’know? The blood, the killing—I didn’t wanna be a parta that no more!”

 

He wiped his face and kept his hand raised, flat, towards the screen; it trembled heavily. “I’m scared a my own shadow—Scared of all the sh*t in the War...” he went silent, and his watery eyes moved left and right as he bit his lip. “We uh...We carried back Phillip in a wheelbarrow: his head—Legs—Anything we could finda him.” His face creased, and his lip contorted into another grim, open gasp as he let his tears continue, and then all of sudden he stopped, took in deep breaths, and slapped himself.

 

“Urgh!—A good soldier doesn’t show fear, no Sir. NO SIR.” Shaun stared it him. Why does he look so familiar?

 

He grabbed the camera and straighted it out, the light refracted, and the walls have way to the scrawlings on the wall. Shaun squinted, and made out lines of jibberish, like SCARED TO RUN, SCARED TO FIGHT.

 

“Cathy...I love you, I’m always gonna love you, and our big boy—But I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry. I love you, and Shaun—“

 

Dad?

 

You be brave now, you do as your mother says.”

 

The screen fizzed up, and the man looked down. He reached across the dirty floor, and yanked out the brown-handled pistol. He looked at it, cocked the M1911 towards his chin, and squeezed the trigger. Almost instantly he fell backwards, against the wall where he slumped. Blood spewed up the wall, coating the SCARED TO RUN, SCARED TO FIGHT. Shaun jumped at the sound and then looked at his dad, who looked like he was resting his head against his chin. Fresh blood trickled down his scrawny stomach, and his head shook as if he was trying to move.

 

The door opened from behind Shaun, and the smashing of plates rang out as his mother ran towards him, screaming all the way.

 

EDIT: Next theme: Extreme Prejudice.


Mick.
  • Mick.

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#145

Posted 04 July 2014 - 07:34 AM

Ziggy, you didn't leave a one shot for the next person.


Ziggy455
  • Ziggy455

    Ain't nothin' over til it's over.

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#146

Posted 04 July 2014 - 07:49 AM

Aha, sorry. Fixed. 


Mokrie Dela
  • Mokrie Dela

    Killed by drones.

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    Story/Poem of the Year 2011 "Justice in Flames"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2010 "City of Lies"

#147

Posted 04 July 2014 - 08:48 AM

ainsz, that was quite chilling - i wouldn't be surprised if that actually happened.

 

But human's can eat horsemeat. It's perfectly fine. I was expecting the revelation to be that the meat was human flesh...

 

Ziggy, i found that quite moving, in a weird way.


Mick.
  • Mick.

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#148

Posted 05 July 2014 - 08:19 AM Edited by Lexty., 05 July 2014 - 08:21 AM.

I stood there, on the 45th floor of the Maze Hotel in Manhattan. Outside on the balcony, fog washed over the Big Apple like a cloud of debris. It was there, that I was waiting for the word that my son was not found guilty for manslaughter in the court room of that building. He wasn't guilty, and I knew this. Why? you may ask. Well as a kid growing up, he wasn't the one to get into disputes or rebuttals. I never grounded him in his entire life living with me as a single father. I pushed the door open and found myself on this balcony that overlooked Central Park which was barley visible in the air. Last time I had seen the island that unnoticeable was when Sharline passed away on that September day. My stomach gurgled. The hallway inside was narrow, red carpet and white walls with yellow lights lead the unwatched eye to his inevitable grave. 

 

I pulled out my zippo and sparked the flint. No flame. A small red and somewhat curious Scarlet Tangler bird waged its tail on the guttering of the floor. Someone touched my shoulder. My heart sunk. It was his lawyer, Garry Bawlson, an old school friend of mine back in ULC. Always was into nature and the beauty of nature - his folk forced him to study law and he ended a job here in New York. Had the resemblance of Sinatra but the heart of John Denver. And his gesture of the hand made me stare lifelessly over the edge. My knees buckled in and my heart rate increased. Garry cradled me and got me to sit crouched with my back on the rail as I fell into a cold sweat.

 

"What's the news?"

 

"Well - it's.."

 

"It's bad - in't it?"

 

He unbuttoned his black suit blazer and handed me a velvet handkerchief. My face dropped and my heart bursted in paralysing shock.

 

"Thirty," Garry spoke, patting my knee.

 

"Thirty what?"

 

"Years."

 

---

 

 

Next theme : Twenty Tops of Cherry Pops 


orbitalraindrops
  • orbitalraindrops

    Homie

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#149

Posted 07 July 2014 - 10:11 PM Edited by orbitalraindrops, 07 July 2014 - 10:52 PM.

 

 

Spoiler

Next theme - Special Members


Flūttershy
  • Flūttershy

    well you got the perfect disguise and you're looking okay

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  • Mars

#150

Posted 07 July 2014 - 10:25 PM Edited by rawrsnar, 16 July 2014 - 05:49 AM.

^I think you need to post a new theme. Curious to try one of these.

 

Edit: Alright, I'll write for this theme. Should be up soon.





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