Mitch

"Hi." "Hello." "What're you up to?" "Just sitting here." "I see." "Yeah." "Mind if I sit down by you?" "I don't care." "Okay. So what's going on?" "Nothing." "Nothing? There has to be something." "No. There's nothing." "You sure?" "Yeah." "All right then. How's school been so far, then?" "Okay." "Okay? I sense you're not telling me the truth." "Maybe." "Aw, come on." "It's Tuesday and I feel like crap. I didn't sleep well last night. I had two tests today. I failed them both. I. . .I. . .was walking home from school yesterday, then I fell down on some ice?see, look here?yeah, that's where I fell." "Looks pretty bad. Did you disinfect it?" "Yeah." "That's good. Does it hurt? What does it feel like?" "It hurts, but most of the pain is gone. It just feels numb now." "I see." "Yeah." "What two tests did you fail?" "Umm. . .Chemistry and Geometry." "Don't like your math?" "No. . .no, I don't." "I understand." "Do you?" "Sure. Sure I do. And so why do you think. . .why do you know you failed these tests?" "How do I know? Well, I've always been bad at math. . .and Chemistry is mostly math, and Geometry, of course." "Is math too. Yeah. I have Chemistry, but it isn't too hard. Geometry, though, I had last year. That was hard." "Who'd you have for a teacher last year?" "Mr. Frein." "That's who I have." "Yeah. Frein's a good guy, but the way he runs the class. . ." "The way he runs it just makes you hate Geometry more." "Yup. That it does. He acts like we actually come to the class to learn." "What do you mean?" "I mean that you go to school to learn. . .but not on the level Frein seems to think you need to. I mean we have lives. That we're learning, but. . .but it's not about fully learning it, unless that's the thing we plan to do. It's more about getting a general idea of what you're doing. Frein was too serious with the class in that way. He made it too much." "I guess you're right." "Yeah. . .but it's just the breaks, I guess. You're stuck with that teacher unless you can get your schedule changed." "And I couldn't get mine changed; it's locked in place. It's either that or get rid of Newspaper." "Guess you just have to tough it out. You're not the only one doing it. That should make it easier." "I guess." "What about Chemistry? How do you know you failed that test?" "It's like you said: the way the teacher runs the class is too much. I have it as a block. And, well, I have it right after Geometry. I'm just worn out of numbers by the time I come in the class." "I see." "Yeah." "What was your test on, in Chemistry?" "Chemical formulas." "Oh. And who do you have for a teacher?" "Mr. Lady." "That's sure a nice name for a teacher. Mr. Lady." "Yeah, it's sure an oxymoron." "Yeah. He sounds like a moron himself." "Maybe. He's a good guy, though, like Mr. Frein is. I've seen Mr. Frien and Mr. Lady talking before. I think they're friends." "Oh." "Yeah. I didn't know what I was doing on the test at all. . .the way Mr. Lady had explained the chapter was just too quick for me. I'm brain dead by the time I get to the class." "That's too bad. Too bad you don't have an easier teacher." "Yes and no, I guess. On one hand, it's good it's hard. It makes me learn what I'm at the class for. . .as much as I'd rather say it the other way around. And yes, it's too bad, because I've become sick with the class. I'm so tired of it." "Yeah, I see what you mean. I'd still rather have the easy way out." "Me too. But I can't have that." "Nope. You can't." "Yeah, it's just too bad. . .What can you do, though." "There's not much you can do. Just take it as it comes, I guess." "Yeah." "I'm just as tired of school as you. I'd rather be doing anything else than be here." "Me too." "Hmmm. . .so did you sign up for the ACT?" "Yeah, I did. I did it online, the last day before it was due to be done." "Sounds like me. I did the same thing." "Heh." "Are you even going to take the practice test they gave? I have mine at home. . .I think I will. But at the last minute, probably." "I'll probably practice it, yeah. I still think it's a waste of time." "I do too. But you just have to make the motions, I guess." "Yeah. But still. . .I wish colleges would look more at you as a person, not a number." "Well, get used to it. That's the way it is. There's not much else you can do but get used to it, really." "I guess so." "Plus there's your social security number. To employers, that number means more than most anything else about you. At least until they interview you." "Eh." "'Eh'? What, did you have a bad experience working?" "Yeah. I did." "Where'd you work?" "KFC." "Oh." "Yeah." "So what happened?" "They fired me after four weeks of working there." "That's too bad." "Yeah. I'm mostly over it now though." "That's good." "Yeah. But I'm still incredibly timid to getting another job." "A lot of people are. At least you can say you had enough in you to get one already." "I suppose." "Yeah. All that you can do is keep going on." "Yeah. That's what I think, anyway. My dad tells me everyday I need to get a job. . .and I know it. But I don't really. . .want a job, you know." "Nobody does." "Yes. I know. Maybe it's selfish. I don't know." "It's not selfish. . .it's just honesty. Honesty is a good thing." "I think it is too." "But there is cases where lying's needed, of course." "Of course. There's always exceptions." "Yeah. There always is." "It's almost time for next period." "Is it?" "Yeah?look at the clock, over there." "Oh. Yeah." "What class do you have next?" "Latin." "Latin? How do you like that class?" "It's okay. Sometimes it's great, other times it isn't." "Sounds better than Geometry or Chemistry, at least." "Yeah. It's better than those. But the teacher, Ms. Hans, is sometimes in bad moods. And I just don't enjoy some aspects of Latin." "Well, I'm taking Spanish. I'm in Spanish II. I know the pains of learning another language." "Yeah. What kills me is declensions." "Declensions? What're those?" "They're these charts that arrange nouns into groups. Declension one, two, so on. Each declension has a certain type of noun that will conjugate a certain way. From these declensions, you can turn the noun into the various cases. There's nominative, vocative, dative, genitive. You get the idea. It's a lot of memorization." "Oh." "You've never used declensions?" "No." "You're lucky. But I'm sure it's just as hard." "Yes. It's just as hard. It's the memorization that kills me." "Yeah. That's my main problem, I think." "Is it?" "Yeah. The classes I'm having trouble in. . .the reason why I'm having trouble is because it's all about memorization: memorizing chemical formulas, memorizing properties of a circle, memorizing declensions, cases. That's the root of my problem. I'm just too lazy to care, too." "Hm." "It is my fault I'm getting bad grades. It's because I don't force myself to remember these things. And without knowing what I'm doing, I do terrible." "Makes sense." "Yes, it makes perfect sense. Now, last year. . .last year was so easy in comparison." "I'd have to say the same thing. I don't know what it was, but it was mostly easy last year." "I think it was a lot of things. The teachers you get makes a difference?how challenging the make the class?and it's also the curriculum. I guess it's right to say the curriculum gets harder every year. There's other things, but I'd say that says most of it." "Yeah. If I'd only known it'd be this much harder." "It's not too bad. It's just that we as teenagers are too lazy to care about school. We just don't have motivation. We'd rather be doing anything but school." "Yeah. Plus there's the fact that you don't even remember most of the things you're taught in school. Well, I think the first few years of school?preschool, kindergarten, 1st grade, teach you things. But they only teach you them in a general sense. It's then that we take what we learn generally and focus on whatever we find works for us." "Also, there's the fact that you're thrown so much knowledge each day that it just. . .seeps out." "What I think would be better is if I could just focus on what it is I enjoy doing and am good at. I mean, it's what I plan to do when I finally graduate from college. . ." "But you need to be well-rounded." "I agree. Okay then, how about this: you take some general classes on other important subjects, but focus on what it is you're best at, and want to do." "I think I'd like that." "I would too." "But I think that's what college is for, maybe. . ." "Well, from what I understand, that's what college is. At least past generals." "Yeah. I think it's a waste of time. College should come earlier." "Maybe. Maybe not. But what it's like now is the way it is. You have to live with it." "I know." "I know you know." "That's good to know." "I know it's good to know you know." "Heh." "So, less than a minute." "Hm." "I guess I'd better get going. I have to go to English." "English? I'd die to have that right now." "Oh, but Latin can't be too bad." "I guess. We're getting our tests back today, though. I don't want to see mine." "Why, is it bad?" "It's going to be, I think. Yeah." "What you need is more confidence." "It's hard to get that when everything's so frustrating and brings you down." "You just need to learn to rise above all that." "I try. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't." "It's like that for me, too, I guess." "Yeah." "You should be glad, though. Once Latin's over, it's the end of the day." "You should be glad, too. English, an easy class, then your day's over." "Should I be more glad than you?" "Yeah, you should. You're a lucky guy. More lucky than my luck." "It's the luck of the Irish, I guess." "Yeah." "I guess women just don't have as good luck." "Hey now, women have just as much luck." "You know I'm just teasing." "Yeah, sure Mr. 'Luck of the Irish,' sure. I believe you." "For some reason I detect you don't believe me." "How'd you do that?" "With my magical luck of the Irish you seem fond of talking about." "Oh, you're such a silly man. Too bad I don't have time to laugh. The bell's about to ring." "That's too bad. Maybe my luck of the Irish will stop time, though." "I don't think it's that lucky." "I don't either." "I don't even think it's lucky enough to do much." "Well, I don't think the luck of a woman has enough to do much at all." "I'm going to quote you on that one." "Are you?" "Yeah." "And what're you going to do?" "I'm going to hire a ninja woman assassin to nail your ***." "Assassin. That's sure a. . .cheeky word, you know." "Not as cheeky as nailing your ***. That goes beyond cheeky. . .it goes to being much beyond that." "Oh does it?" "Yes." "Well, I'm going to quote you on it being cheeky nailing my ***." "Fine then. You do that. And I'll quote you and your luck of the Irish." "Fine." "Fine." "And look there?there's the bell. Isn't it so beautiful. . ." "Not really. It's more beautiful than the luck of the Irish, though." "Well, I for one think it's beautiful. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have English class to attend to." "And I have Latin." "Ta ta for now." "Yeah, see you later, you leprechaun. Be sure to keep watch over your lucky charms, if you know what I mean." "Listen: I'm not going to let you get the last word! So, I'm going to say what I say, and run! IknowyouthinkI'myourluckycharm! You'llneverstealmyluckycharms!" "Damn. He's gone. That was quite a swift one. . .but I'll get you back, you just wait. It'll be your lucky charms. It'll be the cheeky nailing of your ***. We'll see about never stealing your lucky charms. "Well, off to Latin. . ."

The crippled number does now fall, from hands held high, held on the thigh. The crippled number now does fall, from held hands high, the thigh held. Finding segment lengths, finding their values of X. Finding lengths of segments, finding their X values. The cripped number now does fall, Finding segment lengths, finding their values of X, from hands held high, held on the thigh. The crippled number now falls, Finding lengths of segments, from held hands high, the thigh held. finding their X values. A crippled number, to the hospital you go in a numbered hearse. Dead on arrival, DOA, call the CIA. The math died. Died the math. The died math. Died the math. The math died. Geo met ry Geo met ry Geometry falls. Gravity kill the logic. Mundane kill the logic. Geometry falls. Newton's apple to his head. Geometry falling on my mind's head. Geometry falling on the head of my mind. Do what is assigned. Do what is assigned. Assigned do what is. Is what assigned do. What is do assigned. Do what is assigned. Do what is assigned What is assigned is assigned Do what is assigned what is assigned what is assigned. Do what is assigned. Lose mind. Mind lose. Lose mind. Sole i dim. Lose mind. Mind lose. Sole i dim. Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and tangents and lines and tangents and lines and Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and tangents and lines and tangents and lines and Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and time and time draining going leaving gone breathing heaving and Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and plains and where does the line lie and planes and congruent lines and triangles aligned and similiar lines and Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and polygons three or more sides and square with eyes and Xs and Ys and a vector inside and a graphed line and a sloped cry and time and time and time and time draining leaving sucking cry heaving grieving clutching wry and Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys Xs Ys lines tangents sloped cry three or more sides kite flies arc's side Xs Xs and Ys lines tangents sloped cry three or more sides die die diedie die die diediedie diediediediediediediedie die diedie die diediedie diedied diedie die die diedue die die go away go away the window plane open lies Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and Xs and Ys and numbers and nothing and die and leave and lie and there and congruent sides

[b]where you go is where you know[/b] tracing the lace to the angles of my heart punctured deep the incision's hand rapture over me in this no-where land. veins, the fingers charter on their strings cellos tuned low. will you beat me beat me for show. beat me so low. will you play me. the handles fit. the instrument you're meant to play. make me a prodigy. tracing the lace, the curtains to the end. outside the window we pretend. there shall never be shall never see will never ever bleed such fair weather on the fall's eve. of the death of spring. rebirth and resustanance the blood anew. the heart's axed log. cut to a stub. where a cold man axes and axes [i]identidem[/i][color=red]*[/color]. the identity is woodchips. the smell of musk in the air. born the birth cherished to stare. born the birth the cherished the stare. steel hands steel. may it clang true. feel into me. into you. the heart it punctures through. the blood cocoon. where change will not win. the blood cocoon. swoon. the blood cocoon where change will not win. where change will not win. take me away, young slave. take me where you can only take me. the words escape on their odyssey to the stars. and fall down to the earth in a scar. they will not accept it the rocket's too dead. but shouldered i carry it instead. i dream on. as the world goes on to murder us. . . i dream on. as the world kills another innocent soul. . . i dream on. dear lady, what wry fingers. i dream on. as the world goes to jail. . . dear lady, look to the stares. i deam on. as the world breaks free. . . and writing, in this thing's arm, i fall to the ground. and i clutch. i dream on. as the world heaves its bars. . . . . .as it escapes to kill again. dear lady, i shall never know, capture me. and let me go. there i flow. see me there? a star, faded, slights the sky. the dead cocoon has died. and lady, they will not accept the words. but shouldered i carry it instead. [color=red] *[i]Identidem[/i] is Latin for "again and again."[/color]

[size=1][color=red] There you go. You did what you should've done right off. One correction though. They aren't random lines from some random poem. I wrote it. I'm not going to touch what you say; all that you said is valid points and things you should've done in your first post. There you go. You just summed up what I said in my last post. And you know what? I can agree with you on the point that we differ on opinions, and that is fine. Don't be afraid to speak up. Say what you say, and it will be said. It was done mostly in jest. You're right. What can I say. . .I'm an odd man.[/size][/color]

[quote] I have, and that's why I apologized in the post... but I didn't know what else to say. I wasn't trying to be mean, it was a legitimate question- I really did not know what he was trying to get at with the picture. It's hard to constructively criticize something that you can't recognize as being anything. Now that he has explained it, I'll attempt to amend my errors and post actual comments on the picture. Nice symbolism, but perhaps a little too deep... at first glance it is hard to distinguish it as more than lots of red, a stick figure, and a fist. It might also have been better to post the explanation with the picture, and saved a lot of people from confusion. [/quote] [size=1][color=red] I think it's easy enough to see what the picture's about. . .I mean, if you look hard enough, you can see that I labeled everything. But anyway. Another point I'd like to make: usually, with anything I post (whether it be a writing piece, or this), I am looking for people to think for themselves. This picture I posted might mean something else to you. . .and so, why not explain what that thing is? It's not thinking deeply, it's simply understanding something from what you can see from it. People these days don't seem to think enough for themselves; they simply go along with the status quo. They do what seems the right thing within a set frame of time--when they exist. What I explained about the picture isn't what it might mean to someone else. . .say someone else is Christian. To them it might me something completely different. A lot of what I write is heavily amibiguous. You have to look at it and sort through what I make and piece it together and make out of it what you see. It's like that with anything. . .take what you learn at school as an example. . .take almost anything. You have to piece it together so it makes sense to you. I wasn't offended by your first post, I just believe you could've elaborated more. If you don't know what it is. . .then think about it, and elaborate. Otherwise, as your first post stands, it'd be considered spam, and lacking much point. But, that's for the mods to handle, which I am no longer heh. Anyway. . .yeah. When I post things on here, I wish I'd see more people telling me what they think I've made means to them. I don't see it enough with my stories, poetry, and the same goes here. . .although this is the first time I've posted something here in the art forum. I didn't really post it for others to tell me how bad it is. I know it's bad. My last post was almost complete sarcasm at this point. . .which I'm sure you caught or you didn't. It's hard to catch stuff like that in the written word, but you know, if you've read enough of my posts, I'm sure you'd know it. But you haven't heh. But, nonetheless, this forum is for other's to tell how good another's work of art is. Since I lack artistic skills in the drawing sense, it's fine to point out that my picture's not the best. But I made it in paint. It did take some time, actually. lol. Sad as it is. More or less, I posted this here so people could draw their own conclusions as to what I created means. Moreso what the poetry lines from my poem and what they mean: "Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan/ thank god for that much to have had." I plan on making more drawings like this. My next one should be "Cigar Smoking Sky," and I'll take some quotes from the poem of it I have. Man, stuff like this reminds me of Break's comics he used to make; man, do I miss those. . . Break, wherever you are, those comics ruled. I guess this is me bringing something like them back. . .although what I'm making pales in comparison I guess. So yeah. Think for yourself. [i]Think[/i]. It's not too hard. It's what I wish more people would do. Thinking when you post something, and giving me what something means to you is far greater than just some monotonous review with arbitrary ratings via a numerical system heh. James is fond of saying something to that end.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] It's my artistic abilites. You don't like it? I can't believe this! It's treason! It's betrayl! Oh, save me! Heh. I'm sure many people thought what you said when they first saw it. Do I [i]have[/i] to explain it? I guess so. The first image, created amazingly (and wonderfully) in Paint, serves as a title page. If you cannot read the title, it says, "Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan." If anyone has read the poem "society ****** me," they will know where this emanated from. But, to make it short, the lines, "Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan/ thank god for that much to have had," owe their creation to that poem. What I've done here is merely taken those lines. . .and given them my own meaning. Moving onto the second picture. First you see the superbly rendered, immaculate drawing of me. Isn't it so lifelike? Doesn't it just jump off the page at you? It does that to me. What we see is me with a halo upon my head; a Holy Bible in my hand; a crucifix upon my neck. This of course symoblizes me if I were religious and believed in the Catholic religion. And, if you don't know what a bibliophile is, that's one who reads books and loves books. In the picture, I am seen saying, "Thanks God!" Which comes directly from the poem lines that inspired this amazing work of art: "thank god for that much to have had." Now, moving on. To the far right of me is a bloodsoaked fan. The one from the poem. It's seen here blowing harsh, the "whirr whirr" cadencing from it. The fan symoblizes death; death is being symoblized as a fan--it sucks you in, slowly, throughout your life; then, eventually, you go into it, you go into that bloodsoaked fan. That's what the fan means, if it's not obvious to you. The fan contains offal. If you don't know what offal means, it is "the viscera and trimmings of a butchered animal removed by dressing." And, all the red all about is, of course, the blood the fan creates when it chews up humans; it is the blood bled from those who have died. Down in the middle is God. I represent him as a fist. I closed fist. A closed fist often symoblizes power, crushing power that cannot be crushed; that is my intention here. A fist also reminds me of the mushroom cloud created by an atomic bomb, but that's less pertinent and less conspicuous in this. Now, God is saying "Ye art thanked." He is saying you're welcome for me giving you death. His fist is also covered with the blood of the innocent; the blood of the bloodsoaked fan. I say death is a release because that is what I think it is: a release. It lets you get out of all of life's trivial ends. If there's a God, it's a creation of God to end all this ceaseless toil. It is an equal end to a beginning. The reason for my creation of this tediously crafted piece was because I wanted to visionfy my poem's lines; I felt that the image was strong in my mind, and would make a nice picture. I also like the lines of the poem. There. Explained enough? Do you know what this IS now? I didn't mean to offend you at all, by the way. You simply asked what this is; I simply explained.[/size][/color]

[center][img]http://opuslotus.250free.com/deathisrelease.JPG[/img][/center] [img]http://opuslotus.250free.com/bloodsoakedfandraw.JPG[/img]

[size=1][color=red] It sounded cynical because I am cynical. It's just my opinion, me saying I'm sick of these threads. . .so don't worry about it. I just don't care, personally, what religion someone is or whatever. It doesn't make them who they are. It makes some of who they are, but in the big picture it's trivial. I can still stand aside of my differences and understand they believe what they believe, and I can still accept them. So I just find it rather pointless. And if you've been around here a while, you'll understand how I feel too. I'm sure a few older members are as sick of threads like these as me. But that's just an opinion. It's fine that you want to hear what other people say about religion. But, the discussion still goes nowhere. And, in the past, I've made a thread like this as well. It got off-topic, and was closed. I think that thread alone would be enough to look at to see all the differing opinions on religion. But anyway. In the end, I find these threads do nothing for me. What someone else says to me about God doesn't really do much at all to me. What someone says in here doesn't usually change my opinion. I'm set on where I stand and don't mean to move any time soon. I could go off on some perpetual tangent on why I don't or do believe in God, or whatever else. But I just don't see the point of debate anymore. Peoples' views on what they think seldom change, and what you say doesn't move them. People, if they are strong enough and not fickle, will always believe what they find themselves, not what someone else shows them. Anyway, I understand what you're saying about this thread not being a waste of time; but my opinion just differs, and that's the way it is.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Testing is a necessary evil. You live with it. You do it. And that's that. Nothing much else you can do but make the motions.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I'm so sick of the threads like this. I don't believe in Jesus Christ. I don't blindly believe in a God. I don't say I know anything more than I know. I think that sums it up. I don't see any reason to say more than that. [/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red]Now, the Holocaust was a terrible event. . .I don't look down at Jews at all, and if anything offends anyone in this story, it's not intended. I know how terrible the Holocaust was. This story's kind of weird, by the way. But that's just me. Enjoy if you can, I guess. [/size][/color] So, I was dead. I was gone; left; away; floating; free. Not there anymore; no long there; gone from it all. No one could stop me. I slumped over. Beside me, corpses, starved corpses that couldn't be alive. No, they just couldn't be alive. I wondered if I looked like them. Did I look like a corpse? All their bodies were skeletal?you could see their ribs, and their skin tight around, baring them, expounding those ribs; those bones in their bodies. Starved bodies, all of them, and most naked, lost of their clothes. How deathly of death they all looked, as it was sure I was, too. How lost they all looked, how depleted and without hope. As I was. I felt it was time to die. I was already dead; already dead?and so why fight it? Why fight it. They had starved us all, left us there, left us to die. No one would come in time, the liberators wouldn't come fast enough. There was no hope: there was only death. Earlier I had reason to live. I must keep my Father in good health, we must stay together?that was what I told myself. I lived for him, and he lived for me there; and so I lived, and I had my bowl of soup a day, my crust of bread; and so I worked, I worked and I worked?and it was all for him. And he did the same for me. We would see each other get out of this place. Oh, how wicked. How decimating, how inundating the struggle, the day-by-day struggle! Oh, the look in his eyes as he died?died of Typhus. I shall never forget it; I shall never. Those eyes ceased to see, be, know, hold me in their gaze. And they had killed them?killed him! The hate beated with my heart, like a fist to a carcass of nothing that did nothing with each beating of the blood. My heart, could it be broken, was broken?and it was ripped to tethers, and my vena cava, oh, assuredly I bled the most from there. I bled the most from the biggest vein of my heart. Why must you have died, Father? Why? Why must you have? Oh, Father, how it killed me! How I died deaths innumerable thereupon. The reason?oh, the reason, it was not there any longer?it was exhumed and left to rot. Left to die. The reason died. It all died. All of it, all of it. I wished for the SS to shoot me there on sight, or I wished to come upon one of the SS and annoy him, get him to kill me. But, I was too much a coward; something kept me going. It was not God. God died long ago, here in this camp, here in this desecrated place. What God there is now has left. God is dead. He no longer lives; for Him I have no faith. If He loved me, I wouldn't have been put here, put here to die; to suffer; to see this torturous perpetuation. Oh, if God knows, how He deserves to be understood for His way; how He deserves to explain, how He himself should feel ashamed. And food? It was not food. The food, same every day, same soup, did not fill my stomach; it only made it more empty. For with the food I ate; and with what I ate I swallowed; and it all went to a pitiless pit called my stomach, an empty hole serving. How I wished to die every second of every day after your death, Father! How I kept seeing your eyes?oh, your eyes! The food did not calm me, did not enlighten me, did not euphoria me into anything but more pain?the pain of living, here, in this terrible, oh so terrible, place. How I longed to take off my onus?to take off it all, to let it flutter from my fluttering lips, like a falling butterfly's last flutter of wings?the solemn, slow, tedious up and down, up and down, up. . .down, up and down; then silence, then nothing, then dead, the butterfly dead. My lips dead My thoughts dead. This torture dead. My body dead; my skeletal body gone, lifeless, limp. How I wished. How I wanted. And how, in desperation, I still lived. Oh, living! That was the hard part. The easiest part was dying. I lay down here a few days ago, in this bunk house, and have been since. I felt too weak, to inundated to carry on, to do on. I wanted to die, I wanted to die. It was all dead. Survival had lost its reason, food had lost its comfort, God had died, and with his death the death of many to my eyes.; many who did not deserve to die. We are just pigs to the slaughter here; we are just for the maggots, we are here to squeal and be starved, and suffer, oh suffer, oh misery, misery is here to be done to us all; to each and every one. We did not deserve for this to happen, we did not deserve to be sent here, to be starved. We deserved far worse, far worse. But this is all they can do to us. Oh, how they look at us just like that?how they look at us as if we are not even human, how they said we deserved worse than this. And how they enjoyed it; how they embrace it like a masochist, a tried-and-true masochist. So many faces round me; so many, oh so many. Sunken, swollen, sullen, they peer. Most are lifeless, drained; they do not move, they do not move at all. They only sit, lie, and stare. Ribs poke out harsh, protrude weakly. Faces look to be a skull, the eyes seem to not even be there. They are all gone?they are all dead. Dead by His will, dead by Their will. Dead. I lay my head down, I have my will done. I lay me down; the world weights upon my shoulders, encumbers me down, weary, to the abode where I shall dwell. I lay me down, in sufferance and abuse; mistreatment and death's-head. Would I die and agony leave me; go from me; no longer be here, that would be all I need Would I leave here and no longer feel the pain; no longer feel. If I just shut my eyes now, yes, if I just shut my eyes now. Eyes close; shutters closing on a window, my Father's eyes closing, the gas chamber being closed; eyes closed; the door to my house, long gone, shutting, the door to the train shutting, closed; eyes closed, eyes rest, eyes no longer see. And I died. My eyes faltered and I felt death touching me, fingering me with long, prying fingers. He beckoned me to open my eyes again, sweet and suave in voice. My eyes opened, the door opening, the barb wire on the side, opening, opening. In I go. My eyes opened. Here I was, my eyes opened. But where? I looked at my hands, and they were emaciated; I looked at my legs, and they were thin. And I was back home?but how? How was I back here?how, oh how was I? Where was I? What was going on? I went to the mirror. And oh, horror most profound, oh, ugliness beyond ugliness. There stared back a corpse. Eyes almost dead if not dead. Face sunken, swollen, unrecognizable. It was terrible! The face?the face was mine, but wasn't. I had died long ago?I had died long ago, I had died so long ago, from the very first step into the camp. And then?then I was back in the train?I was on my way there! But why was it happening again. Oh, I tried to tell them all! I screamed, I screamed "No! We must leave! WE MUST LEAVE AND BE OUT OF HERE!" but no one would listen, they were all fools; fools, all of them fools. And I said to them, "Can you not see my face? LOOK AT MY FACE! I LOOK LIKE A CORPSE! I LOOK DEAD!" but they did not listen, they would not hear it, the fools, the utter fools. How could they not see me for what I looked like? Could they see it? Did they know? Oh, how I wished they would heed me. How I wished they could see what I looked like! Oh, what torture brought me back here, I wish I could know. Subdued, I had sat down; I had sat down and given up on them all. I wanted them to die?wanted them to die for being such fools! They were all praying?praying to God. To God. Their hands held in embrace, their eyes closed, they prayed. He can't hear you, I wanted to say. He can't hear you, He can't, and He won't. He's already set on his ways. But I said nothing; not a thing at all, not a single word. They would not believe me, they wouldn't listen to me for a second; I sounded insane to them. I sounded insane to myself. And there was the camp, I could see it from the window of the train: a small window with little ability to see out of. It did, in fact, make a nice reflection of my face; and oh, I flinched back upon that sight?that horrid sight! I was dead?dead, but I was here. I had died at the camp but I was here. How? How? And for what reason? Could I not just have died? Could I not have ended my suffering? We walked toward the camp. Get into groups of five they said; those tyrants, those bastards; it was them again. How I wanted to act and kill them, or have them shoot me, kill me for real, or as real as real can get. But I looked upon my Father, now beside me. And it all rushed upon me, and I decided I would live again?or be here as I was?for him. For him and only for him. And, from there things went as they had all before. I shall not lumber out an entire tree of what happened; I shall not say a thing more of it. It is too bad to hear?and it is too difficult to describe. I lived the pain and anguish all over again, once more, all again. And when my Father, sickened with Typhus, died, I wished to be killed perpetually, I wished to die, I wished to not be here; I wished to spit in God's face, I wished to kill all these SS men, I wished. But no such thing happened. And there I sat myself on the ground once more, as happened last time; and there I saw all the people round me, and there, in the distance, I could hear the liberators coming. They were too late, I was already dead. I was long gone and I would not be saved; I would not be saved, and I would rather die. I thought they all knew what I had said in the train by now; I thought that they knew. And I felt they wished they had listened, deep in their dying hearts, deep in their skeletal bodies, where that one part of them still beated. I thought they knew now. Death came swift knocking upon my heart. And with its hand, it seized, and pressured my heart to beat no more. And I died again, the second time, hoping it would not all happen again. I woke this time in the large hands. These hands, I felt I had felt them before. I looked upward, and I saw God. I saw Him, and upon Him there was a moustache. A moustache that was a small strip upon His upper lip. And I saw in His eyes cruelty unimaginable; I saw it all in His eyes. I saw Him for what he was, and I felt I would spit in his face; that I would tempt Him to kill me. But first, I pleaded. "Why did you do it," I asked of him; asked and expected nothing. "Nein." Nein, it was all he said. Nein. It was all I could hear him say with each asking of a question. He reminded me of a the Raven saying "Nevermore." And what was the difference between nevermore and nein? There was not much at all; no, there was not. The two meant the same things. How we believe in Him. Oh, how I wished He didn't do what He did. How I wished to just die. But it was not my time. I asked of him, "Can I just die?" And the answer, emanating all about me, all around me, covering me like a thick vieled cocoon: "Nein." And again. "Nein." He closed my eyes gentle with His hand. He whispered in my ear things I could not hear. And again, death beckoned me to open my eyes. It was Him beckoning, He was death, He was life, He was all. He was the one to blame for it all. It was all His plan. I opened my eyes, oh, and there I was again?my house?my house, and it all began again. And then it all stopped again, as I died on that floor; and then it all began again, and stopped again, and began again, and stopped again. It never ends; it never stops. The endless torture?oh, the endless torture. I have been tortured so long that I take the torture for pleasure; and I have been tortured so long that I take the pleasure for torture. The torture, the pleasure, and the derision. Oh, it is a terrible thing, a terrible fate. Could I escape, and I have tried many times; I have ran away many times, I have fled much. The closest I have gotten to fleeing I cannot remember extensively. All I remember is a man sitting next to me, with a beard, and glasses. He was talking to me slow. He told me he was an alienist; that he was finding if I was sane, and how sane I was if so. I asked him what he could be talking about, and he then proceeded to say another thing, but by that time I was gone; I was back in His hands and I was back in my house again, looking at my hands; my thin, emaciated hands, and my lips were fluttering, and I stepped to look in the mirror again. The same corpse; same face; same, same, same. I felt I would die, and I felt pleasure in looking upon my face. The torture was no longer torture; the way I looked was no longer horrible. It was now beautiful in every way, and now appeared to me to be the best thing I had ever seen. And people who, in the train, looked fine; those people I found torture in looking at. They looked so fine, so beautiful as they were pigs; as they were pigs for the slaughter. I had long given up on ever asking them, telling them, of the dangers ahead; for they were not dangers to me any longer. They were pleasure. And from them I would derive the best feelings I ever found. And from His powers, I continued to go through and through it all again; all again, all again. It took a long time for me to find I enjoyed it. It took me longer than He even expected. But I now enjoy every second of the concentration camp; I enjoy the way they all starve and die, the same people each time; I enjoy the way I am inclined to go about doing what I am to do. I used to fight it, I used to try to derail from what it was I was supposed to do. But fighting it did not do a thing; I was still put upon to do what I was to do?even if I fought it. It was His way, and His way cannot be severed from. Made to relive this torture, now pleasure, over and over again, while all the rest are probably dead; are probably no longer alive. Oh, they must like it. They must be glad. I feel one day He will let me go, back to my body. I feel He will let me do what I now find pleasure in. I feel He will get pleasure from it too. I shall kill all of them; all of them, every single person I can find. Especially those whom I see each and every time through this. I shall love killing them, it shall feel good. It's what they deserve, it's what He says they deserve. And to think I used to think He was dead. He is more alive than He ever will be. He has made me something better than I could ever be by doing what He has for me: by making me go through this over and over again. Perpetually. Now when I'm in the train, and they pray, I pray too. But I pray for Him, to Him. Not like they do. Not like they do at all. One time, I told them all about Him. And I told them they would all die soon, and I would be able to see it again after this. I told them I enjoyed it, and they would too if they were me. I told them He was glad they were dying. I told them all about how each of them would die?I had memorized it all, to visceral as well as verbose details. I told them it all, and when I was done, I smiled at them. I told them I looked much like a corpse when I looked in the mirror at myself; I told them it was quite beautiful. I was beautiful, I told them. Just like He was. I told them they didn't understand at all. And I smiled and felt pleasure at this. They did not believe me. But, as they did die, as they starved, and were gassed, I am sure their beliefs changed quite drastically. Quite drastic indeed; to the point where they knew I was right on. Even when someone knows how and when they're going to die, they don't even try to stop it. A sad thing it is indeed. The autonomy, oh the autonomy. And the beauty of this all. When I get out of here, and get back to where He sends me, I shall have fun putting my derision to them all; to make them feel like I do about this all. They will learn what they think is torture is beauty and pleasure. And they will learn that what they think is pleasure and beauty is torturous and horrible. Oh, do I await that day; I await it like I await the dead look in my eyes, the tasty dead look; I await it just like I await the look in their eyes once they understand their fate: once they understand His fate for them, and His fate for me.

[size=1][color=red] Well, I guess this shows we're really alike writers. I enjoyed this piece more than I've enjoyed a lot of things I've read in here lately. I'm too burned out at the moment to say anything that's going to help you out. . .hm. I'd get rid of parts of it where you said "and such," and maybe the "anways" you had (if you'd want to). The "and suches" are vague. Just get rid of them all over in there, it'll help out a bit. Otherwise. . .I think the piece was interesting. You managed to take the mundane. . .and make it just as mundane, but interesting all the same, which added a touch of something else to it. The mundane's like that in a writer's hands. Yeah. I'm pretty burned out. The "and such" thing is the best thing I could say that'd help you. Otherwise I thought your word choice was good. I'll definitely be waiting for more.[/size][/color]

[quote]However, I was trying to warn you that some people aren't always as happy to hear the honest truth, especially if it comes out as discouraging. Because we aren't all confident in our abilities as a writer or a poet, and so negative things can sometimes hit very hard without the reviewer realising it. As for me, I don't mind. Some people may, however. [/quote] [color=red][size=1]I just have a short thing to say. "Tell where there is dignity without honesty." I need to be honest. I'm not going to lie just so you feel better. (Just in general here now, not pointing fingers at you.) But here's what I would ask, were you going to say you didn't like a story, or some aspects: take the good with the bad. There [i]has[/i] to be something good in a story you can complement on, to balance off the negative things you said. That's what I attempted in my post. So. . .being honest isn't bad at all. I told you I was being brutally honest, and I said that it's just that I don't like stories like that--I like weird ones. But I still said other people would like it. . .that it was just my personal opinion. I should've went through and said some postive aspects to your story, but I'll do it with this next one I do. I don't have the time to critique it right now, but I'll get back to you on it. I just wanted to add the little part I wrote here.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Hey, Kat, you can think what you want about writing. Writing is whatever you want it to be. I didn't mean to come off as holier-than-thou. That's not me. You know that's not me, I hope. The written word is limiting in this aspect, though. I cannot convey how I said things in my post. Mostly, it was me stating opinions. And yes, a lot of it was quite off the point, but I was in a rambly mood. We just differ as writers. And you honestly took a few of my things too personally, and as too much. As I said, I'm more like Shin: improvisation. I was using the Stephen King example as an example to inspire people. Not much else. If I came off as snobby in my post, I ddin't mean to. I don't think anyone's better than me at all. I just write down my opinions, and if you don't agree with them, that's well and fine. I didn't come here and post because what I say is correct. I came here and posted and told you what [i]I[/i] think of writer's block. What I meant by my whole tangent on writer's block was that most of the time, writers who say they have writer's block just need to space it out a bit Write more of something else. Then come back to what they're writing and it'll work. Heh. No hard feelings at all, Kat. As for perfection. . .I basically said what you did. Writing's not about perfection. . .in the first draft, anyway. Yes, you have people like Harper Lee. What I really wonder is, did she just stop writing after [i]TKM[/i]? Or is she just too much of a perfectionist that she doesn't want to have readers read her writing? Whatever the case, it comes down to personal preferance. Writing isn't the same to everyone. Even though we disagree, that's fine, I can still see where you're coming from and what you're saying. And you can do the same for me. Disagreeing is fine. It shows we're different people. Edit: I think I should add I didn't even really explain what I meant by deleting things. I'm mostly talking about when you just get ready to write. I constantly erase thigs I've written until I get something I want to use. I wasn't talking about deleting whole blocks of text. I wasn't talking about just trashing older stories because they're lame. I was just saying you can write, even if you say you've got writer's block. You can. You can make something up, even though it might not be good in the story. You can. As much as you want to tell me you can't, you can. It's just asking if there's the will, as I said. Will you. There is geniune writer's block, like I said. Which may be the case with what you have here. . .but I don't start writing something until I at least have a grasp on it. Maybe that would be called writer's block? Who knows. Writer's block is such an informal term, that doesn't give much explanation as to what it means. It means being stuck in a story. . .but then again, it could be more than that. And you don't recommend deleting whole blocks of text? What about a second draft, third draft, [i]et cetera[/i]? :p And yes, I'm a city boy. It's another thing to think about. Will all of your readers know there's snakes in long grass by funerals? No. I found it was hard to pick out of there. And if you don't want me to critique whatever you've posted, then that kind of gets rid of the reason for this. If you didn't want that, you could've explicitly said, "Don't critique this, either." But I did anyway. It's not terrible that you made a few mistakes in the story. I make mistakes [i]all the time[/i]. It's human Kat. It's something to work on. It's not like you're a terrible writer just because you made a few mistakes and I showed them, or because I said I didn't enjoy your story. It's not that at all. You should know you're a good writer in your heart. You should know that. Derermination and will and finesse and being able to know it will make you a better writer than someone who may just be gifted. To be cliche about it, where there's a will, there's a way. If you work at it hard enough, and put heart in it, you're bound to see results, no matter what I say or someone else says. You're a good writer. You know it. I just said it. I may be better as a writer than you and I might not. Whatever the case, you have the same potential to be good at this game as I do. Does this sound holier-than-thou? I hope not. Heh. I'm just trying to encourage you. I didn't mean to discourage in my past post at all. But I guess I did. For that I apologize. I want you to know that I meant well. It's just that with written language, I can't tell you well how I said something. And it's how someone says something that can make it sound completely different to you. Can make it seem what they didn't intend.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Okay. I'll do that then. Basically, this story is [i]mostly[/i] what it is, which I'm sure you found. Okay. Let's start from the top. You'll remember this part of the story: [quote]can hear him if I listen hard enough, can hear the dark shadow looming over me. I can hear him well if I want to, but the smell fills the nostrils, and I'd rather not. The smell of corruption. Ah the smell. "?of course, sir?" [i]Of course sir?[/i] Huh, what was this? I can't hear you. Can't. Hear. You. "In God We Trust," I said. Laughed. Went back to closing my eyes, smelling through nostrils, half-listening half-not and half-there. [/quote] This "Of course, sir," is the guard talking to Sylivan from his cell's bars. This isn't obvious, and it might be good to make it more obvious in later drafts, but I like it the way it is now. Sylivan is using selective hearing and seeing. This idea was inspired by [i]Silence of the Lambs[/i], which, as it's obvious, was a heavy influence on this piece. The selective hearing and seeing part was from Hannibal Lecter's doing it in the book. Now, the whole time I'm telling the story of what happens to Sylivan when he kills his Father, Sylivan is in his jail cell seeing it. Perhaps this vividly? Perhaps not? Whatever the case, it's just another way for him to be selective with what he sees and hears. So, further on in the piece, Sylivan imagines the guard as his Father, and this, it could be said, queues his flashback. [quote] "In God We Trust," I said. Laughed. Went back to closing my eyes, smelling through nostrils, half-listening half-not and half-there. Sudden movement. Shadow is coming over. Continue to smell through nostrils. He grabs me by the shirt collar. "?listen here, Sylivan?" Listen here? Ah, I see you have me by the shirt. Eyes still closed, smile to my face, I wonder what I'll see with the open of my eyes. Ah do I wonder. Open. Peek-a-boo, I see you. "Yes?" I said. "Yes, what do you want from little Sy here, little Sylivan, hmmm? What is it?" Ah. The face. I know the face. Father?[/quote] Right there you see it. Then, near the end. [quote]The man slapped me awake. What was this? Where was I? "Sir," he said. "Sir." I looked over at him. He had a strange look on his face. "Yeah?" He took his hands from the bars. Whistled a tune. "Nothing. Nothing at all." And he went and left. I sat on my bunk. I sat and did nothing else. [/quote] This is Sylivan being awaked from his hallucination, dream, whatever you want to call it. The guard, in my mind, had seen him saying things, and that's why he, quote, " had a strange look on his face." You can go to [url=www.myotaku.com/users/mitch]My O[/url] and see my post where I did a post on this story there too. Check that out for more on the story. In short, I plan to write more of it. I plan to show how Sylivan got in jail through Sylivan doing flashbacks. But first, I have to do my homework. . .I have to learn this damn polyatomic ions.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] [i]Huck Finn[/i] is a realistic novel depicting how things, well, [i]realistcally[/i] were back then. People [i]used[/i] the word ****** when talking of blacks. A child back then, such as Huck is, would say these things. If there's anything you need to do when writing. . .it's telling the truth. When I slam my hand on a nail, and it hurts like hell, I don't scream, "Oh, sugar." I scream, "****!" loudly, and in angiush and pain. If your character says what he says, then let him say it. There's no merit in a ban on this book at all. It's just stupid to me. What I've said is quite obvious I'd say, but anyway. I don't see any other way to it: there's nothing wrong with [i]Huck Finn[/i], and it especially shouldn't be banned. [i]Huck Finn[/i] is a realistic novel which portrays how it was back then. And people back then did say, and talk like what they do in the book. Blacks talked ignorantly. Such as Jim's, "Dog my cats ef I din't hear sumthin." Or whatever else. This gives a realistic portrayl of how things were. I certainly, back in that time period, wouldn't see many negroes walking around saying, "These interdicted chains! O dear lord, why hath thee forsaken me?" But whatever. People are stupid and overjudicious and will ban things. It's just like with anything I guess. I still think it's pretty stupid. I mean. . .Twain has a reason for using ****** in the book. He just doesn't haplessly use it like he's having fun using it. It's actually used in a context that doesn't do much else but give the novel more realism.[/size][/color]

I stare into the eyes of this fiend, of this beast of beast. Stare him right in the face. In the palm of my lined hand, in the fingers I feel its crisp edge. I run my hand along it, feel its texture, and it feels me to me. I bend it back and forth, back and forth. It makes the sound of crumping paper. I put it in my mouth, on my lips; I feel it all over and bend and crumple and look at it. I stare into the eyes of this fiend, of this beast of beast. Stare him right in the face. George Washington, the wry fellow, the 1 in each corner. The green of trees of envy of leaves. The touch, the feel, and on the back, [i]In God We Trust[/i]. In God We Trust indeed. Yes, sure as hell in him we trust. On the back, too, [i]E Pluribus, Unum[/i]. [i]From Many, One[/i]. 1 in each corner. ONE written large in the center. An eagle in a circle on the right, a pyramid with an eye at its triangular top in a circle to the left. And, of course, [i]THE GREAT SEAL OF THE UNITED STATES. [/i] Eyes closed, money to side of head, nose breathing in, smelling. Hands to sides of the chair, light off, dim light of the doorway coming in, him speaking, speaking, speaking. Incessant, incessant, incessant. Like a chirping newborn bird in a nest, like a fly buzzing round the fleshly killed chicken, like a devastated widow at a funeral speaking a eulogy of melancholy determination. I can hear him if I listen hard enough, can hear the dark shadow looming over me. I can hear him well if I want to, but the smell fills the nostrils, and I'd rather not. The smell of corruption. Ah the smell. "?of course, sir?" [i]Of course sir?[/i] Huh, what was this? I can't hear you. Can't. Hear. You. "In God We Trust," I said. Laughed. Went back to closing my eyes, smelling through nostrils, half-listening half-not and half-there. Sudden movement. Shadow is coming over. Continue to smell through nostrils. He grabs me by the shirt collar. "?listen here, Sylivan?" Listen here? Ah, I see you have me by the shirt. Eyes still closed, smile to my face, I wonder what I'll see with the open of my eyes. Ah do I wonder. Open. Peek-a-boo, I see you. "Yes?" I said. "Yes, what do you want from little Sy here, little Sylivan, hmmm? What is it?" Ah. The face. I know the face. Father? Withheld the fear in deep. Gulped it inward and held it poised, a nice maneuver, like gymnastics, like doing a handstand on a narrow pole, and walking along. Feet upward, hands grasped to cold steel. Balance central, muscles working, hold it there, that's good. Yes. Eye-to-eye. Reminds me of the pyramid eye on the 1. He has a five o' clock shaving shadow on him. Deep in thickets and black. Eyes wild with power, with expectance, with control. Withhold it. In it goes. No sudden anything. Yes. Going good. "You know what you need to do." Sets me down. I move the green lovely through my hands, put it to my lips, feel its crispness. "Father." Said it well. Good. "Father." Again. Yes. Still eye-to-eye. "Father, I don't know what to do." "YOU GODDAMN WELL KNOW WHAT TO DO, BOY." Had to hold back the smile wanting to go on my face. Cover it up with the green lovely. "I goddamn well don't know what to do." I breathe. Through clenched teeth. Oh, how nice it feels. Soon. Very soon. "I goddamn well don't know what to do, Father." "YES YOU GODDAMN WELL DO KNOW WHAT TO DO, BOY." "No I goddamn well don't." Ah, how he yells. Music to the ears. Like music to the ears. "IF YOU WON'T DO IT, BOY, THEN GODDAMNIT, I'LL DO IT FOR YOU." Set the green lovely on the bed, light, let it lie there, kiss the covers. Kiss them with its green of trees, of envy. Ah yes. Beautiful. Let it sit there. Then let Father do what he wants. Still little light. I stand and peer to him. Wild eyes, oh yes, wild eyes. Concentrated eyes. "In God We Trust," I said again. Yes, sure as hell, In God We Trust. His hands on me. Heavy. Soon I would act. But first, let him have his way. Oh yes. Let him have it. Savor it like a parched mouth being brought to water and drinking. Then, then it will be time. His hands feel good on me. I smile. He smiles. That's right, smile you ******. Could I scream to his face? No. No, not yet. Not yet, oh no not yet. Shirt off. Hold the arms up like a good boy, like holding on a thin wire. Enjoy it. Enjoy it while you still can. Oh yes. Time to play. Just a bit. I fight. He tries to get off my pants. Fight, fight, fight. You like the fight, don't you? Don't you Father? Yes. Yes you do. I can feel it hardening in you. Rocks are hard, so are fists. Like an ear of corn being unveiled it feels. Doesn't it? The struggle. It's the struggle. It's working wonders, isn't it, father? Ah, the smell of the corruption. Wish I could smell the green lovely to my nostrils. He wouldn't let me. Homo Erectus, Father, isn't that right? Turned to my back, the struggle is won. The pants come off. Striptease. A strip tease indeed. Oh yes. Next the underwear come off. He feels my back, the sensations. Oh the sensations. It feels good. Homo Erectus. Yes. Homo Erectus Father. In God We Trust. From Many, One. United States. He feels me all over. It feels good. He grabs me hard. Heavy breaths. On my back. He goes in. Don't be so anal, right Father? Don't be so anal. I sneer. Don't be so anal. He's riding a merry-go-round, and oh is it merry. And Holy Mary Mother of God. And Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow. And everywhere Mary went the sheep was sure to go. Oh yes, Father. You know it well. More well than them all. The Virgin. The Virgin Mary. Yes Father. I can imagine your face. Pleasure. There is for me. Yes. Then, in mid stride. In mid ride. "Tell me." He said. "Tell me." Again. "Tell me. Tell me now." I'm up for game Father. Yes I am. "I love you," I said. "**** me harder. Harder. Harder. Yes, yes. Harder. **** me." Harder. He goes harder. Harder. It will end soon. Time to act. Soon. Time to act. Act. Yes. Time to act. I'm rocked back and forth like a baby in a cradle. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop, when the wind blows it will stop. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop, I'm just giving you a little ****. I lick my tongue between my teeth. Smile. Feel some pleasure inside. Push it away. Grope under the bed from where we lie. Bring the metal to my hands. Oh yes. The metal. How nice. It's just for you, Father. Click-click. The hammer coming up. The trigger in my hand, the best feeling in my hand. I turn quick. You're too caught up in the moment, Father. And aim. And fire. Bang! Fourth of July, for fuckers to buy. The shot bounces off the lamp. Misses the royal jewels by a miniscule miscalculation. Oh, but there's more Father. Click-click. Hammer goes up. Trigger gets pulled. Aim. And fire. Bang! Fourth of July, for fuckers to buy. Coming back again. The slug. In his Homo Erectus. Right Father? It bleeds. Blood comes out. Thick. Engorged. Oh yes. I smile to you, smile the largest smile I could smile. Do you like it? I hold the gun to your head. Hammer goes up. Hand on trigger. "Tell me," I said. "Tell me." Your eyes rack in pain. You stare. Father, tell me. "TELL ME." I said. I shot the gun to the ceiling, heard the slug puncture and go up. Gun to the head again. "You better tell me." "I. . .I. . ." You shake. It's beautiful Father. Where's High and Mighty Father now? No more Homo Erectus for you, right Father? "I love. . .you. . ." But Father, you don't mean it. There is no remorse in those words. Nothing that can give it back. I smile. Look what you've created, right Father? "I love you Sylivan." He doesn't even mean it. Doesn't mean it. You'll die soon enough, ******. Soon enough. "I love you Sylivan." Click-click. Hammer goes up, Homo Erectus. "Hammer goes up, Father." Goes up like an elevator. "Like a Homo Erectus, Father. Right Father?" He shakes. The pain. I read it on his face. "RIGHT FATHER?" "Yes. . ." That's right. Yes is right, ******. Father. Yes is right. "Mary had a little lamb." I push the gun close to your head. Hard. Feel it seep in. Feel it get to you. For real. Feel you shake. Feel you shake even more. Oh. It feels so good. "Mary had a little lamb, Father." I pushed it harder. "Go on with it." Harder. He isn't responding. "GO ON WITH IT." "Whose fleece. . .was white. . .as sn. .ow." Yes. Good job. Good show. "You're not done yet, Father. The rest?" Gun in harder. Trigger in my hand. I have control Father. I have it. Listen to me. "THE REST?" "And. . .and everywhere that Mary went. . .the lamb was sure to go. . ." Perfect. Bravo you ******. "That's right." I take the gun from his head. Survey his Homo Erectus. Then come back. Put the gun to his head. Oh yes. Time to play. "Now, do me an Our Father, would you?" He just shakes. Again. I kick him in the stomach. Hard. "Go on. Go on or else." "Our Father. . .who art in Heaven. . ." Pauses. Collects himself. Racks in pain. "Hallowed by thy name. By kingdom come. . .thy will be done. . .on Earth. . .as it is. . .is in Heaven. . ." I came in. "And give us this day, our daily bread. Our daily trespasses. And forgive those who come against us." Nudged him. Seeped the gun in harder. On the head. "And lead us not into temptation. . .but deliver. . .but deliver. . .deliver us from evil." Evil. I looked at him. "Evil, Father. Evil." I sneered. "Evil." Silence. "You're my Father, you know, Father. Art thou in heaven, hmmm? ART THOU IN HEAVEN?" Pain on his face. "I. . .are. . .can you just. . .kill me already?" Kill you, Father? Kill you? How can I do that? I am your son. "Father, Father, art thou in Heaven? Is this the way you would treat your son? Is it the way? IS IT THE ******* WAY?" Silence. "ANSWER ME YOU ******." I push the gun hard. Hard. Yes so ******* hard. Feel it you ******. Hard. Hard. Yes. I hope it leaves a bruise. Tell me what I want to hear. Silence. Silence silence silence. "I grow impatient Father. I grow impatient. Father, why have you forsaken me so?" ". . .For. . .sake. . en?" "Yes. Forsaken." I sneered again. It was fun ******* with him. Soon it would be over. I had the control. Any time now. Any time and it would end. Yes. Oh yes. "Father. Quid pro quo. Quid pro quo Father. ANSWER. ANSWER ME. ANSWER ME, FATHER. QUID PRO QUO." No answer. Silence. Nothing. Not a word. Not an answer. I slash the gun across his face. Leave a large gash. Smile. "Father, oh Father. HOW I LOVE YOU. HOW I ******* LOVE YOU." I hit him across the face again. He still sat slumped, unable to stand, and I smiled more. "Father, Cowards, they die many deaths before they die. And the valiant, they taste of death but once. Only once, Father. Only once. And that's all. I've died many times, Father. Many times. And it all screams at me, Father. And it all screams at me." I paused. "Father, why have you forsaken me? WHY MUST I ******* SUFFER? Why Father? Why? Ah, but you do not have the answer, do you? Hmmm, no you do not. NO YOU DO NOT. "You don't have the answer at all. You violated me because you could. You've made me what I am. Do you like what you see? DO YOU ******* LIKE WHAT YOU SEE? Father. do you like it?" His head was down, ignoring me. I pushed it up. Made him look me over. I am still naked. "Father, tell me I'm sexy. Tell me I'm your ******* son. Tell me you like what I am. "Tell me Father. TELL ME NOW OR YOU DIE. YOU ******* DIE NOW. YOU BECOME A ******* HOLE." "I. . .I. . ." Just say it Father. JUST SAY IT. Say it Father. Yes. Oh yes. Say it. "You're. . .sexy. You're my son. I like. . .I like what you are." Lies, lies, lies. "You're such a ******* liar. Such a liar. You DESERVE to die. You deserve it, Father. You do not deserve to live. You're trash, Father. You're ******* TRASH." I kicked him in the gut harder than I had before. He began to cough. How beautiful. "There came a rapping, Father, a rapping at my chamber door. And there was the Raven, Father. The Raven. It screamed, 'Evermore.' And Father. Father. Do you know, do you know I'm going to be like this the rest of my life? LOOK WHAT YOU'VE ******* MADE ME. DON'T YOU REGRET IT. DON'T YOU FEEL ANYTHING FOR ME AT ALL? DO I EVEN HAVE A NAME TO YOU? Ah, ah, but what's in a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet? Right Father? Right? AM I ******* ROSE? Every rose has its thorn. Yes. Every rose has its thorn. "Your thorn, Father. Your thorn is despicable. Despicable." I spit on him. "Father, I see other people at school. I see them. And they aren't like me at all, Father. They aren't like your little Sy. They aren't like me. I've grown up, Father. But because of you, because of you I enjoy. I enjoy what you do to me. I enjoy it. And I enjoy raping other girls, and other men. I enjoy it just like you do. And I like killing them, Father. I like killing them just like I like killing you right now." I pushed the gun in a shove at him again. "I like killing you right now, Father. I want to see you suffer. I WANT YOU TO SUFFER FOR YOUR ******* SINS. I WANT YOU TO ******* SUFFER FOR WHAT I'M GOING TO BE MY WHOLE LIFE. Father, why can't this world just accept me? Hmmm, why can't it accept me for who I am? Why not, Father? Father, you know why. It's because they don't give a **** about me. They don't care. They could care less, Father. They don't understand. "They don't understand at all. To them what I do and what you do is totally wrong, Father. To them it's inhumane. And why did you have to make me like this? Why did. Why did you rape Mother and make her have me, then kill her, and get away with it? WHY? WHY COULDN'T THEY HAVE GOTTEN YOU THEN? WHY COULDN'T YOU HAVE JUST BEEN PUT AWAY THEN? Why father? WHY? WHY WHY WHY WHY?" I began to cry and I smiled. "Father, when I think about it, I like what I am. I'm going to accept what I am. But this is how I feel sometimes, Father. This is how I feel sometimes. I feel like if things could've gone different, I'd be a different person, and I would be off fine. But I love what I am, Father. I love it. But others won't love it. And for that I hate you. I hate you for making me what I am when others won't love me. I ******* HATE YOU FOR IT." Angry. Melancholy. Happy. So many emotions. It was beyond belief. It felt so ******* good. Yes. Oh yes. I told him everything before I killed him. Before I shot him. And that felt good, too. It all felt right. All felt good. Yes. Oh yes. I am done explaining. I told him a few last words. "Father, you should've read a book. It's a genius book, Father. [i]Silence of the Lambs[/i]. And that's what I want. Father, I want a Silence of the Lambs. Mary Mary Mary had a little Lamb, whose fleece was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went the Lamb was sure to go. Father, you would've liked to **** Clarice Starling. Just like Hannibal wanted to. You would've loved it Father. Just like I would love it. There's Clarice Starlings out there, Father. I know there is. And you know what, Father? I want to hear a Silence of the Lambs. "I want to hear them quiet down. Mary's Lamb needs to shut the **** up. ******* Mary's Lamb needs to shut up. Doesn't it, Father? Oh yes, it does Father. Yes it does. I've had enough of being your ******* Lamb. Your ******* virgin. I've had enough of following you around. I've had enough of being your ******* toy. I hope, wherever you go, you're ******* killed ten times over. "I want to hear a Silence of the Lambs, Clarice. That's what I want, Dad. That's what I want." And then I shot him. I shot him. Pressing the trigger felt like putting it all into one final press. One final suplex, one final swing. Like a homerun, or a power play. It felt so right. Oh yes. Felt so right. He did not scream when he died. He just died. After he died, I found the green lovely on the ground. Yes. The green lovely. I put it face-up, crumpled, in the bullet hole of his head. I made sure one part stuck out. On the upper left, I circled it. It is all that read clearly from his head.. [i]THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER[/i], it said. [i]FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE[/i]. And this debt, it was a private one. I began to walk out. I turned. My head over my shoulder, still naked, I eyed him. The green lovely in his mouth. "Now you can't say I didn't give you anything, Father. Now you can't at all." 2 The man slapped me awake. What was this? Where was I? "Sir," he said. "Sir." I looked over at him. He had a strange look on his face. "Yeah?" He took his hands from the bars. Whistled a tune. "Nothing. Nothing at all." And he went and left. I sat on my bunk. I sat and did nothing else.

[QUOTE=pbfrontmanvdp] However, what Mitch said was to damn funny. How he could tie in the song from Independence Day and the use of a shotgun...is beyond me. Childish yes...but it was still a little funny.[/QUOTE] [size=1][color=red] I just like my Rapid Eye Movement. Sleeping is such sweet solace. wrist cutter, my friend, the post above was a tribute to you. God Bless America. But, being serious, do what Charles and Wiccan said. Forget about it. The average person lives to at least eighty I'd say. Not much to worry about when you've got a long amount of years left, is there? No, not really. You'll be able to expierence the wonders of love, sex, procreation, and having children. Just slow down there bucko.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] It's not done yet. Many of the things I've posted aren't done. I don't think anything you write is done, you just get it best you can. As for this piece. . .I plan on writing more of it tonight if I feel up to it. I have many more things in store for it, but you'll just have to wait, of course. Thanks for the nice comments once again.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I think I have the perfect answer to your situation. First, go to a gun shop. Purchase a Shotgun. Make sure it is a cocking shot gun, so that it makes that click-click sound when you use it. Then, be sure to purchase a lot of ammuntion; enough to fight off a wild herd of elephants. Then, taking the Shotgun, find your boyfriend. Tell your boyfriend you've got something special for him. Then shoot him twenty times. First the head. Then the torso. Then the legs. Then the arms. Shoot him until he's a bloody mess. And each cock of the Shotgun after each shot fired will be like a prick of finality in your mind, like a touch of weights being lifted from your encumbered shoulders. And then after it tell me you killing him was warranted, and that it was the end of the world. And you know what? It's the end of the world and I feel fine.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Shin and I seem to be writers of the same breed. I often get inspiration from songs. Many--oh-so-many--of my poems came from songs. But it's not always like that. I find that ideas for stories often hit me when I least expect it. . .and then I lose them. You know, I'll just be sitting and then wham! a story idea will hit me smack in the face, and I'll say to myself, "That sounds like a good story," and then I'll forget the idea. This has happened many times lately. I remember I was sitting at a computer in Journalism class, and an idea hit me, I could see it [i]lucidly[/i] in my mind, but now I can't even remember what this idea was, or what I was seeing in my mind's eye. I find that a lot of my stories--the better ones--come from the combination of multiple ideas. Now, I'm a weird guy that likes weird stories (as is evident by many of my stories), and so, three ideas that are totally different and total other extrapolations of one another will sometimes form together (much like a simile does things) and become whatever they become. Now, plot, I think, is one of the worst things to use while writing. Don't sit there and tell yourself, "I'm going to have Nancy try to kill herself with a noose, then a gun, then a knife, then a can opener, at the climax. And then I'm going to have her put in an asylum. And then I'm going to have her try to kill herself again in that asylum. And then I'm going to have her. . ." Don't do it like that. Rather, improvise, and let [i]the character[/i] tell you what to do. I'm kind of off subject. But anyway. I don't get writer's block often, because when I don't write I don't classify it as writer's block, I just classify it as a lack of wanting to write. It's easy for me to write, and I don't think, in my place of writing, writer's block exists very often, if not at all. I never come to a story thinking, "I have to make this story just [i]perfect[/i] in its first draft. I have to make sure my word choices are [i]perfect[/i], and I characterize my character [i]perfectly[/i], and I do it all so [i]perfect[/i]," and I honestly think this is where many writers get their "writer's block." They just don't think what they're writing down is coming down good enough at all, and so they stop, and they try to think around a way to make it work out, so their writing is so perfect. Writing isn't about perfection. . .at least not in the first draft of something. The first draft is like making a road, a very dirty road full of many potholes, ruts, water puddles, and obstacles. The first draft gives you your way through a story, it gives you your rough vantage. And then you have to take it and make it even better, and sharpen what needs to be sharpened. You know, when Stephen King was writing [i]Carrie[/i], he threw it away after the first few pages or so. He thought the writing was terrible on it. But his wife took it out of the garbage can and told him to keep going. King didn't think what he was writing in [i]Carrie[/i] was good still. But he wrote it with his wife's enthusiasm and encouragement. And of course, [i]Carrie[/i] was the book that propelled King to where he is now; if not for it, he might not be known at all, and may be working some humdrum job someplace. But instead, he kept going with something even though he didn't think it was perfect--even though he didn't think it was good--even though his instincts told him to stop. I just think sometimes you have to say the hell with it, and just write to write, even if you don't want to. You can salvage [i]something[/i] from it. Just because you're telling yourself you have a writer's block doesn't mean you can't write. The question is will you? Anyone can write easily enough. Especially with practice. Writing's a muscle. You have to work on it each day, and allow it to strengthen. You have to write even when you think you have writer's block, or whatever else excuse; because that's what writer's block is (most of the time)--it's an excuse. There are geniune times where you're stuck in a story. When Stephen King was writing [i]The Stand[/i], such a thing like that happened: he was geniunely stuck. He had written about half of his story--400-600 pages (somewhere in there). Now, [i]The Stand[/i] is an epic 1,000 page monster. It has so many characters in it that all they were looking to Stephen was like a tangled mess. He didn't know what he was going to do to keep his story going along. He'd often go on walks to clear his mind. It was on one of those he got his answer to his writer's block. Now, that's something of a geniune writer's block. But just because you have a geniune writer's block doesn't mean you can't write [i]something[/i]. This something you write may not be good, but that's just for you to know. You can press the DELETE key on your computer easily, can you not? You can also use an eraser easily as well, can't you? So that's how I try to deal with writer's block. I write things even if they may be terrible. Now, to your essay, shall we? [quote] I can feel it?s warmth on the top of my head, and my hair feels slightly scorched. If it gets any hotter, I expect my hair would burst into flames. [/quote] Its use of an apostrophe is incorrect, no? The transition from your character's dialogue: [quote]?Wow,? I say, ?the grass has grown.? [/quote] And the brother's reply is way too out of nowhere in the narrative. Let me see what I can do. [quote][b]My brother interrupts my thoughts.[/b] ?Yeah. Probably the rain.? [strike]As if echoing my previous thoughts, my brother interrupts my musings.[/strike] [b]He stomps his feet on the grass[/b][strike]; we can never remember if stomping scares snakes away, or if it attracts them. I sincerely hope it?s the former. [/strike] [b](What does scaring away snakes have to do with it? First narrate into it, then say he stomped his feet, then say he did it to scare the snakes. The way it is, I have no clue why he's stomping his feet to scare away the snakes. Tell why he's stomping his feet to scare the snakes? Until then, if you don't want to go off on this longer, just delete the sentence altogether. It's kind of beside the point of narrative at this point and gets in the way.[/b][/quote] What you need to remember here is keep it simple. Avoid needless words and delete them. Kill your beauties. You don't need to use big words to look good at all. Just simple sentences are so much more effective for this piece, I think. Instead of, "As if echoing my previous thoughts, my brother interrupts my musings," just say, "My brother interrupts my thoughts." Thoughts is a better word here than musings I think. It's more concrete and just looks better [i]to me[/i]. I also like it better with the, "My brother interrupts my thoughts," coming first. And then him saying what he said. It just seems logical. . .first he'd interrupt your thoughts, then he'd talk. Putting what he said, and then, "He interrupted my thoughts," is sort of redundant. It's obvious he's getting in the way of what the character is thinking. I like it the way I made it, but you might want to consider just putting what he said, and then saying he stomped his feet, and keeping the part about interruption of thoughts out. Otherwise, I think what you have here is pretty good. Although, to be brutally honest (which is the way I am), I don't care much at all for the story. It's too mundane and humdrum for me. But that's just me. I'm sure some other people will enjoy it; but I didn't enjoy it much. What can I say. I like weird stories, supernatural and things like that, and stories of murderers and how they think. . .and so on. Yeah. Good luck on the essay, hope you win higher this year, eh?[/size][/color]

[size=1][center]"I can tell you what they say in space That our earth is too grey But when the spirit is so digital The body acts this way That world was killing me That world was killing me Disassociative The nervous systems down, the nervous systems down I know I can never get out of here I don't want to just float in fear A dead astronaut in space Sometimes we walk like we were shot through our heads, my love We write our song in space like we are already dead and gone Your world was killing me Your world was killing me Disassociative Your world was killing me Your world was killing me Disassociative I can never get out of here I don't want to just float in fear A dead astronaut in space The nervous systems down, the nervous systems down I know." [b]--Marilyn Manson, "Disassociative."[/b][/size][/center] A dead astronaut in the jaws of space. His helmet, wide, domed, is broken. The glass fell out. His hands prostrate, legs stolid, unmoving. Floating. Space: the last frontier. The universe is universal; a large, billowing, looming thing. The stars shine in space like blinking eyes with long lashes held to the face. The face, the universe, wears its eyes proud. The dead astronaut still floats. His face is shrouded, withdrawn in the dull light. A closer view returns an empty face, the mouth held open in an endless moaning. Up from the gape, vapid eyes. They seem to stare at something, and the fear is almost palpable. Culpable. The dead astronaut's suit is white dull. How did he die? A good question. The answers escape him. They're eschewed. Gone. The dead man can't talk. It is a long time of floating in the endless space; it is a long journey, an odyssey, but all ends have their beginnings. All beginnings have their ends. Time is an over-reaching, seizing enslaver. And at all times all moments are interacting and going. While the past happens, the present goes on. And while the past and the present go, the future lives too. It all repeats again and again, a wheel circumnavigating. It rolls on, it makes its dust and rolls on. The wheel is of fascination. Its sheer beauty cannot be violated. While at this moment the dead astronaut in space floats, he is dying deaths innumerable. The deaths are circumstantial. Preimagined, preforetold. But while he dies in other continuums of time, he is already dead here. He floats, the helmet broken, the face framed. Still the same. In another continuum of time, he is being conceived. His parents, a well-to-do man, and a supple, large-breasted woman, kiss one another in embrace. They hump each other and pleasure sweeps across the large-breasted woman. The well-to-do man, cupping hands to her breasts, also purses in pleasure. Copulation has ended. The ejaculation comes with held ease, and at a smaller level sperm writhe and traverse the woman's intimate insides. Millions of them move. These are weird, alien creatures; their long flagellum spiral; their heads, containing the man's genetic information, steer forward. This is a fight for birth. Will they make it to the fallopian tubes? Deep in here, smaller than the eye can see, a few hundred do. The rest have died. In here awaits an ovum?an egg?for one sperm to fertilize. The head sperm, the best of the best, makes it. Fertilized, the ovum makes its way out of the fallopian tubes and then to the uterus. As it makes its way, the cells divide. Two cells become four, four eight, eight sixteen, sixteen thirty-two, and on and on, until there formed is a fetus. Then a baby. Then a child. Then an adult. Then death, in the devoid of space. When he died, first his heart died from his inability to breathe. His helmet's dome glass cracked, breathing impossible, his heart did not get the needed requirements for it to keep beating. When his heart stopped beating, nourishment to body cells ended; circulation of blood ended. The cells of the cortex, susceptible to lack of oxygen, die first without their required nourishment. Then the cells in the medulla oblongata. Next the cells of the body's glands and the muscles that move the bones of his skeleton. His bone and skin cells live for several hours, then die. At the microscopic level, there is a slaughter. A killing of millions upon millions of cells with no clemency whatsoever. With no rhyme or reason but nature's. It's genocide?the killing of a distinguished, set-out group. Of his cells. But no one weeps of the deaths of the cells, of the ornate, encaptual being the cells created. But instead, they weep for the singular. The man. A woman cries, the tears secreted in her eyes' tear glands reacting. The tears roll down her cheeks, fall. Her eyes are tight from her emotional upheaval. Her brain sends messages of grief, and reacts with tightening her eyes and tears. She lets out cries of aguish and despair as the tears roll down. At a small level, her vocal cords rock back and forth with the emanation of her screams. Her son has died. When?where?how?is unknown; all that is known is he is dead. She is an old woman, gray hair, nineties. Growth and aging has stopped in her?her cells renew themselves at a much slower pace than when she was in her thirties. She is less acute. Her memory is dulled. She is still big-breasted, but her breasts have lost their perk. They now sag and have lost their beauty. A woman cries, the tears less, rolling down her cheeks. She cradles her baby son in her arms and blood is down on her. Pain strains her face, and sweat permeates from the pores of her skin, but it was all worth it. She cradles the baby close and wallows in the beauty of the moment. Then the baby is taken from her arms. The doctor takes shears and cuts the umbilical cord. In the womb, it had served to nourish this baby. But now it is unneeded. The doctor, meticulous hands, takes the baby's penis and circumcises it. The foreskin removed, the baby goes back in her arms. He cries too. Why do babies cry, the crying woman is thinking. She thinks it's because birth is traumatic, like being raped. She wonders what it would feel like to first see the world; she wonders what that would look like, feel like. It would be unsettling. Uncomfortable and eerie and strange. In another continuum of time, in parallel with all time running its ways again and again, a woman holds her child in her arms, tears down her cheeks. The child feels the supporting nuzzle of his mother's heaving breasts and cries too. Blood flows down the child's leg from a large laceration. "It's going to be OK," she said. "It's going to be OK. We'll go to the hospital." A woman cries, and she lies in bed, still remembering her son. She pulls the covers over her body. She is old, in her hundreds, and about to die. There is not much pain. Only the mental feelings divying out and going on their ways. She can feel her heart struggling to live, to throb. Thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud it goes. Then thud. . .thud-thud. . .thud. . .thud-thud. . .thud. Then thud. . .thud. . .thud. . .thud-thud. . .thud. Then thud. . .Then. . .thud. Then nothing. Nothing but small, dying thuds. She looks old. Beneath the covers she wears a bra half-seen through an open nightgown. The breasts are sagged, veined and bruised. They have lost all shape and look ugly. Her face is full of wrinkles, clear concise wrinkles that seem to be strained and stretched thin. She is at peace and dead. The last thoughts, those of her son, milled around in her head. The brain cells sent their last few messages to one another in a stumbling tandem. The thoughts were slow, gasping. She had almost lost all of her memories from the death of her brain cells over the years. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he said. They mourned and bowed their heads and prayed. She went in the ground and the dirt was thrown on top, covering the coffin. But at the same moment she's alive and well and young, and she's alive and well and middle-aged, and she's alive and well and old. Again and again and again time goes about its predetermined way. A circle, a wheel, a parallel arrangement. The dead astronaut in space. He floats and comes to where he left from. A planet, green with trees, blue with water. He begins to enter the atmosphere. What remains of his flesh burns up and falls. He lands and is only bones, small pieces of bones, a fine powder of bones. The atmosphere ate him up, and all that's left is too small to see with the discernable eye. "I love you," she said to him, after they had had sex. "I love you too," he said. They were lying in bed together, still naked. He lies to the side, his hand comfortable on her stomach. She lies to her side too, her hands eased at her sides. She can feel his body pushing against her, can feel it on her buttocks, her back, all over. He can feel her against him. Her face is loose and thinking. His looks the same. It is late at night. The alarm clock beside the bed, on the nightstand, says 3 AM in digital read. The room has a small emanation of light from a mini lamp beside the alarm clock. The light steadies on her face and complexes her face with shadows and lightened areas. She is thinking about the future. About stability. About what will happen. She is tired. With her hand, she feels the texture of the lamp in a haze, and feels for the switch. She finds it and puts pressure on it, and the light goes out. I love you hangs in the air as her eyes, depressioned spheres, close. Eyelids closed, and blackness ensues. She feels the releasing grasp of sleep grab her. Yank her. Rend her. It takes her away to the desolate, open plain of dreams. She feels the desolate shatter take her away. They fall asleep, together. Soon after they slept, the sperm who made it to her ovum began its work. She looks?stares?at the pregnancy test. Is it true? Is this real? Is it a dream? It reads positive, tells her she has a baby being created inside of her. She's so young?only nineteen. Is she really ready for this? She wonders how he'll take it. She sets herself down on the toilet, finds a magazine, urinates, and tries to take her mind off of it. She decides she hates bathrooms. This one most of all. It's so white. The walls, made of tile, are white. The sink's counter is white. The sink's faucet is white. Its drain is white. The bathtub is white. The shower spout is white. The toilet is white. She wonders why she's trying to take her mind off of it. The bathroom being white was fine. She was just trying to send her feelings of apprehension and guilt aside. She is done peeing. Still on the toilet, she moved her left hand up and pressed the handle. The familiar action of the toilet flushing resonates and she gets up, pulling her nightgown back around her and tying it. Her breasts heave in their clustered hold. Her face is full of her inner turmoils. The man drove to work thinking about her. She was so beautiful, so enchanting. His thoughts reoccur to the night before, and how passionate, how releasing it had been. He had one hand on the steering wheel, lazily pushing it to and fro as needed. His other hand rested on the outside of his open window, fluttering in the wind. His eyes, unfocused, view out the windshield. He can see someone walking their dog?the dog a small poodle. He can see he's coming up on a stoplight and it's going yellow. There's a car already stopped and he slows down to compensate. Veering to a stop, foot firm on the brake, he moves his hand outside the car onto the top, hitting. A hollow metallic to his ears. His thoughts are focused on her. They cannot leave her, cannot desert, abandon, go away, digress, from her. The light turns green. The backlights of the car in front of him lose their red lighting, and the car speeds forward. He moves his foot from the brake and puts it to the gas, hitting it gentle and going to an easy start. Ten minutes later he was almost dead.

[size=1][color=red] I thought your entire post was genius. This is what I wish I saw more of in this forum. I thought this was especially enlightening: [quote] Though when the mushroom example is given, I think that ends the description of the cloud. It's a good time to end it too, the mushroom is a very obvious description of an atomic blast. The ballerina, the frenchman, and the muscle-man all could be describing the axis powers: The ballerina falling is the Japanese navy feeling the repurcussions of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the muscle-man getting one last rep before stopping is the military of Nazi Germany during the Battle of the Bulge, and the frenchman somehow applies to Italy, though I don't know how.[/quote] When I wrote this, I wasn't even thinking this. It's just sort of. . .there when you see it. And this is writing at its best: when I don't even see the images I'm associating with other things when I'm writing them. That's just an amazing feeling. I'm very glad you posted. Thanks. We need more of this around this forum. . .badly.[/size][/color]

[b]the looming[/b] the fist protrudes upward, its fingers balled tightly to one another in a crushing fist the arm looms under the hand the veins of the arm protrude and the fist opens, its fingers loosen, the palm is revealed, and the fingers begin moving back until the fingers strain and bend the ways they shouldn't. they fall in from the palm pointing down. the arm collapses the veins secede and all has stopped and is on the ground. a drop of water is frame-stopped in time as it hits the floor its form is a Y like a corset wearer's. the light shines and the water looks like a balled fist the arm protruding out. then time begins and the drop of water secedes. a mushroom lies in the wild of a forest's growth on the bark of a tree whose age is limitless. the toadstool's top looms out and shadows its stem the sun falls down between the trees and a woodpecker pecks at the bark in a knick-knack of sound. the mushroom is found by a scavenger. eaten it secedes. a ballet dancer swerves in a twirl and does a handstand. her dress, with fringe makes an umbrella as her legs, thin and bone, grace outward. her body is small as a twig, it is overshadowed by the dress's blooming fringe looming out. she loses balance tumbling to the floor she cowers in her hands leaves from the curtain and secedes. an umbrella held in a Frenchman's hand repels rain as its top looms over its holder's head. he twirls it as he walks with his wife through the narrow streets. and through an alley the umbrella is seen waggling along. he secedes. a muscleman's neck shoulders a bobbing head. the veins stick out in strain. he moves a metal dumbbell up with all his force. his hair moves in strands. and his head looms out from his neck's hold. he lies down on the chair and tired he secedes. a looming cumulo-pileus cloud sombers the sky. its dense mass bulges subtle semi-circles of its fluff. its top is smooth, without subtle semi-circles, and looms above its mass. the cloud is long and wide and heaped-up. on the ground the cloud casts shadows that leer in the eye. the cloud is a malicious castle sky. it crowds and spans far away. a president in distress and the cold war is in effect. missles' heads penetrate on the land. glaring up at the United States the heads hold much in their metal hulls. but they are so hollow when hitten on with a hand. and this crisis is averted in the president's hands. and there the bomb falls, like a stork dropping a baby from its jaws. like a fist, slamming a punch to a face. like a meteor to destroy the dinosaurs. and there the bomb falls, like a metal slug from a bullet hitting a soldier's head. and going deep in to his brain's side. there the bomb falls, like Newton's apple falling on his head. like a hurtling heaven falling from the sky. like a scabbed-winged angel ready to die. like a Kamikaze ready to sacrifice it all in a bang. like a ballet dancer handstanding freefalls in the air. there it falls. and a cloud like a mushroom blooming from the sky. colossal, it looms its ruinous eye. rains down fallout from the sky. atoms go off in a chain reaction of time. like fireworks on the fourth of July. Hiroshima and Nagasaki die. the mushroom cloud subsides. buildings stand in shackle ruins. innocent citizens lick their wounds but die from poisoning radioactive blooms. lives are saved, Harry S. Truman glooms. and the devastation hardens and ends going into a cocoon to spin its way to being remade.

[size=1][color=red] First you spell his name "Nadir" in the title, and then you spell it "Nadar" in your post. Either it's sarcasm or it's ignorance. Since you can't take the time of day to spell names correct so you look like your opinion should be heard, I'm not going to waste my time and read it. Politics is a waste of time for me. What with Bush's proposal to amend the constitution and add that only different-sex marriages are right, and what with what I've seen of the Democratic party, I tend to not care a single bit for politics. I care for it on one side, but honestly. So much of it is a waste of time. Anyway, Ralph Nader can run for president no matter who says so. And so he's going to. If people think he steals some of the votes, well, he does. If people think he allowed Bush to win over Gore, they can think that too. I say let the man do what he wants. This country is based on freedom, and Nader has the freedom to do whatever he wants; and for all that's worth, I see no issue here. What was the one quote? "So suppose you were an idiot. . .and suppose you're a politician. . .but I repeat myself." I tweaked it. "Politician" was originially "congressman." And the original quote was by Mark Twain, whose real name is Samuel Clemens.[/size][/color]