Writing Random Story Thread

[Mitch]

[b][center]"Herb"[/b][/center]

The smell is musty. The place is old, dank and dark. With little light.

He's old, decayed, inundated, worn-out?he's wasted away like a rust-crusted car with chipping flesh paint, with beaten tires worn from spinning, from traveling here and there. Here and there: point A to point B. Was it really so simple? Just a car going a steady twenty-five miles an hour from Born, Womb to Endsville, Death; just a steady car, then new and fresh and full of potential, now worn down, the engine overused, dying. That was him. Just a car, just a thing traveling to its preordained location.

He manages a smile as he walks into the place, the old place?dank and dark. With little light.

His eyes are red in the corners, his pupils are black holes. His eyes tell you about him if you just look. They can let you into his mind; let you into his heart; let you into him. Look closer. The eyes are still alive. Out of space. Out of time. But still alive.

He is a short man. His hands are old but strong?creator's hands. Designer's hands. Maker's hands. The hands of God.

His face is wrinkled. Wrinkles expand from his eyes and mouth and forehead like ripples in water from throwing in a heavy rock. A rock that first makes a big splash, then ripples, then secedes to the river's dirt bottom.

His hair is gray. The signification of old?old as a silent black and white movie, old as a black man segregated from a white man, old as snow on the cracked asphalt of a highway in the middle of nowhere, to nowhere. His gray hair is in thin strands, strands so thin they are like twisted and gnarled twine. That hair used to have gradient, shade and hue. But time is a robber. A thief who steals gradient, shade and hue.

Time numbs. Time dumbs. Time's bondage can break and make and shake a person's uneven core. Time is endless and groping. Time is a pendulum racking to and fro, back and to; and in each fell swipe, in each pendumlum's throe, there is the second's death, and the minute's waste, and the hour's moan. And in each throe, in each ululation, time is knowing of its doing. Each second a human's heart beats, it's another beat to the last. Another prick, another preen, another tally to time's perpetual preservation, perseverance; another less second and another less heart beat to our deaths away and passed.

The old man smiles at this thought. He couldn't have said it better himself.

"It's time to get to work, Herb," he says to himself. He looks around the room; the old musty-smelling, dank and dark room. With little light.

Books. The spines of books, those bones which hold all other bones, stare back. Words on each spine glare. They all stand on shelves.

This is his library. This is his room. It's not anything else.

In the far right wall of the room, away from the glaring staring books and spines, there is a desk. A small, humble desk. On it there is a case of pencils, the case carefully closed, some ink ribbons, paper, and a typewriter. Everything on the desk looks old and used. The typewriter is an especially old, outdated model, still where it is even with the advent of computers. Some of the blank paper has yellowed with age, sick and malnourished. And on the desk, and everything on it, there is a collected specimen of dust. It is thick enough to say Herb has not been here for quite some time.

Herberton Belay walks over to his desk. Immediately thoughts cant out of him, twist into him, begin spinning in him.

It had been a long time since he had been in here. It was here he feels he has lived his whole life, and it was here he died and now seeks to live again, as long as he can. And he will live again.

He can smell the smell that is ink to paper, pencil to paper; the smell that is writing. The smell that is words, those eyes and hands and mouth and feet, the words that let you feel and see what you can't. He smells creation; he smells, most of all, storytelling. Storytelling he had given up long ago in frustration. Writing has always smelled musty; has always been mystery.

Herberton Belay sat down in the old, uncomfortable chair for the first time in years. He readied his typewriter, put in a fresh sheet of paper, and Herberton Belay was soon no longer Herberton Belay. He was gone and had left, and in his absence there was feeling. There was the motion of actual movement, of actual inertia and force.

Herb had been pushed away; pushed away in the mystery. The smell that smells musty and trailing. Herb had been pushed by a good friend who was always old and could guide. An old friend who was stronger than the hand of Death, stronger than the perpetual pendulums of time.

Writing had stolen Herberton Belay. Would it give him back? Not until he couldn't be pushed any longer. Not until he was gone.

And he would never be gone. He would exist as the words.

His hands sat knowing on the typewriter's keys. He began typing away, one word at a time, one second at a time, one pendulum at a swing. He typed quick, and with meaning and with heart.

And on the blank page, and many after it, he wrote must and dust. And he wrote dank and dark and graceful and light. But most of all, he wrote with heart; with imagination's child. And for once, he was young again. Younger than he had been when he was just a hopeful, as well as hopeless, teenager at the age of seventeen; younger than he had felt when he was just a small child, just growing and learning. Herb felt alive. More alive than age could ever give, or youth could ever spring. He was with imagination's child, he was with himself.

He has the most powerful gaze as he types away.

He thinks it smells like old pickles. Cucumbers that were placed in vinegar and changed, and that had sat there forever and were still just as tasty, good and great.

It was old pickles. It was flawless.

He wrote and wrote. And when he stopped, it felt like he had began.

[center][b]"Martha"[/b][/center]
1
There's the flow of paper; swish and swoosh, white stark and it's there. Pencil in hand, a strange wry hand and it is writing. Scribble scribble, write it down. Write it down, put it there, make it there, it feels good there. Touch the words in that right way, put them down the right order. Does it look good this way? Give it more meat. Feed it some. Here starve it more. Let it suffer. Scribble scribble, write it down; scribble scribble, let it suffer, let it drown, let it starve, let it grow, let it eat, let it die, let it breathe, let it feel alive let it be alive and moving; make it kinetic make it have inertia.

Here I draw flesh and here it's given sinew and bone and mallow. And here she's a woman and she has long white hair and she's old. Wrinkles crack the face, the face is white as a ghost. Her name is Martha she was never young but I can make her remember. I can make her young. I can make her feel it.

Scribble scribble, there's the turn of the page, there's the words coming down, crashing and they're pouring out and can you breathe them in? Martha let me know you're there. You're old and you're white; and I can see your eyes. Deep-set eyes and they're black as dead space with no stars, no twinkles, just bare and clean; just full of stark nothing. What's your story Martha? What are you? Who are you? Tell me.

She's you and I'm her and we're all the same. Scribble scribble, there's the pencil flowing; click-clack there's the keyboard clanging, banging, and it's coming all down and what does it mean? And where is it going to go, and what is it we're seeing? Martha let me read you for a while.

Everyone has a story and so does Martha. Martha you were born in a hospital and the hospital was full of large quiet men. And the large quiet men were writing and they were talking to their papers. And they were pushing you, they made you. When you were in your mother's womb they made you form; there wasn't any sperm, there wasn't any ovum, there was just you and them; they made you, they built you, they loved you from the start. Martha you were so cute as a small little fetus developing, growing. You were augmenting and you were getting beautiful.

You look human from the beginning Martha. At first they just wrote MARTHA and then you started talking and then you starting making. At first you were just what the quiet men were writing down and you were empty; then you started coming alive in your mother's womb as she pushed and pushed?as they pushed and pushed. And Martha you were going to be beautiful from beginning.

When you were born the quiet men cried and looked up from the blank sheets they were writing on. They smiled at you as they saw you for real for once and they were glad to see you. You were beautiful and you had those black eyes; but they looked like obsidian, lustersomely smooth, shiny; like small black smooth pebbles. Your hands were just like they said: they were your hands from the beginning. They were smooth and curious and were creation hands. Fresh and new from just being made they were unworked but soon enough they were brought to working Martha.

A little baby you were Martha, with peculiar powder white hair and plump cheeks and a little body. They nourished you?smiling, the quiet men were still in the hospital with you and so slow you were being cut from your umbilical cord. Blood was all over, but it was blood that didn't stain; it was blood that was, that is, that makes. It was red with emotion, thick with meaning, thick with what would be. And you didn't mind at first. Martha you looked at the blood and thought it was just the beginning, and the quiet men still writing away looked at the blood and it was just the beginning. It was just the start.

You were a wailing thing then. You would cry and cry and you'd want anything you could have. And you wanted it all right away. Rome was built brick by brick; but it was always there, it was always in those peoples' hearts. Peoples' hearts are deep hidden things, and blood pumps through that machine that writhes and lives. Peoples' hearts aren't ever seen these days, but the quiet men writing wanted to show theirs, and they wanted to find your heart and let you see it. They wanted you to be alive and as full of your heart as they were; rich into it, and feeling it beating, and realizing how it felt.

Brick by brick; hand by hand; heart by heart you were being built. In the quiet men you always existed, deep in their hearts you were always waiting to get out. And so they sat to their blank sheets and they wrote with letters; and the letters were full of heart. And so they wrote with words; and the words were full of heart. And with these words they made sentences, and with these sentences they made paragraphs, and with these paragraphs they created chapter and section and skin and layer. Brick by brick, Martha; hand by hand; word by word; sentence by sentence. Heart by heart, Martha, heart by heart. It was all there, but to make it matter it takes time. Peoples' hearts take time. They take time. Take time even though they've always been there.

A heart is as big as a fist Martha and is red and full of veins and muscle. Doesn't it seem small? But hearts, little blood fists, can work hard and heavy. It can pump and pump and push and push and it can make and it can feel. And it can blacken too, it can die it can not want to beat. To use a fist you have to beat it bloody. To use a heart you have to beat it even bloodier Martha. You have to work it hard. It's strenuous it takes time it takes will. Brick by brick; heart by heart; beat by beat; vein by vein; it'll be made Martha it'll be made. And why did you want it so fast?

The men were sleeping one night, their blank and filled pages to their sides; and your eyes opened wide and they look like they look now?looked like black dead space with nothing in it but futile expansive intent. You had been growing quickly Martha hadn't you? You were now twice as big as you were when you were born. The blood all over your operating table was drying, wasn't staining, and your umbilical cord was feeding you. Was eating you. It's controlling you and nourishing you.

You want to break free.

Click-clack and scribble scribble and it was the first time you were alive. Really alive. Make it suffer there. It feels good there. The words are coming out right Martha and you didn't like it you didn't want to be sold away. You wanted to be alive; you wanted to be. You wanted to think; to think and therefore say you existed, and not just in these men's words.

You made a knife come to your hands; you made it, you wanted it, you wished for it. It was yours and you had it. One of the quiet writing men was sleeping, wasn't he? You could see in his dream and you were controlling him. You had the power. You could just see his hand as it groped out a fresh piece of paper and it wrote. One word, scribbled and written in chicken scratch; one word that started it all, that made you alive. One little thing that started it.

And he did grope for a fresh sheet of paper. And he did put his pencil in his hand. His eyes were closed tight; closed tight and deep in sleep, and the eyelids quivered in his deep dream. Back and forth in their sockets, back and forth and back and forth; so fast Martha so fast. You had him good. He was yours. All yours and no one was going to stop you now, they were all asleep. The words came slow and hard and you didn't like their feel. But you know what you want. You wanted a sharp cutting instrument, you wanted sharp steel. You wanted a scalpel. Wanted to cut them away.

So slow Martha he wrote SCALPEL and then there it was in your hand. It's shiny in the light isn't it Martha; it's beautiful. Kill your beauties Martha; kill your beauties Martha.

The umbilical cord was long and big and full. And with your scalpel that shown your eyes on its reflection you cut it. It took a long while for you to do it. You had to puncture it slowly; had to take it brick by brick; heart by heart; word by word; incision by incision. But soon it broke, soon it gave way. And it was only the beginning for you Martha, it was only the beginning. The real one. It was the real start. With the cutting of that cord you were alive for the first time; were a breathing living thing; you were Martha. You had killed your beauties Martha you had killed them.

All the quiet writers you kill. You slay them with your own hands. It felt good, you felt like a monster, and that was good. You smiled and smirked and your eyes were no longer black like pebbles; they were cold and rigid but still so fragile. Two small dark black lakes where the water was rising up and down. Pulled by some moon's gravity way up in space.

They were dead Martha, kill your beauties Martha. Murder them. Redrum. They're all dead. He's in the corner and his face is not recognizable. And the other one's there and he's not recognizable. You can't tell who any of them were. Martha, where do you think they went? Do you think they went where the words took them? Do you think they were going someplace good?

Your eyes Martha. They are cold; cold as revenge. Revenge is a thing best served cold; best served with a bitter feeling. Your eyes are cold. You're shaking. Shake shake shake shake. You can't believe it. You did it to them. You feel remorse, you feel sad. You're shaking, you're cold. You did it Martha. You killed them; you killed your beauties.

What did you do? Why did you do it? Now you're feeling regret; feeling it for the first time. There's a first time for everything Martha, a first time for it all. Get used to it Martha, get used to it. Peoples' hearts, people themselves, they are so many different things. You know it felt good; you know killing them felt good. It didn't feel right but it felt good. People change all the time; people are so many different parts. Elated, sorrowful, morose, violent, sullen, anguished, depressed, good, happy, glad; peoples' hearts know what they want to do, but sometimes they don't know. Sometimes their hearts play tricks on them. Sometimes their brain acts as their heart; sometimes their heart acts as their brain.

You're about to cry Martha, I can see the tears coming. Get up. Go on. It doesn't end here, this is just the beginning. It's the start: the death of others for the lives of some; innocent, good peoples' deaths for the lives of someone like you, Martha. Pig's blood for a pig; kill your beauties; bleed; burn maim destroy effuse decay; dilapidated and run-down and full of shame. Martha's blood for her. Their blood for them.

It's okay. Don't cry. Don't cry, I don't like to see people cry Martha. I don't like it, it feels too sad. Get up, it's time to go, Martha, there's more to see. There's more of your story to tell isn't there? I can see it in your face, in your black eyes, in your white hair.

You're growing right now. At a fast rate. You're no longer a baby; now you're a child. Your plump cheeks are now less plump; your white hair is now thicker and has more depth; you're taller; your thoughts are more profound. Become what you will, there's more to come, more to see, isn't there?

She's going on now. She's leaving the hospital; she's leaving where she was born. Martha holds back tears. She's leaving where she murdered. Where she killed. She's leaving, and Martha's going out to show herself. She's going out to be.

[b][center]"Dath"[/b][/center]
Dathall Wilts sat at the kitchen table. He was thinking about the strange person he'd met that day. His name had been Alder, and he had been different.

Alder had worn distinguished, colorful clothes?clothes that Dath had never seen?not ever. They were so full of color; full of colors Dath hadn't even knew existed. And when he'd seen Alder, saw those clothes he was wearing, he hadn't known what to think. Dath hadn't even known what to say. He had been breathless?his jaw was closed tightly, and through his teeth and nose he had held his breath, as if caught in the moment. Eyeing Alder, his eyes wide, his arms to his sides, Dath had felt that moment last so long. And when Dath had finally took a deep, hard breath, that was when he greeted himself to Alder.

It had been during school?during lunch?as Dath had been sitting in his usual table, his usual spot, with his friends.

They had been taking about Fera Harner. It seemed they did this every day at lunch?like it was some ritual.

But what they had talked about concerning Fera had been different. It hadn't been just talk of how good she looked, or what she had been wearing. It had begun like that?but it had turned out different.

Dath had wondered if it was for the best it had gone this way, and he did the same now, as he thought back over it.

"Fuck," Groyl Stephens had said. "Did ya guys see what she was wearin taday? Did ya?" Groyl took in a bite of his lunch. He was big, chubby. His double chin made it hard to distinguish where his neck began and ended. Groyl's cheeks were round, his eyes meek and small on his round face. Groyl did a Groyl smirk, remembering what Fera had been wearing as he chewed his food.

"Hell, I saw." It was Enton Giers. "I saw. She was wearin a short lil skirt, was torn of course, but let me tell ya?went bout this high?bout shortest I ever seen too. And she was wearin no bra, and this lil tight shirt?just this lil thing. I swear you could see the nipples?could see em pokin right out. " He paused as Groyl swallowed his food he had been chewing, and went on, speaking in a whisper. "I heard she's been raped many a time, I have. Some say she's pregnant. For all I know, she damn well could be. Some say she's been fucked half a dozen times?some say a dozen."

"Sounds like a whore if I knew one," Bent Summers said, who was sitting right next to Dath (Dath was on the seat to the right of him), and across from Enton. Groyl, beside Bent, on the seat to the left, was smiling, and looked like he was in a hypnotized haze. Dath thought he looked as if he were going to drool all over the table?and he could well imagine that happening Could see it going on so long that the table itself would be covered in it. Even so far as the entire cafeteria flooded with it. And it might be stretching it a little too much, but he could imagine an underwater sea. One that covered the whole school in drool?and he could see Groyl in that sea of drool, that hypnotized look on his now dead face, his eyes wide open. Those eyes looked like they were undressing you?they looked like they could see right through you.

"Fuck yeah," said Groyl, still looking hypnotized. And sounding it. "Course she sounds like a whore. Course she does?that's cause she is one?she's a gawdamn dirty lil whore." Groyl thought over how many times she might have been raped?tried to put his finger on a number?tried to finger it. "I heard too she's been raped, but the best I can guess is bout half a dozen?even less. I don't think it's that high?could be wrong, I suppose, but give or take, I'd say she's been raped more than once." Groyl put his hand dreamily on his double chin. "Goddamn, she sure is one sexy lil bitch, isn't she? Gawdam?gawdam, she's, she's just so goddamn sexy."

Dath had been quietly eating all throughout the conversation. He had listened, and now as he looked in Groyl's eyes, and saw his hand on his chin like that, he had to hold back a laugh. Groyl sure was funny with his lusty want for Fera. It was too bad she was already taken. She had been for a long while.

She was dating Warn Bower, had been for a while. From what Dath had found out, she was often raped by Warn's friends?sometimes by Warn himself. Even gang bangs sometimes?all at her, one by one, rape after rape. It wasn't a bad thing, of course?it was quite usual. Allowing another person to rape your girl?or wife, for that matter?wasn't seen as a bad thing. Allowing others to rape your girl showed you loved her enough to let others have her, and that you weren't selfish?as well as a woman allowing men to rape her was sign of the woman's integrity and strength. It showed her willingness and her power. It was polite and honorable for a woman to allow a man to rape her if she was asked. If she declined, it only showed she was selfish and had no honor.

When Dath was a child, he had seen his mom being raped many times. He hadn't meant to find her being raped, but it was just a matter of being there at the right time. Looking through a little crack in the door, he'd watch his mom, and she never resisted when he watched. Each time she had a smile on her face?it wasn't a pleasurable smile, more of a smile of pride?a smile of accomplishment. And as the man on top of her (it was often his dad's friend, Delton) would reach orgasm, she would only smile more?she would only have more pride reading on her face. Dath could tell she was glad to do it?it was the polite thing to do?and polite things go a long way, he had found.

He had asked Groyl then?he'd been thinking of asking him since forever. Dath had put down his fork he was eating with, and just asked. Groyl's hand was still on his double chin, still leaning forward dreamily, his eyes off in the distance, as if he wasn't even at the lunch table. It was like he was with Fera right then and there.

"Groyl," Dath had said. Groyl had turned, looked at him.

"What?" And Dath said it, after all this time.

"Why don't you ask her to let you rape her?" he said, said it as if he hadn't wanted to say it forever. As if it had just come to him now.

Groyl only stared, his mouth moving up and down slowly, his double chin moving back and forth, back and forth. He didn't look surprised, Dath thought, he just looked like he was trying to articulate what he was thinking. He was trying to understand why he hadn't asked her.

"Well, I," he began. then stopped. Bent looked at him, amused, and snickered.

"You're just afraid?can ya imagine that? Groyl afraid?afraid, of all things." He rolled his eyes. "Are you really that scared, are ya really that much of a scaredy cat?" Bent snickered again, and looked at Groyl, waiting for him to say something back. When Groyl's mouth only continued to move up and down like a swaying, rusty swing, he spoke up again. "Well Groyl? What do you have to say? Why haven't you asked her to rape you? What's the reason?"

Groyl's mouth moved up. Moved down. Up. Down. Up, down, up, down. Then it stopped moving, and he looked like he was about to speak.

Dath actually had an idea why, but he wasn't sure. He would wait until Groyl said something before he assumed anything. Dath had read on his face then that he was finally going to say something. His mouth had stopped moving, too.

"Well," Groyl said, speaking up finally. "I, well, I'm afraid of that Warn. The guy seems like a real jerk?like a fucking jerk. A big fucking jerk. And I'm afraid if I ask her to rape me, he'll, well, he'll hold it against me?hold it gainst me like it's fucking life or death." He stopped, looking stern. "I'm not a chicken at all, Bent. What would you do? Haven't you seen that Warn guy? He's a real bastard from what I've seen?gets into fights with lots of people?pulls out knives, even?guns too?is heavily into drugs.

"He seems like a real fucking bastard?one that Fera doesn't deserve to put up with at all, either. I'm sure that fucker's only been with her as long as it is cause he threatens her?puts some fear into her. I just don't get it, I don't get how Fera even started going out with this little prick. I just don't get it, I don't get it at all; I don't get it one little fucking bit." He sounded angry. He sighed. "I don't even know why I give a fuck about Fera?I don't even fucking know her, ya know? I don't even know her. Why the fuck do I care for her so much? I should just face it, shouldn't I? I should face she'd never go out with some fat bastard like me?and that she's stuck with that Warn bastard." He paused, as if thinking things out. Then, "And I feel like such trash for not helping her, ya know? I know that bastard's doing something to keep their relationship together?and I get a feeling it's not about something as fucking simple as love. And I can't even do a thing to help her?I'm, well, I'm afraid. But I'm not chicken, Bent." He finished. "I'm not chicken. But what can I do?"

Their entire table was silent. There wasn't a snicker from Bent, wasn't a single whisper, peep, anything. Just silence.

Dath wanted to say, that's not true, Groyl, and you know it. You know you could get her, could have her rape you if you wanted?you know this Warn guy wouldn't care. You know you're a good guy, that you're a great friend, that you deserve someone like Fera. But all he could do was stare at Groyl. Maybe Groyl was right. Maybe he was.

Dath had given Groyle a look of desperation and gotten up, grabbing his tray to go dump it.

That was when he had seen Alder?had seen his bright, strange clothes he was wearing. It was the first time he had met the mysterious new student?but it was not the last.

[center][b]"The Phoenix and I"[/b][/center]
1
There was a man there that lonely Winter eve. A very strange one at that?but a man all the same.

I had been sitting lone in my house, beside my warm fire, my thoughts thinking and crackling. The fire had touched my face as I sat watching?had given my face that glow of ember. And I'd just been thinking. My thoughts were of nothing much. They were of nothing important?of nothing of too much meaning.

The fire looked very warm?and I could tell it was. Its tongues, crackling and licking on the wood supplied there, gave off warmth. A warmth cozying, tiring. The warmth which can only be that of fire.

Fire, I had thought. Fire?it meant so very much. It was power?it was destruction?it was warmth?it was wild, uncontrollable nature. And the flame to my eyes, it was hypnotic to stare at it?it caught you in a trance and held you. Just looking into the flame, that glowing, ululating thing; that flickering, colorful thing?it caused your thoughts to wander. To go away and leave.

Fire is very much like man. It feeds off of oxygen, uses it to keep it alive and breathing?it uses oxygen like we use it in our lungs. It uses it to breathe and be alive. Just like the filling and unfilling of a lung, that expansion and recline, that systematic, intuitive thing that is breathing; that thing which is our bodies at work keeping us alive, allowing our blood to be nourished with oxygen, allowing us to function?so is fire. Without oxygen there would be no fire. Without oxygen, fire sputters and dies. And like man, if given the right conditions, fire will too spread and grow from its surroundings.

What is fire? Is it passion?is it destruction?is it creation?is it life itself? What is fire, and what, then, are we to do with it? When man first harnessed fire, saw its ephemeral glow in his eyes, what was it that had been found then? Was it mimicry of the stuff that is, the stuff that we shouldn't seek to control? A Phoenix, that fabled creature. Reborn from its own ashes?from the emulsified napalm of its own doing?only to do it again, and rise again, and fall again, and rise again.

Is the Phoenix fire personified?is man fire personified? I can see houses, thin woodwork, and steel, and nails; I can see streets of concrete, and I can see a hustling?a bustling?metropolis of highways and byways?the very veritable civilization of man. And I can see this woodwork being burned down, I can see concrete being heated and bubbling; and I can see fire, wild creature as it is, destroying and molding and changing.

And most of all, I can see sinew and fiber?I can see mallow and bone?I can see hand and leg?I can see skin and muscle, heart and lung. I can see man?I can see him for how weak and lowly he is?and how grand, great, he tries to be. Man messes with fire like fire messes with wood?man seeks to be what fire is. Man seeks to harness the very things which create him, he seeks to understand it all?but he can't. Man is as wild as fire, and in the end all he seeks to create?all he seeks to control?will eventually burn to what it was that man is. It will become weak as man's flesh, weak and swaying, and it will all burn as fire burns wood. Burn until embers glow, and ashes blacken.

And from that, man will arise again. Will he learn from his mistakes?will he harness what he once knew and had and realize the most uncontrollable is the controllable? Will he see that nature wins in the end? Will he see the dinosaurs?monolithic, dead, now only bones and fossils?will he see that is where, one day, his race shall go? Will he understand that the bigger you go, the higher you build, the more you know, the more you take for granted; will he understand that still all there is is fire?fire, burning passion strong, blackening, burning eye?will he see it will all fall, will burn by nature. Will he see simplicity is more capturing than anything other? Even the smartest, most advanced, most technologically knowing, most educated civilizations are the most stupid. What man is cannot be averted?what man does cannot be smothered. Flesh and bone and cells and beats and inhale and exhale and breathe?bone and brain and hand and cartilage and pain?this is man, this is him. He is a functioning singularity. He is a teeming, wandering mass of himself. And he is bounded to this forever.

There is never certainty where there is chance?there is never intelligence where there is blind arrogance and all-knowing knowledge. There is always uncertainty. There is always fire. There is always blaze, there is always warmth spurring into hurt. There is always burn. Flicker, sway and darkness.

There is always this man, there is always he looking at a fire and it looking at him. If fire can melt ice, let the water flow and bubble and sizzle. If fire can burn, if it can flicker, let it be. Let it do its swagger. The Phoenix and I, one day, will understand one another. The Phoenix and I, one day, will kill ourselves in madness. In lunacy, in dumb autonomity. It will go by its nature?by its own self-sustained, ordained, blamed, claimed, and inevitable decay and decline. By its own devices of devise. By its own death given. By its own mortality interred. Its own frailty discerned.

May the dead die. May the fire be smothered. May eyes close and bones rest. And may flames die and flan the flesh. May man one day rest in peace; and man find comfort in it.

And so my thoughts went?fire, man, fire, man?and there came a sudden rapping at my door. A stiff, cold and numb rapping by a cold and numb hand. Was there some desperation in its knocking? Some loneliness? Some reason and find to it?

My thoughts interrupted, my gaze gone from the flame, I came to my door. I did not glance to the window?I was too lost in my thoughts, trying to hold onto something half-lost now.

I clicked off my locks that barred my door, placed my hand on the door's knob, turned it, and flung open my door.

There was the man.

He stood before me. He was short?of less than four feet tall?and wore a tattered old white shirt, and tattered old denim jeans. His hands were facile and old?meticulous hands. Hands that spoke of creation?a writer's hands, or a laborer's hands. They were well-defined, but old; full of veins, and what appeared to be bruises. His hair was grayed, in a thin tangle on his head. The man was nearly bald. His face was thin?cheekbones shown outward, defined. And those eyes?those eyes.

Those eyes went right into you, went right into you like guilt. They jarred into you?made you want to shake, made you afraid. But why did they make you afraid? It was because those eyes were the eyes of a senile. Because they were full of a dumb madness?a dumb lunacy which drove you to some ream of fear. Those eyes seemed to dance and jest with a flame of their own?as if the pupils were a deep hole, and deep in the hole there was a jeering flare. His eyes, they made you feel fragile, breakable, shattered. Broken. As if you couldn't be fixed.

And the way his mouth looked?it was held open in an even more dumbing, maddening gape than his eyes. Those thin, colorless lips parted and held open, the space in between them abyss, no teeth juttering out. It gave off an even higher feeling of dumbing madness.

He looked to the ground as he spoke, swaggering his head, bobbing it, as if intoxicated, or dreaming. "Oh, hello," he said. It was in a mutter?a low lull that you could barely make out. It was as if he was talking to himself rather than you. As if he was more gone than there with you right there. "I was, uh, wondering. Wondering if you could. Could let me stay. Stay the night. Uh, I'd be, uh, thankful."

I did not know what to say. A man walks up to you in the middle of the night, out of nowhere, knocks on your door, looks madder than you've ever seen. And he asks to stay the night, of all things. Asks you to let him in, give him kindness.

Was this really happening? And why me? Why me, of all people? Why me?

The warm fire was behind me, and harsh Winter cold was now breathing onto my skin. I was only wearing my pajamas, which did not insulate well against the cold. I began to shiver as I looked at the man, the black night behind him. He looked so mad. Looked so insane.

He looked like he hadn't lost his marbles, but they'd been grounded to a fine dust from the beginning.

There was a part of me that wanted to be kind?that wanted to allow this man to say. And in my head it was screaming now. It was blearing, badgering, bickering.

Just let the man stay?let him stay. How could it be bad? What if you were that man?what if you were him and you were only wearing an old and faded white shirt, and old and faded denim jeans? What if you were out in the coldness without a home to have, without a warm fire, without anything but yourself and cold Winter? Who knows, maybe the guy's suffering from a craziness brought on by the cold?and you're going to deny him to your house just because you assume he's insane, just because you think he's insane, just because you are only going on first impressions? Where else is the guy going to go? Where else, other than here?

I hated that voice. I wish it had never spoken to me, had never convinced me to let the man in. But I listened, listened and was kind-hearted.

I realized I must have been standing there for longer than two minutes, just thinking, going over rather or not to let him in. And the man was still only looking fixedly at the ground, and bobbing back and forth with his head in that dreaming way.

"You can stay the night, I guess," I said as kind as I could. "Come on in."

And he did come in as I held my arm in a gesture for him to do so. The fire was still going as he came in, it flickered over his face, his mad face, those mad eyes, that dumbstruck, maddening gape of his mouth. I thought then I had never seen someone so mad looking?so lost looking?so cracked, and insane. And maybe that was right.

I gave him a blanket to warm up with. He looked quite cold. He sat right beside the fire, as I sat on my couch, and we began talking into the early hours of the morning. We talked of many things, of a plethora of things. And through it all, he sat beside the fire, sometimes glaring in at it, sometimes turning slightly away. It was as if he was drawn to the fire?drawn to it just like I was, but to a much higher level.

It was a long time before we slept. Day was starting a wide grin as we'd gone to sleep. He slept on the floor while I slept on the couch. I sat there for a long time, just thinking over things, watching what left of the fire glow and seem to hum.

Sleep soon overcame me, and the world of dreams came.

2
The old man sat nestled close to the fire. His parted lips, dumbly gape, still stood in their usual placement. His eyes?his maddening, dumbing eyes?still looked the same. In the fire his eyes glew with even more atrocious madness. I could only see the sides of his eyes. The fire was in them, making them sparkle, making his whole face glow.

"The fire, uh. The fire. It's, warm," he said. It was still in a small lull?a low voice that sounded as if he were only talking to himself.

"Yes," I said, feeling uncomfortable, but wanting to say something all the same. "Yes, it sure is." I looked at him as I said it, and when he spoke again, his eyes did not falter, his gaze did not move away from the flame. My mind was battling with the idea of this man being mad. Was he really mad? What had made him mad, and if so, had he always been mad?

The senile old man lulled up again.

"What's your name? Uh, my name's Walter. Walter, uh, Walter Price."

My name's, uh. My name's uh Seymour, uh. Seymour, uh, Mont, I wanted to say. I had to hold back boisterous laughter. I could just hear myself saying that in my mind?it sounded exactly like this man's, Walter's, voice. With the uhs in it?that dull croak to it?an old man's speak?it sounded just like it. Somehow, the thought took my mind off this man's inherent craziness for the moment. A smile on my face, the arrest of laughter, I said, "My name's Seymour Luxus Mont. Just Sy to my friends, which are few and far between, it appears." He was still gazing into the fire, encaptured by it. "By the way, Walter, is it okay if I call you, perhaps, Walt? If you want an equal exchange, you could most certainly call me Sy, if you wanted."

Walt. My thoughts turned to that transcendentalist Walt Whitman, and again my mind was at work using humor to lighten things up?to kill away how crazy this man seemed, how lost and cracked. O captain my captain, that one poem went. I wanted to shout it out then and there?wanted to yawp?and bust out in song and poetic demur. Again I smiled, fighting off and arresting my laughter. No Laughter, that's a bad boy, a very bad boy. You're under arrest, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And there the handcuffs would be pulled around Laughter, and my vocal cords?which were straining to crackle with Laughter?and to jail, behind cold steel bars Laughter would go. Three square meals a day of bread and water and rocks. A hard bed with broken coils, and a tempting window which would show light?the light of freedom, and what could?what would've happened?if laughter hadn't been such a bad little boy.

My thoughts were trailing again. So much that I was starting to think I was mad, and that I was only seeing this Walt's madness because I wanted to see it. But I do suppose humor is the logical response. It's the way I have always been. In the face of pressure, of danger, of death's eye, I was always wittying myself along in my own way. And maybe this old man?this crazy-looking, senile man?maybe he and I weren't too different at al. Maybe I looked just as crazy to him? I certainly would never know. He was urbane?polished and keeping his composure. His face told me nothing of what was going on in his mind. For being so crazy, my mind joked, he sure is reserved and composed, quite sane. How can someone reserved and composed by mad? Oh wait, that's because you're mad, isn't it? You're the one that's insane.

I think my thoughts gave new meaning to that crackerjack term for the insane asylum: the "funny farm." Thinking this, I almost laughed again, and I arrested my laughter again, as if Laughter was as much as disease as Alcoholism. It seemed I needed to keep reminding myself to get rid of my compulsion. Time to go to Laughers Anonymous, Sy. Time to get a hold of yourself, be around your kind, and tell your sad little story of how mad you felt a man was one cold Winter's eve. Anything's better than the funny farm, right? Anything's better, even that.

It seemed I had been sitting there the longest of times, my thoughts trailing, my mind reeling; and then the old man finally spoke up again. He was still looking at the fire, as if he were fire itself incarnate, as if he was staring it down. He intended to stare it down until he won, it seemed. "Uh, you can call me Walt?it's, uh, fine." He paused. "I, uh, remember. . . remember when, uh, we'd need coal, when, uh, it was so cold. During the, uh, the uh depression. . .funny how, uh, developed things are now. You've got your, uh, electricity, your natural, uh, gas heating." I nodded and nodded and nodded?it was all I could do, all I knew to do. There wasn't much I could add?the man was talking about the 1930s, for crying out loud. I was about negative thirty years old then. And that's young. Much too young to remember. I had what pictures I'd seen, what I'd learned, but it didn't go to the depths this man was talking about now. "Uh, yeah it was a lot different back then. Times were, uh, hard. . .harder than they'd ever been."

"My father, uh, he was a farmer. Farmer's, uh, they had it bad."

I nodded. I knew about it. "Yes, I know," I said, "it even got so bad they destroyed their own crops, even slaughtered their domesticated animals. Burned crops. Also, there was the dust bowl, wasn't there? The drought."

"Uh yeah." Still looking at the fire, his eyes still glowing, his face still dancing with its light. Can't you look away? my mind screamed. Can't you look away, talk louder, and get rid of the dumbstruck gape and eyes? "I remember, uh, watching my dad do it, too. . .I had this one horse, I uh, loved him. I'd uh, named him Babe, after, uh, Babe Ruth?he was big then, uh, he gave me. . .inspiration. My dad took the gun. . .and. . .and." He grimaced a bit, the first noticeable change in his composure. And his eyes had this fragility that went past his senile appearance. His voice came to a low murmur, then in a whisper he said, "And he uh killed Babe. Killed him right then and there?and his blood, oh, his uh blood."

My mind saw it?but didn't want to. Looking grave, feeling compassion for this man in an off-hand way, I said, "I'm sorry." And added, "I guess we do have it pretty lucky now, don't we? Go to school?get a good education, a good job." I sighed, a long sigh. "Then just. . .live." Living?it was all you could do, really, wasn't it? "It makes you wonder, seeing how much things change. How fast we got our electricity?our heating?it makes you wonder what the next level is. What's going to happen next, what we're going to create?what we're going to discover, find, understand.

"With the advent of the human genome project, and the advent of our understanding of genes. . .eventually we'll be able to control our own appearance, how we look when we're born, what sex we are. It's a scary thought. . .a very scary thought. You know, Einstein was known for saying, 'Even God doesn't throw dice.' Well, eventually we'll be a God, and we won't be throwing any dice any more. It's a scary thought, knowing that we could control all that. . .governs us. All that makes us. And fundamentally, I think that will destroy us. . .our knowledge and the way we use it, some use it, will destroy us." It all came back to the fire again, and what it meant?fire, burning strong, living off its oxygen. But without the oxygen, it fades, it flickers and dies. And when it grows too much?when it is allowed the right conditions to adapt, to feed, it will burn everything in its path?will scar everything it touches and make it to ash and ember?will kill the trees which take the carbon dioxide and turns it to oxygen. And because the fire no longer will have enough oxygen to sustain its uncontrollable nature, it will die. And the Phoenix and man, the Phoenix and I, will arise again.

In the end the nature will rule. And it's right that way. It's good that way. It's meant that way. It should be that way, it shouldn't be any other way at all. Simplicity overtaking complexity. In the simpleness of nature there is the complexity to harness it. And once harnessed, once warped and emulsified to man's own will, the complexity is penetrating and arresting?detaining and lifeless, apprehending, limiting. And so complexity cannot last. In bondage, detained, one will seek to crack his metal cuffs holding his hands, will seek to escape.

And those who don't seek to escape will be victims of their own humanity?of what they are. Selfish, self-sustained, wanting it all, they will not be able to control what they have harnessed. And uncontrolled, complexity will deviate to simplicity. And the stark wonder that is nature will prevail?the nature that is unchanged and undefiled earth, and simple life.

That man Walt and I, we talked over this most of the night. He still seemed mad to me?but it seemed to be becoming less and less, I seemed to be a lot like this Walt.

I still found it funny how the conversation had began with farms and farmers, when I'd just thought of that crackerjack term for the insane asylum: the "funny farm," moments before.

Walt still had the crazy look in his eyes, the dumbstruck part of his lips. But it no longer seemed insane, no longer mad, it seemed like him; it seemed like him more than anything now. As we drifted off to sleep, my mind felt, for the moment, at rest. A rest that was comforted in security, in serene simplicity?in the starkness of how I was thinking, of how simple things really could be, and should be.

I was thinking a long time. The fire was out by then. Had died from lack of anything to burn, even though it had plenty of oxygen. The ash glew dully. I made a tired little smile, a playful one. And I became a drifter in the thin wall of sleep. That thin wall that can so easily be broken and seem like reality.

[Mimmsicle]

[size=1] [color=darkred]I'm not going to scrutinize any of the stories, I will simply point out what caught my attention.

Starting off with [b]"Herb"[/b][/color][quote]Time numbs. Time dumbs. Time's bondage can break and make and shake a person's uneven core. Time is endless and groping. Time is a pendulum racking to and fro, back and to; and in each fell swipe, in each pendumlum's throe, there is the second's death, and the minute's waste, and the hour's moan. And in each throe, in each ululation, time is knowing of its doing. Each second a human's heart beats, it's another beat to the last. Another prick, another preen, another tally to time's perpetual preservation, perseverance; another less second and another less heart beat to our deaths away and passed.[/quote][color=darkred]I like how you presented the old writer and the air/feel that surrounds such a person, but that which I quoted, stood out the most for me.
It was very clear, straightforward. There was nothing excessive about how you presented it. That?s how I picture personal writing to be, a flow of ideas and passion for what you make of it.[/color][quote]He wrote and wrote. And when he stopped, it felt like he had began.[/quote]
[color=darkred]This made me smile, inside and out. There's pure beauty/truth/life in that single line.
[/color]
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[b]"Marta"[/b]
I loved the entire piece. How, at first, others write your story (parents, society etc), but then you have the choice to write it yourself.
I can't pick out a single line or paragraph, because the whole story is a favourite line. It felt different from what you have written previously, even though there is the characteristic "Mitch stuff" in it.
I loved the repetitive emphasis, the beat/rhythm of the story, how you gave life to it. Because it felt very much alive, untainted ? yet colored by something. It was and is.[/color]

[center][b]**********[/center][/b][color=darkred]
[b]"Phoenix and I"[/b]
In the "Phoenix" story you have the elements which you have used before (the twisted and distorted) but you have made it? I don't know how to describe it properly.
It's not scary, it welcomes you in.

I think you've managed pretty well in writing a different story into the "actual" story (starting with the fire and then introducing the story with the man) and tying the two together. [/color]
[quote]Walt. My thoughts turned to that transcendentalist Walt Whitman, and again my mind was at work using humor to lighten things up?to kill away how crazy this man seemed, how lost and cracked. O captain my captain, that one poem went. I wanted to shout it out then and there?wanted to yawp?and bust out in song and poetic demur. Again I smiled, fighting off and arresting my laughter. No Laughter, that's a bad boy, a very bad boy. You're under arrest, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And there the handcuffs would be pulled around Laughter, and my vocal cords?which were straining to crackle with Laughter?and to jail, behind cold steel bars Laughter would go. Three square meals a day of bread and water and rocks. A hard bed with broken coils, and a tempting window which would show light?the light of freedom, and what could?what would've happened?if laughter hadn't been such a bad little boy.

My thoughts were trailing again. So much that I was starting to think I was mad, and that I was only seeing this Walt's madness because I wanted to see it. [/quote] [color=darkred]I like how you've included the thought process fully. Rarely does one think "this guy is insane", there's always an amount of further thought. Thoughts that connect to other ideas/thoughts and so on. I enjoyed reading it like that.
[/color]
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In conclusion, I really enjoy reading this new style you're exploring. If you want to know how you can improve, then you will have to ask someone else.
Whatever standards I usually apply when reading a story is impossible to use on your stories. Because they fall outside of my "traditional way" of analyzing something.

I just want to read what you've written, let it do what it's set out to do and be content with that.

- Mimmi ^__^[/color]

Yes. I wrote this in a haze of fever, so it probaly makes no sense. But I wanted to do it, so now it is done.[/size]

[Mitch]

[size=1][color=red] Thanks for posting, Mimmi, and the nice comments. I'll have to post in a thread of yours. I owe it to you.[/size][/color]

[b][center]"Dan Again"[/b][/center]
What day. He looked at
his watch. Was October. The tenth.

It was all leaves out there as he drove. Was colors. There a yellow, there an orange, there was the sky, blue. There was clouds white gray and the yellow sun. There was the road in front of his eyes and him driving. Black gravel, the grinding wheels. The heater blowing warm air on his face.

And where are you going?

He turns up the radio. Music plays, soothes; comforts and gets rid of thoughts. Happy thoughts are taking everything's place. He put it aside. No more bad thoughts. Only happy ones.

Only good ones.

And where are you going?

No. Not again. Go away. Leave me alone. I don't want it.

Won't it die? Can't it just be the road, sky, those leaves. Can't it just be? Can't it just be. Don't ask me again. Leave me alone. I don't want to answer. I don't know. I don't know where I'm going.

He doesn't know. Don't ask. Can't it just be?

No. And where are you going?

He didn't know. He didn't want to know where he was going. Wasn't it enough he is driving? Wasn't it enough from the windshield he saw the black gravel, hears the grinding wheels, sees trees passing fast in blurs; wasn't it enough leaves are scuttling across the road as he watches, and his radio plays, soothes, gets rid of thoughts; wasn't it enough he is in his run-down car and driving and is moving and he observes and is at rest?

No. It wasn't.

He pulls to the side of the road. Trees' bark skeletons stand on both sides of him now. Bare and without leaves and without life and they don't have any beauty; too wretched, too bent and twisted and gnarled, roots tangled mess; branches stand out, bark arms like long nails. Bark arms wanting a hug, wanting you; and they are touched in a snare and sway a little this and a little that way in the wind. Sturdy bark arms won't move and break unless you do it or the wind does or by someone else.

Leaves scuttling, most close to the trees. Some in the road, all in a murmur. Scuttle-scuttle, wind carries them away, bye-bye. Going on a journey. Going off and not coming back. Don't miss us. We know where we're going, don't miss us; we're not meant to be missed. And don't you want to know where you're going?

It's not that simple. Is not that simple, it's complex. It must be rhetorical, it must not have a home, it must not have an answer. I'm not going, don't go, there's no place to go.

He stares at the trees and the scuttle of leaves and those branches. He looks from his passenger window. His eyes are wondering. Where will tomorrow be? What if it wasn't coming? Where had he gone so wrong? Why was he here? Why wasn't he driving; doing that took his mind off things. Why had he turned off the music. It all took his mind off things. Why was he killing it?

He wanted to sit in one of the trees. I want to feel its branches in their hug hugging me and making me feel like she was hugging me. I want to feel embrace.

He wants to feel alive again. But can he? Is there a Frankenstein, those bolts and those eyes, and if there was, could life come back; beautiful, good life? Need a shock stat cardiac arrest, need to take a big breath, need to have a sleeping beauty and kiss it to life. A beating heart and it's never been alive; give it life, give it it now.

I'm on a branch now. He sits on it, and his mind is gone and he isn't on a branch. It's the past. It's wanting to feel alive again.

A little boy on a school playground playing tag against girls. Girls were fun to tease then were fun to tag, never got along with the boys. A little boy with small bored eyes looks at a math problem and his thoughts aren't on math. His thoughts are away, and where are they going?

A little boy eats food and grows and he learns in school but takes it slow and isn't smart. I was stupid back then I didn't know, they teased me but it was okay. A boy in a book, that's me. I'm reading a book and it's a good book, thrilling and has me lost in my own world. I don't want to leave let me stay in that world. The world is so beautiful, why can't it be like this, why can't it be so great? Stupid boy, foolish boy, you paid for it. And I did.

Sunny summer light no clouds there's insects and life all around; leaves falling dying going and dead trees with gnarling looks and scuttle go the leaves; snow coma white and the crystallized sparkle of snowflakes as they fall and a big fat red man with reindeer and a hearty laugh. A little boy with black hair that doesn't pay attention well and is annoying and is stupid; a boy who is moving and has moved and goes to school the first day and hates it; a boy stabbing another boy with a pencil because he was teased; a teenager that tries to be smart but is just being himself and does well at school; a teenager who is bitter and hates it all and wants it to die and go away and doesn't want to feel this anguish anymore and cannot stand the world; a teenager who can wants to live on and wants to be a good person to someone else someday, wants everything to smooth out and wants life to get a familiar feel. An adult and there he is, and the gradual evolution has brought him here.

And still stands a boy weathered by time. I'm still just a boy who's never going to accept things but only adapt.

The swing goes back and forth and he was just there, wasn't he? And now Dan, I'm on a tree branch and it feels like it's hugging me and I remember her and I remember she died. And I remembered I loved her but I never told her, did I? No he didn't he should've told her. But she knew somehow. And don't fool yourself.

This tree is wretched it feels like I'm in her arms again but it's too late now. He hops off the branch, looking at the tree and thinking how dead it looks again. How lonely it will be once the snow comes, and how green and wonderful it will be in the spring. He hopes the birds chirp around it; maybe that a nice robin puts a nest in there, makes a home. Makes a nice, cozy home, and raises her young there, gives them food and makes them grow.

He smells something. Feels something.

Humidity. He can feel the water vapor licking on his lips, can feel it all on him and wet.

It's going to rain again, I think. Isn't it? I can smell it in the air. Better get back in my car. Better get going somewhere.

And where are you going?

I'm going to wherever this takes me, me, Daniel Samms, I'm going to go wherever it takes me. And I wonder where that leads.

He went in his car. Underneath the seat there was a gun, but he's not going to take it. He knows how steel feels in your mouth. Not now, not ever. No, not ever.

For her, if not for anyone. And for something else he can't quite touch or feel or know.

Rain coming down again. Cold and pounding on the window, patter-patter on the black gravel road; pit-pat on the gnarled hugging dead branches of the trees, the tangled roots; torrents to the leaves skittering and going away to wherever they go. Downpour and patter-patter and splash and swish and swoosh.

He put on his windshield wipers. He lay there, on his side. He closed his eyelids, shut his eyes. Through the rain clouds the sun is setting and the moon is rising, most quietly and slow. Night comes.

The gun was there I thought vaguely as I got to sleeping. It was only for protection. He didn't like the taste of steel in your mouth; didn't like the feeling of it there. For her, he wouldn't do it. For her, Daniel Samms lives. And for some other reason he can't quite know or feel or touch.

He knew where he was going for once. He's going to the land of imagination, the land of dreams; the place he always liked the most, even though he adapted to reality.

He was gone, he was away, and he is still a boy.

Outside, night comes. The dead trees become swaying shadows with long scraping hands. They sway like bobbing heads and seem alive as rain falls in torrents.

It rained most of the night.

[center][b]"O.o"[/b][/center]

[size=1][color=red] Called "O.o" because, well, just--O.o. It says it all. [/size][/color]
Sunday, October 1st, 1976

So it seems things change. When I was a child I would just watch it and it would go by me. I didn't see the change and I didn't know it was there. It was as natural as air; as natural as breathing?heaving in and out?and if I was oblivious I never knew. And nor did I need to.

Perceptions as a child seem so right as the child, and seem so wrong as the adult. What of those perceptions?and those thoughts, lost?and all those I used to know well? What of them and what they had shown me? They are lost. They are lost to sea.

I remember nothing much of childhood and its beauty but I remember I once had it. I have looked upon the pictures taken of me, and I do not see me in them. I see a child. A child whose childness ended long?so long ago.

A pig fattened on food and in his sty. And in comes the death dealer and he holds my hand. He comforts me and stands. And pushes me up. In his hand is his gun?but it isn't a gun. It was never a gun. It was just change?it was just natural consequence bringing about its conceit. The pig?so ripe, rotund, and fatuous and ready. Dumb and stupid and other things. And ready to see an end?ready to be brought.

I was always a pig. We were always pigs. But we cover up our impudence and ignorance. I know it, and I also know a pig cannot know what he is if he remains ignorant.

There was never blood for my childhood's death. Perhaps if I were a woman I would bleed profuse, the red flowing down on my knees, sharp pain preening, my knees weak and heavy. But I am no woman?and so I did not get the souvenir that is menstruation. I wonder if many women look back to their first period in this light. Do they see it as the death of childhood?

Shot in the head. Walking around dead?gaggle around. The pig was too fat. He's dying and moans. All good things die. But the good remains, stains, colors and is still there. It still peeks out once in a while.

A bleeding pig fell to the ground. He snoveled and sniveled. And oinked and breathed heavy. CPR wasn't given. An ambulance wasn't called; and the pig lied there and its eyes stayed open. There is no movement. Only eyes?death eyes. I see me in those eyes as they look up to the blue.

The death of childhood: it's rape. You're killed from the inside; like there's something inside of you that's hairy and punctures?and it hurts. It's the carving. A Thanksgiving I would salivate to have?but if knowing of what it was about?wouldn't.

I was just a turkey for a slaughter and I was sent in on my way, DOA?Dead on Arrival. Already postmortem. Strangled and sucked of life. Cause of death: long-term molestation. My head is open wide and I'm thinking. The dead thinking. Empty. Without space.

With a knife they spruce me up. Blood gushes; red stuff. The boy screams in me and he says it's wrong and blood and violence is bad. Die boy die. For crying out loud, boy, you know I love you.

I didn't do it.

Don't blame me.

I'm carved. Sliced. My skin's cut off. I'm naked. I'm seasoned with salt, pepper.. I'm flushed in a sauce of broth; meat-flavored stew. I'm cold and I'm placed in a hot oven. In the cesspool.

Burn. The scars. It's like Frankenstein. It's alive. Through pressure time and hot hellish heating, I become alive. I'm an empty carved turkey but I'm alive. Marbled fat is on me, white, and I'm turning a warm brown. It's hot. So hot. But it's working. I'm going to be alive.

They take me out. Serve me on a dinner table. Around the dinner table I see a man. His face is covered by shadows creasing him.

That's me, isn't it?

My childhood was a senseless pig sent to the slaughter. An imbecile who's time had come. I was a turkey dead and carved and adorned, put in a hot baking oven to steam and cook. I was.

I was a child once. I was like anyone else. I still see the child sometimes but the child always liked monsters. He was afraid there was one under his bed, hiding, each night. There was. That monster?that monster, I hope you never see it.

It's got long talons, they're yellow and old. It's got bruised dying skin, and a hold like death. It's got eyes that are cold stones. And, most of all, it can't talk.

It speaks from words. Silent. He's a muse.

Indeed?to lay off it. My childhood was not the slaughtering of a pig in preordained genocide. There never was any monster?and there was never any turkey which came to life. Too bad as it is, those are all creations of the child in me?the part of me still holding on to me.

Shall I sum it up in a few sentences? Why, certainly?I was once a child. The child's dead.

Now, see that. There's no style to it; no beauty. It's just what it is. That's what the world will tell you. Not what I will. Without imagination how am I going to be alive? I won't without it so I'll keep it with me. Art is long, life is short?art imitates life?we hold these truths to be self-evident, that each man is created equal?

Where would the world be without the kid in them all? We're so damn serious it's not even funny. I sit here in my chair and watch the TV and the news, and I just see how terrible it is. The media's on everything?every detail of the humdrum world we live in?in a heartbeat. There's nothing here anymore. The world's going to hell?the deepest reaches, the deepest pit. Will it climb out of it? I hope not and I hope so.

If only I could sell my soul to the devil along with them all?then I'd sell it for a nickel and childhood. I'd take the nickel and buy some lemonade, and I'd take the childhood and have it back. I'd take back what was stolen from me.

Too bad that won't happen. Nice thought anyway.

You see, I have a gun in my hand. This will be the last time I write in this. It's been fun and fine and all. It's full of me, and I'm sure someone will read it. It's full of the years; paging through it, I see my scrawl over the years. I see words making me. Words always were me, it was never anything else.

I think I have gone insane. But it doesn't write well on this page. Insanity is hard to show. Especially when what I'm writing to me is perfectly sane.

I've lived my years. I'm a well-to-do eighty-year-old. Gray hair. All the good stuff. I've lived my years, and the ride's over. Click your heels twice together, Dorothy, and it's back home.

Home: whatever happened to that. Home is where the heart is?remember that cliche phrase? I do. I also remember no pain no gain.

I want to obliterate those phrases. They're too true and too condescending. Not too mention too overused.

I always thought Toto was the best dog name ever. If I'm born as I dog, I'd have that name. Then I'd lie around and do nothing my life. That would be great.

Notice I have given nothing in this last entry. Quite funny. I have the things to say, but the reasons to say the things make no sense to me. Sense is as senseless.

I don't fear killing myself. I'm suffering. It's time to die. Time to die?it's time to go?sad as it is. Life's been good. Life's been bad. Life's been spinning round me crazy.

Life's also been life. And not to mention a heartless usurping bitch with enigmatic elegiacs. That's too verbose. Let's just say life's like a pimp. He wants the pleasure so he gets it. In the end, anyway.

Whoever reads this, I hope you say hi to life for me. Tell him I was a good guy, just didn't like his ways. You can also tell him that as I lived I was once a pig fattened and fatuous, as well as a turkey cleaved for the Thanksgiving.

Be sure to shoot the shit with life for me?I'm sure he'd like to hear my infamous name.

"This day will be remembered in infamy." Or something like that. FDR, you did a good job. Even though you had Polio. The internment camps were bad though. Bad FDR.

Everything's so eventual, just like they all say (or do they even say? Not sure and I don't care). The gun feels good in my hand?metallic and cold and I'm brushing my hands along its side like a pet dog. Someday in the future they'll make death smaller than this pistol. Maybe it'll be on the cellular level?maybe even the atomic level? That'd be interesting. Atomic death. Now there's a good thing. But maybe they already have that, who knows.

Well, what do we say? Let's mess with change. Let's mess with him. I'm going to make the change this time. I've got the golden bullet in the pistol. Golden like the sun. Golden like blonde hair on a fine woman. What a dirty old man I am, but what can I say, nature will never die. Nature's a resilient MOFO. If I can say MOFO. MOFO is just a funny thing to say.

I like how I've gone from smart-sounding to conversation-sounding all in one fell swoop with this entry. I find that funny. Hahah. Funny. That's so FUBAR?so fucked up beyond all repair.

That's the world in one acronym. FUBAR. FUBAR sounds like it could be some city. Maybe even an entire country. That's what I should have accomplished?the establishment of FUBAR. I would name the first city MOFO. And the state would be POed. So MOFO, POed, in FUBAR. Motherfucker, Pissed Off, Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. That's what it is if you read it all out. Otherwise just the acronyms. MOFO and POed and FUBAR sound better I think.

Okay. It's time. I'm done with this. I'm going to go shut off the TV?Oprah's on (that stupid whore)?and then I'm going to sit for a while and be pensive. Then it's time to really shoot the shit with life, if you know what I mean?it's time to end it all, end the pain and the suffering of old age.

I wonder if they'll find this when I die? I'll make sure. I even wrote in my will for them to publish it. That'll be great.

Yeah. I better do my signature. Only in print though. So screw you.

Sincerely,

Barney the Dinosaur Russian.

PS: I have PS. You POS. I'm going to POS on your PS. PMS my POS on your PS.

PS PS: My first name's Bob. You can just call me Todd if you want. Or maybe even Bob Todd. That'd be just golden pristine (just like this bullet looks).

Tata for now, speaketh to ye in the aftermath.

[center][b]"Devoid and Not"[/b][/center]
It is not known when this man was born. He was born when he wanted to be born. That is all that has ever been said of him. This man wondered why he was born but he has never found out.

This man was given a name. It was a nice name most said as they remembered him. It was a nice name for a nice man. But this man's name is trivial. It does not need to be said. He doesn't deserve to have one. Thus he won't even if he does.

This man was never a baby. He felt a baby in his mind but he was not outside of his own thoughts. He was born a man but was feeble in his head. This man had no mother no father. His mother and father were himself. Teaching himself things he'd make what he wanted. He had control of everything.

With one thought of his mind he could make living breathing things. With a fragmented image he could make anything that he so saw. This man could do whatever he wanted and make whatever he wanted.

As has been said this man doesn't know where he was born. It has been said he was born many. That he was born all over. But let it be said that this man was born in abyss. That when he was born there was nothing. There was no sky, there was no solemn Earth. Let it be known that this man was just as like as the nothing he was born from.

This man has just said how he was born but it doesn't begin to explain it. He thinks he'll never know the circumstances of how he came to be. Let it be known that it was not a miracle. But that it was meant to be in some way. In what way this man does not know.

Once born, all he could see was blank blackness. Above him as he peered up blackness Down as he peered blackness. Right as he peered blackness. Left as he peered, blackness. All was empty. Devoid and not. It was all dark but even this darkness didn't exist. There was nothing.

This man first awoke like this. In his stomach it felt as if he were perpetually falling. As if he was not standing but was. And there as he stood in this devoid and not he thought his first thoughts. They were slow thoughts for this man did not know what he was thinking.

First he wished for anything, something to look at. Anything other than the abyss. The devoid and not. But what he wanted to see he did not know. For he did not know what he was trying to see or look at. He only knew he wished to see anything, something to take his mind from where he was.

Mustered in front of this man there appeared a wide array of colors. Where these colors came from this man does not know. But this man likes to think they were always there, wanting to have shape and form and vibrance. There were colors that have not been named which appeared in front of this man's eyes. The beautiful splendor cannot, will not ever be seen again to this man or anyone. The hues which felt upon this man's face, they held in their radiance many a thing, many a thought.

His mind was now full of new and wonderous images. There were color and there were hues. There was shape and there was matter with which this man could bend. His thoughts fell and went all about him. All there were was the colors. This redish hue here; this blackish hue there; that whiteish smear there: there it all spun. It span and span round his thoughts it went. This man did not know what he was seeing. It only spun and span round him.

It all became a bruised smear all beaten and hitten round his head. All of the colors span and span and spun and spun till they became chaos. This man began to see not alive creatures in his newly made chaos. Colors began to form into matter began to form into sinew began to form into cellular life began to form into an entire entity which functioned upon all the parts that made it. This first thing was large and bulky and misshapen. It had no head and had no heart and has no face. It was alive but was not. This entity was infinitely large: as far as this man could think. As far as he could see and reach and touch.

Having made all of this within an eased moment of time, this man looked upon it all: he viewed it all slowly seeing every thing he had made. There was a mass here. A mass there. An interesting constellation of matter found over yonder. Looking upon all this, the man was not satisfied. Walking and strolling and living among his creation he still saw nothing as the time passed. This man grew lonelier than can be said. He grew detached and wicked with his want of companionship.

Even though this man had created matter it was still all chaos. It was just where it was: this man might as well have still been in the devoid and nothing but with color and vibrance and hue. All was still bruised and smeared. Looking around, after much time, this man saw this just as he saw his loneliness.

He now sought to create something which had order and beauty and was meticulously crafted. After much deliberation of thought this man created shape and texture and symmetry. There was the sphere; there was the square; there were shapes which have never been known. There was smooth; there was rough; there was wet; there were textures which have never been felt or known. And now all this spun round and round and span all over here and there in this man's mind. But at last it began to form into something with order and space and autonomous infancy.

There now in the great blackness stood twinkling vessels with small form. There now stood in the great blackness large spheres of matter and color and texture. All about this man's creation was at work. Infinite spaces were filled and placed. Endless stars were incited and began to sparkle. The planets?spheres?began to form and coalesce into autonomous beings serving themselves and being self-governing and self-enforced. The universe formed for the first time, organized and being. But there were not yet creatures that lived and breathed. For still this man had much to do and much to learn from.

Placed upon what now was created, this man gave device and process to all he had created. He gave his planetary spheres atmospheres and suitable habitations from which living beings could suffice in. He gave his stars processes which held them in their place. He created planetary gravity. All about processes emerged and seized.

This man was still too feeble to know what he was doing. Still much a baby in what he created, this man saw all he created stumble and crash and die from his processes and device. The stars faded as they were swallowed by misconstrued process. The planets fell out of autonomity crashing and heaving into one another. Everything crashed into one another till there was nothing but what this man had started out with. He stood again in the great blankness.

Now this man had been taught his lesson. He had learned he had thought too big. His memories of what he had created still fresh in his mind, he sought out to create one of the spheres again, and to make it as best as he could so that he could create living beings upon it.

A great bang of thought now flew to and fro in this man's mind. He took this brilliance and crafted a planet most serene and beautiful. It was fertile and green and had water and sky when he was done. And when he was all done with his work and saw it all, he began to create the ultimate beings.

Taking much time, not wanting to repeat his past failures he now made living beings. Again he took colors and turned them into matter and turned that into sinew and turned that into cellular entity. And now what stood before him was an adept creature. It had two eyes at the front of its head. Had two arms on its sides. Had two legs at its bottom with which to walk. Had organelles. Had a heart. Had a brain. It was, just as his spheres had been, an autonomous entity. Only these were living and much smaller.

Putting them to life upon his planet, he walked among them seeing them mature and grow in augmentations of time. From his land he had made they irrigated. From his sky he had made they reached towards. From his water he had made they drowned to.

Over many ages this man was happy again. He was among his own creatures and saw they were happy and good and great. But soon again it came upon this man that he was not actually happy. That he did not feel alive as his creations were.

So this man sought to play with his creatures. He would kill some of them as he saw them. Others he would greatly imbue with his loneliness. In this way his creatures were inured with evil-set ways and began to turn away from their creator.

[center][b]"The Lonely Whine"[/center][/b]
1
A beer bottle rolled on black gravel. Its neck hit against a streetlight and stopped in a clang. The light now on it, its label became clear. It was a bottle of Coors. Through its glass was the remains of the beer. Little drops of beer here and there. A small collection at the bottom.

A sparrow swoops in and lands on the beer bottle's side. It huddles there. Wings to its sides.

Another comes down and lands on the bottle. The bottle begins to roll away with the sparrows' uneven weight. The sparrows cry in surprise and flutter on the ground, still below the streetlight. Up on the light of the streetlight moths swerve back and forth attracted. Some are large. Others are small. They look like flies buzzing on a dead body.

The sparrows sit on the ground. They gaze out.

In front of them is a parking lot. Vehicles sit parked about it. The sparrows seem to be watching one in particular.

An old, blue rust-covered van sits idle. Exhaust comes out of its exhaust pipe and rises to the air in plumes. Vague shadows can be seen rustling in the van's windows. A form rustling here. A form rustling there. The sparrows watch.

The van's lights are on, casting light on the brick wall of a building. The building is a bar named The Lonely Whine.

Inside The Lonely Whine solitary drinkers sit about on swivel chairs. Others sit on tables. Soothing country music plays, giving a relaxed feeling. The lighting is weak to further add atmosphere. The smell is of fresh brewed beer and cigarette smoke.

The bartender, Vic Lars, leans on his table speaking. He is a man in his thirties. He has short brown hair and inset blue eyes. The person he speaks to is a regular, Bobby Bush. Bobby has red hair and sits on a swivel chair. Bobby has a foaming mug of beer and sips it as Vic talks.

"Ya see, this town's dying. Has been for a long time, don't ya think?"

Bobby nods, setting down his mug. "I sure do," Bobby says.

A TV sits in the corner. Some look at it. Some seem to be filtering it out.

The news is on. A reporter who looks like she's wearing too much make-up talks. She's talking about the economy and how it's on the rise. Whatever she's saying flies past you. She's just wearing too much make-up. Harry Benson sits on a far table, far from the TV. His eyes are on the TV. All he can wonder is why such a pretty woman is wearing so much make-up. What would she look like without it? he wonders and takes a swig of beer. She would probably look beautiful.

The bar is quiet except for the chatter of the TV, and Vic and Bobby talking. Everyone else in the bar is either drinking smoking or speaking low.

Through the widows of The Lonely Whine is night. Not much can be seen other than from what the streetlights allow. All else is darkness.

Outside there is now more sparrows. And inside the van shadows have stopped dancing.

A man with black hair and sunglasses covering his eyes walks out. He steps into The Lonely Whine and the door closes behind him with a soft noise.

Vic notices him as he comes and sits close in a swivel chair.

"What'll it be?" he says coming over. The man isn't from around. Vic thinks he's just someone traveling. Vic notices how concentrated the man is. He looks like he's thinking. About what isn't for him to know.

"Just a Coors," the man says. His voice is deep and piercing and heavy. Vic goes over and fills a mug. It foams and he hands it to the man with the sunglasses. Vic turns away and starts talking to Bobby again. Inside the back of Vic's head he makes a note to keep a watch on this man. He doesn't know why. It's a gut feeling.

"Want another one, Bobby?" Vic says, putting his hand on the now empty mug's handle.

"Make it so Captain," Bobby says.

"And it is so." Vic takes the mug and fills it. When he turns he eyes the strange man with sunglasses. He's sitting and sipping his Coors. Why does he have a bad feeling? Vic doesn't know. He hands Bobby his third one that night.

"So how're things on your front, Bobby?" Vic asks. Bobby places his finger on the mug. The cold handle feels nice and numbing. He brings the cool beer to his mouth. Sets it down.

"They're doing themselves as well as they can, I think. Job's the same shit. Wife's doing dandy. Or as dandy as she can be." He lifts his mug half up. "Things're same as they always are." The beer goes to his mouth in a swig. Bobby sets it down again.

Vic nods. "I hear ya. Guess that's life, ain't it?"

"Guess it is."

"Yeah." It's silent. The only sound is the TV. There's now a commercial on about Shampoo. A lady's in the shower. But you can only see her face and her long black hair. Her face is pretty with a small nose. Water flows down it as she brushes her hair with shampoo and lets out noises of pleasure. It sounds like she's having an orgasm from shampoo.

Harry Benson is still watching the TV in his far corner.

Another man, Dexter Gale, is in his own corner, next to a window. He smokes cigarette after cigarette and slowly drinks his beer. The wisps of smoke hide his face. The eye of his cigarette glows red in the dim lighting as he takes in smoke.

It's always slow like this. Vic wonders how long it will keep going. How long until he won't be able to keep business any longer. Vic eyes Bobby's mug. It's empty again.

"Will it be another?" Vic asks. Vic can tell Bobby's getting drunk. It's usually after three or more he starts seeing it.

"The Pope a Catholic?" Yes, he sure is. So Vic gets another beer for Bobby.

"The Pope's just a figurehead," Vic says, setting it down.

"Yeah. All them people are just falling for it, too. Like a herd of bison or something."

Vic nods. "Yeah. I guess so."

Silence again. Vic busies himself with the TV. The news is over. There's the off-air sky cam on now. It's at an intersection of stoplights. A few cars are scuttling by. They look just as dead as everything else. Vic watches with no interest.

In the back Harry Benson is standing up. "I'm heading out, gotta get home. See ya'll later." He waits for Vic and Bobby's response.

"We'll see ya, Harry. Drive safe now. See ya when I see ya," says Vic.

"Hasta levista, baby," says Bobby.

"Oh, you know 'I'll be back.'" He says it like Arnold in Terminator. He ends up not sounding like him at all. But close enough. Close enough and off he goes.

The soft sound of the door closing. Then he's gone.

There's only three people left in the bar. It's time for him to act.

The man in the sunglasses stands abruptly up. A grin appears on his face. From his pant's belt he reveals a gun and pulls it out. He points it at Vic and then to Bobby and back to Vic again. "Don't even think of calling the police. And don't think of trying anything funny."

Bobby sits in his swivel chair with dull, intoxicated eyes. There's fear though. Tasty fear that the man in sunglasses eats up. Vic holds his hands in front of him. They're shaking. It's delicious. "You can have whatever you want! Just don't shoot me! I'll give you whatever you want?money, whatever! Just don't shoot!"

The man with the sunglasses pulls the trigger. Vic winces. And bang. The bullet flies out at breakneck speed and hits Vic in the temple. He's dead on impact. Blood ushers out from the wound. Vic topples over like a rag doll. "Okay. Just give me it all and I won't shoot," the man with the sunglasses says with a wider smirk, snickering. He eyes Bobby. "And what does Bobby say? Hm?" He laughs. It's not a nice laugh either. Not at all.

In his far corner Dexter Gale stands up and runs off in a rush. The man with the sunglasses turns to watch him. "That's right, be the little messenger. Tell them. Tell them and make them come." He turns back as he hears the soft closing of the door. He looks back at Bobby. "What do you say, Bobby?"

"I don't say anything, other than let me live. Let me live, and I'll do whatever you want." He didn't like this. Bobby's voice was too calm and held. He moved closer to Bobby, put the gun right against his head. That'll teach him. That'll teach him to hide it. There we go. There he goes, his face just screams fear now.

"We have a deal then, Bob?" A smirk. Wide and full of intention. He liked to see Bobby's fear. "I like deals. Deals are what spins the wheel. You better do just what I say though. Or else." He held the gun to his head and made a bang noise. "Do you know what I mean, Bobby?"

"I do. Now what is it I have to do?" The man with the sunglasses looks out the window. Then back to Bobby. He takes the gun from his forehead.

"Follow me, bucko. I got something to show you." The man with the glasses starts walking off. Bobby wobbles up and stupors over. He's half drunk and having trouble walking. "Better keep up. Don't want you to fall behind and the wheel to stop spinnin on the wrong place, do ya?"

"No," Bobby says. "I don't want that."

"Then you better get it together. God doesn't spin no dice, and neither do I. I'm not takin chances. You get over here and keep up with me or else it's bye-bye Bobby with a bang."

"Okay. I get you." Bobby made a conscious effort to keep up with the man. He was almost caught up.

"And don't try anything funny. You know what happens to funny people. And I don't have any patience for funny people. I'll put em out of their misery. I'll put them away." Bobby nodded and caught up just as the man was opening the door outside. He held his hand to catch the door but it slammed Bobby in the face. He winced in pain and pushed outside. Cool air touched him.

The man with the sunglasses opened the van's side door. Bobby approaches. The man grabs Bobby by his shirt and throws him in.

There's a woman inside. Her head is a big hole. It's been shot off. Mangled pieces of her black hair and brain matter are strewn about. Bobby utters a cry of disgust. The woman is naked. Prostrate in the van, her breasts contour out. They're full of scratches and bruises. Her hands are full of them too. Her whole body is. Her black pubic hair stands out in the meek light. He can see scratches there.

"What Bobby, you don't like?" the man with the sunglasses asks. "If you don't like, I can help you. I can make it go away." He holds the gun out. Points to it. "Is this what you want?"

"No," he managed. "No."

"Okay then. You quiet down now. Quiet down now or else."

Bobby is stricken with sudden hate for this man. "You bastard! You sick motherfucking bastard! Did you rape her before you did it? What the fuck did you do? You fucking bastard!"

"Tsk tsk tsk. Now that's no way to talk to me Bobby. Take it back now, or else."

Silence.

"Take it back, Bobby. Take it back or else it's bye-bye Bobby. Or else the wheel of deals stops spinning and it ends in a bang."

Silence.

"This is your last warning Bobby. This is the last time I'm going to ask. You better apologize. You better talk to me nice. Or else I'll do it. You know I will. I did it to her, I can do it to you. Now what do you say?"

A cry of disgust. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck you? Well, here's what I have to say to 'fuck you.'" He held the gun to his head. "I'm sorry to do this, Bobby. You were a good guy, you know. A good guy. Your wife's gonna miss you. She's not gonna like this. But here you are Bobby, bein selfish. I don't take well to selfish fuckers like you. I don't take well to people who tell me I'm a bastard. I don't take well to it." He pulls the trigger. It echoes. Then nothing. "Why Bobby? Why? Oh wait, I know why. Because you can't play by the rules. My rules. Well, the dead get movin and the livin get goin." He smiles. He likes the way his head had bled. He likes the way it had exploded at point blank range. It was beautiful. It was so beautiful. He smiles.

Then silence. Inside The Lonely Whine Vic lies slumped over behind his counter. He's dead. In the van the woman and Bobby lie down, bullets through their heads. They're dead.

Outside the beer bottle had rattled away. There were now a dozen sparrows propped. Most were concentrated near the faraway streetlight looking at the parking lot of The Lonely Whine. The sparrows were watching the van. They had heard the gunshots. They had watched it all. They were witnesses.

The van drove out in a rush. It went where it was going.

The sparrows followed in flutters.

2
They're bleeding. The gums of his teeth bleed slight as he peers close in the mirror. Below the somewhat yellow somewhat white teeth there's the gum line and it's red. Bleeding a bit. He eyes the red. So red. He goes out and puts his toothbrush back in his mouth. Brushes it around. The sound is just like a large brush with its thistles. The loud scrape-scrape of it. It feels digging in. Feels penetrated. Feels harsh and scraping.

He peers at his teeth again. Opens his mouth so he can see. They're still bleeding. He spits into the sink. Dull red saliva mixed with toothpaste comes out. He turns on the facet. Watches it go down the drain, down and away from him. It's gone. It's swirled down. But his teeth still bleed. He'll take care of that; he'll make it better.

He takes a paper cup from a cup dispenser. Fills it quick with water. Imbibes it to his mouth. Swishes and swashes it around. The water moves forceable around his teeth. He can imagine the water catching small particles. Can see them being washed with the water. The liquid feels good. It feels flowing. Moving. He spits it out hard. More dull red. But less. And on comes the facet. Bye goes the dull red water with whatever it carries.

Kneeling down he takes out the mouth wash from the cupboard. Non-alcoholic. He's got to stay away from alcohol. Doesn't mix well with him. He twists off the cap. Puts it upside-down and pours some mouthwash into it. Puts it in his mouth. Swish and swashes it around. Mint flavor. It burns a bit. Not like alcohol would. He pushes it with force all about his teeth. Swish swash. And spits it out hard. Even a more dull red this time. It's stopping. He turns on the water. Watches it spin down. Bye-bye.

It's done. He looks at his teeth in the mirror again. The gums are still red on their tips. It'll just take time. Take determination. He'll conquer it. He'll be the master. The dominator.

He closes his mouth, stares at his face a bit. Backs off from the mirror. Looks himself over.

His mouth strains in a pursing of pressure. His eyebrows V. His hands strain.

"Georgie, Georgie. What's this my friend? Did you see those teeth?"

His mouth unstrains. His eyebrows unV. His hands unstrain. He's just regular Georgie again. Kind and considerate.

"I'm sorry. What can I say? Haven't been taking too much care of me teeth, you know."

Now it's back to mean Georgie. V for an eyebrow. Strained jaw and mouth. This time his hands ball into tight fists. He beats them together.

"Oh Georgie. It's not just that?it's not just that. It's not that at all! You also haven't even bought your father his Father's Day card. You never do anything, Georgie. It's TV. TV. TV all the time, Georgie. It's always Star Trek and what the hell Captain Pickard's gonna do. It's all about you?it's all about you and the TV. Always. It's always about that fucker, isn't it, Georgie? Isn't it?"

Back to kind considerate kind Georgie.

"Yes. I guess so."

He sees himself strain in the mirror again. Watches his face contort. And listens again.

"You 'guess so'? Georgie, wake up! You know what I want you to do, my friend? You know what I'm gonna have you do?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna have you go out and get the Father's Day card right now. I'm gonna have you go there. Will you do that, Georgie? Will you do it for Christ's sake? Will you?"

"Yes. I'll do it."

"Will you? Or are you just saying that? I want you to do it. Do it now! You got me? You hear me? Do it now, Georgie. Do it for your daddy dearest."

"I'm not just saying it. I promise I'll do it. I'll even get him a present with the money I have since I was fired. I'll make it a good present."

"A good present? It better be. Your old man's not gonna last much longer. And that's another thing?getting fired. God, get another job! Are you just gonna sit on your ass all day? Get a goddamn job! Pick up an application when you go to the grocery store to get the card?I want you to do that. Will you do that, too, Georgie?"

"Okay. I will. I'd better get going."

His face tensed. But it was smiling now. And his hands came up to his shoulders and patted them. "All right then. But you better do it, Georgie. Or else it'll just be the same old same old, won't it? And you don't want that any longer, do you? You gotta get it together, don't you?" The hand left his shoulder.

"Yes. I've got to get going. Okay. I'm going now. See you later."

"Hasta luego Georgie."

Georgie waved back to the mirror. And walked away to his old car. He waved to his dad on the way out. "I'm going out, dad. Need anything at the store?"

His dad looked up. He was an old man. Gray hairs. Balding head. Going senile. "Naw, I ain't gonna need nonethin. Ye gonna be back soon, son? I ain't liken bein alone an such." His voice had that faraway wheeze to it.

"I shouldn't be long at all, dad. Just getting a few things. Here?I'll leave you my cell phone number before I go, so you can call me. In case you think of something, or are in trouble."

"Cello phone? When they maken that to an instrament? Mus be a weird contrapshen."

Georgie laughed a bit. "No, dad. A cell phone. It's a compact phone that's wireless. Can be used from most anywhere. Here?here's the number." He wrote it on the newspaper he'd grabbed lying by his dad's feet. "It's 624-1234. Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. Call me if something's up."

"Aight. I callen ye on Jello Phone if anythang ain't goin good." Georgie smiled a bit. Cello Phone? Guess you can't fix what's already broken. He nodded and was off.

The car roared to life. It was some older model car. From '67 or even earlier. Georgie didn't know. He didn't care. Cars were what they were for to him. Not much else. They were just transportation.

Georgie was soon to the parking lot of the local Supermarket. It was a big bustling place. Most of the parking spots were taken. People kept walking all about. He stopped and yielded to many as he searched for a spot. The place was busy. Always seemed to be.

And there was a spot. It stood out to him?right next to a blue, rust-covered van. And a nice car that looked much more modern than Georgie's. He parked in between them, put his car in park. Turned off the engine. Got out.

It wasn't too cold out. There was a slight breeze as he walked into the supermarket. The sliding doors?motion-opened?slid open as he approached them and he was in. His mind kept going over what he was going to do. Kept going back to his tense face in the mirror. He knew what he was here for.

He was going to do it.

He walked through the isles. He skirted around people as they got in his way. He said "excuse me" when he needed to. Then there were the cards.

There were little tabs above set partitions of cards. They told you what kind of cards you could find. There was sympathy cards. Birthday cards. Get well cards. Marriage cards. He scanned. There it was. Father's Day. He looked at some of the cards.

The one he looked at first said, "When I think of my dad. . ." and beckoned you to open it. On the front there was an entirely absurd smile face. He opened it. "I think of love. And all the beauty my father's given." Then a few lines down. "Happy Father's Day. From your son." What a terrible card. He put it back. It wasn't Georgie at all.

"And what do we have here," Georgie said as he pulled out another card. He had seen half of the face of Barney the Dinosaur. It piqued his interest. So he took it. Barney's impressionate face took up most of the card's front. He had his big dinosaur grin. And was just as purple as always. On the top it said, "HAPPY FATHER'S DAY." Georgie opened it, a smirk on his face. "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family." It read in lines. Like a poem. It was another terrible card. Pretty tasteless. He put it back as if he were embarrassed. And maybe he was.

Then he found the card he wanted. He saw a pretty woman's face. It attracted his attention. He grabbed it out. It had a woman with long black hair and a picture-perfect smile. He teeth shown and were white. Below, you could see the woman's torso. She was wearing just a bra, but it was a concealing bra that didn't show much. On its top it said, "Dad, I didn't know what to get you." Then on the bottom, "So I got you something special." And after reading the message saying "I got you something special," looking at this woman's face and torso, it all made you just have to open up the card. Now that he looked at the woman's eyes he could tell they had some innocent pleading to them. It made you want to look inside even more. He opened it up. It was the same picture of the woman, but there was a black censoring box around her bra area. Georgie smiled a bit. It read, "I thought she'd look good in black. (Turn to back of card.)" He turned it over. There was nothing there but another message saying, "(Turn to front of card.)" It was genius in some way. At least some way. He took the card and an envelope.

The checkout line was long. Soon as Georgie got in line, another man did. He had sunglasses on concealing his eyes. He held his purchases in one of those red baskets. Georgie only looked once at him then turned back and waited.

The line moved slow. But all the same Georgie was soon paying for his card. The beep of the card being rang up resounded. "$1.25," the cashier said like a machine. As if she knew the price was going to be $1.25 and she didn't even need to ring it up.

Georgie took out his wallet, handing her exact change. Then, "Can I get an application too? That'd be nice."

"Oh," said Ms. Machine Cashier. "I'll go get one."

"Okay."

She rustled away like leaves. Then she was back. "Here it is." She handed it to him.

He looked at her nametag. Her name was Nazerie. What a cute name. "Thanks, Nazerie."

She gave him a weird eye. He walked off.

Outside the breeze was still light. He came to his car?beside the blue rust-covered van and the car. For some reason he looked in the van. He didn't know why.

What he saw in the car he never wanted to see. As soon as he saw it he got the hell out of there. That was bad. He didn't believe what he saw. He couldn't have seen that.

But he did.

He did. And it was all he could think about as he drove home.

[Mimmsicle]

[size=1][color=darkred][b]"Dan"[/b]

It's amazing how your stories can seem like the are scattered, yet pulls together and when you've finished reading? it all makes sense.[/color][quote]And where are you going?[/quote][color=darkred]I like how you've incorporated more than one voice, though I am not sure how many there are. Maybe it's all Dan, different voices of awareness. Much like the "Phoenix" story, a trail of thought that changes as it goes.[/color][quote]And still stands a boy weathered by time. [/quote][color=darkred]Another line that hits where it's supposed to. [/color]

**********[color=darkred]

[b]"Of Boys and Men"[/b] (or "O.o") [/color]
[quote]Shall I sum it up in a few sentences? Why, certainly?I was once a child. The child's dead. [/quote] [color=darkred] The second story was gold up until this point. After this it is [i]still[/i] a good story, well? actually [b]two[/b] good stories. But I don't think they should go together. They're too far apart to be meshed, two alternating dimensions, if you will.
The first part is very "thought based", meaning it's thoughts flying in a mind (the writers or the readers). Whereas the second one is diary/letter based. Both work splendidly on their own? and now I'm only repeating myself, so I hope you get what I mean. [/color]

**********[color=darkred]

[b]"Devoid and what not"[/b]

This one is the most straightforward thing I've read from you, I think. That makes it sound like it would be dull and have lost some magic, but it hasn't. It's peaceful, elegant and easy to follow. Very much like that moment you drift off to sleep.

You don't go off on any tangents in this one, you stay in one thought and go with that. And you do it very well.

Lovely work, Mitch. Simply Lovely.

- Mimmi[/size][/color]

[Mitch]

[center]Pink Floyd, lyrics by Roger Waters, [b]"Speak to Me?Breathe"[/b]
"Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave but don't leave me
Look around and choose your own ground
For long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be

Run rabbit run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down it's time to dig another one
For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave"[/center]

It takes in a breath of the warm limiting air and looks to the sky. Deep up there there's the sun and it eyes it with anticipation and revolt. Its stupid dull eyes, banal circular spheres, shake a little from the sun's harshness on its eyes. It takes its gaze from the big, shinning sun. As it leaves the afterimage of the sun stays in its stupid dumb eyes for a while, like the letters branded on a domesticated cow. And slowly the afterimage fades as it busies itself with other tasks.

The naked form, without clothes, cocks its head to the solemn ground. Its dull dumb eyes look at the dirt with an overbearing cessation, a wondering pause. It seems to be thinking something, arranging something in its fatuous, impertinent head. The big dumb creature, provincial as everything else, stares back up at the sun.

There's no change. The stupid creature's eyes gaze in the star's eye and they're looking at one another, far away and impersonal. Its eyes flutter and glint in the burning sun. Soon it turns its eyes away yet again, defeated.

It knows in its dumb mind what it must do now. The afterimage of the sun seeps away and its eyes wont over on the ground again. There's no vegetation on the ground. It then takes its big dumb head up and looks all about it. There's nothing but the hot heat and an endless expanse of more sand and more sand. A desert.

It stands and looks to the ground again. It stands there long. The sun continues to bake the stupid creature. All the creature can do is stand by as it continues to get warmer and warmer. Sweat begins and comes from the pores on the big stupid creature's skin. It waters down at first in small drops, then augments into bigger and yet bigger pools. Soon the big dumb creature is sweating profusely, the salty sweat coming down on its face, its legs, its torso, its naked genitals. It can taste it in its big dumb mouth. It tastes strange. It makes it even more thirsty.

It's getting thirsty. Its throat feels like a dry guttural refuse of rocky chasms with each encumbered breath and swallow. Its hands feel chipped and are dry to flakes. They feel gritty. Its back is getting sunburned, the red prevailing over its fleshly peach color. The red has almost made it to its buttocks.

And at last, the big dumb creature has a plan: it shall burrow into the ground. It has no idea what the ground is, nor what it is doing. At first it just absently puts its big dumb calloused hands on the dirt as it lies on the ground, grasping it and throwing it in frustration. It kept doing this and soon realized it was making a hole.

Frantic, wanting survival, the big dumb creature burrows its hands in the sand. It grabs a large handful, throws it aside, grabs another with the other hand, throws it aside. Repeats. The big dumb creature sits there doing it a long time, its eyes in a painful pant, its hands flaking and dry, its back now sunburned almost to the buttocks. The pain is racking, hits its big dumb body and jolts. But all that is on its big dumb mind is survival. All it wants to do is escape into the depths of the ground, the cold cool ground, and be safe. It must forget the sun?must get away from its prying, ever radiant, ever warming ephemeral gaze. It must find suitable ways to last.

The sun begins to fall. Its glow begins to fade into the back dropping distance. Its then orange radiance is now a mosaic of punctured color. There's a shade of violet flower, a rose-red crimson bleed, a fruitful orange of growth, a bruise-blue wound. The sun is setting, permeating its intensity, its vivacious coordinationed hues. It's not leaving without a show.

From the big creature's stupid form, the colors cadence all around. The kaleidoscope of variance dances and dresses the creature's naked flesh. And the big creature's stupid face, stern with determination, hard with pain, flickers with the light too. The light touches the creature's face in a powerful grasp, and slowly leaves with one last dying finger.

The sun has fell. Now night approaches.

But the big dumb creature, having worked most of the day, has dug itself a big hole in the ground. The hole's diameter is just enough for the big dumb creature's form. It wearies its eyes for one last look at the sun. The big dumb creature gets the very edge of the sun's leaving face. It then looks around its barren surroundings once more. It sees the endless desert which encompasses it.

Slithering into the hole it begins journeying down. Its entire body spasms in aching pains, and sunburn stands on its back in harsh overtones down to the buttocks.

Down it climbs in the hole. It climbed for what seemed eternity. The sun is lost to the creature's primitive cognitions. It is no longer cognizant of where it came from; it is only realizing of where it's going. Down it tells itself, into the ground, where it's safe, that's where to go.

It went down and down and deep?went into the bowels of the earth, a festering thing going and moving. When it reaches the end of the hole, it sees a new surrounding, a new dwelling.

It fell from the sky, a naked form in a blur of innate motion. The fall is short and it lands.

All about there are large monoliths which seem to touch the sky; the monoliths look as if they would lean and fall at any moment, and crash to the ground, but they do not. These monoliths have people coming into them, and it can see there's clear squares appropriated on the monoliths. Some of the squares leak light out into the daytime. Others only let light in.

There is a hustle and a bustle all about. Sputtering things go to and forth, the wind hitting the creature's face each time as they pass. People walk along the side of the passing blurs, creating a tangled mess.

One approaches the big dumb creature and opens his mouth. The big dumb creature doesn't understand and gives a glint of miscommunication in its eyes. The man looks angered. It only can look at the man and wonder what his problem is. And feel a rumbling in its stomach for food, and the lethargy of needed sleep.

The world is so anew to this creature's eyes. It looks to the sky, wishing it could go back up, but finds its hole is gone. It falls to its knees, grabs them, and cries from dry eyes. The salty murk clouds its vision but does nothing to its temperament. Sadness wells in its pained body, and an ununderstanding and unacceptance of what is happening heaves its mind. The man is still by the big dumb sullen creature. He looks angered and walks away.

It lay there a long time.

Collecting itself, it got back up. There is now a circle of people surrounding it, but it doesn't pay attention. It gathers away its pains well as it can and sets out to find some food. It comes upon a large building. It isn't quite a monolith but the front of it has a picture of food. The big dumb creature decides there must be food here. Somewhere.

The sign on the sliding door outside the store read SHIRT AND SHOES REQUIRED. It can't read so it doesn't even see the sign.

The doors slid open. It walks in. People stare at the creature. Some place their hands on their mouths. The look on their mouth says, "This is the worst thing to happen on the world ever. Anyone who does that shouldn't be around long." Others look at it with groping eyes. Some act like it doesn't even exist, walking right past it, whistling on their way, their eyes set ahead.

It walks to where it sees food. It grabs a round sphere which appears to be food. It puts it in its mouth. It tastes good. The texture of the food is crispy and hard but sweet. It clenches its jaw and takes another bite, and another. Inside its body its esophagus pushes down the bitten pieces of food to its stomach. Its body begins digesting the food to turn it into energy and waste.

Now it needs to satisfy its thirst. Its throat still feels rough and hoarse. It walks around the store a while. People still turn their heads and stare.

It finds a container with some fluid in it. It imbibes it to its mouth and felt the nice fluidity of it. The nice flow of it as it soothes the throat.

Just as it finishes guzzling down its beverage, a man with perceptive eyes and an embarrassed face approaches. He grabs it by its shoulder's skin and speaks harsh words to it. He drags it to the entrance and tosses it out. He screams more words to it and rages off. It doesn't understand what went wrong. It only feels the skin of its shoulders and feels a bellow of pain. It only knows it's full of food and water and that's what matters.

The stupid dumb creature begins wandering off. It wants to get out of there. It wants to leave. Looking to the sky, the creature sees the sun in the sky. It looks the same. It remembers.

It wants get away from the sun. It holds bad memories. The big stupid creature begins walking faster. It pans its gaze away from the sun, the undeniable afterimage of it racking its eyes and then leaving. Soon the hustle and the bustle is lessening. There's less monoliths, less tangles of people. It finally feels like it's getting away from this place.

It's out away from the epicenter now. There's only solemn things flying by, and next to no one out and about. It has come to a wooded area. Great trees crush out of the ground, their roots gnarling things. Light bushes also cover the ground, fighting for supremacy they'll never have against the great trees.

It can also hear the chirping of some birds in the trees. It looks up and stops its walking. It can see a bird sitting in the tree. There's eggs in there too. The eggs are oval and white as angel's wings. It stares at them in wonder but is soon walking on. It puts its head down, and is racked by its pain. Its back hurts; its head aches; its shoulders burn from the man's hands on his skin; its fingernails are broken and full of grime and dirt from digging, and full of nestled sores. Its body isn't in good condition

It feels fragile as it walks. It's like it's going to scatter and blow away in the light breeze, broken pieces of terse, sorely aches and pains, wounds and cracks. Soon it needs to sleep.

In back of it a noise emanates. The cracking of twigs and leaves and it starts off running. It runs with the last of its strength. Something pushes it to run. A large ***** of fear stabs itself in its heart. It must run, it reasons, or it shall be susceptible to more pain. The people didn't like it, so it must avoid them.

The big dumb creature runs quick, easily outrunning its follower. When it stops running, it can see a small animal in the distance. It approaches it.

The creature it finds has flappy ears, a puffy tail, a round nose. And it hops when it walks, its fur moving up and down in spurs. It looks close at what the rabbit is doing. It's put its paws into the ground and is digging. The mound of dirt collecting grows in each lithe second.

The stupid dumb creature smiles. It's a pained smile lighting the corners of its cheeks, a slow smile spreading few and far, but still showing hope. It looks at the rabbit with great understanding and love, and a great feeling of joy from watching it dig.

Its paws went in the ground, the other in the ground, and out came the dirt in clouds, and landed. Then again. And again. The little creature works hard. The eyes are focused. The body exerted in what it's doing. The entire being moving autonomously. Paw goes in, other goes in, out it comes in a dirt, down the paws go again, up they come again, another dash of the dirt as it flies up and lands and the hole gets deeper. It was beautiful.

The stupid dumb creature smiled a long time. Then it got to sitting down on a tree beside the rabbit. Its eyes drift half open for a long time as it watches. And slow, so slow, its eyes shut, and it slept a much needed sleep.

[b][center]"The Nobodies and Moana Jane"[/b][/center]

She walked through the fields and to the house. It was dark, little light about, little to see. Had anyone seen her, they would have seen a naked, pale woman walking. Their eyes would have diverted to her, most thinking her crazy to be walking. Others might stare at her in wonder, starting at her perky, rounded breasts, the nipples standing out; maybe at her buttocks, full and round. But there was no one to look at her, to see her. And she knew this. She was just a pale figure anyway, no one would care. She was just a faded woman, she didn't matter.

The house's lights were not on. The family's cars stood in the driveway. There was some white car, discernable in the mellow light of the streetlamps. She saw this as she approached. Another car was black, and was not readily seen in the light. But she didn't care about the cars. She didn't care about anything. Not a thing at all. As she walked by, she noticed the mailbox. On it, hard to read, she found the family's name. She squinted to see it. THE NOBODIES, it said. The Nobodies. She thought over it, pondering it. The Nobodies. It was an interesting name for, she hoped, an interesting family.

She walked up to the door. It was a nice door, she thought. It had those little windows in it, and the symmetrical look to it; it looked heavy and sturdy, full of a thick amount of wood. The doorbell glowed dully on the side of the door. She wondered what it sounded like?was it loud and boisterous, sullen and low, whispering and blowing? She didn't know. And having looked about the door, she walked into the house. She walked straight through the door of the Nobodies' house, not opening it.

Although a ghost, she thought she was a very pretty ghost. Often, she would stare at herself, in awe. She would look down at her ample breasts, at her thin line of pubic hair, at her stomach. Oh how she wished she could look at herself in a mirror, to turn around in perhaps catch a small view of her back, of her buttocks, of her shoulder blades, of how she looked in the back. And how she wished to see her face?to see it, and what it looked like. She wondered, after all these years, if it looked the same as she had remembered so long ago. She thought probably not, that time gnarled most things, making them harsh and different. It was probably like that to her memory of her face, and perhaps her face itself.

The first thing greeting her as she walked in was a dog. The bothersome dogs, they would always annoy you; would always come in right off and bark. They were the most bothersome things one could be stuck around. They were always alert to the paranormal, and even moreso alert to ghosts, such as herself. Looking at the dog's nametag, she found it was affectionately called Lady. She also noticed a quiet peculiar thing: the dog didn't have a body. It didn't have a body, and was, it seemed, an apparition as her. How she let out a silent laugh. But of course, she thought; they were the Nobodies. They had, as their name so said, no bodies. Quite a fun thing that was.

So they must all be ghosts, she began to understand. Lady was barking and yelping as she stood there with her. Stupid dog, she thought; bothersome old thing. The dog had certainly awoken every single thing which dwelled here in the house. Everyone and everything was alerted to her presence, and would soon come down and wonder what was all the racket.

She picked up the bothersome dog, petted it, groomed it, gave it love and care. It went right on her breast, and pushed it and felt it. Petted and lulled, it quieted and stopped its yelping. She set it down just as the family began coming down the stairs close by her.

"What's this racket?" one said.

"The stupid dog," said another.

"Someone must be here. I wonder who, at this late hour, it could be." said another.

"Can't get no sleep round here, none at all," said the most angry and loud voice of all.

And they all came down the stairs, one at a time.

One was a floating brain, but with no body. It was a meaty thing. Eyes were imbedded in the brain tissue as well as a mouth. It floated above the ground. "What's this racket," said it again. And looked on at her, being the first down.

Down came another peering eye, and this time it was an arm. It was down to the bones, with skin hanging on it like moss on roots of a tree; it also had eyes: they were on its fingers, and its mouth on its hand's palm. "Ah," the bony arm exclaimed, and stared in wonder at the woman.

Here came another. It was a leg, also down to the bones with skin hanging on it like moss on roots of a tree. It moved as if it were one leg walking in locomotion, and on its toes there were two eyes and a mouth. "So there is someone here."

And now came the last, with widest eyes of all: for he was just that, eyes, wide eyes which glared. Inside the pupils there were mouths that moved when it spoke, those pupils being a dark blue. He stared hard at the woman, and thought she was quite beautiful. "Well if I ain't ever seen Beauty. And if Beauty ain't in the eye of the beholder." He stared.

She thought he was such a Peeping Tom at that moment; she thought that to them all. She covered her breasts in embarrassment with one arm, and her vagina with the other. She blushed red, and it was like roses appearing on her cheeks, as if blood had came there.

"She looks quiet flushed," said the Brain. "But she looks like an intelligent woman, she looks like she has brains. Very wonderful brains, I believe."

"I'm the plumber of the house, you know," said the Arm, with a flush. "I fix the sink when it gets broken, the toilet when it breaks. You know?do it since the others can't. Why, if I've ever seen a toilet flush, then each time I saw your face, my lady. And I don't mean it bad at all, I mean it well?you are beautiful. And look?look at her arms! Why, they are so petite, and so firm! What nice arms!"

"I have a foot fetish," said the Leg. "And your feet, they are so fine."

"Jesus H. Christ," said the Eyes. "I ain't seen nothin as beautiful as you are. Ain't she fine; finer than anything I ever seen? And look at them eyes?them eyes, they're so beautiful. They kinda penetrate into ya, and ain't they just windows inta her soul? What soul she's got, anyhow."

This was all well, but now she was even more embarrassed. She didn't know what to say, and kept covering up her private areas, not wanting them to see.

"You know," she said, "I only came here to find a place to haunt. But here I find this house is already haunted?haunted by the Nobodies themselves. It seems I should be going on my way, I think. I think it's been nice seeing you all, and?"

"No, no no. Please stay, we would much like that," said the Brain. "We could haunt here together. And we could learn from each other."

"Yea," said the Eyes.

"I agree," said the Arm.

"I have a foot fetish," said the Leg.

She thought about it. Thought over her past abodes. How she had haunted, in her early years, a small house. One that was right beside the one she had died in. The lady that lived there alone had died of a heart attack when she had finally had enough of being haunted. "Dear lord," she would often say, then, "God, is this your message to me? One of a naked, beautiful woman! Oh, it must be the angels! Oh God, abstinence is the only way!" And when she had kept haunting the woman day in and day out, the woman, nicknamed Sis, had grown scared. She would often say it was her mother, coming from her death, and haunting her. "My mother died young," she would say. "With my birth!" And she would get in a frenzy of crying. And one day, it seemed, she had had enough of her, and enough of it all, and died. Died by whatever decree that had killed her. Maybe Sis died because of her fear of her mother, and that she was haunting her. Maybe it was just her time. Whatever it was, it was past.

There were other places, too. But none had been as strange as the first one she had haunted, and certainly not as strange as this one she had stumbled on.

"Well," she said to the Nobodies. "Is it true I'm welcome here? Or are you just being good company?"

"No!" said the Brain. "We would love your company. Quite truly, we would love it."

"Yes," said the Arm.

"Yea," said the Eyes.

"I have a foot fetish," said the Leg.

She thought for a while. She looked at the little dog now, Lady. Watched as it wandered around.

Maybe staying with the Nobodies would be an interesting venture. Even worthwhile, and give her some closure.

"Okay," she finally said. "I'll stay."

"That is good!" said the Brain. "And what's your name, by the way?"

"Yes," said the Arm. "What is your name?"

"Yea," said the Eyes. "What is your name?"

"I have a foot fetish," said the Leg.

"My name," she said. "I have no use for a name. Why, 'a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.' I forgot my name long ago, as I'm sure you all have, too?"

"Yes," the brain said.

She thought over a name. "You can just call me Moana Jane." She finally felt comfortable to uncover her naked form, and did so. She waited in the naked silence for them to speak. Then Brain spoke up again. Moana could tell they were all staring at her in her full, naked, explicit beauty.

"Sounds good, my lady," the Brain said. "My name is just Brainard. Just Brain, if that's your fancy."

"And I'm Armistice. Or just Arm, if you'd like."

"Me, I'm called Eyesen. Just Eyes if ya like."

Leg finally went away from his foot fetish line. But he was still staring at her feet as he spoke, and oh how did he like her feet. "I'm Legland. Leg is fine, of course."

She smiled. "You all have such nice names. Much better than my name, I think."

"Why thank you," they all said at once.

"Not a problem. So it is late, and even we must sleep, hm? For there is nothing to scare this late."

"Oh, there's places to scare," said the Brain. "There's places to scare all over. But, if you are tired, you can most certainly sleep. Here?come on upstairs, we'll get you set up and ready to sleep, Ms. Moana Jane."

"Okay," Moana said.

They led her upstairs, and settled her down, and she was soon sleeping sound and well.

2
The world moves in slow, gasping breaths. It's like it has asthma, or it's a smoker?a smoker now having a horrid, guttural cough; one causing it to choke for its breaths. Causing it to fight to do that most intuitional, simple, given thing. To breathe.

The TV is across them. It gives its intermittent light. It casts its glare.

She is in his arms. He in hers. They look at one another. Their noses are to each other.

His breath is warming. She looks in his eyes.

It starts going slow again. The world is gasping for breath. It wants to die away. She doesn't want to see this again.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you," she says.

They kiss.

Then off come their clothes.

Then. Then the world gasps for breath. She tries to fight it. She doesn't want to see it again.

No.

The TV gives its light still and dances on their flesh forms. Two bodies writhe and move. One to another. Unification. Coalescing. Up and down. Nature, and desire, and lust, and love.

And death.

She had been dating him then. She fights it. Go away, go away.

But it won't go away.

She sees herself naked, just as she looks now. She sees him naked, sees it again. And why won't it die? Why won't it go away?

No.

She can't fight it. She looks in his eyes. He's on top of her and he's moving. His face. His eyes. She brushes them with her hands and looks in his eyes. The eyes are deep and penetrating. Are groping and holding. Inside the eyes. It's like metal. Cold metal and a trigger.

She knows what's going to happen. She can feel her lips smiling in pleasure now. But she knows what's coming. She can't stop it.

It's a different time. A different place. A few weeks later.

They're in the room with the TV again. He pulls out a gun. The gun is big and has everything in it. In its metal grips. And his eyes. Those eyes. Dead eyes. Metal eyes. Cold eyes. Inside the eyes.

"Let's **** now, or else," he says. She doesn't want to ****. **** is a bad word. Don't say ****, don't say it, that's bad, it's not nice. That's bad to say, Janine Daw. That's bad don't say that. Don't?

"What did I just say? Jan, take off your ****** clothes!" ****** clothes? ****** clothes? They're not ****** clothes, they're clothes! Regular clothes, just clothes. Don't say ******, ******'s a bad word, and it's not nice. That's bad to say, not good at all. Don't say that. Don't?

Floating in endless time. World's trying to breathe. Heave, in out. Breathing monster with teeth and large, mean eyes. Come on, die. Come on.

Come on die.

"?if you don't do it know, I'll ******* shoot you!"

"I don't understand, Danny. What is this about? Everything's been fine between us up to this point. . ."

Up to this point, up to this point, it's been fine, Danny, fine up to this point. Why are you doing this Danny? It's been fine up to this point.

It's been fine, Danny, fine up to this point.

"?**** you?"

No. Die. Don't want to see it again. It's not what I want.

"?take your?"

Can't hear you. La la la. You can't hurt. You're not real, this already happened, it's done with, it's over with, it can't hurt me. You can't do it no.

"?clothes off?"

Heave. The world was trying to breathe. She wants it to die. She won't see this. The gun?the gun that holds life in its metal bullet death. Heave. No, she won't give in. She won't take her clothes off.

Go away. I don't want to see it. Make it go away.

You need to grow up, Janine. You know what your mother and I expect of you. You need to grow up, Janine.

You need to grow up Janine.

"?Janine?"

No. Won't hear you, Danny. You can't do this. I won't face it Danny. No Danny. I won't face it you can't do this. No, no Danny, no.

But the world heaves. Sharpens. It's happening too fast.

"Take off the ******* clothes, Janine!" His hands on her. His hands on her tight, thoughts fleeting, thinking about it, other thoughts, other things, happy thoughts not bad ones?

He rips off her clothes, takes them off. Wrenches them off. They're off. Tears in her eyes coming down and she fights.

She fights but it's futile, isn't it? It's useless. Has no bearing, won't do a thing.

It's already happened. It's happening again. No. Not again. Enough.

Enough.

"Enough," she said. Whispered.

"What?" said Brainard. "What was that, Ms. Moana Jane?"

She sat up in the bed. Her hands were hard on the sides of the bed, her eyes full of fear, her breast's nipples hardened. "Nothing," she said simply. "Just a nightmare, I think."

Just a nightmare.

One of those monsters. The ones that haunt, like ghosts.

"Sure it was just a nightmare, Ms. Moana Jane?" Brainard said. He sounded concerned.

They were all around her. There was Legland, Brainard, Armstice and Eyesen. Lady came in as well. She jumped up on the bed, licking Moana. She was glad for the dog then. For it to be licking her. It calmed her. She was glad, too, for them all.

"It's nothing to worry about," Moana said. "I'm fine. Just getting over the nightmare, is all, I think."

They nodded.

"Is it still night?" she asked.

"It's almost dawn, Ms. Moana Jane," Brain said.

"Oh."

It was silent.

"Ms. Moana Jane, anything we can do?" Brainard asked.

"No, I think I'm fine. Just getting over my nightmare, is all. I think I'll just relax for a while, if that's okay."

"Okay," Brain said. "We'll leave you, then, Ms. Moana Jane?"

"Yes, that would be fine."

"Okay." They all turned to leave.

"And thanks. . .thanks for letting me stay." She meant to thank them for waking her up?if that was what they had done. She had a feeling, a deep one, that they'd seen some things they weren't discussing to her. She had a feeling they had woken her up.

"Not a problem, Ms. Moana Jane," Brain said. Brain seemed to be the one who spoke for them all, she thought. Not any of the others had said a word, which was odd; Leg hadn't even said his foot fetish line, which he seemed love. They were all solemn-looking, and she could read it right on their faces. They had seen something, and they weren't telling her. It was no bother, though.

They gave a bow of courtesy, one by one, and left the room.

She looked about the room. There was an old window directly beside the bed. It was large, but old. Its shutters rattled in the wind. She looked outside. She was on the second story of the house. It looked like it might rain. There were clouds in the sky, dark billowing things. They floated about. One looked like a hand, another like a spider, maybe. She had always found it fun to gaze in the sky, let her thoughts wander, and discern shapes and objects from clouds. It gave her a glee.

She locked her shoulders around her breasts and shivered. It was cold out there. Even though she was a ghost, she could feel things, at times. She shut the window, and it creaked in rust as she did.

Looking about the room more, she found it was a dusty old thing, nothing of too much interest. There was an old, broken dresser, beside the bed, opposite the window's side. A candle sat on the dresser's top. The candle had cobwebs running on it, thin white strands. She saw other webs too. There was one in the far corner of the wall. The cobwebs were all about.

She still felt tired, and she pushed the sheets close to her. She hoped she wouldn't dream about that again. It was the last thing she wanted to do, even though she was tired.

Fighting sleep, it took her a while to let it win. But she did, and when it came, it was a sound sleep. With no dreams.

Downstairs, they were talking about Moana.

"Did any of you hear what she said, other than when she yelled?" Brain asked.

"No," said Arm.

"Nah," said Eyes.

"Nope," said Leg.

"Well, what I heard was quite strange. Of course, there were her first yells?the ones of 'No,' and so on. But, since I was close to her, I also heard her say some other things. Things you didn't seem to hear. She was mumbling something about the word '****.' 'The word **** isn't a good word, that's a bad word.' Something like that.

"Of course, maybe I didn't hear her say that?but you know me, I don't think I just hear things. Then, of course, I heard her say 'Danny'?Danny, whoever that is?and there was also what she whispered low. 'Enough' she said, as if she were in a struggle. Isn't it strange?"

"I reckon so," said Eyes. "But I'm guessing it's just one of them nightmares. We all have em, don't we?"

"Well, yes," Brain said. "We do. But she sounded frantic. It was as if she were struggling. And that look on her face?on her closed eyes, and how her eyes were moving, and her whole body was for that second. . ."

"She probably was struggling. It was in the dream. I don't see why it's such a big deal, Brain. I'd just drop it, you know?" Arm said. "I'd just drop it. I know it was scary?we were all scared, but what can you do? She was just having a nightmare, that's all it was. Even if she was shaking, it was because she was in a deep dream. One that, probably, was pretty real"

Brain, defeated, decided Arm was probably right. "I guess you're right. But you just have to know, I'm just like this by nature."

"I understand," Arm said. They all understood. Brain had been like it since forever.

Brain nodded. "Of course you do. You all do?it's just how I am."

They were sitting around the kitchen table. They had slept a while as well, but had been awoke by Moana and her screaming 'No's.' Now none of the Nobodies could sleep.

There was a window beside the table. Through it, the sun's rays rose. Day was coming. Another day.

Usually the Nobodies would go out haunting late at night. But during yesterday, night and day, they'd done enough of it. They themselves were just as tired as Moana seemed. That was why they had been sleeping when Moana came in. Ghosts do like their haunting, but some do get tired of it. And some people just aren't scared, especially those the ghosts held as regulars. Soon, they had decided, they'd expand the area they scared. Find new people.

For now, though, they were just relaxing. A silence had come over all of them. They sat at their table, just thinking.

The sun was getting brighter and brighter; its warming rays touched them. They looked out the window and watched.

In her room upstairs, Moana slept, and the light touched her, too. Many of the Nobodies downstairs were thinking how beautiful she looked.

"Isn't Ms. Moana Jane beautiful?" asked Brain through his gaze at the sunset. "She seems so smart, and intelligent. Now that's a woman."

Arms flexed his bony hand. "I think her arms're what makes her beautiful."

"And that's what you think, Arms," Brain said.

"Yes, it is."

"I have a foot fetish," said Leg. "Her feet are, without a doubt, the most best part of her, and the best feet I've ever seen. I've never seen such fine feet as those. Never."

"No, you all got it wrong," said Eyes. "It's them eyes of hers. I ain't ever seen eyes like them. They's blue and beautiful, ain't never seen any as beautiful as em."

Soon they were all fighting over what made Moana most beautiful. Eyes said it was her eyes, Leg her feet, Brain her intelligence, and of course, Arm her arms. Too bad they didn't know it was everything that made her beautiful.

[b][center]"The Pig of the Machine" (The Desolate Shatter and the Open Plain)[/b][/center]

Me and mommy were in the kitchen. I like the kitchen it's a beautiful place. I can sit there and me and mommy will talk about things and I can ask her many questions. Me and mommy at this time were eating our breakfast. We did it every day.

Mommy had her newspaper in her hand. I read the heading and it was about how we had dropped the second bomb on Japan and the war was ending. Mommy said she was glad about it but she said it was bad. I asked her why it was bad but she said it's not something a kid should know. I wanted to know but mommy wouldn't tell me. I moved my spoon around in my cereal and looked in my bowl. It was white and had the cereal in it. I still wanted to know but mommy wouldn't tell me. I wished mommy would to me.

Mommy was eating her usual. It was toast with jelly and butter and the paper was set down as she ate a piece. I asked her if it tasted good and she said yes and I said that's good. And then I told her my cereal was good and took in some bites. When I looked back up she was reading the paper again. It moved and made little noises. I stood up from my table and told mommy I was going to watch some cartoons. She said there wouldn't be any cartoons on and that I had school soon. I said okay and I went in the living room and turned on the TV.

It was on the news. They showed a picture of a big explosion. It was big. There was a big cloud of it and I thought it looked like a mushroom. I didn't know what it was but I knew that it was a bomb and that it had ended the war. Mommy was glad about it but she hadn't told me why. The news lady with blonde hair was going on and on about something about unconditional something and she was saying she was glad the war was over. I guess I was too. But I'd always liked the war and I thought it would be cool to be in one.

I had army men they were made of plastic. I would play war with them it was fun. I would always make General Ulysses the leader of the green side and General Eisenhower on the tan side. Then I'd have them do war and it was always so much fun. General Ulysses was always the winner because he was better than them all. He was the most strong and could stand up to anything that came up to him. He couldn't be killed ever and he was powerful. Around him the greens would feel glad and they'd always win. But not without some dying but it turned out good in the end. The tans lost. I can't remember any time the tans had won. They were just not as good as General Ulysses. He was better than them all and would never lose. It was fun to play war. I even had paratroopers and they'd come down and land and it was great. I like the way they fall.

When I was sitting there thinking about how fun war was mommy said it was almost time to go. I told her okay and I went through the channels. It seemed every channel had the same thing on it and it was with the big explosion looking like a mushroom. I decided maybe mommy was right and there was nothing on the TV so I went back in the kitchen. Mommy told me I should get my coat on and I did it. I put it on and it felt nice and warm.

We got in the car and mommy started the engine. She kept saying she was glad the war was over but she said it had been a bad war. I asked her why it had been bad again and she said a boy shouldn't know that so I gave up. We backed out of the garage and went outside. Then we were going and she was taking me to school. Then mommy would go to work. Mommy worked at a sewing shop she made clothes. She was a good sewer and she had sewed me many things. I wished I could sew like mommy. Then I'd be able to make her even more proud. But mommy was proud of me I knew she told me it many days. It always made me smile I was glad to make her proud.

I was looking out the window watching the cars pass by just thinking. Over there there was a car passing by and there were shops and places where you buy things and it was all passing too fast and I couldn't see it. I was thinking about what I would learn in school today. I hoped it was about the war and how it had ended and why it was good but it was bad too. I wanted to know and maybe they would tell me it there.

Then all the sudden there was a bump and then it was all flying. I heard my mommy scream and it made me scared more scared than I've ever been and I started crying. I didn't know what was going it was all over and it was all over. And then I went black and I couldn't see anymore but I was still awake somehow and I didn't know how.

Me and mommy were in an open field and it was bare and didn't have anything. There was only the ground and the sky and there was nothing else it was all bare. Mommy was holding my hand and she was staring ahead and I was crying. I asked mommy what had happened and she said nothing and didn't even move. I was so scared and I wanted to just run but mommy's hand was on me. I couldn't run then I wouldn't have her hand on me and then maybe I'd be even more scared.

I sat there and sat there and then it was getting night. The sun was going down and it was a big circle and it was fire. I watched as it slowly all darkened and I wondered where I was and I was still crying but mommy's hand was still on me and so I was doing okay. Then I just lay there and I wondered where I was and I wanted to know but mommy wouldn't tell me when I asked her she only stared ahead and her eyes were not moving. I was telling myself I was okay but I really wasn't I felt like I was going to just run or I was going to die or anything I didn't know. I was scared and that was all I knew and I didn't know what was going to happen.

Then there was a man in the distance I could see him coming it was his eyes. They were burning eyes and I swear they were there in the distance. And it was so scary I put my arms around mommy and held her close and I tried to make the man with the eyes go away but I couldn't. And mommy didn't do anything she only stared ahead and didn't say anything to me and didn't move. Mommy I cried and I cried and my tears fell on her I was still crying. She wouldn't answer my voice was going hoarse from all my screaming and I didn't know how much longer I could take it. The man was getting closer and closer and his eyes were glowing in the dark like the stars I had on my ceiling. I felt like something was going to happen and it was going to be bad and I didn't know what.

I wanted the man to get here already and do what he was going to do and do it. I was sick of being afraid I didn't like it at all. I didn't want to be afraid but there was nothing I could do. Mommy was what was scaring me the most she wasn't doing anything. She wasn't doing anything at all and she usually did all the time. Mommy I still was crying and I was asking her what was wrong but she wouldn't tell me. She was only staring ahead and I wondered what was wrong with her and I wished I could help her. There was nothing I could do I grabbed her face but it did nothing she only stared ahead. Her eyes they were scaring me and she was scaring and the man was coming. He was getting closer and I was shivering and I was so cold and I was so afraid.

It took the man so long to get there but when he got there he was there. And he looked at me and I was scared and I looked at him. He was tall so tall he was taller than the sky and his face was everywhere. I could see his eyes but they were many eyes and they glew and they were scary. The eyes were evil and they had bad in them and I wanted to run. I wanted to run so bad but I couldn't run there was no where to go and if I left mommy something might happen to her.

You stupid child the man said and I said yes I was a stupid child and I asked him to leave me alone. He said no it was time to make me a man it was time to kill me. I asked him what he meant why was he going to kill me but he wouldn't say. He only said it was time to die it was time for me to be a man. I asked him what was wrong with mommy he said she couldn't help me. He said she wasn't going to do anything for me now. It was too late he said and he said I was going to die.

I asked him what it was to die. And he said I should know and I said I did but I didn't understand it. He called me a stupid child again and stared me down with all his eyes. He was so tall and it was so scary. I wanted to run away again but I couldn't run away that would be bad.

He started calling me bad words that mommy said were bad and he said it was almost time. He said it was time to slaughter me like a little pig and like I was a little maggot. I asked him what a maggot was and he said it was me and then I asked him why I was a pig and he said because I was. I told him that wasn't an answer but I gave up and shivered when he said stop asking so many questions. I was so scared and I was getting more scareder by the second. I didn't know what was going to happen all I knew was I was going to die whatever that was. I guessed it was better to die than face this man. Or this monster whatever it was I didn't know.

It looked like a man but it looked like a machine too. Like a TV or my video games I played. He looked like he was both a man and a machine but wasn't all at once. I wondered what he was and I asked him and he said he was what I wanted him to be. I asked him what it was I wanted to be and he said that's for me to know. I asked him what it was for me to know and he said in big anger that it was enough with the questions already you stupid maggot. I said maggot sounded like a evil word and he said it was much more than that that it was that and more. He said something about maintain the status quo or something I didn't know what he was saying. I was too scared and I didn't know what he was talking about. I asked him in my shivering voice what the status quo or whatever it was was and he told me to shut up already you insolent little twerp.

That was when the sun started rising. We had argued all night and I had asked him questions. Mommy was still only looking ahead and it was like she was looking right at the man with the glowing eyes all over him. Her hand was still on me she had held my hand all night. I was thankful for it but I wished mommy would snap out of it. It was scaring me and I was really scared of this man and I was scared that she wasn't moving. I didn't know what was going and I thought soon I was going to find out.

Suddenly the monster man came down and he started beating me. The pain hurt it was all over me but it didn't hurt at the same time. It was strange and I wondered what was going on. Soon I was bleeding all over and there was sores on me and I was all crackled and I was wounded like in war like Ulysses never could have happened to him. The monster said to me it's time for the stupid child to die he doesn't need to live anymore. I only sat there and was being beaten and it hurt so much but it didn't hurt at the same time. It was so strange and eventually I was beaten down and my skin fell off and my muscles were coming off and suddenly I was falling apart. I was only a skeleton and I can't describe it it's too ugly but I still felt like me. And suddenly the monster took my bones and he ate me. And I was in his stomach.

In his stomach there was blood everywhere. Then I saw there was a chalkboard in the corner of his stomach and on the chalkboard it said pig. And then beside pig there was a hole in the chalkboard. I went through the hole shivering and I was only bones but I still felt like me. Inside the chalkboard I tumbled down and it was blackness. Then there was a man's hand and it grabbed me and he said hush child it'll be all right. Then the man was touching me all over and it made me afraid more than ever. He wasn't touching me in love but it was in a strange way that I didn't like and mommy had always told me to stay away from strangers.

Then the man started going up and down on me and then there was something touching me and I thought it didn't feel right. I looked down and I saw he was doing the bad thing to me. But I only could stand there and I felt like bones I didn't know if I was bones but I felt like it. I didn't feel any pain and it felt like nothing but I could tell I was feeling like I was in cold. It felt like cold on me when it was all over my hands.

The man going up and down on me made a moan and I looked in his eyes and I saw me in those eyes but it was him I was seeing. He said I was being born and I was being raped into existence and forced but I didn't know what he meant. He said it was time to grow up boy you've had enough of your piglet years. All I could do was stare and be frozen and scared and feel like I was out in cold like it was freezing me. I asked him what he meant but he didn't say anything and I wasn't looking in his eyes anymore I was seeing through his eyes. And I was in his body. It felt weird and strange.

I was out in the fields again and my mommy was lying there and I wanted to hug her and I wanted to get out of this place. I knew it was only a dream but I didn't know anymore. I looked at my hands and they were big and then I looked at my feet and they were bigger too and I wondered what had happened. That was when I looked over beside mommy and I saw me all bloody and then there was a big worm looking thing there and it was eating mommy and me and it was eating the ground and the sky and the air and everything. It was eating it all and the worm thing was changing it was growing wings and it was growing two eyes that were black and strange. And then I knew what it was it was a fly. I'd see those around the house they were pests.

The monster was still above me and I tried to ask him what was going on but I made a buzz sound and then I looked down and I was a fly and I had wings. There were other worm things everywhere and they were eating everything they were eating it away. And then it was all eaten and the monster too. They were all changing into flies and flying away and they buzzed with me. Buzz buzz they said and I buzzed with them.

The maggots I thought and that was when I woke up. Mommy was beside me her head was bleeding and her leg looked broken. But she was alive and she was screaming but it was a low scream. She had been screaming for a long time and it was dying in her. I knew what had happened then. We had crashed and it had been a bad one. I was still stuck in the car seat and I tried to move and it hurt but I could do it. Mommy was yelling and I told her it was okay I was okay but I asked her if she was okay and then she didn't answer. Her scream had died in her. She was dead wasn't she I knew it. It was just like the war only the best survived and all the rest died. I cried and one tear fell on my hand and it was wet.

I got out of the car and then I looked around. It looked almost like the plain only there were scatters of things everywhere. It looked all dead. And I wondered what had happened and suddenly far away in the distance I saw a big mushroom. It looked like a big mushroom and the ground shook and I knew it was a big explosion. It had been a big explosion. I looked at my hands and I saw they were hurt but good. I looked back at the car and I saw mommy wasn't going to come out was she and I cried some more. This shouldn't have been happening to me why was it happening and I didn't understand. Why had there been the big explosions I didn't understand. The big mushroom slowly went away and then I was left there and there was nothing.

I lied down on the ground I felt so tired and I felt so sad. Mommy was dead they were all dead. Someone had bombed us and I didn't know who but it was bad. I closed my eyes.

I opened my eyes and I was lying in bed but something in me felt changed. I didn't feel the same. I got up out of my room and I was crying and shaking and then I walked into the kitchen. Mommy was there and she was alive and then suddenly she wasn't there. There was a big explosion and I was sure it was the mushroom cloud again. I saw it all in slow motion. I saw her blood and guts and it was gross. I saw it all slowly go away and become nothing and I saw her die. And I shut my eyes I didn't want to see it.

I opened my eyes and there was a pig there. He snorted at me and I snorted at him. And we were pigs and I snorted back and he snorted to me we were talking. He said they were going to kill them. He said holocaust and I didn't understand. He said genocide and I didn't understand. He said it was time to die.

We were brought into a farmhouse and the man's eyes glew and he said it was time to grow up. I asked him what me meant but it only came out in snorts and he said shut up you ******* pig. I said the f-word was a bad thing to say but it only snorted out of me I was a pig I couldn't talk. He said quiet again and I was quiet.

In the farmhouse there were sharp blades and things swinging everywhere. And there were dead pigs' bodies all around and it smelled terrible. It smelled so strong it made me want to barf but I only snorted. There was blood everywhere and it was drying and some of it looked like it was disappearing. The blades made swoosh noises and it was scary but I only snorted some more. The man with the glewing eyes said he was going to kill me first I was such a loud ******* pig. The f-word was bad I said it was bad but it only came out in a weak snort. I didn't want to snort anymore I knew it was bad. The pig beside me was quiet the whole way.

The farmer pulled out a shotgun and the barrel stared me in the face and I looked back at it. It was big and scary and deep inside it I could only see blackness and it was dark. He pulled the trigger there was a bang it was all in slow motion. I saw the little pieces of it hit me and tear into me and I saw it all go in me and then I was dead. And I shut my eyes before I died.

I opened my eyes again and I was crying right away when I opened them. Where was I this time I thought and how much longer was this going to happen.

I was in the car again we were driving mommy was looking at the road and I was looking outside. The passing stores and shops went by and were going too fast for me to see them. Some cars were passing by. I was here again but why I didn't understand.

Then it all shook again. And then there was the blackness again and I opened my eyes. I was in the car again but this time the outside was different. I could read the signs. One said whores all night right here. Another said welcome to hell. Another one said time to grow up stupid kid. Another one said apply inside for a job and get it. It all flew by a million things I only read what I could and I didn't understand what any of them meant. What was going on I didn't know.

I looked over at my mom and she was older and she was gray. Her leg was broken she said to me and she couldn't walk anymore. I asked her why she was older and I cried and I wondered when it was going to end and I wondered what was happening. Mommy said nothing after that she only looked ahead and I was reminded of the man in the open fields with all his eyes and mommy's hand on me. Her eyes looked dead and I turned back to the window.

We kept going forever. The signs passed me by. Welcome to hell on said and another said time to grow up and another said something about taxes. I didn't understand what was going on.

We kept driving and driving and mommy was quiet. And I started to get more scared and more scared. I asked mommy what was going on but she didn't say anything she only looked ahead. Then there was something in me that wanted to open the door and go outside and stop driving. I tried to fight it but it won. I opened the door and fell out and I found out we had been going fast and I fell right on my head and cracked it open but I shut my eyes as it happened. I didn't want to see the blood and my brains coming out it would look bad and I didn't want to see it.

My eyes opened again and I was breathing heavily. I was hooked up to a machine and the machine said to me it was society. And I asked it what it meant but it didn't answer. It said it was everything and everyone and that it made things work. I asked it why I was breathing so heavily if it made things work. It said that I was broken and that I wasn't accepting society. I told it that I'd do anything it wanted as long as it let me live and made me fixed. It said okay and then it reached in me with metal fingers. The fingers hurt me and were cold and felt like coldness when I was out in it too long. And it grabbed out my heart and tore it and it was beating thud thud and it said it would need this if I was going to live and be fixed. I said okay but I realized I was dying even though I was alive. Without my heart I was dying and it didn't feel good. I was having trouble. I shut my eyes again and told society that I didn't like it and that I wanted my mommy. It laughed at me and said I was such a stupid kid and I was naive and I had a lot to learn.

I opened my eyes for the last time and I realized where I was. I got up from the chair. I looked around and then there was mommy. She said it's okay I know you're suffering from your psychological disease. I asked her what it meant but she said nothing and I saw she was hooked up to a machine. I said it was society and she stared at me and said I was talking nonsense. I told her it was okay I probably was. She said she was dying and I cried and I saw that she was hooked up to a tank. It said oxygen on it. I said it should say society there but she said hush now. I asked her if I needed to grow up and she said I already had but not inside. I said I didn't want to grow up and she said that was fine.

She told me to tell her a story before she died. She said I was a genius at telling stories and that I had a way with them even if they were violent. I asked her what she meant but she didn't answer. I told her about the war and I asked her again what it was about.

She put her old hand on me and said I didn't need to know and I asked her why. She said a kid like me didn't need to know. I said I wasn't a kid it was a long time since then. She said oh you're still a kid you'll always be one and then her eyes were leaving. I said I didn't know what I would do without her and she said she didn't know what she would do without me. And then she was gone and I cried. And I cried again and I cried again.

Then the men came in and I knew who they were. They wrapped me in a jacket but it was straight and I fought and I didn't want to leave my mommy but they said I had to. They said it was time to go. I asked them where they were taking me and they said they were taking me to the funny farm. I asked if the funny farm was where they killed pigs and they said no and said I was crazy. I decided to not say anything else and they took me away. They said they were going to analyze me and understand me and they were going to try and cure me. I said I didn't want to grow up and I started screaming and crying and all I could think of was my mommy and how she was dead. She was dead and I didn't know what I was going to do and I wanted to just be with her and have her for myself the rest of my life. I started screaming I wanted my mommy and then they tried to give me a shot. I fought and they said calm down this won't hurt and I said yet it will and I said I want my mommy. Then they gave me the shot even though I was fighting. They missed many times and then they finally got it and then I started feeling tired and I mumbled and mumbled and I said I didn't want to leave my mommy. I didn't want to leave her I didn't want to see her gone.

Then I went to a nice sleep and it felt good to sleep. There were no dreams none of it and if there were they were sweet dreams that didn't feel so real and didn't feel so sad. And in the dreams I saw my mommy over and over again and I never awoke from the dreams for a long time.

[Mimmsicle]

[size=1][color=#800000]The first story - It was filled with description, yet I didn't feel too bogged down by it. Well done.[/color][/size]
[size=1][color=#800000]Oddly enough, the more you pushed the fact that this was a dumb creature, the more I tried to read intelligence into his thoughts and actions. I don't know if that was your intent.[/color][/size] [size=1][QUOTE=Mitch][/size]
[left][size=1][font=Verdana]All it wants to do is escape into the depths of the ground, the cold cool ground, and be safe. It must forget the sun?must get away from its prying, ever radiant, ever warming ephemeral gaze. It must find suitable ways to last. [/font][/QUOTE][/size][size=1][color=#800000]I read that as the sun being [b]life[/b] and its rays being the [b]reality[/b]. Very interesting.[/color][/size][/left]

[left][size=1][color=#800000]There's so much to say about it, yet I find it difficult to express anything in particular. The pace was soothing, you put it a lot of meaning into what on the surface looks like a mere story. Very enjoyable.[/color][/size][/left]



[size=1][color=#800000][left][b][color=black]"The Nobodies and Moana Jane"[/color][/b][/left]

[left]A slight change in execution, once again. It feels like every new story is tinted with something new, a different side of you. [/left]

[left][font=Verdana][color=#000000][quote]Soon they were all fighting over what made Moana most beautiful. Eyes said it was her eyes, Leg her feet, Brain her intelligence, and of course, Arm her arms. Too bad they didn't know it was everything that made her beautiful.[/quote][/color][/font][/left]
[left][font=Verdana][size=1][color=#800000]Favourite line, though the entire story is very well balanced and written.[/color][/size][/font][/left]



[font=Verdana][size=1][left][b][color=black]"The Pig of the Machine" (The Desolate Shatter and the Open Plain)[/color][/b][/left]

[left]Like I've mentioned before, this one made me weep. The mix of beauty and utter pain was truly a rollercoaster for the mind. That is all I can say.[/left]

[left]- Mimmi[/left]
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