#1
More of a short story than anything. Whatever. Take it for what it's worth...


Studio apartment. Three beds in one living space for three people (though only two pay the rent). There's one throw-rug that sits n the center, usually slid out of place. There's no television set (these are artists that try too hard). There are five posters, count 'em, five posters and little to no other decoration. Five posters: A hockey star, Willem Dafoe, a promo for 2001: A Space Odyssey, a promo for Donnie Darko (of fucking course), and one that says "Recluse Recluse Recluse" over every square inch of it.

The boy (18 to 20 is still a boy) sits in one of the beds, his head propped against the headboard, reading Bukowski (any one gets the point across). It's not that he likes Bukowski. These are wannabe intellectuals and artists afterall. They crave nothing more than to be a part of this scene that they have ignored for 16 years and now, it consumes them. So they read read read. Watch watch watch. Paint paint paint.

The girl sits on the throw rug in the middle of the room. I'm calling her X379Z for security purposes. X379Z's hair is ass-length, but not in a way that suggests free-spirited ugliness (if that makes sense). But long in the sense that she just doesn't care to cut it. It curls gorgeously though and is the color of California. You know what I mean. X379Z is wearing a skirt she made herself from her dead father's Army jackets. Her t-shirt is a billboard for whatever Art-house band you prefer: Cursive, Sigur Ros, Xiu Xiu, EITS, whatever. Or maybe even a Hardcore act: The Number 12, The Jonbenet, Blood Brothers, etc. She's distraught.

"Are you ever going to finish that book?" she asks the boy, never raising her eyes from the throw rug.

"You don't finish a book of poetry," the boy said. "You just keep re-reading and re-reading until it's no longer relevant."

X379Z stood up as fast as one could, sliding the throw rug underneath the bed with the Dafoe poster hanging above it, her hands clenched in fists.

"You've got to be fucking with me," she says. "I've been offering you my pussy for over three months, and instead, you still have the ignorance to talk like some sort of Art school painting piece of shit poetry writing scene fucking fucker?! Are you kidding me with this shit?"

This story wrote itself within a short period of time.

That boy went outside to that studio apartment's filthy garabge and dead flower-ridden patio and he looked up towards Heaven and yelled, "God, you're gonna have to give me a sign, broseph." And like that, a streak of light brighter than most streaks of light flashed by quickly and intensely, leaving a flourescent silhouette long after it had burned out. A shooting star. A shooting star. A shooting star. The boy shook his head and looked higher up into Heaven, frustrated this time. "Jesus God, I've already seen a shooting star before. You're gonna have to do a lot better than that."

That boy killed himself later that night when X379Z showed up, drunk with one of his roommates, his hands on her waist, and they fucked gently at first, and then violently, the sounds of slapping and moaning keeping him up all night. She had offered him her pussy, and he denied it. But someone else came and claimed that pussy, and now this boy will never know the joys of this California red-head pussy and shall know no pussy for the rest of time. 'Tis a shame, because that pussy.....that pussy was a killer.
Poor advice.
#6
"a streak of light brighter than most streaks of light"

that made the piece for me

overall, you continue to create awesome stuff with a nice mixture of excellent writing and edgy content. The 'brilliant' statement has been thirded.
#7
pretty nice story, give's you some to think about. the scenario is pretty cool. what i didn't like is, that the whole sexual tension was so completely in your face. i think the story'd win if you made it less aggressive:
this boy will never know the joys of this California red-head pussy and shall know no pussy for the rest of time. 'Tis a shame, because that pussy.....that pussy was a killer. [sic!]
that sound just too... pre-adolescent.
- When I was your age Pluto was still a Planet. - anonymous
#8
owned
love dead like a crushed fly

for those of you who said you'd be interested in hearing my lyrics put to music- I started work on recording an album, if you get in touch with me pm or otherwise I'd be more than happy to fill you in
#10
You must like pussy


Anyway, it was a phenominal piece, and I hope you keep writing.
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