Poll: which 1
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View poll results: which 1
Red
4 57%
Blue
3 43%
Green
0 0%
Voters: 7.
#1
Voteeeeeeee!

Love. God. Family.

She was on her knees, mouth agape, looking to be saying her psalms. It had been forever since she had last tried to pray. Pink walls, pink bedspread, pink curtains, pink rug, pink tissues, pink pillows, pink stuffed animals, pink decorative roses, pink coat of paint to the house. A house of absolute chastity.

She had big blue eyes, big pale lips, and cheeks that shone with bright pink blush. She was average height with no overbite and her hands were the perfect size. She walked gingerly, painted toenail over painted toenail. She was dressed in a pink slip that strapped across her shoulders and rode down to just above her inner-thigh. No underwear, just dark red lip-gloss and heavy black-brown mascara. Her long brown ringlets bounced with each movement of her hips, big broad hips, right on the edge of adulthood. She walked gingerly, smiling into the night, completely immaculate. I haven't met a person yet to find fault with her.

Tonight's one AM was exactly like yesterdays: dark, sweet, and beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. The moon shone bright over the city bridge, her destination, and my hiding place. It began to snow. I trace each piece of God as it falls over the neighborhoods, over the cul-de-sacs, power lines, and chimneys. Right as the weather man had predicted. A clean white cut of the world. A perfect place for new beginnings.

He was 5'7 and an average guy in her class. He sent her notes through her locker, she was real proud of them. They divulged things about him and little by little, just enough to keep her coming back for more. And she always did come back for more, every time.

There was a noticeable jump in her step this Friday after lunch on her way home. The letter folded awkwardly in her blouse told her to meet him Sunday night at one at the entrance of the old city bridge.

She was born in a city in 1989 to two parents. Her mother left the family through way of Cancer and her father realized everything wrong with the world, every sinful pitfall and prayed his daughter didn't fall into them. He began to work as a priest for the local Unitarian movement. Now she lived in a slightly smaller city, though it was much bigger than a town. She secretly kept faith in some sort of divine plan. She had lost count after eighth grade, but Sex was her calling card, her nom de plume. People knew what she gave and took it, all of it.

She knew her Father was asleep; she didn't want him to worry anyway.

His notes had gotten more provocative, instead of lists they became requests. First, her locker combination. Then, pictures of her in different positions, completely clothed. And finally, to meet, alone. She was always so giving, almost like God would have wanted her to be. She walked to that bridge Sunday at one AM and I followed. She stepped as if giddy at the allure of the mystery. Seventeen years of planning and fifty dollars to pay that kid off and faith brought us all to this point. This beautiful point.

Today looked as perfect as she did. The snow blended in with the moon and created a paradise. At the entrance of the cobblestone bridge now. A ruffle in the trees to Her left, but it was nothing, just the wind, divine caress. A ruffle in the trees to her right to balance out those of the left, divine symmetry. A final ruffle in the trees and I was upon her. Divine intervention.

Her eyes cried to the sky. In the night. In His and my arms, squeezing her closer and closer. Her heart pulsed to the earth. She heard no response. Shivers starting from her chest and moving inward. Father and Daughter in a final embrace, the flawless tableau. She couldn't breath. And into the night arose a scream that woke the moon and brought the sun. She couldn't breath.

The picture perfect Daughter on her knees, mouth agape, eyes made of glass. The picture perfect lover, on her knees, right where she deserved to be. A corpse hinged and hung in such a way to look as if she were deep in prayer. The house glowed pink, pristine and pure, completely perfect.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
#2
One in a Million Dead


The dicta-phone clicks on.

Background noise includes: The subtle rustle of newspaper pages, whispers from Achilles lungs - I can see they are dying inside - the tinny drumbeat of someone listening to Million Dead, compressed air weaving through the crowd. A soft voice saying 5 minutes....

Foreground sights include: 'London Waterloo - 4mins', a tunnel with no light at the end - the tangled ouroboros - hipster clad and clueless kids, businessmen living the dream, gum infected seats, the walking dead, the soon to be dead; air-wasters, timewasters, life-wasters.

I don't dare sniff.

I am an author, ergo I am faceless, I'm just a dictating narrator; providing a novel take on cowards’ pornography, only for nerds. I walk and I exist without so much as a mention of my name, or a shook hand, a pat on the back.
I write books because I wouldn't want to be a character in one, it usually means you are life-less or masticated. You’re either a passing aquaintance or it’s like they acknowledge you've passed but didn't think fondly enough to say the simplest "In memory of.." it's just, "You're dead, here's a ****ing book"; yet that is exactly how I feel.

“I WROTE 'POSTHOMOUS', I AM...”
”The train to London Waterloo will arrive in 3 minutes.”

Three people look up. One seated next to where I was standing, yet none of them want to know my name, not one. They're just people smiling at strangers on trains. I could jump right now, die before I’m ready: I know the kids would love it if I do.
Everyone here would forget who they are and where they were going for a second or two, perhaps wonder why I did it, but as quick as the train passes, they'll remember me as that bastard that wrecked their night out, seeing their sick mother, visiting friends; I'd just be a reason for the ‘delay’ – their song to ruin. Bovine-Sapien Economics, or B.S.E. for short. They are all mad, every last one: 2 minutes until they all cram into that carriage like cattle, stand right, let the passengers off first – stand clear of the edge of the world.

I am dedicating this message to their fathers, any father, my father, who once said to me, “The breaking of the back was the making of the man." I want him to hear my back breaking. Giving him a note would be as if I gave my eyes to Stevie Wonder, it would kill the genius, spoil the gimmick. When he hears this I will become a man, ordinary people will put a face to the name; they’ll see it in every newspaper, on every news report, through every speaker. They may not be able to pat my back or shake my hand, but they will all say, "he's that author, y’know that wrote ‘Posthomous’. Then I'll be another Kafka.

A soft voice says, “The train to London Waterloo will arrive in 1 minute.


The dictaphone clicks off. “I just need a moment to myself...”
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
#3
When it Rains the River never Runs Round me.

She’s lying on me and everything feels just right. The way she moves her hands from my back to my sides, the way she wraps her feet around mine. The way she kisses me just like I want her to. If it were a movie, we’d be shot in smooth focus with some sort of sepia effect crossed with a 70’s backdrop. I only know it’s a dream because the music playing in the background is music I don’t own, music I’ve never owned. Something from K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies. I can tell she picked it, because every time his lacklustre voice hit’s the airwaves her buttocks clench and our teeth clash as she kisses more frantically, like every second the DJ is speaking is another second of heightened sexual pleasure. She always was a sucker for a tone of voice.

It’s when Stealer’s Wheel starts to play the haze seems to lift and I wake up, and instead of those soft lips exploring me I find myself in the jaws of some disease-ridden stray dog, salivating about something that I don’t have, and if I did I wouldn’t give the filthy ****er a nibble of it. Worse is, my arms have subconsciously wrapped themselves round this dogs back and to any passers by it’s like I want this dog like the girl of my dreams. When I fully get to grips with the situation and push him away, there’s a gang of five or six red-eyed teenagers s******ing to each other and pointing at me.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” I say, fully well knowing that these were the sort of kids you would rather kick out of school than keep in, just so they don’t **** everyone else’s lives up. The one that must’ve been their top guy, however they decide that, decided to answer back.
“’Least we know not to go round ****ing dogs, old man.” I didn’t take to the nickname. I had never thought of myself as an old man, but as I watched the pack walk away I remembered two lines of poetry I had written a while back.

Whatever sort of man I was before
I know I’m not that man no more


It’s not Ginsberg but it was all the emotion I had on that page. I still have the notebook I wrote it in. It sits in between a mess of opening scenes for different plays, none of which got past the title. I used to think I could make money from those titles, based on the reputation I once had. Never did. Never got past the title since Cindy died. Cindy always helped me write. Cindy was the girl in my dream before the dog intervened.

So later on in the day I made my way to a old friends café, who lets me grab a cup or two for free, such is his way. I dig out the notebook again and write down “Taking Both Barrels”. In my mind it was going to be a screenplay about the troubles of two brothers who both want revenge on the same man, but fight over who gets to deliver the final blow. I wasn’t sure what the conclusion would be. Maybe they’d accidentally kill each other, leaving the traumatised man to go free. Maybe there’d be a girl involved.

I sit back and start to count the ceiling tiles again. Sometimes I see what I want to write in those tiles. I feel like writing some more poetry.

Slap the heart at birth and break it’s back
Let it beat, but watch the bruise turn black.


Cindy would have liked it.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
#5
damn. This is close....

I can't quite decide
I owe a ton of people critiques.

If you're one of them, please PM me.

I have trouble keeping track.
#6
I like both of your pieces quite a bit. I kind of wish that all of ours didnt have such a heavy influence of the theme of death though.

I would be tempted to vote, but I dont want to. I know what my choice would be, but it would be damn close.
#9
ever the humble one XD
I owe a ton of people critiques.

If you're one of them, please PM me.

I have trouble keeping track.
#11
What!!

It's rigged I say, RIGGED!!!

*Steve lols at Dylans ever-so manly leather jacket and pink flamed short shorts*
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.