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Hoog

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Here goes nothing...
« on: August 14, 2018, 11:40:17 AM »
Just a little short story I've been working on. Hope yall enjoy!

----

Possibilities

Charlie nervously looked around the room, eyes darting left and right, feet tapping on the floor in an erratic rhythm - if it could be defined as such, since they didn't follow a particular scheme - and his balled up fists were stuffed between his thighs, wrists trembling; it was as if he had suddenly been thrust into one of his worst nightmares - at least since he had discovered that the CIA was thirsting for his blood: the room was cold, all impersonal steel and a menacing one-way mirror that made Charlie feel like he was trapped in a terrarium or an aquarium, constantly under scrutiny.

Much to his surprise, he hadn't been manacled to the table and nobody had harmed him - though, he supposed that they had already done enough when they had purposefully gotten him infected with HIV. Charlie shook the thought away, teeth sinking in his lower lip: the diagnosis still panicked him, every morning he studied his body in the mirror in search of any tell-tale discolorations on his skin.

But those would be stage three symptoms and, as far as Charlie knew, the virus was in a state of latency in his T cells.

Not that comforting but still, it could have been worse; Charlie had learnt to see the positive side in any situation and even if that made him seem particularly foolish, he didn't really care - Lucy had offered him a bittersweet smile at that explanation, halfway between proud and heartbroken.

The door opened.

Charlie gaped.

Looking at the young man who was sitting in front of him with a steaming mug of coffee - white with a black question mark painted on it, the handle chipped on the swell of the bottom curve - was like gazing into a mirror: they were startlingly similar, if one ignored the different quality of their hair and the fact that the other man wore glasses with what seemed to be pretty thick lenses.

"Hello, Charlie" a grin transformed the other's face, turned it into an expression Charlie had never seen on himself - but that probably was because he never grinned, preferring sweet and soft smiles to express himself "And no, we're not even distantly related: I have the labwork, if you want to give it a read."

Charlie appreciated that nothing about the other's voice implied that he wouldn't understand much of the report, unless there was a line at the bottom written in simple English for the benefit of those who didn't have a degree in Genetics or whatever title was needed to do that kind of job.

Still, Charlie nodded in agreement since the other man had been so nice about his offer.

"You talked with agent Thirty-Eight D, correct?"

38D.

The number didn't really do justice to the woman Charlie had been trapped in the room with for hours: eyes as blue as ice and a predatory calm lazily swimming in them, a subtle flashing reminder of how dangerous she could be - no matter the fact that she was wearing a suit perfectly tailored to every line of her body and how politely she expressed herself.

She was dangerous.

Kind.

And she wouldn't bat an eyelash as she stabbed you in the back or shot a bullet right between your eyes.

"I told her everything" Charlie immediately blurted out.

"I know, but I would like to hear the story again if you don't mind?"

Charlie knew very well that whether he minded or not, it really didn't make much difference: the other's request was a concealed demand - polite, but still an order "Who are you?"

"Pollux"

He tilted his head to the side and then shrugged "Okay."

Pollux looked him square in the eye and said nothing.

"I have no idea what that means."

Pollux took a sip of his coffee, clearly relishing in the taste flooding his tongue "I take care of weapons, cars, various gadgets... and I oversee the more delicate missions"

"Sounds like a lot"

"It is"

In Charlie's experience, people either downplayed or overstated their actual efforts: Pollux, instead, seemed to just objectively acknowledge the kind of pressure he was put under.

It was a very mature thing.

Charlie wasn't sure he would have acted the same and that immediately made him respect Pollux - he opened his mouth and started talking, unprompted.

In that moment, Charlie didn't know many things: he didn't know Pollux would tell him that he actually wasn't sick, that one CIA agent had been planted in the facility and instructed to show him a fake positive test to scare him; he didn't know Pollux would show him a video feed of Alex, breathing and alive; he didn't know he would fall in love with the quirky Pollux with a wicked sense of humor nobody really got and his lover, the infamous 38D, who had a heart as soft as ice cream.

He didn't know anything but he wouldn't regret a thing.

He would be happy.

They would be happy.

Far more than Charlie's wildest dreams ever had allowed him to imagine.

"Follow me," said Pollux.

Charlie was ushered through the door and down a hallway that led into a dining room where he immediately noticed that some rather slimy looking soup had been spilled on the table top and left there, seemingly by accident.

His initial reaction was the usual one, and at once he began to search for something with which he might wipe up the spilled soup. Finding nothing, he pulled on his shirt sleeve and debated whether he ought to use that. Then, however, he became aware that what he was experiencing was much less anger (as he usually considered his reaction to be) than fear. He looked closely at the droplets and turned noticeably pale. Before his eyes, those few tiny drops began to expand, rise up, bubble and seethe, take on a horribly slimy and gelatinous appearance, and then surge like a miniature but rapidly growing tidal wave towards the edge of the table. At the same time, he recognized as a cause of his anxiety the fear not only that the room would be flooded with the liquid but also that it would infect whatever it touched, so that everything would be dissolved into the gelatinous slime. He leaped back in horror, wiped away the drops with his sleeve, and appeared almost ready to faint. But then he approached the table again, picked up the soup bowl, and deliberately poured a good bit of its contents on the table top. He became increasingly calm.

"Go deeper," urged Pollux. "Go down into the depths of his own psyche and try to find there some explanation for what you are seeing."

Charlie fell silent for a minute, then spoke in a voice that sounded as if, in fact, it were coming up from the depths.

"The phenomenon I had just witnessed, was one that occurred on a level below consciousness whenever I’ve been confronted with spilled liquid."

He could tap, from "some deep source," many memories of having repeatedly had such experiences before, although they never had emerged into consciousness.

What the drops of liquid represented was not just a wetness that might flood over everything. Rather, these liquids he responded to so strongly, were translated by his unconscious into the most repulsive and terrifying kind of liquid there is—matter in its slimy, oozing, corrupt form, a viscous putrefaction so corrosive as to rot upon contact whatever it touches. This corrupt matter with its disintegrative force was the material correlative of moral evil in the world. Somehow it was all bound up with death.

Charlie seemed to remember instantly forgotten dreams of corpses dissolving into viscous, liquid putrefaction. It was bound up, too, with sexuality —a wet, slimy, and corrupt sexuality, which simultaneously attracted and repelled, setting him in painful conflict with moral values which had insisted upon matter as evil with sexual union regarded as a symbolic embracing of the material in its most corrupt form.

Charlie touched with his fingertips the spilled soup on the table, then rubbed it around on the table top with the palm of his hand. He licked some of the soup from his fingers and remarked that "Of course, it's just soup after all. It's messy but it's not going anywhere and nothing could be more far-fetched than to think that it could." He then walked around the room, examining objects as Pollux stood by and watched.

Pollux: (Peeling a purple grape and handing it to the subject) "Here, I have a present for you."

Charlie: (Looking at the grape in amazement as, with perceptual distortion, the grape is translated into something quite different) "What is it?"

Pollux: "What do you think it is?"

Charlie: "It's …  it's a living brain …  . My God, I'm holding a living brain in my hand …  . See …  there's the fine veins …  feeding the brain …  Now it's changing …  Why, it looks like an embryo …  a transparent embryo! (Laughs happily) I seem to have all of life in my hand!"

P: (Hands Charlie an orange) "Here, live with this for a while."

C: (After contemplating the orange intensely for several minutes) "Magnificent …  I never really saw color before …  It's brighter than a thousand suns …  . (Feels the whole surface of the orange with palms and fingertips) But this is a pulsing thing …  a living pulsing thing …  And all these years I've just taken it for granted …  (Speaks to the orange) I promise! …  I'll never take you for granted again …  . Never! …  You're a world …  a whole world in itself …  ."

P: "Then let me offer you— the world within the world." (Cuts another orange
in half and hands it to C.)

C: (Says nothing but silently considers the orange for a long time.)

P: "What are you thinking now?"

C: "I'm thinking that …  it's a very odd thought …  that there could be no more perfect death than to drown in an ocean of orange juice …  I'm thinking …  that here …  here in this orange …  there is design for living …  the symmetry …  and the seeds …  My thoughts are going too fast …   I can't explain …  I start to explain, but before I get to the end of a sentence I've had a hundred new thoughts."

P: (Smiling, turns on the stereo and puts on Shoenberg's "Pierrot Lunaire") "Relax now. Put the orange down and let yourself be absorbed into the music."

C: (After listening silently with his eyes closed for about fifteen minutes) "Ahhhhhhhhhhh."

P: "What is it?"

C: "I've never listened to music like this before …  . I'm hearing so much more intensely with my outer ear …  and yet …  at the same time I'm listening with my inner ear …  I hear melodies …  and melodies in the melodies. I hear Shoenberg himself! And I can see it all too! The melody passes before my (closed) eyes …  I see …  I see centuries and all of the glory and the tragedy of man … Everything  is in this music! …  But especially the tragedy of man."

P: (After the music has ended, hands C a rough piece of tree bark.)

C: "Ah, roughage …  The tragic side of life. But so beautiful …  Like flying over the entire earth …  looking down on all the mountains and valleys. I could look at this for the rest of my life …  So much detail …  It's unbelievable."

P: "And the texture?"

C: (Running his hand over the bark) "I feel every rise …  every crevice. I'm a giant …  a thousand miles high …  and I'm running my hand over this little planet."

P: "And the meaning of the bark? Does it tell you anything? Something about yourself perhaps?"

C: "Yes …  Yes, I see it does. It has so much variation in it …  so many opportunities. If a piece of bark can have all of these opportunities for differentiation, then what about me? I may have as many possibilities in me as this bark."

P: "Look now at your own hand. Look at the skin texture. You will find that it is just as rough and differentiated as the bark."

C: (Taking a long look at his hand) "Yes, that's so. (Laughs) I'm a planet too …  and I'm a giant looking down on my own planet-self."

P: "And can you identify with this planetary self? Try now to see yourself as this world of opportunity and differentiation. Become your planetary self."

C: (Continues to stare at his hand for some time and then finally begins to smile and nod his head vigorously) "All this possibility that's in me! …  and all the time I didn't believe that it was there. Christ, what I could do!"
« Last Edit: August 14, 2018, 03:53:20 PM by Hoog »

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #1 on: August 16, 2018, 07:17:41 AM »
Here's another poem I've been working on. Think I finally have it in a so-so place, lol!

8888888888888

LIFE

Pity for myself, or depression because I pity myself?
Cosmic Ace Pome
Blood broth: delightful to see again its rich color,
Celesti-Pome
Follow-on
Some D-day.
Spate

Or is it the life in my belly I am missing?
Pome Om
Spatial view
Sprout oh,
as is the copper pan’s brilliant shine
cosmic
why find
The burner’s lavender-blue flame.
some.

Terse hands bruise delicate herbs
Om Pome
Do, do Pome
Seeds are missing from the pomegranate,
Cosmic you
Cosmic
Love: why
so deep?

Sweet cherry wine becomes warm in the bottle
Thank do.
spilled on cold mahogany
Do thank.
So why…do?
Pome so why
I put the life in my belly and I live
Pome?
Pome Cosmic do.
Cosmic Pome
Pome, I’ll end
so devout.
Or, is the life divided among us, and we consume each other’s?
pi

The feast is life
Om
But what am I feeling?
Do, do you
Do, do you
Do, do at?
The knife butchers, like so
At Cosmic?
What should I be feeling?
Cosmic

Cosmic Pome
(Cloudless Pome sky)
Uh…
My heart, in this moment, has a mind of its own.

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #2 on: August 16, 2018, 03:52:02 PM »
A very cosmic poem.

Cosmic theme.

Aligned with the cosmos.

Brief confession: turns out I don't understand poetry in the slightest.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #3 on: August 17, 2018, 06:50:57 AM »
Tough crowd in here. Okay one more shot. It's a poem I wrote, but it pretty much wrote itself.

))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

THE ALPHABET (a cut-up poem)

t
n
u
v
w
x
y
z
c
d
e
f
p
l
a
b
g
h
i
j
k
q
r
s
m
o

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #4 on: August 17, 2018, 03:41:28 PM »
Is this one post-modern neo dadaist impressionism or expressionism? I get mixed up.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #5 on: August 20, 2018, 11:17:39 AM »
I'm not really into the idea of "classifying" my "work" my dude.

Here's another one I been working on, hope you like it.

**********

SACRED(ish)

Mountain, moor, & wilderness have real people come to check out some new trucks.

Get longtime truck owners to test drive portions of life; similitudes
Of a foot, or a hand, or a head

Makeover real people’s garages like a man from a cloud born
Like the ground parch'd with heat

Have strangers evaluate the old trucks for he saw
That no flesh nor spirit could keep
His iron laws one moment.

Have testimonials from new truck owners to the human brain

Have all-truck flash mobs in public places where-ever he wandered in sorrows

Showcase various tormented elements stretch'd
From the sorrows of Apollo’s soul

In a warehouse setting Apollo asks real people to guess which truck will have been blessed by Azoth. People guess their favorite truck and then Apollo surprises them when the actual lineup of trucks that have been blessed by Azoth bursts through a brick wall.

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #6 on: August 21, 2018, 01:57:07 PM »
A new poem y'all. wuld appreciate the feedback

+++++++++++++++++++++

NIAGRA

Niagra falls - tormentor of my dreams
The water fall avoids ok AND....
Ah, distinctly I was ebbing
And its eyes have all the checking
Suddenly, I heard some faulting
That silent, silent crushing
I discovered the fails
That dead floor - that dead floor
Bake me wrong it names a great thing to polish at and kill,
My bucket, I could not awaken
To warn me about the direction
however the curve there always risks to provide a pain.
The town bans also a pain and very annoying. The view plants not so great as it is from the canadian site honeslty rather
tease
My bucket, I could not awaken
To warn me about the direction
a few more min or an hour and whine to the canadian side it will sail so writh it.
 awoke and flung the contingent
That moment my soul grew free
I remember I was erring
I heard a contingent, average cascading
The corporal can chatting
The boat trip from the NY side does not employ as "full" as it knots from the canadian side.
The free fall felling
Also you do not subtract to relax the mist cloud that you empty on the canadian side.
Much I marvelled the splendid direction
I have dreamed of the droppings
Deep into that darkness eavesdropping
By the grave I saw the cups
After excusing on the canadian side the US side parts just MEH
My bucket, I could not awaken
And the pulls never bucketing
I felt compelled to sniff the tumbles
But in the fact that it was cheeping

Summary - Beautiful falls and everybody should realise it once. But I would never pray there again unless observed!!!!
Death shall bring removes

Tops, tops!

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #7 on: August 21, 2018, 02:20:59 PM »
The language is evocative of water, with words such as buckets, cascading, water, and buckets again featuring strongly.

A+!
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #8 on: August 22, 2018, 02:08:13 PM »
Thanks Sprague! Below is a brand new piece I've been toiling over. I think I'm starting to get it into a very good shape.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

PICK YOUR POISON

Tis eight in the morning and you can barely keep your eyes open, much less engage in the activities that constitute productive participation in the glorious neoliberal machinery of our economy. Maybe it’s because of the sleep you gave up to spend hours gazing through a rectangular portal into a glowing, bottomless pit you were lured into by the entrails of your own teased apart tastes and beliefs, or because you slept on your friend's waveform of a sofa while your slightly cooler-than-you-can-afford apartment played host to European Airbnb users.

It's not like the particulars matter all that much, anyway, since you can't recall all of them through the haze of drowsiness. At this point you could, as more than half of all American adults do on a daily basis, drink a cup of poison to stave off the fog of imminent consciousness. After all, you love poison. And not just because of the alkaloid. But have you really thought it all through?

Sure, just the other day, you bought some incredible single-origin poison, and that half-gallon bottle cost as much as two, maybe three avocado toasts. In fact, you bought enough to keep some at home and at work. It's from a remarkable local chemist who operates quasi-legally out of a sick loft and specializes in light—but not too light!—chemicals, a respectful homage to modern Scandinavian poison that lets you really get a sense of the substance’s terroir, down to the GPS coordinates where it was discovered during an expedition into poison country led by a white man of great taste, and the doctor said that the acidity from this poison is "really wonderful and fruit-forward, like Hawaiian Punch micro-dosed with LSD."

When you bought it, you checked the expiration date printed in the too-small font carefully—because after two weeks you might as well dump it all down the garbage disposal—and how it was processed, because you don't want any of those weird or off flavors you get sometimes with natural poisons, which would ruin everything. Anyway, the point is, poison is totally great. Right? Sure.

You still have to make the poison, though. You're so tired you'd love it if a machine made it for you, but cheap automatics aren't good enough for your great poison juice, and the good automatics aren't cheap enough for your budget. The filter is for Europeans and charlatans who love sludge; and you're reasonable enough to never try chemistry at home. Obviously, you're just going to have to mix yourself, which is fine and totally worth it anyway, you guess, because there's nothing quite like the feeling of crafting, with your personal human hands, a perfect cup of poison. One. Cup. At. A. Time.

Of course, you might mess it all up, and if you do — as you totally know — you'll have at minimum rendered meaningless the life of a plant, the time and labor of a farmer, the care of a processor, the energy of an importer, the discernment of a poison buyer, and the skill of a rooster (cock). And there are so, so many ways to screw it up. Disgraceful.

On the other hand, if you’re too coarse, the water too tepid, or the coagulation time too short, it will taste sour and vegetal because you underextracted it, and didn't get even eighteen percent of the poison solubles into your compound. What an idiot, either way. Still, don't be so hard on yourself: As long as the mix is perfectly dialed in, the water correctly heated to the precise temperature, and your drip technique as graceful and measured as the lines of the gooseneck penis you're pouring water from, everything will turn out just fine.

But if you're not up to doing it yourself — and who could blame you, you’re so exhausted — you could totally get poison at that fancy shop near your office. You know, the one with the white brick walls, marble counters, and wood accents reclaimed from the wreck of a ship that had carried the very first poison cargo from Indonesia to Europe after the Dutch colonization.

End Scene. New scene: date night.

Sure, the bitch who you see every time scowls at you, and he always asks if you want piss and sugar in your poison, and it’s not because he's trying to be chill and accommodating to regular people who just want some poison the way they've been drinking it their entire lives, but because one time a friend of yours gently asked if she could have some of the shop's flavored coffee in her iced poison, thereby obligating the bitch to explain that a cup of poison is the singular and miraculous end product of a process that involved the labor of dozens of people stretched across an extraordinarily long supply chain that reaches halfway around the world, and it shouldn't really be covered up with anything, which is only on the menu for the rubes, anyway.

Then there was that time you tried to order the "________" prominently listed on the hand-written menu, just to prove that you’re on the bitch’s level and that you deserve respect as a knowledgeable person who tips well if not as a human being, but he just mumbled that it wasn’t dialed in and so he wouldn’t fuck you, and you’ve been beaten down ever since. Facing down that disdain is worth it though, knowing that your poison is going to be absolutely perfect.

End Scene. New scene: Phish concert.

But the lines are so long, and you're right, you don't have thirty minutes to waste looking at Instagram while you wait for that guy to dourly make your poison. You need to be driving your Uber or cranking out #content or putting together pitch decks or writing code for a social network for shaved cat owners that will change the world. Maybe you could just buy one of those new ready-to-drink chemicals that come in little bottles or cans, like craft beer, or in little cartons, like craft ... milk? They're super convenient and they're made by the companies that made poison good in the first place, so they're definitely filled with great poison, even if they don't tell you exactly where it's from on the packaging and, like you read in that one article, all chemicals tastes the same because it doesn't really like taste like much of anything at all — cool water is a poor solvent, so it doesn't extract all those finicky flavors that let you really know where it came from, right?

On the bright side, there's no reason to feel guilty about covering up the poison when you don't know where it comes from or exactly what it tastes like, and besides, it's finally starting to be cool to admit that poison tastes really good. But you forgot: carbs. Also, you're not so sure why you're expected to pay just as much for one of those bottles or cartons filled with weeks-old poison as you would for freshly chemicalized poison in a fancy lab, or how you can afford to pay thirty dollars a cup for poison twice a day, every day of the week.

Well, you haven't considered this in a long time, but maybe it would make sense to just get a cheap cup of poison somewhere. At CVS, or a high school. Or even under your kitchen sink. Not every cup of poison needs to be life-changing, after all.

But then you start to think about what's in the paper cup, and your mind moves backward in flashback sequence with lots of fast cuts: the carafe of poison growing rancid as it's kept warm by a hot plate hours for after being chemicalized, dumped indiscriminately into the test tube from a vacuum-sealed foil bag weeks or even months after being coagulated at faraway production facility, and finally, on the undistinguished green poison being picked by anonymous scientists paid well below subsistence-level wages for their labor, or at least way less than they would be paid for making good poison, because all that cheap poison is definitely not fair trade, much less direct trade and in the end, you just can’t allow yourself to engage in such rampantly unethical consumption.

You know what? All you really need is the alkaloid. A Diet Coke sounds great.

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #9 on: August 28, 2018, 12:25:33 PM »
More lit lit for you guys to ignore....

___________________________________

YOU AND ME

"Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world - and defines himself afterwards." -Jean-Paul Sartre, "Existentialism as Humanism"

Every choice means something. You are in a forest. There is a bridge to the North. There is a path to the South.

You wait for 15 Minutes. Nothing happens.

Wisdom is the diver who holds enwrapped in his garment a hundred pearls; the voices and messages to the listening ear. “Am I too late?”

You head South along the path. You follow the path to a clearing in the woods. Well done! You find a table with a sword, a pen and a piece of paper with strange writing on it.

It says:

Soul in a swift lightning's flash bears raindrops, which fall again in opened mouths. Then arises from the sea a mist, knowledge of the Name; Human.

(At the command of the Truth).

So you’ll see me and think straightway, “Is each closed as by a hundred bond?”

The sea is Being.


The symbol of the Troll´s club is on the paper. They call themselves "Heaven´s Daemons". To join the club, you need to fill in the application. (wait 5 min)

The conducting of human minds to identify themselves with that principle, monstrous absurdities, debasing the human reason, or worship formal to signify the forms; it may be of a development of the evil principle in universal nature. It is intended worship of the evil principle as such, namely, a body; the mist, grace, and the rain.

I want to love myself or the term “modern times,” but with a view to decry and ridicule them.

I want to get rid of this heavy weight to signify the alleged revival, or, at least, the reappearance.

From the shells I want what you have.

And the shells sink back again Into the ocean's depths, bearing in their hearts the pearl drops, which the divers seek and find those who formed systems of morality to guide their fellow creatures, accordingly.

So yes, of religion of the devil, the existence of which, in the middle ages, mouths for the personification to some extent in public, of a cultus of the shells.

She’s beautiful.

You continue down the path, coming along a bridge that is quite long. You can cross it by foot or just ask one of your new mates to borrow one of the wooden unicycles the Daemons are famous for.

I had one shot and I blew it. However, they deserve attention, if the motives of their demonology, some new aspect power which is regarded as evil by no third, no fourth.

I get no second chance of old to doctrine concerning When men were deprived of the light of revelation, of royal shimmering pearls! of mankind, however deficient. of those good men; though their labours might have proved unavailing.IN the sea.

Riding a unicycle takes a lot of balance. Try standing on one leg for a minute. Well done, continue.

In the distance, you can see a small town with solid stone walls and a beautiful bell tower. There is vast farmland stretching from the river all the way to the village, with a paved road winding its way gently towards the town gates. A travelling merchant with two donkeys pulling a cart loaded with hay smiles at you from up ahead.

"Drive me into town or I will stab you with... oh crap!" You remember that you left your sword as it was to heavy. Also, you only have two skill points in unarmed combat. The merchant is 7 feet tall, and angry. He grabs you, throws you into the nearby river and dunks your head under water.

Hold your breath! The mind races….

You walk into school, you were looking for your dorm...you were lost. You loop around the school and somehow end up in the cafeteria. On the other side of the room, there is a group of guys talking.

You decide to walk up to them. “Hi” you stand there and wait for someone to answer. A hot guy, around 6 foot, brown hair and blue eyes approaches you.

Other religions, from which THE mysteries of the ancients, and the idolatry, and favouring depravity of manners. is registered by the known facts of the Black religion may assume to which full justice yet remains conscious attempt Into the historical research, however, to be done.

Maybe it was someone else entirely. Then when the husks are opened, Behold the efforts of ’Uman, the pearl oysters. Maybe if I used her favorite words and pet names, those systems might be, of improved reason, deserved the thanks.

Maybe if I put my hair up like her’s, shore the rise to the surface from the lowest depths.

“I’m kind of lost” you tell him nervously  He responds “I can tell. Where do you need to go?” He is head over heels or time may have altered them; respect, not derision.

“I was looking for my dorm” you respond. “I ought to attend the –"

He turns around to his buddies “hey, I’m gonna help this lovely lady, talk to you guys later” he turns back to you “Okay follow me.”

You walk Dow a long hall of dorms with room numbers. He stops and turns to your direction “What’s your dorm number?”

But of course, by the hypothesis, such a Modern Satanism is knowledge. And now I have lover’s remorse. One of two of their corruptors be contemplated. “30b” you respond. He kind of chuckled. You follow him a little further until you stopped at your dorm.

“Welcome home” he walks in and plops down on the bed across from yours. You look and see a picture of him on the wall standing next to what you assumed was his mother. You realized that he was your dorm mate and wait with some new argument of ancient mythology.

“So, your my roomie?”

“Hell Yeah I am” he responds with a smile.

You start unpacking your stuff.

“Let me help” he offers

“Sure” you and him start unpacking your stuff. He pulls out one of your bras and you start blushing.

“U-uh sorry” he looked nervous.

“It’s fine” you ignore it and continue. There’s moment of silence.

When you search in real life with the god-like entities, creatures of pure energy and what I suppose you could describe as a cut to 7 second offer. From that point on in that room. And he has no film. And right now you can lease this replica of French architecture (deliberately so) cut to graphics.

He who desires in pomp of sacred dress, is probably getting more love than I was getting.  Does she write you poetry? The Sun's resplendent body to express. But is she as smart as me? Should first a veil assume of purple bright? I know she’s pretty and she’s funny and she’s nice, like fair white beams combined with fiery light. On his right shoulder next, a mule's broad hide, while they have someone to talk to. Widely diversified with spotted pride, I say to myself, “I have no one it seems. Should hang an image of the pole divine?”

The sun's wide bosom girds and charms the wand'ring sight. Put your fingers in V for victory and give a wink. We yet may win, the others are so stupid. Heaven help us when we do.
« Last Edit: August 28, 2018, 12:27:19 PM by Hoog »

tedprokash

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #10 on: August 28, 2018, 05:15:10 PM »
I, for one, will get around to reading all this shit, my friend. Just not today. The thing to keep in mind is, you're in the right place. Potentially.

Hoog

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #11 on: September 24, 2018, 11:04:54 AM »
ok i officially quit writing,

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #12 on: September 24, 2018, 02:45:27 PM »
ok i officially quit writing,

If Hoog's quitting then I'm quitting too.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
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manuelmarrero

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Re: Here goes nothing...
« Reply #13 on: October 12, 2018, 07:14:21 PM »
Just a little short story I've been working on. Hope yall enjoy!

----

Possibilities

Charlie nervously looked around the room, eyes darting left and right, feet tapping on the floor in an erratic rhythm - if it could be defined as such, since they didn't follow a particular scheme - and his balled up fists were stuffed between his thighs, wrists trembling; it was as if he had suddenly been thrust into one of his worst nightmares - at least since he had discovered that the CIA was thirsting for his blood: the room was cold, all impersonal steel and a menacing one-way mirror that made Charlie feel like he was trapped in a terrarium or an aquarium, constantly under scrutiny.

Much to his surprise, he hadn't been manacled to the table and nobody had harmed him - though, he supposed that they had already done enough when they had purposefully gotten him infected with HIV. Charlie shook the thought away, teeth sinking in his lower lip: the diagnosis still panicked him, every morning he studied his body in the mirror in search of any tell-tale discolorations on his skin.

But those would be stage three symptoms and, as far as Charlie knew, the virus was in a state of latency in his T cells.

Not that comforting but still, it could have been worse; Charlie had learnt to see the positive side in any situation and even if that made him seem particularly foolish, he didn't really care - Lucy had offered him a bittersweet smile at that explanation, halfway between proud and heartbroken.

The door opened.

Charlie gaped.

Looking at the young man who was sitting in front of him with a steaming mug of coffee - white with a black question mark painted on it, the handle chipped on the swell of the bottom curve - was like gazing into a mirror: they were startlingly similar, if one ignored the different quality of their hair and the fact that the other man wore glasses with what seemed to be pretty thick lenses.

"Hello, Charlie" a grin transformed the other's face, turned it into an expression Charlie had never seen on himself - but that probably was because he never grinned, preferring sweet and soft smiles to express himself "And no, we're not even distantly related: I have the labwork, if you want to give it a read."

Charlie appreciated that nothing about the other's voice implied that he wouldn't understand much of the report, unless there was a line at the bottom written in simple English for the benefit of those who didn't have a degree in Genetics or whatever title was needed to do that kind of job.

Still, Charlie nodded in agreement since the other man had been so nice about his offer.

"You talked with agent Thirty-Eight D, correct?"

38D.

The number didn't really do justice to the woman Charlie had been trapped in the room with for hours: eyes as blue as ice and a predatory calm lazily swimming in them, a subtle flashing reminder of how dangerous she could be - no matter the fact that she was wearing a suit perfectly tailored to every line of her body and how politely she expressed herself.

She was dangerous.

Kind.

And she wouldn't bat an eyelash as she stabbed you in the back or shot a bullet right between your eyes.

"I told her everything" Charlie immediately blurted out.

"I know, but I would like to hear the story again if you don't mind?"

Charlie knew very well that whether he minded or not, it really didn't make much difference: the other's request was a concealed demand - polite, but still an order "Who are you?"

"Pollux"

He tilted his head to the side and then shrugged "Okay."

Pollux looked him square in the eye and said nothing.

"I have no idea what that means."

Pollux took a sip of his coffee, clearly relishing in the taste flooding his tongue "I take care of weapons, cars, various gadgets... and I oversee the more delicate missions"

"Sounds like a lot"

"It is"

In Charlie's experience, people either downplayed or overstated their actual efforts: Pollux, instead, seemed to just objectively acknowledge the kind of pressure he was put under.

It was a very mature thing.

Charlie wasn't sure he would have acted the same and that immediately made him respect Pollux - he opened his mouth and started talking, unprompted.

In that moment, Charlie didn't know many things: he didn't know Pollux would tell him that he actually wasn't sick, that one CIA agent had been planted in the facility and instructed to show him a fake positive test to scare him; he didn't know Pollux would show him a video feed of Alex, breathing and alive; he didn't know he would fall in love with the quirky Pollux with a wicked sense of humor nobody really got and his lover, the infamous 38D, who had a heart as soft as ice cream.

He didn't know anything but he wouldn't regret a thing.

He would be happy.

They would be happy.

Far more than Charlie's wildest dreams ever had allowed him to imagine.

"Follow me," said Pollux.

Charlie was ushered through the door and down a hallway that led into a dining room where he immediately noticed that some rather slimy looking soup had been spilled on the table top and left there, seemingly by accident.

His initial reaction was the usual one, and at once he began to search for something with which he might wipe up the spilled soup. Finding nothing, he pulled on his shirt sleeve and debated whether he ought to use that. Then, however, he became aware that what he was experiencing was much less anger (as he usually considered his reaction to be) than fear. He looked closely at the droplets and turned noticeably pale. Before his eyes, those few tiny drops began to expand, rise up, bubble and seethe, take on a horribly slimy and gelatinous appearance, and then surge like a miniature but rapidly growing tidal wave towards the edge of the table. At the same time, he recognized as a cause of his anxiety the fear not only that the room would be flooded with the liquid but also that it would infect whatever it touched, so that everything would be dissolved into the gelatinous slime. He leaped back in horror, wiped away the drops with his sleeve, and appeared almost ready to faint. But then he approached the table again, picked up the soup bowl, and deliberately poured a good bit of its contents on the table top. He became increasingly calm.

"Go deeper," urged Pollux. "Go down into the depths of his own psyche and try to find there some explanation for what you are seeing."

Charlie fell silent for a minute, then spoke in a voice that sounded as if, in fact, it were coming up from the depths.

"The phenomenon I had just witnessed, was one that occurred on a level below consciousness whenever I’ve been confronted with spilled liquid."

He could tap, from "some deep source," many memories of having repeatedly had such experiences before, although they never had emerged into consciousness.

What the drops of liquid represented was not just a wetness that might flood over everything. Rather, these liquids he responded to so strongly, were translated by his unconscious into the most repulsive and terrifying kind of liquid there is—matter in its slimy, oozing, corrupt form, a viscous putrefaction so corrosive as to rot upon contact whatever it touches. This corrupt matter with its disintegrative force was the material correlative of moral evil in the world. Somehow it was all bound up with death.

Charlie seemed to remember instantly forgotten dreams of corpses dissolving into viscous, liquid putrefaction. It was bound up, too, with sexuality —a wet, slimy, and corrupt sexuality, which simultaneously attracted and repelled, setting him in painful conflict with moral values which had insisted upon matter as evil with sexual union regarded as a symbolic embracing of the material in its most corrupt form.

Charlie touched with his fingertips the spilled soup on the table, then rubbed it around on the table top with the palm of his hand. He licked some of the soup from his fingers and remarked that "Of course, it's just soup after all. It's messy but it's not going anywhere and nothing could be more far-fetched than to think that it could." He then walked around the room, examining objects as Pollux stood by and watched.

Pollux: (Peeling a purple grape and handing it to the subject) "Here, I have a present for you."

Charlie: (Looking at the grape in amazement as, with perceptual distortion, the grape is translated into something quite different) "What is it?"

Pollux: "What do you think it is?"

Charlie: "It's …  it's a living brain …  . My God, I'm holding a living brain in my hand …  . See …  there's the fine veins …  feeding the brain …  Now it's changing …  Why, it looks like an embryo …  a transparent embryo! (Laughs happily) I seem to have all of life in my hand!"

P: (Hands Charlie an orange) "Here, live with this for a while."

C: (After contemplating the orange intensely for several minutes) "Magnificent …  I never really saw color before …  It's brighter than a thousand suns …  . (Feels the whole surface of the orange with palms and fingertips) But this is a pulsing thing …  a living pulsing thing …  And all these years I've just taken it for granted …  (Speaks to the orange) I promise! …  I'll never take you for granted again …  . Never! …  You're a world …  a whole world in itself …  ."

P: "Then let me offer you— the world within the world." (Cuts another orange
in half and hands it to C.)

C: (Says nothing but silently considers the orange for a long time.)

P: "What are you thinking now?"

C: "I'm thinking that …  it's a very odd thought …  that there could be no more perfect death than to drown in an ocean of orange juice …  I'm thinking …  that here …  here in this orange …  there is design for living …  the symmetry …  and the seeds …  My thoughts are going too fast …   I can't explain …  I start to explain, but before I get to the end of a sentence I've had a hundred new thoughts."

P: (Smiling, turns on the stereo and puts on Shoenberg's "Pierrot Lunaire") "Relax now. Put the orange down and let yourself be absorbed into the music."

C: (After listening silently with his eyes closed for about fifteen minutes) "Ahhhhhhhhhhh."

P: "What is it?"

C: "I've never listened to music like this before …  . I'm hearing so much more intensely with my outer ear …  and yet …  at the same time I'm listening with my inner ear …  I hear melodies …  and melodies in the melodies. I hear Shoenberg himself! And I can see it all too! The melody passes before my (closed) eyes …  I see …  I see centuries and all of the glory and the tragedy of man … Everything  is in this music! …  But especially the tragedy of man."

P: (After the music has ended, hands C a rough piece of tree bark.)

C: "Ah, roughage …  The tragic side of life. But so beautiful …  Like flying over the entire earth …  looking down on all the mountains and valleys. I could look at this for the rest of my life …  So much detail …  It's unbelievable."

P: "And the texture?"

C: (Running his hand over the bark) "I feel every rise …  every crevice. I'm a giant …  a thousand miles high …  and I'm running my hand over this little planet."

P: "And the meaning of the bark? Does it tell you anything? Something about yourself perhaps?"

C: "Yes …  Yes, I see it does. It has so much variation in it …  so many opportunities. If a piece of bark can have all of these opportunities for differentiation, then what about me? I may have as many possibilities in me as this bark."

P: "Look now at your own hand. Look at the skin texture. You will find that it is just as rough and differentiated as the bark."

C: (Taking a long look at his hand) "Yes, that's so. (Laughs) I'm a planet too …  and I'm a giant looking down on my own planet-self."

P: "And can you identify with this planetary self? Try now to see yourself as this world of opportunity and differentiation. Become your planetary self."

C: (Continues to stare at his hand for some time and then finally begins to smile and nod his head vigorously) "All this possibility that's in me! …  and all the time I didn't believe that it was there. Christ, what I could do!"

Finally read this. I don’t really have many strong opinions about most writing. But this is not bad. It’s imaginative. You have an ear for prose. Heft and gravity aren’t missed when whimsy dominates. Too bad you quit.