Expat Press Forums - words+misc.

Expat Press Forums => Lit => Topic started by: Hoog on August 14, 2018, 11:40:17 AM

Title: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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!"
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on August 17, 2018, 03:41:28 PM
Is this one post-modern neo dadaist impressionism or expressionism? I get mixed up.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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!
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley 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+!
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: tedprokash 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on September 24, 2018, 11:04:54 AM
ok i officially quit writing,
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on September 24, 2018, 02:45:27 PM
ok i officially quit writing,

If Hoog's quitting then I'm quitting too.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: manuelmarrero 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.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on December 03, 2018, 09:27:24 AM
Ok, I'm writing again. More stories and poems to come!
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on December 19, 2018, 07:07:11 PM
I might as well post pieces here from the novel i’m working on. Feel free to criticize and/or suggest a title. We’ll see where i get with this.

TtttttT

CH. ONE

The first time I ever cussed was also the first night I discovered my dad's new girlfriend. It was a cold night in December, and I was 10. My three younger siblings and I, accompanied by my mom, arrived at the doorstep of my dad's weird, post-separation pre-divorce duplex, shivering and ready to surprise him with Christmas presents.

My dad was definitely surprised. He opened the door and attempted to distract us with small talk while a blond head sprinted into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Kids notice everything, so of course we shoved our way inside, ran to the bedroom, and flung the door open to reveal Angie, a gorgeous 22-year-old with blond curly hair, clutching a wine key and an unopened bottle of red, a look of terror splayed across her face. Neither of my parents drank at the time, so I'd never seen a wine key before. It looked like a weapon. I made silent, defiant eye contact with Angie, then turned and ran back outside into the snow.

The Christmas visit had backfired and now everyone was standing outside of the duplex crying, my dad included. I'd wanted to cuss forever, but I knew it would get me in a lot of trouble. In order to utter my first cuss word, I needed the universe to provide a situation where I could do so freely, without consequences. In this midst of my tears, I became cognizant that this was my moment.

"Dad, what the shit is going on?" I demanded to know.

I don't remember an answer.

Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 07, 2019, 10:43:21 AM
Here is my latest installment. Maybe needs some polishing up. It's possible I can merge chapters 1 and 2 into just one chapter, but I like the idea of short chapters. Still mulling it over. Hoping to get some constructive feedbag

YyyyyyyyyyyyY

CH. TWO

The day I officially met Angie was also the first time I ever went on a shopping spree. This wasn't a coincidence, but rather a planned outing orchestrated by my dad. A few years had passed since the nightmare before Christmas; Angie had made such a negative impression the first time around, my dad thought the best way for she and I to be reintroduced to each other would be for her to take me to the mall for some quality one-on-one time. He couldn't have been more right.
We didn't speak much in the car on the way to the mall. I was intimidated by everything about Angie, probably because she was 25 years old with a perfect body and huge, natural boobs. Growing up I had jerked off to Playboy and Penthouse, and at thirteen years old, I'd found myself in the presence of a living Penthouse Pet who wanted me to like her and was thus taking me shopping. It was a dream come true. We kicked off the trip by hitting Journeys and getting multiple pairs of Doc Martens. Shopping with Angie was fun because she didn't question anything I was into, fashion-wise, and she was very encouraging. When I couldn't decide between a brown pair and a black pair, Angie solved the problem immediately. "Get both!" she declared, whipping out a credit card. She even got a pair of boots for herself.

Not only did I get two pairs of sandals, I also got VHSs of Clueless and Tommy Boy, five Nintendo games from KB Toys, and the stunning older sister I never knew I always wanted.
Angie's favorite store at the mall was a shop called Georgiou that sold "sexy business lady" clothing that, in Oklahoma City, was the closest to Versace you were ever gonna get. That day, Angie bought some form-fitting sweater sets, a chain belt, colorful jeans, and a few little scarves to tie around her neck. Georgiou also sold tuxedo, so naturally we tried some on. Staring at myself in the mirror, dressed in a black Armani tux, I no longer looked like a 5'10" 13 year old—I looked like an adult. Angie told me I looked hot and bought the suit on the spot.
Not too long after our shopping spree, I drank my first glass of champagne while out to dinner with Angie and my dad at the Oklahoma City Golf & Country Club. The club had a formal dining room—black tie only—and since I'd just acquired my first formal evening wear, it made sense that the three of us should celebrate by showing it off. The waiter arrived to take our drink order.

"We'll have three glasses of champagne, please," said Angie, flashing her million-dollar smile.

"Absolutely," he replied.

My dad began to protest, but Angie cut him off before he could get a word out.

"What, Butch? It's one glass of champagne. Jesus!"

Before my dad could respond, our waiter had dutifully delivered the champagne to the table. I gleefully sipped mine while Angie smirked defiantly at my dad, silently challenging him to put an end to our shenanigans. He downed his glass and stayed quiet, knowing full well I was breaking the rules and there was nothing he could do about it.
When my dad upgraded from the duplex to a new house, Angie moved in with him and brought her constant urge to turn up with her. Rarely did I see her without a beer, glass of wine, or cocktail in hand. She didn't have a job, so she spent her days cooking, cleaning and decorating my dad's new home with insanely expensive, woven picnic baskets made by this company called Longaberger that she was obsessed with. She filled them with magazines, stuffed animals, fruit—anything that could go in a basket, really. I'd never known baskets to be such a thing, but here we were, surrounded by thousands of dollars worth of them. While Angie focused on her burgeoning passion for baskets, my dad took to collecting rare Beanie Babies, convinced that their value would appreciate over time.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on January 07, 2019, 04:41:46 PM
Already looking forward to instalment 5, when I presume you finally root Angie.

Potential title:

"Angie Broke Mick Jagger's Cock, And My Dad's, But She Built Mine."
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 08, 2019, 10:00:50 AM
I like the title. You’re just going to have to wait and see where this story goes. I don’t want to give away any of the plot. Also i can’t because i’m making it all up as i go along as a good riter should
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on January 08, 2019, 12:10:50 PM
Also i can’t because i’m making it all up as i go along as a good riter should

Best laugh of the day, Gene-o-cide.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 09, 2019, 01:09:46 PM
I know you all have been eagerly anticipating my third installment. Here it is!

PpppppppP

CH THREE

I got drunk for the first time with Angie during a weekend visit to the new house. On this particular Saturday evening, she and I were in the master bedroom watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when she offered me a Coors Light, which I enthusiastically accepted. Four beers later we were dancing on the bed to Ice Cube's AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted. This is how life with Angie was: an endless sleepover with no rules.

Angie was also the first person I ever witnessed get too fucked up. My dad had taken me, her, and my siblings to Dallas for a weekend. We were at a pool party, and a wine-drunk Angie, who was 26 at the time, became increasingly loud and obstinate, arguing with my dad and his friends and alienating herself from all the other 40 and 50-something adults at the party. She was wobbly, and would jerk her wine glass away from anyone who tried to take it from her. Eventually, she fell down, breaking the glass and spilling wine everywhere. Instead of being apologetic, she roared with laughter, her short, floral dress riding up around her waist to expose her underwear.

I watched all of this from a distance, fascinated, but also aware that something was wrong. Angie had chosen to be a part of a world in which there was no place for her. Women loathed her; men feared her. She was alone.

The next time Angie flipped out was during one summer vacation when my siblings and I were spending a week with her and my dad. We were going on a trip, and our first stop was Bartlesville, OK, where the Woodward Travelers—a high school boys' baseball team my dad coached—were playing their final tournament of the year. We were to make our way to Grand Lake, in northeastern Oklahoma, for the rest of the week after that.

The first weekend of our mini vacation, I went to the championship games with my dad, but my siblings opted out and hung back with Angie in the hotel instead. On Sunday night, the Travelers won their final game, and what I thought would be a great trip was just around the corner. Then my dad got a call from my mom saying Angie was drunk and driving my siblings all over Bartlesville.

Angie had apparently spent the day downing beer after beer in the hotel, before piling my siblings into the car and taking off towards the baseball field. Her erratic behavior and impaired driving abilities scared my brother Jake so badly that he'd stolen her cell phone and called my mom to tell her what was going on.

My dad hung up the phone just as Angie's Blue Chevy Tahoe careened into the parking lot. What ensued was the fight to end all fights: My siblings and I hustled into my dad's car while he tried to calm an infuriated Angie. Eventually, she stormed over to us, all crying at this point, and started circling the car like a predator in a horror movie, verbally assaulting each of us individually.

First, she went off at Jake for stealing her phone.

"You retarded little thief!" She yelled, referring to his Asperger's syndrome. "Fucking baby!" She directed at my youngest brother, Kurt, who was crying and upset. She called Claire, the youngest of the four of us, a "whiny little bitch" before locking eyes with me.

"You spoiled fucking brat," she snarled.

I was taken aback; I'd thought Angie and I were friends.

She concluded her rampage by running over to her Tahoe, flinging open the back doors, grabbing the portable TV that we were supposed to bring to the lake with us, and smashing it on the ground.

Thus began a period of time where Angie floated in and out of our lives. Usually, her disappearance was caused by a drunken or drug-fueled meltdown that would cause she and my dad to split up for a short period of time before getting back together.

When I moved in with my dad at age 15, Angie had moved out of his house and into a condo down the street. I didn't know it at the time, but this was because she'd been busted using his prescription pads to get painkillers, and a judge had ruled at a custody hearing between my parents that if my dad wanted to see his children, Angie would not be allowed to live with him. However, Angie slowly but surely worked her way back into our lives, and eventually my dad decided to marry her.

Angie took it upon herself to inform me about their impending nuptials.

"I have something to show you," she said one night. Then she smiled maniacally and flashed her engagement ring in my face, drinking in my shock with pleasure.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on January 09, 2019, 04:52:58 PM
"You retarded little thief!" She yelled, referring to his Asperger's syndrome.

l0l.

As if kleptomania is one of the symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome!

Hahahaha.

Angie is so dumb.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 16, 2019, 08:39:58 AM
New chapter, hooray!!!

sssssssssss

CH. FOUR

My dad moved into a new house (which Angie promptly filled with even more decorative baskets) when I turned 16, and I threw my first house party while he and Angie were in St. John getting married.

My dad came back from what was supposed to be a low-key wedding for two visibly shaken. Angie had decided to treat the weekend like it was MTV's Spring Break 2000, and over the course of 72 hours, she had nearly gotten thrown out of the hotel, the hotel bar, and the beach bar. Their wedding portrait said it all: she and my dad on the beach, him holding her in his arms, every muscle in his body strained in a desperate attempt not to drop her, her grinning ear-to-ear, a cocktail in one hand and a bridal bouquet in the other.

After the wedding, Angie and I lived in a state of tense, passive-aggressive hatred toward one another. I'd discovered weed during my freshman year, and I also discovered that I liked getting high way more than I liked studying for biology, which landed me in summer school with a bunch of upperclassmen potheads. It was fantastic. We'd get stoned every day during lunch, then hang out and get stoned until my curfew, then I'd wake up the next day and do it all over again.

One night, I came home high as fuck to my dad and Angie in the midst of a screaming match. She was so wasted she could barely stand up and was trying to accuse my dad of strangling her. (My dad is not, and has never been, a violent person.) When she started threatening to call the cops, I lost it.

"Shut the fuck up, you drunk fucking bitch!" I screamed from the living room.

Angie stormed out of the bedroom, cordless phone in hand.

"What did you say to me?" She slurred, angrily.

"You heard me. Why don't you just leave and get the fuck out of our lives!"

Angie raised the phone over her head as if she was going to hit me with it.

"Oh, you're going to hit me now? Fuck. You."

I pushed past her, running up the stairs to my bedroom. I tried to slam the door shut but Angie followed me in, her face twisted with rage.

"Guess what? I've been fucking your dad since you were seven years old!" She screamed. Then she looked me dead in the eyes. "I've been fucking your dad since you were seven." Tears were streaming down my face.

"Fuck this, I'm calling the cops," she muttered as she turned and walked away.

The cops came that night, we all had to give statements about what happened, and I thought for sure that this incident would be the final straw. I thought my dad would annul their marriage.

I was wrong.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on January 17, 2019, 02:14:48 AM
Confession Time: I am starting to dislike Angela.

There's just something about her that rubs me the wrong way.

I hope this story doesn't involve any bobbiting.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 23, 2019, 01:23:12 PM
New installment. I go from really loving this story to really hating it. But each new addition to the story makes me love it more.

pppppppppppp

CH. FIVE

Angie and I smoked our first joint together later that summer. We had caught each other trying to smoke weed on a family vacation at the lake and realized that, despite our differences, we actually had a lot in common. Even though she was 28 and I was 16, we cared about the same things: getting an allowance and getting fucked up. The shared joint completely revitalized our friendship, so I wiped the slate clean and forgave Angie for everything she'd ever done. We started smoking weed and drinking together whenever my dad wasn't around, which was pretty often. And when he was around, I left them to do their thing and went out to smoke and drink with my friends. Life was great.

Our partying eventually took a harder turn when Angie introduced me to meth. My dad had to go out of town on a last minute business trip, and I convinced him to let me stay at his house overnight with Angie as my supervisor. My mom, having a pretty spot-on hunch that we'd be up to no good if left to our own devices, argued hard to have me stay at her house, but I plead my case, hinging everything on the one condition that I wouldn't be late to school the next day. I went to an Episcopalian private school and rarely made it to chapel on time, so my promise to be punctual was essential in getting my way. It worked.

Angie and I started drinking and smoking weed the second my dad left the house. As the night went on, we got more and more fucked up. I retired to my bedroom after getting the spins, and passed out face down on my bed with all the lights on around 3 AM. I awoke at 7:35 AM, with 10 minutes to get out the door. I quickly threw on an outfit and stumbled downstairs.

As I hazily poured coffee into a styrofoam cup, Angie appeared in the kitchen looking extremely pert for a 28-year-old who'd only gotten three and a half hours of sleep after a night of binge drinking. She smiled woefully and shook her head at my predicament.

"You know...I have some crank on me if you want to do it. I think it'll really help you!"

Normally I would have said no, but this was a dire situation. I was hungover as fuck and had to get to school, or else I'd be a dead man. Doing crank seemed like a reasonable solution.

"Uhh, okay sure. If you think it'll help."

Just like that, a plate with two teeny tiny lines and a straw materialized in front of my face.

"Snort one line in each nostril. It'll burn, but then it'll go away."

I snorted the lines. It burned like crazy, so I snorted a little water to make the burning stop, which kind of helped. Then, I poured cream in my coffee cup and left.

"Fake Plastic Trees" started playing a few minutes into my drive to school, and I was high as a kite. I drove like a determined, focused maniac, listening to Radiohead on loop. I connected with it so hard that it became my anthem for the rest of the day. Now, I think about being 16 and meth'd the fuck out every time I hear that song.

Being high on meth was actually pretty awesome at first. I slipped into my chapel row at 8 AM on the dot, studied for (and aced) a history exam, and I felt like I was walking on air all day—it literally felt like I was hovering a foot above the ground at all times. I was talking to and connecting with people I normally hated; I didn't eat anything at lunch because food just did not feel right in my mouth. I was convinced that this was the new me.

The day went by in a flash, and before I knew it, my friends and I were hanging out at a nearby coffee shop after school. It was around that time that things began to take a turn.

I started feeling shaky and was having a hard time putting sentences together. I hadn't told anyone that I'd been on crank all day, because even though I ran with a pretty fast crowd, doing meth with my stepmom seemed like something I should keep to myself. I excused myself and drove home with "Fake Plastic Trees" on repeat. When I arrived, Angie was there, frantically cleaning while some guy fixed a broken computer in my dad's office.

"Hey!!! Hi. Ohmigod you're home!" Angie said, hugging me too hard. "How do you feel?"

"Not...not good," I stammered.

"You just need a little bump to pick you up. Come with me."

She led me to her bathroom, where she pulled out a plate with more tiny lines on it. I leaned down to snort a line, and then looked up at her.

"Angie," I whispered pointedly, "What about the computer guy?"

"Oh he's cool. I gave him some earlier! Here."

As soon as I did the bump, my phone rang. It was my dad, asking me why I was at home and not on my way to the therapist. I tried to explain to him that I'd completely forgotten I had therapy that afternoon, saying that it would be so great if I didn't have to go, but he wasn't having it and demanded I get there ASAP.

I hightailed it to my therapist's office, but arrived 30 minutes late and completely cracked out. That second line of meth had not helped remedy my situation—instead, it had rendered me a stuttering, sweaty mess. Fifteen minutes into my appointment, I realized I had no choice but to get out of there before my therapist started to suspect something. I made up some weird excuse about having to go while slowly backing out of his office, ran out to the car, turned on the only song that mattered to me ("Fake Plastic Trees"), and blasted it the whole way home.

The house was empty upon my arrival. My dad and Angie had gone out for dinner; I didn't know what to do with myself. I was coming down hard and fast, so I sat on the back porch curled up in a chair chain-smoking cigarettes until they got back. When Angie walked in the door, she only needed to take one look before whisking me away, getting me stoned and giving me an Ativan so I could sleep.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on January 24, 2019, 05:17:09 AM
I am now 76% convinced these are real life tales from H.Oog's misspent youth.

Or more like well-spent youth.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 25, 2019, 07:20:58 AM
I am now 76% convinced these are real life tales from H.Oog's misspent youth.

Is 28 really that young? Also, I would never marry someone with kids.

Nope this is the wonder of the imagination at work + tequila.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on January 30, 2019, 01:40:01 PM
And now....the final installment of "Angie Broke Mick Jagger's Cock, And My Dad's, But She Built Mine."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

CH. SIX

Angie and my dad divorced not long after my meth adventure. As far as I was concerned, meth was a one time only experience that ultimately was not for me. Angie, on the other hand, continued down that road in a major way, becoming gaunt and psychotic but still very into baskets. She took all of them with her when she moved out. A security guard was hired to oversee the house during her moving weekend, lest she try to do something crazy. I was sad to see her go.

History has a way of repeating itself, and Angie and my dad started seeing each other post-divorce. Six months later, she and I were back in each other's lives as well.

I was 17, and entering my junior year of high school. My life had spiraled completely out of control, and thanks to a series of terrible decisions (mostly fueled by drugs, alcohol, and loneliness) I'd found myself with very few friends. Angie became my go-to person. She'd pick me up from school, take me to her house, make me a Bloody Mary, and soon enough, I'd forget about all my problems.

My problems eventually caught up to me. The last time I heard Angie's voice was when I called her from jail and got her answering machine.

Sitting there, handcuffed to a chair after being arrested for possession of weed, painkillers, and Valium, I knew I was fucked. My mom and dad were both out of town, and all I wanted was for Angie to pick me up, take me away, and help me pretend that none of this had ever happened. If anyone could get me out of this situation, it would be her.

"Hey Angie, it's me. Um, I got arrested and I was hoping you could come pick me up? I'm at the Oklahoma County Jail... I guess you can just come here or call them and they'll tell you what to do. Okay, see you soon hopefully."

She never came for me. And after that night, I never saw or spoke to Angie again.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on January 30, 2019, 04:32:36 PM
What a sad denouement. No climactic hanky panky for our hero.

"Denouement" means "end" in French.

The latin root form of denouement is denoueiii.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Hoog on February 06, 2019, 01:02:11 PM
Don't worry Chief, I'm already working on a steamier alternate ending for this saga. Been rewriting and was disappointed at how unsexy the whole thing turned out.

Anyway, I've moved on somewhat to other things. Here's some of my latest writing:

Awhile ago there was a young man dwelling in a great and goodly city by the sea which had to name Langton on Holm. He was but of five and twenty winters, a fair-faced man, yellow-haired, tall and strong; rather wiser than foolisher than young men are mostly wont; a valiant youth, and a kind; not of many words but courteous of speech; no roisterer, nought masterful, but peaceable and knowing how to forbear: in a fray a perilous foe, and a trusty war-fellow. His father, with whom he was dwelling when this tale begins, was a great merchant, richer than a baron of the land, a head-man of the greatest of the Lineages of Langton, and a captain of the Porte; he was of the Lineage of the Goldings, therefore was he called Bartholomew Golden, and his son Golden Walter.

Now ye may well deem that such a youngling as this was looked upon by all as a lucky man without a lack; but there was this flaw in his lot, whereas he had fallen into the toils of love of a woman exceeding fair, and had taken her to wife, she nought unwilling as it seemed. But when they had been wedded some six months he found by manifest tokens, that his fairness was not so much to her but that she must seek to the foulness of one worser than he in all ways; wherefore his rest departed from him, whereas he hated her for her untruth and her hatred of him; yet would the sound of her voice, as she came and went in the house, make his heart beat; and the sight of her stirred desire within him, so that he longed for her to be sweet and kind with him, and deemed that, might it be so, he should forget all the evil gone by. But it was not so; for ever when she saw him, her face changed, and her hatred of him became manifest, and howsoever she were sweet with others, with him she was hard and sour.

So this went on a while till the chambers of his father's house, yea the very streets of the city, became loathsome to him; and yet he called to mind that the world was wide and he but a young man. So on a day as he sat with his father alone, he spake to him and said: "Father, I was on the quays even now, and I looked on the ships that were nigh boun, and thy sign I saw on a tall ship that seemed to me nighest boun. Will it be long ere she sail?"

"Nay," said his father, "that ship, which hight the Katherine, will they warp out of the haven in two days' time. But why askest thou of her?"

"The shortest word is best, father," said Walter, "and this it is, that I would depart in the said ship and see other lands."

"Yea and whither, son?" said the merchant.

"Whither she goeth," said Walter, "for I am ill at ease at home, as thou wottest, father."

The merchant held his peace awhile, and looked hard on his son, for there was strong love between them; but at last he said: "Well, son, maybe it were best for thee; but maybe also we shall not meet again."

"Yet if we do meet, father, then shalt thou see a new man in me."

"Well," said Bartholomew, "at least I know on whom to lay the loss of thee, and when thou art gone, for thou shalt have thine own way herein, she shall no longer abide in my house. Nay, but it were for the strife that should arise thenceforth betwixt her kindred and ours, it should go somewhat worse with her than that."

Said Walter: "I pray thee shame her not more than needs must be, lest, so doing, thou shame both me and thyself also."

Bartholomew held his peace again for a while; then he said: "Goeth she with child, my son?"

Walter reddened, and said: "I wot not; nor of whom the child may be." Then they both sat silent, till Bartholomew spake, saying: "The end of it is, son, that this is Monday, and that thou shalt go aboard in the small hours of Wednesday; and meanwhile I shall look to it that thou go not away empty-handed; the skipper of the Katherine is a good man and true, and knows the seas well; and my servant Robert the Low, who is clerk of the lading, is trustworthy and wise, and as myself in all matters that look towards chaffer. The Katherine is new and stout-builded, and should be lucky, whereas she is under the ward of her who is the saint called upon in the church where thou wert christened, and myself before thee; and thy mother, and my father and mother all lie under the chancel thereof, as thou wottest."

Therewith the elder rose up and went his ways about his business, and there was no more said betwixt him and his son on this matter.
Title: Re: Here goes nothing...
Post by: Sprague Dawley on February 06, 2019, 04:20:55 PM
he was of the Lineage of the Goldings, therefore was he called Bartholomew Golden, and his son Golden Walter.
this is like the birth of the House Gunston

as thou wottest

(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v221/Bent/gif2/somethingf_zpspdjfawja.gif)