November 1st, 10:46 PM, Largo Household.
The tear stain spreading into Ethan’s pillow almost looked like the South American continent. He could still hear his parents yelling at each other in the kitchen downstairs. Upon getting him home from the police station, it had become clear that his father was on his side and his mother wasn’t. Continue reading
In a town like Deercliff there are no secrets. In the days following the assault of Maggie Nice, Sheriff Boyer made it her job to cultivate this small-town share-all mindset. She did not have to do very much before she was swimming in a proverbial sea of (mis)information.
Todd waved the police car in. Officers Bishop and Parker got out, both rushing to the passed out Maggie. An ambulance was only seconds behind, and the paramedics quickly took command, leaving the two cops to pacing the scene rapidly. Bishop made a slight gagging sound and sat down on the curb while Parker sent in a call to dispatch. Todd quickly walked inside, tapping Kate gently on the shoulder and pointing her towards the responders on the scene. He headed back to the dishwashing station as the officers entered the diner. Tyler, The Creator’s baritone voice barked out the words, “rape a pregnant bitch” and Todd smacked the speaker system, a small yelp leaving his lips. He hadn’t realized he was crying until looking at the blurry lights on his iPod as he shut it off. From the front of the house he heard Bishop say his name, and Kate’s high-pitched response.
There was more than one party that Hallows Eve in Deercliff.
What follows is the first entry in a collaborative effort between Reisklok and myself to tell a story, a cohesive story, in pieces, trading off writers. Neither of us really know what the other is doing, or the direction of the story. We invite you to join us on this wild ride. don’t expect a steady narrator, or really anything, this about the process, one we invite you to enjoy.
“To define is to limit. Oscar Wilde said that. Don’t you see it? This whole pick a career now, pick a college, pick a minimum wage job now bullshit is just so they can limit us. Their lives suck so we have to follow step.”
“Oh, the ominus they…”
“Why the hell should I care what that faglord said Ethan?”
“What channel is that halloween movie marathon on? I swear last year it was CW, but now they just have Arrow re-runs…”
“That show really starts to suck after season one…”
“You shouldn’t say that word Big Mac.”
“Mr. Henderson said Oscar Wilde was a queer Annie. I mean that whole story was about a guy wanting to pork a painting of a dude…”
“Who the hell wants to watch Arrow on Halloween?”
The following story is direct kin of another short story to be found on this site, Wickedly Wild
“What would you do you do when your stalker moves on?
For me, I turned to porn. Just conventional stuff. You know, some lady, probably 28, playing some 18-year-old strumpet, sucking dick so hard her slobber is dripping down onto her tits, the camera. Those undercarriage shots, ya know. just a man’s asshole and balls and veiny porn-staple cock, and drool. Its gotta be fake drool. A mouth full of lube to deal with the ferocious acting. That kinda thing. I really liked it when the guy would go down of the chick. The starlet. I ain’t a feminist, not by a long shot, and see this is why. Going down on a chick ain’t giving her power, I ain’t a pussy Muslim turning to Mecca to pray. I’m showing her how I got power over her, ya know. I’m a good person because I eat pussy. That’s all society demands of me to be better than your average red-meat tom brady run-ada-mills. “
“What the fuck you telling her about porn for, she asked how you got here.”
Note: this story was just a thought exercise. It’s a little wacked out. I was sitting in my room feeling really tired, yet creative, so I just wrote out the stream of consciousness that came to me. I caught clusters of thoughts, images, and feelings and tried to describe them within this story…a single, linear narrative. So naturally, it is very broken up but I hope you’ll give it a chance since it did come out of me very quickly and I barely edited it. Just try not to take it too seriously, and know that it was more just an experiment.
Many people are just a reflection of their anthem. Some higher truth they secretly glimpsed…they are special for seeing it.
I just want to hibernate. I want to kill everything.
I am sitting in a little black cave. I walk over to the corner, and sit down in a different position. I look back into the previous corner I was sitting in. The fire is smoldering, and it’s raining outside. A distant mountain barks, and warmth – generous warmth – blankets me. A smile, and I’m sad. Crawling up to me, a smiling child. The sun hurts my thoughts.
What’s a flow anyways? Fog swamp monsters, broken minds that revive just to die…FUCK! SHUT THE FUCK UP!
The following is parts 1 & 2 of a novel I am currently working on entitled “There”. Told from three perspectives in two different dimensions with no chronological order, it’s a tale of two young people forced into an ancient magical conflict between the King and Queen of a magical realm. Pan’s Labyrinth meets any classic bildungsroman.
I fail to grasp the necessity of my continued existence. Tracing my own footsteps, following a shining light along the same path every year, ebbing and flowing between two separate people. My life has been perfectly dichotomized, and I smiled when I selected the blade that split me.
The snow hasn’t changed in this place in 20 some odd years. The pines standing tall, full of hubris, with snow cascading down. The wrinkled old apple tree’s, whose fruit stained my family’s lips for generations, look gothic and dead, adding a sense of morbidity always lacking during any other season. Winter has dragged his massive palm over this part of the world, and this orchard in particular.
Winter had dragged his massive palm the same way over this orchard for a long time.