The Creativity Thread

ohne moos nix los:

moos.jpg
 
@mal, that looks weird and mysterious, where did u take it? in a way it doesnt look natural, the colors are great really
@king, yeah interesting point for a change, thats whats called forum art I guess ;)
@solefad, hm a little similarity maybe but I find my mate more good looking ;)
 
originally it's moss on a well, and i meddled a bit with the colors. the camera doesn't handle closeups very well, so it all looks fuzzy.
 
Some of my recent accomplishments. :)


just a thing Ive noticed
PAGES

Torn pages
In the beginning
Fall out
In the end
Held together
Sewn together
Yet every rupture
Is remembered
And punished
Inevitably

Some hold on
To their non-existent
Zero halves
Dwell in the abyss
Of past misdoings
They know
The deal

Some stare
Future stricken
Unaware
Of the quicksand
Under their feet
They fall out
Fast with surprise
In their eyes

You had better
Hold on to your pages
Pathetic, stupid,
Ignorant and dull
They are the organs
The living tissue
Of what and how
Of your vision

They are from you
From what you were

it could have been this way :)
ALTAMIRA

Wrapped in the furs
Of last nights hunt
Im sitting covered in blood
The flames are playing with my face
A man, a beast, a man
Im haunted by the strange
Geometry of light and shadow

Driven by hunger and the demon
Of my own humanity
I hunt and I kill
The beasts cry in my temples
All those beast Ive killed
Their bodies a part of me
Become me by me
Digested

Sitting in warmth
Thinking of fighting and living
Staring into the flames
Images jump out as alive
I see myself sowing death
And its beautiful

The walls in this cave
Are so empty
And Ive got so many pictures
In my head

A CHILDS PLAY

Feeling eerie
Watching children
Filling their forms with wet sand
Making cakes of stars, frogs
And teddy-bears
With deliberate zeal of ignorant
Demiurgs

A childs play
With background of dark
And deep web of hints so scarry
That only few dare to jump on this train

Where are the rules you must know
To be able to play the game?

A loud crack of the form on the cement
A girl raises her hand slowly
With expectation in her eyes
Known to aeons
The sand image appears
The face of a laughing jester
The girl smiles
(She knows)
 
Suzy, thoughts in time (a fragment)

Suzy was sitting across from Jesus at Shannon's kitchen table.
He was bearded, dark skinned, and very attractive.
He was wearing one of those things around his neck,
one of those things like preachers wear.
Suzy was very attracted to him.
He asked her if she wanted to fuck, and she said, "Absolutely."
They went into the bedroom,
where Suzy saw that Jesus wore a ring at the base of his cock.
The ring had a dragon on it.
Jesus made Suzy very hot.
That's all she could remember -
 
(Guess this is an introduction) Not even going to try and get this published or anything, cos I already know it's not good enough... but I also know right now I'm not really capable of any better. But I'm trying. I'd say this was an excercise in getting complicated plot ideas out in many ways but also keeping it coherent, but I stopped caring about that when I got an Idea of what it was about. Of course its a basic thing, but it's still hard to get. And thats where I might have failed. It's surreal, It's violent, and it's sci-fi in places. So if anyone can be arsed. Cheers.

(No name yet)

I’m nervous so I force a yawn. It gives my face something to do for a few seconds while I wait for him to reappear. I should have shook his hand. I’ll try when he returns; but then he might know I’m just trying to be polite, or he might know I’m nervous and I’ve been thinking about what to do while he was away. My headaches a little and I notice a giant crack in one of the frosted windows over in the corner by a cabinet filled medication.
My shoe lace is untied. Should I tie it quickly before he returns?
“So I jumped down of the table on to my knees and began quickly tying my lace back up, loop it round, dip it through…” Jeremy paused to take another sip of his drink, (a creamy looking elixir, alcoholic: his fourth of the night) to clear his throat perhaps, or build a bit of suspense. He’s a good story teller. In the short pause his friends chuckle, faceless but enthusiastic. “I hear the door open right as I’m about to pull the bow tight ‘hello what are you doing down there?’ he says really quickly, and I stand up really fast, and surely enough, crack the small of my back off the table behind me, really hard.”
“Oof” one of the friends coughs out, it’s a unperturbed looking black man with an afro. He blows smoke into the air and it swirls in the dim grey looming over their heads before he takes a sip of his drink, a blue tinted liquid with ice and lemon, and proceeds to speak again “you-a clumsy mothafucka; always have been. Remember that other time when you walked in to that glass door, we couldn’t stop laughing, could we?” He throws the question out to the others perched around the tiny round glass table.
“One story at a time fellahs”, a man with a note book and pen says. A short silence follows. Eyes turn slowly back to Jeremy.
“Anyway, then I tried to shake his hand, like I’d planned, and the doctor just asked me if I was alright, but very quickly.”
“Why did he ask you that?” the man with the note book edged in, inquisitive.
“Because I’d just hit my back. Remember?” Everyone stares at Jeremy, for a few moments, and Jeremy carries on. “I hit my back and he asked if I was ok, and then I told him I was fine.” The maid comes over and picks up some empties. She whispers something in the black mans ear and his eyes grow wide. He turns to her and whispers something back. She pulls a match from her pocket and lights it off her watch strap. Jeremy continues “Then he asked me to follow him and he lead off out of the room quite quickly. Now here’s the creepy part:” The woman lights a new cigarette for the Black man and he sucks it hard, and then stubs it out. Sitting back and gesturing for Jeremy to carry on, a sudden look of surprise comes over his face, and the expression becomes petrified. “…as I was leaving I heard a big ‘bang’, just to my left, I look over, and there’s some one smacking their hand against the window. but get this, the window doesn’t have a crack in anymore”.
“you never told us it did” the note taker says, looking conflicted.
“Well, it did, I was sitting there and I noticed it while the doctor was out of the room. Anyway I followed him after hearing and seeing the smacking, and he walks really fast, then he turns around, and he has some scissors. He lunges at me and then I fall back really suddenly. I’m a bit startled and I try to ask him ‘What he’s doing’ but my voice cuts out, and all that comes out is a whimper. Now my muscles stop working, I’m totally paralysed but I can feel wet trickling down my thigh, I just manage to crook my neck just enough to see the doctor cutting my penis with the scissors. But he was kind of sawing instead of, you know, snipping.”
Suddenly the black man stands up, with a tear in his eye, still looking petrified, opens his mouth, really slowly, and robot like, and a tiny scroll tied together with a red ribbon falls out on to the table. The man with the notebook throws himself under the table cowering and I just sit there, absolutely terrified.

“Was the doctor in your dream me?” He asks. I look down at my still untied shoe lace. The only reason I didn’t tie it was because I dreamt about telling my friends that I’d tied it. Yes, it was a dream, but it was so like this, and I can’t remember waking up and I can’t remember the order of things like I could earlier. Things are shifting in my brain like some Chinese puzzle. It’s foreign. I can’t touch it, or touch on it.
“Yes.” I tell him, his expression doesn’t falter. My hands are shaking a little. “It was you” I add, to try and invoke perhaps a little bit of surprise.
“And were you in this room?” He responds, still no emotion, but gesturing at the four walls surrounding us.
“At first, but I went out of a door on that wall” I point over at the side of the room I mean, the west wall, and all that is there is a couple of framed certificates and a filing cabinet.
“What do you mean at first?”
“Well, the way I imagined it while telling them was, after the doctor…”
“Me?”
“Yes. After you had come back in to the room, and I banged my back, the walls changed a little. In colour.” He makes some notes and twiddles his pen for a second, looking ever so slightly concerned.
“Do you understand how highly unorthodox it is to have a dream within a dream?”

Walking home I reflect and realise once again that for my forty dollars an hour I have learnt nothing about myself. It has rained, but it’s not raining. The air is really unclear, nobody is out. I’m cold suddenly. I should have worn an extra t-shirt. So it was really hot earlier, I think, I couldn’t have known it would have gotten so miserable.
I stroll through the town, by each still shop, they all look dead, hollowed out. The rooms above them look livelier; the flickering changing colours of a TV bounce from a back wall, some one irons, a dog might be barking. The only shop with people in is a restaurant up front on the other side of the road. It’s booming with life. I’d love to go in, but last time I was there I got yelled at. My shoe lace is untied. Still. I stop and bend down to tie it.

Suddenly Jeremy heard a loud bang and looked up from his shoe to see his own face, his own figure. A man, him; startled after just walking into the restaurant’s incredibly well washed closed glass door. People laugh, and the Jeremy inside the restaurant lets out an awkward chuckle, trying to absorb his own feeling of stupidity. The Jeremy on the pavement, squatting down, on the other side of the road, just stares, awe struck. He thinks he must be dreaming, and he might be right. Still not completing the knot on his shoe, he steps off the pavement and wanders forwards towards the restaurant. It definitely is him inside the restaurant. He suddenly can’t move, or doesn’t want to. He just stands in the road and stares in bewilderment. ‘How is this possible?’ he asks himself. The Jeremy inside the restaurant makes a second attempt to leave and this time, to a mocking little jeer from the others sitting within the safe little haven, pulls open the door. After leaving the restaurant Jeremy could not believe his eyes when he saw, for only a split second, his exact physical copy, staring at him, aghast, moments before his copy is hit by a truck moving far too fast for the breaks to have any effect on the slippery surface. Jeremy hits the ground with an intense impact and is mangled by the low hanging front of the truck as it wedges him to the cobbled road, and grinds him for a few more killer seconds before the truck finally skids to a halt. Jeremy stood outside the restaurant, looking completely aghast at what had just happened. A scream comes up from one of the people inside the cafe, and then another, and another. A few masculine voices comment on how ghastly the incident is. Jeremy ran forward towards the truck, the driver sits there with a pale face, hands still on the wheel, staring forwards, trembling, (what has he just done?) The corpse laying crushed half under the trucks bumper trembles also, spasmodic reflexes, little nerves firing, muscles doing what they do when they’ve been twisted and torn in ways by a force they were not made to withstand. The truck driver looks even more shocked when he sees his road kill run up to the road kill and stare in absolute amazement at a dead version of himself.
“oh my god!” yells the truck driver and lets vomit spew from his mouth, dribble down his chin and drip all over his lap, hands still clasped on the wheal, eyes still wide with incredulity. Jeremy was slowly absorbing what was going on, but still making no sense of it. His instincts were telling him to just leave the scene, find some where quiet and find somewhere where he could sleep.
Running through the streets Jeremy took the usual number of right turns, left turns, back alleys, and 20 minutes later should have been at his apartment. He entered the building to find it derelict. Not one bit off furniture, no reception desk, not even any light. He thought to himself that a lot of buildings looked the same around here, and he may have taken a wrong turn. Nah, he couldn’t have, he’s done this a million times hasn’t he? Maybe not. Suddenly the darkness of the place descends and hits him like a brick. He’s standing in the middle of a neglected room. Black except for a tiny bit of street light creeping through the spaces between the rotten boards over the broken windows. And the air becomes intense, and Jeremy feels it, like electricity, like there’s something there.
Then, out of one of the shadowy corners, Jeremy’s eye caught a spot of movement. A short severe silence followed before he heard another shuffle coming from ever so slightly to the right of where the movement was. Jeremy fumbled in his pocket, panicked, but managed to find the box of matches, struck one up and watched the sulphur spark as it gave off a dazzling light. Although it took a moment for his eyes to focus past the newly born flame, he could see clearly the figure of a boy standing against the back wall. He looked afraid, and confused. Clearly as shocked to see Jeremy standing before him as Jeremy was to see a person of such feeble stature in such an unforgiving environment.
“Hello there.” Jeremy engaged.
A silence followed. The child looked like he was about to bolt.
“Do you live here?” Jeremy asked, trying to maintain a soft tone and making a hand gesture for the boy not to make a move.
After another short silence the boy nodded.
“Do your parents live here?” Jeremy asked next, not knowing why, perhaps out of fear of a moment of awkwardness.
After a slightly shorter silence the boy shook his head.
“You live here alone? How old are you?”
The boy slowly brought up his little hand and extended four fingers and a thumb.
Jeremy had to peer in the darkness to see it. “Five?”
The child Nodded
“Why don’t you come out of that shadow there, so I can get a better look at you?”
Reluctantly the boy took a couple of steps forward, and as he did Jeremy noticed the child’s nakedness. Not only that, but he was covered in filth, and what looked like blood, on his hands and around his mouth, it may have been a brown dirt, it wasdark, and hard to tell.
“Oh my god,” Jeremy let out under his breath slightly taken a back by the mistreated appearance. “What’s that in your mouth?”
The boy chewed down on something that filled the entire interior of his gullet. He looked past Jeremy at something and slowly raised his hand to childishly point over into the shadows on the west wall. Taking note of the direction, Jeremy turned and looked, noticing he and the unloved child were not the only people in the room. A contorted figure lay trembling, but only a silhouette. The child stood staring, chewing and pointing down at the figure. Jeremy walked toward the foetal being, curiously, examining the ball of shadowy human. As he got closer he noticed a whimpering. An angry, yet silent crying. A frustrated pain.
“He took something very important to me!” Jeremy heard his own voice gargle out from down in the corner, and just before his muscles clenched and he felt himself being dragged away, he saw the figure role over, blood dripping from between his legs.

(continued in next post)
 
I quickly wake up in the lab and it comes back to me fast. Very fast. And it hurts my head.
“Your synapses were firing like crazy. I had to rip you. I drugged you to bring you back in… you might feel some nausea for the next three days. That wasn’t like the other times at all.” Pajo tells me these things and the blurb that spews from his mouth means literally nothing to me now.
“Alright,” I begin, through clenched teeth, feeling the throaty sickness that he just told me Id be feeling “You’re right. It was nothing like last time! You need to explain how this works, and I’ve lost my memory again.”
“I explained how it worked last time I dragged you out.”
“Can you tell me in a way I’ll understand it for a change? And I just said, my memories…” At that moment my brain felt like it was being used as a squeeze toy. A striking pain, But what I can remember is I’ve felt this confusion before. And for some reason I take comfort in that.
Pajo was a short old man. He wore spectacles, the rims far too large, even for his podgy face. His eyes looked like pin holes and were crested by bushy white brows that seemed to jut out about an inch, almost comically. He never looked at me when he spoke, he was always doing something, something animated. “We all have a thing that makes us what we are. It is a powerful internal aura I call zobra.” He tells me, and I remember that quite suddenly. “Zobra becomes loose during REM sleep, that’s why some dreams feel real. I found out in a dream where I became lucid in a world similar to this one and met a man who told me what was going to happen to me after I woke up. The prediction he made was for filled and I believed the things he’d told me in the dream. He wanted to meet another man who could learn the control of zobra, only he called it ‘The Skinless’, so we could do cross dimensional research together. It was by chance that we met, and I haven’t learnt a way to connect to his reality again as of yet. Not at least on the same timeline.”
After a short pause I correctly assume he thinks he’s told me enough. The old bastard hasn’t. “What?” I let out with a bit of volume: enough to inform him he must go a bit deeper.
“It turns out when we become lucid of zobra we can travel time by entering other parallel dimensions at random intervals in their time line. We have discovered three different dimensions so far, I think. We have been in and out over 50 times.”
“We?”
“Well, you. I maintain everything works from in here. The premise is easy to understand. You have always been capable of lucid dreaming, and you remember your dreams so well. I’m getting old, my brain isn’t what it was.”
I hurl suddenly on the floor beside my bed. I find myself accepting what he’s telling me, but not accepting the medication pumping through my organs. After remaining still for a minute while my guts right themselves I speak again to try and get some more clarity. “Alright, so we have a soul and it can detach from our body and break barriers in reality?”
“Exactly.”
“Well how do I walk around in my body when I get there?”
“You materialise. Zobra is powerful, and wont exist without it’s vessel.”
“How do you know I don’t just possess someone?”
“Because in easier journeys, where you suffered no memory loss, you told me you had taken moments to look into the mirror.”
“Oh wait, I remember now. This journey wasn’t easy at all. First I was in a bar, talking to some friends, but I blacked out.”
“What did the friends look like?”
I think about it and it floods back suddenly “There were a few of us, but I only remember a Blackman with an afro and a guy taking notes. I was telling them about a dream.”
“Had you been dreaming within the dimension?”
“I don’t remember, this is where it begun, I can’t remember anything before the bar…”
“That’s ok, sometimes the shock of the materialisation causes brain damage, especially in unfamiliar dimensions. You always return to this vessel though, brain damage free”. He gives me a wink, but its hard to notice the gesture, his features are so small.
“That’s good to know. What happened in the bar gets hazy though, I heard a loud noise and someone was smacking their hand against the window, the window had a crack in it. Then I started to black out.”
“yes, you’re body had some convulsions while you were skinless. It’s nothing unusual, but it can cause disorientation in the dimension you are in. Please, what do you remember next?”
“I was throwing a stone in to a river, but I was a child, and then I woke up in a restaurant.”
“When you were a child did you feel you had possessed a different body?”
“I was dreaming. I think.”
“That sounds quite likely.”
“Then I saw myself outside the restaurant, I was standing in the road, staring at me, and then I got hit by a truck.”
“You or him?”
“What difference does it make?” I don’t know why I ask that question, and the thought of not knowing why I asked makes me shiver for a second, because I know it doesn’t matter whether it was me or him, but I don’t know how I know. “Him, but I felt it, it shook me.” And it did.
“I don’t understand. It doesn’t seem likely that you would meet yourself in there. I mean, the realities are parallel, but you don’t know where you are going to get dropped within the reality.”
“It doesn’t stop there. I ran to what I thought was my home, I recognised the route, but my home wasn’t there. And inside the burnt out building I think I met myself again, but I’m not sure.”
Pajo just scratches his chin. His tickling beard needed to be treated before he could do any proper thinking.
“It couldn’t have been you.” He fires out shaking his head. It’s obvious what I’ve told him has caused some conflict, but he trusts my words. I vomit again and Pajo pats my back, letting out a sigh, mainly because he doesn’t understand what’s going on anymore. And that doesn’t bode well for me at all. I have a feeling if he’s right about zobra, then he isn’t going to find out shit. What just happened was very close to being ‘something else’. Or his theories aren’t as simple as he thought.
I lay in the bed, waiting for the nausea to wear off. Pajo wanders around muttering to himself, now and then writing things on blackboards only to irritably scribble it out while cursing. I look over in the corner and notice the window has a crack in it. It wasn’t there before. “Pajo” I call out. I get no response. I sit up out of the bed. My neck is so stiff. I slip on my shoes, can’t be bothered tying the laces, and stagger over to the window. Getting my memory back over the past three hours was slow, but I feel full again now. There was no crack in that window. I examine it. There is now. Pajo toddles in.
“When did this break?”
“While you were out.”
“How?”
“A bird.”
“Can I see it?” Pajo just shuffles through some files, all look very un neat. “Can I see it?” I repeat a bit louder.
“See what?” Pajo responds. The coot has a worse memory than I do.
“The bird!” I let it out with a bit of exasperation. He’s busy but he shouldn’t be ignoring me.
“No. Look at this.” Pajo shows me a picture, and I can hardly believe the image. But I recognise me in it, and I feel I know it some how. I’m sitting on a table, a doctor is talking to me. “I was given this picture by the man I was telling you about earlier.” Pajo tells me. “The man who wants to share cross dimensional research, the man who wants to gain evidence before going global with his discoveries; with our discoveries.”
“How could you have this? You met him in another dimension?” I hear a sudden loud smacking, a hand is hitting the window in the corner, but it’s not broken anymore. “Pajo, what the fuck is going on?”

Jeremy struggled with the thoughts for a few seconds. He felt all his memories break apart again, and the pieces were laying on the floor of his mind, out of order, in a foreign language. The picture. How did Pajo have it? How could Pajo have it? Confusion is the only thing that suffices, and that was unfortunate for Jeremy as the hand hitting the window became more and more powerful.

“Then I wake up.” The shrink stares at me, he thinks he knows something about people. But he just doesn’t.
“So you get out of bed and noticed a crack, and then are shown a photo?” that sounds like perfectly normal subconscious behaviour to me. Your brain could have been working on anything to do that to you. Is there anything more to the dream, other than stepping off a bed in a laboratory?”
“There might have been, but I can’t remember it. I remember not tying my shoe laces.” I don’t know why I told him this, I rarely tie my laces.
“This is what I think. You have left an imprint of yourself on many different dimensions.” His eyes narrow and the corners of his mouth ascend, he’s so happy. He’s revealing something, but I feel like I can guess the words that are going to come out of his mouth. “And your friend in the dream who showed you the picture is unaware that every time you go into ‘the skinless’ that your materialisation is left roaming, somewhat empty. Its not you, but it is you. Remember this and tell him. It doesn’t have your ‘skinless’, but while you were there you printed enough of your ‘Skinless’ for it to have your traits.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m doctor Pajo”. He offers me his hand.
“What’s the date today? Please, I need to know, and I need to go back so I can find out when this is.”
“Do you think that makes any difference?”
“Why wouldn’t it? Is this the day I meet Pajo?” the guys face is so unfamiliar, but then Pajo is only a name to me. I can’t conjure a face at all.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve just been given this picture, by a shrink who says you’re perfect for dream experiments.”
“I don’t remember any of this. Why would Pajo lie to me?”
“Who else do you know who is called pajo?”
“The man in my dream, only it wasn’t a dream, I… I .”
“We’ve never met before my friend. But you will help me with my experiments. I will pay you very good cash”
I feel like I’m falling down, maybe I’m going to get sucked out of this body again and land somewhere else. Maybe I’m going to lose my memory again. Maybe not. Maybe I’m going to wake up and be sitting on a shrinks desk, with my lace untied telling someone else this has all been a dream. When am I not Skinless? “It’s time travel then, I have been time travelling for a long time. 50 times” I remember it now, it wasn’t a dream, he isn’t my shrink, I remember the boy, and seeing myself in the corner.
“Maybe it actually was a dream.”
“Don’t tell me that!” and at that moment I hear the door behind me click open.
“Doctor Pajo, a Jeremy Carneal is here to see you”. My disbelief is only rivalled by the woman’s, who looks and sees me sitting in here, and no doubt looks outside and sees me standing out there. I know what is coming next. If time travel exists, and Jeremy sees me now, then that will throw off the entire idea. I never saw myself in a room, but Pajo never looked like this man, this shrink, young. I look at the window. It has no crack in it. What a relief. I run and dive through it though, like I can’t even control myself, it was just something that felt absolutely predestined. Absolute in its innocence. As I fall I feel about a million thoughts about the inevitability of time travel plough through my brain. If I hadn’t have done this, maybe my existence would have seized. The ground is rushing up to meet me.

And with a sickening thud Jeremy exploded all over the edge of the road. People screamed as they bore witness to the intriguing epitome of gore. Doctor Pajo ran to the window and looked down, confused, unknowing. Two Jeremy’s with identical faces.
He would learn faster than another Doctor Pajo, just exactly how deep this runs.

“What the hell just happened in here?” I ask, walking into find a broken window and two people staring out of it in disbelief.

I wake up and I see Pajo’s old face looking down at me. He asks me if I killed myself and I tell him yes. He’s trembling and He kisses me.

The one the assistant called Doctor Pajo and the one I’m here to see turns to me, and suddenly looks enthusiastic and friendly.

I break away from the kiss. “It’s not this way. I don’t want it this way.” But then I know Pajo, and he’s not so innocent.

I shake his hand and I sit down. “Are you Jeremy Carneal?” Pajo asks me.
(He asks every single one of me,
no matter live or dead,
suffering,
just born, retarded, little print, strong print).
Why don’t I leave the room?
(What is real?) Why did he kiss me,
and yet I’m still shaking his hand,
(I feel it). The birth of a relationship.

“My Name is Petyr Pajo, I’m a neurologist of sorts. You will discover soon that that’s not all there is to me, and hopefully we are going to make some history. Together. Don’t go to the window. Please.”
(My memory will wipe any second, I hope to god it will.)
And so does Pajo. He kissed me, (and I felt it),
and so did the others, (they just didn’t understand it).
And still, off where only my skinless could go,
I’m meeting a Pajo,
(and I’m cowering in a corner
and I’m sitting in a bar, talking to a black man while some idiot takes notes).

I can’t get close enough to see what it is everyone is standing around. The people all hum, concerned, sickened, terrified, I don’t know. There’s a broken window above them, some people point up at it. Someone has just fallen from the window I bet. I’d love to get a look, but the weather’s turning bad and the sight would only make me sick. A police car pulls up and they make a clearing. All I see is some splatters of blood, no carcass (in view), but I wouldn’t want to see that, it would only make me feel sick. The first drops of rain fall, and what few people from the streets that aren’t retching over whatever that lump of death was at the bottom of the building are making their way for cover. A lot run up to a café further down the street for cover. The heat of that place calls to me too, the warm atmosphere, but I’d rather go home, I’m tired, from what, oh god? I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything. I stop to catch my breath. My name is Jeremy. My laces are untied. I live about ¾ of a mile away. I enjoy throwing stones into ponds. What have I been doing? What have I ever done? Go home, I tell myself to go home and I listen to myself, going home. The rain gets heavier. It bounces off the cobbles and turns everything grey, and depressed, except for in the café, but I need to get home first. I look behind myself to make sure no one is looking - I’m self conscious when I run, because I have no technique - the street is empty, except for a man in the distance standing from where I came. He is at the end of the street, iust coming out of the tall building. The onlookers of the suicide stand behind him, he doesn’t notice them I don’t think; he stops to tie his laces. He doesn’t notice me. He owns the same jacket as me. And he looks like me, but I have to go home. So I run, and I take the usual right turns, left turns and back alleys.
“This is my apartment” I tell the kid, but he just looks sad. Confused. I don’t know what’s going on. “Did you do this to my apartment?” I don’t even remember what my apartment looks like, I don’t even have a key on me, but it should be here, and it shouldn’t be a neglected burnt out hole. This place is derelict. And this filthy child stares at me. He’s so unnatural. “Where’s your mother? Why don’t you go home ey?” He doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, and nor do I really (I’m just talking because eIm able to, and I feel a lack of control coming over me), he just stares at me, and stares. “Hey, are you even from around here?” I say, and he shakes his head. So I just shrug. Is this where I live? It’s too dark to see anything clearly. The sun is just setting and when it does - no doubt, myself and this weird little boy will be standing in darkness. So I grope for a light switch. I move my hands along the wall, there’s some wallpaper hear and there, but its all pealing and some of the walls are just brick. I frisk the south wall and find nothing, and the west wall and find…

At that moment the child, with an un-child-like strength, wrapped a plank around the back of Jeremy’s head. It was a blow delivered with power enough to stun, and throw the man off balance. The boy was quick to wind back another shot and deliver it with a similar unprovoked ferocity.
Jeremy lost his footing and fell down, trying to guard his face from anticipation of anymore blows, but just couldn’t predict in the ever growing darkness where the next shot was going to come from. The boy put his foot on Jeremy’s wrist, pinning his hand out of any position where it could be used to defend, and then changed his grip on the clump of wood so he could deliver straight blows with the blunt edge in a heavy downward stabbing motion. For a second Jeremy could see the look on the child’s face. Teeth clenched. A bit of saliva in either corner of his mouth, his eyes showing wild but focused intent. Three heavy stabs down on to Jeremy’s forearm and the bone had snapped. It snapped on the second shot, audibly, the third shot was just to make sure. Wincing Jeremy moved his other arm over to try and cradle the broken wrist and as he did the boy kicked him square in his eye, literally toe end into his socket. It felt like his eye had just burst there and then and his head span, and blood filled up in the eye and all he could do is gargle as he felt the boys foot on his other arm. This time it took 7 shots to break the bone. 12 shots altogether to make sure the job was properly done. The wrist was even more mangled other one, snapped in more places for sure. Just under the elbow and then again a few inches further down. The blood came out in spurts as the bone compound and was sticking through the flesh. With both arms out of commission and his head in a growing vortex of semi-consciousness Jeremy could only lay still, trying to piece together the puzzle that was his existence. The boy once again stabs the wood down, this time right into Jeremy’s face. Over and over. Perhaps 6, 7, or 8. Not relenting. The first shots were hitting him in the forehead, and causing more blood to pump from lascerations and swellings into his eyes. The focus of the shots then moved more central and the pressure and impact was right on Jeremy’s nose, which broke, smashed, instantly. His teeth cracked under the pressure of one stab and with a thick wadge of mucus and blood rolled back in to his throat, choking him into silence. When Jeremy was nothing but harmless pulp the boy moved over to one of the broken windows and took a spike of glass from the floor just beneath it. Taking off Jeremy’s trousers and underwear, the boy began sawing through flesh. Jeremy could only groan. Could only imagine wincing. Wanted to die. Once the boy had gotten so far he just used his strength to tear the threads of skin still holding the penis between Jeremy’s legs. And he put it in his mouth. And he began to chew.

And I felt my consciousness slipping away. My Life slipping away. The pain actually subsided then for a few seconds and I could sware any second I was going to see angels standing infront of me. I was waiting to see a bright light. But then the pain came back suddenly and ferociously. And I couldn’t feel anything naturally. And the pain was so intense in so many regions that my mind couldn’t occupy on anything else. My broken arms. My bust eye. My smashed face. My blocked throat. No teeth. And so much blood. And My cockles crotch.
And then it’s just darkness but I can hear a nibbling sound, and I wonder how long it will be before I feel some relief. Before I’m dead. But my head spins, and within the darkness I can still feel my self moving. Maybe I blacked out, because The choking feeling suddenly goe’s away, and my head isn’t in such a vortex but I still can’t feel my arms. And oh my god the pain in between my legs. I feel blood pumping from me and I feel fainter now, and the faint feeling absorbs the pain and I can feel my legs trembeling, and my stomach muscles compress. So tight, then relaxed, then cramped, and then relaxed.
And then I peel my one good eye open, the blood in it has dried and I can see only a little, but I see the light. The light I was waiting for. A hiss of sulphur and then I see the silhouette of a man holding a match. Is he God? Let it be god. Let me be dead. Let it be an angel come to take me away. But he doesn’t see me. My legs tremble really hard when I try to move. I try to call out but the man has his back to me, and my voice doesn’t catch, I just weeze. “Do you live here?” I hear him ask the boy. And I want to warn him. I want him to take me away. He asks the boy what he has in his mouth, and the boy points at me, and the man turns to me, and I see it. He has my face. He has my face. He has the face I had . And the boy picks up his wooden bat again and stalks behind Jeremy, me, as I walk towards myself, as I’m laying still here, bleeding, and ready to just fucking die. And I tell him “He took something very important to me!” and He notices my disfigurements all at once. And I realise I’m not talking about the boy taking my cock. I’m talking about pajo taking my life. And I want the man with the match – my twin – my copy – whatever it is – to know, that I’m not talking about the boy. But a sound rings in the desolate room. The sound of hard wood on skull, and I drop to my knees in front of me, and I look startled as I’m smashed in the back of the head, totally unawares, for the second time tonight. And my eyes glaze over as I accept the true horror of what lays in front of me: me. And I close my eyes and my legs tremble again and I feel very week. The pumping blood slows and Im sure there’s not much left in me and I hear cries, and cracks, and splatters. And I’m left wondering: Are there really only three dimensions? Can the dimensions even be numbered? And once I’ve crossed one, and been given medication to stay in there and explore, and then I don’t remember anything except what Pajo repeats every time, Does a bit of my Zobra stay there. And am I left split in so many pieces in so many places that my mind is one constant puzzle that can only ask questions that can’t be answered, because I never do ask pajo these question. Or maybe I do. Constantly, in some random dimension, because I’m not only lost, I’m becoming omnipresent, and I’m loosing my mind. And blood trickles from my mouth and meets with the blood trickling from my other mouth and face to face with myself, we both die. But I think I’m still alive. I know Im still alive. Everywhere. But I also know I’m dead. And I hate that for a time I don’t know anything. And for that time I walk a road and then I’m destroyed -


The End.



Oh and btw, @ Marduk, I dig those poems. Actually an immense pulse to pages. It's that one actually see's decent poetry on forums, so although I'm not big on poetry myself, seeing these were a real treat and I don't want to sound like that's just because it's novelty. I actually did really like all three poems. Sorry I'm so late in saying. I guess I just didn't catch them before this thread sank. Do treat us with more some time won't you :)
 
Here's a poem I wrote a while ago, it's not rhyming but I wrote it in the form of a song. You can find much more of my writings if you click on the link in my sig...(if interested). Well there it is :

Nightsky​

I gazed into the NightSky
A thousand lightyears of fire
The infinite Hall of Tranquility
Mother of all melancholies
A beautiful veil of black
Lit by diamonds and the Moon
Ghost-clouds and blackstone raindrops
Such wonderful and mystical horizon
Unchanged by time nor seasons
-
Oh, beautiful NightSky
Let me dream of shadows
Let me dream of darkness
Flowing through you, my insanity
Take me in your hands
Hold me in your arms of twilight
-
The cold air filling my lungs
Feeling the night in every breath
The stars now reflecting in my eyes
The moonlight paling my face
Giving me a shadow in the dark
On the vessel of stone I stand
A pedestal of infinity ablaze
Take me higher, until I touch the clouds
And taste again the wine of divinities
-
Oh, beautiful NightSky
Let me dream of shadows
Let me dream of darkness
Flowing through you, my insanity
Take me in your hands
Hold me in your arms of twilight
-
Walking now the darkest road
A path to devilry into the autumn mist
Time has almost stopped, frozen in thoughts
So cold, so fiery, so calm, so enraged
The river stands and flows without waves
All in the night is beauty
All in the night is tranquility
And I march on, always forward
Into this land, where the world is asleep
-
Oh, beautiful NightSky
Let me dream of Shadow
Let me dream for all eternity
My insanity now part of you
I am in your arms
The twilight is inside me
-
And I look around me
All the trees, all the stones
They are only shapes now
Indistinct forms of all there is
I gaze into the NightSky
I see the guiding light of dark
Dragging me in another world again
Again and forever on
-
I am the NightSky Watcher​
 
Suzy, thoughts in time (a fragment)

Suzy was sitting across from Jesus at Shannon's kitchen table.
He was bearded, dark skinned, and very attractive.
He was wearing one of those things around his neck,
one of those things like preachers wear.
Suzy was very attracted to him.
He asked her if she wanted to fuck, and she said, "Absolutely."
They went into the bedroom,
where Suzy saw that Jesus wore a ring at the base of his cock.
The ring had a dragon on it.
Jesus made Suzy very hot.
That's all she could remember -
Click to expand...


But Suzy tells it better herself: "Jesus and I were sitting at your kitchen table, smoking cigarettes, as you and I did so many times after John left". The room was lit by candles and your oven light, and Jesus was dressed in a white robe with a garnet scarf - the image that we in the West see so often. He had long thin fingers and smoked slowly and deliberately. I'm not sure there was any conversation, but the next image I have was of me straddling him, still at the kitchen table, and grinding on his lap as we kissed. We moved to the bedroom and took off our cloths before we got into bed. He was thin and pale and had a thin patch of hair between his nipples, thicker hair around his penis, which was also long and thin and curved slightly upward when erect. He wore a gold cock-ring, attached to which was a thin gold charm bearing a small green dragon charm at the end. The chain dangled so that the dragon hit just below the balls, which were tucked tightly to the body, given the current state of arousal. Without foreplay, we fucked on top of your bed, Jesus on top. With every thrust, the dragon would hit the space between my vagina and my asshole, and would slap Jesus's balls on the outward pull.

The dream ended before we finished.
 
@KC: wow man, thanks! Your kind words were a motivation to struggle through your story, :) and I liked it a lot! You really have something to build on, your ideas are fresh. I prefer pressing them into smaller pieces. ;)
 
Here's a really short story. Written to try and keep myself awake one morning.

Red and orange lights, flashing and floating around him, suspended in a thick, sticky darkness, some in a temporary orbit, some parallel, some are stationary (these move the fastest). It’s like being at a disco, only cars have taken the dance floor, moving around in aimless circles as rain patters down at a steady unexciting rate, covering the car window with spots, much to the lethargic enticement of one particular pale-faced drone; and all he does everyday is look as far ahead as he can to find a spot on the highway, timing how long it takes to reach the cited spot, when he accomplishes the distance, he repeats process, his mind always occupied, wavering on the completely trivial, and his eyes not attent to the speed and force of the car in the lane next to him, he moves left oblivious, with only a split seconds indication, the bump was not severe – he had been rear-ended before; just not in the rain.
He span for a while, to his sons amusement, before making contact with another car which although not relinquishing the steady but deadly rotation, did propel them to the edge of the road where the car flattened a few road marker posts (these were red and white, stationary, and always appeared moving) before the tires hit a rut in the new soil surface, and the car flipped spectacularly, almost a perfect 180 degrees in the air, setting up for the slam, which came with the crunch of bones, shattering of glass, a wave of dust and dirt, grinding of metal, cry of an infant, the signal distortion of the monotonous radio voice and the sudden sound of heavy rain.
Maybe it was minutes, maybe it was hours later that pale face regained consciousness, water splashing hard all over his upper torso, glass all over and around him, dry blood clotted about his nose and mouth and a cut on his temple that although not long in length, was about half an inch deep and was still weeping blood, a viscous sticky kind - thick with plasma and fresh blood cells. He had become a sideshow attraction for fellow drivers who slow down momentarily to look at the artistic wreckage. Fascinating. Pale face’s son hadn’t worn his seat belt tight so he could move around freely in the back of the machine and that he did, as his head ploughed into the roof, splitting his face open and crushing the bones in his spine. Brain trauma. So he lays motionless, the blood pumping from the cavernous crack between his adorable eyes, only to be washed away moments later by the icy bullets of rain. It’s ours.
 
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