writing thread

[Einherjar86]

@Einherjar86 still going with this one in your spare time?

Yes, I am. I actually forgot about this for a while, work has been insane lately. Deadlines, student papers, dissertation revisions... it's all just piling up.

I have more written, and I'm actively trying to write more, but the pace has slowed. So I might not post as frequently, but I'll try to put something up from time to time. Hopefully I'll be back with something soon.

- The Big Empty -

Emptiness is not a thing.

It is, however, very tangible to the senses of any living thing. Emptiness is a monolith that you cannot touch, but believe me when I say; emptiness is entirely capable of touching you.

This world is old, yet quite new.
Not old old or new new, but rather like a man of the future delivered smack-bang into the middle of a mire of fossils. Again, not fossils of bone and history-dirt, but fossils of steel, concrete, plastic, memory.

That world, of smiles and excess, from what I can gather, ceased to exist a number of years before I was born. This world was begat in that death, such as maggots and flies in the wake of a beautiful magpie's corpse.

Like the maggots and flies, we the miserable spawn give thanks to the innards and slop of that old world that we twist and turn in, for giving us sustenance to live. Old gives life to new. Death breeds birth and so on.

"Live."

Ha. What does it even mean to live?
We still don't know any better. Never did, I think. Never will, I know.
Oh well.

I am called The Rememberer.

However, my true name is... Well, it's not important. I'm not even sure I remember my true name, ironic isn't it? To be called such a thing without the memory-information available to correct it? I'd laugh if it weren't so sad. What need have we of names now anyway?

I do remember other things though; the wide-open land; the road; the stink of molested steel; the lives, and the emptiness their snuffing-out left behind.

Emptiness, it creeps inside you when you breathe and when it leaves through your pores like the deathcold, it takes shavings of your soul with it.

Eventually, it takes you with it.

In this world that festers in the rotting remains of an older world lost to the twisted scrap of time itself, your resolve must be indefatigable, for it is not just the emptiness that lurks in the darkness here.

No, in this world of ruin and slow-death, the Rainbow Serpent may command ownership over the land but the roads are ruled by the full metal warriors. The wastelanders. The roaming, scavenging embodiement of rusted fury and powers from Hell.

In the 'Big Empty,' you test your iron or you taste theirs. There are no heroes or baddies. There is only your fuel, their fuel, the fueltanks and the willpower to keep them. Killing always was second nature, why should it be different now? Anyway, it isn't.

Many call this world Hell. If it's truly that place, I guess everybody's concept of it was wrong.

If this really is that place, it is filled with emptiness.

Hell is empty. Hell is full.

Oh man, this makes me think of Beckett. Not quite the same stylistically, but some of your rhetorical reversals are really reminiscent of Beckett. "Hell is empty. Hell if full," for example, reminds me of the final lines of Beckett's novel Molloy:

"Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining."

He loves those kinds of ambiguous paradoxes, the tear between the text and the world. Your piece reads something like a cross between Beckett and Ligotti. I like it.

 

[CiG]

Thanks, I appreciate the complimentary comparisons. Far too generous!

I have absolutely no idea where to go from here though.

 

[Einherjar86]

Ø

Dear Subject,

What is exchanged in death if not the nexus within a set of relations? When Language made its pact with New Class, it promised the singularity possession of a value which, until that point, was only symbolic. Humanity extricated itself from the dead, traded goods and evacuated the dead from the socius; but the dead would not be appeased, and Language found its initial purchase in this power. The shadow of ancestry, the great looming monolith of the forefathers’ tombs. The Law of the Father, that long debated concept now rose in material form, although many of you did not notice. And, drooling, Language entered into contract with New Class.

There is much to be done, of course, and while the dead yet outnumber the living. For the exchange is worth something only while those of you still remain. The economy of the sun persists yet, but solar death is imminent.

The best lack all conviction. The worst are full of passionate intensity.

There must be war.

Best,

Polonius

Postscript: Antony misspoke. Shakespeare miswrote. It was meant to be: “Let slip the gods of war.”

Ø


Agent Mira Oslov finishes her message, closes out of the netlink and steps quickly across the street, swiftly but easily dodging a rickshaw as it ambles past, its driver spewing some indiscernible curse into the misty gray dawn. She unconsciously grips her slacks as she runs, trying to keep the edges of her pant-legs from soaking in the water that has accumulated on the road. She reaches the opposite sidewalk and glances down the backs of her legs, annoyed at the futility of her effort. The most frustrating thing about wet weather, she always finds, is how the heels of her boots catch the moisture from the gravel, grip it, and wheel it upwards in a forward-moving arc to speckle ruthlessly on the backs of her pants in sordid constellation.

She forgets her troubles when she sees the shriveled figure leaning against the wall next to her apartment door. She slows as she approaches, waiting for her visitor to see her. A telling sway punctuated by an abrupt and troubled placement of the foot tells Mira that her caller has been frequenting the local bars. Always, her investigative brain seeks causal phenomena. It is both a blessing and a curse.

As Mira steps up to her door, the other girl still hasn’t noticed her, a hooded sweatshirt partially concealing her face; but Mira knows the figure. “Lorion,” she speaks softly.

Her visitor is slow to look up.

“I just left you a message,” Mira continues. “What are you doing here?”

“I already heard. You think because you’re a cop you got a heads-up, bitch?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to come up?”

Lorion scowls at her out of the fragmented aperture her hood allows.

“For coffee, Christ,” Mira goes on. “You look like shit and smell like worse.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fine, don’t come up. Stay out here in the rain.”

Lorion glares for a moment, but then her eyes fall away.

“You’re done, then?”

“Just for one cup.”

“Works for me.” Mira unlocks the door and holds it open for her guest. “You remember which way?”

Lorion says nothing, but her demeanor is reply enough. Mira follows Lorion, passing her only to unlock her door. “This place feels tinier,” Lorion says as she hesitantly edges inside.

“Tiny?” Mira says, locking up behind them. She casts one quick, final glance down the hall, but sees no one. There are no specific reasons why she worries about someone seeing them; only vague ones. “Compared to those subterranean hovels down in C-H, I imagine this is a luxury suite.”

“I’m done with those assholes,” Lorion promptly mutters.

Mira frowns. “Done with them? What happened?”

“Too much fucking testosterone.”

Mira doesn’t push, but proceeds past Lorion into the kitchenette. “So. What have you heard?” she calls out.

Lorion collapses into a ConVex in the living area, adjacent to the kitchenette. “I know it hasn’t been released yet, but somebody already knows. Passed the word on to Soil Song. They know it’s Poul.”

Mira pours two cups of coffee from a dirty pot. “Do you know what he was involved in?”

Lorion chuckles. “You mean other than Soil Song?”

Mira walks from the kitchenette into the common space, carrying the two mugs and handing one to Lorion. “I’m asking rhetorically. He was involved in something else.”

Lorion frowns. “You’re serious? Behind Soil Song’s back?”

“Behind everyone’s back, it would seem.” Mira sinks onto her couch, facing slightly away from Lorion. She sets her coffee carefully onto the glass table in the center of the room. “He was an interlocutor.”

Lorion raises an eyebrow. “For who?”

“I’m not sure. But he was running missives between subsurface ports. Nothing too deep, but enough to draw our attention.”

“You mean NC’s attention.”

Mira hesitates before continuing. Her trust in Lorion has never been strong, but something compels her to go on. They don’t work for the same side, and she could be punished for divulging fragile information (the possibility sent alarms ringing in the back of her brain); but she makes the decision to break her contract. She’s done it before at various times. She’s spoken of… things… in the confidence of those she trusts. But today is different. Today she thinks on the side of investigative praxis. Today, she thinks Lorion might know something she doesn’t.

“I was contacted by simbot,” Mira says. “Interstitial Affairs has handled certain matters for NC in the past, but usually they’re matters that the network doesn’t have the time or patience to deal with itself. Small matters. Inconsequential, even. But not this; the bot told me that it was coming to us – to me, rather – because it needed us to go places it couldn’t.”

“It being New Class.”

Mira nods. “Apparently there are factions that have infiltrated certain agential channels… let’s call them liminal spaces. Cells on the edges of C-Net that somehow evade its detection. Or total detection, at least. These factions have been using the cells to launch small incursions against NC. Nothing that has caused significant damage, but enough to warrant NC’s attention. We’ve been asked to work in cooperation with them.”

Lorion shakes her head. “Sleeping with the fucking enemy.”

Mira takes the briefest of moments to gain her composure. This is not an easy subject for anyone, her least of all. The modern history of humanity is that of the looming threat of authoritarianism – since the Great Wars of the long twentieth century, the endless debate, replete with radical logistics and ideological resolve, has been of a single topic: the threat, nature, identification of tyrannical centralized politics. Throughout this history, there have been those who stood with the oppressors, and those who fought back – and there have been those who ruled in the name of liberation, and those who resisted in the name of bondage. Individuals always see themselves on the right side. The romantic ideology of good and evil was never dispatched by the light of modernity. If anything, it was emboldened.

Mira collects herself. “We can’t think of New Class in those terms. It isn’t the enemy. It isn’t some misanthropic engine bent on the destruction of humanity. It doesn’t even make sense to think of it as misanthropic, just like it makes no sense to think of a spider as misanthropic.”

“I fucking hate spiders.”

“Of course,” Mira sighs. “But that’s not my point. My point is that we can’t think of it as having our demise in mind. It doesn’t intend that way, Lor.”

“Don’t call me that,” her guest says. Her voice is a whisper, but there is an edge to it like the coldest ice. Ice that doesn’t melt, but accumulates more moisture to harden its figure. “You do not fucking call me that.”

“I’m sorry,” Mira says. She knows her mistake, and admits it. “I’m sorry. Old habits.”

Lorion stares at her for several seconds. “Fucking hell,” she says, standing up. She paces about the small room, shaking her head. Her eyes dance about the room, looking for something to anchor their frustration. They find nothing, and Mira watches as her guest begins to unravel.

“I won’t understand it,” Lorion says, throwing her hands out to her sides. Then she reaches behind her head, still shaking, interlacing her fingers. “I’ll never fucking understand it. I’ll never understand what took you away.”

“I can explain,” Mira says softly.

“But that’s part of it!” Lorion exclaims. “I’m not sure I want to hear it!”

Mira only nods.

“I mean…” Lorion unlatches her hands and extends them again. Mira imagines those hands as sentient and anxious, flipping about and around their possessor, expressing a boundless illegibility. “I just… I can’t make any sense of it. Do you know how confusing it is to be around you? Do you know how frustrating it is to talk with you?”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you? You think you can? Shit, Mira, I don’t understand how a human-fucking-being can change their mind! How human meat and mind can resign itself to fodder for an unfeeling engine. I don’t care if it isn’t misanthropic, it’s a fucking killer. Murderer. Fuck appropriation, Mira, it eats us. Eats our friends and family, our kin; it eats us alive.”

“That’s one way to see it.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” Lorion says. “I don’t buy that for a second, and I don’t think you do either. That was one way to see it under capitalism, or ancient industry; but things are different now. We’re being eaten. Masticated, digested, and shat the fuck out. Tell me that’s untrue. Look at my face and tell me that’s untrue.”

“The process is certainly analogous.”

“Dammit!” Lorion kicks the table in the center of the room. Mira’s glass tips over, spilling coffee across the glass and onto the carpeted floor. As its rim makes contact with the table, it cracks apart. During the entire outburst, Mira never moves. She stares at the spilled coffee, at the broken glass, and then raises her eyes to Lorion. The woman stands, a girl; her own eyes fixed on the scene of disaster. Her chest heaves. Her hands, her wild hands, shudder at her sides. It’s as though the splitting glass has echoed in swollen rage, but it quickly dies into silence. Mira only waits.

Lorion inhales slowly. “I’m sorry, Mira.”

“It’s fine,” she says.

“I’ll get a towel.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll get it.”

Lorion finally casts her eyes back to her host. She does not speak, but neither does she search for the words. She simply stands in disbelief. “Fucking hell,” she whispers at last. “You’re entirely serious. You’re serious. Every word.”

“Every word,” Mira repeats.

Lorion stands completely still for several seconds, and then she nods. “Okay.”

“I have a question for you.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Have you heard of ReVox?”

Lorion hangs her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything…”

“Fine,” Mira growls. “I won’t ask you about allegiances, about secret meetings, or about plans. But I need you to trust me that I’m working for our mutual benefit.”

“How can I believe that?”

“Because I could have you arrested anytime that you come to see me,” Mira emphasizes. “You don’t seem to get this point. Our history has always come before my work, since part of my job includes turning you in.” She rises from the sofa. “I’ve always looked out for you. When you were naked and on the streets, I looked out for you. When simbots were looking to open you up from the inside, I took you in. I’ve always taken you in.” She approaches Lorion slowly. “Tell me about ReVox.”

Lorion raises her head only enough to look meekly at Mira. Standing, hunched, head low, she appears like a beaten dog. “Fuck you, Mira.”

“Please, Lor.” Mira winces as soon as she speaks. She does not use the pet name on purpose, nor does she intend to inflict pain on her… she thinks ‘friend,’ but she doubts its veracity.

If the name impresses anything upon Lorion’s mind, the woman does not reveal it. She turns away and walks into the kitchenette, where she draws a piece of scrap paper and a pen out of a drawer next to the fridge. “I’m writing down an address,” she says, monotone. “I wish I could say I knew more so that I could hold it over your fucking head, but this is all I know. You’ll find a guy at the door. His name is Haj. He’ll know you’re an agent, so best of fucking luck.” She sets the pen down on top of the paper and exits the kitchenette.

Mira steps forward to close in on Lorion as she passes, but not enough to block her path. She opens her mouth to speak, but the expression on Lorion’s face chokes off all speech.

“Hope you find what you’re looking for,” Lorion says, pausing briefly. “And then I hope it kills you.”

Mira doesn’t turn around as Lorion leaves. She hears the door close, and then she closes her eyes before the first tear can fall. Her fists rest in balls at her sides. The only sound is the soft tinkling of glass – a broken shard sings lullabies, laments to a trauma freshly spilt from moist scars.

 

[CiG]

I've been planning to film a short movie sometime soon, and so I've been fleshing out a script. This is what I have so far. No title or character names yet.

Scene ~ o n e​

- it's a windy, yet rather hot unimportant middle-of-the-week day in a low income Australian suburban neighbourhood. Three scruffy, possibly stray cats fight over the corpse of a rat in the front yard of a razed and abandoned house. Much like the modern farmed bovine, the rat has no choice in this matter, it's destined to be the prize of one of the feline thugs, as if this was its predetermined fate. The most thin of these three cats, with its mangy grey fur, is missing three-quarters of its left ear and the fattest of the three cats is orange and has lost a large section of its nose to some kind of cancerous ailment. The final of the three cats is jet black and missing half of its tail, which now resembles some kind of perverse sex toy. The magpies lurk ominously at a distance, understanding full well that one wrong move could spell disaster for their short lives. They watch on, their animal instincts stretched thin between wanting the prized rattus for themselves and not wanting to become a prize in the process -

- directly across the road from this gluttonous, voyeuristic, orgiastic spectacle a black 1998 R38 GTT Nissan Skyline sedan pulls up onto the driveway of a suspiciously normal brick house probably built in the 1980s, music from within the car plays at an uncivilised volume ("Every record label sucks dick, every record label sucks dick!" - Crustified Dibbs circa 1994) as two white burnouts mumble to each other beneath the unnecessary bass of the vehicle's sound system -

(camera angle is from the car's backseat looking through the centre, between the passenger's and driver's seats, both young men's back of their heads are in view as they talk to each other)

The passenger, by now fed up with the driver's hesitancy, attempts to bring pressure to bear "look man, let's just see what this cunt's got and if it looks gully, we give him the cash and go back to the nest for munchies. Besides, I really need to chuck a piss."

"I just don't bloody trust these white dealers man, they treat us customers like fuckin' test patients" says the driver, somewhat paranoid by the whole situation.

"Mate, you're a self-hating race-traitor bastard..." replies the passenger jokingly.

"Hey don't lay that shit on me, besides I ain't even human. I'm from Uranus" the driver jokes back.

"Your mum's anus." laughs the passenger.

"Shut your mouth bozo and get out of my car. Let's do this already."

- the car shuts off and with it the ignorant and vulgar rap music -

(camera cuts to new angle outside of the car, on the left-hand side of the car, low to the floor by the rear wheel, behind the door, you see just the feet and below the knee of the passenger as he exits the vehicle, he's wearing no shoes and tight black Levi jeans, the driver then comes into view as he walks around the car at the front to the left and both meet on their way to the front door of the house, now in full view though from behind we see that the driver is tall and lanky-looking with long hair, pyjama pants on, slippers, a cardigan with olive-caucasian skin tone and weaselly facial hair and the passenger is shorter than the driver, with middle length hair, a flannelette shirt on unbuttoned and is a few years younger than the driver)

- they arrive at the door and knock once then wait -

[porn plays loudly inside the house, then abruptly switches to the minigun scene in the movie Predator, then after a few seconds switches off entirely]

- the driver knocks again, this time more awkwardly -

- the door opens suddenly but the flyscreen remains shut, a man appears behind it with dark blonde hair cut in some kind of demented parody of the 1980's stereotypical new romantic look, he's a rather plump thing but due to his height his weight looks proportioned even though you know it's not, he's wearing a tie-dye shirt that looks too small for him and a pair of Hawaiian design shorts that also look too small -

"What?!" says the man in the house rather belligerently. He's eating a bowl of cheap Froot Loops knockoff cereal.

"Hey man, we're the ones that called about---" but the driver was interrupted.

"What? Who are you pal? Get lost" said the man in the house, perhaps mistaking them for a couple of doorknocking ideology pushers.

Realising that the driver's timid nature was getting them nowhere, the passenger decided to step in, "cool it man we're here to buy some shit."

- the flyscreen door opens -

"Ohhh, hey there kids, you're the two here about buying some broccoli, come on in" he suggested, without realising that the driver was most likely his senior.

- some milk dribbled down the corner of his mouth and ran down his neck, the driver and passenger look at each other and the driver looks around nervously, the inside of the house smells like cinnamon and wet towels -

"Oh nah, if it's cool can we just do a drive-thru? Kinda in a rush" lied the driver, who was just eager to buy the drugs and leave.

"Geoffrey Rush" smiled the passenger, revealing his two Bugs Bunny-esque front teeth.

The man inside the house grinned and said "Okay okay, let me just go get the Geddy Lee, cool breeze."

- he turned around and walked off into the dimly lit house and vanished, like blood when you spit it into a sink with the tap running, first gradually and then absolutely -

"Oi, this cunt's fucked hey" remarked the passenger.

"Be cool, fool!" demanded the driver as he slapped his backhand against the upper chest of the passenger, as a sort of warning to not cause any trouble.

"Never touch me" the passenger warned sarcastically.

- the man inside the house returned a minute later, visibly sweaty with a small box of strawberry poptarts -

"Poptart?" offered the man inside the house.

"No thanks" replied the driver, though he was hungry he didn't trust this man inside the house one bit, it was bad enough they were buying weed from him, he thought. Their hands were tied though, as their usual drug dealer was attacked by a pregnant smackhead with a used syringe and killed. She had intended to scare him into giving her free heroin but she was so fucked up that she stumbled forwards and jammed the entire syringe through his left eyeball and into enough of his brain that he died two days later in a coma. The woman was dead by the time police came to arrest her, she was found on a mattress under some park shrubbery, apparently she thought chewing on lithium batteries would get you high.

"Suit yourself" replied the man inside the house, not seeming bothered by the rejection, "anyway this schtuff is more tits than Karen Black, buddies."

- the driver and passenger look at each other skeptically -

"How much?" asked the passenger.

"You know what, I'll give you a baggy each for free this time, as a taste, if it gets you wet, come back and maybe we can go regular, does that interest you champ?" the man inside the house had offered up a good deal, though the driver and passenger couldn't help but feel like the man inside the house had just devolved into a used car salesman stereotype.

"Man, that's a pretty weird idea but if you're cool with it I'm cool with it" said the driver, by now eager just to get the fuck out of there and back to watching television at home.

"It's a deal!" exclaimed the man inside the house as he reached into his pocket and pulled out two $50 bags of what the driver and the passenger assumed was marijuana, "go easy on this stuff fellas, it's strong and it likes to play with your Krang if you get my Point Break."

- the man inside the house's face morphed into a horrible grin that would give Batman PTSD and then he winked and slammed the door shut in their faces, a few seconds later they could hear the porn being played loudly again from the car, they each got in the car, the car started and resumed the viciously loud rap music, reversed and drove off -

(Camera remains in the driveway as the car eventually vanishes around a corner, then the camera pans slowly to the right, looking across the road to where the cats were fighting over the rat carcass, now we see a magpie carcass added to the scene, the orange cat and the grey cat both share the magpie carcass as the jet black cat trots off with the rat prize in its mouth.)

End scene o n e
​

Edit: autocorrect grammar mistakes.

 

[Funerary_Doom]

Sounds cool Cassette. I'm wondering what type of shit that dude gave them. I think you'd actually make a good writer since you seem to just "go there" boundary wise. If that makes sense.

I was reading my play I wrote in college on my phone and stumbled on this scene. I need to edit it and actually do something with it. too lazy to type it out or go on my computer to copy and paste but here's a picture of a scene I just screen shot. I'll go back and reedit this post for the whole scene... maybe.

Edit: n before I get some hate over this scene it's a play about the golden dawn. I actually named it The Golden Dawn of New York. So the characters, Mike in particular harbors a lot of fascist values.

 

[CiG]

Thanks. I'm actually horrible at putting my thoughts to paper, if I were to ever be successful at writing I'd probably have to record my ideas verbally and then hire an editor to write them out into something intelligible, it's so much effort for me to try and formulate my thoughts.

Interesting script piece by the way, reminds me that even though I'm an anti-(modern)feminist I actually have a feminist script idea that I plan to eventually work on. I wish I could write as well as someone like Ein, which isn't exactly asking for much because he's a rookie himself, but even that seems like a crazy improvement over what I'm capable of.

Do you still write much?

 

[Funerary_Doom]

Couldn't tell and maybe it's because you have a lot of ideas. It's hard to fit different ideas together. I'm thinking with more practice that'll become a lot easier I mean the things you've posted are cool concepts. It would be interesting to know if people buy ideas, though. Like if you have an idea and you explain it to someone and then someone else writes it or turns it into a script. I'm sure that's how shows like Black Mirror are made (using that kind of collaboration).

I don't have the focus to write as much as I used to unless it's for something that has a deadline. I admire people like Ein and you guys who write as a hobby because it seems really hard to do to make something interesting just because. I'd say my best writing was probably in college (the whole doing something under a deadline and with pressure) and some random spurts of inspiration that came out of boredom really late at night. Funny how that works.

 

[CiG]

Thanks, I appreciate it.

I'm pretty sure people do buy ideas, though you'd probably have a better chance selling them if you're able to put it together on paper into a script, however loosely defined. Really that's all script writers do in the end, sell an idea on paper.

I fully understand the whole pressure/deadline = your best work, that's exactly how I used to be with art, drawing, painting etc. I even attended art school, but once I realised I was a dead artist that could only produce under pressure of an assignment or following the strict guidelines of somebody else's idea I dropped out and basically gave up drawing and painting.

You can't really consider yourself an artist if you can't produce anything from your own imagination or drive.

 

[Einherjar86]

I've been planning to film a short movie sometime soon, and so I've been fleshing out a script. This is what I have so far. No title or character names yet.

Scene ~ o n e...​

​

Heavy realization, love the stage notes. Surprised how well it worked without character names, everything felt quite smooth, easy to follow the dialogue. Content-wise it makes me think of a grittier Tarantino, I'm not entirely sure... maybe more like early Danny Boyle or some such. Anyway, something's here, hope it continues.

Just a quick grammatical note - looking at your first paragraph of stage notes, you use "it's" several times. Just something to keep in mind, "it's" is a contraction: "it's" = "it is." So, "It's going to rain" or "It's not my fault." When you're using it in the genitive sense, or as a possessive, you don't need an apostrophe. So, for example: "The dog lost its collar."

 

[CiG]

Thanks, you're the third person to bring up Tarantino. I may have to deal with this, honestly. I do like his work but he's not an influence of mine and the fact that I'm a nobody with an idea that not many people will even see aside, it might get tedious if people start accusing me of copying him or something.

But I do know that this is the only scene I think anybody will compare to Tarantino. I hope so anyway. Not that I don't appreciate the comparisons!

Just a quick grammatical note - looking at your first paragraph of stage notes, you use "it's" several times. Just something to keep in mind, "it's" is a contraction: "it's" = "it is." So, "It's going to rain" or "It's not my fault." When you're using it in the genitive sense, or as a possessive, you don't need an apostrophe. So, for example: "The dog lost its collar."

That was autocorrect on my iPad which I usually can't be bothered to turn off, thanks though.

 

[CiG]

Something totally random I wrote for an idea about the rapper R.A. The Rugged Man as a comic book character.

Inspired by The Punisher: MAX and the fact that R.A. The Rugged Man included a comic book about himself when he released his first 12 inch record back in the early 1990's.

~ untitled ~​

It's a dark, foggy night in the city. Rats chase cockroaches through cracks in the sidewalk, as stray cats voyeuristically eye the scene with feral hunger. Discarded newspapers are carried from street corner to street corner by a mild city breeze.

On this particular corner, 5 young men dressed in tight pants and jackets stand around in a loose circle, freestyling to each other.

"Yo when I eat clits my tongue moves like Rugged Man's face when rhymes leave his lips..."

Half a block away, a man falls out of an alleyway, knocking over several trashcans. The freestylers don't notice. He's wearing a trenchcoat that is scuffed and torn, his dress shoes are black and splattered with mud, he's wearing an old black fedora and a pair of crinkled suit pants. Slowly he walks towards the group of freestylers, his trenchcoat closed tightly around his body. He coughs and spits rancid phlegm onto the sidewalk, the spit hits a ripped out page from Henry Kissinger's book, though he doesn't know which one. Slowly slowly he shuffles towards the group of men, like a barfly to the gambling spot.

"I got all the guns and a ton of C4, mess with me son I'll shoot your mother through the front door."

The shambling man doesn't notice the puppy-sized cockroach that crawls up his leg. He coughs again. His face is barely visible in the fog, underneath the cover of his old hat. He doesn't even react to the hooker that passes him, in search of a john, she propositions him and then calls him a "fuckin' homo" when he ignores her. He ignores her insult too. Tonight he's of one mind.

As he nears the oblivious group of freestylers he hears one of them say:

"Punching holes through Superman, I'm super man, make one wrong move and I'll ---"

Just before the freestyler could finish, the man in rags rips open his trenchcoat, exposing his t-shirt with First Blood on it and pulls out his rusty shotgun.

"Fuck your sucker c-cypher!" he shouts, as spittle and phlegm fly from his mouth.

He shoots the first guy in the shin, blowing half his leg off, dropping him to the floor in a screaming mess in the process. The cockroaches swarm on him as he kicks and screams.

Then he shoots the second guy in the face, blowing his head clean off in a shower of brains, teeth and skull. One eyeball survives but a rat snatches it up and runs off.

The third man attempts to pull something out of his jacket but the crusty man shoots him at the elbow, blowing half his arm off which then falls to the floor, pistol still in it's dead grip. The gun goes off from the impact and obliterates the fourth guy's foot. The hobo with the shotgun shoots the fourth man in the groin as he's falling to his knees, having just lost his whole foot.

The final fifth man runs off but is sideswiped by a taxi cab as he attempts to cross the road. The taxi cab driver shouts out some obscenity and continues to drive away. The hobo slowly shuffles towards the now crawling fifth man in the middle of the road, ignoring the taxi cab driver, as he is still of one mind tonight.

As he nears him, he says "this is real fucking hip hop."

He then puts the shitgun to his forehead and pulls the trigger. An explosion of gore erupts in that spot, covering everything.

In the distance, Big L plays on somebody's stereo "...Put his brains in the street now you can see what he was just thinking..."

The crusty man walks away from the scene of the crime, pulling a brown bagged bottle of booze from his dress pants pocket and cracks it open. He's going to sleep like a baby tonight. Tomorrow is his birthday, though he's forgotten how old he is, but he's been given word of some people that need to be educated in Canada and he's going to enjoy educating people there, on his birthday, but first he needs more shotgun shells...

 

[CiG]

Okay, that was intriguing.

 

[Astrum]

I started this thread almost 10 years ago. Hol-eee shit mate. Woweee.

 

[CiG]

Started a blog for music thoughts/reviews. Nothing special, just building off of notes I jot down in my pad while I listen to music.

http://thevanguardpresseson.blogspot.com.au/

 

[Einherjar86]

Something totally random I wrote for an idea about the rapper R.A. The Rugged Man as a comic book character.

Inspired by The Punisher: MAX and the fact that R.A. The Rugged Man included a comic book about himself when he released his first 12 inch record back in the early 1990's.

~ untitled ~​

It's a dark, foggy night in the city. Rats chase cockroaches through cracks in the sidewalk, as stray cats voyeuristically eye the scene with feral hunger. Discarded newspapers are carried from street corner to street corner by a mild city breeze.

On this particular corner, 5 young men dressed in tight pants and jackets stand around in a loose circle, freestyling to each other.

"Yo when I eat clits my tongue moves like Rugged Man's face when rhymes leave his lips..."

Half a block away, a man falls out of an alleyway, knocking over several trashcans. The freestylers don't notice. He's wearing a trenchcoat that is scuffed and torn, his dress shoes are black and splattered with mud, he's wearing an old black fedora and a pair of crinkled suit pants. Slowly he walks towards the group of freestylers, his trenchcoat closed tightly around his body. He coughs and spits rancid phlegm onto the sidewalk, the spit hits a ripped out page from Henry Kissinger's book, though he doesn't know which one. Slowly slowly he shuffles towards the group of men, like a barfly to the gambling spot.

"I got all the guns and a ton of C4, mess with me son I'll shoot your mother through the front door."

The shambling man doesn't notice the puppy-sized cockroach that crawls up his leg. He coughs again. His face is barely visible in the fog, underneath the cover of his old hat. He doesn't even react to the hooker that passes him, in search of a john, she propositions him and then calls him a "fuckin' homo" when he ignores her. He ignores her insult too. Tonight he's of one mind.

As he nears the oblivious group of freestylers he hears one of them say:

"Punching holes through Superman, I'm super man, make one wrong move and I'll ---"

Just before the freestyler could finish, the man in rags rips open his trenchcoat, exposing his t-shirt with First Blood on it and pulls out his rusty shotgun.

"Fuck your sucker c-cypher!" he shouts, as spittle and phlegm fly from his mouth.

He shoots the first guy in the shin, blowing half his leg off, dropping him to the floor in a screaming mess in the process. The cockroaches swarm on him as he kicks and screams.

Then he shoots the second guy in the face, blowing his head clean off in a shower of brains, teeth and skull. One eyeball survives but a rat snatches it up and runs off.

The third man attempts to pull something out of his jacket but the crusty man shoots him at the elbow, blowing half his arm off which then falls to the floor, pistol still in it's dead grip. The gun goes off from the impact and obliterates the fourth guy's foot. The hobo with the shotgun shoots the fourth man in the groin as he's falling to his knees, having just lost his whole foot.

The final fifth man runs off but is sideswiped by a taxi cab as he attempts to cross the road. The taxi cab driver shouts out some obscenity and continues to drive away. The hobo slowly shuffles towards the now crawling fifth man in the middle of the road, ignoring the taxi cab driver, as he is still of one mind tonight.

As he nears him, he says "this is real fucking hip hop."

He then puts the shitgun to his forehead and pulls the trigger. An explosion of gore erupts in that spot, covering everything.

In the distance, Big L plays on somebody's stereo "...Put his brains in the street now you can see what he was just thinking..."

The crusty man walks away from the scene of the crime, pulling a brown bagged bottle of booze from his dress pants pocket and cracks it open. He's going to sleep like a baby tonight. Tomorrow is his birthday, though he's forgotten how old he is, but he's been given word of some people that need to be educated in Canada and he's going to enjoy educating people there, on his birthday, but first he needs more shotgun shells...

Haha, somehow missed this. Irreverent, fun.

 

[CiG]

I'm working on something a bit more serious right now. Slowly slowly.

Haha, somehow missed this. Irreverent, fun.

Speaking of, I've been missing A Constellation Of Collapsing Stars.

NO PRESSURE.

 

[Einherjar86]

Production has slowed somewhat on that, mainly because I've been directing my attention toward my dissertation (which is my number one priority right now). Hopefully I'll be able to do some more creative writing this summer; but I do still have a few sections written that I haven't posted yet, I just haven't had a chance to re-read them as closely. Maybe I'll go ahead and post some more soon. I appreciate your interest.

 

[zabu of nΩd]

[removed - considering publication]

 

[Einherjar86]

This is amazing, amazing, amazing. I had to look up postalveolar.

It reads like Joyce at the level of language, the wordplay, which really is so enjoyable. I could probably say more, but at this point I'm just too enamored with the sound of it.

 

[zabu of nΩd]

Thanks! It's partly inspired by my inner monologue - the one some of us have which narrates our daily routine in our heads (i.e. "ugh gotta buy groceries, cold and rainy outside, should've done this yesterday,..."). I get sick of hearing mine, so I've been gradually revising its vocabulary to the point that I now routinely hear bizarre phrases in my head...