# *Very/Very Short Stories please



## chegrimandi (Feb 20, 2003)

*Very/Very Short Stories please*

this should test yer writing skills........a short story......in 50 words. Any subject, fictional or otherwise....


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## Wowbagger (Feb 20, 2003)

Once, there was a bulletin board for a website that was very popular.

And one of these posters decided to set a story competition for his fellow posters, to write short stories.

Sadly, nobody gave a toss, and the thread died a slow and agonizing death.

The end.

;-)


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

What about the famous six-word story (IIRC):

"For Sale.  Baby's shoes.  Never worn"

Will come up with my own one shortly....


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

"I would so like to tell you of my success."


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

*83 - shortest I can reduce it to.*

Victoria Station, winter...

Heaving as always, as he waits, observing.  Tourists with trundle-bags, businessmen in long coats with mobile phones (calling their home? Kids? Mistresses?).  He wonders why he loves this place so much….. maybe it’s that warm, sweet smell of fags and croissants, or maybe the sound of the flickerboards, or maybe even the way you can hold your head high as the sea of commuters becomes a stream of moving shop-window dummies around you.

Or maybe it’s because he’d met her here.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

*Yes!  exactly 50*

*Not exactly Sainsbury’s*

Martha nodded sideways to Enid to indicate that the bus was on its way.  As it hurtled towards their suburban stop, no intention of halting unless the correct ‘request-stop protocol’ was followed, Enid nodded back and they stepped out; fragile spindly bodies followed by empty trundle bags.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

*And another 50...*

First sunny day of the year....

...upstairs on the number 12, rolling across Waterloo Bridge, light gleaming on the slow-moving river and buildings alike, schoolchildren chattering excitably at the end of their day in a studiedly-identical south London patois, Marina felt the sun kiss her shoulders; it reminded her of home.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

*60 this time.... I need to get on with some work, really*

Gonna see the river man...

“…Gonna tell him all I can” he murmurs as he turns to face out across the water.  The nights are cold, deep, frozen cold, and he wonders each morning what the fuck life is for.  But in some previous life, with his guitar, he used to sing to her; he hasn’t yet forgotten the words.


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## chegrimandi (Feb 20, 2003)

good efforts lolly, like it - gonna write mine tonight........aw don't all wet yerselves in anitcipation.....


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## Jangla (Feb 20, 2003)

Lolly - you should write these down in a book and sell them on to aspiring authors as opening lines.  I think they're brilliant!

and now my paltry effort... 

The words stuck in his throat even as he rehearsed them in front of the bathroom mirror.  Shoulders hunched, heart pounding, he tried once more; but how could he tell her without losing everything?  And then the familiar sound of keys in the lock, stilleto's on wood flooring.  She's home.  With a deep breath he pulled himself into some semblance of calm.  "Honey?  I'm..."


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

he was trying to get back to the womb. it didn't matter which womb, as long as it wasn't his mother's. 

typically, this only occurred to him as he watched Mary slam the front door behind her and get into the taxi. 

he'd run out of teabags, too.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

*Nice one Dub and cheers Jangla!  Here's a cheesy one....*

He wanted to walk beside the pushchair – little-Joe was wearing his badge so everyone would know he was three today!  He carries his orange butterfly carefully, and gives it to the dirty-scruffy man sitting on a brown blanket singing softly to himself; together they watch it fly, bright against the sun.


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## infobomb (Feb 20, 2003)

Pont des Arts

There was this old man who was always on the bridge last summer, painting the river, the buildings and the sunlight. He was Afghan, apparently, though I always thought he looked like some Indian patriarch with his brilliant white beard and guant frame.

Now, the sky is dark and it's cold and he's no longer there.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 20, 2003)

*Ah, I could churn these out all day...*

*Touch*

She ran her fingers through luxuriantly, loving his hair, the moment, him. Thick, lightish brown, straight, long… a few greys here and there … she wanted to bury her face in it and never face the world again.  And then – the fucker – he spoke:  “no.1 all over, please”.


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## Cloo (Feb 20, 2003)

'At least', he said,'you'll get a story out of this'.

(NB, not my idea, paraphrased from a great poem I read ages ago)


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

*Ah, I could churn these out all day...*



> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Touch
> 
> She ran her fingers through luxuriantly, loving his hair, the moment, him. Thick, lightish brown, straight, long… a few greys here and there … she wanted to bury her face in it and never face the world again.  And then – the fucker – he spoke:  “no.1 all over, please”. *



top one!!!!


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## fucthest8 (Feb 20, 2003)

My eyes open and she’s leaning over me, concern etched on her face. She’s trying to  say something, but I can’t hear her. Now, I know that I came into the wrong room unannounced, but who the hell actually sleeps with a knife under their pillow? I close my eyes.


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

*By The Time I Get To Swindon*

i was already on the train out of town when i remembered i'd left my watch on her bedside table.

i thought about jumping off, running back. but i'd never have summoned the escape velocity to get that train again. better that i leave the watch behind.

along with all the other things i used to pretend were trying to keep me there.


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

it wasn't that he lacked ambition. he just didn't see anything out there he wanted. what was he supposed to do, pretend?

he was starting to wish he had pretended. maybe that was better than endless conversations where people tilted their heads slightly to one side in a ghastly parody of concern.


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## Furvert (Feb 20, 2003)

'I'll love you till the day I die,' he said. 

He even put it in writing, last Valentine's.

So she didn't doubt that he meant it. Still, opening the cutlery drawer, she slid a carving knife up her cardigan sleeve.

'Best to be sure,' she said.


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

(erm, is it still safe to come round?   )


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## Furvert (Feb 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dubversion _
> *erm, is it still safe to come round?  *



yeah, i'll be starting the cooking any minute!


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## Dubversion (Feb 20, 2003)

oh dear. just heard.

all the streatham buses cancelled. forever, like.


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## Cid (Feb 20, 2003)

All is dark, lonley, painful - a prison of... she opens her pale,  beautiful eyes - but she see's nothing... there was a time when she knew happiness, when there were sights and smells - music... That time is gone, but the music comes and she closes her eyes for the last time.


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## Balbi (Feb 21, 2003)

He half turns, his breath frosting the air, watching the retreating headlights into the night. “What do we do now?” she asks softly, hugging her jacket close. He sits on the kerb and she walks over to him and they are both haloed by the streetlight. Standing, they embrace, waiting.


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## Balbi (Feb 21, 2003)

The light, dappled by the tree outside the half open window. A play on the breeze stirs memories past. Laughter, people, a party. As well she is alone with her chair for she never wants people to see her cry. Because for all the memories, time locks that world away.


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## chegrimandi (Feb 21, 2003)

*God/ And a Brief History of Man*

 

'I'm going to subjugate you to my omnipotence said god'. And then he sent forth pious men of certain conviction. And duly man acquiesced. And other god men came forth with different rules. And then man argued over Gods and Land. They killed each other for God and Land ?


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## dwen (Feb 21, 2003)

*here is my pitiful attempt *

Fifteen floors up, curiosity got the better of him, that terrible insatiable inquisitiveness that is afforded only to the very young and inexperienced. A whole new world lay just beyond that balcony which he duly toppled over. Splat.


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## fucthest8 (Feb 21, 2003)

*dwen*

LOL! 

My second attempt. Probably been done before and better, but hey ...


The music swells and soars and I am swept away, arms aloft, head thrown back, as a fierce kind of joy grips me. It is like nothing else I know, pure somehow, elemental, making the hair on my arms stand up. All this in the privacy of my own home.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

*A chirpy one for the weekend, this...*

*Cube*

He woke up to the sound of alarms.  Not one, but hundreds, screaming, endlessly.  And not where he’d lain to sleep… he could see nothing but his fingertips explored, nails screeching against steel on all sides; as a thick, viscous liquid began to fill his prison with deeper blackness…


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## Dubversion (Feb 21, 2003)

chirpy bunch, aren't we


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

But can you spot the quote from the first line?


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## Dubversion (Feb 21, 2003)

was it from last week's 'Murder She Wrote!' ?


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

Nope...... Tom McRae.


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## chegrimandi (Feb 21, 2003)

lolly you're as prolific as tom clancy..........  


hehe


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

Honey, I'm flattered....  

D'ya reckon he knocks one out every five minutes as well then?


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## Dubversion (Feb 21, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Nope...... Tom McRae. *



is he that quite good sort of country-folky fella?

is he worth checking out?


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## Dubversion (Feb 21, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Honey, I'm flattered....
> 
> D'ya reckon he knocks one out every five minutes as well then?   *



the innuendo just keeps on a coming


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dubversion _
> *is he worth checking out? *



Errrrm.... yep, definitely!  I'm getting quite well-known at work for my fascination for "tortured boys"


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## chegrimandi (Feb 21, 2003)

> I'm getting quite well-known at work



  sleeping yer way to the top are you lolly..........


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

*following on from pissing threads on general*

*Home*

She desperately needed to piss.  That burning feeling, nearing the back door, almost there, slightly letting go, dampening cotton panties, glad that she’s wearing tights… chucking handbag contents on the patio, lipstick, purse, pens, where the fuck are they… Jesus fucking Christ … keys!  Inside, safe, release, warmth, wetness.


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## Dubversion (Feb 21, 2003)




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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

I'm hoping that anyone who's ever been a schoolgirl will get that one - you think you can make it home, you do a four-mile bus journey, you're holding it in and doing just fine, then as soon as you get anywhere near the back door it starts to burn, you think you can't hold it, you get in the door, breathe a sigh of relief, and then piss your pants on the way up the stairs.  

ohhhh, shit, that's going to be just me, isn't it


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## Dubversion (Feb 21, 2003)

yes.




but there are grants available for plastic sheets and stuff. 

i feel your pain, lolly.


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## chegrimandi (Feb 21, 2003)

what about plastic trainer pants?


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## MoKa (Feb 21, 2003)

OMG Lollybelle you are too funny with the peeing (and VERY good with the writing)!

I'd love to have a go at this but I have to go pack for my trip to London at silly o'clock in the morning (before I go out socialising tonight).

Reading this thread reminds me of a little book I bought called 'Writers Block'.  It's actually a block shape...  couple of hundred pages with things to get you writing.  Single words, photos, story ideas, facts about famous writers.  Pretty entertaining, although I haven't ever got round to doing any of the writing exercises.  Maybe I'll write something on the plane at 5.00am tomorrow.

MoKa


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## Lollybelle (Feb 21, 2003)

Glad to have made you smile with such beautiful Friday imagery!  Have a lovely trip, hope London stays sunny for you!


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## maldwyn (Feb 22, 2003)

I love you. 

This did win a best short story contest a few years ago. My bitter-twisted attempt, without the ocean hope and really not worth a mention (so sorry):

I hate you.


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## Cloo (Feb 23, 2003)

'Would you like me to sign this personally to ya honey?' the movie star beamed over the piece of paper. She smacked him in the face and crumpled the paternity suit letter from her lawyer into his hands.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 25, 2003)

*Long-distance*

... edited out because it was irredeemably shit.


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## Lollybelle (Feb 25, 2003)

*quiet day at work, Lollybelle?*

*Wider than a mile*

Crossing in style, someday… she pictured herself as Audrey Hepburn, sat elegantly in her chair, and smiled coquettishly as she leaned over to ask the stranger for a cigarette… later, Chelsea Bridge, black cab, the moonlight catching her hair, he adored her silently – no names, this night, the rainbow’s end.


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## Dubversion (Feb 25, 2003)

*long distance*

is that a cut-up piece using a 1979 issue of the TV Times?


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## Lollybelle (Feb 25, 2003)

Nope - seeing if I can challenge myself by taking lines from songs out of context... that one's from Tori Amos, the one above's obvious.  Clearly, I'm getting paid too much for doing way too little in the office.


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## Dubversion (Feb 25, 2003)

game of mornington crescent then, lolly?

you start


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## Lollybelle (Feb 25, 2003)

erm, suddenly I hear the filing calling me...


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## Dubversion (Feb 25, 2003)

drat.. you're no fun..


scrabble?


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## chegrimandi (Feb 25, 2003)

ooiii stop subverting the thread dub.......write a story or bugger off.....


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## Dubversion (Feb 25, 2003)

in the morning, she held him close and kissed him hard and he could taste himself on her. 

in the evening, he found a note, the usual series of cliches and half-truths. the 'it's not you, it's me's.

he just wished he'd remember to put it in her pocket before she left.


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## dwen (Feb 25, 2003)

*I am a pez*

"I am a Pez," said the old man caustically. "Why won't any of you fuckers believe me?"
Not a sweety, but a fish.


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## chegrimandi (Feb 25, 2003)

pez are those crap french square sweets aren't they that come out of the long tube....I remeber them now.......


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## dwen (Feb 25, 2003)

This is a pez. It is Spanish for fish. NOT a sweety.


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## inflatable jesus (Feb 25, 2003)

'But it's so small' she said.

'It's the only one I've got' he replied.


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## maldwyn (Feb 26, 2003)

*lolly*

I wished this thread was an 'open story' type thing,

I'd love to hear the rest of this: (Lollys work):

        'Crossing in style, someday… she pictured herself as Audrey Hepburn, sat elegantly in her chair, and smiled coquettishly as she leaned over to ask the stranger for a cigarette… later, Chelsea Bridge, black cab, the moonlight catching her hair, he adored her silently – no names, this night, the rainbow’s end.'


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## Lollybelle (Feb 26, 2003)

*cheers maldwyn!*

But unfortunately the only thing that just about saves it from being chick-lit-stylee is that there is no more to the story - he gets one night, he doesn't know her name, and that's it.  The only thing I could have written on the end of that would have been a dirty porn scene later... now there's an idea, 50-word porn  

And Pez _are_ sweeties - I used to love them when I was a kid because they came out of that little dispenser thing that didn't really work... maybe the fish was named after the sweetie, stranger things have happened.


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## dwen (Feb 26, 2003)

I hate to dissapoint you but pez are fish.
Certainly there are sweeties that are called pez.
But pez are not sweeties, they are fish.
D'you really think they'd name a whole class of animals after some shitty sweeties? .


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## belboid (Feb 26, 2003)

He came.  She saw.  They conquered.

there you go - beginning middle and an end, character development, fighting*, the bloody lot mate.

* or sex, hard to tell the difference


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## inflatable jesus (Feb 27, 2003)

I got bored waiting for the train to show up. I had a fucker of a hangover and I was trying to fend off the comedown hallucinations for long enough to get me home. 
Out of sheer boredom and impatience, I began using my evil psychic powers to destroy the the train tracks, the town, the M77, the world......


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## chegrimandi (Feb 27, 2003)

*nicked*

sorry this ain't mine its nicked from the book I'm reading but its a great line.......(from Shipping News)

'Quoyle hated the thought of an incenstuous, fit prone, seal-killing child for a grandfather, but there was no choice. The mysteries of unknown family'


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## Lollybelle (Feb 28, 2003)

*A sad one and a happy one for the weekend*

*Transaction*

Karolina slid into the brown leather seating, and loosened her purple fur-trimmed coat, looking from their dark corner to the still-bright crowded street.  He leaned over, her wine already on the darkly-gleaming table and a hello kiss waiting on his lips; her eyes remained fixed in the middle-distance as it brushed her cheek.


*Charlie*

Jamie’s was always, always better!  He had proper _cans_ of drink, every day, and Charlie hadn’t even _heard_ of ‘houmous’ till Jamie had started in the second year, with his flat pitta-sandwiches and dried-up fruit.  Today, though, slurping his blue and white stripey orange juice box, Charlie laughed: What, my beef crisps for your manky apple?


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## Lollybelle (Feb 28, 2003)

*Sharing*

"I hope he does hate me with every fucking fibre of his being..." she thought, clicking 'send' on her email to his _other_ 'honey beautiful', struggling to swallow the metallic taste of a day's futile tears; "at least then I know he'll remember my name".


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## inflatable jesus (Feb 28, 2003)

The phone rang.
 'Brian' she said, 'you've got to help me!'
'Oh for fuck's sake' said Brian 'what's wrong now?'
'I've lost my orgasm' she said. ' I've been looking for days now and I can't find it anywhere'
'Well where did you have it last?'
She thought for a minute before answering. 'The toilets of the GNER Manchester to Glasgow'
'Well, you know what you have to do' he said.


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## DotCommunist (Mar 2, 2003)

Strangely I called my cat Hendrix. I've  a habit for naming things after dead rockstars. Jules hates it and says I'm a ghoul. Perhaps he'll lighten up when I remove the chains from his body and the corpses from his bed


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## jms (Mar 3, 2003)

.


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## darkstar (Mar 4, 2003)

'Someone on this plane wants to go to Luton, not Gatwick', announced the hostess. Everyone looked around. No one got up. Everyone was annoyed. 'Who's holding up the flight?....' Eventually they found him. He stood up; everyone laughed at him.

Turned out he was deaf.

(A true story by an observer of human nature)


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## jms (Mar 4, 2003)

.


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## jms (Mar 4, 2003)

.


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## jms (Mar 4, 2003)

.


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## jms (Mar 4, 2003)

.


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## Kaem (Mar 4, 2003)

Bit more than 50 words, by a factor of 2-3.

*Rush Hour* 

Reprimanded by the boss I woke up at 6am. "Last chance," he had said, "or you're out." No time for a shower, I'll just mask my putrid smell in Lynx. Breakfast at mach 4, shit, just poured coffee in the cornflakes. Eat them anyway, feel ill.
Leave house at 6.30, run to bus, get on, swear loudly. This bus goes to heathrow, jump off, theres my bus! Run across road, its pulling off, the bastard!! I wave my suitcase at the driver, he waves back, the cunt. I feel a movement in my hand, the suitcase has come open, panic, I look down to see my precious presentation floating in a puddle. The ink's run, its unreadable. Fuck. Run home to reprint it, turn on my PC. Blue screen, I hit keys at random. Fucking Windows. Grab paper and put my head down and write. Its finished, run out of door, there's my bus, jump on it. No need to worry, still half an hour to get to work. Whats this, road works??? More delays, I feel panic. Time ticks by. i jump off the bus at 9am, run to work as fast as I can, I can see the door!! I run towards it, arm outstretched ready to push and open. CRASH, I bounce off the door, its locked. Confused, I look at my watch, was I early? I look more closely at my timepiece, my jaw drops. FUCK, its saturday.


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## Citizen66 (Mar 6, 2003)

*50!!!*

The moon shone down brightly. His hands pulled down gently through her auburn hair as his lips came to rest gently upon her bosom. And at that moment all she felt was love. The sort of love that can only be experienced by a mother feeding her new-born son...


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## the scouser (Mar 7, 2003)

He adjusted his sight again, a little to the left. There!, fucking smack bang in the center.

 It'd been a long night, but he had a job to do, maybe a mission was a more appropiate description.

 " Fucking saction my dole now you twat" he muttered, finger squeezing the trigger"


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## yoda_yoghurt (Mar 8, 2003)

he saw the tube doors just beginning to close but that wasn't going to stop him trying to get on.  he sped up to a mighty sprint and just made it.  now inside the carriage, the doors safely closed behing him, it stuck him that he was still hurtling along at nearly 20 mph.

CRASHHHH... he slammed into the opposite doors.

the end.


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## frogwoman (Mar 8, 2003)

once upon a time there was a parrot and it died. the end

well u did say short didnt you?


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## DotCommunist (Mar 10, 2003)

Feel the round barrel in your mouth, cool, hard.
Smell that gun-metal grease smell. The grip rests sturdy, well made by the taiwanese rubber factories. Think over your glories, the stadiums full of diverse people singing along as you pour out your bitter rock anthems
Feel the gun-metal.
Remember your feeling of betraying your outsider roots by bringing the extreme sounds to the mainstream. Remember your dream of starting the rot from the inside to bring down the system. So quickly quashed was your vision.
Feel the gun-metal. Squeeze the trigger.
And leave a note apologising for the mess your cranial contents make on the bathroom wall


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## Yossarian (Mar 14, 2003)

He was manic, wild-eyed and permanently smacked to the eyeballs. 

When I was leaving Bangkok he gave me a yellow pencil, and asked me to take it back to the UK, and to "put it anywhere - throw it in the fucking bin for all I care." 
He told me he knew he'd never make it back, but that through that crappy yellow pencil, at least part of him would get there. 

I threw it out of the window at Heathrow Airport, and didn't think of it again until today when I heard he was dead.


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## Lollybelle (Mar 14, 2003)

*Yoss...*

That's fucking brilliant.


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## kosciesza61 (Mar 14, 2003)

true story (which happened just now)

feeling a little hungry (as it was lunchtime) I took a break from surfing the internet instead of working and went down to the canteen. then I returned to my desk, bracing myself for another 4 hours in the slow lane of the rat race, all the while dreaming of 5PM when it will be time to go home. 

the end.


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## Lollybelle (Mar 14, 2003)

*Together?*

He sat opposite, reading The Face, paying her no attention whatsoever.  You know the type.  But there was still that inexplicable compulsion... nothing made her feel more alive than someone who knew he was cool, who'd make her work for it. 

Twisting her finger around her single long earring dangling through razorcut highlights, she pouted pinkly at her reflection behind him, and on balance decided: 'yep, pretty cool.' And then, on balance, wondered what the fuck had left them so cold?


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## haffalaffa (Mar 17, 2003)

He stepped into the phone box only to find it was occupied. Somewhat confused, he stepped out once more and struggled to keep a straight face. He couldnt sleep that night. Maybe it was the jelly.


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## haffalaffa (Mar 17, 2003)

*Ever so slightly stolen but never mind:*

He steps onto the stage and points out, quite fairly, that it is wet and the place smells of urine and disenfectant. He says it is like a hospital. Someone in the dark audience says to get on with it. He is not used to putting down hecklers, but says, Ive already begun. Somebody coughs. He adjusts his glasses and laughs to himself. Get off, says the one who told him to get on with it. And the comedian thinks up a line so apt. and well timed that all further shouting ceases. Unfortunately he thinks this line up on the bus home.


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## colbhoy (Mar 17, 2003)

The only light on the street was coming from a Chinese takeaway. There wasn't a car about, let alone a taxi. He heard the clank of the station gate behind him and the rattle of keys.

Lurching badly, he entered the takeaway and asked "do you do deliveries to Anstruther?"

"Yes" 

"Great, can you deliver a King Prawn fried rice to Bootham Avenue....and take me with you?"


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## Lollybelle (Mar 19, 2003)

*one for a sunny day*

*Sunshine*

Tripetting back from her lunch break in implausibly-high seventies-secretary shoes, Valerie checked once again that her kirby grips were strictly ensuring the obedience of any stray strands.   

Strange that today was the day the sun had chosen to shine again... strange that today she'd spent the last hour with him, her eyes half-closed, sunlight behind him haloing dark hair, his face in shadow, the imprint of her perfect nails still on his shoulders...

Strange that today, of all days, she decided it was time to leave the city.  Spain was starting to feel a little more like home...


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## djtrees (Mar 20, 2003)

Not mine-The Scarlatti tilt by Richard Brautigan

"It's very hard to live in a studio apartment in San Jose with a man who's learning to play the violin." That's what she told the police when she handed them the empty revolver.


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## trylo (Mar 20, 2003)

Please no overly descriptive toss please!

"through the blistering sun and flyaway heather John realised his life had become complete, blah blah blah, write poetic bit here, blah blah blah, poetic bit, more blah... etc"


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## Lollybelle (Mar 20, 2003)

Spoilsport... I live my whole life through a haze of overly descriptive toss!  It's what keeps me smiling.


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## Maggot (Mar 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by trylo _
> *Please no overly descriptive toss please!
> 
> "through the blistering sun and flyaway heather John realised his life had become complete, blah blah blah, write poetic bit here, blah blah blah, poetic bit, more blah... etc" *



No one's forcing you to read these. 

And you shouldn't criticise without offering a story of your own (it's harder than it looks).


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## Lollybelle (Mar 20, 2003)

*Minus toss... the 20-word story!!*

“Suck it, baby, and see” she said.

He sucks, she thinks…

“Nah, fuck it”; and shot him dead.



*valiantly fighting the urge to describe their hair and shoes.... *


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## jms (Mar 22, 2003)

.


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## chrissie (Mar 22, 2003)

I hope no-one minds if I pinch some of these to use in my teaching.  There are some great ones and so varied.  Love 'em!

Here's mine:

The escalator rolled beneath him. As its teeth caught the side of his face, bloodspots spattered against his glasses. Commuters recoiled; sneered.  Stepping over the drunkenly rolling figure they hurried on. His last befuddled thought as he died was regret. Why had he remembered his insulin, but forgotten his glucose?


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## Wowbagger (Mar 22, 2003)

Once, there was a bulletin board for a website that was popular.

One of them posted a short story competition, and another person said it'd never take off.

98 responses later, the person looked like a total arse.

;-)


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## mains (Mar 24, 2003)

He crossed the street and emerged from the shade to the bright sunlight.  Thats when he noticed that he had no shadow. He stopped and looked all around him and there was definitely no shadow.  That terrified him for almost a second, before he remebered that he was dead, and dead men didn't have shadows.


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## chegrimandi (Mar 24, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Wowbagger _
> *Once, there was a bulletin board for a website that was popular.
> 
> One of them posted a short story competition, and another person said it'd never take off.
> ...



  

he was however forgiven as he was an arsenal fan and therefore not all bad........


----------



## Lollybelle (Mar 24, 2003)

*Spoonful...*

So, it's a new place.  New start.  Clean, fresh.  She can't fucking stand it.  

Granule after granule, sugar rushes from the stolen-from-a-caff shaker onto the lino.  She kneels, loving the soft crunch like velvet on glass, and the indentations left on her skin.  

Several pounds of spreading sweetness later, she lays herself down, naked, peaceful.  Thick, metallic scarlet treacle pools slowly, spreading from her wrists, caking in her strawberry hair.


----------



## montevideo (Mar 25, 2003)

*Sometimes when we kiss it tastes so clean & spacy & unnerving, like i shouldn't even know you, like you're not even really there.*


----------



## aaffonso (Mar 26, 2003)

aaahhhhhhhiiiiiiiii.... am...... died........... x


----------



## Lollybelle (Mar 26, 2003)

*Chocolat*

Melting from her lips, dripping over her soft jawline onto naked shoulders; warm brown sweetness oozing over pale rose flesh onto scarlet sheets.  She looks up…  

The mirror tells a different story.  Discarded shiny-garish wrappers, filthy bed, fingers shamelessly lifting yet another square… she smashes it with her bare hands, even as she feels with relief the vomit rising.


----------



## Furvert (Mar 26, 2003)

she wanted to be special. more than anything.

so she chose a man. danced around his edges a while, watching. then with sweet, sticky words, spun herself a new world, drew him in slowly, slowly.

until snagged.

then she reared, felt the blade sing in her hand as she brought it down, down, down.

but as they took her away, she realised. even that had been done before.


----------



## Lollybelle (Mar 27, 2003)

Summer roses; she breathes in with her eyes closed, sunlight on her lids, and is taken back to her granny’s garden.  And from there the memories come tumbling… skipping on a June birthday, baking her first cake, hours spent on the swings, bright red fluffy hat waiting at the school gates, endless sweeties and smiles…

She’d sung, at the funeral, louder and sweeter than anyone else could bear to; all things bright and beautiful.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (Mar 27, 2003)

I sat down one day beneath a tree,
and saw a farmer plough his field. 
The earth was turned and from underneath 
spilled a reluctant worm, 
he'd been set free. 
But from my tree a bird took flight. 
All beating wings and feather and beak. 
Down upon the worm it swooped, 
and from the earth it dragged its loot. 
The farmer kept ploughing on and on, 
and back to the tree the bird returned. 
To feast upon its wriggling prey. 
Freedom gained and taken away.


----------



## Calva dosser (Mar 27, 2003)

She had never appeared so crushed. He wanted to melt and become something of use to her, anything of use to her.

His 'phone rang, he excused himself to the other room.

"It's all done with South American artifacts. That is their game"

It was his dealer and oldest friend.

"It's not him, anyway, it's his girlfriend. Right sort."

He had always regarded the shrunken Jivaro Indian skull in her kitchen as a charming expression of her somewhat gothic personality.......


----------



## nuffsaid (Mar 27, 2003)

I came, I saw, I posted.


----------



## DotCommunist (Mar 28, 2003)

And nuff left deep scars on the collective psyche of the board. Even A 1000 years on western board communities made historically dodgy blockbusters from his post. The lead roles were inevitably filled by clones of Russel Crowe


----------



## mains (Mar 28, 2003)

There was a patch of diesel on the waters surface that she aimed for.  She held the fag end between her thumb and middle fingers and flicked it in a long arc downwards. It span end over end, the cherry burning more intensely before slapping almost imperceptably on the flexible surface of the fuel oil, hissing for a moment and dying.  It lay trapped there, unable to escape its viscous pull.  A small satisfaction for her.  Time she mused, was the space between the markers of fag breaks.  She turned her back to the water, put the net on her hair again.  Back to work.


----------



## Maggot (Mar 28, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Summer roses; she breathes in with her eyes closed, sunlight on her lids, and is taken back to her granny’s garden.  And from there the memories come tumbling… skipping on a June birthday, baking her first cake, hours spent on the swings, bright red fluffy hat waiting at the school gates, endless sweeties and smiles…
> 
> She’d sung, at the funeral, louder and sweeter than anyone else could bear to; all things bright and beautiful. *



WOW! An emotional rollercoaster in 50 words! 

When's the novel coming out?


----------



## DotCommunist (Mar 29, 2003)

The priest sat gripped by the fire of his understanding. A lifetimes worship was rendered insignificant beside his one moment of revelation. He finally realised that evil thrived on resistance, and his life-long battle had only made it stronger.
That sunday his his sermon consisted of three Lines
"there is no enemy, no friend, anywhere
Nothing is true
A vision of idylic afterlife only cheapens our time in this flesh"
He left the pulpit amid an indignant buzz of conversation. In his study he stood on a stool and placed the noose knot just below his adams apple. And kicked away the stool.


----------



## Lollybelle (Mar 31, 2003)

*Juice*

She said, and I quote, “small ones are more juicy”, looking at me pointedly, sparkling sauciness in her eyes.  I’m thinking “Yeah, whatever”, but I laugh and, turning back to the barman, order an extra vodka and orange.

And later, obviously, the burning question arises… “Small enough?  Juicy enough?”.  Sorry, had to be done.  And I’m kidding, but curious… she moves back over my stomach till her eyes are inches from mine and kisses me hard then soft, and as I taste myself on her lips I think I can answer my own question.


----------



## Louloubelle (Apr 10, 2003)

Said struggled to carry the massive vase from the presidential palace to his Baghdad home.  

With great satisfaction he manoeuvred it intact through his doorway and then carefully into the centre of the room.  Said’s home was not blessed with running water or electricity.  The windows had broken long ago.  He had sold his furniture in 1999 in an ultimately futile attempt to pay for his beloved wife’s hospital treatment.    

The vase stood alone in the otherwise empty room.  No wife.  No furniture.  As night fell, Said caressed the vase and cried.  That night he dreamed that he was a rich man with a loving wife and many beautiful children.  A dream of a life that could have been.


----------



## fried_cheese (Apr 10, 2003)

I wiggled my bum on the red plastic chair as my mother poured milk over my bowl of cereal. The chair pinched the skin on my thighs, I hated these chairs, they always felt so cold and sticky.
I pushed against the table and let my chair tilt back on two legs. My mother looked up angrily, “How often do I have to tell you not to do that” she complained.
I looked up at her and smiled, sitting on chairs this way was much more fun.
My mother was talking again, I dragged my attention back to her, away from the funny pattern my cereal shapes where forming. “…You’ll fall and crack your head, and when that happens don’t come running to me” She shouted.
I couldn’t understand how I made her so angry. I carried on eating my cereal whilst she wiped the work tops. I spilt some milk and quickly looked up to see if she had noticed, her back was turned so I wiped it away using the hem of my nightdress.
Without thinking I tilted my chair back and swung my legs. Before I knew what was happening the chair had slipped from underneath me, a sharp pain seared through my head and I felt tears spring to my eyes, I couldn’t breathe and I didn’t know why. I looked up to my mother for help, she was standing over me. 
“I told you so” she said and walked away.


----------



## jms (Apr 19, 2003)

.


----------



## jms (Apr 25, 2003)

.


----------



## QuiteTallTom (Apr 27, 2003)

The sun shone, the city thrived. Golden spears of happiness rained down. Like cupids arrows a prick from these was an enjoyable experience in joyous revelation.
 Blister in the Sun by the Violent Femmes reverberated around the streets perfectly in time with his unusual pattern of footsteps. People smiled at him and he smiled back. People bought him pints, this wasn't returned so easily. But it wasn't expected.
 Like so much verbose rhetoric the scrunched hand of pain slammed down on his head repeatedly. Again, afresh, anew. And, as his heavy wallet made a quick getaway, he thought "it's a pity real life ain't more like the first bit".




*Ahem* bollocksandwellover50words *ahem*


----------



## QuiteTallTom (Apr 27, 2003)

Clean. Sharp. Precise. Surgical. Rabid. Slice. Slow. Bite. Parallel not perpendicular.
Crimson. Scarlet. Bleed. Drip. Arteries. Veins. Pain. Soon over.
"At least in my death I'll be noticed!" cried the 2,739.73



Bit. Over. The. Top. Really.


----------



## Louloubelle (Apr 27, 2003)

The sickening rasping sound is immediately recognisable as Dave’s fake Cartier cigarette lighter as he attempts to coax a flame from its inadequate mechanism.  

On many occasions the lighter’s failure to ignite had served as the prelude to outbursts of violence.  It was a mistake to have pointed out to him that a genuine diamond encrusted Cartier would cost more that fifty pounds, even if it were stolen.  

The violence happened on the many subsequent occasions when its failure to produce a flame had proved my analysis to be correct.  

A thousand curses upon the sellers of counterfeit lighters.   Do they neither care nor understand that their shoddy products could be at the root of untold unsolved domestic murders?


----------



## Lollybelle (Apr 30, 2003)

*Sharps*

At her desk, she ponders upon the word: slice.  There's something delicious about it, precise and yet slithery; the sharp starkness of the first cut, tiny silver hardness on soft yielding flesh, and the slow warm oozing of first blood. 

And it obsesses her then.  Daylong fantasies of edges, blades, pain, surrender.  From minutely malevolent papercuts to broken glittering bottle-shards outside the office building screaming for attention to the shrieking of the tube train as metal meets body with a dull thud...

Dazed, she sits at the edge of the vilely-patterned velvet sofa, fingertips resting lightly where tiling meets metal edging on the low table, film forming on an untouched black coffee.  He speaks to her now, reassuring, mocha-smooth, asking rhetorically how anyone could bear to do that to the people who love them.  She listens, nods, distantly, her mind reverberating with those sounds of finality, the cracked mirror-glass of their bathroom cabinet, and the razorblades within.  

*a long one, sorry... and more about death too*


----------



## Lollybelle (Apr 30, 2003)

*Ending*

Sometimes, no matter how long it's been, you can't 'just be friends'.  The emails begin good-naturedly: "So, how've you been doing then?", and quickly degenerate into sniper fire.  And ultimately, in those situations, there's only one truth: it's over, it's gone, you can't do this anymore, just walk the fuck away.

But who's to have the last word?  The final silver bullet?  Well, in all her bullshit blustering foolishness, she can't resist it, thinking she's so fucking clever with her cutey-pie turns of phrase (he knows it, too; it only makes it worse).  "Just because I kissed you goodbye with a smile on my face doesn't mean I don't hate you with every last drop of bitterness in my soul".  It pours from her heart through her fingers, and she clicks 'send' as the hot tears spill...  well, job done, anyway.  Over and out.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 2, 2003)

The more we drank the more beautiful she seemed to become. Her eyes were dancing in front of me. Twisting, turning, leaping a dance of seduction, drawing me in as if they were suns at the centre of a perfectly balanced universe.

The dancers were accompanying the songs that were each and every word that vibrated from her lips. They were siren songs of invitation, pregnant with a teasing thrill of danger.

The pull became too strong to resist. I let her nature draw me in towards those lips, seeking the kiss that would bring our universe crashing down around us. but as my face edged towards her she pulled away from me.

The last song was sung, the last dance danced, and the small universe we'd created struggled to right the imbalance between us.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 2, 2003)

*Late*

It's a game, yes, but a beautiful one.  The oldest one.  The darkened room dimmed further by the deep rich redness of the wine, warming their bodies and sweetening their minds.  She can feel him close to her, the charge in the atmosphere like the massing of thunderclouds, but she knows that the pleasure is in the pain, in the wanting, in the almost...


----------



## Iainmc (May 2, 2003)

He sat in a darkened room. The rain fell heavily against the window pane, clattering and drowning out all other sounds except  for the thudding in his ears.
He looked out, feeling nothing but rememberance and racked by a pain he couldn't soothe, folded his head against his chest. Tears miniking the rain outside ran down his check.
This place and choice was not how he thought it would be. This path he found himself ...barren and cold.
He would have died for you, he would have ..... he did nothing. 
Outside many heard the whailing and as usually went about their business uncaring.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 2, 2003)

Sunlight bled through his eyelids, streaming through his nerves and weaving its way to the centre of his brain before exploding in a shower of pain that radiated throughout his head. His mouth was dry. A stale tase crept up from the back of his throat.

Sighing heavily he searched his mind for answers as to the activities of the night before. He found mostly questions until a warmth gathered in the depths of his stomach and swelled through his chest, shooting through his blood stream to every inch of his being. He could smell her on him. Their particles had mingled in the space between them, leaving a scent like a fingerprint on each of them.

He raised himself up, opened his eyes and let the light wash through him, cleansing every pore, every ache, renewing him form head to foot.

The air was tingling with expectation.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 6, 2003)

*Hunger*

She'd been marking the dates in her work diary with a red highlighter.  Not on the home calendar; come on, she's smarter than that!  She knows he mustn't feel pressured.  And so her chances keep coming... and keep going; crimson mushroom clouds spreading through white porcelain pools.  

In time, she fills out the code on the stationery form: one box of red highlighters.  And as the tears well and spill, colleagues springing forth in effortless mumsy sympathy, she, clumsy, bolts and runs for cover... finding herself within the white-tiled walls of the cubicle, stark, pristine... empty.


----------



## bertie (May 6, 2003)

*Plughole* 

He looked down into the plughole. It was blocked with long blonde hair, no wonder the water stayed in the sink.

But who did this hair belong to? He had short brown hair and nobody else had washed in his sink for months now. It was if the hair was feeding out from the pipes into the bathroom. 

He put his hand slowly into the water and grasped the golden tresses. He pulled, gently at first and then harder. He pulled again and again, more and more hair came from the plughole.

Before long, he held more that five years growth of long hair wrapped around his fingers and spilling on to the floor.

Then at last,  it would come out no more. The hair was jammed. He put his foot against the wall and gave a final immense tug, closing his eyes and crying out with the effort of it all.

The sink gave way and pipework ripped from the wall. The bathroom mirror dropped to the floor and smashed.

He looked down to see  ...

A mermaid smiling up at him.


----------



## Maggot (May 6, 2003)

*Plughole*

That's a sweet tale Dulcet Tone , Edited to remove adopted constructive criticism.


----------



## bertie (May 6, 2003)

*Plughole*



> _Originally posted by Maggot _
> *That's a sweet tale Dulcet Tone ,  *



Thanks M.

How's that? Now edited!


----------



## Louloubelle (May 6, 2003)

Wonderful story Dulcet Tone

I just hope he's not the type who pees in the shower


----------



## bruise (May 6, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Hunger And so her chances keep coming... and keep going; crimson mushroom clouds spreading through white porcelain pools.   *



Ms Magic Fingers - this line and the story that surrounds it are simply superb.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 6, 2003)

*Chemical Reaction*

The bottle was so light in his hand, yet so heavy in his mind. He stared at its smooth white surface embedded in the flesh of his palm. He turned his gaze to its inside and poured himself deep into its emptiness. 

The cap had opened easily enough, his young hands not so young to be barred entry. He pierced the silver film with his finger making a satisfying popping sound. The plastic touch of the contents matched the plastic of the bottle, smooth and cold. He removed the foil and examined the mish mash of tiny pills spillings up to the brim. Each inert and lifeless, yet brooding. 

His hand trembled. This was far too easy. Surely someone would come and stop him. One of his parents would come home early from work, or his sister would skip band practice and come straight home.

He tipped back his head and swalloed hard. Someone would come across him, find the bottle empty by his side. They'd get help, look after him and take care of him and love him. But he could already feel the reaction burning in his stomach.


----------



## goldengirl (May 6, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dulcet Tone _
> *Plughole
> 
> He looked down into the plughole. It was blocked with long blonde hair, no wonder the water stayed in the sink.
> ...


----------



## bruise (May 6, 2003)

@ goldengirl


----------



## PearlySpencer (May 6, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> It lacks describing adjectives, imagination and well .. thought..
> 
> Could do better in my opinion...
> ...



That's an extremely condescending and patronising critique. Are you in the swp by any chance?


----------



## joe dick (May 7, 2003)

i lived. i died.

the end.

there are some great stories here - lollybelle, yours are very, very excellent!


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 7, 2003)

She curled up into his warm body and groaned slightly as she nestled somewhere between wakefulness and dream. As her arm slid across his chest she sighed deeply 'Oh Mark'.

Who the fuck is Mark? he thought, suddenly a lot more awake. She squeezed him tighter and mumbled under her breath. Who the fuck is Mark? Why is she dreaming about another man? Oh christ! Thats it, she's _dreaming_ about another man, not just any man, but a fucking dream man! How could he compete with that? He'd have all his good points, sensitivity, creativity, gentleness, and lots and lots of blood-fueled flesh with stamina to go with it. He'd have none of the bad points: the nose picking, the farting under the covers after a kebab, flicking through endless channels of shit knowing full well there was nothing decent on.

He'd have to get up soon and pack his things. He couldn't possibly sleep now in full knowledge of what she was doing behind his back, right there behind his back.


----------



## bruise (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by stinkbomb _
> *That's an extremely condescending and patronising critique. Are you in the swp by any chance?
> 
> *



Is her superior story on this thread somewhere, by any chance?


----------



## Louloubelle (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> * Dulcet Tone,
> 
> This is intertextual rip off,  of a film where a woman is cleaning the bathroom sink. She finds a hair and pulls and pulls and eventaully pulls out a man covered in hair ( which she shaves by the way).
> ...



goldengirl
If you had read some of the other threads, you may have caught one in which Lollybelle (who should be making her living as a writer IMO) turns into a mermaid, so it was my impression that DT was merely writing something cool inspred by Lolly's piscine adventures.    

I think you are being a bit harsh to say the least.

Let's here a story from you then goldengirl.

If you dare.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 7, 2003)

I wondered that too Loulou but didn't want to be presumptuous... especially as I realised that mentioning myself in connection with his story might detract from the beautiful fantasy of the golden-tressed mermaid 

I liked it, anyway.  Regardless of its inspiration... it made me smile and made me feel warm.  Can't complain about that, can you?  (or clearly, you can...  )


----------



## bertie (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> *Could do better in my opinion.
> 
> Don't give up the day job!! *



Such cheap insults.

Such a waste of bandwidth to reprint the entire story.

Yes, it was a rip-off sweetheart. Also an addition to LollyBelle's excellent stories.

Also, I rather thought it was an ironic reversal of the Freudian notion of 'birth trauma'. In 'Plughole' the mermaid is 'born' smiling into a world that welcomes & delights in her arrival.

As you know, the film you refer to attempts no such reversal of Freud, rather it supports & by implication pays homage to to the birth trauma notion. 

See you at the GR conference Golden Girl  -  I don't think!


----------



## fucthest8 (May 7, 2003)

*Connect* 

It was as if he wore a cloak, billowing out behind him as he walked forward, swirling around his sides and out in front of him whenever he stopped, hanging  around his shoulders whenever he was still. It made him unapproachable, that was it. His grief kept them all at bay.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 7, 2003)

*It was bound to happen*

...sooner or later. I'd fallen asleep so many nights watching so many different episodes. The mannerisms, the catch-phrases, the put downs, the come backs, had all become ingrained in my subconscious. At first I'd simply dream about him. But more and more I caught myself speaking like him doing day to day things. I was constantly thirsty, and my thoughts were split between desires for donuts and desires for, well, I'm sure you can guess what else.

This morning when I woke up I felt a bit....funny. I was lying on my front. A river of drool poured its way from my lips, heading south. It seemed to be surrounded by a tiny forest, which on closer inspection was actually large batches of my own hair. I sat up panicking, the pillow was covered with them. I examined my scalp with a  fine-toothed comb, managing to find only 5 hairs, and no fine teeth. I jumped out of bed but my body didn't feel its normal self and I lost control of my leap, landing on my considerably larger than usual arse. I loooked down at the mound of yellow flesh that protruded from below my chest. I tried sucking it in, but I could only hold my breath for 10 seconds each time and out my belly would flop.

I had to admit that the inevitable had happened. I had become Homer Simpson. But very soon thoughts of alarm were replaced by thoughts of donuts and, well, I'll leave you to use your imagination.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 7, 2003)

Love it!!!   A hint of Kafka's Metamorphosis in there as well?  Nice one!


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Love it!!!   A hint of Kafka's Metamorphosis in there as well?  Nice one!  *



yeah, but featuring more donuts with extra sprinkles.
MMMMMMMMM sprinkles......

Cheers Lolly


----------



## bertie (May 7, 2003)

*The Smallest Bamboo-cutter.*

[(see  next page


----------



## bertie (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by IAmEvilHomer _
> *
> 
> MMMMMMMMM sprinkles......
> ...



*BUMP*


----------



## bertie (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dulcet Tone _
> *The Smallest Bamboo-cutter.
> 
> Blinking away the sleepydust which smothered her eyelids, she opened the door to the postman.
> ...


----------



## goldengirl (May 7, 2003)

It's good to be alive on urban 75!

Bring on the comments, on them I thrive, 

Me thinks literature classes, many have skived.


Post modernism is dead

So is Marx, Lenin and Uncle Fred. 

I might give a shit but I am lying in bed, 

It bores me and hurts me 'ead.


Reactionary Politics, Left wing debates, 

Anarchists that want to do away with the state, 

Burn the Queen , kill the cops, that is theway that capitalsim stops. 

What tosh , nonsense, flannel, implausiable twaddle, 

Goodbye, farewell, bon-voyage, Hugh heifner has recruited me to be a playboy model.


Love You All!!!xxxxx


----------



## Louloubelle (May 7, 2003)

goldengirl

You are Glenda Slagg

I claim my £5


----------



## bertie (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> *
> Post modernism is dead
> 
> ...



Golden Girl has a good point.

She looks like Audrey Hepburn.

Goodnight Sweetheart.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 8, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dulcet Tone _
> *BUMP
> 
> *



Um, why did yoyu bump this thread and quote me there?


----------



## Maggot (May 8, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> *
> What tosh , nonsense, flannel, implausiable twaddle,
> 
> ...



This bit really doesn't scan.


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 9, 2003)

*Love*

So he turns round to me and says
'But I'm in love, you wouldn't undertand'
In love, as if he were the only human being in the history of the planet to experience it.
'You just don't get it, I love her and thats all that matters. you don't understand'.
What is this love he's speaking of thats so different to the love I'd felt on numerous occasions in the past? Perhaps it was some sort of alien concept. I wouldn#'t understand it because I hadn't been on the spaceship that took him away and experimented on him. He was certainly adamant that I'd never come across it.
Does it give you telepathic abilities? The power to read a person's mind and look inot their past and experience their feelings? Maybe it was turning him into some sort of Nietzschean uberman, an evolutionary stage ahead of me with increased ESP capabilities.
I had to admit I didn't understand this love he was talking about for it was so self-reverent that it seemed more than the love I'd experienced. When I was in love I still knew I existed as a tiny spec of dust in relation to the vastness of the universe. His love seemed to make him a god above all men, separate from the material world and the feeble emotions of humankind. Perhaps one day he'll explain it to me, if he can bring himself down to my level that is.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 12, 2003)

*Tom*

Well, so long, Marianne.  She was like no-one I'd ever known before.  If truth be told, I never knew her at all, really, but you could tell just by looking at her who she dreamed of being... who she was inside, I doubt she knew herself.  She had something of the romantic heroine about her... improbably beautiful, curlytop fairytale hair (I'd heard him call it her golden fleece), and that knack of dressing, like she'd stepped out of some sixties edition of Vogue.  

Now, when I say I never knew her, I suppose I should make it clear that I never even actually spoke to her.  But I watched.  And I listened.  And I loved.  And I could see what was coming, even if he couldn't.  Caging such a butterfly in that dark-roomed flat?  But she's gone, now, and he cries at nights alone.  And he still doesn't think to close those curtains...


----------



## Lollybelle (May 13, 2003)

*Inner Child*

Another long and tedious evening.  Catching sight of herself in full regalia, replete with painful shoes and ladder-prone stockings, Tina felt appalled at just where she'd ended up.  She'd read many a time girls saying that whoring was less demeaning than waitressing... well, if that was the case, she could blame her mum and her moral upbringing for the fact that her nights were spent carting meals to men who could really do with skipping dinner now and then, and bringing more wine when they could really do with just shutting the fuck up and letting her get on home.  

But now, changing in the ladies, two am, ready to head home, she pulls on her jeans and hoodie, shakes her hair out, and walks out into the fresh clear night.  And it's the trainers that make the difference... a sudden burst of joy at the sky and the fields before her, and she's a schoolgirl again, skipping then running faster and faster, heart pounding, breath heaving, hair streaming, through dewy lamp-lit grass towards tomorrow and the sunrise and the birdsong.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 13, 2003)

*Voices*

Have you ever stood at a slight remove from a church hall, formal meeting room or gallery, full of people?  Imagine that they're all talking, miscellaneously, amplified by the solid uncarpeted floor, wood-panelled walls and high ceiling.  Got that sound in your mind?  

Now, theoretically, when you spin a disc of all the colours of the spectrum, what you'll see is them combining to make white.  But as everyone knows, mix together all the paints in those squeezy bottles in the art cupboard, what you actually get is dirty-brown filthy-black sludge.  And that sound of those people speaking, their composite various pitches and tempos and timbres in one elongated roar, that's not white noise that you're hearing, it's black noise.

That's what I hear in my mind, all the time.  And I've been reading about this, and I'd love to call it tinnitus, just some vagueness in my ears.  But I can hear them more clearly now, even as my mind starts to feel more clouded.  They tell me who to be, and what I need to do.  And so today will be the last day that I write to you... my handwriting is barely recognisable, and anyway, I know that my words will never reach you.  It scares me, sometimes, but what's a lonely voice like mine to do but lose itself amongst the crowd?


----------



## bruise (May 13, 2003)

Dear magic fingers,

Please put 'flash fiction' into google and start submitting. There are competitions and writers' sites waiting to be livened up by your writing.

Love

Admirer x


----------



## mains (May 13, 2003)

*Mtungwazie*

There were only two of us in the lift at Holloway Road station.  The big black lady looked nice enough, but I wouldn't want to take a punch off her.  She wore a bright West African robe in green and yellow with a headress of intertwined gold and red scarves.  She was humming something to herself, only loud enough to wake a dead man in Archway.  As we neared the top she told me that Jesus was coming.  I didn't have the heart to tell her he was late for his appointment.  The lift stopped, beeped a little and we were out of trap one.  I beat her to the ticket barrier but neglected to punch the air.  Outside the wind was blowing newspaper pages around like seagulls.  I headed for the _The Victoria_ and bought myself a pint.  I celebrated nothing and toasted no one.  It was a Sunday.


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## Lollybelle (May 16, 2003)

*Asleep on the Victoria line*

Quite often, recently, it feels as though I'm connected to the earth only very tenuously.  As though by primary-coloured hair elastics, or one last sticky pink strand of chewing gum between my feet and the ground.  What starts to fill my head is a milky whiteness, a cloud in my vision between myself and these other people around me.  

What I start to wonder is what this feeling is; am I really part of the world or is there just me, just ceaseless internal dialogue, electrical impulses pulsing across blood and flesh, separated by solid bone from connection with reality.  

I'd read a Bret Easton Ellis quote once that 'you never really know anyone else', or something along those lines.  And it's true, you don't.  And yet... and yet, it's only by reading that I feel other people are anything like me at all.  They don't talk about it; when they speak they're confident, bright shining examples of humanity, but when they write I can feel that they know what it's like to be me; they're happy and frightened and sad and distant, too, sometimes...  

And so my brain takes this to its logical conclusion; if I don't feel like I'm really here today, well, probably everyone else on this morning commuter carriage doesn't.  Even those people that don't travel alone; like that couple over there, those beautiful people with identical Guardians, angels watching over them and their understatedly fantastic shoes... they feel it, too.  

I watch them speaking, voices reaching across the veil even as their fingers touch, warm contact, reassurance.  My own fingers press 'play' and interlink in my lap; eyes closing, sound filling my cloudy mind, I settle inside and drift...


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## jms (May 16, 2003)

.


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## Xtine (May 17, 2003)

An endangered species, the poet is usually found in libraries, staring and strung out on coffee or harder stuff; staring when the hand isn't flying over the page in an ecstacy of agony.  They are also to be found in film theatres scrawling in the dark, fighting for every piece of charred light, squeezing it from their own brains when neccessary.  The words are barely legible to even the initiated.  The poet is found howling at the moon, the face of heaven itself, crying to its Creator, "Why did you put these burning words into my soul?  How can I get them out?"  They are also found in bars, drowning the words that won't come to pen, crying in their beer in fear of losing the only way to live.  The words, the words, the blinding, glacial expanse of white pages...the nightmares...the blind emptiness of creation - all poets have wombs, be they female or otherwise.  The poet is always other-wise.  Worlds left unexplored by other mortals are fair game to the poet, reading dusty books gone out of print centuries ago, the words almost unintelligible...words useless, archaic...not understood save by those of ancient heart, crying for release, for surcease.  The words flow out of brow and breast, leaving the poet empty and alone once more.


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## Xtine (May 17, 2003)

The Sun covers himself in the clouds, the rain falls unseen, and the lightning flashes anonymously.  The Moon enlightens all when she comes up - no hypocrisy for her: she can't afford it, being a reflection of the Sun's earlier energy.  The stars come out one by one, like debutantes at a celestial cotillion.  We look up and smile because such beauty is still so much mystery to us, we who are the merest reflection of our Creators.  That doesn't leave poetry lookin' too hot.


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## Xtine (May 17, 2003)

*Mangudai*

The arrow had pierced the light armor, but it had driven the silk shirt
into the wound.  He nodded, his eyes darker than I'd ever seen them.  His
lips were pressed into a tight line.  He nodded again.
I grasped the shaft near the lashings with my fingertips.  My other hand
held the fabric of the shirt beneath.  I turned the arrow gently as I
drew it out.  He merely grunted.  As I saw the arrowhead and silk retreat
from the wound, I knew I would do more than grunt were our roles
reversed.
I packed the wound with herbs and slathered salve on top.  I handed him a
bowl of arak, and he actually smiled at me over the lip of the bowl as he
drank.
"Got some of that green Kazakh herb?  I could sure use a pipe after
that."  I laughed with him and whistled.  Kyzyl stopped flirting with a
mare who wasn't interested anyway, and trotted over to us.  I fished
around in the green leather pouch slung over his neck until I found the
herb and pipe.  I stuffed the bowl, and Kyzyl nickered softly.
"Everyone's into my stash today," I mock-grumbled and fed him a handful.
He munched contentedly, eyeing me.  I twisted the stone ring round my
left thumb and chuckled to myself.
My stash was being depleted in noble company.
Kyzyl had bucked off all the officers in quick succession the day before,
which gave us both enormous pleasure.  Soonkhar had been busily
perforating the commander of the opposing forces when he'd been
perforated himself.
I smelled mutton cooking, and the sky had become indigo and orange.  I
pinched Kyzyl on the neck affectionately and sat down next to Soonkhar.
I picked a twig from the fire and lit the pipe.
Gratitude swelled me along with the smoke.
It had been a good day.


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## Lord Hugh (May 18, 2003)

*Reality...*

Two voices in the one head
One pulls this way, one that.
Hanging in a void in the middle, grasping for dear life to keep his mind together. Which is right, which is wrong? Does it matter? Is there no resolution of the two?

And again he thought... Daddy? Or chips?


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## triad (May 18, 2003)

I don't have one of my own but plagiarsed this from my English teacher: 

"A man is sitting alone in a room.  Suddenly, there is a knock on the door."  

She claimed this was the actual shortest story in the world, but I've never really understood why coz there's no ending.


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## ajk (May 18, 2003)

Isn't it "The last man on Earth sits alone in a room.  Suddenly, there's a knock at the door."?


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## triad (May 18, 2003)

> _Originally posted by ajk _
> *Isn't it "The last man on Earth sits alone in a room.  Suddenly, there's a knock at the door."? *



That's the one!  So, whatever happened to the ending then?  I suppose I'll have to make it up myself...


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## IAmEvilHomer (May 19, 2003)

*Four walls*

Four walls can be four friends with whom to play out the childhood of imagination  A cubic blank canvas on which to build scenic medleys of mountains anf fields, rivers and seas, sun, animals, and people. People dancing, people singing, people shouting, people smiling. Everywhere people smiling.

They can be playgrounds of bustling childen for as long as your mind can keep telling itself its all real, its not made up. For then the greyness takes over and sweeps through your mind like a marauding army, everything is shattered and torn down to ruin and all that is left is rubble. And underneath all hope fades, struggling for breath as stone and ash pile upon it, gasping at the final ray of light that breaks through before darkness and sleep set in.


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## Buddy Bradley (May 19, 2003)

> _Originally posted by triad _
> 
> 
> > _Originally posted by ajk_
> ...



...He stood up, walked to the door and flung it open. The 3 billion women of the world, robbed of their menfolk, were queued up into the far distance. Slowly, the last man on Earth unbuckled his belt...


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## Lollybelle (May 19, 2003)

*Luddism-lite*

She was a traditional kind of girl, in a way.  She had this thing about how good it felt to receive things through the post, and I’d known her send some oddities; from books and magazine cuttings through to Wham bars and chewing gum, occasionally via her own patented brand of ‘sweetness and light’ prose.  Incongruously, though, she preferred not to handwrite her letters.  They came typed, in small font, her larger-than-life signature shining out at the end, as often as not in some colourful sparkling ink; childish, yes, but very her.  

I kept them, in a shoebox, on top of my wardrobe.  A little habit I picked up from her, the ‘memorabilia box’.  It always seemed a bit cod-Tracey Emin to me, an exhibition of your own life and past conquests, but to rationalise it in a suitably manly fashion, let’s refer to it as a ‘personal file’.  The little stack of papers bearing her name touches me still… opening my eyes wide to dispel any notion of tears, I put away my mobile, turn off my computer, and take up my neglected fountain pen.  And that’s how it works, really, isn’t it.  Everyone is the sum of their experiences; every new lover the beneficiary of the lessons I learned from those I lost.


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## goldengirl (May 19, 2003)

I walk along the wet London street, the floor below me  runs with water, my feet fall hard and purposefully. Luke warm rain falls onto my sodden hair, like tears from my heart. No one can see you cry in the rain, the tears mingle with the dirty heavy rain;salt and dirt fall from me as my heart sinks to the floor and floods the street as I walk. 

Flashes in my mind see him before, strong, loving, difficult and needy. I speak words that make no noise or sense. There are no tears in his eyes, they shine with love for me. His soul speaks to me of love unrealised in this world. I reach out to touch his fine , soft hand - he disappears. 

A thin man, dressed in blue, takes my hand and beckons  "Dance with me ?".

He slips his thin, warm arm around my waist and kisses me, with a softness that shoots to my heart. I close my eyes and  he whispers " Stay with me".


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## Lollybelle (May 20, 2003)

goldengirl - good to see that you've put some of your own writing up here.  It's got a nice warm feeling to it, although in a way it seems like you've thought less about it than would seem fitting after your previous criticism of other people's work; the punctuation/grammar is dodgy in places and there is repetition of words very close to each other which doesn't scan well ('rain' in the first paragraph, and also 'dirt', and 'love' in the second - you could have used water or droplets instead of rain, grit or grime instead of dirt, for example).  

Admittedly, I'm only criticising for the sake of it... apologies for that but it just felt necessary.   Hope you enjoyed writing it as much as others have enjoyed writing their pieces - after all, that's the point of the thread, isn't it.


----------



## goldengirl (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *goldengirl - good to see that you've put some of your own writing up here.  It's got a nice warm feeling to it, although in a way it seems like you've thought less about it than would seem fitting after your previous criticism of other people's work; the punctuation/grammar is dodgy in places and there is repetition of words very close to each other which doesn't scan well ('rain' in the first paragraph, and also 'dirt', and 'love' in the second - you could have used water or droplets instead of rain, grit or grime instead of dirt, for example).
> 
> Admittedly, I'm only criticising for the sake of it... apologies for that but it just felt necessary.   Hope you enjoyed writing it as much as others have enjoyed writing their pieces - after all, that's the point of the thread, isn't it.   *[/QUOTE
> ...


----------



## Louloubelle (May 20, 2003)

Oooh
hark at her!  
I thought lolly's criticism was pretty kind and reserved actually. 
cliche ridden sub mills & boon slush would be how I would have described gloldengirls's pathetic effort.


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## Lollybelle (May 20, 2003)

OK!

My prissy arse is slightly stinging from the slapping it's just received but fair play to you.  

Well, that's the internet for you, innit... didn't realise I'd got caught in the middle of some private joke between partners... well, that'll teach me to play English teacher of a Tuesday morning, won't it.


----------



## goldengirl (May 20, 2003)

Swing that prissy arse with a smile! 

Ur a diamond gal !

XX GG


----------



## IAmEvilHomer (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Louloubelle _
> *Oooh
> hark at her!
> I thought lolly's criticism was pretty kind and reserved actually.
> cliche ridden sub mills & boon slush would be how I would have described gloldengirls's pathetic effort. *



Best bit of criticism I've ever seen


----------



## foo (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> *Ur a diamond gal ! *



Ain't she just!   

I've just re-read this thread all the way through (skimreading a few admittedly) and I wonder if anyone else would like to join me in encourgaging, urging and bullying Lollybelle into publishing some of her work. 

The girl is *good.*


----------



## Lollybelle (May 20, 2003)

Cheers foo.  When I've got a good story to tell, I'll sit down and make the effort to tell it properly and see how I get on.  Thanks for the encouragement, but... moving swiftly on (this isn't a 'Lolly' thread after all...) who's going to write the next actual story and get us back on track?


----------



## goldengirl (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Louloubelle _
> *Oooh
> hark at her!
> I thought lolly's criticism was pretty kind and reserved actually.
> cliche ridden sub mills & boon slush would be how I would have described gloldengirls's pathetic effort. *



cliche ridden maybe.... but darling i am never pathetic.......

Mills and Boon.... mmmmmm.......never read any so i have no idea...but Babara did pretty well out of it!

Great - I have a job - crap maybe - bue heh who cares....

I am of to be a millionaire -essssssssssss!!!!!!!!

and it's all thanks to you guys. 

Love you all. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


----------



## foo (May 20, 2003)

Yeah but Lolly, ok ok I'll shut up in a sec (  ) after I've just said one more thing.....

Going through this thread, and seeing the delights you've written here. I'm convinced could publish a book of short stories. 



<exits quietly>


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## bruise (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by foo _
> *I wonder if anyone else would like to join me in encourgaging, urging and bullying Lollybelle into publishing some of her work.
> 
> The girl is good.  *



I've been doing exactly that. Lolly's under the impression that only a 'long' short story is good, but I'm getting somewhere I think. 

For her and others: there's a whole new genre called 'flash fiction' and a whole new home called 'the internet'  

She should be sending them out, and so should some others on this thread (and some should just forget it - sorry have to be bitchy, it's my second nature  ). Then when they're ready to send longer short stories out then they already have some 'publishing' record behind them.

u75 is a talented place, innit!


----------



## Maggot (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> *
> Oh god , go and get a life!
> 
> ...





> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> Swing that prissy arse with a smile!
> 
> Ur a diamond gal !



 





> _Originally posted by goldengirl _
> Love you all.



Erm, the feelings not mutual.


----------



## bruise (May 20, 2003)

awww magot, if Lolly and Golden can make up, can't you be nicer?!

remember - she said the review that made us all hate her (to begin with) was just a joke...


----------



## Lollybelle (May 20, 2003)

*OK... back to the stories people, bring them on, please!*

*A happy story*

Once upon a time, the world suddenly began to feel altogether more scary.  My safehouse of friends, mothers and lovers was rocked violently on its sturdy foundations by a new arrival.

And that new arrival damn well wanted us all to know she was here, shouting and bawling for all she was worth, red-faced with anger and frustration.

But taking comfort from my warm safe home, candlelit, yellow against the dark world outside, I sang to her, and watched as, soothed, she settled contentedly; my daughter, in my arms.


----------



## mains (May 20, 2003)

The strip lighting wasn't doing her any favours but you could tell she'd lived a hard life.  Her hair was the nondescript colour of female middle age, traces of an auburn dye, strands of muddy brown, wisps of grey.  The grey appeared to be winning, a few strays had resisted the pull of the 99p for 2 clips and fell lazily by her temples.  These ended on her jowels, too few in number to properly mask the hastily applied makeup of the working girl.  Her skin was smokers skin, pallid and tough looking.  Her lips were cracked and had an uneven colour, her mouth a lazy mouth, she sighed little breaths as she moved my shopping from the rubber belt, over the magic eye and down the gentle aluminium slope.  Her fingers were thick and strong looking, she wore no rings that I could see. Two powerful forearms disappeared into the regulation blue and orange smock that said _how can I help?_ across it. I couldn't tell what shape she was under there. A namebadge said 'Eve Costantou'.

So this was my mother, this was the vessel that twenty four years ago carried me into this world before leaving port, forever missing, presumed somewhere else.  She uttered the price of my shopping and dropped the change into my hand. I took a last look through the plate glass window of the store and got on my bus.


----------



## goldengirl (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Maggot _
> *
> 
> 
> ...



My self esteem is not dependent on ur opinnion of me. I love me, others love me  and my boyfriend loves my arse. ( particlarly when i am dancin. )

so i have all the love i need.


----------



## Lollybelle (May 20, 2003)

*sweetness and light rules!*

*All the Love I Need*

He loved this time... weary from the night's drinking and dancing, he could just sit back and watch her lithe body moving sexily across the crowded dancefloor.  She was wearing some t-shirt she'd made herself  (customised Topshop - how very Hoxton), "I have all the love I need" emblazoned across her chest.  

Noticing everyone's eyes straying towards her, he left his half-drunk Becks on the table and went to dance alongside, no intention of telling her which classic VH1-stylee quote her slogan had inexorably dragged into his mind: "when you think I've loved you all I can, I'm gonna love you a little bit more".


----------



## MoKa (May 20, 2003)

> _Originally posted by mains _
> *...
> 
> So this was my mother, this was the vessel that twenty four years ago carried me into this world before leaving port, forever missing, presumed somewhere else.  She uttered the price of my shopping and dropped the change into my hand. I took a last look through the plate glass window of the store and got on my bus. *



I've loved reading all of the stories on here.  Lollybelle's never fail to please.  

I don't have time to write a proper review, Mains, but I just wanted to say that I really liked this one in particular.  Nice (sad) story   

Edited to remove a "well done" which in retrospect sounded REALLY patronising but which was unintentional.


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## jms (May 20, 2003)

.


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## Xtine (May 20, 2003)

can ya believe this fucker demurred when i called him clever? 
face it, JimJams, yr Clever.


----------



## jms (May 20, 2003)

.


----------



## the scouser (May 21, 2003)

"Aliens?" Jim asked.

 "Were talking pure evil anal probing grey scum" Bob replied.

 "Fuck me" replied Jim

 "Yeh, that the fucking trouble man - they will" Jim assured him.


 From the never to be released short story - "Alien Scum in Liverpool"


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## jms (May 21, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (May 21, 2003)

Cleverly done... like it!


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## jms (May 21, 2003)

.


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## RubyToogood (May 21, 2003)

As she lay there on my bed pissed out of her head and throwing up into a bowl, she was begging me “Please stop them, please” and I realised she was reliving being raped.

All I could think of to say was “It’s alright, it’s over”.


----------



## Xtine (May 21, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Cleverly done... like it!   *



hear, hear!  well done again, JimJams.


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## bruise (May 22, 2003)

the short cut to writing your own 'romance' short fiction  

mad libs


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## Lollybelle (May 22, 2003)

*(apols to Patti Smith)*

Her father died.  She was sixteen.  

Old enough to take care of the place, ostensibly under the watchful eyes of his sisters.  Although they kept their distance; her pale-brown hair and grey-blue eyes were those of her mother, of that dark root of pain in his tightly-closed soul.

Funereal black satin sliding over her calves, reaching to her ankles, she moved swiftly through the moonlight to their field.  Deep, shadowed blades of dewy grass dampening her clothes, her skin and her braided hair, she watched the night sky.  And it was as if the stars began to slip, refracted and brought closer by her silently-forming tears.  Eyes closing, she saw him as she always did.

Horses.  Her father rode horses.  Fingers interlocking over her gently-roundening belly, she heard them, nearby in the night, and lay there that her son might grow to love their sound, and the life to which he would be born.


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## RubyToogood (May 22, 2003)

The lake stretched out before him, almost hidden amongst the dry grasses. He cycled round and around, enviously watching the other children launching their toy yachts onto the little rippling waves. As the sun sank, a fresher wind stirred the water, blowing him homewards as he raced back for tea.


(Is anyone else still sticking to 50 words?)


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## Lollybelle (May 22, 2003)

> _Originally posted by RubyToogood _
> *(Is anyone else still sticking to 50 words?) *



no, cos everyone else had stopped, but I do think it's a good idea to re-introduce a bit of self-discipline back into the thread...


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## RubyToogood (May 22, 2003)

I like the discipline of it, forces you to think and hone things right down. I mean my first one I wrote ages ago over about ten pages, but really 50 words seems to get the meat of it perfectly well! (That was a true story by the way, and a toned down version at that...)


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## Lollybelle (May 22, 2003)

*ok, just over 50... I tried.*

It was as though the wind blew right through me.  And my coat, and my two jumpers.  That bitter fucking English winter… never fails to make me wish I was dead.  I ran down the street, for warmth and because I was late to my appointment.  

“You’re killing yourself, you know” he said, harshly, as I stepped onto the scales; the best I could manage was an apologetic smile.


----------



## jms (May 22, 2003)

.


----------



## jms (May 22, 2003)

.


----------



## jms (May 22, 2003)

.


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## jms (May 22, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (May 23, 2003)

*inspired by jms... a conversation*

*Conversational/Confessional II (Blonde)*
"Yep, OK, all right, I did, will you just fucking shut up now?"

"Is that supposed to be a sorry?" 
(softly) "Jeeezus."

*audio: sobs* 

_(earlier... )_

*Conv/Conf I (Redhead)*

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

"I'm on holiday... it's different!"

"I really don't think she'd think so, do you?"

"Look, you don't understand... do you know how long we've been together?"

"I don't give a shit if you only met her last week!  It's the same fucking difference... fucksake, will you just let me go home now?"

"Nine years!  We've been together nine years, do you realise how difficult that is?"

"Nine years?"
(softly) "Jeeezus." 

*audio: slamming of taxi door, vomit splattering still-warm pavement*


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## jms (May 23, 2003)

*Fruit* 

He came to the stone, looked at her, his eyes seeming to close about her face, stopping her from moving, and happy that he could still do it, plucked out the stone with his teeth. He rolled it around his mouth, scraping off the residue of peach flesh enough until he was happy. He looked at her again, and she just made him laugh, the look on her face, her complexion, much like the peach, smooth and blushed, pale but not palid. She amused him. 

Reflecting upon the afternoon, she said,"In retrospect, perhaps it would have been better if I hadn't let him choke"


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## jms (May 23, 2003)

.


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## jms (May 23, 2003)

.


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## DotCommunist (May 24, 2003)

His life was charecterised as a struggle of logic against intuitism, of cold hard fact against mystery cultists.
To term his work  in such vulgar terms only demeans a remarkable and even incredible person.
To combine authority with street level credibility is an aalmost impossible task and yet he did it with nonchalent(sp) ease


\Such a shame that our society rejected him. Instead of fostering such a fraagile talent we smothered him in accclaim and used his tunes to sell cars.

Is it any wonder he killed his 2000 strong audience and himself with a stadium devestating tactical nuke?

WE were shocked. We were appaled.

Only idiots were surprised


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## likely (May 24, 2003)

Go away!
Don't touch me yet.


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## jms (May 24, 2003)

.


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## jms (May 24, 2003)

.


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## jms (May 25, 2003)

.


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## squirmy (May 25, 2003)

*Ah, I could churn these out all day...*



> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *Touch
> 
> She ran her fingers through luxuriantly, loving his hair, the moment, him. Thick, lightish brown, straight, long… a few greys here and there … she wanted to bury her face in it and never face the world again.  And then – the fucker – he spoke:  “no.1 all over, please”. *



fucking excellent!


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## charlotte (May 25, 2003)

you were warm, when i left,running for the bus with my folder under my arm and toothpaste on my chin. i didnt discover it all day, till after one too many head jokes i went to the toilet, curious, and saw the crust of white around my mouth. but i didnt care because i knew that when i came home you would still be in bed, still warm, and your sleepy 'how was work' would be concerned even if you werent really interested.

way too many words but its my first attempt


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## charlotte (May 25, 2003)

The effect of neon through rain is really quite special. The way the water bends the light, so that the colour spills out of the glass confines of the tubes. In the winter evenings, when the rain comes down in the dark and the neon glow mingles with the steam that escapes the doorway, the whole scene has a celestial appearance.

grandiose waffle


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## jms (May 25, 2003)

.


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## jms (May 27, 2003)

.


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## DotCommunist (May 28, 2003)

Luitenant rodriguez stared down the barrel. Damon arrived at eight AM charged with murder, reporting at the Crown Court. I had been making phone calls all morning discussing my chances of going free from my crimes. Damon had ro die. Rodriguez was an experienced marksman and a thoroghly coroupt copper but he had limited use. He would simply ensure that damon escaped the blast that would hopefully take out the entire court. A burnt out juror with a bullet in his skull would match damons hight and vital stats close enough to avoid questions. The jurors twin was a rapidly cooling corpse in the back of the van, all I had to do was get the body into the court before the bomb went off

And then I would be free. The lifetime of blood drenching my hands would be done in this final inhuman blast. I would be free to try to help the little people. to serve my life out in attempt to atone for  my wrongs.

Can any selfless act exspunge a lifetimes evil? I hope so, for I fear the gas chamber, but not as much as I fear judgement from whatever higher power sits up thier. I was never afraid to indulge my violent tendacies and thats what set me so high amongst the low. Only now do I realise the despair of a life spent in evil deeds


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## RubyToogood (May 28, 2003)

Twelve

For six months she walked three long, grey miles to the municipal cemetery every Sunday. When it rained, or the wind blew, she imagined it was her mother angry with her, or warning her, talking to her somehow through the weather. Then it was Christmas, and life took over again.


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## Lollybelle (May 29, 2003)

*Bit unrefined this one - short of time!*

Sizzling

Her hands traced swirls in the sand, leaving patterns like the white Artex of her parents seventies staircase.  Alone, book at her side, she tried to drink it all in from beneath her cheap plastic sunglasses.  The heat, the bright yellowness, the feeling of the sand beneath her feet and the sheeny film on her skin.  

She debated, in her London fashion; if only I was Mike Leigh, I could write the story of that woman over there, her swimsuit half-rolled down exposing rolls of English flesh, ash dropping carelessly along the sand.  Or maybe it´d be from the husband´s point of view, maybe he´s got a tragic tale to tell... 

But all she can think of right now, with a little smug superiority in her mental tone of voice, is the fact that people really do wear white socks to the beach.  

Fortunately, in a satisfying, poetically justified manner, awakening from her dream of northeners in knotted hankies under striped sunshades, she leaves the beach, postcards in hand.  Lighting up another fag, Rita nudges Alfie awake, and as they both watch the lobster-coloured backside of the southern softie rippling away, their faces both form an amused, but sympathetic "ouch!".

"That´ll be killing her by this evening" he murmurs, as he drifts happily back to sleep.


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## jms (May 29, 2003)

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## @^+ (May 29, 2003)

Lollybelle & jms = brilliant..


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## jms (May 29, 2003)

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## DotCommunist (May 30, 2003)

Disconnect, disengage, the lines are down. White noise headspace with sinister undertones.

She pulled the slurping electrodes from the base of her skull and laid back gasping. Something very wrong.

So she microwaved a lasagne and uncorked a cheap red. 

Over a glass she considered things. Si was upstairs asleep but she could soon wake him with nimble fingers. By all accounts the news was bad.
Severe feedback from the nueral net, basic fm lines ominously silent and an ugly cloud covering the western seaboard on her personal weather channel. So the suits had pressed thier buttons, likely with erections as they did so, she thought.

But she had good food, a beautiful man and second best wine ready

The end of the world could wait


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## jms (May 31, 2003)

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## jms (May 31, 2003)

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## ion (Jun 1, 2003)

I know for sure that there is a book out which consists entirly of stories that are exactly 60 words long. I'm afraid I cant offer any help as to the name of it etc, but I remember because my school entered some of our attempts, I dont think any of them got published.


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## RubyToogood (Jun 2, 2003)

There was nothing there… not even a trace it had ever existed. His stomach lurched. What could have happened? Was it just some terrible accident or had it been callously wiped out of existence? All of it – gone.

He really wished he’d made backups of his stories on that thread.




NB I'm going to mark this thread to be saved from deletion, but there are no guarantees there won't be slip-ups and database meltdowns. If you value your work - SAVE IT!


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## jms (Jun 2, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 4, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 5, 2003)

*I have left this one here so lollybelle is not sad*

Boiler & Steam

"6,7,8. Boiler 539 left, 168 pipes, downward spiral, staircase." The usual mutterings of, well, what was his name? Snip was the closest thing he had to one. The sound of his creation, the name his creator had called him long ago. His creator's visits to the pipings had become less frequent, and had now stopped altogether. Snip. Snip, snip and snip. That was all that had made him, those clumsy blades had fashioned him from, from whatever it was he was made. The darkness frustrated him here because he could never see himself, and he had to suppose that he was made from copper pipes, just like everything around him was. Of course there were the boilers, they were the only places of variation. The dimmest of lights illuminated their controlling pieces and boards, but not enough to observe his own countenance. It was to one of these places he scurried now, along the corridors and tunnels, who had made them he did not know, his curiosity for such things had faded too long ago. But what was time in such a place? That was perhaps the only question that remained with him now. And to the boilers he went, through the grills, the fine meshes, cogs, levers, sprockets. It had amazed him once. The fact that such a thing could have ever been created. 

He rested on the edge of a stout chimney of bellowing pipes, regained his breath, and entered the place. The place he would finally undo all the wrongs he had suffered.


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## Lollybelle (Jun 5, 2003)

*on an Enid Blyton tip*

*Excursion*

Heavy-footed, loud-voiced, bundling over logs and tiny streams.  Her long blonde plaits bouncing, his face, freckled ginger whiteness, burning with exertion and the day's beating sun.  

Stopping at the river, she takes off her shoes and ankle socks, and wades, delicately.  Like a fairy, like the fairy she's always been, not yet lost in her seven years.  

Turning, grin creasing her pixie-face, she cups her hands in the water, drinks, thirstily.  He kneels at the bank, and as the water splashes over his own face he notices the wet hem of her blue gingham schooldress.  It'll be cold, later, and he's worried that she'll catch a chill... a lunchtime adventure in the woodland stretching into evening, the enchanted wood stretching into eternity...


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## stuff_it (Jun 5, 2003)

Awake?

No.


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## chegrimandi (Jun 6, 2003)

I'm going to print this out so I can read it properly without hurting my eyes....Lollybelle have you not thought about sending some of your stuff out......could make a couple of quid in my ill-informed opinion.....!!


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## Lollybelle (Jun 6, 2003)

It is 'out'!  It's here and people read it, and that's good enough for me.  Big thanks to you for the thread and the inspiration.


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## chegrimandi (Jun 6, 2003)

The inspiration is all yours....why not make a couple of hundred quid quickly by flogging a few of them to magazines etc....??


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## jms (Jun 7, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 8, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 8, 2003)

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## Melodic blink (Jun 8, 2003)

A sudden chill infused the late, dark evening air as she, alone in the house, heard large foosteps and then someone trying the sidedoor.  It was locked but she froze in terror as a balaclavered face appeared at the frenchwindow.  Only glass separated them.  He signalled her to open the door.........


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## Lollybelle (Jun 9, 2003)

*A compliment (for someone who reckons he never gets any) in story form...*

Eschewing the slow scribing of pen and ink, or the perfect clunky idiosyncrasies of the typewriter, his method of choice was the smooth, pristine functionality of the computer keyboard.  Fingers running swiftly back and forth like so many schoolgirl dancers, the barely audible clicking that of their fairy-light tapshoe footfalls. 

So looking on the surface, then, we see him, simple surroundings, fresh clear face.  He could be composing an office report, or an essay on the importance of clutter-free living for the modern age.  Until you look in those eyes.  Let's imagine for a moment that they really are the window to the soul.  In which case what we can see beyond the brownness, the slight sheen, the dark lashes, is the kaleidoscope of the universe.  The tales spring forth, multitudinous, like the vivid sheer scarves of the last court magicians, sparks of invention catching their colours in brightness.  We see the characters in their various modes of movement, from the lowliest shuffling gait straight from the corridors of Gormenghast, through the painting of her beauty, waiting in the park, to the acrobats streaming past with their trailing ribbons. 

And the writer tilts his head slightly to one side, a small smile spreading even as his eyes close.  They step forward, the opening movements of their dance on the innerspace of his eyelids, and so the story begins...

edited cos it needed it


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## bruise (Jun 9, 2003)




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## foo (Jun 9, 2003)

*A compliment (for someone who reckons he never gets any) in story form...*



> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *And the writer tilts his head slightly to one side, a small smile spreading even as his eyes close.  They step forward, starting their dance on the innerspace of his eyelids, and so the story begins... *


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## jms (Jun 9, 2003)

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## Lollybelle (Jun 9, 2003)

I like typewriters too!  And in fact I do have one... I learned to type on it at school and bought it from them when I left.  But here we do things differently... 

And let me have some artistic licence on the eyes thing?!!  No... OK, I'll change it.


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## jms (Jun 9, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 9, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 10, 2003)

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## Lollybelle (Jun 10, 2003)

*amused me, anyway!*

*Fetish*

They were the precise pair he'd seen in his dream.  Of the pointy variety, little black Wicked Witch of the West shoes, seamed from toe to anklebone, kitten-heeled... and they were peeking out at him, pointedly, suggestively, from long red trousers.  

Debating, heatedly, hurriedly, wondering which stop she'd stand up at, he wanted to ask her where they were from, where she was from, did she know she'd been in his dreams?  

But in the sudden failure of any sentence-forming skills, he settled for falling at her feet, oblivious to the stares... adoringly, languorously, his tongue traversing the path of the seam; smooth soft leather and spiderweb stitching.


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## jms (Jun 11, 2003)

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## Lollybelle (Jun 11, 2003)

*Mine*

Furtive, careful, every day.  Not quite believing that I've pulled it off, that no-one's noticed that it's me, not her.  I'm quiet, I try not to draw attention, and maybe that's how she was, too. 

She smiled kindly while I sat next to the cash machine, said she lived nearby and "you can always have a quick bath and some tea at mine, not in a scary way, if you like?".  Softly spoken, that kind of girl.

And so I washed my hair in her shampoo, scented myself with her perfume, dampened her towels, and slit her throat.  

They look at me strangely, sometimes, when I make mistakes at work, or when I sing along to the radio in her room.  My room.  It's as though they're wondering if I've dyed my hair, or got contact lenses... something they can't put their finger on.  And so it goes, my everyday life.  She fades out, I fade in.  Seamless.  So long, sweetheart... _I'll_ remember you.


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## jms (Jun 11, 2003)

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## DotCommunist (Jun 11, 2003)

*Excursions* 



He walked to the riverside weeping willow at his usual time of tn thirty. The summer light was fading and twilight gained a slow grip.
He sat in the hollow of the tree roots and watched the play of fading light on the water. He marvelled at the swaying willow tendrils in the river, rapid moving water swollen by summer rain.

She arrived at her normal eleven oclock time. He watched her slow languid approach with growing lust. She wore white as usual and her long black hair contrasted harshly.

They enjoyed they're usual sex and both cooled off under the glow of a creent moon.

But when the next morning came a great desire to see his love again siezed the boy. In a fever of excitement he ran to her address with heart full of passionate things he wished to tell her.

But the house was a derelict old ruin, once proud splendour now decayed and tainted. As he turned to leave he was accosted by an old toothless vagrant  "she's gone boy"   he said "she left a long long time ago"


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## jms (Jun 13, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 15, 2003)

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## inflatable jesus (Jun 15, 2003)

*I am a ghost.*

I am invisible, 
when I walk the streets at night.

I am a ghost,
I've left my past behind me.

I make no sound,
on the pavements and roads beneath me.

When I find you,
I'll let myself be seen again.


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## inflatable jesus (Jun 15, 2003)

*Five word story*

I can hear you breathing.


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## jms (Jun 15, 2003)

.


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## inflatable jesus (Jun 15, 2003)

As the drunk morning tide washed back, I found myself in an unfamiliar bed. Slowly, the events of last night returned.
 The club, the drink, the girl, the look, the smile- sex chemicals surging, the deal is done. The taxi, the kiss, her smell, the front door, the couch- clothes dissapearing, the bed, the condom, the fumble, her legs around my waist.
  Slowly and gently I got up. I dressed quietly and left her sleeping. The door clicked shut. I felt the cold morning air on my face. I smiled.


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## inflatable jesus (Jun 15, 2003)

*One word story*

OH!!?!!


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## jms (Jun 15, 2003)

*The Incredible No-word story*


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## inflatable jesus (Jun 15, 2003)

That is sheer artistic genius JMS!


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## jms (Jun 15, 2003)




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## jms (Jun 15, 2003)

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## RubyToogood (Jun 16, 2003)

Very nice .


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## inflatable jesus (Jun 16, 2003)

Thankyou


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## moose (Jun 16, 2003)

The Phone Book also has some great very short stories, including some sent by SMS.


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## Vixiha (Jun 17, 2003)

*50*

A voice outside startles her awake, reminding her that she is a world away from the mundane routine of her domesticated life.  Inhaling deeply, she savors the scent and warmth of the familiar stranger sleeping soundly next to her.  She kisses his rough manly cheek and reluctantly surrenders to reality.


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## Lollybelle (Jun 17, 2003)

*Sunday*

I take my book to the park.  I skip, just a little, down the street, face upturned to the sun, song-snippets floating from my lips through the warm air, mixing with the beats from the open summertime windows of the bad-boy cars.  

And when I get there I lay down between two trees, in dappled shade, begin to read, and wait for you to meet me.  You've never let me down yet... just as my mind begins to drift, head sinking into printed pages, words closer, blurring, eyes closing; that's when you arrive.  I feel your palms smoothing my hair, your fingertips brushing my earlobes, the slight tickle on my exposed neck as you bend your head to whisper softly in my ear.  I grin at the sensation, my nose wrinkling and my eyes squeezing more tightly shut. 

"I'm not really here, you know," you're saying, with a smile in your voice.

"I know", I reply, "that's why I'm keeping my eyes closed".

We're happy, just lying like that, for hours.  And true to my word, my eyes stay closed; that way I never have to see you go.


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## IAmEvilHomer (Jun 17, 2003)

Full to the brim with whimsical cheeriness I weave my way through the urban onslaught with the words of a beat poet on my sleeve. It doesn't matter where I'm going, I'll get there in the end. But for a while I'll enjoy the passing of time, the foot-falls and the echoes of rememberance that drift through my conscious layers like petit thiefs and circus clowns, vying for attention.


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## Vixiha (Jun 17, 2003)

*Another 50*

 WARNING: Trylo, et al.
My vocabulary and imagination are terribly limited, thus my writing style is akin to cheap dime-store romance novels, loaded with cliches and overly descriptive.  Don't read my posts.  

Moist bodies hum together with sweet aftershocks.  He pulls her to his side, presses her cheek against him and gently squeezes her with one arm.  Softly she kisses the dark furry curls of his sweaty heaving chest.  Gradually, breathing slows and hearts beat in unison as they drift to sleep.


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## Maggot (Jun 18, 2003)

*Sorted*

They are going all over the world: packages to Palestine, letters to Latvia, journals to Japan.  Although I am stuck here, I feel like a tiny, almost imperceptible part of my soul leaves me with each one as I put them into their compartments.  I shall traverse the planet to feel whole again.


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## Lollybelle (Jun 18, 2003)

*Love*

"I'm going to kill you".  He used to whisper it, a babyfaced picture of malevolent innocence, while I was half-asleep; trying to freak me out, a sweet-acid touch.  

And, laughing, that was when I'd reach for him, arm around his shoulders, drawing him into me, my fingers losing themselves in his tousling hair as I felt his lips on my collarbone, his cheek coming to rest on my shoulder.

But it was all a very long time ago, now.  All forgotten - along with my birthday, my middle name, the colour of my eyes.

"I'm going to love you", I'll whisper, if I ever see him again.

edited cos it was all over the shop


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## Vixiha (Jun 18, 2003)

*50 too*

Five o’clock shadow, full pointed lips, vibrations of a sultry rhythmic tune.  

Wine-dulled senses amplified by a solitary hypnotic gaze.  

Intoxicating emotions flow as a telling tear escapes; this moment must never be forgotten.  

Surrounded by nothingness; bare walls encompass an eternity of joy burned forever into an aching heart.


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## jms (Jun 18, 2003)

.


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## squirmy (Jun 18, 2003)

a fly tried to fly across the atlantic.

it failed.

the end.


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## jms (Jun 19, 2003)

*8 minute funtime*

*The Tale of the man with the jungle of Teeth* 

There once was a man
with a jungle of teeth
3 rows of teeth above
and 6 beneath

Eating was a problem
brushing was hell
his dentistry bills
were high, aswell

And on one cold evening
December 1903 x 5
He made the decision
To change his name to Clive

His teeth were a jungle
his tears upside down
his hat was ridiculous
and always wore a frown

You'll see him today as he wanders the streets
With scissors in one hand
and shoes on his feets
And when you see him you will cry in disbelief
"There goes Clive
With his Jungle of teeth!"


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## jms (Jun 19, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jun 19, 2003)

clive!


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## Vixiha (Jun 20, 2003)

With the rhythm of a sultry tune, their passion moves them.  Hearts pound, blood pulsates and every nerve comes alive.  Her hands glide across tiny beads of perspiration, tracing slowly up his spine to the back of his neck.  Waves of energy surge through them as they explode in ecstasy.


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## jms (Jun 22, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 22, 2003)

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## Vixiha (Jun 23, 2003)

*50 more*

“Tell me something you love about me,” I pleaded.

He paused for quite a bit and said, “I love that you’re always home and that you belong to me.”

I choked back a tear and said nothing about the feeling that I was no more irreplaceable than a comfy chair.


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## Dr Morose (Jun 23, 2003)

*49 words*

‘I’ve had enough of your shit.’ He told her, and was almost packed and leaving before she ventured out of the bathroom, tear streaked and puffy.

‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ She wailed

‘Too little, too fucking late.’ And he pushed past her and out of the flat.


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## jms (Jun 23, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 23, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 23, 2003)

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## Vixiha (Jun 24, 2003)

*Bitter 50*

Grandma’s shadow box is cracked as is her colorful collection of frosted candle-holders.  Her antique coffee table has a hole smashed through and her cherished three tiered table has long been separated from its legs.  Why did I stay until love was the last thing of mine he could destroy?


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## Podge (Jun 24, 2003)

He carefully turned the pages of the dusty book, their texture  resembled eggshells and the print, lost emotions.

He slowly worked his mouth along the lines, softly blowing each word out into the dust.

Suddenly a shaft of light splashed through the window, covering him in its all enveloping glare. He sighed.


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## Dr Morose (Jun 24, 2003)

‘You cant always get what you want.’ He said, licking the paper and smoothing it carefully into place. ‘But you can get high enough that it doesn’t matter.’

‘Ganja’s not the answer.’ She replied

‘No, but it makes the question irrelevant.’ And looked her striaght in the eye as he lit up.


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## jms (Jun 24, 2003)

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## omen (Jun 25, 2003)

Kenichi Hagiwara lent out the window and looked down Bubbling Well Road to where the shoddy green banner of Yukio's bicycle repair shop swayed hypnotically in the breeze.  
The Monsoon was coming.  The tension that he felt building in his stomach heralded the arrival of the great Summer rain storms...


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## Dr Morose (Jun 25, 2003)

‘oooh’ she moaned, as his thick, manly hands caressed her femininity, ‘you’re so big’
He said nothing, simply moving his strong body over hers as his huge, throbbing manhood entered her. She screamed in ecstasy, and bucked and writhed under him. His nostrils filled with the acrid wetness of her.


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## Vixiha (Jun 25, 2003)

His dark eyes smolder like the dying embers of a campfire as he gazes lustfully down at her.  Trembling with anticipation, she wraps her legs around him like long fleshy vines.  With her nails in the small of his back, she whispers his name as he presses himself into her.


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## inflatable jesus (Jun 25, 2003)

*Helga*

From the moment I heard her voice, I fell in love with her. Helga, the queen of the Trongate Bingo parlour.
  'Wan 'n Eigh... Eigh'een' she would sigh. Her glaswegian tones drifting out over the night traffic of the city. Her forty-regal-a-day voice: dark like tar. It was harsh, gruff and yet undeniably, unmistakenly femminine.
 What really got me though, was that as you listened closer you could hear that her voice was tinged with such sadness and desperation. Every number she called was a cry for help and nobody was listening but me.
I leaned my dope-damaged body against the side of the building, closed my eyes and imagined our future lives together....


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## Dr Morose (Jun 26, 2003)

I left her last night. The children asleep, a short note ‘this is not who I am, I’m sorry.’ I love her more than she will ever be able to understand. And dear God I hope she’ll understand why I stuffed three shirts and a pair of jeans into my rucksack. 

She was so beautiful, I almost didn’t have it in me to go. But the dizziness of family photos and suburban wallpaper overcame me. 

This is not who I am, I hope you’ll one day understand.


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## Vixiha (Jun 26, 2003)

He was shocked to learn his married friends preferred to chase a ball around or stink of fish when they apparently had readily available sex at home.  

He immediately abandoned fishing and golf, determined to learn how to seduce a woman with gourmet cooking, wine, and the art of massage.


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## jms (Jun 26, 2003)

*Spot the plagiarism!*

*Tulip* 

It was, something in the delicacy of her footwork that made her so, I suppose, wonderful. I suppose that was what drew me to her. Standing alone in a crowded room, I saw her for the first time, elegant, and so very feminine. In a red dress, drunkenly embracing a hatstand. Everyone disappeared in the moment that I glanced at her. But as she saw me and laughed, I felt it was time for me to go, took my coat from the hatstand and departed. I didn't look back, that was a mistake I'd made too often before.

People just slide through my fingers, sand, in an hourglass, until nothing, no one is left.


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## Dr Morose (Jun 27, 2003)

*Hubris*

I was nothing special, back then, which why, I suppose, I got screwed over so often by so many. They could sniff the talent, and abuse it. I didn’t have a fucking clue. I was twenty five before it could stand on its own.

But when it did, oh my, when it did it stood fifty feet tall and glowing.

Of course, I was too mature to tell those that took advantage ‘fuck with me now!’

Of course I was


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## jms (Jun 27, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 27, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 28, 2003)

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## feyr (Jun 29, 2003)

Loving you made a liar out of me. I became an expert at hiding the bruises, even the cuts and broken bones I could explain to others, blaming a drunken fall, or an open cupboard door. Years have passed, the bruises, the bones have healed. But the first time you didn’t listen when I said no, the first time you forced me into bed, you left me with scars I can never explain


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## Vixiha (Jun 29, 2003)

I know it really happens, but I do hope you're making this particular story up, ((feyr)).


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## feyr (Jun 29, 2003)

Nana always had a twinkle in her eye when she told us her stories. They danced as she told us tales of her childhood, of her first love, stories full of life, love and freedom. We used to listen in awe, drinking in every little detail, amazed that our nana, the frail grey haired old woman in the chair, had lived such a vibrant life. Then nana got ill, she used to tell her stories even when no-one was there to listen, the twinkle in her eye rolling down her cheek, mourning for a life that used to be

(sorry, neither of these are particulary cheerful, or sticking to the 50 word limit, but hey, neither are most of the ones on this thread)


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## Vixiha (Jun 30, 2003)

Pleasant conversation, aided by wine and hypnotic music, gradually escalates into a series of flirtatious remarks.  Subtle body language becomes increasingly suggestive.  She tilts her head and smiles warmly at him.  He follows her lead, pressing his lips against hers.  Gently taking her hand, he guides her to the bedroom.


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jun 30, 2003)

[I love seeing words used well. This is a great thread. Jms, especially, you are good. I haven't read the whole thing, so apologies if there's someone else really good.]



This isn't my floor: where's the lobby? This low concrete hallway can't have any connection to the hotel. What are those locker-like doors, they seem to stretch off down the hall in each direction, past my line of sight. I could look out of the elevator, down the hall, but; it's kind of dark, it's too quiet. It's like the wrong decade. I can tell there's no one here, I think. I don't want to look out of the elevator. Why is my back tingling? How long does an elevator door stay open after you press Close? This seems too long....it'snotbrokenisit?

THere we go....I'll wipe my forehead with my sleeve before I hit the lobby.


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jun 30, 2003)

He has the throttle adjusted, it will stay at constant rpm. In first gear the tractor goes just fast enough not to stall, but slow enough to ensure that the reels can effectively cut the grass on one pass. Two passes take too long, the foreman will get on his ass.

Fighting to stay awake in the July sun, even though it's only 10:00 a.m. The row of houses across the street are almost identical: Vancouver Specials, about fifteen or twenty years old. Identical white draperies drawn against the day, Except for ... that one..... with the curtains lifted up somehow, a couple of feet. A child's bare legs, tiny sandals: four years old? A dark, hairy arm, upraised, no body, the body hidden by the remaining curtain, the child's body hidden by the same curtain, just the legs, just the arm, and the rod, raised, brought down, over and over, striking the legs, again and again.

He can't go back. The machine is adjusted, it only takes one pass to cut the grass. Two passes take too long, the foreman will get on his ass.


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## Dr Morose (Jun 30, 2003)

*Anthony*

I stared into the eyes of a killer. A man made capable of anything, because he overflowed with a righteous, cleansing fire.

I saw on his face the lines of murder, and the foreshadowing of genocide. Fanaticism sparkled in him, he was filled with The Truth, the inner knowledge that makes the lie of mere empirical proof.

We live in terrible times, when we are so far removed from the tiller of our fate, and led by a man whose belief makes him so blind.


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## Dr Morose (Jun 30, 2003)

*Suicide Note*

I ran out of patience in the late Autumn of 1983. Twenty years is a long time to live without life. But I survived, I even made a positive contribution to the few friends still left me after I’d burned and raged my way through a six month binge. I put myself back together, piece by piece. And if I what I made was something of a hollow sham at what I used to be, well, you can only work from what you know. 

I never, ever expected to be a real person again. And then she came to me, from God alone knows where, and worked so slowly, so patiently to bring me back to life. 

But my time in the sun was not long enough. She was taken from me. My freedom was taken from me. I have few choices now, but i can choose to die. 

And all because she was fourteen, and I was forty-five.


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

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## Lollybelle (Jun 30, 2003)

*one-night stand*

Her hairspray chokes me a little as I wait on the edge of her bed.  She's freshly bathed and blow-dried, still in her dressing gown, perched sweetly, slightly self-consciously, on a battered wooden chair in front of an oval mirror.

She smiles at my reflection; I watch as my reflection smiles back.  And I'm wishing I hadn't straightened her sheets and pillows, erasing the night in the cold new morning.  I'm wishing I wasn't sitting here quite so meekly, the warm musk of her still on my fingers and my face and my crumpled smoky clothes while she preens, oh-so-clean and pristine.  

She walks with me to the station, past filth on the steps and the faces of the people that sleep there.  A goodbye kiss, a girlish smile, a sweet "thank you" dripping like clear golden honey from her lips... a beautifully-rendered performance.  And as I walk away, careful not to look back, I choose not to have seen the distance in her eyes.


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## chegrimandi (Jun 30, 2003)

mmm nice-one lolly.....

if only all romantic encounters were so......

more like......

'A quick fumble and he'd shot his bolt....I awoke to his stinking body, his breath smelt of stale lager and cigarettes......his crusty lips parted and as he broke wind he said....'whats your name again?'


etc....


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## Lollybelle (Jun 30, 2003)

Rather the farting bloke than the cold faker girlie though!


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

*Are you sitting Comfortably?* 

Another Entry:

“At this moment that I am writing, a puerile smile has cut its way through the position my mouth would usually inhabit, disturbing my face in a way that I cannot see, but I can guess at the appearance of. And I know that the other one can see it. We are seated in an angular way, and by that I do not mean that we sit in a way that would be more familiar to a cubist, I merely mean that we are seated together, but not looking to one another as such. The chairs do not face one another, but the line of sight I extend across the room, would, if such a bizarre and unrealistically literal situation were to occur at any point, cross the other one’s sight. That is the best way I can describe how we are seated without drawing – seated, pointing to some invisible viewpoint, together, not apart, but distinctly separate. Perhaps it would be better if you (And I use the second person very loosely, as I assume that the only reader of this obscure and ludicrously detailed journal would be myself, not any other.) were to see the room for yourself, (there it appears again), for it would make better sense then, since it would be possible to deduce some meaning from my words, though, on surveying the scene, this description would not be necessary. So it is, that we are seated in the manner I have previously described. We are here, in crisp and full, yet abnormally comfortable armchairs and there is a round coffee table between the two of them. Or between the two of us, it matters very little in which way this particular matter is perceived. The table is made of some peculiar wood, the likes of which I have never seen before, except upon previous visits to this household. I am have as yet been unable to determine the exact identity of this wood, despite having consulted a number of almanacs of wood, glossaries and so on. It perplexes me; perhaps it has been varnished in some perverse manner, possibly by a craftsman who has not yet learned his trade, possibly it is some foreign wood. Though, from the age of this house and its occupant, I would approximate that the particular craftsman who may or may not have made the particular item, is either dead or well on his way to the grave. However, the table is of no concern. I note, still, now maybe for the second or third time that the standard of the pencil I am using it astoundingly poor. There are no good stationery shops around these parts, a terrible shame that must be rectified. Something I may take up when I have the time. Enough of my tedious exploits into the realms of needless thoughts though. I am still sitting here, after some minutes now, I suppose, having written almost nothing on what it is I am supposed to be writing about. The other one, this woman, my companion, if you will. My subject, the way in which I preoccupy my preoccupations, it is contained in here, in her, my subject. The subject of my, I daresay, quite extensive study. She is sitting, as we have been for some time, and on many an occasion before, a little way from the hearth, over which resides a mantelpiece, strewn with all manner of items, I have little or no idea where from or indeed how she has collected these. Being in the room in which we are seated is like being in a museum of miscellany, the house is a suite of rooms within a gallery, filled with a great number of oddities, all of which are utterly out of place. The walls are adorned with many pictures, both photographs and sun-dulled watercolours. The wallpaper seems as if it was designed by an exceptionally bored artist, lamenting, because of some impossible sculpture he could not finish. But back to my subject: On this particular day she is dressed in an ill-defined blue dress, the end of which forms a curving ring about her lower legs. She has on her feet a pair of sensible shoes, chosen at my recommendation. Her hair is tied back in a bun, clenched back into place and tightening her face. The hair is a light orange in colour, verging on the more straw-like tones and gold shimmers of hair I often see on the heads of other people. But of course, she is certainly not “other people”, and neither am I. We are very much unique here. I find this state of affairs far preferable to being like everyone else.”

Faye turned to her ailing grandfather, and said quietly, so as not to disturb him from his writing, “More tea?”


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## Lollybelle (Jun 30, 2003)

*awed...*

it's not tedious, it's genius.

like I already said.


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

But its _meant_ to be tedious


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## Lollybelle (Jun 30, 2003)

ok... point taken.  genius tedium then.


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## chegrimandi (Jun 30, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *ok... point taken.  genius tedium then. *



*not 50 words genius tedium*    

*cracks the whip....flogs the writers harder*


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

50 words

809 words

50, 809, 809, 50

its all the same


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## Dr Morose (Jun 30, 2003)

*Maria*

He walked into the room, the shafts of sunlight from the venetian blinds spraying out across his body. There was something not right about that body, it looked as if it has been put together by someone who had never seen a human being except in photos. It was half-formed, huge, with misproportioned muscles.

And those eyes, those eyes were never born of a human mother. 

He picked up Maria and dragged her out of the room, screaming and scratching at him. He grinned at me as he passed. Biting her arm to draw blood. Maria screamed again. And I wanted to help her, but in that gaze, I was held. I could do nothing. She sobbed, begged him, begged me to make it stop. It wasn't real to me I was looking at it all through, thick, thick glass. 

He grinned at me and with a flourish of his cloak was gone. The door slamming behind him. 

That was the last time I saw Maria.








I don’t think you can count finding the pieces.


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

*.*

.


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## Dr Morose (Jun 30, 2003)

> _Originally posted by jms _
> *Misproportioned ? Disproportionate surely? *



nah, misproportioned may not be a word, but in the context it works better than disproportionate. disproportionate somehow gives a sense of order, even if it is not the same order as the rest of the thing that it is not in proportion to.

if that makes any sense

misproportioned gives the impression of hideous uneven lumpenness.


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## jms (Jun 30, 2003)

.


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## Vixiha (Jun 30, 2003)

Fresh paint fumes mingle subtly with the scent of old books and new sweat.  Nervous laughter and rolling push carts fill recently empty halls to form a sort of melody.  The realization of another missed experience washes over her, but she proudly kisses her brother good-bye and tearfully drives away.


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## feyr (Jul 1, 2003)

Her eyes closed, she listened to the swoosh of the wind passing by her ears, feeling it ripple through her hair. Every inch of her body tingled as the warm breeze pressed against her skin. Struggling to recall a time she ever felt so alive, her eyes opened, as she took her last look at life, plunging towards the rocks below.


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jul 1, 2003)

They fell on the bed and he kissed her, and she twisted her body in his hands. He smiled the smile that certainty brings. He kissed her harder and she drew away a little, grinned a little, half turned. He followed, and she moved again, away, a little. She smiled, pulled back.

He frowned just a little, and took her face in his hands, kissed again. She opened to it, then closed, then moved aside, and smiled.

Frowning, he asked, what's wrong?

She whispered: Hit me...


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## Dr Morose (Jul 1, 2003)

*Rexel 4.5mm Slim*

Clickckick, fourteen second gap, clickclick, fourteen second gap, clickclick. It went on for hours, filled my waking, my sleeping. At the pub, I caught myself making the motion with my fingers while the conversation flowed around me.

Grab, arrange, shuffle, slam the edge once on the table to get the straight edge, clicklick, fourteen second gap. 

Last night I dreamed someone took it away from me, and I had to sit at my desk all day going through the motions, crying all the while as if I’d lost a parent or a child, my insides screwed up with grief at being robbed of my stapler


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## Vixiha (Jul 1, 2003)

Her hands were wet and slid easily up and down; fingers moving with skill, gently pressing and stroking its tapered length.  She felt pleased with its shape and size.  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d done one so large because the smaller sculptures had always seemed easier to shape.


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## Vixiha (Jul 1, 2003)

His beautiful smile was so bright she could see it from across the parking lot.  As she neared, a flash of his periwinkle shirt caught her eye.  She loved how he remembered it was her favorite because it brought out the color in his cheeks and made his eyes sparkle.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 1, 2003)

*The Void*

We no longer live in a clockwork universe. Instead we come to know that we know nothing. That our maths and  models can never show more than what they are. That our Gods can never be reducted to number/vector rules. 

Mind is scaffold, erected to give shape to what is shapeless. And right on the edge of it, if you stand and listen, in the place where Quantum Mechanics breaks down, where the Metaphysicists debate the meaning of Nought and One, you can hear the endlessness calling, pulling, seeking to unravel those who seek to understand. To spread them thin across the vastness of the unknowable until consciousness ceases and personality dissolves.


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## winston (Jul 1, 2003)

.....then i woke up


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## Dr Morose (Jul 2, 2003)

> _Originally posted by winston _
> *.....then i woke up *



and winston was a tit


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## Lollybelle (Jul 2, 2003)

*Tit*

Night after night, he could feel himself growing, altering in shape.  Softening around the belly, far too much to just be blamed on the beers and Friday night curries with the lads.  

The weirdest thing was the change in his navel... from an inny to an outy in just five days!  It was as though there was something growing inside, pushing at him, distending his previously-perfect (well, previously-'quite happy with it thank you very much') body.  

He was worried, but not too worried... after all, he was a bloke!  And blokes don't go to the doctors till it's _really_ serious, everyone knows that, they just put it out of their mind and get on with the serious tasks in life... another Stella, lads?

Until, one fateful night, he stripped off his t-shirt, ready to climb into bed in boxers only, and saw it... the outy had turned into a nipple!  A proper, full-on nipple, with belly hair around it reminding him of a certain young shotputter he'd 'known' once upon a time...

Well, he certainly couldn't go to the doctors now.  So, resignedly, but with practicalities in mind, he raided his mother's underwear drawer.  A double-D cup and sizeable garter in hand, he sat down with needle and thread and began to fashion a suitable support garment.  A sign of modern equality, then... a bra for the mighty bloke beer-belly-tit! 


Not meaning to insult anyone with this one!  Just got a picture in mind and thought I'd write about it.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 2, 2003)

Lollybelle, i want you to be the mother of my children, or at the very least my nurse

not only are you exceptionally tasty, you are also responsible for the double hernia i got trying to keep my discreet snigger from turning into an office stalling roar of laughter







ow


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## Lollybelle (Jul 2, 2003)

Shit!  Did you burst open your wound?  

(well done for being a hero, btw  )


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## Dr Morose (Jul 2, 2003)

I thought it was just a cliché, but the blood pounded in my head so hard I could feel the membranes slapping against my skull.

Every second a little closer to passing out. I didn’t want to look the poor woman in the eye. I had him, he was half my size, I could have taken him smashed that smug grin out of him and pushed his eyes out through the back of his head. 

Not stood there, trying not to throw up, trying not to cry. 


(Lollybelle, you've made me go all red  )


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## jms (Jul 2, 2003)

.


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## feyr (Jul 3, 2003)

i believed in fairies as a child. Every morning, i would run to the edge of the forest, searching among the dew drops , sure that one day i would find a tiny fairy shoe, lost by its owner, as she danced with the fireflies. And even though i never found them, i knew they were there. i grew up, moved away, forgot about the fairies in the wood. years later as i walked in the forest, the memories of my search for fairies flood back. out of the corner of my eye i think i see a flutter of wings, heading towards the edge of the forest. i run after it, feeling like i'm 4 again.  i reach the edge, and search among the dewdrops. in among the moss and mushrooms, i find a single purple petal. confused, i look again, searching for the flower from which the petal fell, but find nothing. i hear laughter, and spin round, but there is nothing there. you can call me crazy, you can blame it on hormones, a trick of the light, or whatever, but everytime i see a purple flower, i'm proud to believe in fairies


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## Dr Morose (Jul 3, 2003)

*Sci-Fi Serial Par 1*

He slotted the last bullet carefully into place, clipping the drum magazine onto his back and checking the belt feed. The huge gun’s weight rested on his hips and shoulders, the harness bringing out red weals on his skin. 

He pulled the trigger, safety on, and the empty chambered gun spun and whirred. Its ten barrels spraying reflected sunlight in all directions. Satisfied, he took out two pistols, one holstered on his right leg, the other near his armpit, attached to the harness of the rotary canon. All loaded and correct. 

His mechanically enhanced body ran a quick diagnostic, with all systems nominal, he nodded to the controller, who opened the huge blast gates and let him in to the hunting enclosure. It was dark there, cooler than outside, but still sticky, musty with jungle smell and overgrowth. 

Silent too. Birds didn’t nest in the hunting enclosure.


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## jms (Jul 3, 2003)

*A beginning...*

.


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## red rose (Jul 3, 2003)

*Bruises heal*

Names, cold shoulders,
Silence in the canteen.
Her words are scalpels,
Cutting self esteem.

"Stuck up little cow!
Thinks she's really it!"
Laughter slices, she prescribes
A sharp, unfunny wit.

Ridiculed for standing out,
My grades are far too high.
And so she drip-feeds saline hate,
Injecting with a lie.

She's bright, she'll find
The weakest spot to pierce and prod and poke.
She uses stealth and poisonned words
And wears them like a cloak.

It seems I am her favourite game
And I'm the one who loses.
If she'd done this with her fists
At least there would be bruises.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 4, 2003)

*Sci-Fi Serial Part 2*

There was a whispering off to his right, maybe just the wind, or some small game. 

Maybe not. 


He moved forward with a grace that belied his size, moving in slow motion, perfect ¼ time. He stopped, one hand on the trigger of the rotary machine gun, the other reaching slowly up to his head to click an infra-red sight over his eye. 

Nothing. But that was to be expected, they were cold. An animal would have given off a heat signature. So there was either nothing there or there was his quarry. 

It was not an easy choice as his finger hovered over the trigger. He had to survive in here for three days, and the last thing he wanted was to alert them to his location with an ammunition wasting blast.

He slid the pistol out of its leg-holster, feeling his sweat fill the rubberised pores of its grip, and stepped forward into the clearing.


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## Lollybelle (Jul 4, 2003)

*Moon*

I remember that night because the moon was so extraordinarily enormous.  Walking up my street, coming over the brow of the hill, I could see it, huge above treetops and chimneystacks, bright glaring mottled whiteness.  An apocalyptic moon, ominous; almost as if while I stopped and stared it could consume me, wide-eyed and foolish as I stood.

Ridiculous, really, though.  What I should remember about that night more than anything is that it's when I realised it couldn't happen.  I couldn't have him, no matter how much I burned inside for it, my furious heart only barely hidden under my cool pale moonlit skin.  But the world's a big place.  The world's a huge, terrifying and beautiful place, and sometimes I'm glad to be reminded of just how tiny I am.


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 4, 2003)

The trouble with Madison.

Madison heard the gate click sharply in the still of the night. Behind her she could sense the curtains twitching as another date barricaded himself in his house, bolting every bolt and locking every lock.

"Nice." she muttered, drily. Most were polite enough to wait till she was at least out of sight, before making sure she could never come back. She blew out her cheeks and, smoothing her hands through her hair, she strode out into the rain and back to her red Maserati, parked someway down the street.

"Fuck him." she said of Aidan, her date who was right now probably tuning into Skynews to make sure her estranged husband wasn't in town. "Fuck him, fuck Tony and fuck YOU!" she screamed, turning her face up toward the heavens.
God, as if somewhat appalled at her language, sent down a brief torrent of big raindrops to splash into her eyes and she flinched as they washed behind her contact lenses.
"Shit!" she said. "Sorry." Mollified, the rain relented a little and, blinking to rid her eyes of the blur, she continued. The light drizzle gave the Camden Road a soft-focus 70's sheen, the neon lights of the High Street just a multicoloured blur in the distance.

Characters out of fantasy books loomed large at her out of the rain as she made her way back to her car. Across the road vampires queued at the 24hr garage with retro-punks and inebriated office juniors, ties askew and shirt tails loose as the 'one drink that became five' started to redden their noses.

She smiled. As fucked up as she was, she knew it could be a lot worse. Marriage to Tony Dean had been no picnic, but the split had been amicable and if you did what he asked, Tony was a generous man. Besides, at 27 and still knockout, Madison knew that there would be opportunities aplenty. Well, if she could ever live down the reputation of being the wife of the country's most feared gangster.

The sign for the World's End pub, swung gently and profoundly ahead of her and she stopped, suddenly. "What have I done?" She whispered, softly. She was surprised to feel a single hot tear well up from inside her to mingle with the rain on her face. She looked up again, "WHAT HAVE I BECOME?" she shouted, arms stretching into the night sky.

It occured to her that she might be looking a litle foolish - standing face up in the rain, talking to herself and shouting. She sighed, let her arms drop and straigthened her shoulders. The streetlights broke into a thousand confused pieces as the rain spattered from her cheek into her eyes.

The gleaming red bonnet of the Maserati stood just a few feet from her, and she automatically zapped the locks open. Briefly shaking off the rain she climbed into the passenger side, put the keys on the seat and waited.

She watched through the rain splattered window as a dark shape grew out of the haze into a hulking, monstrous obstruction. The door clicked and swung open, windswept drops of rain lightly sprayed her arms as Tony slid his muscular frame into the driver's seat.
"I've only gone and sat on the fucking keys again." he said with a smile. A plastic tesco bag lay on his lap, jerking from side to side as he slid his hands under his bum for the keys. "Aha." he exclaimed, fishing them out proudly, "right, let's go then." He stopped, suddenly, "Oh, here it is." He handed her the bag, pulling back on the handle so the contents revealed themselves.

She smiled as she reached in to stroke Aidan's still plump lips. If he'd been more of a man and less of a mouse, maybe she'd have had a chance to kiss them, at least a little. Such a waste. They all grew frightened when she told them who her ex was, but at least some had the balls to try and hide it.

Tony kissed her gently on her cheek, and slid £500 under the lace of her bra. She smiled at him. Tony Dean had been a shit husband, but he really was a damn fine employer.

Sinner03.


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## jms (Jul 5, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 5, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 5, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 5, 2003)

.


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## IAmEvilHomer (Jul 7, 2003)

*Pressure*

My legs dangle below me and sway to and for gently as gravity lightly urges them on. As a breeze flickers through the leaves around me I gaze out onto the heaving mass of grey and black that marks the place where I live. Sirens ring out and then fade away as if they were birds in mating season. Chimneys gulp out pillars of smoke, enveloping surrounding buildings in a toxic blanket. The whole city boils with exersion, the inhabitants bubbling to and fro in a hectic dance reaching ever closer to cruscendo when the sirens, the smoke and the crush of particles will take the pressure too far. And the city will bleed from its pores, but not fast enough, and the smoke and noise and people will spill over its edges and beyond.

And I will sit in my tree and watch as it whispers in my ear the history it has seen.


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## Vixiha (Jul 7, 2003)

*50 for fun*

Jeans undone and opened; he lay shamelessly exposing his white cotton briefs.  Slowly his shirt rose as he moved one hand up his chest and back down again, gently brushing against the fine trail of soft, dark hair leading into the waistband like a subtle promise of things to come.


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## kakuma (Jul 8, 2003)

i can't work out why, what i said, what i didn't say, i suppose it doesn't work like that, but now where sitting here, not looking at each other. trying to think of something to say...but there is nothing to say

I love you?


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## IAmEvilHomer (Jul 8, 2003)

*Silence*

Not so long ago the thoughts just flowed like rivers through our heads and expanded into sound and words that engulfed us for hours. But now silence has overtaken them and the sea is a calm premonition of a storm to come. Silence is bursting to the seams with thoughts that race but never come to fomr themselves enough to run the gauntlet of speech. And we look away from each other's eyes as we search and struggle for something, somewhere inside that will bring the cholking silence to an end for another short time.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 8, 2003)

*Sci-Fi Serial Part 3*

A brief flicker out of the corner of his eye. Without thought, with fluid grace, he spun and let fly short, sharp volley. The foliage burst apart, a tree gently keeled over as its trunk was shredded. He walked over to the carnage on the other side of the clearing. Squatting with his back protected by a thornbush, he looked for signs. A slim rope made of palm leaves, two chunks of wood tied to the end. 

Trap. They really were getting very clever. 

He straightened. They knew where he was, and they would be closing. But they wouldn’t expect him to stay where we was. He looked around. Apart from the way he had come in, there was only one way out. And they’d expect that. 

He retreated the way he’d come. Dropping a proximity mine in the clearing for good measure. His heart rate was well up, his legs shaking from the effort of not screaming and running for the gate.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 8, 2003)

*Sci-Fi Serial PArt 4*

He needed to find a defensible position and fast. A heavy weapons specialist all his life, he now regretted the vast cannon strapped to him like a ball and chain, a death sentence. He was halfway to panic now, the undergrowth whistling past him, his face whipped and scratched by the branches. A detonation sounded behind him, the proximity mine.  

He dropped another on the trail behind him as he ran, and saw, off to his left, exactly what he was looking for a huge tree, snapped in last month’s storms and hollow, leant against the wall of the enclosure. He could make it, his mechanically enhanced legs upped the pace, and he flicked the blood and sweat from one hand as he ran. He cleared the last of the thick bush and entered the space cleared by the fallen tree. 

Where five of them waited for him

Others were closing in from behind. They really were getting very clever


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## liampreston (Jul 8, 2003)

You have to make a choice. Words of hers, leaf like, floating in the air; fingers reaching towards heavy air. She had her back turned away from me; arms hugging herself as though to walk away from a lamp-post into shadows. 
Do you want me to...
She bit her tongue, or I knew she had, to say "Just leave now". Behind the echo of distant shoes against pavement, maybe she exhaled, shook away the pins and needles in her fingers, washed carrots under the tap. I returned, briefly, to open the letter-box and push my keys onto the mat inside, hearing them chink on the other side of the door....


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## Dr Morose (Jul 8, 2003)

*Sci-Fi Serial Part 5*

He couldn’t stop long enough to fire the cannon, not with the ones behind him closing so fast. Pistol out he took two of them as they closed, pinpoint shot between the eyes. The third and fourth were already making for the tree. They’d learned to anticipate. Behind him the second proximity mine went off, he felt the thud of it in his throat. The two making for the tree paused, startled, just long enough for him to gain the advantage in distance. He was scrambling up the tree, finding any purchase at all, one came after him, but a desperate shot between his legs took it in the arm and the creature fell, screaming. Two thirds of the way up he stopped, a fork in the tree providing a seat, and let off the cannon. Turning the three that remained in the clearing to strips of charnel. 

He sat, pulled a scope out of his pocket and afixed it to the burning barrel of his pistol. Panting heavily he thanked whichever God had been responsible for his escape and settled down for the long wait. He had two days left on the hunt. He rested his head in his lap to settle in for the long night

They moved around him all night. he fired random shots to keep them away, even tossed a grenade. But they were still out there.


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## jms (Jul 8, 2003)

.


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## arattebury (Jul 8, 2003)

My mother is addicted to television. By the time she was thirty five she was clocking eight hours a day. My father started to notice when she refused to come out with him to do the weekly shopping. I just want to catch this one it is the last episode she would say. 

At first he was surly being left to do the bag carrying but my mother would make it up to him by cooking a special evening meal of cod and chips while watching the television and the back of my fathers head through the kitchen serving hatch. 

Once she got into her late thirties having been teased bullied and nagged about the addiction by her husband and children she started to hide it as much as possible.

Lunch hours instead of watching television at home she would drive to the local electric store and watch her favourite soap there until the shop assistants started to recognise her and she would have to move on once they realised her feigned interest was not going to make them a fast buck. No matter what 
resolution screen they could sell her.

She rented a shed at a local allotment with an electric point and stored her black and white portable there with a favourite comfortable seat. 

One day my mother was found collapsed on her comfortable seat in her shed by a neighbouring gardner who had seen her enter in the morning and not come out for eight hours. She was unconscious and her tongue dangled out of her throat like a thirsty labrador. The gardner called the hospital and an ambulance rushed her to hospital. 

"You've suffered an epileptic fit- Do you know who I am Mrs Hewitt and where you are?


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

*Sci-Fi Serial Part 6: End*

The dawn brought with it terror. As the night resolved the shadows, he could see dozens and dozens of them. 

They started at him, those horrible white eyes of theirs, and the heat of their gaze made him shiver. 

‘Alright you fuckers’ He said, ‘I’m gonna take you all.’ He grinned, mostly with fear, but also with a little exhilaration. His hand closed on the trigger

But another hand, a claw, closed on his. Rank breath and sweat-smell washed over him. Turning as much as he dared, he saw one of the creatures standing behind him. It must have spent the entire night slowly climbing the underside of the tree, careful not to make a sound, while the others distracted him. 

He pulled his pistol out in a lightning movement, all his years of training pushed into a half second of fluid grace. 

The creature's face vanished in a puff of blood and fluids. 

He roared his victory and swung his cannon around to face the assembled and didnt even have time to fire before his throat was ripped out.

They'd sent more than one up the tree last night. 

They really were getting very clever


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

.


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## Archer (Jul 9, 2003)

*Cat - 150 words*

Cat was our friend. When he wanted to come in, he tapped on the window. "Are you thirsty, cat?" I'd ask him and put down a saucer of milk, which he wouldn't touch. Two minutes later, he'd be lapping up water from the dripping tap in the bathroom. Cat could be difficult.  He wouldn't go out when I asked him to. He could be kind. He jumped on my lap when I was blue. Then Ingrid arrived. Ingrid was big and bossy. She had dinner about eleven times a day as far as we could make out. Ingrid didn't like cat. She said she was allergic. She built a cardboard hut for cat in the garden, and said he couldn't come inside any more. We didn't agree. We moved Ingrid out into the garden hut and cat took her room. Now, when Ingrid taps on the window, we don't answer.


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

> _Originally posted by jms _
> *That is just the acest thing Ive ever read
> 
> well
> ...



sorry, was that directed at me or ar archer?


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## IAmEvilHomer (Jul 9, 2003)

*Cat - 150 words*



> _Originally posted by Archer _
> *Cat was our friend. When he wanted to come in, he tapped on the window. "Are you thirsty, cat?" I'd ask him and put down a saucer of milk, which he wouldn't touch. Two minutes later, he'd be lapping up water from the dripping tap in the bathroom. Cat could be difficult.  He wouldn't go out when I asked him to. He could be kind. He jumped on my lap when I was blue. Then Ingrid arrived. Ingrid was big and bossy. She had dinner about eleven times a day as far as we could make out. Ingrid didn't like cat. She said she was allergic. She built a cardboard hut for cat in the garden, and said he couldn't come inside any more. We didn't agree. We moved Ingrid out into the garden hut and cat took her room. Now, when Ingrid taps on the window, we don't answer. *



I love this, its brilliant.


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## IAmEvilHomer (Jul 9, 2003)

*Rainbow Shoes*

Look at you in your rainbow shoes as if light itself carried you along while I trudge beside you, stooped over and far too close to the ground for my liking. I can see little ants scurrying about in straight lines and try not to squash them. Us small folks ought to stick together. 

As I navigate the ant obstacles you sing a song to match your rainbow shoes and I can see the notes gather in your belly like candy floss on a stick, gently escaping as your lips part. And for a minute I feel as if I am a rainbow too.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

*The Reliquary*

‘The knowledge of ages is kept there, in the 7th basement, below the MoD bunkers and the sewage systems. In a stark walled room, generally considered the most secure in the world, we keep the Reliquary.’ 

‘The ministers don’t know about it, because ministers come and go, the Masons don’t know about it, because who can trust the Masons? The Illuminati, well, the Illuminati know most things, but this, even to them, is merely a rumour.’

‘And  now you have proven yourself worthy to join the curators’

‘What is it? How does it work?’

‘It is the grail, the Ark, the Sword of the Prophet. It is the single most powerful source of knowledge the world has seen.’

And he led me down, a mere historian and academic, to the most secret place on earth. A hole in the wall of his office, a sliding passage door. Stairs, hundreds and hundreds of stairs. 

’ On the way down we passed five different security checkpoints. At each we were checked by a different method, x-ray, metal detector, iris recognition, voice recognition, fingerprint. At the last door I was scanned by a device I neither recognised nor understood. The place was beautifully designed. A handful of men could hold off armies in here. 

Once inside, we stripped and changed into white jumpsuits of a material I’ve never encountered before. He led me out, into a huge hall, like a sunken cathedral, fluted butressing and long gothic columns, all lit by a strange blue glow that seemed to come from the very rock. The walls were covered in plaques, statues and portraits. 

‘Every man who has ever served the Reliquary is buried here.’

I was awed, there were thousands and thousands of them. 

‘So many?’

‘We have been here for Time.’

And  the date on one plaque confirmed it, it was written in a variant of Sumerian script, beneath it a brief note, added later. ‘6024 BC Approx.’ This place was ancient as civilisation itself. 

‘Why here?’ 

‘The temple once stood above ground, but we lowered it when people settled hereThe savages of the time were awed enough to build Henges in poor imitation.’

He led me through to the end of the Temple, where a small area was curtained off. He bowed deeply and entered. Inside, a small girl of seven or eight was sitting playing with a plastic ball. When she saw me she smiled. 

‘The Reliquary.’ He said to me. 

I was lost for words, confused, confounded, barely able to speak.

‘What? How? She’s the Reliquary? But, I was expecting, I don’t know, a book? Something, not a little girl.’ I paused to regain my composure. ‘How does a seven year old girl come to be the greatest power on the planet. 

The Reliquary looked at me with eyes that felt inhuman, though they looked perfectly normal. Then she spoke, in a voice that was not of this world. 
‘That.’ She said,  ‘is another story.’

(495 words that i'm quite pleased with)


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

Very clever...

I may have a go at this myself later

Me likey that though Dr M

and my earlier comment was directed at Archer, obviously


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

I've come to the conclusion that writing short stories is all about saying a little and implying a lot. 

Archer's little vigniette was rather good, wasnt it?

if anyone's up for it, here's another title. 'Recently Vacated'

500 words etc etc


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

*a fragment from something I am yet to write*

.


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

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## Lollybelle (Jul 9, 2003)

I drive to meet her at Heathrow.  I've been gazing at her photo for days now, wishing she was here beside me, longing to run my fingers through her dark wavy hair, touch her creamy-toffee Russian skin.  My Oleksandra.  I love the way that name runs across my tongue, the way my lips curve to form its syllables.  The soon-to-be Mrs Pendlebury.  Admittedly, it's slightly unfortunate that her married name will be so very English, but it's the way things are to be; it's music to my ears.  

And she arrives, and we embrace, and we drive home.  To our home.  

And almost straightaway I realise that I've made yet another mistake.  She's not the beautiful Russian princess I saw in her photograph.  She's not as demure as her sweetly-worded advertisement made her out to be... her voice isn't full of gentle off-kilter Eastern cadences but growls of grit and iron and years of labour.  She doesn't belong in my perfect, perfect house.  She makes the place untidy; she makes me feel unclean, my shameful desire for her dark-skinned dark-haired body clearly the result of her witchcraft...

Treacherous bitch.

After relaying my pristine patio for the third time in as many years, I raise a glass to my neighbours across the fence.  Yes, it is possible to do it in a day if you start very early, Mrs Smythe.  I believe I was up working on this before you were even awake!  But it's getting late, and I really must get a good night's sleep - work in the morning, and all that.

And so to bed.  Our bed, our matching alarm clocks, our panelled wardrobes, our floral pillowslips just waiting to nestle her pretty head.  She'll fill this recent vacancy effortlessly, I can tell.  

When I find her.


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)




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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

*Television*

‘Look at them’ Meyer said with thick contempt. ‘Slugs, morons connected to the shit-pump 24 hours a day absorbing the lowest brand of effluent we can put out, spewing it back out again as bigoted pus from their horrible, fat, hate-filled bodies.’

She waved an arm out across the bank of close circuit monitors, each showing a person, or group of people sitting in front of a television screen with plastic expressions on their faces. Some stuffing food into their mouths, some masturbating, all completely engrossed in the screen. 

Finch shook his head ‘We give em what they want, we didn’t create them, they created us. Supply and demand, aint it?’

Meyer grinned at him ‘And they pay our salaries, which is what matters.’  They clearly paid a great deal, because Meyer was dressed in the finest designer chic money could buy, she’d never needed much work to make her irresistibly attractive, but the combination of a £2000 skirt suit, £500 haircut, £600 shoes and a perfume given to her as a gift by the Prince Regent of Nepal was enough, on that slim athletic body, to drive any man insane. 

Finch, who was fresh out of university and very much affected found himself having to whack off twice a day in the toilets, just so he could keep his mind on the job. He reflected that there was probably a close circuit camera in there as well, some of the people on the banks of monitors were probably laughing at an image of him right now, face screwed up, panting, quietly moaning her name as he imagined fucking her hard against the desk in one of the recently vacated office, lifting up that almost non-existent skirt, ripping off the expensive silk lingerie and ramming her, breaking through that ‘in control’ façade to the vulnerable, quiet, shy girl he suspected lay beneath. 

‘Mind on the job, boy’ She reprimanded him, eyeing the all too obvious bulge in his trousers. 

‘Ahem, er , I , ah sorry.’ Finch went red with embarrassment and wished he was dead.  

The rest of the day, she was cold towards him, curt and even a little offensive at times. And that evening, as he was about to leave, he decide it best to apologise. He entered her office with an embarrased smile.

An hour later, they lay on the floor among a pile of clothes, Meyer sighed contentedly, rubbing her nipple to arouse Finch to a second effort, he moved on top of her and began kissing, pushing his hips into hers, grabbing her backside and nipping at one breast with his teeth. She gently stroked his back, scratched and scored by their previous effort. 

The camera in the light fitting and the mic in the plug sockets captured it all. And in millions of living rooms, fat, pus filled slugs looked on at the unaware couple rutting on the floor. 

Supply and demand, ain’t it?


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

nice one lollybelle

you is sick and twisted


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## Lollybelle (Jul 9, 2003)

and you is a very dirty boy.


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## chegrimandi (Jul 9, 2003)

hehe getting a bi frisky at work are we Doctor.....


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

*ITS NOT PORN, ITS ART*



> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *and you is a very dirty boy.  *



Hey, that was an astute social commentary into the nature of power and control in an age where media is the all pervasive tool for thought control and the limitation of freedom


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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 9, 2003)

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## Maggot (Jul 9, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dr Morose _
> *nice one lollybelle
> 
> you is sick and twisted  *



And a murderer!


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## @^+ (Jul 9, 2003)

sex and violence.. never fails

 

nuff respec to you all


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## Dr Morose (Jul 9, 2003)

*Dr M spreads the love*

I should just like to say thank you to the many posters, especially Lollybelle and jms who've made this thread so much fun. i wouldn't have made it through work today without you guys


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## jms (Jul 10, 2003)

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## Dr Morose (Jul 10, 2003)

*Spreading The Love*

AIDS? Ha! AIDS was a flash in the pan, so called world ending virus. We wiped it out in 2020, Williams and that lot with their gene reprogramming. It turned Africa into a wasteland but we beat it. No my friend, this is not the next AIDS, this goes beyond AIDS. 

A weapon, a bloody weapon is what it was. Dear God, the human race wiped out by the most cliched device of all. Frankenstein’s fucking monster. Oh yes, old as the Gollem, the machine made wild. 

Nanointelligence, save the world, make the walls intelligent, make our cups of coffee act as immune superboosters. Make us into Gods. Undying, unending, beautiful. 

But you’ve got to make an antidote, right? Right? Just in case, cos even Gods have to be able to be killed. So we did. We made the perfect weapon to hang noose over the perfect beings we made ourselves. Just in case. 

This goes beyond DS Strain Ebola, beyond Martian Worm. This disease is intelligent, it wants to kill, that’s what we made it for, it doesn’t want to propagate, just destroy. And its keyed in to your genes. Yeah, every one of you fuckers, us fuckers, with our grotesquely enhanced metabolisms, our 10% artificial DNA. 

And you know what the fucking beauty of it is? It wont kill us. Not directly, just get rid of the shit we fill ourselves with. Reduce us back to humans. We’ll kill ourselves, with our fucking ignorance, our distance from the Source, from the ability to survive without tools. 

Pain? Can’t explain it, you have to feel it to understand. Same goes for hunger, thirst. I’ll tell you this, mate, I’m dying, but I’ve never been more alive. 

. I injected myself first of course. I call it The Love

Cos I’m spreading The Love, ain’t I? Welcome to barbarism, mate. Welcome back to fucking humanity.


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## Lollybelle (Jul 10, 2003)

Edited!


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 10, 2003)

The Watering Can.

Centuries have passed, and yet I dwell. Through the tiny circles of light that serve as my window to creation, I have watched the stars shift and change; watched the sun grow in power and watched the moon draw closer and closer to the earth. Silent tears course down my cheeks and I lift my head - howling at the moon in impotent fury.

Once, when I was free, I commanded vast armies. I consorted with kings and princes. I granted wishes with all the power of the Djinn.

I mocked those that had foolishly allowed themselves to be caught. Laughing with malicious pleasure at the misfortunes of those that were bound to crystalline prisons. But now I am the prisoner, and yet I dwell.

My master's trickery fills me with chagrin. For a once mighty genie to be fooled into submisson so easily, fills me with shame.

Oh how I envy those that were trapped within lamps and bottles. How I wish that my pride had not led to such a devastating fall from grace.

But, more than anything, I wish that he wasn't a fucking gardener.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 10, 2003)

hehe nice on OS

weirdly i was about to write one about a man turned into a watering can for spitting at a gypsy witch

great minds etc


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 10, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Dr Morose _
> *hehe nice on OS
> 
> weirdly i was about to write one about a man turned into a watering can for spitting at a gypsy witch
> ...





My turn. Title - *Juicy Fruits and Fruity Juices.*


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## northernprole (Jul 10, 2003)

sorry folks - new at this. hope you don't mind me joining in.


juicy fruits and fruity juices


OK,  I should have seen it coming. 

His ring slipped  over those hairy coconuts, first time, I was impressed and quite in love. Even the rat-eyed boy stopped his sullen twitch to stare in disbelief at the achievement. 

Tom spun round and winked at me. He said, 'It’s  all in the wrist.’

 I pouted playfully back at him. Struck a pose. The rat-eyed boy slunk off behind the shy and came back with a clear water filled bag. He shoved it in Tom’s face. Tom was ecstatic. 

‘A goldfish.’  he said. And then his face collapsed dramatically.'Oh, but it will be ever so lonely on its own.’ He pulled a funny, pouting face at the rat-boy who drew his arm across his bare chest and scratched his whippet ribs. It was an awkward gesture.  I suspect he just wanted rid of us, because he disappeared, to return again with another bag. He shoved it  in my face.  The sharp smell of his sweat hit me. 

Walking back to the car afterwards  we decided to  name them. 
‘Juicy Fruits’ said Tom holding his fish up against the sunlight. ‘God bless you and all that sail within you.’ He winked again at me and slipped an arm through mine. He stole a kiss.

I thought for a moment.
‘And her sister ship, Fruity Juices.'  I laughed, holding up the bag so both fish could see each other. Their  golden fins flicked sunlight round and round their fragile little homes.  I could not have been happier.
‘Shit.’  said Tom suddenly,’ Hold this. I’ve forgotten my car keys.’
 He left me holding the goldfish and ran back through the crowds. I must have been waiting for 10 minutes. I was getting quite bored so I decided to wander back to the stall to see if I could find him.  I smiled to myself as I imagined him back at the coconut shy, probably trying to win another goldfish. When I got there, however, Tom was nowhere to be seen. The stall had closed. That’s odd, I thought. 

I straddled the ropes of the stall, which was no mean feat carrying two gold fish. At a loss for what else to do, I popped my head round the tarpaulin. I’m not entirely sure why I did that. I wish I hadn’t.

I dropped the fish. Left the bastards to flounder pathetically. bits of exploded bag all over the floor.

But then, I guess I  should have seen it coming. They’re sickly little fuckers, fairground fish and nothing gold lasts.


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## jms (Jul 10, 2003)

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## OriginalSinner (Jul 11, 2003)

> _Originally posted by jms _
> *OS- That, deserves an award
> 
> I now expect you to gleam with pride *


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 11, 2003)

> _Originally posted by northernprole _
> *............*



What's under the tarpaulin!!!!!

Your turn northernprole, if you want it.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 11, 2003)

*Back to Da Roots*

50 words, as per previous specifications:

In the background, the Who were wailing Baba O’Reilly… ‘its only teenage wasteland.’ The pub burbled on with a needling roar that impinged on my consciousness. Chinese water torture in the form of an Essex blonde’s ‘caw, caw’ laughter. 

‘God damn, this city.’ 

‘He already as.’ Said someone behind me


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## northernprole (Jul 11, 2003)

whats under the tarpaulin???
er, summat fishy...

does that mean i get to pick a title? 

ok: 

The Farmer

do your worst....


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## kakuma (Jul 11, 2003)

running around the fields at fuck knows when in the morning throwing moldy apples at each other, yelling at sheep, screaming, feeling invincible, never realised drugs where this much fun, never realised life was this much fun, i forgot who i am and where i came from just a vehicle for mischief and pleasure

oh fuck! its the farmer!


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## jms (Jul 11, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 11, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 11, 2003)

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## mains (Jul 11, 2003)

enjoyed the farmer jms


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## jms (Jul 11, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 11, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 12, 2003)

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## DotCommunist (Jul 13, 2003)

The weeping willows, julie and darla, gaurded the final entrance to the palace after the myriad false starts and labyrinthian detours. My master pressed on while I watched these so-called weeping willows. After the dignitaries passed by they shook thier body lenght hair almost in unison and came to me.
I dallied a while with them and fucked Darla.

Can you understand the mind of someone bred and trained to stand stooped yet tall, long hair drooping in an ornamental pool? no niether can I. It's my guess I'm not the first to stimulate these poor caged birds, and nor will I be the last. the lords extravagance extends far enough to install these poor creatures, so controlled they have to have the concept of roads explained. Pity lust and jealosy, god forgive me jealosy.


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## jms (Jul 13, 2003)

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## Dr Morose (Jul 13, 2003)

*Marjoram*

The dying man sad nothing, but let out a small moan of pain. 

‘The medics will be here soon, don’t worry. Our last medical convoy was hit, that’s why its taking so long.’ She’d witnessed that attack, a string of guided missiles from a battle group in the Indian Ocean, the BBC said it was because they thought some high level commander was using the medical convoy as cover. It had been a big convoy, out of Quetta, and forty thousand had been lost. 

Atrocities, atrocities on both sides. The Shaheedeen had taken Liverpool in retaliation, suicide bombers slipping into the dockyards, the town hall, and a dozen other locations, ripping the city to shreds. It had been a hard operation, that one, Her brother in logistics had told her all about it. A lot of men, a very difficult infiltration, almost as hard as London would be. 

Idly she wondered how long until London and Washington fell like Paris, Liverpool and Sydney. Dirty bombs, biologicals and tactical nukes ripping the heart out of them. 

The soldier moaned again, and she took his hand, gasping at his vicelike grip. ‘You’ll be okay, they’re coming soon.’ She had been among those guarding the Lieutenant Colonel for the past three days, since they had stormed the UN camp and found him still alive in his tent. Once the medics were done with him he would be put to the question. If the medics got to him before the slow bleeding and the desert sun. 

They’d talked at first, and he’d told her that things were as grim on his side as hers. This war had been going almost since the turn of the century. Fifty years fighting had taken its toll, even on the richest nation in the world. And he’d told her of his wife, and children, and the taste of marjoram tea. She’d even made him some, from a pouch he carried on his belt. But he was hardly conscious now, hardly alive. Killed by his own side’s massive attack on a medical convoy. 

‘No use for medics now.’ He managed, between gritted teeth. ‘Could do with some tea.’

She smiled at him, and something in his eyes made her think that he found her pretty. Maybe if he recovered, she might be allowed to go with him to Kazakhstan, where he would be questioned… 

When she came back with the tea, he was unconscious again, and something told her that this time, he wasn’t going to wake up. She tucked a little sprig of the herb into her soft cap and left the tent. The sky was darkening, the heat seeping into the night like water seeps into sand. On the eastern horizon, Mazar was burning, and high above her the sleek bodies of anti personnel drones shone briefly red in the light of the dying sun. 



this one's got potential actually, i might have to extendorise it. 

edited to add: Who's been reading too much Phillip K Dick?


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## jms (Jul 13, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 13, 2003)

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## DotCommunist (Jul 14, 2003)

Jim Morrison died alone in  a Parisian bath. No doubt he enjoyed the studied elagance of his death bed. 
John Lennon died gasping before the stair of the apartment complex once frequented by LeVay. Who knows what he was thinking or appreciating, other than his voiced thoughts 'I'm shot, I've been shot'.
Kurt Cobain with his loaded shotgun and empty life.
Elvis with his pills and fat dying alone on a china bowl.

I'm watching the news. Somewhere in the middle east blood and sand are mingling. A helicopter of the military persuasion destroys a car in a busy population centre. Screams and panic.

Change channel to pictures of swollen bellied africans with dead eyes.

Change channels to weeping mother asking whoever has her 12 year old princess to give her back.

change channels to see weeping stumbling victims threading thier way through corpses, struggling to comprehend why people bomb civilians.

And I think to myself, what a wonderfull world


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 14, 2003)

When it's all said and done.


She said, he said. He said, she said. But once it had all been said, both of them realised they'd said things best left unsaid.

She heard what he said, but wondered what he meant.

He meant what he said!

But, he so rarely said what he meant, that this time she meant what she said too.

Nowadays they don't say much, and they don't mean much... 'least, not to each other.

Some might say that there is a moral here - meaning what you say involves saying what you mean. But that's just hearsay.


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## northernprole (Jul 14, 2003)

OS - liked the hearsay one - made me smile
jms - loved your farmer - actually - i wonder if he's related to mine?? 


The farmer.

In his defence, the farmer said he was a man of beasts. He had no time for hospitality trays and doilies. He had  set up the B&B because he had to diversify. His back was against the wall; he really had no choice. It was as simple as that.

The prosecution wondered if it was reasonable behaviour to refuse a paying resident his full english breakfast. To which the farmer replied.  Breakfast finishes at 8:00am. He came down at 8:05am, demanding a full english. That, in my book is unreasonable behaviour.

The prosecution pointed at the man in the wheelchair and wondered if it was reasonable behaviour to blast the kneecap off a law-abiding citizen. The prosecution turned to the jury and spread his arms wide in emotional appeal adding - a law abiding citizen, ladies and gentlemen, that lived for rambling.

To which the farmer replied. Following his unreasonable request, I took the gun from the cupboard, dragged a pig in from the pen and shot it in the head. There is your bacon,  I said. I took a chicken from the run, wrung it’s neck and put it on his plate. There is your egg, I said. Would you like milk in your coffee, I asked? I took the nodding motion of his head to mean yes. I brought a cow in from the byre and encouraged him to milk her, there and then. In response to your question, was this reasonable behaviour? The farmer paused in deep thought. 

No, he concluded, I accept it was unreasonable behaviour. It would have been more humane to have shot the man through the head.

The prosecution sat down. 

no further questions, M’Lud.


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## Lollybelle (Jul 14, 2003)

northernprole - your stories really are very, very good!  Hope to see some more of them soon...


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## northernprole (Jul 14, 2003)

aww - cheers lollybelle. you are my best fan - 
you've made this lass very happy


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 14, 2003)

northernprole -


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## Dr Morose (Jul 14, 2003)

*Perry The Koala*

Perry the Koala has been with me since I was six years old. My uncle Steve bought him for me from one of those little shops that sell nothing but tourist tat. I decided then, at seven years old, that Perry would be my life mascot. 

He helped me the day Danny Cross and his gang tried to run me down. Perry opened the garage door at number 54 and I hid in there until they were gone. In all the time I’ve lived on West Street, it’s the only time I’ve ever seen that door open. 

Perry helped me the day I took my first set of exams, because biology was never my strong point, and somehow all the adaptation questions were about koala bears. 

And he helped me when I got my first job, I took him with me, dropping him by accident as I was leaving. The interviewer was a girl, she gave Perry back to me, said my ‘mascot was very sweet, I love koalas.’

Without Perry, I wouldn’t have made such a good impression, or got that job. 

And it was because of Perry that I married Michaela. You see, Perry has a little tag around his neck, with my name and address on it, because I don’t want to lose him. She picked up my bag on the tube one day, completely by mistake. It only had my gym kit in it, that and Perry. We met and were married. I wish I could have made Perry my best man. 

Michaela is pregnant now, we conceived with Perry watching us from the headboard. If it’s a boy, there’s only one name I could give the child. 

Of course, it’s a lot of effort for him, he’s only small, it takes a lot of energy to do what he does.  It’s a question of give and take. 

I asked for somewhere dark and quiet to hide, and he asked for a cockroach to eat. 
I asked him to help me in my exams, he wanted a rat. 
I asked him to help me get a job, he asked for a dog. 

I guess there’s a reason why Perry made us have twins


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## northernprole (Jul 14, 2003)

Dr M - dark, very dark. a faustian pact with a koala.

like your style


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## Dr Morose (Jul 14, 2003)

> _Originally posted by northernprole _
> *
> 
> Dr M - dark, very dark. a faustian pact with a koala.
> ...



you ever see the end of the Simpsons when they're in Australia? the evil Koala hanging on to the helicopter at the end gave me the idea.

btw seconding Lollybelle, you really are very good Northernprole. tho for some reason your style of writing made me think you were a bloke.


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## northernprole (Jul 14, 2003)

do i really write like a fella??  
 

*wanders off slightly disconcerted, affecting a flouncing and unneccessary sashay  ( before nipping into the ladies for a quick reassuring check-over)*

 

ps - thanks for the compliment Dr M.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2003)

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## Dr Morose (Jul 14, 2003)

*For Nothernprole...*

A bit rushed, but it had to be done before i left work

Writing Hand


She felt a change come over her, every time she picked up a pen. At first it felt good, her hand would start to feel stronger, firmer, she found she was able to write for much longer before she tired. 

It would fade soon enough, but for a little while, it felt wonderful, addictive. She started work on That Novel, just so that she could enjoy the motion of the strange alien hand that was under her control. 

There were other things it was good for as well, but then, she had been single for a long time. 

One night, after she had been up for six hours solid, writing, spinning out words, things she’d never though herself capable of, she found that her fingers were thicker, the skin darker, not by much, but it was just noticeable. 

But the main thing was the novel, she seemed to be breezing through it, a thousand words a day, six days a week, sometimes she managed as many as ten thousand in a single sitting. It was edited,  of course, much of it lost or re-written. But it saddened her that she couldn’t get the same effect from a typewriter or a word processor. 

By the end of the month, the change in her hand was noticeable to others than herself. He palms broader, the muscles larger, the hair perhaps a little thicker. She worried over it, but maybe it was just because it was getting so much exercise. She wrote reams and reams and reams sat in the study, with a coffee and a cigarette and a table lamp. 

Quite close to the end of the novel, she hit a seam, and could not leave her desk until it was played through. For fifteen hours she barely left the desk, unable to think of anything except the critical mass of story that had built up behind her. It was wonderful, it was the seamless connection to the page that every author dreams of. Eventually, though, the effort took its toll. And she stopped to rest her eyes for a moment. 

She awoke to find a strange man’s hand lying in front of her on the desk, she jumped up to swipe at the stranger, and found, to her horror, that there was nobody there. Then she looked down, her arm! It had grown, longer, thicker, hairier, the entire length of it was different, masculine. 

She pulled her shirt down at the shoulder, and saw the line where the dark skin seemed to be advancing on her own like a slow tide. She watched it grow, watched the muscle firm up, the shape of her shoulder gently change. It was too late for a hacksaw, too late to stop writing and her arm return to what it had been. She sat down, almost in tears and thought about finishing the novel.   

She didn’t get very far, she was too distracted trying to find a nom de plume, something more appropriate to her condition than Anna.


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## northernprole (Jul 14, 2003)

Jaysus! reading that made me break out into a cold sweat *eyes flit down to fingers dancing on keyboard (reassuringly, in a  feminine kind of way)* if i never write again, Dr M, it will be your fault...


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## jms (Jul 14, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 14, 2003)

*.*

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## jms (Jul 14, 2003)

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## jms (Jul 14, 2003)

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## Dr Morose (Jul 15, 2003)

> _Originally posted by northernprole _
> *
> 
> 
> ...



I bloody hope not, you're too good for that to happen.

*decides to end this sickening artiste love in with a story about zombie flesh eaters or something*


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## Dr Morose (Jul 15, 2003)

*The Revenge of the Zombie Brain Eaters*

One of them was crouched over the horribly mangled figure of the Police Commandant, intently chiselling away his head with a letter opener in order to feast on the sweet goo contained therein. 

It looked up as he entered the room and caught a facefull of shot. Its blood sprayed everywhere, acidic and rank smelling. 

‘Eeeew’ 

‘Yeah, I know.’ 

‘It’s like, gross.’

‘Yeah, it’s a brain eating zombie.’                          

Bain McGruder, maverick cop and all round hard ass strode into the room. 

‘Chief’ he said to the Commandant, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.’ He covered the Commandant’s face with a gore splattered jacked and continued around the wrecked room. One corpse after another. He stopped in the corner, at the body of a slim redheaded woman. Rider, his partner. His face set hard to hide the emotion, it set into stone. He adjusted his sunglasses and reloaded the shotgun. 

‘We make ‘em pay.’ He said, with a slight Austrian accent. 

‘Who?’

‘The Zombie Brain Eaters.’

‘Who is she?’

‘My partner.’

The blonde next to him shook her head. ‘She totally uses the wrong makeup for that colour skin.’

‘She didn’t used to be pale, white and covered with cuts and bodily fluids.’

The blonde shut up, and went and sat in the corner. 

McGruder walked over to the radio, which was hissing gently, he flicked from channel to channel. 

‘All the police channels are quiet.’ He said

‘What does that mean.’

‘It means they’re dead, all of them.’

‘Oh.’ The blonde made a face ‘Everyone?’
‘Probably, maybe a few survivors like us.’

‘Oh, that’s, like, a bummer.’

‘Yes, yes it is.’ He flicked over to the open frequencies. A lot of pre-recorded messages, San Diego, New York, Frisco, Even London, the same repeating messages. Everything dead, the human race annihilated. They’d nuked Frisco, which explained the smell and the huge fuck off mushroom cloud he’d seen last night. This was bad. 

‘My stylist? My hairdresser? Oh shit, not Fabio!’ The girl began to sob. 

This was very bad. The human race had been wiped out, and it was up to him and a seventeen year old Valley Girl to restart the human race. 

She looked up ‘Wait, if there’s no people, then all the stores downtown.’ She paused, a smile spread over her face. 

McGruder shook his head. If this was the future, then fuck the human race. He shot the girl twice in the back of the head. And wandered over to her corpse. Curiosity overcame him and he bent to pick up a giblet of brain and put it in his mouth. 

He could see what the fuss was about, with a little cajun sauce and lightly fried, he could live of this stuff for a while. He reloaded his gun and sampled a little of the Zombie that he’d just fragged. It was even better than the girl’s brains. 

With visions of Kentucky Fried Brain Eaters dancing in his head, he left the police station. The human race might be on the brink of extinction, but it wasn’t going to die of hunger


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## Dr Morose (Jul 15, 2003)

where the fuck is everyone?

okay so it was a trahsy story


but it wasn't that bad


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## jms (Jul 15, 2003)

Ah brill

fanta-stick even


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## jms (Jul 15, 2003)

.


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## oh_deary_me (Jul 15, 2003)

The path of life spreads before him. It’s hard, he knows, but is it too hard? Does he want to go down it? A whirlwind of emotions sweeps him by and his head swirls with confusion. His head bleeds with the raw wounds of worries on the path. It spread before him, throwing more dangers his way as he stands. He has no reason to continue, but one. She shines down on him, making him reach out to her light. She is his star, his gem in the sky. He would gladly stray the path to reach her but he knows that the only true way to her is to walk to path. So he continues to make his weary way down the path, knowing that he would bleed one hundred more times for her.

everyday is a new day, the path you choose is your own, but each of them has the same dangers.


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## jms (Jul 16, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 16, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 17, 2003)

> _Originally posted by jms _
> *I've no Idea
> 
> 
> Maybe I can find the answer. Just one more song. *



nice, very nice

the beginning was a little over egged, but i like it


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## Dr Morose (Jul 17, 2003)

*Freda And I*

(okay, so its not a short story, but given the poem of the week thread is a bit of a lame dick, i thought i'd post it here)

You were more beautiful than I imagined
And your self-portraits were bold-staring eyed.
There was a simplicity to the brush and the colour
I fear I will never know. 

So many self-portraits, so many times staring into your self
And so little seeing, both your slagheap and your wealth. 

There were moments of sheer aesthetic perfection
When you and your muse were aligned
And the million people I was wanted to be
Flowed like mercury from mirror glass
Flowed together from fragments of mind. 

I fear I will never know
Still stumbling through self-knowledge with the clumsiness of the young. 
I fear I will never blow
Out the candles that stand in place of the sun.
I fear I will never break
Out into the places where I do not but am done
And lay down my pen, my sword, my script
Where I leave my portrait for the weather to take
And watch the colours mingle and run.


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## Lollybelle (Jul 17, 2003)

*Clear Blue*

"Well, that's about as clear and as blue as it's going to get, sorry darlin"... and she laughs her nervous laugh, her blue eyes flickering upwards to gauge his response.  

That's how I choose to remember it, anyway... if I were to continue this romanticisation of my past, for your benefit, so you'd understand, maybe, this is how I would tell you my story:

He came back from his lad's holiday to find me jittery, a little flushed, taking the day off college just to spend it with him.  He stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and I take his hands and place them on my belly.  And he knows what I'm going to say, gives his pre-emptive response, "no, honey, you're not fat"... and he's wrong.  "Feel it properly", I say, "I'm a bit worried".  

And it's as though I can see the air change from the warm yellow of welcome home to the deep black of tangible fear, shrouding the edges of my vision so that the next half hour is a blur.  He drives me to the chemist; it's a short walk but he's in a hurry, he's chain-smoking B&H while he waits.  And he drives me straight home again, in silence but for that sharp intake of air and grey-blue smoke. 

And then there's the downstairs loo, the trying not to piss on my fingers, and that clear blue line.  I don't know if I really said that to him when I saw it, or whether I looked as appealing as I was hoping to when I looked up at him, frightened of how frightened he would be, but anyway, I remember it as though I did.  And so that's the best truth I can give you.

My story ends where a lot of them end - clinics and rubber gloves and poking and prodding and anaesthetic and sucking and bleeding and pain.  He'd once said that he'd marry me, if it ever happened... I haven't seen him in a good few years, now.


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 17, 2003)

Beautifully written, lollybelle.


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## Lollybelle (Jul 17, 2003)

cheers m'dears


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## foo (Jul 17, 2003)

A stunning poignant story Lolly. 



wow.


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## jms (Jul 17, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 17, 2003)

edit


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## jms (Jul 18, 2003)

.


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## northernprole (Jul 18, 2003)

lollybelle - clear blue - real, raw and delicate at the same time. loved it. want more.

dr m - liked your over-reaction to the 'artiste love-in' - zombies and dead stuff, eh?  

you boys.   
i bet you still kick girls in the shins and run away don't you? 

 




actually, have just read self-portrait poem and you've redeemed yourself: 

 quote:

So many self-portraits, so many times staring into your self
And so little seeing, both your slagheap and your wealth. 

this is a great line.

can i suggest another title folks? 

I wish I hadn't let go..:


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## Dr Morose (Jul 19, 2003)

> _Originally posted by northernprole _
> *
> you boys.
> i bet you still kick girls in the shins and run away don't you?
> ...



i just thought of something hilariously witty to say to respond to that

sadly i'm too stoned to remember what it is.

so i will resort to the old favourite: your mum


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## jms (Jul 19, 2003)

*.*

.


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## 8ball (Jul 20, 2003)

*True Story from the other day, this one*

Walking through Nottingham.
See girl in croip top and short shirt.
She's passing a building site.
Builders give her all the usual "Phwoar, how's about it, darlin'", and worse.
She turns to them and yells at the top of her voice:
"I'M FOURTEEN YER FOOKIN' PERVERTS!!!" 

Builders fall silent, not knowing where to look, and get back to work.


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## jms (Jul 22, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 22, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 22, 2003)

*Cloth Daffodil*

There's a title for anyone who wants one


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## DotCommunist (Jul 22, 2003)

Hmm I was well tempted to do a cloth daffodil story but inspiration eludes me today. The title gave me a flash image of a condemned murderer in his dingy cell, stitching some bright flower he'll never see again. Couldn't find a framework for the idea tho.


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 22, 2003)

Cloth Daffodil.

I had an idea about a man looking a picture of a daffodil in a futuristic room in a futuristic world ravaged by pollution and war and lamenting the loss of real daffodils.

But then I realised it would be even better if it was about sunflowers, since that would tie in with Van Gogh's famous painting.

That left me with a conundrum... should I shoehorn the story into the title, or change the title to fit the story better? Cloth Sunflowers is a perfectly acceptable title, although I felt a bit like a cheat.

But then it also occured to me that the story would also be more accurate if the Sunflower was plastic or paper. These are far more likely than cloth in the future.

Plastic Sunflowers?

It sounds like something you'd buy off Brighton Pier. And it is also too far removed from the original title. Which defeats the object of the game. After all, this is a game, is it not?

But then, if that's the case, then the story of my failure to come up with a story should really count, shouldn't it?

And if I were to call it "Cloth Daffodil" then, by rights, it should be my turn next.

The moral of this story is very simple. Start writing and you'll think of some shit eventually...

The End.

My turn: 

*Jefferson's Starship.*


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## Dr Morose (Jul 23, 2003)

It was one of the wonders of gene duplication technology. For thousands of years, man had lamented the death of its most prized scientists and thinkers, lifetimes before their minds had reached the limit of their potential. 

But through a complex (and lets face it, pretty hit and miss) combination of cloning and personality reconstruction, it finally became possible to bring the luminary dead back to life. 

They started small, they started with a band that Dr McCormack, the head of the GDT team at Imperial had loved. They brought the members back to life, educated them as to who their originals had been, and turned them loose on the charts. 

The result was a total failure, half hacked personalities attempting to play music which had no real context and no relavence. Their conundrum was summed up by the band name, which had been updated to reflect the forward looking aspect of the band and the technology it represented. 

But nobody wanted to buy shitty rock-barrel synth fusion from a band called Jefferson Starship


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## jms (Jul 25, 2003)

.


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## northernprole (Jul 25, 2003)

quote: The moral of this story is very simple. Start writing and you'll think of some shit eventually...

OS - it seemed to work for that curly headed fuck, Dave eggers..

Jefferson's Airship

Jefferson clings to the rock; a human spider,  limbs all impossible angles. His left leg  is caught in a fissure; locked straight and with no capacity for leverage. He is fucked, he thinks.

His chalk bag swings behind him. He tries reaching round  for that reassuring rock of whiteness, his globe, his moon. His hand flaps like a bird desperate to  roost in a treeless desert. He gives in.  What use is all  the grip in the world when  there are no holds?

He is cragfast, 100ft up, soloing and quite stuck. As he brings his free leg up and attempts to smear his way free from the jam, he feels the guide book slip from his pocket. It spirals away below to lie spine-snapped on a granite ledge.

Jefferson looks up into a sky that is the  colour of near death calm, a  deep Cerulean. A plane slicing across the  colour  snaps him back to his reality.

 He smiles, thinking of the plane and the  vertical wall that he has hurtled himself into without thinking; without thinking because he had been here before, many times over the years. He had first slid up this face twenty years ago, fingers tenderly feeling for each nook and ledge, slipping well-worn cams into fissures with the confidence and ease of a good lover, and he  remembered now how much he had loved her back then, how it had driven him to higher things, inspired him. How she had knitted that stupid ugly hat with the words Ad Altiora on - how he had never climbed without it.

And now, the pain in his leg brings him back and he wants to let go. He lets it come, that feeling of relief as the pain vanishes and the wall that has caused so many problems  finally falls away from him. He lets it come and disappears into the sky.

The pocket guide was found a year later, on that same granite ledge, broken open on page 29. The pages were yellowed, a little pulped  from the weather, but the young climber could still read it. He tucked into his pocket,   eager to push on with the new discovery that  he was still on route to become the second person ever to complete Jefferson’s Starship.


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## feyr (Jul 26, 2003)

her heart pounding like a drum, she aproached the door. on the other side stood her future, a lifetime of chances and disapointments, all hers for the taking, if only she could take that first step. trembling, she reached for the key in her pocket, the cold metal burning into her skin. her heartbeat rises, teardrops of sweat roll down her face. doubt clouds her mind, entwinning its fingers around her neck untill she gasps for life. she screams, her face contourting with frustration and pain. she turns and runs, the key still searing her flesh, as the lock begins to rust


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## jms (Jul 26, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 28, 2003)

Northernprole, you does hot shit, that was fantastic.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 28, 2003)

*The Sculptor*

Some say an artist must be a monomanic, sacrificing his life, his loves, his personality in a single minded pursuit of perfection. Subjugating all to the aesthetic imperative. 

Some say the opposite, that such men produce a clear, pure, scientific art that lacks the grubby pawprints of a life actually lived. They accuse such hermit artists of producing soulless works, meaningless works. 

The debate has raged back and forth ever since the first half-man scribbled on the wall of his cave with a piece of charcoal and it has not concluded. Both sides produce as evidence ‘great artists’ and great works, some produced in dens of substance abuse and syphilis, others by contemplative and isolated ponderers. 

And both sides have produced as evidence The Sculptor, perhaps the single most bizzare occurrence in all of human history. The single most talented artist, by universal acclaim, that the world has ever known, one who can speak, as if born to it, in the strange forked and foggy tongues of the subconscious mind. Who can raise the dark, unformed shadows of thought and perception and make them coalesce into meaning. 

His medium is mind, his power, they claim, is divine. 

And that notion is something aided by his Trinity. The Sculptor is not, in fact, a single human being, but three. A set of eighty one year old triplets, John, James and Joseph, all outwardly very different people, all, apparently, different aspects of the same entity. Joseph is the least known, he never gives interviews and is rarely seen. But he is the technical master, the hands of the operation, it is through him that his brothers’ ideas take shape. James is the man of the world, of the three, his fortune and fame are the greatest, his life fast, die young mentality is spikes through the contemplative spheres of his brother John, the scholar-priest. 

All attempts to understand their communication, all attempts to deconstruct The Sculptor or his art have failed, it IS, he IS, and there is nothing more to it than that. And nobody who has seen The Sculptor’s work has come away unaffected. In the seventy years since it has been in the public domain, wars and violent crime have all but vanished from the face of the earth. The power and peace of The Sculptor’s work raising even the most twisted minds to bliss. So it has been for two generations, and some claim it will now ever be so. 

The prize and the price of being the best, they say, is always having to be the best. The prize is obvious, of course, the glory, and above all the self-satisfaction of knowing that there are, in all the billions, the massed ranks of humanity, none who can touch your skill. But the price is high, always having to push yourself, always having to strain at the conceptual boundaries and the fine honing of practical skills. 

They’re eighty one years old now, and while John and Jospeh are in perfect health, James is ailing, a lifetime of excess, taking its toll. Some claim they’ll live forever, but others know better. We’re already digging out weapons unused in half a century, raising the archaic institutions called ‘army’ and ‘police.’ When they are all dead, their art will still retain its soothing power, but between now and then we have years. Years where the remaining pair are unbalanced, and what once brought succour and salvation will illustrate instead the grief and the madness of Gods.


(didn't quite work, damn. Anyone want to try the title 'Cracked Spine' ?)


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## northernprole (Jul 28, 2003)

why didn't it work dr m?  it's a pretty cool concept - the not-so-holy trinity. i guess high concept can sometimes fall flat with limited wordage ( am not suggesting yours has btw)  but i loved the idea of the delicate equilibrium being fucked and all the components needing each other to keep the harmony. 

 you thinking of starting a new religion?


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## Dr Morose (Jul 28, 2003)

> _Originally posted by northernprole _
> *why didn't it work dr m?  it's a pretty cool concept - the not-so-holy trinity. i guess high concept can sometimes fall flat with limited wordage ( am not suggesting yours has btw)  but i loved the idea of the delicate equilibrium being fucked and all the components needing each other to keep the harmony.
> 
> you thinking of starting a new religion? *



Thinking of?

No, of course not, any religion that encourages drug-fuelled orgies and human sacrifice has not place in society, least of all in my back garden on Wednesday afternoons (bring your own virgins). 

The reason I felt it didn’t work was because the ‘punch’ was too sudden, it needed a bit more of an exploration of the Utopia they created, which I didn’t have the space to do


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## jms (Jul 28, 2003)

.


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## jms (Jul 28, 2003)

.


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 29, 2003)

If you come from round my way, this:


> _Originally posted by Dr Morose _
> *(bring your own virgins).*



is impossible...


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## G. Fieendish (Jul 30, 2003)

Arioch, Archduke of Chaos is wondering if any of these "Storywriters" is _Either_ 
1) Xiombarg, aka My "Ex"
2) Malebode,
writing under a "Nome-De-Plume"....? 
As only they could have such "twisted" imaginations ! 
Yours, Arioch
P.S "Elric, where did you put the Ann Coulter Voodoo doll, & the designer hatpins ? I feel like a good laugh !" as he looked through the Trans-Dimensional Omni Viewer at re-runs of the HUAC hearings !
 (Almost as much fun as watching Ollie North doing Betty Crocker ads as a child, Arioch thought....  Surely a contradiction of terms....!)


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## Dr Morose (Jul 30, 2003)

> _Originally posted by G. Fieendish _
> *Arioch, Archduke of Chaos is wondering if any of these "Storywriters" is Either
> 1) Xiombarg, aka My "Ex"
> 2) Malebode,
> ...



This is your brain on drugs


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## Dr Morose (Jul 30, 2003)

Sweat, too fucking much of it, beading my forehead, dribbling down my back, the skin on my forearms prickling, itching. Everywhere an itching damp heat. Makes me feel ill, queasy, lightheaded. My heartbeat is echoing, like waves booming on the rocks. 

I'm on the rocks, fixed, entranced, totally engaged, totally incapable of rational though, almost incapable of standing up

Perhaps its self defence, if I get like this every time she speaks to me, if she were to kiss me, I would probably just give up and die.


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## jms (Jul 30, 2003)

.


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## OriginalSinner (Jul 30, 2003)

> _Originally posted by G. Fieendish _
> *Arioch, Archduke of Chaos is wondering if any of these "Storywriters" is Either
> 1) Xiombarg, aka My "Ex"
> 2) Malebode,
> ...



Moorcock. In this day and age?


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## Dr. Christmas (Jul 30, 2003)

*Sepia Tint n Silence*

Ma grandfeythir wis nivir one fir sayin much.

No even whin he wis left wi us eftir ma feythir died when ah wis wee n ma went tae live in New Zeelind.

S like okay whin ah wis at the skule n ah hud mair freedom than ony ay ma pals. Bit whit a fuckin absence n silence there wis in that hoos which even as a daft wee laddie ah felt.

Ivry night ah'd come back n he'd be sittin there readin n that, or bent ower wan ay is model planes. Yon back room used tae hum ay glue an model paints. Ma mates used tae say thit he must be wan ay the biggest solvint addicts in the toun. The loudest noises wis the turn ay a page, the creak ay the flairboards, or wee clicks n ticks as he fitted wee bits tae his model.

N his fuckin rootine as well. Not wan fuckin deviation in aw the time ah wis with him. Up it 6, gettin ays tae the skule fir 8 (ah wis eyewis the first yin there), pickin ays up whin ah wis wee n sending me fir messages whin ah wis auld enough. He hardly ivir left the hoos except fir shoapin n the squadron reunion wance a year up in the city.

See grandfaither hud been happiest fifty year ago whin he wis in the raff, n since the war endit it seemed like his life had just well, gone oot like a neglectit fuckin pipe. His wife died gieing birth tae ma faither; faither diet at sea, leavin me; his daughter n law hud left soon eftir wi barely a backwird glance.

So it wis weird the other week when he insistit eftir Setirday lunch that wi go fir a walk up towards Loch Ryan wiy. Ah usually hid work but ah'd a rer Setirday eftirnoon oaf fae pullin pints for overweight local rid faced arseholes in the boozer. And it wis a gallus eftirnin tae; wan ay they late autmn eftirnins ye get in Scotland where the wind seems tae blaw aw yir thoguhts away tae fuck n the sun catches yir face as a lace lingerin glance fae the summer.

The hills glowed green, purple n amber in the saw, haudin the grey green sea back. Grandfaither, whae wis now ferrly frail, crouched ower his stick by the watter's edge n looked out ower the sea, s auld fierce blue eyes awmost derrin it tae wash m away.

In the wind it took ays four r five goes tae git a fag lit. Mr Zippo hud obviously nivir tested ehs proaduct in a Scottish autumn. grandfaither tunred tae ays n goes:

" Ah mind flying fae here a few times. Open up the taps, straight doon the watter, and woof--oaf  tae spend fourteen hour lookin at the sea fir U Boats. Nivier saw any, n a loat ay the time it wis _so_  borin. Sea, sea, mibbe a life jaikit or an oil slick oan an excitin day, sea again. But ah wis lucky, tae."

Grandfaither wisny sae mobile ba then. He wis bent agin the wind n it hud whipped oot is tie frim under is blezir n wrapped it flappin roond is neck. But he nivir nioticed. N is mind, he wis back oan that plane, planin over the Loch n oot tae sea.

He died aboot a week letir. N that wis wan ay the longest convirsations ah ever hud wi him. He nivir tawked aboot the time he'd been happiest- the war, meetin ma grandma. Folk in the toun sais tase ays etir is funeral that they thought he'd been deid years. He went intae isself eftir ma faither drooned oan a trawler. 

Ah cried a wee bit whin ah went through is stuff n fownd aw sortsd ay oersonal things- cracked auld letters fae grandma whin his squadron wis it Singapore towards the end ay the war. Foties ah'd never seen ay ma da is a bairn, bein helped ontay granfaither's flyin boat just eftor the war. Sepai foties ay the toon n the squadron durin the war. This is whit he;d held oantay fir thirty years.

Fir him, it wis these memories thit glowed n technicolour, evin in a life that wis as empty n echoin as an abandoned factory. It wis those ay ays livin our lives in the 80s n 90s that were cracked n sepia tinted, gatherin moss n weeds n broakin windaes.


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## Dr. Christmas (Jul 30, 2003)

*The Gallery by the Sea*

I'd arranged to meet Morwenna at 2 in the gallery by the sea.

There was an exhibiton on that I really wanted to see and, although she didn't sound that keen on the phone, she'd agreed to come.

I'd got close to telling her a few times about it, at that bonfire party on the beach last Friday, and then when we went over to Marc and Loveday's wedding in St. Just, but, even after a few ales, had failed.

The gentle curving road up to the gallery had been baking hot in the early afternoon. Some workmen sweated and cursed over steaming newly laid tar, the smell of which hung like stale perfume in the humidity. A shoal of cyclists hummed and whirred past on their way downhill. The walls of the gallery glowed white hot as I approached, and the great rectangular screens of glass reflected inscrutably. Distant screams and laughter from the beach were carried uphill on the sighs of the sea.

I hadn't been to the gallery by the sea for a long time, but inside it was calm and inviting. 

I tried to look at some paintings but I was really agitated about Morwenna and kept looking out for her. I also had the bad luck to be dogged wherever I went by a man with a loudhailer voice who was giving his clearly terrified wife a painting by painting lecture on the collection. 

"NOW BEN NICHOLSON, OF COURSE, WAS ONE OF THE ST.IVES SCHOOL AND WAS MARRIED TO BARBARA HEPWORTH..REMEMBER HER STUDIO AT THE PALAIS DE DANCE? THEY VERY MUCH INFLUENCED ONE ANOTHER..."

Cursing Morwenna for her lateness, I fled to the exhbition that I had come to see. i t was in a large curved segment of a room, the biggest surface of which was the window, which outside had primly deflected prying eyes, but which inside resonated a dull grey, drawing down a fog on the summer afternoon beyiond the gallery.

I turned to the paintings. Mercifully Mr Loudhailer hadn't followed, though the gallery was reasonably busy. I'd forgotten how intensely voyeuristic being in a gallery can be. Visitors drink the paintings with long thirst quenching stares, and come up for air by darting little side glances at the person standing next to them. Eyes dart from painted figue to real life. The muted sun probes the space and divides us from one another. Our gaze turns inward on oursleves and outward at strangers. I'm feeling a little bit exposed. A man, listening to a commentary on the picutres on a zombie set, brushes past me heedless. Where is she?

A space appears in front of the centrepiece painting of the exhibition, and it pulls me in. At the centre, a red caped scientist slowly draws the air out of a pump, leaving a little silver cokatoo gasping in a vaccuum. The old man stares straight though to the centre of me. There seems to be a reverential hush here, as an assistant behing pulls a curtain on the full moon of a freezing Derbyshire winter. A father consoles two little girls upset at the fate of the bird, my dears, he'll be alright, Mr. Arkwright wouldn't harm him. In the foreground, a man cups on his chin, seemingly gazing into the burning yellow sulphur glow of light on the table. The scientist has drawn me into a dramatic private theatre, a dress rehearsal for one; his fierce gaze and dating, quick movements don't distract me from his experiment. I look left as the harsh light siftens and cups itslef into a caress of the young woman looking deeply into the eyes of the man to her right, not announcing anything yet but feeling it nonetheless, revelling in the taboo thrill of a liason unknown to anyone else...

...I jumped as something touched my shoulder. I turned and looked at Morwenna. Under her auburn bob her dark eyes glittered and the she winked and broke into a smile.

"So what did you want to talk about then?"


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## Dr Morose (Jul 31, 2003)

Not convinced by the second one, Dr C

the first one was absolute class, 

fucking ace


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## Dr. Christmas (Jul 31, 2003)

Ta v. much Dr M.

I guess you're right. It's just I really wanted to write a short story with that painting in it- it's just about my favourite. I suppose it was a clumsy attempt to re-animate the relationship between the two 'illict' lovers in the top left hand corner which has always sruck me.

O well. These are the first things I've written for 10 years; thanks for being kind about them.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 31, 2003)

I just thought the second one wasn't quite so complete as the first, not quite self contained

but you've got some of the best narrative control i've ever read, and if that's after ten years of rust, you must be pretty fucking impressive when you're in full flow


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## northernprole (Jul 31, 2003)

dr xmas - i have to agree with dr M, that was really fucking good. your grasp of dialect was spot on. 
can't wait to read more

please come out of retirement!

np


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## Dr. Christmas (Jul 31, 2003)

Why thank you DR M & np. I'm really glad you liked them. I've lurked on this thread from time to time and have been impressed, this is the first time I've plucked up the courage to post. I'll try and think of summat else.

Anyone else in a storytelling mood today?


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## Dr. Christmas (Jul 31, 2003)

*The Man who Played Football in his best shoes (Part One)*

Mehmet Ibrahimovic arrived in England in November 1992, aged 17, having left Sarajevo the previous July when the shelling and the bombing and the terror started.

The wailing of his mother and her cracked, tear streaked face as the arthritic old bus wheezed away from the city visited him every night. Alina Ibrahimovic had stayed behind with Mehmet's grandmother in their little flat, as the old lady was too frail to make such a long journey. His two little sisters had been too small, and too upset to wave him goodbye.

The journey to England was a physical and mental chasm between him, his memories and his family. In conscious hours he tried his best to blot these out, and remember the happy times when he had been a child in the 1980s. The winter Olympics in 1984 when he'd been just nine, and his claustrophobic excitment as his uncle had taken him to see the ice-skating competition. The sparkling ice holding the skater's glamorous glittering counterpoint with a lissom grip. The calming harmonies of classical music played through slightly distorting speakers. The togetherness of friends who didn't yet know they were Bosnian, Croat, Serb, Slovenian, Muslim, Catholic, or Orthodox. The wonder of strange acents, exotic sounding foreign countries, the enticing bright contrasts of unfamiliar flags as the hung down over the still arena.

The raw thrill of the ice skaters had tempted Mehmet to follow them for a while, but although he himself was a wiry and slight boy, he lacked the rigorous concentration and demanding sdiscipline that the sport required. Mehmet was to make his name instead at football, enocuraged all the time by the same uncle who had taken him to see the Winter Olympics. He had played virtually all the time from whe he was any height at all, firstly for his school, then a local junior team when he got too good for the school and rivals complained, then for FC Sarajevo's age group teams. There was even talk in the paper that the Yugoslav coach himself had noted the progress of Mehmet Ibrahimovic. 

His mother, however, had grown exasperated when the boy refused to take an interest in anything else. Things weren't heped when Alina met one of his teachers at a weekend market in the town centre. The teacher had gravely intoned, "Alina, Mehmetka is an intelligent child, but one cannot make a living playing football." It was only when the specualtion in the paper started talking about the national team that his mother stopped parroting this line with reverent religiosity at him.

Mehmet smiled sadly as he remembered these words when he first came to England. The idea of making a living was suddenly no longer an abstract and something to be joked about, but an urgent, urgent reality. He had been put in a hostel for a fortnight, just off Caledonian Road, with some other Bosnians, and begun to take lessons to improve his very basic English. Then, without warning, he was told that a Bosnian family in the East Midlands was willing to take him in and that his space was needed for some more refugees from Bosnia and Croatia. On the same day, his new freinds received similar news, being despatched to places all over England. There was no time even to swap their new details so that they could remain in touch; two hours after being told he was moving, Mehmet was boarding another coach to take him to his new home.

Trepidation, lonliness and anxiety corroded his mind like rust as the coach snaked througyh the early evening traffic, on the first leg of his journey north. 

***********************************************

To be continued after my lunch! BTW this is partly based on a true story which I'll tell you about when the story's finished.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 31, 2003)

*Faces*

I see her face in so many faces these days. Her walk in so many footsteps. It wasn’t this bad, once upon a time, when I still had some hope that either I would be resurrected, or that we both would. 

I’m sad to say, I no longer believe. And if I come across as angry sometimes it is because I never wanted to have to admit that this is the way things were meant to be. I want, oh God, how much I want, to believe that there was something immortal there, something that lived on past the arguments, and that bastard drizzling Saturday evening when I went to buy my brother a birthday present, knowing that she was sitting in the flat taking inventory, working out what she would take and what she would leave. 

But I can’t because I know she never really belonged to me, and for all that I wanted to give everything I am to her, I could not, for fear.

And perhaps for the knowledge that she did not want or need it, that if given she would not understand what to do with it. 

For moments, I lost myself. And for a year and a half after, was just lost. So when I come back out into the light, please do not begrudge me my scars and the reflex that has me looking over my shoulder sometimes. 

I do not love her, though at times she dominates my thoughts, though she is the closest I have ever been. And I’ve risen above the man-bitch, the slave she would have me be. 

Sometimes I see her face in many faces, but never again, thank God, will I see her looking back at me.


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## G. Fieendish (Jul 31, 2003)

*To Dr.Morose*

Don't tell anyone else, otherwise _they_ all want some !
Yours, Edward Nygma
P.S "This is  _My_ brain on drugs !" The Riddler-Batman Forever


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## Dr. Christmas (Jul 31, 2003)

Very raw, Dr. M. Liked it.


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## northernprole (Jul 31, 2003)

I Knew a Man With a Curious Affliction

I knew a man with a curious affliction. When he looked at his girlfriends ( and there had been many ) he saw nothing but 2-dimensionality. This wasn’t strictly a personality failing but a neural imbalance that caused him to view his ladies as glossy and  thin, like so many pages in a  book. No,  sorry, not a book, nothing quite that deep – more likely a magazine. He could only see straight lines where there were curves and it alarmed him. 

This was a huge inconvenience, as it rendered pleasant, meaningful relationships near impossible  and deeply unsatisfying. Naturally the man sought help. He had psychotherapy and counselling,  CAT scans and magnetic resonance imaging. As a result he grew intimate with the amygdala and infamous as ‘ the man that mistook his wife for a flat’

He rode off his fame for a while and attempted measures to combat his failing. He took to wearing 3D specs; dating fatter women; forced himself to watch them shower without the fear they would collapse in a pulpy mush down the plughole. And the women flocked to him; word spread like wildfire and they came; in their chubby masses to smother him with their pink, voluptuous corporeality. 

For a while the man was happy. As happy as he could imagine he could be. But then again, the man had little imagination and was only saved from universal disinterest by good looks and the quirky party trick of his neural dysfunction. When the women grew tired of partying, they peeled away one by one. Some spiralled softly away like autumn leaves from a tree, others that had set his world on fire, curled upwards and away instead,  like charred pages floating on the thermals of a sputtering bonfire. 

 There was one though, who chose to stay and chose to love him. He might have adjusted, might have learned to live a normal life if he only he hadn’t taken the car that day, if only he  had pulled up outside the house and not curved into the drive knocking her off her feet, killing her instantly. 

I didn’t see her, he had screamed as the police lead him away.  She was in profile, he shouted. How the hell could he expect to see her? She needed to face him head on if she wanted to be seen by him; loved by him, respected by him, not killed by him.

Locked away with only magazines for company he now  tries to alleviate his boredom. Slowly at first, then gradually speeding up, he begins to tear the pictures from the magazines – all women, tears them all out until nothing is left but the magazine’s spine and then using his own saliva he begins  to stick them  up on the wall of his cell. He doesn’t stop until the entire wall is covered and then lies down on the hard bed and tries his best to sleep.


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## Dr Morose (Jul 31, 2003)

nice one NP


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## jms (Jul 31, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 1, 2003)

*Love Poem For A Stranger*

I’ll never forgot your face, I always remember the pretty ones
And some part of me stays, always, in your soul-black eyes

I will always hold dear the time, the place, the instant split
Before you went into the fire.
I will always hold  the belief that ours was more than passing
That something immortal outlasted the pyre
Where I laid you out.
Betrayed you, turned about and walked.

I wish I knew then, girl, how much a love is worth
So I wouldn’t have to stand in this place
To watch the daughters of Rage give birth












aagh its so lame, i spent ages searching for that photo (of an iraqi girl being searched by a us solider, and the whole poitn of the poem was that photo now the fucking photo wont come up, willy

http://www.time.com/time/potw/20030523/9.html


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## northernprole (Aug 4, 2003)

fantastic poem dr.  

you really are quite a poet. 

(i can't decide if the picture adds or takes away from the writing. jury's out on that one - even tho it's a very powerful image)


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## Dr Morose (Aug 4, 2003)

the picture inspired it

the reason i wanted to put it in there was to show that it wasn't a traditional 'i fucked up and i'm sorry' love poem


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## crowdserver1 (Aug 5, 2003)

Sabrina the teen witch who also came out of death by miracle for not having always lived accidentally sets the whole world on fire.After 23 days she succeeds in putting the fire out.The population of the world is furious but understands that it was an accident.The sun shines and the rain feels grand.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 5, 2003)

> _Originally posted by crowdserver1 _
> *Sabrina the teen witch who also came out of death by miracle for not having always lived accidentally sets the whole world on fire.After 23 days she succeeds in putting the fire out.The population of the world is furious but understands that it was an accident.The sun shines and the rain feels grand. *



Is it just me, or does it seem like this is some sort of code?

please stop using this thread to communicate with alien intelligences bent on world domination


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## liampreston (Aug 5, 2003)

We're all to blame, then, someone
should point a finger. Not that we can, or dare to.
Well this train ain't moving until one of you
speaks.

To her, we are boys in the school on these orange-
and-brown striped seats. Her uniform telling
stories, or asking for them,

but we don't speak. Our faces and open eyes
point into the next carriage, at the only
face staring at himself through the window.
Why he had to pick a fight and throw punches
at closing doors is not clear.

He's here, still, though, but we can't point him 
out. He shuffles himself comfortable, and we
sit with our cartons and cans; staring into soup-steam.


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## northernprole (Aug 5, 2003)

> _Originally posted by crowdserver1 _
> *Sabrina the teen witch who also came out of death by miracle for not having always lived accidentally sets the whole world on fire.After 23 days she succeeds in putting the fire out.The population of the world is furious but understands that it was an accident.The sun shines and the rain feels grand. *




 

inspired crowdserver.  you is genius.
(dr m - the nutters always come from belgium. possibly the aliens too. )


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## liampreston (Aug 5, 2003)

No, no, I didn't. No, I....I'm sorry, but... .Look, sit down, I need to tell you something.......Wait, it's....

*rewind*

No, I....*pause* 

*rewind*

I'm sorry I....Oh, hi darling....hard day at work was it?


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## crowdserver1 (Aug 6, 2003)

He had heard that there exists a devil who had never been dead in his own past who was going to activate him as the kosmical comical given in life after wich this devil was going to anti-activate him so that couldn't be the problem he concluded.


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## ajk (Aug 6, 2003)

theskyonindia anyone?


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## Dr Morose (Aug 7, 2003)

*The Farmer*

(going back to one of jms' titles)

Dust. Forty four thousand acres of dust. And I’ve made it grow. I’ve brought water to it. Made the dried up tarn shine again. Raised the corn. Made gentle repairs to blasted land. 

Sometimes the loneliness hits like a train. But I’ve learnt to ride this train. I’ve had to learn. Because what I live is what I am, I can’t do anything else. And what I do is hard. What I do is not what I want to do. I would rather be living the nine to five. But I’ve tried it. Married and divorced. Its not for me. I was meant to be alone, I know. Its an easier life, the life I’ve forsaken. But it grinds. 

Grinds like the dust. But the dust is part of me now, and some blessed day soon, I will be part of the dust.


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## jms (Aug 7, 2003)

.


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## Dubversion (Aug 7, 2003)

*Oui, Je Regrette Tout*

if i could do it all over again, i'd change everything.

i'd have picked the locations more thoughtfully - made sure that where we first met was a hillside in early spring, the melting snow reflecting golden light on your face. that where we first fucked was on a boat drifting free on a still lake in the deepening dusk.

i'd have been wittier - replaced my dull accretion of blokish knowledge with crystal insights and flights of fancy. 

i'd have bought a Super 8 camera, had reels of speckled, jerky film of you - in a red cotton dress - on swings and roundabouts and stood in puddles looking forever young and wise beyond your years.

if i could do it all over again, i'd change everything. especially the bit where i let you get away.


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## @^+ (Aug 7, 2003)

I love that one, Dub.. simple and honest. 

so much talent here... 
pat yourselves on the back.


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## jms (Aug 11, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 11, 2003)

*Hanging on the Telephone*

From me, always silence. I have to keep going, through the entire phone book, until I hear his voice. I’ll know it when I hear it, its unmistakable, holy tones. 

The phone booth smells of piss and sweat and accumulated street rot. The rows of ‘Busty Bettys’ and ‘Asian Masseuses’ smiling at me with their cheaply printed dot-matrix smiles. 

Ring, after ring, after ring, and not one single shot of luck. Just gibberers and idiots and answering machines. 

Yes, of  course I know what bloody time it is. Its eight hundred and fifty seven hours and twelve minutes since I saw him last. Don’t you think I know EXACTLY what time it is, you fuckwit. 

He’s not there, what if I get the right number and he’s not there?

What if he knows its me and he’s not going to pick up. 

No, no, no, I’m getting paranoid. It’s the smell in here, the ammonia, its getting into my nostrils, fucking with my brain. I need to be level, clear, sharp. I need to concentrate. 

I need to find him soon. Before the ammonia and the tiredness kill me. 

Another number, always more, always so many numbers, I go through one by one, but it seems like I’m getting nowhere, like nothing has been done. 

I’m running out of change


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## northernprole (Aug 12, 2003)

creepy as fuck dr m. spooked me like the koala one.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 12, 2003)

> _Originally posted by northernprole _
> *creepy as fuck dr m. spooked me like the koala one.
> 
> *



The boy ain't right, innit


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## jms (Aug 13, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 14, 2003)

some of us have to work for a living, jack

work's something you'll find out about after you've done your 11+ exams


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## jms (Aug 14, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 14, 2003)

*All the Pretty Girls*

It was just idle chit, chat, made over lunch

And maybe there was a glance, a glance too many at her dancer’s legs (she really is a dancer, you know). 

I barely know what I spoke, the usual lines I suppose, a potted history, the odd subtle slipping into the conversation of something I’m very proud of. 

“Working on a play”

And why not? It is who I am, after all. 

And there was flat earth and silence while I was rolling up my cigarette, as we talked about her boyfriend and she toyed with the frazzled grass. 

You’re a long way from home, girl, is the only thing I can remember thinking. 

That and wondering why I’d chosen to wear this shirt on a day so hot. 

Don’t get me wrong, she was gorgeous, limbs long, subtly muscled and tanned. A blonde Russian with a beautiful smile. 

And she was good company too, I liked her, but not that much. 

Not THAT much. 

I watched all the pretty summer girls go past

I couldn’t shake the feeling I ought to, though, couldn’t shake the feeling that a girl this pretty and this pleasant to talk to was too rare for me not to give a fuck. 

I caught a glimpse down her top, not by attraction, but by force of habit. And it seemed to me that all my sexual relations were leant by rote, drummed into me be people I used to be back when these things mattered, when my perspective was warped and my teenage values screwed me up. 

It was warm, pleasant and breezy. The sky an almost unnatural blue. It was good to be sitting in gentle sun after last week’s heat. Good not to be wasting in a bronze tinted oven bowl. 

I watched her go, and wondered at her retreating swaying walk, if I would ever feel the heat again. 

Or would it always be this pleasantly warm?


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## OriginalSinner (Aug 14, 2003)

*All the Pretty Girls*

Brilliant.


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## jms (Aug 16, 2003)

*.*

.


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## chegrimandi (Aug 19, 2003)

OK title = 

Tourettes......challenge = no swearing

 

fire away you fucking filthy cunts


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Aug 20, 2003)

I guess it is possible with a doorknob. Guess it's better if the door's closed, it doesn't swing then. Just sit, then lie back, it gets tighter.... Dreaming,,,,,,,dreaming of me,,,,,,,   ......Fuck! If I keep this up, I might hurt myself.......


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## Lollybelle (Aug 20, 2003)

*Tourette's  (no swearing)*

Dear Sirs,

I am writing in response to an extremely offensive letter I have received from you, dated 17th July 2003.  I resent the implication that because I am merely a week late on my electricity payments I should therefore be referred to as though I am a 'lady of the night' (to phrase it delicately), or that my parentage should be questioned.  As for threatening to violate my dear poodle - well, really, it beggars belief.  I shall be copying this letter to the Managing Director of your company, and shall expect a satisfactory response and apology by return of post.

Yours sincerely

_Cynt_hia Sealey


(spoken - Managing Director into speakerphone: )

"Miss Lacey, may I see you in my office a moment?"

(audio - door shuts, carefully)

(spoken - MD to Miss L: )

"And what, may I ask, is the meaning of this?"

(audio - weeping)

(spoken - Miss L to MD: )

"But it's my fingers!  I can't help it - they just get angry sometimes!  And what kind of a name is Cynthia anyway when the 'y' is so close to the 'u'..."


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## chegrimandi (Aug 20, 2003)

hehe nice one lolly....


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## mains (Aug 20, 2003)

Inga Pistolevski had a gold medal, presented to her by Herman Goering himself.  She was in London for an exhibition race when her country was invaded.  She settled in Bradford, where the girls in the bomb factory called her 'Stolley', an affectionate name she felt.  She was a hard worker. After the war she got a job in a bakery, which was where she met Frank Bilton, a man who knew a good cream puff when he saw one.  Frank was a carpenter and worshipped Inga, perhaps a little too much; perhaps she was just a mite too selfish.  He called her 'button', perhaps feeling her real name a little too incongruous to be whispered at the base of her neck with tenderness. They never had children.  Frank was flattened by some Brazilian timber in a builder’s merchants yard in Morley in 1964.  She never recovered, nobody else would ever offer Franks level of devotion and besides, she was no longer the blond athlete with the funny name.  

She used to tell the care workers about her great race, about demolishing the Russian and the Italian on the home straight. She told them her real name.  They thought she couldn't hear the nickname they gave her: 'Pissy' Bilton. When she died there was an investigation, but they never found the gold medal.


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## Lollybelle (Aug 21, 2003)

*Pavement*

There's cracks all over the paving slabs.  Some of them are so wide my fingertip half-disappears inside them as it travels their crazylined path.  The stray blades of grass feel silky-smooth, glaring green against the scratchy grey hardness of the concrete.  

The sun's shining, spreading golden smiles across myriad faces; and they're in generous mood, flinging spare cash around left, right and centre, a little of it landing in my lap.  Plenty, anyway, for us for today.  So I'm taking some time to just sit, and look at my street.  

I can see the TV screens in the rental shop - it's some crappy advert on Sky about accidents.  "...a sudden trip, or fall?" - they could sue the council for the state of this street.  Maybe even I could.  Maybe I will.

But not today.  Today I'll just sit, and look at the grass pushing up through the cracks in my street, imagining what it'd be like if I was the last one.  Still sitting here in a thousand years time, still watching while the concrete crumbles and the buildings fall, while the bright cheap shop-goods fade into dulling dust.  

And my eyes must have gone misty, because I don't even see him till he's chucked a pound at me and told me it's for the dog; Toby licks my hand right on cue - he's a smart lad.  And so I muss up his fur, tuck away the coins, and curl myself up, head against his fast-beating canine heart.  We'll sleep for a while with the sun on our faces, and then I'll take him home.  I never said I was homeless, did I?  Not to any of them, and not to you.  Like I told you, I'm just sitting, and watching my street.


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## @^+ (Aug 23, 2003)

beautiful


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## jms (Aug 26, 2003)

.


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## Dr Morose (Aug 28, 2003)

*Swiss Poems*

I think i hit a bit of a seam in Switzerland, here's some early redrafts of the poems i wrote there:

Zurichsee I- Waiting for Whoever

I thought of you in Zurich
Though I could not work out who you are.

Because all the girls I’ve ever wanted have mixed pixels and melted into one. 

Her eyes are a dozen shades 
A dozen shades of dull
And her smile is not so sweet as sickly 
As it is laid twelve times
One on top of one, on top of one.

I wish I could care who I share this with
Believe what you do and who you are
But my pillow is waiting for whoever
Every girl I see is a star

I look up, and cannot choose from a billion, billion stars



Zurichsee II-Spanish Guitars

I cried to the tune of Spanish guitars,
And the calls of Swiss girls to cadets from the Guards,
Heard phone numbers swapped, litter dropped
And the occasional English phrase
Caught between the city and the water.

I slipped into the water and sighed
I was never that young

I was aged by beauty, by my grasping for words,
Phrases that say nothing to the sunset or the bathing swan. 
I can say nothing as the stars emerge and the bridge lights come on.

I feel too hard to abide silence
I am too long gone to dance with the long-limbed tan-skinned girls
Who are so very young.

So I sit, foot tapping, heart slipping to Spanish guitar
The music was never mine, I was never so simple, so very headstrong
I tap the rhythm of other men’s laughter
And admire the silence that lives above the song. 



Clockwork Girl

I should have picked you apart
Undressed you and explored the weights and counterbalances of your heart. 
Tweezer worked myself into your clockworks and cogs. 

I should have become more involved
Unfastened your gilt and silver face
And forced the springs and locking mechanisms. 
Rendering and relishing you at once. 

I should have poured molten into you 
Across your fine engineer, burning your created calm apart
And loving the clunky, pre-manufactured girl
Rubbing off rarefaction and making you who you are. 

I should have picked you apart
My clockwork girl, my almost love. 

But I was still in awe of delicacy 
A woman who remade herself in etcing and filigree
Unwilling to clumsy such a fine craft
As that which adorns you, your balanced, machined façade. 



Leaving London

I left London cooked.
This summer was going to be special,
I knew, when I jacked it all in for a week in Europe that I would make it special. 

And the endless news reports on climate change confirmed me.
The dried grass and the dusty baked streets showed my faith in fate was strong. 

I wasted four months on money, and sat in a string of dead end jobs, staring out into London’s hazy blue parades. 
I was damned for comfort or company,
I trawled the internet for useless facts and played message board charades. 

I wanted to be THERE, not trapped, sightless in the garish arcades, but OUT
With friends and with strangers, walking as we always walked, between the pub and Andy’s place. 

I left London in a hopeless state, traffic stained, Central line gasping in the blowdryer drafts.

And came here, where the land is jagged and the lakes a softer blue.
The heat is more natural here, the impassable walls of waterlogged air more sparse, moments of head swimming dizziness more spare.

All Europe felt the heat this summer, not a city was spared
And I, who tied my mood to the weather, rose with the heated convection of air. 



The Afterglow

I don’t recognise you, I told her, I can’t see you in the girl I met,
That night we almost kissed and I came home so wired on communication and conversation I barely slept.

And she looked at me as a mother looks fondly at her child. 

You raised me that night, girl, hit me so hard that I bled
Where is the whit hot crucifix you wore in that encounter
The night we bursted open and the wine that flowed so red?

Maybe I’m the afterglow, that was all she said.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2003)

*To be read slowly, and with care. Dry Clean Only.*

.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (Sep 3, 2003)

*teenage waistband*

My name is Carla, and I am beautiful.

My name is Carla, and I am beautiful.

My name is Ming-whore from hell, and I'm a fat fucking bitch.

I roll over on the duvet, away from the mirror, pull my knees up onto the bed, and wrap myself up in soft darkness.  I don't know if you've ever had to see a therapist, but sometimes when you are it's hard to tell yourself that this person (a) is more intelligent than you, and therefore has any fucking answers at all, and (b) actually gives much of a shit beyond spouting her platitudes and smiling benevolently at the failure of a human being that she's speaking to, oh so very gently and calmly.

My group is for people with 'compulsive eating disorders'.  Of all kinds.  But I'm the only fat girl in a roomful of pristine stick-thin small-voiced sparrows.  And I know all these things:

Yes, I'm lucky to even have anything at all round here to go to
Yes, I'm lucky that I'm not about to die anytime soon
Yes, I realise that maybe don't need the help as much as the other girls
Yes, I know that really all I've got to do is just look after myself a bit better.

Or 'love myself' a bit better, as they keep putting it.  Well, you try it.  Do you love me?  Do you?  Look at me, come on, just look at me right now through your clearest eyes - I'm fucking ugly, I'm fat, I'm angry and I shout and I hate.  So am I supposed to love myself just because I see her from the inside not the outside?  

Whatever.

She's American, my therapist, and her phrasing is sometimes straight from Oprah or Ricki.  And I know that she's trying to help, but I also know that I can see the holes in everything she says - it's all very well to tell me where I want to get to, it's another whole ballgame to change who I am.  

Group is tomorrow, so I've been doing my 'self-esteem exercises'.  The girl in the mirror still looks like me, though, no matter how often I tell her that she's "beautiful".  

But I think I've been learning more from the other girls than from the sessions.  Today, I didn't eat, and I had nothing yesterday either, except for some Marmite straight from the jar.  They reckon that strong flavours stop you feeling hungry - anyway, too much of that black crude-vegetable-oil shite and you want to chuck.  And I have been sick, too, just the once mind, but it cleaned me out and I felt good.  It felt like I'm on the road to somewhere better.

So that's my aim: to lose it all before I'm 15.  There's a couple of them said they managed it within six months.  I've got a way more to go from my starting point but I'll manage it.  

I can tell you one thing right now, though - don't even think of telling me that I'm beautiful, that I can be normal.  You can fuck right off with that bullshit, ram it through your size-10 Levis and right up your crack.  Ever stopped to think that maybe I don't want to?


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## fucthest8 (Sep 3, 2003)

*Destroy* 

I don’t have any time to prevent it. The anger seizes me and I’m caught up instantly, unstoppably. I haven’t learnt how to control it. I’m not sure it _can_ be controlled. I’m not sure I _want_ to control it.

I explode, a human fragmentation bomb, a whirling dervish, a cornered animal, every cliche you can think of. I strike at everything around me, whoever or whatever is within reach. All the frustration at the lack of understanding - damn, sometimes it’s like they don’t _want_ to understand – spews out of me in an onslaught of hate that will only abate when it has run its’ course. Being two years old can be tough sometimes.


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## fucthest8 (Sep 3, 2003)

Pretty obvious I know, but what the fuck. It is at least very, very short.


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## goldenecitrone (Sep 3, 2003)

'She doesn't like me, does she?'
'You don't even know each other, it's the first time you've ever met'
'But she doesn't like me. I can see it in her eyes'
'So why is she talking to you if she doesn't like you?'
'She's laughing at me. She made that sign, twirling her finger by her head and you laughed too'
'I never saw that. You must be imagining things.'
'Why did you bring me here? Just so all your friends could laugh at me?'
'They're not laughing at you. You've been talking to them for the last hour. Why would they laugh at you?'
'You shouldn't have done that. Why did you do it?'
'Do what? What have I done?'
'You know. I'm not stupid'
'I really don't know what you mean.'
'Yes you do. You're a wanker.'
'Look, I'm sorry for whatever I've done to upset you.'
'Oh, you admit it now do you.'
'Admit what? Just tell me what I've done'
'You know. Stop playing games.'
'This is stupid. There's no point talking about this'
'Yes there is. Anyway. Have we got any left?
'Here. Have it all. I can't talk to you anymore. I'm going to the bar'
'Wanker!'
'


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## fucthest8 (Sep 3, 2003)

I'm sorry, I don't know how this post happened.


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Sep 5, 2003)

It was alright, something about houses on a hillside, maybe like Daly City, but not the same, nice, different houses, rolling hills, a nice valley. I was supposed to go over there, and I started walking, but then I rolled over in bed and slowly but surely the whole thing started coming apart like decades-old curtains weakened by the sun. And even if I fell asleep again, it wouldn't come back.


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## Hen House (Sep 6, 2003)

(Only my second attempt at a shortie, so please be gentle!!)



She had to leave him. His habits had always been disgusting. 

Grunting like a pig on heat when they, infrequently, had sex, picking his nose and waving the crusting contents at her like some small trophy, chewing with his mouth open, wearing week old shirts that reeked of sweat and had yellowing circles at the armpit, much like the one he wore now, and had been for god knows how long. And the smell of him at night, lying there in the dark, trying not to breath through her nose, shrinking away from his hairy, bloated gut. Didn’t they call this the seven year itch? Besides, she knew she wanted to leave him right now, he was stinking more by the day.

Well, she had shot him two weeks ago.


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## jms (Sep 7, 2003)

*a homage to yesterday*

*Explorers* 

With hoe and shovel, we trudge back from the Citadel on the coast. We've seen the rain stab at the sea and form craters in the sand. We're walking on an endless muddy plain, through sea grass and past sand dunes. Our shoes are filled with sand, our faces dripping. Magellan and I, we've made our ditches and castles from flowerpots, a volcano. We have made this storm, but I look forward to getting home, all the same.


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## jms (Sep 8, 2003)

*A wanderer from the Shots*

.


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## jms (Sep 9, 2003)

.


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## jms (Sep 9, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (Sep 12, 2003)

*Secrets*

There's this way you have of keeping things hidden, locked away from me; maybe you lock them away from yourself, too.  All I can ever tell of you is what I can observe on your surface, and it makes me wonder if I'm just not attuned enough to your feelings, to what's really going on inside.  Shouldn't I just be able to tell?  Shouldn't we each know what the other is thinking?  

So I lay there next to you, your arms wrapped around me, our bodies nearly identical, two perfectly-tessellated foetal-sleepers.  I lay there, thinking just how perfect we almost are, picturing the scene from a stranger's eye: we're beautiful, we're childlike, we're a monochrome still from an old blue movie.  

But I can't sleep.  The dreams won't stop coming.  

I turn my head gently towards you without disturbing your rest and watch your face as you breathe in sleep, lips slightly parted.  I want to kiss you; I want to kill you, a loving blade through your precious heart.  It's only fitting that it should end here, right now, where I am still safe, while I am still yours.

Finally, I drift.  Into unrestful sleep; into those dreams.

Morning comes.  At first light, I'm dragged back from the depths of the murky seas I drown in nightly.  I feel your hands on my warm soft belly, your cheek on my back.  Your skin is cold.  

I let you go peacefully - it's the least I could do.  

And now that I'm sure, now that I've created the perfect tableau, I take the last vial myself, swirled in the remnants of last night's red wine.  I close my eyes against the streaming of the cold January sun, tracing white lines across our pale skin through the wooden slats of the blinds.

I never knew your secrets; you never wanted me to know.  

But you never knew mine, either, darling.


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## fucthest8 (Sep 12, 2003)

I love that Lolly. Class.


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## Lollybelle (Sep 12, 2003)

Cheers hun.  I really *have* been getting some quite bad dreams lately... must be the red wine...


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## bruise (Sep 12, 2003)

Beautifully chilling, lolly.


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## rednblack (Sep 12, 2003)

Malcom sat back in the highest boughs of the train, a column of broccolo (as his old teacher Gurby had called the cauliflower)
connected by a complicated crisscross of cables, piping and ropebridges, he relaxed watching the sweating moist foreheaded salamandine attendants wobbling precariously along respendent in their scarlet moleskin effect waistcoats and tall solid gold stovepie hats, some staggering under the weight of the complicated and cumbersome copper and brass ticket machines...

hmm trickier than i thought, still a short story should just be a snapshot from someones' life this is just a very small snapshot.


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## fucthest8 (Sep 12, 2003)

She’s beautiful in that way small children are sometimes, so pretty it makes you want to sweep her into your arms and hold her tight. She’s innocence made flesh, all gappy teeth and unkempt hair, scars and scabs on her knees, wearing a pretty dress with a small chocolate stain on one side from a careless wipe of the hand. It doesn’t matter how often she’s told not to wipe her fingers on her clothes, she still does it. She hasn’t yet developed that horrible self-consciousness that adults have; she’s just as happy naked in a park full of strangers as she is in her stained dress. She doesn’t yet worry about what other people think of her, whether or not she’ll fit in with the group of people she’s just met. Yet she’s worried now. She smiles at me, slightly nervously, like she knows I’m about to destroy everything, like she knows I’m going to break her heart. Unthinkingly, I wet my thumb and use it to clean the smear of blood from her forehead. I can’t speak yet. Eventually, I take her hand and manage to mumble “Let’s go, shall we?”


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## Lollybelle (Sep 12, 2003)

ooh.  I have goosebumps now.  

nicely, subtly done.


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## fucthest8 (Sep 12, 2003)

Ta. It was supposed to be ambiguous, did it work?


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## Lollybelle (Sep 12, 2003)

well, it took me two reads (one flippant, one concentrating) before I saw the darker side, so yep, I think so.


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## jms (Sep 12, 2003)

* "The Meaning of Life is to be the eyes and ears of the creator of the universe" *
_-Kurt Vonnegut, from 'Breakfast of Champions'_


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## arattebury (Sep 12, 2003)

*Poodle story*

My next door neighbour has a 10 year old furry white poodle that has a high pitched bark, is mildly deaf and the longest black eyelashes you've ever seen.  The animal takes pleasure in  waking up early and announcing to all the other people in the street  sunrise is well and truly here.  Often she stands in the middle of the street staring up at the sky as though she had never seen clouds before and howling at them. Cars have to stop for the animal because she won't budge when they  beep their horn at her. 

Ptolemy a postman  that lives in number eight in the street and moved in recently chased the animal down the street at 5am with a garden spade last tuesday. I saw him from behind my living room net curtain. I was up because had a early train to catch to a work conference. I get up this time often anyhow  so I can watch my girl sing her morning chorus.

The Poodle is called Roberta. Even though she eats tripe to me she always smells as  sweet as honeysuckle in a summer breeze.

Now for certain I know I had fallen impossibly in love with the creature. 

The thing is I can't speak about how it began. All I can tell you is that Ptolemy has not done any gardening since last tuesday. My  Roberta has not been seen since then either. No one else in the street can make head nor tail of where she has gone.

I am heartbroken and have not been to work today.


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## jms (Sep 15, 2003)

.


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## jms (Sep 15, 2003)

.


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## jms (Sep 15, 2003)

*7777!*

.


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## Lollybelle (Sep 19, 2003)

*Beautiful*

He's running his fingers through her perfect blonde hair. They're laughing, her smile appealingly gorgeous and her continental-blue eyes creasing at the corners with summer pleasure.  She's lithe, sexy, athletic, stunning, she's lifting a cappuccino up to her wild-rose lips as they bask in noontime sun on the terrrace.  His eyes don't leave her for a moment; he's captivated.

Awkward hand on lumpen thigh, I slowly stir sweetener into my black coffee, safe in dark shade, opposite, watching them. Watching her, beautiful, brightening the sunny side of the street.

Can't blame him, really.  I probably would have done the same myself.


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## jms (Sep 19, 2003)

Now that, is ace

Especially the sweetener thing..very subtle


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## jms (Sep 22, 2003)

.


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## jms (Sep 22, 2003)

*work it out, its one of three, and not exactly difficult*

.


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## fucthest8 (Sep 23, 2003)

*Life's a riot* 

There are cop vans everywhere. Football is the cause, we reckon. Must be the local derby, they’re obviously expecting trouble, rolling around the streets all tooled up in riot gear, sides of the vans open, chewing gum, staring at everyone, trying to be hard men. 

Fucking hate them when they’re being like that. The beat coppers seem like humans, smiling, enjoying the sunshine, talking to folk. The arseholes in the vans though … different kettle of fish. One van stops nearby and the cops stare straight at us. We’re two skinheads in a sea of shoppers, guess we look out of place. 

My mate takes a lick of his ice-cream and grins at me. I know what he’s thinking. “Nice hot day like this” he says, “and they’re all cooped up in them vans?” “Uh huh, seems a shame doesn’t it?” I reply. I take a lick of my ice-cream in turn. “You know what?” I ask. “What?” His grin is enormous now. I return it and look around, checking the exit routes. "_I_ reckon, they’d like an ice cream too.”


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## OriginalSinner (Sep 23, 2003)

> _Originally posted by fucthest8 _
> *Life's a riot*



That's an excellent story, but I don't actually get the ending... am I missing something?


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## jms (Sep 23, 2003)

perhaps theyre going to throw them at the police


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## Lollybelle (Sep 23, 2003)

It's gonna be stuck on the windscreen of the van... innit?

Makes me think of Quadrophenia, a bit (cos it's all mouth and innocence) whereas jms, your earlier one reminds me of If?


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## fucthest8 (Sep 23, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *It's gonna be stuck on the windscreen of the van... innit? *



No no no, jms wins, we hooned them in through the side-door of the van. All that black riot gear, all that soft Mr Whippy stylee ice-cream. LOL. That is, it would have been funny, if it had happened in real life.


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## Vixiha (Sep 23, 2003)

Oh, darn, I guessed you were going to rub it on each other's heads and let the cops lick it off.


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## OriginalSinner (Sep 23, 2003)

> _Originally posted by fucthest8 _
> *No no no, jms wins, we hooned them in through the side-door of the van. All that black riot gear, all that soft Mr Whippy stylee ice-cream. LOL. That is, it would have been funny, if it had happened in real life. *



Cool.


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## Dr Morose (Sep 25, 2003)

I didn't see her until it was too late, I smashed into her and died, made a traffic accident of the rest of our lives. 

it makes you think, how different if not for a spilt drink it could have been. 

Fifty years, fifty years she'deen the bane, the scourge, the thorn in my side. 

And I've hated her more than i thought i could hate, spat at her, even hit her once or twice. 

She cheated, I cheated, her sister, her freinds, and a string of other men's wives.

And after we'd made love, a cutting,screaming, scratching love that left me unable to walk for a day

She would turn to me and smile, and say 'you are my life.'

She was, the little cheating poison bitch,

my light, my solace and my wife.


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## OriginalSinner (Sep 26, 2003)

Quick question.

Am considering posting a story here that i wrote recently... only problem is that there are certain *graphic* bits in it. Pretty *graphic* bits, really. All very tastefully written, I think, but quite, quite rude.

None of it is particularly bad, but there may be kiddies about... so I leave it open to you guys... post or not to post?


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## Maggot (Sep 26, 2003)

> _Originally posted by OriginalSinner _
> *
> None of it is particularly bad, but there may be kiddies about.. *



Just ask jms to avert his eyes!


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## jms (Sep 28, 2003)

.


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## jms (Sep 29, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (Oct 3, 2003)

*Lyrics*

My life plays itself out in folk songs, sweet soft 60's hits, the fiery words of tortured piano-girls.  Lyrics for every occasion; they stick in my mind, and they sing themselves to me constantly like my life's not my own but a patchwork of other people's experience... they've been there, done that, set it to music.

Last night while you slept I lay quietly beside you, savouring the minutes I had, listening to the sounds of the traffic outside your window and breathing you in, the sweet sharp scent of your throat and the smoky wine of your lips.  And my mind can't keep it with mine, with my moments, my life story; I watch it becoming someone else's cliche.  I'm already merging my thoughts with hers, changing the situation, pretending to myself that you love me too.  

No sound comes from my lips, but I sing to you from inside, note-perfect: hold me like you'll never let me go.


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## Dr Morose (Oct 3, 2003)

*Fear of Falling*

If God had meant man to fly, the saying goes, He would have given us wings. 

What He gave me was the fear, the fear of falling that fills my dreams with rushing wind. At least once a week, i get into an obsolescent tin box and for a few hours, i defy the almighty. 

Its an outdated machine, designed thirty years ago, and from the grease and dirt and rust that cover it, it hasn't been serviced in about that long. Every time i take off i know that i could fly into a cloud and never come out, that a broken fuel pump, an unexpected mountain, even a flock of birds could claim me. I know each time i fly that the next time my family see me, it could be in a pine box.

heights scare the shit out of me, and so does te mere idea of being up there, held up by the mechanical calculations of men who are probably now dead. when i'm taking off, i shake a lot harder than anyone wants to see thier pilot shaking.

it gives me nightmares, it really does give me the fear, but what are the alternatives? staying on the ground? I don't think so


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## fucthest8 (Oct 3, 2003)

> _Originally posted by OriginalSinner _
> *None of it is particularly bad, but there may be kiddies about... so I leave it open to you guys... post or not to post? *



I'd check with Mike if I were you. Doesn't bother me, but you never know....


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## fucthest8 (Oct 3, 2003)

*Lately*

I can detect only the imperfections. It’s rather peculiar. Distracting, too. The smallest journey has become rather an effort, I’m sorry to say. Travelling any real distance; nothing less than an ordeal. So, I’ve decided not to bother any more; it’s just too hard. Going outside that is; I shan’t bother any more. There’s enough to deal with inside. It’s an imperfect world, you see and I’m rather too fully aware of just how so.

I started becoming aware last Tuesday. Quite suddenly. I was on the bus, minding my own business, just staring out of the window. Someone sat down next to me. I didn’t really notice her at first, too preoccupied with my little internal world, just vaguely aware that I had company. Then I smelt something, something unfamiliar, foreign almost, in that it was entirely new. 

It was hate. My fellow passenger hated her sister. Not just the usual sibling rivalry, but the kind of hatred that only comes from

                  growing up with disappointment and disaffection,
                   years of watching a rival succeed whilst you fail,
         decades of heaping self-pity upon your plate and choking it down, 
                           all the while hating, hating, hating. 

I turned away from the window, towards her.

I could smell the decay.

I freaked, to be honest. Couldn’t get away from her fast enough. I jumped into the seat behind and then ricochetted my way down the aisle, pressing the bell at every pole, tears starting into my eyes. I don’t remember the bus stopping – maybe I jumped out – but I found myself on one knee at the side of the road, watching the bus drive away. The gutter smelt fresh in comparison. There was to be no relief though. Misery upon misery, nothing but imperfection, everywhere I turn - and every day getting worse. It’s hard to describe, corruption filling my nostrils, starting to detect the connections, the web of filth and horror, each day bringing some new revelation……

Until finally, yesterday, the day I locked myself away, I became aware of the most base flaw, the festering core of it all, the corrosion at the centre of humanity.

I know what's wrong with you.

I've been awake all night. You can't imagine the burden. _I know what's wrong with you._ It get worse though, oh yeah. Much worse, for me. Today, this morning, half an hour ago, I realised what it is that I have to do. _Have_ to, but can't. How can I? How can I walk back out there and bring myself to touch you all? Even though I know I can heal you, how can I touch you, when I can _smell you_?


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## Lollybelle (Oct 3, 2003)

Excellent, love it.


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## Vixiha (Oct 3, 2003)

well done, fucthest8


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## jms (Oct 3, 2003)

*inspired by Lollybelle's "lyrics"*

*Music* 

Reading the sleeve notes for the first time. That's what it's about. Listening but not really listening. You have to get used to the words, not realising their future significance. A crisp guitar cuts in, then bass, and you join in the drumming on the tabletop. Five layers or more, but I can only listen to one at a time. It's like an unexplored plateau that I can't reach, but if I could, I'd be able to see everything. I'm not much of a musician, I got lost long ago when they tried to make me press a few white keys, in someone else’s house. You can't be good at everything. It's a place I'll never see, and never understand. It's all strangely upsetting. I can hear, but I'm just not listening.


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## jms (Oct 3, 2003)

*stolen from Chappers*

.


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## GarfieldLeChat (Oct 7, 2003)

*if lyrics are permisable then here's some of mine ....*

Gotta Getta Corroded

Elementary My Dear Holmes
In No Tolerance Zones
It Has Been Known
By Callous Use Of Microphones
This Will Get All Domes Blown
Thus Minor Player Rhyme Say'er 
Braggadocio, Shaman Slayer 
Once Exhaled, Kneeled To Prayer
Homers New Odyssey Has Begun
The Sanctioning Of Many, Criminalising Fun,
As General Rule Of Thumb
West Powdered Power, Ruled By the dictum
Gotta Getta Job, Gotta Earn You Keep,
Gotta Join The Rat Race, End Up On The Street

'Cos Capitalism, Catastrophic, Causality, Convenience, Causes Chaos, Creating, Crack Down Culture, Can Combine To Fucking Up You Credence, 

Gotta Getta Corroded,
Machine Reloaded, 
Out Voted, Been Noted,
Misquoted And Potent, 
Bloated Broad Band Quota.
Misnomer, No Go’er, Robbers Revolver, 
Stealing The Ashes From These Middle Classes, 
And Making The Ask On Whom To Kiss Ass, 
Or Pass On Remarks,
Without Leave Or Without By, 
Without Knowing Their Crime,
We All Stand In Line,
To Pass By And Sigh Without Disobedience,
Inference Or Lenience,
All In Accordance To This Countries Ordinance
Ordained 

This Pc, Black Mark Territory
Leaves Are Darkened Thought Cemetery, 
Each Tells Its Own Story
Often Drawing The Same Conclusions,
Adding To The Illusions,
Of Many Faces, One Coin
Combine, Tracer Paradigm, Refined
In Time To Half Blind
Rewinding Other Near Cave Dwellers, 
Back Street Sellers And Peddlers
All To Distant, Cryptic, 
Presence, Or Tenement
Dissention Immanent, Too Late,
To Implement Or Reinstate,
The Requiem Of Hate


Blank book compendium caper
Taper tamer shy shamer one liner
Choice definer shop stop cooperate comber 
Comb over slower shower shaver saver
Pace maker phantasm code breaker 
Mix maker one toke taker
more mixed up than a cocktail shaker
The opus world of the re run show
Confidence trick, go slow slushy snow
Blown by better bystanders storing ciphers 
In ceramic cylinders morphing metaphors
Matador’s miracles and morons forms
Fly poster player power perfect the word shower 
Shaper sifter lozenge lounger lingers longer


Many, major, memories, manifest the artistry 
Architectural, anarchists, angle grind the fantasy
Fewer philistines that can complement pageantry
With everlasting reverence they ride around the clarity 

This my name my place my form 
This the work which is still unborn,
This is note book the pages are torn
This is the tilt to put you on yaw 
Would ever, think it’s clever 
To make out in stormy weather
While lying in the heather
Underneath the broken bow 

This the tenement
The testament  
Of relevance
To reference 
Of peoples pop prose
Your sight it never slows
Slides to verbose
Veins come varicose
Constant irritation 
Verbal sanitation 
Needs no explanation
Or become comatose



the lights are my playground 
i love the dak sound 
the streets are my hallyways
where everythings found


this place is my playground
these's something that i've found 
i'm floating in the sky 
but standing on the ground


this place cuts to the chase 
the feeling of pepper spray mace 
chalk out line to face 
or memories erase 
displaces the playground 
i utter these thoughts out load 
head amongst the clouds
not proud but abound standing on the soild ground 
daytripping though the sky due to somehthing embiebed
white light finds purified by designed
this not a rewind 
a retake remake or shake and brake back step from take 
consious construction disfuniction discussion
broken babbaling keeps constant percussion
bring it back again to the orgianl sin 
mistake within every human being 
that stops from seeing we can be free just 
by letting it be just argree to disagree 
are we just gulity 

This my mind my time my sole 
This the time that put on hold,
This is the scrap book the pages are worn
This is the thought that i can take no more 
Don't you ever, think it’s clever 
To break of out in stormy weather
While lying to each other
Underneath the broken bow


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## jms (Oct 12, 2003)

*People* 

They make me wonder sometimes...

Some of them will hurt you for looking at them the wrong way, others for just looking, some for not looking at all.

And yet some of them will say thank you if you stop to let them get past in a crowded corridor, some of them will say it if you hold a door open for them. Some of them won't say anything. They just walk on, or walk into you.

Some people say sorry for the slightest thing. Some people don't even have sorry in their vocabulary. Some of them don’t even know what a vocabulary is.

Some people like Pencils. Some people have little tins for putting paperclips in. Some people have multi-coloured socks. You have to be convinced of what you think to do that. They're the ones with orange eyelashes and clothes that look like accidents in curtain factories. Some people are individual. 

Some people like saccharine quotes. You only live once. Shit happens. Life's a bitch, then you die. What the hell does that mean?

Some people drive 4x4s. And I don't mean Land Rovers, I don't even mean Range Rovers, I mean sodding Toyota Land Cruisers.

Some people wear baseball caps the wrong way round. Some people kiss their dogs. Some people are patriots, some aren't. Some people enjoy poisoning themselves. Some people play the guitar.

Some people discriminate. Some people are ignorant. Some people haven't got much time left. Some people have problems. People drink tea, people drink coffee. Some drink grapefruit juice. Some people reckon they can't draw. Some people hate birthdays. Some people like to be the centre of attention.

Some people think it's funny. Some people are very angry. Some people try to do the impossible. Some people destroy all that is sacred, all that is loved.

Some people don't know when to shut up. And some people just don't know when to stop.


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## Lollybelle (Oct 13, 2003)

I _like_ that, a lot.  It's given me a bit of a glow on a Monday morning.  A happy/sad one, but a glow nonetheless.


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## jms (Oct 13, 2003)

.


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## Trufflepig (Oct 14, 2003)

Reaching to the bottom of his bivi-bag he pulled out a little tight-lidded freezer box, containing very little dry golden viginia, a few cigar stubs, a lighter and a concertena of green rilza.  Using the sicsors on his fake swiss army knife he carefully cut the unrolled Hamlet stub into very fine strands, these he added to the rolling tobacco.  After separating a single sheet from the belt of stuck together papers,  he rolled a thin, but well formed cigarette, this he tucked into the inside the rim of his wollen hat. 

Slidding out of the bag he was hit by a new wind, making him wrap the blanket over his shoulders as soon as he could stand.  The newspaper hanging in the tiny shelter felt drier than it had, the twigs tied in a bundle at the bottom of the bivvybag would take its flame.  Rearanging the hearth, he confirmed that there had been a shift in the wind direction.  A strip of newsprint was all that was needed, a cone of hissing twigs had the soot blackened  kettle hottering contentedly in few minutes.  While the tea was brewing in the mug, he retreived his ciggarette, pulled an excess strand from the base, rolled it into a ball, then poked it into the tip, before lighting it with a glowing splinter from the fire.  Its purpose served, the tiny fire was raked apart, the now dry twigs would join the others in the shelter.  With tea, and cigarette in hand he surveyed the scene before him.  The mist had cleared, in the distance a few holiday makers were entering the valley.


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## Lollybelle (Oct 15, 2003)

*Us*

I stopped, dead in my tracks, turned and walked back.  Peered in the window, as subtly as I could, vaguely pretending to be looking at myself, checking that my skirt wasn't tucked in my knickers or that my hair was behaving itself.  I used my right hand to smooth my long fringe to one side, and saw that she made exactly the same gesture, eyes still on her Guardian, left hand reaching for her latte.  

Folding my own copy, draining my takeaway cup, I walked inside, and up to the counter.  She still didn't look up, but my own eyes were fixed, fascinated, the queue moving swiftly while seconds dragged in my mind as I stared.  We wore the same brown corduroy coat, red woollen hat; she had my eyes, my hair, my lopsided mouth.  

Not my reflection, not my sister, but another me, nonetheless, my doppelganger.  I knew I couldn't walk away without saying something; after all, I'd hope she wouldn't have left if she'd seen me first.  So I ordered yet another hazelnut latte and took the next high stool from her at the window, smiling inwardly at the view to the passers-by.  

My voice caught, just a little, embarrassingly, inevitably, as I opened with "Excuse me - I don't want to freak you out but just thought I should say hi?", hoping that she'd think like me, too, she'd be pleased that I'd spoken, she'd appreciate the humour.  

A crooked grin answered mine.   "Well, yes, I was hoping you would.  I've been waiting for you, darling."  Her smile, my smile, a recognition; I knew then that she knew me, that we were the same, that I'd been walking towards her all my empty life. 

And as I looked out onto the street, a third girl stopped at the window, dumbstruck, veering her steps to the right, stepping through the door; red hat, amber hair, brown coat.  

We smiled, in welcome.


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## chegrimandi (Oct 15, 2003)

Hazelnut Latte indeed...didn't get that from Benjys did you!


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## Lollybelle (Oct 15, 2003)

I used to be a barista dontchaknow!


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## chegrimandi (Oct 15, 2003)

chuh! 

*goes into rant about bloody noncey coffee bars further homogenising high-streets*


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## Maggot (Oct 15, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Lollybelle _
> *I used to be a barista dontchaknow!  *



It's spelt barrister actually!


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## Lollybelle (Oct 15, 2003)

So sue me.


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## jms (Oct 15, 2003)

.


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## jms (Oct 15, 2003)

.


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## fucthest8 (Oct 15, 2003)

*One - one thousand, Two -*

It’s not that the sensation is new, far from it. It’s just been a long time.

I feel sick, almost. No, that’s not quite it. It’s more a hollow sensation in the stomach. You know what I’m talking about. That yawning gap of worthlessness, a cavity that’s maybe shame, maybe loss of self respect. Maybe they’re the same thing. Fuck it. I was only kidding, just messing around. A throw away comment; it was supposed to be funny. It was ill conceived though. Part of me feels like crying, just a bit. Just a little bit.

I really wish I hadn’t hurt her.


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## Maggot (Oct 16, 2003)

Good story fucthest8. Mine is on a similar theme:

*Cutting Remark* 

He opened the thread and saw the short sharp sentence straight away. Well, he deserved that rebuke. Unfortunately he had a dial up connection and the rest of the page took an eternity to download. The smilies appear last, 'There will be smilies' he thought, ‘something to show that's it's all a joke, no offence taken. She always uses smilies.’  Shit, there weren’t any, no trademark big grin, nothing! He had managed to piss off one of the most tolerant people he knew. There was only one honourable thing he could do . . .

 . . . he was slumped forward, his nose pressing on the semi colon key. ‘You have a new Private Message. Please click here to read it.’ was partially obscured by the blood running down the monitor.


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## jms (Oct 16, 2003)

woo


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## jms (Oct 16, 2003)

*one for the (s)crapbook, methinks*

.


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## fucthest8 (Oct 16, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Maggot _
> *Cutting Remark*




Nice. Like it a lot.


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## Maggot (Oct 16, 2003)

Oooooooooh Thanks!  

Maybe I'll try and write some more now.


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## Miss Caphat (Oct 16, 2003)

*Lately*



> _Originally posted by fucthest8 _
> *I can detect only the imperfections. It’s rather peculiar. Distracting, too. It............(etc.)*






  Wow! fucthest8. Amazing! (miss caphat applauds)


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 19, 2003)

The Carousel.

Chapter 1.

Cath.

"Hi, It's me, Cath. Wanna come round and fuck me?"
Cath smiled as she listened to the answer. She had reconciled herself with her sins and now she felt as if it was Jack's fault that she was driven into the arms of a younger lover, entirely his fault.
"Ok..bye." she said as she clicked off. She brought the phone down into her lap and clutched it tightly, the viscous green glow fading gently between her fingers. She sat for a moment, mesmerized by her decision, then started with a jolt as she felt the hot, electric tingle of her phone vibrating. It was Jack.

Unbidden an image of him that morning came into her head. She straightened his crooked tie while he smiled his crooked smile at her. "Lunch, then? It's a date."  he had said. And it had been, at least, to her it had been. Counselling, common sense, lethargy and a strong practical streak had all convinced her that the grass was never greener. Convinced her to keep what she had for fear of losing everything.
"What" she wondered "happens when you've got nothing to lose?"

Jack's name flashed up on the screen. She stared at it as another memory flashed through her - Jack's voice on the end of the phone explaining why he couldn't make lunch and apologising and promising and yadda, yadda, yadda.. 
She could still hear Jack's whining voice in her head, offering to take her to Paris 'sometime' to make up, when the phone went silent in her hand. Then beeped.

She got up and walked toward the mirror. Her long, auburn hair flowed elegantly down to #50 Worthington curls that swished delicately against her bare shoulders. The sharp, hard edges of her plunge bra cut soft pink lines into her translucent  flesh and, through the mesh of the cups she could see the subtle darkening of her nipples. She followed the contours of her waist with her eyes and smiled approvingly at her long, slim legs, drawn taut by her Kurt Geiger heels. Jack's loss, most definately Jack's loss.

The phone rang again, but this time she answered. "Jack?.. yeah, sorry I was in the shower." she lied, glibly. "No, I don't mind, really. I was a bit pissed off, but I guess you've got to work."
She paused, "Yeah, Paris. That would be lovely."
Another pause, "No, honestly, it's ok. I understand. Don't worry, I'll find something to do." she said.
He made her laugh, "Hehe, lunch with the Woman's Institute, cucumber sandwiches and vitriol served on fine china." she replied.
Her eyes had not once left her reflection and she wondered just how Jack would feel if he could see her now. She felt a little sorry for him. She did things with and for her lover that Jack could only dream of.
He interrupted her reverie, "Ok" she replied " I've got to go too. Try not to work too hard. Love you, baby. Bye."

She smiled at his reply and replaced the receiver.


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 19, 2003)

Chapter 2.

Jack.

"Ok, I've got to go too.Try not to work too hard. Love you, baby. Bye"
"Bye," Jack said, "I love you too."

He heard the receiver click down and the cold, electronic silence of the disconnected signal. Smiling he slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, thought of his wife with her sensible clothes and her sensible shoes and her sensible ways.
Sensible was an anethema to Jack Fairley. Sensible was _old_. Sensible was passe. Sensible was not getting your cock sucked in broad daylight by your best client.

He opened his eyes. Amina's dark hair contrasted well with the Ariel white of his Calvins, the jagged zig-zag of her parting like a bolt of lightening toward his crotch.
"Mmm." he groaned, then "Ow! Fuck! What the fuck are you doing?!"
"I wub oo?" Amina looked up at him, liquid brown eyes full of the knowledge of her current power. Her small, sharp teeth were pressed into the shaft of his cock, digging little pin pricks of pain into its smooth thickness. Then she smiled and eased the pressure a little.
Jack felt the subtle throb that Amina's calculated bite had encouraged and, as her tongue flicked out to gently salve the pain she had created, he realised that she took his declaration to his wife with a pinch of salt. Why, then, did she take it so seriously when he said it to her?

She silenced his thoughts with another quick bite and drew her teeth along his shaft until, at last, he slid out of her mouth. "Say it to me." She said, her face faux-serious.
"I love you, Amina." Jack said, trying to calm the heat inside him, "More than anything."
She looked into his eyes as if studying him under a microscope. "Liar." She said with a laugh, "Love me? Yes. More than anything? No." She looked at his hard penis, pointing stubbornly toward her lips. Grabbing it gently she circled its girth with her fingers. "You love THIS more than anything else."
The sibilance of the word sent a tangible shudder through Jack's body. His swollen cock throbbed with the blood stolen from more cerebral parts of him, which explains why his next words were "Nnnggghh uuuhh." She smiled at him, showing her perfect white teeth, "But I love it too, so that's ok."

Jack gasped as she sunk her head down on him again. Past lips, teeth and tongue Jack could feel her drawing him in. He could feel his thick, fleshy glans pressed tight against the back of  her throat and gasped again as she ground down, taking more of him into her. His hands went to her head as he watched the solid column of his flesh being enveloped by her plump, full lips. The contrast of his pale, pink and her deep, brown skin made each centimetre a visual as well as physical delight.
She started to thrust, then. Firmly sliding her mouth along him, cheeks hollow with suction.
Cath never did anything like this...Cath never did.. anything. Jack felt a gentle warmth fill his body, his muscles were tightening, orgasm was close.
"I _do_ love you. Amina. You make me feel... extraordinary."
He felt her hand close on his balls, squeezing once in response. An exquisite shiver ran through his cock and he lost control of his orgasm... once you reach a certain point, there's no going back. Jack understood that and, as he strained every muscles to slow down his inevitable climax, he came to a decision. Literally.

"I'm going to leave her." He said, "I want to be with you."
Amina craned her neck to look up at him, surprise and suspicion evident in the glistening sparkle of her eyes. She swallowed.
"Put youself away, Jack Fairley. As ever, your timing is... impeccable." She sat back and delicately wiped her lips. Jack wondered, inappropriately, if Max Factor knew what their stay-fast lipstick was best known for.
"I love you too, Jack," she said, "but you're a bullshit merchant whose prices stay as high as his trousers." Getting up she straightened her skirt and reached for her jacket, "If you're serious, call me. But, right now, we need some time to think."
Jack paused, stunned. "But what about lunch?" he started to say.
She turned back from the door to face him, "I think we should skip lunch. I've already eaten." With that she was gone.


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 19, 2003)

Chapter 3.

Amina.

The door clicked closed behind her and, all of a sudden, she could breathe again.
'What is it about men," she thought to herself as she leant back against the solid, wooden panels "that they can never leave well alone?" A little biting, a little scratching, a little effort and they would promise you anything. Amina liked having Jack in the palm of her hand, who wouldn't? Jack was pushing 40, but pumping iron and accounts such as hers garbed him in Boateng and Helmut Lang suits. He was a catch that was evident, fish rarely came much bigger, but Amina was fishing for fun. It was always her way to throw them back.

Nodding curlty to Candela, Jack's svelte, South African PA, she strode toward the lift. Her skirt swished against her creamy chocolate thighs and her gentle fragrance of L'eau D'Issey wafted subtly behind her until the lift door clicked shut, cutting the aroma off and trapping her in a tight metal coffin with only her turbulent mind and a muzac version of Jefferson Starship for company.

45 mintues later Amina walked into the Sandwich King in Holborn where Carter worked the lunch shift. He had been her flatmate, confidante and 'Gay Best Friend' for much of Amina's adult life and, whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on, Carter could usually be relied upon to totally miss the point, but make her feel better anyway.
Today was different, though. She could see that he had been thinking... something that he tried hard not to do too often.
"You look tired." She said.
"Late night." He replied, sliding a styrofoam cup of a coffee like substance toward her. "Steve's going straight."
Amina sipped her coffee and drank in the information. "Oh." She paused, assessing his mental state, "You knew it might happen, though, he could have gone either way."
"Knowing shit doesn't make it easier to deal with, babe." He said, reproachfully. "He said he was bi, but then all the half arsed queers say that... until they meet the right guy."
He looked at her, as if seeing her properly for the first time. "It's ok, I think I'll medicate myself with a visit to the Astoria tonight for a bit of anonymous fiddling. If you can't find love, find a dark corner and a 19 year old, that's what I say!"
Amina laughed. She had really liked Steve. Secretly she had hoped that he was the One that Carter was looking for but, after he had made a pass at her, she was pretty sure that he wasn't.
Carter interupted her thoughts, "How did it go with Jack? Did you tell him?"
She stared at him, guiltily.
"You didn't, did you?" He put his hands to his face "Oh you are playing such a dangerous game, girlfriend."
She snapped at him "Don't call me that. You're not some stupid, camp twat with a copy of Gay Times for a brain." Seeing his hurt reaction, she relented and leant forward "I'm sorry, hun, but it's not as easy as that. He said he's leaving her."
Carter slapped his hand over his mouth to prevent his giggle from escaping, "Oh babe, that poor poor bastard." he said from between his fingers. "What did you say?"
"I said we needed time to think."
He looked at her, quizzically, "What's to think? You're getting married in 3 months time. I doubt that your hubby will be too pleased to meet Jack."
Amina sat back in her chair again. She didn't particularly love her husband-to-be, but then she didn't particularly like love. Love was like a hot curry - great for a while, but all you ever ended up with was an upset stomach and a pain in the arse.
"He needs to think about what he wants, and I need to think about how I'm going to let him down." She said, eventually. "I do love the guy, for whatever that's worth."
She saw Carter's eyes flick over her left shoulder and knew that his break was coming to an end. He focused back on her.
"Listen, sugar, I've got to go but I'll cook tonight, something special..."
"Go." She said, smiling, "I'm just going to finish this shit you guys call 'coffee' and then I've got to get back to work myself."

She watched his trim behind as he waggled back behind the counter then, draining the last from her cup, she got up to leave.
"Bye babe," Carter called out, just as the door was closing, "don't let him get you down!" He winked an outrageously wink at her and licked his lips.
Blushing she turned up the collar of her coat and stepped into the October wind.


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 19, 2003)

Chapter 4.

Carter.



Coming soon....


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 19, 2003)

Chapter 5.

Steve.



Coming soon...


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 19, 2003)

Ok guys, here it is.

If it offends, let me know and I'll take it down.


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## jms (Oct 19, 2003)

*.*

.


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## Velouria (Oct 19, 2003)

Empty.

He trudged through the snow, cold and miserable. All around was urban wasteland, the streets empty in the harsh winter twilight. It was the second petrol shortage this year and it was already twenty a gallon... He cursed his parents' generation. Plastic! Such a waste! The idiots!


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## Velouria (Oct 19, 2003)

Party.

They trudged through the forest - they'd already left the cars miles behind. The faint sound of beats could be heard in the distance, a DJ working the crowd... As they neared, they could hear voices in the distance, and they knew they were close. They were starting to come up...


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## jms (Oct 20, 2003)

*this took longer than it should have*

.


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## jms (Oct 20, 2003)

.


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## jms (Oct 20, 2003)

.


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## jms (Oct 20, 2003)

.


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## Maggot (Oct 21, 2003)

> _Originally posted by OriginalSinner _
> *Ok guys, here it is.
> 
> If it offends, let me know and I'll take it down. *



Doesn't offend me but isn't exactly _very very short_  as the thread title requests.


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## jms (Oct 22, 2003)

Your story does offend "the grid" though

I couldnt acess it during my IT lesson


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## OriginalSinner (Oct 22, 2003)

> _Originally posted by jms _
> *Your story does offend "the grid" though*



That, in itself, has to be a good thing...


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## mains (Oct 23, 2003)

I got a job with a family outfit in Rochester.  My card said 'Area Sales manager' but I was the only rep they had. They gave me £15K basic and 5% commission, plus a diesel car with air conditioning.  I was selling bits of industrial lights, not the actual lights themsleves you understand, the bits inside.  I had a 70s suitcase the father of an ex girlfriend gave me, charity shop shirts and ties and a pair of shoes I bought in a january sale three years ago.  My hair was probably a little too long to fit in with the estuary boys, but they didn't seem too bothered.  North Kent, South Essex and all of London was my patch. I sold a fair bit of stuff.

It was at night that the job really paid though.  I'd take the car out on the motorways and drive around with the windows open and the wind roaring all around me.  I'd follow the lines of the orange tungsten lights until they ran out.  I'd pull off and park up nearby and listen to the white noise of the tyres on the tarmac, like calico shearing.  I'd gaze up at what little number of stars the lights of a hundred commuter towns would let me see, I'd follow the blinking lights of planes as they crawled silently across the night sky.  Sometimes I would drive down as far as the M5 and stare into the pitch black woods to either side and wonder what forces were at work there; and I used to hang out in service stations because the accents changed, the only markers on the uniform furniture of the British motorway system.

My sales suffered though.  I jumped before I was pushed and ended up flying a desk.  My boss tells me that maybe in 6 months he might give me a car, but I don't believe a word that bloke says.


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## RubyToogood (Oct 24, 2003)

I like that 
	

	
	
		
		

		
			





(and jms is a clever fucker too)


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## jms (Oct 25, 2003)

.


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## jms (Oct 25, 2003)

.


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## fucthest8 (Oct 26, 2003)

*Vortex*

I wake up and immediately know what’s wrong. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I hope it’s the last. It feels like this:

I’m aware of all my individual thoughts. I can sense them, almost see them, swirling around like cream stirred into coffee. I can hear them too, a babbling of individual voices all trying to be heard, but I can’t fix on any one of them. That’s the heart of it, you see; all these thoughts and I can’t fix on a single one. So they swirl around, looking for someone to hear them, crying out, the noise filling my head in a slow-building crescendo that starts to sound like the screams of the damned and I can’t THINK dammit because these are MY thoughts that we are talking about and I CAN’T FIX ON A SINGLE ONE and staring hard into a mirror is just about enough to convince me that I do actually exist as a single being, not as the cacophony in my head and I smoke a cigarette and stare hard into my own eyes and pray that it will stop before I completely lose myself.


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## Lollybelle (Oct 29, 2003)

*They can see me*

They can see me.  They watch me all the time, and they want me to know that they do.  

I see their messages; they deface the movie billboards with words that only I will understand.  The cast of the next blockbuster will be only me, and the grey men; I know because it tells me so, and if I visit the cinema that's all I will see.  

Daily they close in on me, the messages becoming brighter, clearer, I can't walk past a single poster without seeing them.  

They've infiltrated the public transport system, too.  It's cleverly done, they've been planning this for me all my life.  The other people just don't look, they never pay attention, and that's why they don't see what those dot matrix letters are really saying:  

BRIXTON                                           1 min
STAND CLEAR - YOUR TIME IS SOON

That was yesterday.  As I left for work this morning I saw what it said on the front of the number 3 bus; some poster for a musical, a grinning cartoon face watching me read the words beneath: 

Your Time Has Come! 

And so I've sat in the office all day, a model of calm, a blank white sheet, trying not to read the tickertape news across the bottom of my screen; they're telling me what I will do for them before they kill me too and I just can't bear to know, I can't bear to see it or to have become what they have made of me with their incessant silent shouting.

Descending the evening escalators the posters to my right are black, one white word on each:

THE
   TIME
      IS
         NOW
            GO
               DO
                  OUR
                     BIDDING
                        YOU
                           WILL
                              BE
                                 REWARDED
                                    IN
                                       THE
                                          NEXT
                                             WORLD

and I know I cannot escape their plan, I begin to accept its inevitability.  Stepping onto the southbound train, I cross myself before opening the rucksack they left by my front door.  I smile at the man next to me, the last gesture of the girl who only wanted to be loved, and release the canister. 

As the blaring text of the overhead advertisements blurs and fades, my eyes finally stop seeing, stop reading, and the grey men give me my peace.


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## fucthest8 (Oct 29, 2003)

Yes yes yes, Lolly.


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## jms (Oct 30, 2003)

.


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## jms (Oct 30, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (Oct 30, 2003)

*holy war*

They declared a holy war, and they decreed that it should take place in my hometown.  They advertised it in the Evening Standard, although I'm not sure there were so many respondents from the Home Counties.  It was yesterday.  The weather's been getting colder, and the fighters had goosebumps on their bare arms under the grey skies. 

There were police with riot shields, they'd cordoned off the area.  The fighters had agreed that it would be done honourably; no armour, no weapons, a battle of purity and rightness, but you know what the police are like, they’re full of miscellaneous fear, a terror of the masses.    

I watched, my father standing behind me, from behind the police barricades.  I could see row upon row of coloured robes; I hardly knew which represented which faith.  Most of them were hurriedly made from household sheets after urgent trips by wives to department stores, full of pride of their bravery of their sons and their husbands.  

None of us watchers knew, really, though, how things would pan out.  Or why we had chosen not to fight for any cause.  Were we mere spectators because we lacked sufficient passion or belief?  And why did we want to watch, could we really bear to see people pounded into submission with bare fists?  As for me, I was scared of the crowding between shopfront windowpanes.  I pictured bodies speared to death on shards of KFC-greased glass, or crushed against the traffic lights and tall signs showing the way to the coast.

The time came; it was 6pm.  Office workers were still spilling from the tube station and joining the edges of the crowds.  The roads were closed, and the fighters thronged the junction.  At the church chime, an expectant silence fell - who, among so many, would strike the first blow?

My father's hands squeezed gently on my shoulders, and we listened as the sounds began.  Voices started to speak.  And rose, swiftly, forcefully.  There were preachers and choirgirls and trumpeters and men armed only with megaphones, all beseeching us, their audience, to follow the only true way, the only path to salvation.  It was deafening; their words intermingling, their singing cacophonous.  It rose to its peak, and stayed there, an hour or more, unintelligible but beautiful, before starting, slowly, to decline and fade. 

And so it was; the holy war.  Neither won nor lost by any side.

Eventually, the crowds turned and left, slowly, in their masses, puzzlement on their faces.  I waited, with my father, in the same way as we always watched to the very end of the film credits - taking in the information that no-one else bothers to, the hidden secrets.  But in the end, as the fighters began to quiet their voices, packing away their keyboards and bugles, we too turned for home.  

The audience now safely dispersed, heading back to their central heating and their TV screens, I asked my father why we had all seemed so disappointed when we should have been relieved that no-one was hurt.  He told me that it was because people believed that the answer lay in spectacle, in victory and retribution.  Whereas the answer lay in everything and everyone; no voice was loud enough for God to hear alone.


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## jms (Nov 4, 2003)

.


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## chazegee (Nov 4, 2003)

bing is coming 
bong 


Bing Bong 



*Bing Bong* BonG 

Bong 

is coming...........


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## jms (Nov 4, 2003)

.


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## fucthest8 (Nov 4, 2003)

*Sparks*

From my vantage point at the top of Holden Hill I can see fireworks bursting over the city. It’s nowhere near the 5th of November, yet still they let off fireworks; like Christmas, it just gets earlier every year. So I’m watching the fireworks and I’m wondering who’ll be taking my kids to the bonfire this year. It won’t be me, I fear. I look down at myself. I know there is blood, but I can see none. Too dark, up here in the treeline. I ought to be down there, under the fireworks, yet here I am, up in the air, above them. My breathing sounds wrong. I close my eyes.

When I open them again, it seems too bright. At first I think maybe a firework has gone off overhead, but I quickly realise the light is coming from behind me, not above. I look over my shoulder, back up to where the car rests in amongst the trees. I had thought earlier that no one would notice it until daylight, perhaps not even then, but this new light – it is white, blazing – surely must reveal it to someone. Then I see the source of the light. I stand slowly.

Her features are indistinct somehow, yet definitely female – or perhaps it is her dress (robe?) that gives me this impression. She is incandescent; I have to squint to look at her. She stops in front of me and holds out her hand.  “Come with me.” she says. Then: “Are you ready?” I nod. I know why she is here. I am as ready as I will ever be. She takes my hand and we walk toward the car. As we near it I can hear quiet noises, not speech precisely, but something like it. Her hand tightens on mine and I feel comforted.

“Finish it, Michael.” she whispers to me. I pick up my knife from where I left it, near the drivers’ side door. The noises from inside the car pick up a little in volume, but are still wordless. Since I tore out his tongue, the driver makes little sense; what I presume are his attempts to beg for mercy are just animal noises. I left him his eyes so that he could see me come back to finish the job, but removed his hands so he could not open the door and escape. As the light starts to fade around me and the noises become more squealingly desperate, I open the drivers door. “Hi!” I say brightly, “I’ve just popped back to finish off slowly butchering you, but then I really _must_ go.”


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## red rose (Nov 4, 2003)

The alley was dark, even more so than the cellar she rarely ventured into at home.  She was never really home now anyway, Charlotte’s boyfriend, Paul, was disturbing, she kept out of his way, it was hard when he acted like he owned their home. In the darkness and the rain she ran, not to escape the dark but to escape what the dark concealed in its thick folds.  As she ran she did not take care to miss the nettles she knew were there, nor – unfortunately – did she check where her feet fell.  She tripped, a dead weight, like a soggy sandbag lay across her path.  On her now bloody knees she twisted, looking back.  She didn’t have far to look, right behind her she could, not necessarily see, but sense he was there, his heavy breathing from chasing her found her face.  She didn’t have time to think in her panic before his knuckles struck the side of her head sending her to the ground.  

As she fell back to the ground she heard voices calling out, from her groggy state she thought he was running away.  Torchlight shone in the distance, casting a shadow from the object she had fallen over.  As the torch got nearer and the object became illuminated she tried to make it out.  It took her several seconds to realise; ‘my god! It’s a person!’ and a further millisecond to see, ‘Paul!’


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## jms (Nov 5, 2003)

*.*

.


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## red rose (Nov 5, 2003)

Her shadow danced reluctantly with the lights of the disco ball against the awful flowery wallpaper.  The creams and Burgundies mixed badly with the greens and blues of the strange shaped flowers and clashed further with the overly flashy disco lights.  Relatives she didn’t know chatted aimlessly about people only they had heard of; they were the sorts of relatives that seem like they belonged at family ‘parties.’  All kinds of regulation party food lay out on the table across the room, things no one really liked but everyone ate because they were there, Bombay mix and cocktail sausages.  Earlier she had found sanctuary in the kitchen, with its clean surfaces and stationary lights, but now an uncle of cousins she never spoke to was there, she could hear him talking louder than was necessary, could imagine him using the counter for support as he worked his way through the beers, and then spirits that were grouped there.   The thing with family parties is that you can only amuse yourself by observing others for so long before it gets boring, despair sets in and the lights irritate you.  Then you are left trying to blend into the awful wallpaper to avoid polite conversations with people you only speak to out of courtesy and all the time wishing you were anywhere else.


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## jms (Nov 6, 2003)

*Across the Bay* 

Another yacht. A fair-haired man with green tinted sunglasses lies back in a deckchair at the front of the boat. A man in white emerges from a trapdoor, steps gracefully out, bearing a silver platter with a glass of grapefruit juice balanced precariously on its polished surface. The man in white walks to the to the deckchair, and places the glass on a side table next to the man, who looks up from the newspaper he is reading, and says something. The man in white retreats beneath deck again, never with his back to the man with the sunglasses. He turns over a page of the paper, and folds it in half, before placing it on the table next to the glass. Tanned hand and pale pages part. The man reaches for his glass without looking at what he is doing, and the wind changes slightly. Then everything goes black as the shutter closes, and I reach for another twenty cents to put in the slot.


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## jms (Nov 7, 2003)

edit


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## Red Cat (Nov 9, 2003)

She arrived home one balmy summer night. The houses were whiter and the ivy more green than she remembered. The blue sky blessed the cold grey city with a thousand miracles. Everything was clear - so different from the yellow haze of the far off place she had left that morning. 

She felt a tremor through her body and believed that it must be her heart breaking. She wouldn't be leaving again after all. What a fool she'd been! She decided that it wasn't the 'real' her, those mornings spent washing herself in the hot spring, the afternoons drinking glasses of hot sweet chai, evenings cocooned in her shawl. Maybe it was the opium that had turned her head. 

But then she noticed that she could pass her hand through her body; that where her heart should have been there was an empty space. The tremor was the wind passing through. Her heart wasn't breaking: it was no longer there. She'd left it in the mountains. Dropped it in the orchards on the way to the waterfall. 

But she knows that he will find it and keep it for her. He will play his guitar each night, he will write, paint, she will become his muse. And her heart will soon beat in time with his own. It's better that he keeps it for her until she goes home to him. She will go to him when he returns to the desert and the sea. 

Here, she will warm herself with bottles of red wine....

They will find eachother again....surely


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## Lollybelle (Nov 11, 2003)

*Family*

Every day I see him sitting underneath the railway bridge.  He yells out random curses at passers-by while trains thunder overhead.  

On weekdays I walk back from the station, from his viewpoint just another pair of legs streaming past in office skirt and clickety-clack heels, and I look down at him with a kind of half-smile of acknowledgement.   He doesn't see me, my face means nothing unless I've got a bottle or a fag forthcoming, but somehow in my mind it's necessary, it's the least I can do.

Weekends, I walk under the bridge towards the supermarket with the children, one hand on the pushchair, the other gripping tightly onto a small warm sweaty palm.  I walk more quickly then.  After all, I'm a mother now, a woman with a home and family to look after, I have babies to protect. I don't want them to hear the filth that comes out of his mouth.  

I don't even want them to see him.  Especially not to see him.  In case they recognise his face from those old photographs.

edited because I mis-used a word.  which REALLY pissed me off.


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## @^+ (Nov 13, 2003)

Lollybelle - acknowledgment, not acknowledgement. 
When correcting grammar, you really should also check spelling. 
 



p.s. excellent work, as always.


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## chegrimandi (Nov 13, 2003)

I really must get round to printing this thread out one time.....problem is all you clever Chaucer types keep adding to it with your bloody short stories....!


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## Lollybelle (Nov 13, 2003)

And there I was, gutted to have lost my spelling-queen crown, especially as that still looks right to me, but....

aha!

I _was_ right ... you can spell it both ways.  

http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=acknowledgement


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## @^+ (Nov 13, 2003)

curses.

I'll get my coat...


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## fucthest8 (Nov 15, 2003)

*Grey*

I’m driving home from work, listening to a tape a friend made for me. A lot of the tunes aren’t my usual thing, but then that’s why I’m listening to it. Mustn’t let myself stagnate. So there I am, humming away sometimes, hitting the “FF” button others, not really thinking about anything, when the chorus of this one song makes all the hair stand up on my neck. I remember.

I’m 16. I’m working on my bike in my Dads’ garage, no-one else at home, when I hear the doorbell ring. I love my bike. It turns me from just another fat kid with a crap hairstyle into a speed demon, a daredevil, a force to be reckoned with. It gets me respect, when usually all I get is the piss taken out of me. Me and my bike are dangerous – and kids respect that. So I look after my bike, treat it well, make sure it’s oiled in all the right spots, keep it clean and rust-free.

So I ignore the doorbell. There’s a slightly rusty bolt that needs replacing. I pick up a big screwdriver; I’ll need to generate quite a bit of torque to get the bolt off. It’s really designed for driving in wood-screws, but it’s ideal for the job I have in mind, with its’ bulbous, easy-grip handle and broad blade.

The doorbell is ringing constantly now. It’s no good, I’ll have to answer it, they obviously aren’t going away. I walk down the alley between the garage and the house and open the gate at the end. I peer round the corner to see who is at the door. Alerted by the sound of the gate opening, they are peering right back at me.

Craig fucking Wooding. Craig “Bully” Wooding. Craig “my three mates are going to hold you down so I can stub my cigarette out on your head” Wooding. What the FUCK is he doing here? Delivering something it seems, a package in his hand. Why HERE? What are the chances of him delivering something to MY HOUSE? He snorts a short laugh and then starts advancing on me.

“Oi fat boy! Nice to see you! I need a piss as it goes and I was wondering where to do it! On you I reckon, whaddya say FAT BOY!!” He is two feet away from me. I feel the weight of the screwdriver in my hand. No-one will be home for hours. Behind my house is nothing but fields. He pushes me. “Oi fat boy! You deaf?!”

I remember. It takes moments. The chorus of my new favourite song will come round again shortly and I’m smiling from ear to ear as I drive. I feel joyous. Ecstatic. I know that I will only be able to sing one line before I start laughing and that my laughter will last me the rest of way home. Perhaps longer. I fill my lungs so that I can sing as loud as possible. I roar the lyric.

“I committed murder and I think I got away”.

No “think” about it though. I know.


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## fucthest8 (Nov 16, 2003)

*Loving the Plum Situation*

Whenever she is close to me, I can feel my heart race.

After all that we have been through, she has no idea that she still has this effect on me.

She glances across and I smile at her, basking in her beauty, her apparent interest in me. Then she looks away.

She has no idea.


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## jms (Nov 17, 2003)

.


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## jms (Nov 17, 2003)

.


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## Lollybelle (Nov 18, 2003)

*hall of mirrors*

you don't fucking know what you did today do you it was all going to be all right and then you had to go and say it to him didn't you and do you realise just how tight those jeans are on your fat arse and you had rolls of flesh hanging over and just what were you expecting him to say was he going to suddenly decide that you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen when you're standing there in your saggy black jumper with your hair in straggles and you haven't even bothered to put any fucking make up on

and she keeps whispering and whispering at me and I can see her icy blue stare unblinking although it's dark in the room and she hates me just as much as I do and I can't do anything but smash her face into pieces but even as I turn away from the scene my hands dripping with blood I see her watching me still from behind.


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## fucthest8 (Nov 18, 2003)

*Seasonality*

There’s a butterfly in my house. A Red Admiral. It reminds me of being young, when it was the first butterfly I knew the name of. It reminds me of walking through the fields at the back of my parents’ house, of summer holidays that seemed indefinite. Hot pursuits through corn, bulrush fights, too many kids on the rope swing over the stream. Lying laughing in the shallow water after it broke.

I presume it is still alive because our house is warm. It must have hatched late, as summer over-ran, delaying autumns' coming. Then somehow it found refuge here, in my home. Our home. For the last ten days I’ve watched it grow weaker, flying shorter distances, less often. Now it sits on our stairs, too weak to move, flexing its’ beautiful wings impotently every now and again. I want to save it, keep thinking that it seems wrong for it to have survived so late in the year, only to come and die at my feet. I wonder if it’s suffering.



Edited cos I was tired.


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## jms (Nov 19, 2003)

.


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## jms (Nov 19, 2003)

*here's something else instead*

*Window* 

He sits towards the back, on one of so many grime-laden seats. He keeps being jogged by the constant rumbling, his finger moves with fluid motion over the glass. I don't know how long he's been there. There seems to have been a lot of writing, etched from the condensation, most of it quickly made invisible by the unecessary heat. I can't even tell if that's English he's writing. Or if he's writing at all. The tip of his finger is red, the hand on the other end of it calloused, the skin pocked and scarred by age. He wears a long grey coat that looks as though it might have been beige once. Too many years in the city, I suppose. Too much time on buses. His eyes have an odd intensity, something you couldn't put into words, something you couldn't draw unless you made his eyebrows slope a little more downwards. He glances briefly at me, catching me off guard. I don't have time to look away, because soon he's back to his writing. 

I don't see him get off, I feel like the woman in that Hitchcock film..what was it called..where everyone says she imagined the old woman sitting in opposite her in the train. I reach up to the red button, so overused that the white lettering is all but gone. My fingertip matches the plastic, and I realise what it is to be a writer.


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## jms (Nov 20, 2003)

.


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## jms (Nov 22, 2003)

.


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## jms (Nov 25, 2003)

.


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## jms (Nov 26, 2003)

.


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## jms (Nov 28, 2003)

.


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## arattebury (Nov 28, 2003)

ba ba ba ba ba ba ran


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## Dr Morose (Nov 30, 2003)

After midnight, things went from bad to worse, the room was full of people cattering, harsh, high pitched cawing noises, smoke

my head was full of smoke, fuck knows, fuck knows what makes you want to ge that fucked, and then when you should lie down, keep going. The room was moving, and Anna kept melting into some beast every time she laughed, she laughed a lot, at me, i couldn't stand up straight, i knew they were alughing at me, it was all getting interesting, it was all going wrong

every single one of us in that room had a death wish, i wanted do die from smoke inhalation, i want to rape my mind, and then rise, and rise and rise.

Henry was lying on the floor of the toilet, dressed in bow tie and dinner jacket, lying on his back with a mouthful of vomit, a noseful of it

I was too fucked, I'm still too fucked


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## DotCommunist (Dec 1, 2003)

I loved the painted fence, it was so perfect. I lay with my cheek to the sand. one side of my vision was dominated by a rasta slowly painting the shack in the corner of my eye. Odd one half of me waswatching this little crab trudging towards the edge of my vision.
The crab got crushed by my brothers rushing feet. For all I know the rasta is still painting away


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## jms (Dec 1, 2003)

*aka, a shoebox*

.


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## jms (Dec 1, 2003)

.


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## fucthest8 (Dec 2, 2003)

*To protect ...*

Me and the hum and whistle of the servers, that's all there is. Well, almost. Occasionally, I can hear a truck go by, the roar muted underneath the whine of computing. In the end, I notice the lights long before I hear the sirens.


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## jms (Dec 2, 2003)

.


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## jms (Dec 2, 2003)

.


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## chazegee (Dec 2, 2003)

The small frog stood on the centre of an enormous disc of shallow water. He could sense the strata sculpt the sky above his head, and felt the hot blood as it seeped through his cartoon ears.

As he bent his head down to prod the water, starting an enormous, perfect ripple that would rush to the edge of world, forcing its skin to bulge and emmit a pink

((((ping)))) 

and heave back on its wake and destroyed itself and everythink leaving  a fine mist globular cola-bottles

He wondered if he'd turned his phone on


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## jms (Dec 2, 2003)

You, my friend, are quite mad


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## chazegee (Dec 2, 2003)

coming fom you!!!


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## jms (Dec 2, 2003)

No, youre right


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## arattebury (Dec 4, 2003)

*Shortness*

Both a hinge short of a sixpack if you ask me. Better go now as I suspect your not.

Anyone got any story ideas on the theme "Shortness" 
not Gunter Grass The Tin Drum type though.


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## Balbi (Dec 4, 2003)

Staring across the bay at the tiny rafts floating just beyond the reef, he sighed and stretched. Wondered if the rains would come this year, surely now was too late. The fields were already parched and carrying the water from the beachw as no good, the salt was killing everything off. And as he dived off the cliff into the cool below, he wished for life but prayed for rain.


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## invisibleplanet (Dec 4, 2003)

*Horse Story*

one full-moonlit evening in a late and misty october, i was attending a large outdoor gathering in a field some few miles out of the city. in the dream of the night i wondered away from the camp into a field full of gypsy piebald horses, and reached out to one of them, who inquisitively checked me out. 
i patted his shoulder playfully and he whinnied quietly, sending clouds of moisture-laden breath into the chill night air. i pulled his ears playfully and pressed my nose against his, breathing on his soft velvety muzzle. in my mind, i had a strong desire to climb on his back, but he was quite tall and my inebriated state wasn't condusive to leaping onto a horse, so i whispered my desire quietly to him, whilst he munched the grass from my hand. walking to his flank, and taking some rough grass, i groomed his dusty coat with the bundle of stalks,  and separated his tangled mane with my fingers, all the while whilst he tore up grass...seemingly ignoring me. 
i sighed, and said aloud to him "i really want to ride you, but i can't climb on, you're too tall", and then a strange thing happened. he turned his head round to me, and pushed my leg with his nose, and then....he lay on the ground....craning his head around to look at me. i was amazed...i held back from climbing on at first, not being quite able to believe that this horse was giving me the opportunity to clamber on with ease, and then holding his mane, hoisted one leg over, and leant forwards as he returned to a standing position, with me firmly in place on his back, under a full moon...a very drunken, and very happy me.


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## fucthest8 (Dec 7, 2003)

*Seperated*

As he cuts across the pavement to his car, he notices her out of the corner of his eye. The blonde hair draws his gaze, like a magnet and he glances at her. Her shoulders are rounded forward, her head bowed and she has her hand up to her face, obscuring it. This is all he sees before he looks away. 

The keys are in his hand and he is reaching for the lock in the drivers' door, but he slows the movement. Something is wrong. He straightens up and turns toward her, opening his mouth, but the words won't come and she sweeps past, unseeing. He turns again, watching her retreating back, but it's too late.

Later, he would look back on that moment with regret. Almost a sense of responsibility. Nobody blamed him, all the people he told said that it wasn't his fault, how could it be? Hard to ask a crying stranger if you can help. Hard to reach out, in case it's misunderstood. Yet still it bothered him. Like he had failed her.


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## arattebury (Dec 8, 2003)

* invisibleplanet*

invisibleplanet 


Liked your horse story. Very atmospheric


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## mains (Dec 8, 2003)

*Me and Phil Collins*

I was at the bus stop when he pulled up.  I was quite suprised it was him, the car was a Mk2 capri with a big dent in the side. I mean, you expect Phil Collins to drive something a bit better than a capri, don't you.  

'Alright Phil?', I asked. 
'Yeah, not too bad', was the weary reply, 'hows your mum and dad?'. 
'Mums fine but my dad died'.  
Phil Collins seemed really shocked. 'Yeah?  When did that happen?'.  
'1980' I said.

He offered me a lift and I accepted.  The car was quite dirty inside, crushed fag packets and sweet wrappers.  He was driving a little too fast, trying to impress me.  Phil Collins clipped the wing mirror on my side at one point and it seemed to rattle him.  He slowed to an ordinary speed, just as well really as thick globs of rain started to hammer on the long roof.  Phil Collins turned up the stereo to drown out the sound.

'What do you make of this?  Its my new album...' I told him it sounded great but it was terrible, all his nasal voice and false emotion, the sounds seemed all wrong and not to work together.  To be honest I'm not much of a Phil Collins fan, its my sister who likes his stuff.

Then he touched my leg.  It wasn't an accident either.  He was looking straight at my face and seemed not to care about the road ahead.  For a second I was so stunned I couldn't move, but I counted to ten and told myself on ten I'd do something.  I got to ten and didn't move, so I counted to ten again. The third time I got to ten his hand was still there, so I yanked the handbrake up.  I'd seen it in a film with Clint Eastwood, _Thunderbolt and Lightfoot_ it was called.  We were on a gentle, high kerbed bend and the capri slid into the corner sideways, Phil Collins side mounted the high pavement with a horrible sickening noise and we were beached.  

I got the door open and ran into the rainy night.  I was maybe a hundred yards away when I heard him screaming at me. 'Nobody will believe you, you little shit!  I'm Phil fucking Collins and who the fuck are you anyway!  And your sisters a fucking slag too!'


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## ajk (Dec 8, 2003)




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## Lollybelle (Dec 10, 2003)

*The Ladies*

There's a fat lady in a puffy silky skirt that billows around her ample legs, encased in fine-mesh fishnets, toes bulging slightly in black stilletos.  She's preening in the mirror, an array of pots and potions in front of her, red lipstick pouting, spraying her hair with a snowstorm of fine droplets caught in the artificial light, perfuming herself so strongly that it cloys the air and practically sticks in my throat, even at this distance.  She wrinkles a perfectly powdered nose at a faint creeping stench...

By the sinks there's a timid little woman, hunched shoulders, clearly ate only grapefruit for breakfast and will probably do so for lunch as well.  She's in tapered black trousers and flat loafers, a shapeless sweater falling unhindered straight from shoulder to thigh.  She's filling a bottle of water with a peeling much-washed label from the taps, peeking nervously in the mirror above her head at the mightily coiffed diva behind her lest she turn round... 

Drying her hands oh-so-swiftly and roughly on scratchy paper towels is a tall besuited, bespectacled power dresser, checking in the full-length mirror by the towel dispenser her slicked-back ponytail and the alignment of the slit in her pencil skirt before hurrying towards the door, a clean breath of air, and the rest of her day...

From the cubicles, all four of them with doors locked shut, there's a symphony of splutter-splattering and satisfied grunting sounds, pebbledashing, log-laying.  It's as though the air is turning cloudy brown, furls of odour curling around the heads of the preening peacock, the water-drinker and the new manager alike.  The tips of a pair of pointed shoes poke out from underneath one of the doorways like the Wicked Witch of the West; from there you can hear violent vomiting, and I can almost smell the rising stink of carrots and bolognese marinated in lager and Bailey's...

... meanwhile, I continue to hand round the canapes.  "Parma ham on crostini, Madam?  Sir?".   Unbelievably, they each lift one delicately from my glass platter, sipping their champagne, staring and chattering in round-angled vowels.  

I'm just thanking Christ for the perspex screen.

Performance art?  All a load of shit, if you ask me.


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## jms (Dec 10, 2003)

"Lord and Servant, they all shit in the same hole"


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## arattebury (Dec 11, 2003)

*s*

s


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## arattebury (Dec 11, 2003)

*The Plasterer's hangover*

Sorry to keep sending random letters. I am not trying to be funny I am just a bit IT illiterate.

 and I was trying to test whether I am hitting the right submit story button as last time instead of sending a story in I created a new thread. Think I've hit the right button this time. Any how this is what I was trying to send in. It is inspired by a cheap bottle of red wine I drank, the headache which followed and a radio documentary I heard about Seagulls migrating from the seaside to live in cities or on refuse tips. I am not a Plasterer by profession, gladly because from what I've heard it sounds pretty exhausting work.

The Plasterer's hangover 
Last night I dreamt I was a seagull. It may ave been down to the part of Spain that £2.99 cheeky cheapskate tart of a bottle of red wine came from. Anyway the seagull or me right,we were flying across summer thirsty corn fields, patchworkquilt like all darting underneath my outspread white snowy wings. It were ace exhilarating like driving in the fast lane of the m25 or take off on a plane to Majorca.

Then I was, I must, I thought, be surging towards somewhere exciting, I was, knew it was my calling, but then, beyond my control, I swooped down 200 ft towards ground, and over into a quarry half filled with refuse. The tip was full of steaming piles of matter rotting with the midday heat. The stench unbearable, ammonia, and my eyes started to water themselves raw, but I was drawn as uncontrollably as grubby cabbage moth to flame might be. There lo and behold my gem stood afore me wedged between a soft rotten carrot and a mound of old rice n peas, was it. A transparent diamond large as an onion gleaming in the sun's ray. I came to land and picked it up between my beak but it was too heavy for me to fly off. My claws wedged stuck upto the ankle in sticky porridge like goo.


My girlie left me last week. I guess that is why I have been getting these odd dreams. I guess also why I have been drinking too much of this cheap wine. She told me I was too poor for her , that she wanted someone she could depend upon and she was right, now know I ca'nt blame the lass. 

I wanted to take her out to the restaurants she dreamt about from her magazines. Restaurants where you could eat doll size portions of food off giant's plates, with chandeliers hanging overhead, as though in a ballroom. Restaurants where celebrities would munch their dinner casually holding heavy silver cutlery while chatting with friends and smiling at their fellow restauranters.

The problem was my girl didn't know the full truth about me. I wanted her so bad I made her believe I was rich. It wasnt that difficult to begin with told her I was a self made man rags to riches style. I got a credit card and began to pay for little pretty things for her and to spruce myself up as the part. Gave her gold necklaces and earrings that she would woop in delight about over the table. The look of astonishment and delight would melt my foolish rotten quarry of a heart, until it went bad.


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## sarcastic food (Dec 13, 2003)

*Me and Phil Collins*



> _Originally posted by mains _
> * I got the door open and ran into the rainy night.  I was maybe a hundred yards away when I heard him screaming at me. 'Nobody will believe you, you little shit!  I'm Phil fucking Collins and who the fuck are you anyway!  And your sisters a fucking slag too!' *




Mains that was classic.. wait till I show Yossarian, he hates Phil Collins!


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## white rabbit (Dec 13, 2003)

I know this thread is 677 (678 now) posts in, but something has been bugging me. I apologise if it has already been asked but, you know.

Why "Very/Very Short ..."?

"Short/very short" maybe or "Very, very short". What does the title mean?


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## jms (Dec 13, 2003)

I think it means

very short stories or very very short stories=
very short stories/very very short stories=
very/very short stories

if you see what I mean


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## white rabbit (Dec 13, 2003)

Not really.

Very (very) short ... might have worked then. But what's the difference between a very short story and a very very short story? We're into _very_ inflation (or is that deflation?  ). It's mad!

I reckon chegrimandi was on one, but there you go.


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## Vixiha (Dec 13, 2003)

Originally there was a word limit; that was only the first few pages though.


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## jms (Dec 14, 2003)

*Reckle*

It's what he does a lot of, fingers. That and forgetting where he puts things (like his tongue), putting himself down, staring into mirrors and thinking about coats, kites and all manner of other things...

Fingers though..tieing laces, gripping each pen, the blue, the green, red pencil, pink. Colours are what it's degenerated to. Thats not what it should be about. But words are hard to find, with all the commas about. No idea, no idea..

Punctuation, he was on about that the other day..smashed wine glasses..

something like that..with one off moaning and the other one dreaming of collars and purple trees.


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## jms (Dec 14, 2003)

.


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## jms (Dec 14, 2003)

.


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## jms (Dec 14, 2003)

.


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## fucthest8 (Dec 16, 2003)

*It doesn’t work.*

Late July. Barely a cloud in the sky. The sun is low, but still hot, as I walk across the park. I find a spot, near the bowling club, away from the noisy kids, away from anyone smoking, away from any source of annoyance. 

The wrong trigger today and I might …. might …. it could get ugly.

I close my eyes and fold my legs up under me, as I crumple to the ground. I sit like that for a while, shutting out the world, listening to only the noises made by my own animation, my internal orchestra. After a while I open my eyes.

A woman, girl perhaps, has sat down a short distance in front of me. I don’t exactly see her though. I see the wall of the bowling club. Or, rather, I notice our shadows on the wall. They make it look as if we are sitting together and, as I watch, it seems to me that my head moves slightly toward her. We sit there, she and I, my head upon her shoulder, the shades of our selves intimate, safe. I soak up the illusion whilst I can.


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## chazegee (Dec 17, 2003)

I put my hand above my shoulder, up to the bulb, until I can see the capillaries pick out a path through the translucent wasteland. The flesh falls away in feather like bites, and falls to the laboratory floor like rotten strawberries. The bones have come up lovely, and I clench my new found lightness, just for a laugh. Just to hear the bones scittle across each other like someone playing the xylophone  ON MY FUCKING TEETH  . And then, because I can flip 3 fingers up to my asistant dweezol, who is a man moth. I then use the remote control to gently put down the bones in the radiation tank. 

I say it was my hand, well, it wasn't always.


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## jms (Dec 17, 2003)

.


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## clandestino (Dec 19, 2003)

He came up to me in the pub on Friday night. Knew all about me, things no stranger should. Leaning too close, moisture on my skin. Followed me out of the pub, wouldn't stop talking. He spotted me in the market today. Shouted out. I just kept on going.


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## jms (Dec 24, 2003)

.


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## jms (Dec 27, 2003)

arahgrahgfrhagr


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## chegrimandi (Dec 29, 2003)

> _Originally posted by white rabbit _
> *Not really.
> 
> Very (very) short ... might have worked then. But what's the difference between a very short story and a very very short story? We're into very inflation (or is that deflation?  ). It's mad!
> ...



um WR in answer to your question why the nonsensical thread title nothing more to it than I was pretty sketchy and hungover at work when I made it. It doesn't really make sense, I can't remember what I was thinking. The irony of an illiterate writing thread title is quite funny though......


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## fucthest8 (Dec 30, 2003)

*Unscripted*

A little while ago someone told her she'd lost the plot. It's been bothering her. Now she's angry about it.

"Life isn't a fucking video you know! If you think you missed something crucial, there's no rewinding and making sure that you get it! No-one ever asks if you understood the obscure reference that will make all the difference later! _Lost_ the fucking plot?! There never fucking _was_ one!"


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## starfish (Dec 31, 2003)

Raining, wet & cold, raining. Bus, thank fuck, home finally. Shit, £20 note & 95 pence.
"Sorry guv got no change"
"Cunt", looks at other passengers,"Anyone change a £20" blank looks, cunts,
"Anyone lend 25p" blank looks, cunts.
Raining, wet & cold, raining. Home finally.


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## chazegee (Jan 3, 2004)

Sergeant *J*a*m*e*s* o' flannagan, and Detective Inspector *Cha*rles bu*zege*tski stepped briskly across the icy courtyard of St Mary of the Marrionette church in down town Yonkers.

'Well, I believe they did it, jus look at the way these Jeezuz nuts treat their pidgeons!'

Said O'flannagan as he pointed up towards the bird preventative spikes lining the horizontal surfaces of the church masonary.

'This town needs a shave'

Replied Buzegetski, pulling his coat closer as they stepped away into the fog.


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## jms (Jan 4, 2004)

.


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## mains (Jan 6, 2004)

*Jill gets the housing bug*

Charlie was injured on the docks.  Incapacity benefit and everything, no quibbles.  He was a proud man though, and pretty soon even he realised that smoking B&H and moaning about the government all day was getting on his wifes nerves.

It was his idea, not Jill's.  He's read that the council were giving grants to get the long term sick out of the way for a bit, breathing space while the country rebuilt after the war.  _Solid Stasis_ it was called, originally developed for sending lots of soldiers long distance in tiny ships.  There was a mobile van that visited the local leisure centre every tuesday.

Wednesday morning by courier Charlie arrived, a 10mm square cube of a seemingly translucent hard wax.  Jill read the instructions on how to care for you solid stasis cube, along with the note from Charlie; 'don't worry love, in ten years time they'll just return me to how I was, amazing really innit!  This way you get to let your hair down and make a bit of money for our retirement eh?...yours, Charlie xx'.  There was a one-off cheque enclosed.

Jill cried non-stop for two days before practicaliites came to the fore.  The stasis money wouldn't last for ever; and she could do with the company.  By the following Monday she had the spare room ready.  She had no problem finding a lodger through the housing bureau.  He was a Meem gentleman.  Well really and truly he wasn't a gentleman as they had five sexes on their homeworld, but she prided herself on being broadminded. Mr Tallammah was his name, as close as a human can say it anyway.

Mr Tallammah had 44 legs, two sets of wings and a two hard hemispheres of tissue on his upper body.  He taught maths at the local technical college.  He really was no trouble at all, teetotaller, non smoker, no gambling or any other vices.  He spoke very little, but what did come out of that little silver translator box impressed Jill greatly.  Sometimes she would lie awake at night and hear him scuttling across the ceiling of the adjacent room and think of nothing but Mr Tallammah.

_Dear Diedre, I feel really terrible about this, sometimes I put my stasis husband in the microwave and key in full power for two minutes.  I don't actually cook him, but I think about how lovely and simple life would be without his waxy boxiness sitting there on the mantelpiece as a reminder of the inattentive slob one day to return.  And then theres this Meem gentleman, I know he has 22 eyes but sometimes I'm sure he's making more at me..._


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## Maggot (Jan 6, 2004)

*Jill gets the housing bug*

Looks like social history but turns out science fiction - nice one!


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## jms (Jan 6, 2004)

*.*

.


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## jms (Jan 6, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jan 6, 2004)

.


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## Lollybelle (Jan 13, 2004)

*grown up*

When the knock at the door came, I was on tiptoes on a chair just behind it.  

"Hang on honey!"

I'm whipping off my apron, running my fingers through my curls so they'll look freshly-fallen to my shoulders.  I'd strung the hallway walls with paper flowers, pink and red against the black and white paintwork; I'd never forget what you'd said once, that one of the things you loved about me was that I was the queen of cheap and cheerful, that I'd filled your life with colour.

That was back when we were at college, when my hips still fitted in those skinny pink flares and your hair was as wide on either side as the face in between - sometimes I forget that we're not still those people, and the woman I see in the mirror when I first face the day isn't anyone I recognise.   

It's been a year now since you went away.  

In the meantime, I've been waiting. 

I knew you were too far from me to call but I checked the line sometimes, in the ad breaks and things, just in case.  There was nothing much for me to do except keep things clean and tidy, keep your home ready, and pray that you'd make it back to me safely.

And here you are.  My smile is so bright and wide it's almost embarrassing, it's as though I can see it from the outside, its glimmer reflected in the glistening of my eyes, those damn tears that always catch me, hovering on the brink until I think I've got away safely then spilling forth just too soon.

I open the door and you're there, case in hand; silver-blue tears rush out of me.  It's over.  You're home.

"Look, love, don't make a fuss, please.  Loretta's in the car, like I told you, I'll only be straight here and out again, just to get those last bits and pieces."  

Like I'm some screaming child that needs placating with a promise that will be forgotten in five minutes.  

And now there's just your back and the thud of your heavy shoes as you climb the stairs: "What _is_ all this stuff on the walls... you really never did grow up, did you?"


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## Maggot (Jan 13, 2004)

Beautifully sad.


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## mains (Jan 14, 2004)

Lollybelle - yours was good

Maggot - yours was good too, just a bit short


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## chio (Jan 14, 2004)

That's beautiful, Lollybelle. 

I somehow never noticed this thread before, but I do quite a lot of writing when I've got nothing to do at college, so I might post something up soon if I can find something that's not really embarrassing!


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## chegrimandi (Jan 15, 2004)

chio said:
			
		

> That's beautiful, Lollybelle.
> 
> I somehow never noticed this thread before, but I do quite a lot of writing when I've got nothing to do at college, so I might post something up soon if I can find something that's not really embarrassing!



sharpen your pencil chio and get it written oop on here.....summat about the mad folk of Congleton would go down a treat.....


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## Maggot (Jan 15, 2004)

mains said:
			
		

> Lollybelle - yours was good
> 
> Maggot - yours was good too, just a bit short


 I kept within the 50 word limit though


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## jms (Jan 15, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jan 15, 2004)

.


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## fucthest8 (Jan 17, 2004)

*Valkyries*

The night sky is clear, the only thing obscuring some of the stars is the brighter light of the crescent moon. Apart from that, it’s a good night for admiring the cosmos. As a friend of mine once put it, “Look, the universe is out.”

Since I was a kid, I’ve loved star-gazing. Picking out the constellations, learning the stories behind the names. Figuring out which lights are actually planets. Using a telescope to pick out the moons of Jupiter. Lying on my back at 3 a.m. in August to watch the Perseids meteor shower, two or three every minute, wishing it would never stop.

Wishing it would never stop. I sigh. Tonight’s the same in some ways, but it is a forlorn wish. I’m looking at Orion, waiting, knowing it must start soon. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. I’ve known for years, in fact maybe I always knew, hence the obsession. I’m so engrossed trying to recall when I truly first realised, that I almost miss it starting. I actually give a little gasp. 

Orions’ belt is missing a star. 

I check for cloud, rub my eyes, part of me fervently hoping I’m wrong, most of me knowing that I’m not. In my peripheral vision, another light winks out. I start to turn my head in that direction, but there’s really no need. It’s happening all over now, accelerating. 

The stars are going out.


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## fucthest8 (Jan 17, 2004)

chio said:
			
		

> ... so I might post something up soon if I can find something that's not really embarrassing!



Go to it Chio. If you look at some of the drivel I've posted up, you can't do any worse.


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## Vixiha (Jan 17, 2004)

fucthest8 said:
			
		

> If you look at some of the drivel I've posted up, you can't do any worse.


That's the _only_ nonsense I can recall you posting on this thread.


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## arattebury (Jan 22, 2004)

*catchphrase short stories*

Can anyone think of any short stories based the title/theme of catch phrases esp with in mind to subvert bad catch phrases 

for example "At the end of the day" is a bad one which I think means believe what I am going to say is going to happen. So you could have a story about someone finding out exactly what they expected to didn't happen at all another might be "Lets touch base later" Business catchphrases are especially nauseating any suggestions welcome! 

Other dodgy catchphrase nominee's might be 
Horses for courses
Cat with nine lives 
Good for the goose is good for the g whatever
That's that
Come hell or high water
Throwing the baby out with the bathwater

I'd be interested to hear!


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## arattebury (Jan 23, 2004)

*story request*

guess that idea didnt work oops. Sorry bad day at the office and appauling ideas in abundance spewing forth.  

Guess best to restrict to short stories only of any kin  d


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## DotCommunist (Jan 23, 2004)

I studied a while at the university of inebriation.
On my way I passed the shop of casual sex, the bazarr of good drugs and the mash up mall.
I staggered past the tramp being murdered, hell I even passed by the cute girl being hassled by dirty looking men. 
I was to gone to interact with these people. It's a case of disconnected head space, my head in a totally wrong space. And my actual self was to scared to interact with victims and tormenters, just in case I might become victim or tormenter myself. Much better to drift on by and let the sorry wail of ambulance siren sooth your nagging fear.

It's good to claw your way through an alcaholic fuzz if the situation your clawing towards is friendly.....To often it wasn't. It just wasn't


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## jms (Jan 24, 2004)

.


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## Lollybelle (Jan 26, 2004)

*two teenies*

sparkle (i)

Sometimes you hold me so close I can only focus on a single feature at a time.  There are tiny gentle creases at the edge of your right eye, the faintest rays of sunshine finding their way through the shaded back window just to touch them.  They tell me that you're smiling, and it's all I needed to know.

sparkle (ii)

If you look really closely you'll see it, lurking under the skin - it's easier in the darkened late hours, people run closer to the surface at night.  Once you know it's there, you can't help but look, and you watch for the moments when that silver sheen starts to pulsate, the skin becoming translucent, sparkledust welling and brightening wide eyes.  You'd almost think it might burst its banks, start seeping through the skin, oozing from every pore and filling the air around... but it stays where it stays, its signals unnoticed as fireworks by the stars.  Like I said, you have to look closely, or you might never know it was there.


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## fractionMan (Jan 26, 2004)

Great thread!  My pisspoor literary effort follows:

*Hunger.*
He was feeling it now; empty of meaning, lacking a purpose.  He needed something, something to make him feel alive again, young again.  'I'll order that curry then', she said to him.  'Get us a korma love', he replied.


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## Clintons Cat (Jan 26, 2004)

I know its technically too long....Stick with it though.Look its got a title and everything,  


Its the history that you fail to find in history books
-------------------------------------------------
In the mid to late seventies, i would occassionally accompany my grandfather on his Egg Round,round NW London.Being  a well mannered lad many of the old ladies took a shine to me and would give me a few shillings each for sweets.

Now my grandfather was a raconteur,he could talk for hours on a subject without once repeating himself.What was even more amazing was the way he could keep his audience enthralled as they followed his tales attentively as they meandered without ever seaming to come to a logical conclussion.His stories would interweave with other tales and his audience would nod appriciativly as one tale,new in the telling would meet more familiar ground before being led off down a narrative sidetrack.

Now my grandfather was from the East End of London. He relocated with wife and family after the war.This was because the Street they used to live in was bombed by the Luftwaffe and was demolished.The whole area was redeveloped.

An important part of the stories he would tell on his Egg Round would center on who lived where and when.He could tell the whole history of a street and its inhabitants,more importantly where they moved to.I guess in those days the only way to trace someone was by asking someone where they lived,keeping track of who moved where, was a way keeping a community together over both distance and time.

Another part of his stories would involve the best way to get from one destination to another.Often one or more of the places involved or the landmarks on the way would no longer be there,requiring further diversions as explanations of when the Dry cleaners replaced the chipshop on Suchandsuch Street.When Wherefore Lane changed its name to Something Avenue.

I accompanied him again once in the early nineties,he was keen
as ever to show me off to the adoring ladies,Who would tell me how i had grown,how they knew me when i was "so tall" before giving me a pound for a drink.Age had taken its toll on some of the ladies,and though some were exactly as i had remembered them some 15 years before,some were excedingly frail,and some had passed on into the stories my grandfather told.

He is dead now and the lore he carried with him has vanished with him forever.I wish as a child i had listened more attentively to his stories,instead of gently tugging on his sleeve to hurry his stories along.But I was a child,what did i care of the names of long gone streets ?

But what struck me just the Other Day was, it wasnt the Stories that were Important,

It was the Act of rememberance.

That was what was Important.


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## Clintons Cat (Jan 26, 2004)

*Writers Block*

He unplugged the stereo and went outside,thinking to himself that he couldn't live his life as if it was the lyrics to a pop song.

Outside it was raining so he went back inside and started to write.


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jan 27, 2004)

"On a morning from a Bogart movie
In a country where they turn back time
You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre
Contemplating a crime..."

He heard it, coming through the back door of the bar. "Fuggit", he thought "taking bottles from alley dumpsters ain't no crime."


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## fucthest8 (Jan 30, 2004)

*Hounslow West*

We drive away from your home, past the terraces and tower blocks. None of it should look the same, it should all be draped in black. How dare these people all walk by, without some show of respect? That’s my friend lying in that box, you should all tip your caps. I realise you didn’t know him, I know you’ve no reason to care, but I didn’t know death was so everyday that you’d feel safe to turn your backs.


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## Louloubelle (Feb 3, 2004)

*15th January 2004*

"The end of gun was so hot" she said
"It bun mi face when him put it to mi ear"
Hot
from when
a second before 
He had shot her son
a fine young man of 18

Her spirit left her body and looking down from above
saw
Her own eye resting on her cheek, a bloody hole above
Her baby’s brains and blood on the floor

Before coming back again 

3 years ago it was and still her face hurts 
The memory haunts her mind; it will not leave
She prayed before she went to sleep
"I thank the Lord I see another day my sista"

2 days later she phoned to say 
"The doctor say mi new glass eye soon come, praise God!"
And told me how that very morning 
A piece of shrapnel had worked its way out from between her eyes.


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## arattebury (Feb 12, 2004)

She was dead but her spirit rose out of her body as fast  as toast pops out of the toaster. If you could see her spirit you might have thought it resembled a tornado as it shot up through the ceiling exploded through the second floor bathroom of the house, through the enamel yellow bath tub, out through the red roof shattering the tiles in its track. Up through the lumpy shapeless woollen smelly jumper clouds, as though a lift with a rocket engine went her last puff of life. It was clear the great whoever or nothing whatsoever finally had called out "time" and was reeling her bungee cord like to some pock stained red planet barely visible through the mist.


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## arattebury (Feb 19, 2004)

*Evil Tabby Ley lines*

My god damn wife went all new age hippy crystal ball juggling on me didnt she. I tolerated it at first with gentle teasing, yes dear of course its your shakra's talking to you. Do you want a cup of tea then, no nice glass of healthy orange juice? 

The first time I noticed it was getting serious was when she put our up til then spoilt overweight tabby on a vegan diet. Of course the poor creature then began to respond with the same sort of contempt to me as my wife did when I got home from work. Occassionally as I grilled my bacon the cat would 
hiss and dig its claws into my ankles but refuse to eat any of my left over greasy scraps. 

My wifes meditation classes are where it all began. After a month from starting she began to come home every Monday night later and later. 
Then a month ago last Monday she didnt come back at all but left me a letter simply saying she was at an all night meditation class.  I am a simple man but not completely naive. Since then the cat (her cat) has hardly eaten a thing. It looks up at me with a bony ribcage and a mean look in its eye as though to say I can tell why she has replaced you.  

Last week Bob from over at the Rugby club, who I know casually as he works at the same council department as me approached me in the street and told me my girl had moved in with him that she had had enough of my 
boring ways. That she had shown him the healing power of meditation and that we simply werent to be married, because were on different leylines or something like that.  Im not angry but sometimes her cat winds me up (why didnt she take the animal with her I don't know)  and I have to leave the mangy bone bag mewing in another room while I sit on my own and take deep breaths.


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## doctort (Feb 19, 2004)

...i left a penny at your door as a small but heartfelt gesture and walked towards the bridge, for once unaffected by the ever present fumes. A few minutes later and i'm staring at the water, i would say lost in thought but really lost out of thought only to be snapped back in by one of those inexplicable shudders, back to thinking, and walking...


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## fucthest8 (Feb 24, 2004)

arattebury said:
			
		

> Evil Tabby Ley lines



I like that. Rather a lot.


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## fucthest8 (Feb 24, 2004)

*Siren*

Standing at the top of the stairs, it took her a while to work out where the sound was coming from. She turned her head this way and that and walked around the landing a bit, until she could pinpoint it. Finally she realised that the part whistling, part rattling noise was coming from the light bulb.

It was an odd sound. She fetched a chair from her parents' bedroom and stood on it so that she could be nearer, hear it more clearly. She wasn't altogether suprised to find, once her ear was quite close to the bulb, that it was singing. It was a joyous song, a song of bringing light to the darkness, but also a sad song, a song of understanding your own mortality. She listened to it for quite some time.

She decided not to tell her parents. Adults could be really stupid about that sort of thing.


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## jms (Feb 27, 2004)

The Following is rated:

6

Please read with caution:

*Roonie meets....* 
By Magnolia Cheviot & Helen Zaas

“Its too dark! Im gunna need to have a flashlight”
“Ummmm, well it’s a pretty small gap, I must admit, im not sure wether ill be able to squeeze it up your anus!”
Don’t Worry!” Said Sheila “Ill yoink my head out my arse now, I guess we’ll just have to play with one less skittle”
They both looked soooo sad, all because of the fact that they had nothing to do.
“Why don’t we….go and find a wild horse, sit on it, kick it till it runs off with us into the sunrise, all whilst we’re dressed up as smoked salmon?”
So, they did.The next day Shelia and Bob took off their Salmon Outfits and went out to the Farmhouse where they met roonie. Roonie was their old witch neighbour who was never n e good at sspells. In this case he had turned himself into a tortoise Magnolia this definetely didnt say Amanda before I edited it, honest IS PEEING whilst he was ultimately having a wiz. The force of the pee pee triggered his magic finger and the pee pee went crazy as roonie shrank into his tiny tortoise like self. Bob and Sheila were given the  reverse spell by a dieing dodo but chose not to use it as quite frankly the old man hag pissed then off. At this moment in time, bob and Sheila looked at the little pathetic thingand realized how much they really wanted to poop on him. So they did. Then they ran away laughing. 
“wooooo, that was fun!”Said Sheila”Aaaaagggghhhhh, there is a monkey on my back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Aaaaghhhh !!!!!!!!!!”Sheila ran around in circles trying to get the monkey off her back (Despite the fact that she was at a Farm, and not a Zoo, a monkey had still managed to jump on her back.Thankfully, in the end, Bob, managed to get it off with a giant Marshmallow.
“Oh my god, that’s not a Monkey….ITS RYAN!”
“Hephloh” Grunted Ryan”The Framrah  ish tryin to kime”
…..Bob and Sheila looked at each other….”What?”Said Bob
“Kimme….Kill………me”Ryan said with difficulty. ”Anyway beshbeoff”
And he went. bob and Sheila were quite surprised at his sudden leave. Before the day was going to end, Sheila wanted to look at her crush. So bob kindly offered to drive her in the big green tractor to the place no one ever goes on that farm. THE BATHROOM!!!  so bob and Sheila went out of the farmhouse and got into the tractor ready for their voyage upstairs in the house again. After bob had crashed into the house and battered his way upstairs and smashed open the bathroom door, Sheila was finally able to see the image of her favourite person in the whole world ever for that wonderful….. magical kiss she had been waiting for all day. she took her place opposite the mirror and threw herself against it. After a few minutes when Sheila had fallen uncoucious from lack of breathing, bob decided he wanted to go to bed, so he pulled Sheila away from the mirror, wiped off the blood from her blue face and picked out the bits of glass and dragged sheilas dead carcus into the bath, where he instinctively  turned on the taps. Suddenly, bob remembered he was narcalectic and He collapsed on the floor. That morning roonie came swimming into the flooded house and found the two on the bathroom floor. Bob woke up to find he was dead and Sheila was already dead.


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## jms (Feb 27, 2004)

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## jms (Feb 27, 2004)

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## arattebury (Mar 2, 2004)

*Cheddar Mares*

Was this story based on a nightmare after eating Strong Mature Cheddar or Stilton. 




			
				jms said:
			
		

> The Following is rated:
> 
> 6
> 
> ...


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## jms (Mar 2, 2004)

.


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## red rose (Mar 3, 2004)

She sat slumped and alone, her well worked hands cupped together infront of her, enclasping a ball of soap bubbles.  She blew on the bubbles with the intention of scattering around the room in mayhem but instead she formed a small soapy igloo in her hands.  A safe cave of suds which looked warm and inviting.

She wished she could stay there.


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## arattebury (Mar 4, 2004)

*Igloo shelter*

liked your image of a post dishes sud igloo shelter but wonder why she couldn't stay there? Looking forward to next instalment


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## Vixiha (Mar 17, 2004)

When I am with him, he's like a drug; nothing else matters.  He makes me feel like a goddess and my heart aches at the thought of him suffering in any way but I can't seem to help wondering what would happen if she knew.

As I sit alone waiting, my imagination runs wild with images of him being caught and confronted, his painful and guilt-ridden expression is vivid in my mind.  My head begins to pound as my heart resists reality.  Our relationship is simply a side dish; she is his main course.  How can I let myself be second choice?  Have I no pride at all?  

My eyes close tightly but the sight of his face is burned into my brain.  His voice plays in my head as he apologizes profusely and promises her he will never see me again.  A tear escapes and trickles down my cheek as I realize just how easily he could let me go.  He offers to quit his job and move away if she will just give him another chance.

The scenario plays on; she rejects his offer and tells him it's over.  He comes to me, sullen, weary and teary-eyed.  His description of the situation is quite different from reality; he leaves out his pleas to reconcile and simply explains that his engagement is over.  There we sit, speechless; both knowing the 99th day has come.

There is a knock at the door and all is forgotten the moment I see his smile.


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## fucthest8 (Mar 17, 2004)

*The writing on it.*

The second guitar solo starts with a tortured squeal that lasts less than a second. The rest of it has a bleak, empty feel that twists the gut. You can feel the songwriters' pain.

I've heard it a hundred times. Today though, for some reason, that half second metallic noise triggers something in me and I begin to cry. Weep. I end up on my knees, arms wrapped round my head as if to ward off an attack.

No-one on the bus comes to my aid.


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## Wowbagger (Mar 17, 2004)

Embarrassment is a terrible thing.  Especially when you are the first reply on a thread, in which you predicted a slow and agonising death for the thread, which runs to 30 pages and over 700 replies.

I've known people disappear in shame for less.

I hold my head high.  Take your best shot, lads.

Ow!  That hurt.


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## jms (Mar 17, 2004)

.


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## geminisnake (Mar 17, 2004)

I haven't read much of this thread so apols if this is old hat.

"That's it, finished!" she thought as she walked away from the pig field.
Never again would she cringe in fear, never again be scared when he, eventually, arrived home from the pub.
She was glad she'd read that article about pigs, but it was a shame she'd never be able to eat pork again.


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## homspundenim (Mar 17, 2004)

..............


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## onemonkey (Mar 24, 2004)

*The Secret Life of Walther PPK*
_with apologies to Fleming & Thurber_

James Bond finished his quarterly sales report and sat down. Mr. Anderson, the assistant area manager said nothing. David Morris, Bond's line manager broke the silence "Yes, thank you Jim, that was very... well, um, thank you." Bother, Bond thought to himself, looks like another year where they aren't going to give me the promotion. It must my turn by now. Maybe if i had used three colours on the pie-chart?

"Pay attention, 007!" Q flourished yet another flame-throwing umbrella, pointing out the concealed breathing apparatus. Bond sighed and wondered if, this time, his replacement vehicle might not be a VW Passat or maybe an Espace. 

"Hurry up, James! I need you to pick up my dry-cleaning on your way back from the school run and don't forget you're taking Ellie & Oliver to pony club tonight." HIs wife swirled out of the house and he carried on cutting the crusts off Olly's peanut butter sandwiches.

"It looks like a simple charge coupled disilicon sandwich, commonly used in infrared satellite imaging, judging by the machining I'd say it was Korean?"  
M marvelled at how their best field agent seemed so effortlessly well informed, she fought hard not to look impressed. "Correct, we want to know why it turned up in Caraccas." "I'll leave immediately, sir."

Bond leaned over the microphone "The library is closing in ten minutes, please bring your selections to the front desk. Thank you." The last of the public had left and he spent a few minutes rearranging the periodicals. His colleague, Miss Jones was shutting down the computers. "Er, Maggie, I was wondering if you'd like to go for a coffee sometime? With me? er.. if you are free that is.." "Oh, James! that's terribly sweet but I'm.. I'm.. Not right now, but thanks!"  

"Mr. Bond? If my plans to control all the world's oil bore you, I can just kill you now?" Bond feigned interest while absent-mindedly picking the lock on his handcuffs. A few minutes later he was hangliding away from the exploding mountain, his mind drifting.

The End.


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## jms (Mar 30, 2004)

.


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## Lollybelle (Apr 6, 2004)

*Notepaper*

She took my breath away.

Left me speechless.

You're probably thinking that she left me for being unable to speak in anything but cliches, but you'd be wrong.  It was like this:

I saw the swish of black hair and the sway of long legs below...

And that was that.  Asthma attack.  Bane of my existence.

She heard me gasp, turned, and by then I was done for, falling, struggling for breath, mesmerised by the sweet strawberry curve of those red lips.

She rushed me to a bench, called an ambulance on her mobile, came with me to the hospital.

And then she said goodbye.  She kissed me with that warm mouth, and waved as she left - unable to form one single word, I waved back.

And so it is.  I'm speechless... 

And my pen's running o


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## onemonkey (Apr 9, 2004)

*Jesus Incorporated - or, How Good was your Friday?*

Jesus shrugged - not so easy when you are nailed to a tree - and for about the thousandth time that day cursed the other two thirds of the Trinity for talking him into this. Life on Earth was not quite what he had imagined it would be. Thank God it would all be over soon. He winced and tried to think of other things..

That had been on of the biggest problems of incorporation, the Word was made out of too, too weak flesh, this human frame was a very feeble vessel. The aches, the pains, the constant need to eat, drink, sleep and go to the toilet were annoyances. He had long ago given up shaving & there had been one summer holiday in the desert where he'd tried going without food but it didn't work out.

But these were minor inconveniences. Even the current excruciating pain of a slow agonising death was nothing compared to the perpetual torment and frustration of being trapped in a human mind. He was quite looking forward to getting the Hell out of here. He had been living a nightmare since Christmas year zero.

Imagine a man who was Einstein, Mozart, da Vinci & Shakespeare all rolled into one. Now imagine him transformed into a slug but with a faint tantalizing awareness in his slug brain of the way things used to be. He sensed there were greater truths out there beyond his slug senses but could not make his slug see them nor his slug brain reason them out. 'Discombobulating' did not come close, he felt like octopus trying to do calculus whilst someone swung it against a rock. 33 1/3 years of migraine was enough.

His fellow slugs did not help. That they were happy with their slug ways was one thing, but far worse was watching how their sluggish stupidity and selfishness had them constantly shooting themselves in the foot - not a good thing if you are a slug! (okay, okay they were actually 'humans' but the slug metaphor had occurred to him early on and it was hard to shift.)

Perpetually making their lives worse for themselves with their shortsightedness and inhumanity (he never fully understood that word - it seemed to describe precisely the opposite of what it was supposed to.) Then blaming each other and picking fights about it. These creatures were so dumb and so insanely unaware of the fact. And try pointing it out and this was the thanks you got.

Not that there was anything particularly unique about his fate. In fact, in comparison to many of his fellow men he'd got off remarkably lightly. There are a lot worse things than crucifixion; Just ask the Holy Inquisition! Come to think of it, picking fights and revenging past insults seemed the only thing this slime excelled at. Even with this slow and soggy corporeal brain he spotted that one straight away. They were ingenious sadists, often accidently masochistic whilst waiting their turn enduring it with thoughts of revenge and gloating at those (which there inevitably were) worse off than themselves. 

Try explaining the benefits of reconciliation and forgiveness and you were met with confusion, suggest an active admission of personal imperfection and you got stones thrown at you. Something about the survival mechanisms wired into these pathetic heads always led to self-righteous indignation and whining self justification. Thank goodness His knowledge of His own perfection had allowed Him to rise above it.

HIs breathing was weak now. Less and less oxygen was getting to his brain, the pain ebbed but perception clouded too. His vision narrowed to a long dark-tunnel, his hearing muffled and his sense of his body left him, space folding upround him. But he could no longer think clearly about it, about anything. It was a fight to remain conscious to make each thought catch the train of the last. in some dim way, he sensed peace beyond the striving. He let go.


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## Geezah (Apr 10, 2004)

He watched her leave.

Striding towards the door with tears in her eyes. Knowing that he wanted her to stay, equally knowing he would not ask.

As the door shut behind her, he heard her cry as she ran down the stairs and left for the last time.


Spicer barked.


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## easy g (Apr 14, 2004)

He wakes....

and today...at last...it feels different.

It is too difficult to put his finger on what makes today seem so strange, but he will try, he will observe, it will become clear, of this he is sure. For the first time for as long as he remembers he has awoken without fear, the usual dread of a new day seems to have slipped away. This is one part of the equation he has solved already...the world today is not a place to be feared.



His eyes widen....

and they widen again..stretching, he is trying to get as much information as possible. It is then that he starts to realise that the world looks different to him. Colours and shapes are there, movement can be seen but focus has gone. The world seems like a wax photograph melted beyond immediate recognition, still beautiful but hazy, like looking through half woken eyes. But he is not alarmed...as he has already noted, the world is not to be feared today.



He moves...

tries to stretch, reach out but finds his path blocked. An invisible barrier is in his path. He isn't concerned though, he doesn't panic but gently tries again. Nothing. It seems he is trapped here, in what was his room. Because it isn't....not anymore, this to has changed. Changed to something he cannot describe, something that is beyond him and his frame of reference, but also something that seems completely natural. It is warm, unthreatening, seemingly the home he has always wanted. He is ensconced in a world without fear, without pain at long last. Rest is easy, sleep is welcoming, there is nothing to worry about now...

The wound has healed, the scab has formed. The Earth has swallowed and accepted him. He is at home now. His body will slowly be taken back while his memories seep back into the world. At last.


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## fucthest8 (Apr 14, 2004)

*Dead Right*

Our arms wrapped around each other, we both squeezed tightly, the way you sometimes do with a new lover, until your biceps start to tremble and you relax your grip because you have to, not because you want to. It felt … oh, you know. Astounding. Incredible. Insert your superlative here. Yet something about the way I was feeling, that completeness, that sensation of belonging, something about it bothered me.

A sudden rush of realisation.

He’d said to me:

“If you’re still in the same situation after Christmas, I’m going to come round and fucking punch you. You listen to me; one day you’ll wake up and discover that you’re not yourself any more. You’ll realise you’ve been shutting things down for years, trying to deal with it, switching off bits of yourself until there’s _nothing left on_.”

I’d spluttered, surprised at his vehemence, mounted a spirited defence … only to now discover he’d been right. I suddenly sat up, pulling myself away from her beautiful embrace, my eyes open wide. Good God.

She turned me on.


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## fucthest8 (Apr 14, 2004)

*Siren II*

The sun spilling over the edge of the wall, its’ own miniature dawn, forcing him to squint momentarily, before he slid his shades over his eyes. 

In the instant between his squint fractionally relaxing in anticipation of the polarized glass and the sunglasses actually shutting out the glare, in that tiny moment, the fraction of a nanosecond, that attosecond … 

He heard singing. 

He glanced at his daughter, sitting at his side, pushing her own sunglasses into place. Her face had a look of wonder about it; he realised that his expression mirrored hers.

He turned away and decided not to to speak to her about it. It reminded him too much of that time up in the treeline.


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## jms (Apr 14, 2004)

.


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## Lollybelle (Apr 14, 2004)

*13*

You can call me Trixie.  

It's what Dave calls me, ever since he took me in.  I was a littl'un at the time, too little to remember, but he said I had a tricksy way about my eyes and he knew he'd have to make sure I didn't mess him about.

I never did.  He kept me safe.

I've got a t-shirt with my name on, even.  We found it together in Barnardo's, it's blue with white curly writing, I reckon it's from the 80s and someone wore it with their name written again in gold on a necklace.  So she didn't forget what she was called... that's what Dave reckons, anyway.

It's at night times when I like to say it out loud.  So I don't forget what _we're_ called.  I say it like it'd look if I carved it on a tree.  The mirror's all dirty in our mouldy old bathroom but even with no light on I can see by the streetlamps, so when I'm clean I tell the girl in the mirror "Trixie luvs Dave 4 eva".  

He doesn't still love me though.  He doesn't hold me while I sleep anymore, even though I wrap my arms around his neck and snuggle up just like always.  I don't think he's forgotten yet about that mess I made on the sheets.


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## easy g (Apr 16, 2004)

*Again*

It's late...very late, gonna fuck you up for yet another day.

She's there, lying next to you, asleep, looking as peaceful as death but with the gentle rise and fall of her chest to let you know she is alive.

Sleep damn you sleep, you know that tomorrow is gonna fall apart in your hands again because you are awake now.....

But you can't, you're body is frozen solid while your mind races. You picture yourself...naked. Your mind inflates your stomach, bloodies the whites of your eyes, breaks the capillaries in your nose, makes your back ache more than ever. You're fucked..as a machine you are about to seize up but this life we lead nowadays means we have another 30 years or more to stretch our decaying bodies out.

So this is what it has come to....sleepless nights picturing your body falling apart. Sleepless nights and fucked up days, pain and inevitability, what a combination.


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## DotCommunist (Apr 17, 2004)

Dreamer

The things we saw. Real? doubtful. Drug induced? I've never thought so. You said you saw that scarf drifting, blown this way and that, down in the chasm it went.

Your visions seemed more exotic. Talking rocks and cetacean dreams, endless ever changing world-song. Your visions seemed to belittle mine. Oh it wasn't intentional, I'm sure. You always had the better fantasy. 

My paltry, mundane sight. Cloud shapes and beasts in the fire. meaning in meaningless sights, these are my typical boring visions

But you had the greater wonders, the mind stretching concepts of civilasations rising and falling on a single atom. And you, you believed them all. I saw your cherry red lips quiver and your eyes shone as you told me so.

I can't. Mired by the mediocre, suffocated by my staid, stilted passions. Oh yes you were ever the prophet and I the bewildered disciple.

You were the head in the clouds and I was always the feet on the ground, gazing blearily up at your amazing flights of fancy. But you drifted far away, and I came crashing back down


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## Clintons Cat (Apr 17, 2004)

<wrong thread>


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## chegrimandi (Apr 21, 2004)

what with all the server problems and cash shortages at present, do you think an urbanite short story book would sell? If someone (me or anyone else) could go through the thread, take out the posts that aren't stories, print it up etc and make a small book...anyone that doesn't want their work put in can just say so....sell it for £3 or summat.....would anyone buy it/want it/think its a good idea....

regardless I am gonna print the thread out and have a good read.....

jms and lollybelle would feature  quite highly !!

is this a shit idea?....feel free to knock it on the head if it is a shit idea.....


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## DotCommunist (Apr 23, 2004)

I think that's a bloody good idea. This thread has been going for nearly a friggin year, so there must be enough material. As long as permissions are sought for every piece, this would be feckin brilliant.............but who'd publish  it?


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## jms (Apr 24, 2004)

.


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## Lollybelle (Apr 26, 2004)

tbh, I don't think it's all that great an idea.  Who chooses what goes in and what's left out without offending some people or bigging up others?  Who organises the publishing etc?  It'd be a massive undertaking, when you think about it.  

The way I see it is that the stories were written for pleasure and are put here for people to read for pleasure.  Maybe make a suggestion that anyone that would be happy to pay to read them could make a donation straight to the server fund?


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## Iainmc (Apr 26, 2004)

The incessant sunshine beats upon my head. All those about me smiling,laughing, children full of energy buzz and run about me like the insects which hover about the stagnant pools of water on the pavement.
I feel like that sometimes, it been so long. Casting my head about me I realise that those about me are oblivious to the turmoil of my mind. They shout and welp aloud and it is only I who is silent. It is only I who can see the impermanence of it all or reflect upon it.
Emotions are my friends, from years of living and growing they have now turned against me. Devouring me,stripping me of all hope til I collaspe in silence. Why have you deserted me, my only friend,myself; why do you punish me; so much; so often. Im am weak, my weakness was once my strength. This  fecal lineage of culture sits its heavy knees upon me grounding me into dispair. 

I close my eyes. I heard the wind rustle about my ears. I dream and remember the sea. Its powerful salt smell fills my senses. I remember.
The ocean was so blue, the swirl of the current apparent across the barren golden sands. I remember the sand dunes sweeping across the horizon. I feel the power of the mountain the spirits in the shadows black,green,brown. How they ran shrieking across the glens and down upon my ears. I recall how my own, refused to leave here. died here. I understand how we cannot divorce ourselves from our environment, its easy to feel the soul in such a place. Why have I betrayed them ..let them down. ...I open my eyes. A single tear  pregant with all those precious memories pierces from my eye. Im in the park with the flies buzzing loudly about my ears. here everything precious is turned to shit. Here i live in the dominion of the lord of the flies. 
Help us.


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## jms (Apr 26, 2004)

.


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## fucthest8 (Apr 27, 2004)

*Leech*

The shard of glass doesn't really have a great edge, but even so, she is suprised at how much pressure she has to apply. She is even more suprised at how little blood there is.

So she cuts deeper. Varies the directions. She remembers someone telling  her that you should cut up, along the veins, not across them. Harder to sew up, supposedly. So she tries that as well. There is plenty of blood now.

Release.


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## fucthest8 (Apr 29, 2004)

*Crystal*

I steady myself against the rocking of the carriage as we cross the points. The indicator light on the outside of the toilet says "Engaged", but I'm damned if I'm going back to my seat again; I'm busting for a piss.

Thankfully, the door opens quite soon and the girl who was occupying the cubicle sidles past me. The train gives another lurch and I bump against her, knocking her off balance. Instictively, I grab her shoulder to steady her. She looks up at me. Beautiful, deep eyes. Really beautiful. I mumble "Sorry"; she replies softly "No problem, I'm okay now."

I stare after her until she is out of sight, then go inside the toilet. There are droplets of blood around the sink.


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## fucthest8 (May 5, 2004)

*Hell bent for leather*

He’s boisterous, sure, aren’t they all at that age? Not malicious though, the way that some are. You know what I mean. The second you turn your back, someone starts crying and you _know_, without even looking, which one is responsible. Not saying that all the ones like that will go on to be bullies, but, well, maybe they do. Like _that_ one.

You know which one I mean don’t you? Yeah, him. Little fuck. Little antisocial fuck. Hate to say this, but I do blame the parents. No, really. Yes, _really_. I see them all come through here and they’ve got one thing in common; useless fucking parents. Some are just weak; some are bullies themselves; some were bullied themselves. Makes no difference, they’ve all got the same failing; can’t teach the kids to walk the line.

That’s what it’s all about isn’t it? Walking the line? The straight and narrow. Understanding that you can’t be too weak, or too strong. That’s what I teach them; how to walk the line. No finer role. Sure, I had that one shot at the Olympics, but you know what? This is better. Teaching them how to walk the line. Yeah.


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## bmd (May 6, 2004)

Aah fuck this, I can't keep running, my lungs feel like a couple of cheap dry sponges, my breath rasping in and vomiting back out of my mouth.

I scan the area, there's two options that I'd pick. Stop, turn and fight or look for a place to hide. "Try talking to them" my mum is saying but she's on the other side now and talking got her there.

I can hear them now, the sound is like nothing else, it registers in your marrow before you can stop it, they say it was designed that way, to freeze your thoughts.

My thoughts ratchet up a notch, what the fuck to do.


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## fucthest8 (May 14, 2004)

*Very. Big. Mistake.*

I pull on the handbrake, turn off the engine, and step out of the car. The alley I am in runs the entire length of the two terraces that back on to it; once a week, all the rubbish is put out here for the dustmen to collect. At weekends and from 4 until bedtime on weekdays it's full of kids, playing football, on bikes, chasing each other. If the weather is okay that is. The rest of the time it's empty, save the occasional cat. Even less frequently, someone drives their car up here, either to drop something off, or collect something, through their back gate. I can smell a barbecue; summer's coming. I stand for a moment and listen to music filtering from someone's bedroom, kitchen sounds close by, the warm sound of unforced laughter further away. Then I push open the gate; I'm here to collect.


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## bmd (May 14, 2004)

"Take it in and put it by the fire, there's no use crying, it's done."

I look at my hands; my hands did that.


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## arattebury (May 24, 2004)

*Stories based on dreams*

Anyone got any decent short stories (200w max) based on dreams (not just those had whilst awake) out there?

I recently had one where my eyebrows grew so long I could comb them over 
my head and wear them like a wig. And yes I do have a resemblance to Dennis Healey hence the anxiety about appearance ! 

Any budding Freuds out there have 
any stories remembered from dreams going on they'd like to share, without the interpretations of what they mean please send them in??


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## Vixiha (May 26, 2004)

*My dream*

A crowd of college students filled the sunken courtyard at dusk, surrounded by gently fluttering Autumn foliage with a bonfire in the center at the bottom.  Across the way I saw you standing on top of the hill.  Even though I had never laid eyes on her I knew who the beautiful woman was on your arm.  She angrily confronted me but I didn't blame her at all.  Somehow I managed to put her at ease with our affair and wanting to comfort you as well, I went from place to place, each time being told you had only just left.  By the third or fourth disappointment I realized you were running away from me.  Griefstricken and heartbroken, I stopped searching for you.


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## Spud u like (May 26, 2004)

I writing this with a gun to my head.
Tony Blair is holding the gun.
My mum is sucking Tony Blairs Penis.
As he cums he shoots me in the head.
ouch


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## secretsquirrel (May 28, 2004)

i'm killing time at work this afternoon and this just popped into my head (yeah, it's a poem not a story but it *is* short!)

*Did the earth move, honey?* 

If I said ‘what just happened?’ would you understand?
I mean, maybe I was the only one to notice it
To feel it – that almost imperceptible shift
As the world edged into a different rotation.

If I said ‘did you feel that?’ well, would you agree?
Or was I alone in an off-kilter moment,
That seems to have changed things utterly
Or have things just changed for me?


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## jms (May 28, 2004)

Spud u like said:
			
		

> I writing this with a gun to my head.
> Tony Blair is holding the gun.
> My mum is sucking Tony Blairs Penis.
> As he cums he shoots me in the head.
> ouch



 .........


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## Lord Hugh (May 28, 2004)

*Perhaps a bit long but it's written now!*

*Down.*

First there was the word, and the word was "down". Down and down. You look at you hands. Then down. You look at your skin. Down. The texture of your skin. And down. It blurs for a while but suddenly you can make out... The cells themselves that make up your skin. Amazing.

Now you pick out one cell. You go down and look at that cell. Closer, closer. You can see the nucleus, enclosed by the membrane and surrounded by cytoplasm. You zoom in on the nucleus, and see the beginning of it all. Your DNA, your life sequence, strands upon strands, twisting and twirling and wound around. 2 metres worth of it, all in that nucleus. But you can't stay here. You have to obey the Word, and the word whispers "down down down" into our ear, and you cannot say no. So down you go. Into the DNA, exploring this superstructure from which all life came.

And by fuckery there's a lot to look at! You can see miles of code, in molecular form, just existing, millions of times more efficient than any computer program that has ever been developed. But down, down, down, ever present in your ear, your brain, your very essence, and you follow this direction. Down to the atomic level, wavy particles and particular waves catching your eye as they move faster than anything you've ever imagined, a sheen glossing around the nucleus, a tug of war of negative and positive, heaving and moaning and evermoving. You march onwards, downwards, into this nucles, finding 6 protons & 6 neutrons. Carbon. You thought as much. You can see the protons trying to get away from each other, but being held, the strong force does its job well. You ride on into this sea of attraction, to the centre of a proton, where you can see Munster Mark's 3 quarks. Up and up and down. Yes, you can see the 2 and 1, but our estimations of what the nature of these objects are is laughable at best. Perhaps when they called one strange they were closer to the mark. You can't even begin to describe it, not that you would have the time anyway.

Down, boy, down. Leave it all behind you.

But sir, where to? Everyone knows that quarks are fundamental particles!

*I SAID DOWN AND YOU WILL DO AS I SAY!*

So you go down into unexplored territory. Emptiness. The most empty state you have every known, "void" does nothing to describe it, formless, senseless, nothingness. But down you sink, into the unknown, further and further until you think you see something. Dots, perhaps, circles of some sort? More particles? Down and closer. What the- ? You can see something. And it look bright. But... we're beyond light at this point, photons were millions of levels up. However you can't help but call it a galaxy. And as down you go, you see more. And it's not a galaxy, but in a way it is. It's a collection of galaxies, millions upon billions of them. All you've seen so far could never have prepared you for this. And still you go down. And down. And down. Where to? Doesn't really look like you have a choice. You see collections of stars approach, in their hundreds and thousands. You try to look for planets, but your mind won't focus on your search.

There is a feeling at the back of your mind, that this has all happened before. And if only you could find out where, remove that block from your mind, it would all be clear.

But down. And down. And you're passing stars in their tens rather than hundreds now. And you see something. Orion. But...

You have no time to think, and suddenly you can see the familiar constellations around you. "Could I be dead?" - and you see a planet. It's blue & green. And it's rapidly approaching. Then an island. A city. You are now in a perpetual state of deja vu. You see your neighbourhood. Your road. Your house. Your head. Your computer as you read the end of this story through your own eyes. And you wonder what the *fuck* just happened.


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## Lord Hugh (May 29, 2004)

*Creative mood tonight*

23:30
"She wants it. Look at her all dressed up, not much left to the imagination is there! She looked at me. I knew it. Anyone with half a brain can tell she's gaggin for it. Fuckin slut. Bet she likes it rough. You can tell with those ones. Coupla drinks in them and anythin's a turn-on. Cmon mate get in there..."

"Shit he's looking at me. Don't look back. Don't. Come on Janet where aaare you? Is he still looking? Shit! Shit. Shit. For fuck's sake calm down. You go out dressed like this and don't expect people to look? Go on, get a drink" Vodka and blackcurrant, please. ... Thanks. "Alright. Is he still there? ...Shit!! Probably thinks I'm looking at him now. Stop looking"

23:32
Terese feels a tap on her shoulder.
-Hi there, would you like a drink? 
-No thank you, I already have one, see?
Terese shows the man her drink. He looks, grabs it, almost drops but manages to twirl around and catch it, then sniffs.
-Ah, blackcurrant, good girl. Hi, my name's Tom.

23:50
"She's all over the place. It's kicking in. Good girl"
-Say Terese, do you want to go outside with me for a minute, one of my mates said he was coming by?

00:30
"Knew she was gaggin for it. Fuckin slut"

4:16
"Where am I?" Hhhh-nsshhht! "What's in my mouth? Why am I so sore? ...Is that blood?"


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## Lord Hugh (May 29, 2004)

It was just after dawn when they came.

Riding on horses.

It was just after dawn when they came.

Shouting at us in unintelligible voices.

It was just after dawn when they came.

It was a beautiful sunrise.

It was just after dawn when they came.

They killed my family.

(Looking at it now this is pretty crap but hey got it out of my system which was the main objective)


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## Cid (May 29, 2004)

Sees him watch the children, playing , sees him watch the clouds go by, sees him see the smiling faces, sees him face the empty night. Lose him when they close the curtains, fleeting, transient - just a guy.

Or was that poem? Arse... it's too early.


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## Spud u like (May 29, 2004)

My Cat is dead
I loved my Cat
I shagged my Cat to Death!


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## jms (Jun 7, 2004)

.


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## fucthest8 (Jun 9, 2004)

*One and Twenty*

Sitting there again, on my favourite vantage point high up on the hill, looking down at the city spread out below me in the sunshine. Not really seeing it though; too busy thinking. Too busy thinking about what I’d lost. Or, more correctly, about the things that I’d forgotten that I’d lost. Not being able to get someone out of my head. I’d lost that. Remember that feeling? The first time someone crashed into your life and suddenly your head was just full of them, full to bursting, to the exclusion of your friends, your family, your schoolwork; when just being with them made you feel almost breathless, lightheaded; waiting outside their front door made you feel almost sick with anticipation; when a glance from them would make you smile, a huge, beaming affair that made your friends tease you, but you didn’t care, didn’t care at all, they could make fun of you as much as they liked, the suckers, they couldn’t know how it felt. Do you remember that? Can you recall it now? 

Sitting there again, on my favourite vantage point high up on the hill, looking down at the city spread out below me in the sunshine. Not really seeing it though. My head’s just too full of her, full to bursting.


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## HealdPK (Jun 9, 2004)

Once upon a time there was a wonderful little sausage called Baldrick and he lived happily ever after.


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## Louloubelle (Jun 9, 2004)

It had been a stoke of pure genius

A plan so cunning that nobody would even realise the Truth. Operation Mind Control was inspired by the classical features of the delusions associated with paranoid shizophrenia.  

Paying off the weather presenters was a major expense and hassle but had worked well for the last 25 years (with the exception of the "there will be no hurricanes" message).  Michael Fish never stopped moaning about that.  

At our meeting later that day Michael raised an eyebrow as I slipped the envelope into his hand.  "Feels a bit light this month" he commented.  

"Nah Mike, it's in 50s, but it's all there".

He was starting to get cocky, after 25 years with his snout in our trough he was overdue for 'retirement'.  I looked forward to my afternoon meeting with the MD of Bacofoil.  
________________​
Later that day, at a hopspital somewhere in England.....

"So Mr Smith, if I am to understand you correctly you believe that television weather presenters include coded messages for your personal attention in their broadcasts?  Nurse, please administer the medication"


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## jms (Jun 11, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jun 21, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jun 21, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jun 21, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jun 21, 2004)

*Lots of pieces of paper on the printer* 

IS THAT THE TIME?!
YIKES!
AS WE CAN SEE 1985 WAS A BAD YEAR FOR CUFFS
1985
The cornerstone of the Microsoft Office System
Microsoft Office Professional Edition 2003
Microsoft Office Professional Edition 2003 offers you new ways to communicate and collaborate more effectively. Acess the information and the people you need to make smarter business decisions. 
Use familiar tools to achieve even more. (...)
Shadows
Jack Spearing
Hello
Jack
Gre
TROIB6J9
147
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000 d
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069 g
124 p
666 w
111 d
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WHY
DO
SEVERAL
ONIONS
ENJOY
MARCHING
IN
PERU
Cutting art, state of the edge
TODAY:
CATS
BDB BDB BDB BDB BDB
Hello Childrens
and hello to
'How to kill your pets'
Comfortable Playing angle good
offset good
550
577
BDB (real pic)
+ Tesselation
Turn Buckle good
Allen key 
Bob-Crap pic
JACK WAJAREKON?
Tessalation
Page 1 of 1 (...)
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YAM
VELOCITY!
Strachan king of footie quips (...)
Bust the job (...)
STILLNOCT 10mg
zolpidem
page 1 of 2 (...)
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Rodrigo Rodriguez
S
and now...
LUNCH
taff lloyd
3
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7
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33
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30
carrots handbags cheese toilets russians planets hamsters weddings poets stalin quala lumpur , pygmies budgies quala lumpur
page 1 of 2 (...)
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Musicians Friend
Free Shipping
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$499.99
Return to product detail (...)


----------



## jms (Jun 22, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jun 22, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jun 22, 2004)

*Hell* 

All you can hear is a note between notes, on a recorder. All you can see is your own face, without the skin, the eyes missing, the jaw slack and the mouth spurting black phlegm. All you can feel are your fingers being repeatedly slammed in car doors and drawers, your hair being pulled by a vicious primary school girl and the anticipation of shock and disgust. All you can smell is honeysuckle and burning hair. All you can say is "stop, Stop, STOP", and all your thoughts are of those you have betrayed.


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## bmd (Jun 23, 2004)

Pressing my face against the bars I feel the sun rising. My seconds are days, my  hours are weeks and my days are years. The clock ticks on.


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## red3k (Jun 24, 2004)

One fine morn a friend of mine gave me her washing machine for nowt.
We paid a man with a van a rip off £20 to move it less than 2 miles only to find out it didn't fit (we HAD measured it). So we took the top off. It's okay now.  
Crap story - but true.


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## Lord Hugh (Jun 24, 2004)

It was a long walk. Thirst. Left right left right. Stiffness. Left, right, left, right. Pain. Left. Right. Left. Right. Hunger. Left... Right... Left... Right... A sudden light feeling.


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## suzee blue cheese (Jun 27, 2004)

I came.  I saw.  I conquered.  

No.. Wait..  Haven't I heard that one before?


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## jms (Jul 8, 2004)

just keeping the thread alive..


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## Vixiha (Jul 8, 2004)

jms said:
			
		

> just keeping the thread alive..


You little tease!  I was all ready to read another one of your stories!


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## arattebury (Jul 9, 2004)

*Blockheads?*

Has everyone that used to write on the thread got writers block
or have they just fallen asleep.


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## jms (Jul 11, 2004)

stories?

I wouldnt call them that, Vix..


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## Vixiha (Jul 11, 2004)

Well whatever you call them, you tease!


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## Mr Average (Jul 12, 2004)

In the darkness, in the absoloute pitch black, I sit and wait. 'They' are coming for definite, I can tell. Distant whispers gather force in my mind and the wind changes frequency every ten minutes or so. Ripples of anxiety play across the sky, and the pitch black night is pregnant with fear.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

very short story:

stop spitting in my ear.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

*Overproduction* 

"This is too much, this is too fucking _much_"

So I'm stuck on the hill. Again. And I pick a poppy. For three reasons. And then I go home and say things that make no sense. And why? It's for you, because you want to read whatever I want to say. And why is that, please? Maybe it's enjoyable. Perhaps my semi-personal drivel FUCKING AMUSES YOU. Well, that's just fine and dandy, that's fab. Carry on reading. I'm not fucking _saying_ ANYTHING.

"How am I? I am."


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

*mish-mashy...*

*Variation* 

Doctor Gudden's Distant Descendant sat, absent-mindedly prodding a piece of paper with a blue italic pen. He sings silently to the crackling tune emitted by the battered tape recorder. He looks like a taut string, about to snap. He keeps stretching and retracting his fingers, tense. He's expecting hard work to unravel, I think. He is confused by the translator, which insists the word is Aufsatz and not Turm, which he was expecting.

Revenge is pacing outside the house with a cardboard box full of nails, some bleach and a candlestick.


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## jms (Jul 14, 2004)

.


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## Vixiha (Jul 14, 2004)

Much better than being teased by a mere bump.  Thank you for sharing


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## Diamond (Jul 14, 2004)

The boat had gone and the tide had turned. Reclined on the waterfront and illuminated by the setting sun the man lazily traces the airplane vapour trails with his right hand, while the left fondles absent mindedly. He'd always liked that, always found comfort in it. The way he could escape by looking up. Just swallowed him up, he thought. Anytime, anyplace there was the vast blueness (or greyness in those cold countries, he was happy he wasn't there now, no going back, thanks to the good Lord) ready to assume his worries and salve his soul. He smiled a solitary smile and labouriously rolled onto his side to watch the setting sun. Things were going to be just fine...


A mystery prize to the first person who gets the reference.


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## jms (Jul 15, 2004)

Vixiha said:
			
		

> Much better than being teased by a mere bump.  Thank you for sharing



You're Welcome


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## jms (Jul 15, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jul 19, 2004)

.


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## Vixiha (Jul 19, 2004)

jms said:
			
		

> *Waiting for a critic*
> 
> could someone comment
> Im dying
> they're awful


If only I could have expressed myself with such eloquence at your age...


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## jms (Jul 19, 2004)

heh


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## jms (Jul 20, 2004)

.


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## jms (Jul 31, 2004)

.


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## jms (Aug 15, 2004)

I trip over a penny from 1933 and catch a ride on Shergar as I stumble forward to the patent office. A small man in a greasy white suit escorts me to a back room which is full of filing cabinets. I find a man at a desk in shirtsleeves, who is spattered with ink. I present my sketches, most of which I have misplaced on the way. The man laughs at me, stands up (he is not wearing any trousers, but strangely, still has his shoes on) and guides me to a dark corner of the room, where no light from the bay windows has reached. He slides open an unseen, but somehow perceptibly rusty drawer. He then lights a match with a phospherescent spark that glimmers out of nowhere, and shows me the piece of withered vellum he has retrieved. It is a diagram, much like one of my own, only better, and more detailed. My guide reads aloud, mockingly, the script on the page: "Patent number..02... The Human Mind". It would appear I am too late. But that needn't be the end of the matter. I wait until it is dark and play midnight basketball with myself until I collapse, tired and malnourished, my head and chest buzzing with paint fumes.


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## jms (Aug 15, 2004)

George V's moustache rustles in the night, and keeps me awake through the early hours. I am very high up, I can feel the wind, only it is not a wind, it is the buffetting sensation one receives on protruding one's head from a car window. I feel sick with the height, and the one undamaged dove from 1988 flutters past my feet. The Bedclothes are extremely uncomfortable, so I shut my eyes an imagine I am able to stand at the top of Corfe Castle. But it is beastly, because the National Trust extort several precious units of currency from me, leaving me with a lighter pocket and a heavier brow. These imaginary sensations help to alleviate the fear of being where I am. A question mark hovers for a moment at the far-off window, before flickering off. I can hear the sound of a cabasa, and the turning of an un-oiled bicycle as it spins in a madcap contraption. A dazzlingly dull set of senses blinds me to perception, and I am off gallavanting again in a mist in Jotunheim, which I suppose to be an independent nation in my romantic idealism. I refuse to compromise within my own mind, and I will not be forced to think anything that betrays that notion. An as a conclusion, I would like, a harpsichord, playing an angular lullaby.


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## jms (Aug 15, 2004)

.


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## jms (Aug 23, 2004)

.


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## jms (Aug 23, 2004)

.


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## Cid (Aug 23, 2004)

The darkness closes in - bleak, a soul-destroying vale of hellish gloom... The whiskey bottle rears its ugly head and closes its sickly-warm mouth over my rotting brain. 50 words they told me, only 50 - but do they live by their own rules? Do they fuck. The landlord bangs on the door, I pretend I'm not in - the typewriter folorn on my desk I sink once more into uneasy slumber.


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## jms (Aug 23, 2004)

Thanks for breaking up my monotonous shite there Cid


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## Cid (Aug 23, 2004)

"Anytime" he said, carefully unfolding the pale pink slip as the dark-suite shape disappeared into the background. A last puff on his cigar - sweet taste of vanilla with overtones of chocolate - and he was one of the crowd again, instantly unrecoginsable. He felt the tiny ball of paper travel quickly down his throat and walked casually toward the forbidding grey shape of his objective...


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## Lord Hugh (Aug 23, 2004)

I: ball on table. Eyes cream. A dinner worthy of a cereal killer. Fork in hand. Pop.


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## fucthest8 (Aug 24, 2004)

*Fatigue*

Only I could have gotten away with it:

“Look, it’s delicate work, precision. I _told _ you I was tired, I _told_ you I hated working under fluorescent lights, but oh no, you fucking _insisted_. You got most of what you needed. He died. It happens. Fucking pay up.”


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## fucthest8 (Aug 24, 2004)

*Blood's thicker.*

Crap. It’s my mum. Off to my left. Don’t want to do anything to attract her attention, so I don’t suddenly turn my back or anything. She’ll go mental if she spots me. I carefully let the brick slide from my hand and try to melt back into the rioters.


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## bmd (Aug 26, 2004)

I look up and she catches my eye, she's grinning, it's like she's got a route straight to my heart and just for a split second I can feel how much she loves me. It completely catches me off guard, I love her so much, my beautiful daughter.


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## citydreams (Aug 26, 2004)

Closing the door behind her she knew the time it would take.  Her breath slowed automatically.  Her shoes, scuffed and stained, led her around the side.  Looking up with empty eyes she reached out to the wall.  Then fingered down, gently, to flick the switch.  Her senses kicked in.  Nothing.


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## jms (Aug 27, 2004)

.


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## jms (Aug 27, 2004)

I hate the underground. I never know what to do. Read the adverts, look at the wires whizzing past in the tunnel, look at your own reflection in the grubby window opposite, cast surreptitious glances at your fellow travellers (or whatever it is they happen to be reading)..listen to the screeches and wails of the wheels and the track.. sometimes I think I see a hidden station, a dimly lit stairway or railings in the darkness, or hands clawing at the glass.


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## jms (Aug 27, 2004)

.


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## jms (Aug 31, 2004)

When my great uncle mentions offhand the sixpenny hop to his wife, It makes me smile because at first it was just odd and awkward, they are old and unhealthy. But now they seem to be people, with a life and a story.


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## jms (Aug 31, 2004)

"Can you sign for this please?"

I feel like saying no
but instead I draw a smiley face on the form and send the parcel force man on his way.


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## jms (Aug 31, 2004)

*while watching daytime neighbours* 

while watching daytime neighbours
I realise I am old
watching all these programmes
of antiques bought and sold

while watching daytime neighbours
I consider it a treat
to sip a cup of tepid tea
with slippers on my feet

while watching daytime neighbours
I quietly pass away
my eyes are cold and yellow
my skin is blue and grey


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## Vixiha (Aug 31, 2004)

wow


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## billy_bob (Aug 31, 2004)

"But I did it for you", he insisted.

She said nothing.


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## jms (Aug 31, 2004)

.


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## jms (Aug 31, 2004)

*another one about the underground*

.


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## jms (Aug 31, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2004)

*spot the part I stole from "The Mask"*

"Smilers Mageeny"
said Detective Sanderson, the ash tumbling from his dying cigarette.
"Just as I thought"
he stubbed the white tube between the eyes of the photographed man.

The desk was grey, and kinda warm, but not in a good way. In a wet, sweaty, putrid sort of way. His shirt was stained with sweat. He longed to get out of the police department and back home. Home to his pleasant, well-furnished, fully-stocked, air-conditioned, pot-pourri-filled oversized dwelling.

He rolled his eyes back in his head until he could only see red and let himself think of pachlbel's cannon slowly churning, like cream turning to butter, the notes slurred and stretched.

He looked away from the red and saw it was dotted on his desk. He blinked to get rid of the visual residue, but it was still there.

He fell to the floor almost silently, his head hitting the wastepaper basket as he fell, spilling out 10 or so plastic cups onto the blue carpet.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2004)

with short hair and a blue jumper you emanate a sort of persona that isnt your own, but rather what you anticipate what will soon be yours. only you are very much mistaken, because you are going to the north-west.

no more tired humour of others or obnoxious solo instrumental perfomances for me, thank fuck.


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## jms (Sep 1, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 6, 2004)

I am very afraid that if I close the sliding door I will crush to death the little frog sitting on the ledge. I hope it is nice and damp for him.


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## jms (Sep 12, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 12, 2004)

first day back and Im thinking too much
walking down the road Im in overdrive in my head, I can feel sparks flying
daniel tells me he thinks I should be form rep.
I tell him not to consider it
I get in to a new classroom and slip in to a familiar routine 
Im still thinking
I feel a little queasy, so I go for my usual walk, a circuit of the school
but before I do Charlotte arrives and starts talking to me
I tell her I feel ill, but she seems oblivious to my presence, more interested in just saying things
I set off
past the new block, past the science rooms, onto the old netball courts, around the new tech block, past the art rooms, down by the dinner hall, past the assembly hall and the carpark, past the reprographics room and matrons room, along the path by the sixth-form common room, across the old car park (aware that I may well be being watched my the new occupants of my old form-room) and up along the new block path again to the mobiles. I run into various people. But I can't say hello like a normal person, because Im rubbish.

I still feel unwell.
I go inside, people I dont know particularly well start talking to me
sonja gill and her shoes pester me with small-talk 
I wish she would turn around and be content with silence, as I so often am. But she prattles on, and I only find her annoying because I am a snob.

I get warmer still. I cant quite breathe properly, its like something is caught in my throat. I go outside and lean against the bannister of the steps to the mobile (or the shack, as some teachers refer to it). Charlotte is back, accompanied by Evelyn (Kim is on holiday still, it would seem. And why not? We have come back on a Friday after all). Evelyn is not wearing her glasses. She looks a bit odd. She looks a bit like my mum, which is worrying. People without their glasses look alike to me. And you wonder what if they looked like that before they had glasses.

They're talking to me again, and I wish I could be left alone at this particular moment. My tie is trying to throttle me. I wretch, and I have the grim feeling that precedes vomit. A very bad kind of anticipation. I wretch again. Charlotte says very loudly "Jack's phelgming". I wonder if this is a word.

There is a warm splatter as the little pink grapefruit chunks hit the paving slabs. They are accompanied by a mysterious pale yellow liquid. I don't want to look at it, I just kind of take it in my stride some how. Because I knew it was coming. This happens to me regularly.

I head off to matron's room again, thinking about people's stupid questions. You don't want people to talk to you while you're being sick. You really don't.

Matron knows who I am, and I have no idea what her real name is. You would have though that one of the reprographics women would have called her by it. Matron gets plenty of visitors, but Ive never heard her called by any names other than matron, or, on occasion, Miss.

She has a gaunt, wrinkled face. She asks me my name, because she can never remember. I look down at the form she is writing on, and correct her spelling as she writes my surname.

I talk idly to her, in a very thought-out way. She doesn't really respond, though she's usually quite talkative, especially on Fridays. She has to cut up a new sheet of purple slips to explain absences. I'm the first person to come to her office this year. 

She doesn't send me home though, she knows me too well.


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## jms (Sep 13, 2004)

.


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## salaryman (Sep 14, 2004)

The traffic lights had changed four times before Erskine realised where he was.  Two sequences later, he realised how he had arrived there.  Which was just before he looked down and realised why people were staring at him in that way.


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## jms (Sep 14, 2004)

.


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## mains (Sep 16, 2004)

*Me and Peter Sissons*

I told Sissons to sit still and can it - I'd had enough of his preaching for one night. 'You're not reading the news any more mate, nobody cares'.  I threw a stone across the fire and it struck his left shoulder.  I picked up another much bigger stone and pulled it back behind my head and motioned like I was going to launch it.  He squirmed around but the electrical cord I'd wrapped around his arms and shoulders didn't give him much room to manouvre.  I dropped the stone and laughed. I thought he looked genuinely scared.  

'I've been following you Sissons, ever since the fuel strikes.  I saw you stack the boot of your jag high with tins, what did you think, that a bunch of farmers were going to take over the country?  What about those little old ladies hobbling down to waitrose for their baked beans only to find that bbc news anchorman on £1.4M a year had bought the lot.  

I stood up.


'What did you think Sissons, you were gonna run off to the Welsh hills and play rambo while babylon burnt?'.

I kicked him.

'Well, not so verbose now are we mr news - come on monkey man, whats on your mind?'

He looked up at me with a horrible, leering grin.  Gone was the scardey cat routine, he looked cocky.  Well he didn't look like a man staring down the barrel, put it that way.  He rolled his head back and let out a deep, slow bellow of a laugh that give me ice on the back of my neck.

'You people will never win.  You think you'll get away with this?'.  Sissons sat motionless and laughed out his words; 'when they find you they'll make you suffer like you couldn't imagine, they'll pull your guts out while you watch, and they'll enjoy it too, just like they did with your friends'.

His head rolled back again.

'Me? They'll name a school after me.  Maybe even a roundabout in Hertfordshire, the Peter Sissons gyratory system.'  He raised his voice.  'I'm Peter Sissons, do you...'.

And thats when the bullets started coming at us.  I picked up the remainder of the cans and ran away from the fire and into the woods.  Last I saw he was flopped over in the firelight with that stupid grin on his face.  I couldn't swear he was dead but he'll never read the news again, put it that way.


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## jms (Sep 16, 2004)

ace

just...ace


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## jms (Sep 16, 2004)

*not my own writings, but still*

Made me smile:


Kelvin​5/9/2002​
Nc state studens​rockets​
Thank you for the rockets, and​I like to make orther rocket.​can you come another day​to do something else.​
Sincerely​Ke​
(underneath is a picture of a rocket with "super" written on it)


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## jms (Sep 16, 2004)

*gubba!*

.


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## jms (Sep 21, 2004)

*Alessandro* 

We called him Alex because it was easier, and because that was how the (few) people who knew him had always heard his name. Only in occasional registers, on forms and that sort of thing did we see his full name. I always thought of him by the longer form though.. I was surprised in the end how few people knew it was his name. He had black hair and dark eyes. He was happiest in his own company. I laughed at him for talking to himself, despite the fact that I do it myself. Stupid really.

He died in February. Leukemia. The thing about an illness like that is the slow way it happens, and how strangely sudden it is at the same time. He must have spent about two years on chemotheraphy, they couldn't have known that they were fighting a losing battle when the diagnosed him. They had to stop at the end, any more would have killed him anyway. But he was so frail by then..

I remember he would annoy us as we walked home. Usually he went with Daniel though, instead of trailing along with Amanda and me. He was kind of childish, but very intelligent underneath his often odd behaviour. Always eager to answer questions, but shy and reluctant to make friends. I'd known him since primary school, but we were never very good friends. It was all the sadder when he was ill because few people knew him, and I felt an enforced guilt, and forced sympathy.

He came in for a few weeks, the nurse from Adenbrookes told us just to treat him normally and not to steal his cap or anything like that. They explained what exactly was wrong with him and how they were treating it. Its rehearsed, they must do it often.

I didnt know about any of it at the start. I was out cycling with Daniel, I think Alex must have gone past in his car and we went up to his house to see him. I'd only been there once before, and only into the grim little back garden carpeted in grey paving slabs. I think he was playing basketball with his brother.. I just remember his high-pitched voice, his almost inane conversation. It seems horrible to talk about dead people in a negative way, but its true. That's just what he was like, I wouldn't lie or idealise like people tend to do. When we got the pre-prepared "In Memoriam" letter he was described as a lovely, friendly boy. I wonder if Mr Chapman had ever actually met him, how did he _know_ what he was like?

Doesn't matter though. He'd just come back from Adenbrookes when I found out about it, he and Daniel talked. I don't remember what I said, I was a bit shocked. Just stood there on my bike. The thing that shocked me most was that no one had said anything. No one cares when someone is dying, but they always like to know when someone's getting better.

It sounds stupid, but you just don't realise how much you take everything for granted. When Mr Chapman broke the news in assembly, I already sort of knew, Daniel had told me the day before that they didn't think he'd make it through the night. The fat headmaster played some appropriate music, and read that poem about "do not mourn for me, I am not here, I did not die", or whatever the words are. What should he care.. And some people laughed, and some people cried afterwards. 

And I said afterwards "People should show some fucking respect"

Which they should.


( A note about this : After Alex died the school had a non-uniform day to raise money to do up the quadrangle in the old block, and get a memorial bench. After an entire year, the school finally bothered to sort this out.)


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## Vixiha (Sep 21, 2004)

exellent


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## jms (Sep 23, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 23, 2004)

Indifference and Ambivalence are two women who live in a mediterranean villa covered in vines

they sit around drinking white wine all day

the locals dont like them
except Apathy, the old man who runs the village shop

because he sells them the wine


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## Vixiha (Sep 23, 2004)

I love it.


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## Bomber (Sep 24, 2004)

From behind the shade of his sunglasses tears ran freely, weeping silently. Looking out across the water, trying to find his old self he drew the storylines of his life in the sand but the lines seemed to lead to nowhere. He knew in a few moments that he would turn around and head back into the dark.


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## jms (Sep 24, 2004)

nice to see some fresh faces (so to speak)

keep up the good work bomber


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## jms (Sep 24, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 24, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

*The Model* 

"I love you darling, you do know that, don't you? You always know! Ha, ha"

But she's dumb

"Listen, listen, I need to tell you.. sometimes I think I might like to.. cut..you"

But she has no ears for him

"Can't you see it, the truth, the hills, its the egde of the world, its only there when you go there!"

But she's blind

"Dance with me.. I love the vanilla scent.. where did you get it?"

All of a sudden he stopped as a colleague walked past the open door
the light's off now though
doesnt see him

no one does

because she isn't there..
she's just Dummy..good old Dummy
she doesn't have a face to frown with or a mouth to scorn or curse..

just a blank white expanse of plastic, moist with saliva


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

.


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## Vixiha (Sep 25, 2004)

You may have an occasional _clog_ but you're a natural; you'll never run out.


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

You know vix, I think we're the only people who ever look at this thread


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

*Natural* 

He would sit at the typewriter all day and just stare at the keys. And drink strong tea. And pretend to be doing something.


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## jms (Sep 25, 2004)

.


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## Vixiha (Sep 25, 2004)

jms said:
			
		

> You know vix, I think we're the only people who ever look at this thread


I doubt that very seriously.


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## Vixiha (Sep 26, 2004)

This thread has had 9 views since my last post, six hours ago.


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## jms (Sep 26, 2004)

Fair enough

Well. 

I would Encourage anyone who reads this thread to Speak Up

or write up


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## salaryman (Sep 26, 2004)

I'm listening.  I wrote once, the other day.  Perhaps I'll do that again soon.  But I'll keep listening.


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## salaryman (Sep 26, 2004)

*The Morning Papers* 

There was something peculiar about the clouds that day.  
They were moving so fast, much faster than normal, yet 
there was no wind at ground level, where Roger lay.  Not 
even a breeze.  

He sat up and looked across the gardens.  The people on 
the other side were walking briskly, marching, on their way 
to the discomfort of the office.  Roger didn't really miss that 
life anymore, except maybe at this time in the morning, 
before he heads out to find breakfast.

If the wind picks up down here, Roger thought, the morning 
papers might be delivered to his doorstep again.


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## jms (Sep 26, 2004)

more!


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## Vixiha (Sep 26, 2004)

*Conflicted*

She had never considered herself the competative sort and always felt more comfortable on the sidelines cheering for others.  Some found it odd that she could take such pleasure in the accomplishments of her opponents.  This time was somehow different; for the first time in her life, she felt conflicted about taking second place.


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## Bomber (Sep 26, 2004)

jms said:
			
		

> nice to see some fresh faces (so to speak)
> 
> keep up the good work bomber



 It's nice therapy jms ... cheers


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## Vixiha (Sep 27, 2004)

*Second Time Around*

At thirteen, she began training every day.  She sacrificed much of her freedom to pursue goals that, to some, might seem impossible.  There were times she thought of following friends down a different path but, during her freshman year in college, she was finally gaining notice.  By twenty-one, she won a pro contract, which practically guranteed a lifetime of comfort.  Her enormous success drew attention and, before it could sink in, she found herself surrounded by loving admirers.  Everywhere she went there were endless congratulations; it seemed she could do no wrong.  For the first time, she felt her efforts were validated, which brought a sense of meaning to her life.  

    As the years passed, during particularly difficult times, her fans continued to encourage her and the thought of letting them down drove her to work harder but, after more than a decade of success, she suddenly discovered she could no longer achieve higher than second place.  Within a few more years, even third place was out of reach.  She tried to accept that it was somehow inevitable and that the support of her most devoted fans was enough but, as her sense of self worth deteriorated, she came to the painful decision that it was time to retire.  Reactions were mixed; some believed she had given up too soon, while others thought it was long overdue.

    For awhile, she felt satisfied cheering from the sidelines, taking great pleasure in the accomplishments of others and occasionally participating in amateur level events but, after nearly a year, she was approached by a scout to enter the semi-pro circuit.  The competition was tough; she knew that her age and lack of training would work against her but something inside, drove her to take a chance.  No sooner had she made the decision than her world was revitalized; every part of her mind, body and soul came alive.  Her loyal fans were thrilled; though many thought she deserved another pro-contract, she felt better than she could recall in years, maybe ever.

    Hours became days, weeks, then months and years of careful planning and work but every moment was a pleasure for which she was truly grateful.  Although she never worked on the pro-level again or achieved higher than second place, recalling the difficulties and how much her ego had suffered at the end of her professional career, produced a tremendous appreciation for another chance and the happiness it brought.


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## Vixiha (Sep 27, 2004)

*Sweet Dreams*

The rich, deep whisper of his masculine voice repeats, "Good-night, sweet dreams, Baby," as she clings lovingly to his last words and places the phone into its cradle.  Settling against the curve of an oversized body pillow, she can almost taste his kiss.  Her eyes are closed but his beautiful face is burned into her brain.  Her hand slowly caresses tiny ripples beneath the green cotton fabric; she has memorized every curve of his perfect chest and stomach.  His scent is wonderfully unforgettable; she is filled with a warmth that only his presence seems to bring.  Replaying every sensation of him in her mind, she attempts to convince herself that he is by her side, then quickly tries to fall asleep before remembering that he isn't.


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## Vixiha (Sep 27, 2004)

*Afternoon Delight*

She loves to watch him getting undressed as her already naked body writhes in anticipation under the covers.  The look in his eyes makes her feel more beautiful and sexy than she ever has in her life.  He slips out of his boxers, places them onto the chair and slides under the covers head first to shower her legs and feet with oral adoration.  

She giggles and jumps a bit at first but his kisses feel so good she quickly relaxes and melts under his touch.  Slowly, he works his way up her body as she runs her hands across his fabulous shoulders and back.  They both lean forward to share a passionate kiss.  Their lips are full, moist and hungry; their tongues explore and embrace.

Even though she knows that he wants to taste her, she pushes him onto his back and satisfies her own selfish desires.  As his head tilts back, she can't resist the opportunity to brush her lips against his manly adam's apple.  His hands caress and stroke her as he surrenders to her will.  Slowly, she savors the scent, taste and warmth of his skin.

Working her way across his chest, she lovingly licks and kisses his perfect, nipples; they become increasingly more erect as she laps at them, then gently suckles and nibbles them more aggressively.  He moans with pleasure as his hips begin to move involuntarily; her hand slides downward to explore what is to come.


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## jms (Sep 27, 2004)

Careful vix, there are children reading this thread you know


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## Bomber (Sep 27, 2004)

Phew !! Anybody else to warm in here ?


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## Firky (Sep 27, 2004)

So one day I began collecting: I urinated into a large jar. I masturbated and scooped my ejaculate into a second jar. I took a knife from the drawer and made an incision on the end of my finger and squeezed the blood in thin trickles and fat drops into a third jar. I sat down with a fourth jar on my lap, and thought of sad things. Then I wept into the jar. I repeated these actions every evening, each fluid into its appointed jar. After a month, I emptied the contents of the jars into small saucepans, which I heated carefully until I had evaporated the liquid. When the pans had cooled, I scraped the residue, with the aid of a funnel, into separate salt cellars. I then tasted each of my personal salts, judging which would go best with what food.
My experiment was a resounding success. The salts seemed to impart a subtle intensity to spicy dishes, and a freshness and zest to even the most homely soup. And so my restaurant began to attract many more patrons as increasing numbers of adulatory reviews appeared in some of the Sunday supplements. 
Obviously, I had to continue to produce the salts that had made my culinary creations such overnight successes. My establishment was now being patronised by celebrities as well as politicians and the merely rich.
My difficulty lay chiefly with eliciting sadness on demand. On some nights I would sit in my chair, the fourth jar on my lap, and start laughing with joy at the success of my restaurant. I would have to force myself to envisage a starving child or departing lover. I knew that there was boundless, ceaseless suffering on this Earth, but I found it more and more difficult to identify with it myself, while the prestige of my restaurant grew higher, and with it my bank balance. I found that the most efficacious manner of forcing tears from my eyes was to think of love; loves lost, love's tragedies, and love's hopelessness.
And so it was that I began to have trouble with the second jar. Latterly, my attempts at masturbation were rather more difficult, as my erotic thoughts staggered and tumbled into the despair I needed for the fourth jar. Not infrequently, I found it impossible to distinguish between sorrow and love. 
After five months, I caught myself ejaculating into my lap, upon which rested the jar meant for tears. I began to find sorrow arousing, and could not cry without getting an erection. Conversely, I could not find a woman attractive without starting to weep. I worried about my salts, for my supplies were running low. Moreover, the quality of the salt from the first jar was beginning to decline, as I attempted to find solace in alcoholic abandon. I would drink deeply; and laugh, and cry. But my urine suffered. It became thin and pale, copius but worthless. The salt I extracted was tasteless.
The reputation of my restaurant would keep its fortunes bouyant for a while, but I knew that sooner, rather than later, the decline in the quality of the seasonings would be noted. I sank lower into despair. I could not run the terrible risk of sharing my secret with anyone else. I had only one reliable source of salt - that which filled the third jar. The third jar never ran out. The menu had to reflect this, and there was a preponderance of rich, red, meaty dishes, lavishly enhanced with the salt of my blood, trickled - or sometimes drunkenly spurted, gushed - from my fingers, thumbs, wrists or arms every evening.
But I was weakening. My drinking was becoming uncontrollable, I would involuntarily orgasm during the news, and burst into tears at the most inopportune moments. The constant bloodletting was making me anaemic. I resolved to return to the formula that had won my eaterie so many plaudits. Determinedly, I researched the most emotionally draining novels, the most haunting poems. I ejaculated again and again into the second jar. I drank pure fruit juice and mineral water and produced once again the golden, viscous urine that filled the first jar. I wept uncontrollably, for three-quarters of a hour, with a pornographic magazine propped in front of me. And I took the sharpest knife and drew one widening red line across my wrist.
The banquet was a success.


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## jms (Sep 27, 2004)

holy crackers firky

thats fucking excellent
and very iain banks, if I may say so

it seems my plea for new stuff is being heeded


----------



## Vixiha (Sep 28, 2004)

jms said:
			
		

> Careful vix, there are children reading this thread you know


Really?    

I'm sure you've seen worse on PG-13 movies. 

BTW, excellent story, Firky!


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## Bomber (Sep 29, 2004)

Outside the rain fell. Comfortable , unhurried, summer rain. Circles ambled lazily from centres of puddles and leaves filled before spitting onto the soil below. A small bird sheltered beneath big leaves and drops of water mingled on the open french windows. Inside a white cotton sheet covered us and we smiled, satisfied, into each others eyes.


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## jms (Sep 29, 2004)

Vixiha said:
			
		

> Really?
> 
> I'm sure you've seen worse on PG-13 movies.
> 
> BTW, excellent story, Firky!



Im sorry, I dont understand your strange north american film classification system


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## jms (Sep 29, 2004)

.


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## jms (Sep 29, 2004)

The fair is scary. All the bright lights and colours. Fun house. Waltzers. Makes me shudder. Not in that stupid fear-of-clowns sort of way though. Just the coldness and the lack of fun. And the rip-offs. And all the crap. Glowsticks. that sort of thing. I just don't like it.


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## jms (Sep 30, 2004)

.


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## jms (Oct 1, 2004)

send me a valentine, be so kind, its a balm for a battered mind


heavily edited to one sentence!


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## jms (Oct 1, 2004)

back again

he comes home from work in a flurry of paper and coat and finds the post from that morning unopened, yet placed on the table carefully. He begins to think he has been robbed by a very peculiar thief, but then dismisses it as absent-mindedness. Its happened before, he knows. He sits in the armchair for several minutes before he notices the pink dressing gown slung over the door.


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## jms (Oct 1, 2004)

We stand on the bridge, and watch the dragonfly flitter around. I've never seen such bright and clashing colours in nature before, not quite like this. Luminous and bright, like sweets in a jar with just a little too much sugar. It skims around the pond, between the reeds and the flowers. I keep coming back here. This is the third time, and the hothouses are nice. The swans and the punts and the pedalos go by in the still water, under the bridge with all the wrong letters.


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## Vixiha (Oct 1, 2004)

Nice, that last one reminds me of my first date with the firefighter guy.   

The bastard!


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## jms (Oct 4, 2004)

.


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## jms (Oct 4, 2004)

he could feel the way he was walking, each tendon twitch and shiver as we paced the cold tiled floor. Dull green and black squares that stretched out into the dark. He walked, and ran his hand along the flimsy fabric that seperated each patient. He picked up a clipboard and drew and doodled for a while, then wrote out a sadistic prognosis.

Being a little bored, doctor walked over to the cupboard and took out some morphine.


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## jms (Oct 4, 2004)

*read quickly*

.


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## jms (Oct 4, 2004)

*dodgy tenses*

.


----------



## jms (Oct 4, 2004)

.


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## jms (Oct 8, 2004)

.


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## Vixiha (Oct 8, 2004)

Monday mornings are her favorite; she springs from her bed, knowing that she'll soon be with him.  She rushes around getting ready and dashes out the door; as usual, she's running a few minutes late.  Upon starting her car, she realizes, in the excitement, her cigarettes were left behind; she debates for a moment and runs back inside to retrieve them.  Driving with the windows down, her freshly washed hair dries in the breeze; as she nears their meeting place, she gives it a final brushing and rolls up the windows.  As she pulls into the parking lot, she sees him waiting; her heart pounds so hard she worries he'll be able to see it.  His smile puts her at ease as he climbs inside the car and they exchange friendly greetings; he takes her hand warmly and they make their way to breakfast down the road.


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## jms (Oct 10, 2004)

If you ever have a great idea in your sleep, do your very best to wake up and write it down


tis most annoying to forget them


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## jms (Oct 12, 2004)

*Bourneville* 

They get some free samples. He sits on the fence and wishes he could be usual, normal. The fence is blue and high and if he fell he could die. He worries about this, and even as he speaks to her this thought is nagging in his mind.

Later on he takes some pictures, in black and white. He is not entirely sure why he used black and white. There was a nice picture of some bags piled up though. And he always remembers the crazy New Zealanders.


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## jms (Oct 12, 2004)

.


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## jms (Oct 14, 2004)

.


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## jms (Oct 14, 2004)

I'll be shutting up now


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## Vixiha (Oct 15, 2004)

I forbid you!


----------



## jms (Oct 15, 2004)

.


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## Vixiha (Oct 16, 2004)

Everybody needs a break now and then but never say never.


----------



## fucthest8 (Oct 18, 2004)

*Tincture*

Let's take a stagger down amnesia cul-de-sac, you and I.

All the nights we aren't sure how we got home; all the times we peered into our wallets to wonder where the money went; the half-remembered gigs; the completely lost weekends; all the people we fucked whose faces we can't even recall, much less their names.

On second thoughts, lets not.


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## Vixiha (Oct 20, 2004)

Thanks for that.


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## fucthest8 (Oct 20, 2004)

*12 Week Scan*

He stumbled out of the doorway and stopped, temporarily blinded by the light. Blinking and rubbing his eyes, it took him a few seconds to take in his surroundings. Even then they didn’t make sense to him, like finding something in an unexpected place, its’ lack of context rendering it temporarily unrecognisable.

He was used to being looked at, used to the stares of stangers, but this wasn’t right. Not here, not stood in this little side street, half asleep and unshaved, wearing yesterdays’ clothes. Yet there they were, gathering to gawp at him, getting out of their cars to stare at him. Just a few at first, but their numbers increasing until a little semi-circle of people stood around him, still hard to focus on because of the light, the light still bothered him, it wasn’t right, they were shielding their eyes from the light.

_His_ light.


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## Pomplemous (Oct 20, 2004)

chegrimandi said:
			
		

> this should test yer writing skills........a short story......in 50 words. Any subject, fictional or otherwise....


Hey!!!  I saw this challenge ages ago in the paper and hve challenged all my writing mates to it.

ok - the story has to have a plot, characters and a proper beginning, middle and end - has to flow.

my crappy attemtps are:


She's late! he thought as he waited at the corner, pink carnation in hand.
He's late, she thought as she waited round the corner throwing her flower to the ground.
individually, they gave up on blind dates and walked into the theatre together


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## Vixiha (Oct 21, 2004)

She lay snuggled comfortably in the safety of her bed, surrounded by the sturdy walls she had known most of her life.  Something disturbed her sleep; the sound was too distant to distinguish but she cocked her head and strained to detect its direction.  It was almost like the dripping of a faucet but seemed to be coming from her closet.  

Worried, she reluctantly left the warmth of her down comforter, opened the door and forced aside her wardrobe.  Carefully examining the walls and ceiling, she heard the noise more clearly but saw no signs of moisture.  She leaned forward and stumbled just slightly.  As she reached to catch herself, the wall moved.

"Oh, no," she thought, "it must be rotten from the water."    

Testing the extent of the damage, she pressed a bit harder.  The wall creaked and swung forward, revealing what appeared to be a person staring back at her.

"Ah!" she gasped and jumped backwards; her heart nearly pounded out of her chest.  

Suddenly, she recognized the face; it was her own reflection.  After more than 20 years, she had discovered a secret room.


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## chazegee (Oct 21, 2004)

I gently inserted the bicycle into my mouth.
I expanded as I pumped, like some massive tweedledick
as I floated to th top of the wearhouse
I grabbed a few cloth things from the hangers in the rafters
threw em on
all casual like
popped myself with apin and sunk like a stone


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## jms (Oct 21, 2004)

its nice to have you back Mr Buzegeetski


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## Atlancia (Oct 22, 2004)

Movements like a dancer, her smile radiates to upturn the gloomiest face, with red Chardonnay swirling in her hand, as words flowed free and people laid at ease to the sounds of soft beats, humming in ears, bringing humour to tears as delights brings everything to life. Sitting inside on a rainy, bleary, Friday afternoon, tapping away on her keyboards in a 10 storey high building on the first floor, she wanders what else could be happening beyond the encasings of the four walls.  The sounds of cars screeching outside, the wind blowing across the lands to those undiscovered she is compelled to fantasise but is halted by the papers throwing dark shadows against her desk, bringing her back to the work that needs to be done


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## mains (Oct 24, 2004)

*The lonliness of the long distance cyclist:autumn*

The first hour is the hardest, the greatest test of will.  You edge out of town between the drones after their sunday fix of mdf.  Good morning fools.  The sound of bass binned novas ebbs away and suddenly you're there, the country. The only sounds now are your tyres sluicing on the glistening wet tarmac and your own breath leaving your body.  You clear some hedgerow and the wind clatters into you from your left, a lovely little gut punch that gives you the grimace face.  You wouldn't have it any other way.  

Now it starts raining again to add to the fun, driving into your face.  Why am I doing this again?   You know this road. Last July the surface melted here and stuck in little pinhead sized balls to your tyres. Now its strewn with soaked orange and yellow leaves. You clip the edge of a Tory town and turn back towards home, the wind behind you now. Look mummy, a man in silly clothes.  Your shower pulls you in like a tractor beam from 30 miles out, just throw the lycra in the corner and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.  The phone doesn't ring.  You sleep.


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## fucthest8 (Oct 29, 2004)

*战胜失败*

One face locked in an expression of horror; one in pain. Look where you will, it makes no difference. Inescapable. Two adversaries locked forever in a moment of victory; a moment of defeat. Triumph and despair; shame and acceptance; relief and disbelief.


----------



## jms (Oct 31, 2004)

*note to Vixiha: This is not a story!*

Well

I think it was red rose who said to me that people find this thread a bit intimidating because of its size, or can't really be bothered to read the whole thing. I don't know about anyone else, but I agree with this, and I think maybe its time this thread was archived and a fresh new one started.

sorry if that seems stupid..just an idea


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## jms (Nov 7, 2004)

anyone?


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## Vixiha (Nov 7, 2004)

TEASE!  

 

I wouldn't have any problems with a new thread; dunno how much I could personally contribute but if it would encourage others...


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## jms (Nov 10, 2004)

Well we may as well have this archived now


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## jms (Nov 14, 2004)

*Stupid Maths Homework*
each Pointless Question rolls off the page, slowly, lethargically into my eyes
and past my brain to some waste of space behind my head 

each exercise every one with over-complicated text andexamples that mean nothing and what's it all forfor a letter on a sheet of paper that lets you have another letter
on another sheet

all of which adds to some numberson another sheet of paper
and it all adds up to zero in the end
the ultimate
waste of time


----------



## Vixiha (Nov 14, 2004)

Ah, wasted youth.


----------



## thestraightman (Nov 15, 2004)

it all adds up to zero?

put your leg left in, your freak pig out
you drop your tits in pudding
and your concrete concrete snout









.....got to go shopping now, but it all adds up to 1


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## jms (Nov 15, 2004)

I was pretty confused when I wrote that

It doesnt show does it?


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## jms (Nov 19, 2004)

.


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## jms (Nov 21, 2004)

scarves

scarves round necks tight, fat, bulbous soft and patterned. multi-coloured and striped, plain and full of holes, football scarf if your less aware.. hanging on hooks and backs of doors, in wardrobes..wherever. an unfortunate one carreses some idiot's head instead of yours. but some of us have scarves of our own, scarves to give away. scarves to do unsavoury things with. oh, use your imagination. not too difficult to work out. like the seating plan. again.


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## Vixiha (Nov 21, 2004)

<happily skips around as quietly as possible>


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## maya (Nov 21, 2004)

I never understood why he couldn’t look me in the eye when we met. Always mumbling,smiling sheepishly- gazing down on his shoes,over my head,down again...Hands on his hips,like some fucking lanky little indie diva...You are a diva Markus,you just don’t know it yet. Someone will tell you,soon enough.


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## maya (Nov 21, 2004)

“Everything’s gonna be okay”,she whispered and clutched her mother’s hand,trying to find that something in her eyes that would grasp the words.
A vague smile,a flickering of understanding. 
Washing away the sickly smell of hospital bed and rot and death.
-Calcium poisoning in the brain,they said. Not uncommon in cancer.


----------



## jms (Nov 23, 2004)

*Jack* 

Only his name was John, of course. Interesting guy. Memorable. Only I have just the one, very vague, and probably made up, memory of him. In the brown and white and orange chair that sits in the room my gran calls the library. That's where she usually waves from when we drive away, if its too cold to stay outside. He seems to have imparted quite a lot of wisdom to my dad, including such gems as "Never grab a bottle, or a woman, by the neck", the retort "change your name to Smith" (he was proud of his name), and "SPUDS", accompanied by banging of cutlery against the table. Then there was the walk, probably on some sunday afternoon, probably quite a cold day. They were all a little merry, him, my dad and Kevin. He strikes me (even now) as an old-fashioned "decent" sort of man, with a handkerchief in the top pocket and an attache case. Well, that part I made up, but he probably had one.. Never knew him though, oddly enough.


----------



## jms (Nov 27, 2004)

*adapted from genuine text*

*A Cutting Satire* 


*ABOUT THIS SHIT*

Keep this shit up to date
You must be able to produce your shit when a teacher requests it
If you do not have your shit in school, then you must request a shit sheet from your Head of Year *before* morning lessons start
The date and homework subject for *each day* must be written into your shit before 1st lesson on Monday
All homework details must be written neatly and legibly into the shit before leaving the lesson where it is set. Always ask your teacher before you write "none set".
Get our shit signed by a parent/guardian at the end of each week. Your form tutor will sign it at the beginning of the following week.
Do not put labels etc onto your shit cover
Housepoints (Lower School) and Commendations (Upper School) will be recorded in the diary. Try and avoid bad behaviour or poor work, as these will be noted.
Your shit is a sort of "health-check". The state it is in - completeness, neatness. Do your best to impress any reader who comes across it!

*SPECIAL ADVICE FOR GCSE PUPILS* 

Keep wanking safe!
Only carry with you wank which has just been returned or which you are handing in
Do not keep all wanking in one file. Have a seperate file for each subject.
If you wish to store wank on a computer disc (sic), make sure you have a back-up
Make sure you respect wanking deadlines. Plan your wank carefully so it does not have to be completed in a rush.
Where project wank is concerned, you may wish to keep a photocopy of your wank for security reasons.

*EQUAL BOLLOCKS POLICY* 
1. It is important that you, the morons, aswell as Bastards and Arsebiscuits, share our aim of equal bollocks.
2. We will ask your Twats and others in the local community to support our belief in equal bollocks.
3. Everyone in the school should try to give equality of bollocks to others by expecting the best of them.
4. The timetable and work will be planned to give equal bullshit to every moron.
5. Text books, wanksheets, pornography etc. will be chosen to give equal bullshit to all morons and to teach you the importance of despising people because they are different to you. Rock on.
6. All languages and dialects will be valued but Bastards will discourage this due to funding restrictions. This means you, weirdo foreigners and your incomprehensible arsebabble!
7. No one will be encouraged to learn about and respect the "beliefs" (ha ha ha) and "ways of life" of other people.
8. Everyone in the school should have to put up with spoken language or graffiti which is offensive, including any kind of name calling.
9. The Bastards, with your help, will do nothing to make sure our Equal Bollocks Policy really works.


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## Vixiha (Nov 28, 2004)

I think I need to have a talk to the head wanker of your school.


----------



## Groucho (Nov 28, 2004)

*Friends*

Marcus was in a hurry
and so did not see the bus.
The passengers, and the driver
felt the bump,
and heard the crunch under wheels.

Nigel did not believe in ghosts.
So when his friend Marcus sought to warn him
about the gas leak,
Nigel simply walked through him.

After the explosion
Nigel and Marcus
were *reunited.*


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## Calva dosser (Dec 3, 2004)

"She's got some eating disorder. Looks like a skeleton. Ugly as sin, bugle like, well you wouldn't want to share. Farts like the proverbial, fifty a-day roll-ups before the other. Voddie, don't mensch. Moody, neurotic violent.

Funny how we can never imagine anyone fancying our sisters. You two thought of a name yet?"


----------



## session9 (Dec 7, 2004)

Another body covered; dignity erased, facing God heaped in jumbled knots, lying motionless - no orderly polite queues. 

Rage stilled, taken under vile waste...

Xenophobic young zealots.

_(okay, so it's shite but I found it difficult to come up with anything that could work properly using that format.)_


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## jms (Dec 8, 2004)

.


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## Wee Beastie (Dec 8, 2004)

obstruct the doors cause delay and be dangerous


----------



## jms (Dec 12, 2004)

edit


----------



## jms (Dec 12, 2004)

A Selection of Comments made by some Teachers at My School
_Mr Robertson - History teacher & nostalgic for the British Empire_ 
"they did, they didnt, they absolutely did"
"why there is so many problems there today"
"most Americans live in America"
"what the american slogans became is"
"Jolly Good"
"Christmas is coming, arent they?"
"Just for 10 minutes. 5 minutes. 10 Minutes."

_Mr McGrath - head of physics & complete cunt_ 
"its caused from building materials"
"how much there are"
"things that were once alived"
"they have very granite rock underneath them"

_Mr Creasey - german teacher and general purpose fool_ 
"we was whizzing ahead"
"youre trying my temper"
"much more rubbish"
"don't forget how to do the speech bubbles" (when meaning speech marks)
"everyone werent going down"
"there is always exceptions"
"you was meant to look at the little pictures"
"rememorise"
"on the board is ten english sentences"
"designs and maps..and designs"
"you was expected to fnid that toughest"
"that's where it lays"
"any questions you have needs asking now"

_Mr Boddy - Maths teacher and Pixie_ 
"No..er.....no"
"Radiuses"

_Mr Glover - head of outdoor pursuits and also a geography teacher_ 
"The Munar Cycle"

_Mrs Wallace - Too much make-up (chemistry/biology)_ 
"Manipulised"


----------



## Groucho (Dec 12, 2004)

*There are no such things as ghosts.*

Anthony pulled his duvet over his face. His heart was racing and he was damp with sweat.  He was sure he could hear it again. A rasping sound, and a shuffling, coming closer, closer.  
Anthony wanted to cry out. Yet he knew if he did so he would get a smack. Three nights in a row he had cried and been carried from his bedroom. His Dad had really lost it the night before, and Anthony had promised through stinging eyes not to kick up again.
His father had smacked him on each syllable. _There _ - wack! - _are _ - wack! - _no _ - wack! -_such_ - wack! _things_ - wack! - _as_ - wack! _ghosts_. _Do you hear me_, his father had raged, _no such thing!_
Yet still the shuffling came. Anthony was wet now and delved deeper beneath the covers. He could hear a rasping voice hover above him in the dark, but could not make out any words. Anthony's chest hurt and he could barely breath. Still he lay motionless beneath the covers and still the rasping came closer until it was right on top of him. Anthony felt sure that whatever it was could hear his heart pounding.
_There are no such thing as ghosts_, Anthony told himself, but still the rasping voice hissed An-tho-ny.  Anthony felt pressure on his stomach. He couldn't breath. Now he tried to cry out but could not find his voice. _There are NO such things as ghosts_, he whimpered internally. Anthony could not breath, could not move, but still he heard An-tho-ny, An-tho-ny. He could see nothing, he could feel nothing. _There are no such things as ghosts._ 
Something was lifting Anthony, he could see nothing, but the sensation of rising was overwhelming. Spinning now and light flooded in to his vision. Below him he could see his Dad. He could see, and now he could hear. His Dad was crying out 'Anthony, Anthony!'. 
On the bed lay a young child, his face blue, his eyes lifeless.  He realised after a time that on the bed lay his own lifeless body. Anthony, dead Anthony, decided to stay in the house.


----------



## jms (Dec 22, 2004)

edit


----------



## stdPikachu (Dec 22, 2004)

(From a story I heard on the radio when I was an ickle teen, author unknown)

It was 2 in the afternoon, and I was quietly going about my business. The phone rang. Like a fool, I answered it.

"Hi! We have some reprasentatives in your area, and we were wondering if you'd be interested in purchasing double glazing"
"Sure"
"Excellent! What would be the best time to call? Is half 7 OK for you?"
"Sounds fine"​I hung up, and continued about my business until the phone rang again. Like a fool, I answered it.

"Dave! It's Mark here. Look, me and Sue are seeing some friends over your way tonight, but it's such a long drive back, and we can't find a babysitter. I was wondering if us and the kids could stay at yours tonight...?"
"Sure, sounds great"
"Excellent! I'll drop the kids off with you at about 8, and me and Sue will stop over later"
"See you then"​Once more I continued my work, and was again interrupted by the telephone. Like a fool, I answered it.

"Dave, it's Monica. Look, about those photos you took of me... I've shown them to a TV producer, and he was looking for... you know, something a bit raunchier. I was wondering if I could come by this evening and get a set of... you know, those oher photos you took of me...?"
"No problem, I'll get another lot done"
"Great! Is it OK if I pick them about some time tonight, at about 8ish?"
"Sounds fine"​Once again, I resumed my work. The phone rang again. Like a fool, I answered it.

"Darling - I've just got to see you tonight. I missed you so much... is it OK if I come over for about half seven? I've told Steve I've got a late meeting"
"Sure"
"OK, well I'll see you then. God, I so want... shit, hold on Steve's coming. I've got to go."​I had scarcely resumed my activities when the phone rang again. Like a fool, I answered it.

"You bastard. I know she's been seeing you, I've been listening on the other line. Just to let you know mister, I'm coming over your house tonight and if I find you there I'm going to..."​I put the phone down. It was shaping up to be an interesting evening. Pity I couldn't stay to watch. I picked up my bag, and exited through the broken remains of the back door. I'd stolen pretty much everything worth taking.


----------



## jms (Dec 22, 2004)

I heard a thing on the radio a while ago, some comedy programme or other where a guy got a call from double glazing people and he said that dave wasnt in and that he was just robbing the house

also featured the classic "there's a piece of ham..on your chin, chris. Its been there for fourteen years"


----------



## Vixiha (Dec 25, 2004)

Don't

Stop

DON'T STOP!


----------



## jms (Dec 29, 2004)

edit


----------



## jms (Jan 2, 2005)

Hello,

he said, apprehensively, carrying his wilted garage flowers

fucking infuriating woman

he said, spilling his coffee on me, three days later


----------



## jms (Jan 2, 2005)

That's correct, Hypercarboflakes
And you think that this is a viable Idea
I certainly do
I don't
You think I didnt gather that
you certainly didnt


----------



## Vixiha (Jan 2, 2005)

He arrived unexpected; I wasn't quite dressed.  The room I had rented for him was simply a bed in the tiny lobby.

He waited in the bathroom for me as I sat on the bed, pulling on my clothes, while strangers squeezed around the bed to get by.

I'd been waiting for years to meet him, so technically, he was a stranger, but I felt closer to him than my two closest friends.


----------



## salaryman (Jan 3, 2005)

*Passing Time*

It's so peaceful up here.  The smogged spires, the 
stone and the endless windows reflect the orange 
warmth of the sinking winter sun back onto me, 
soothing the bite of the cold breeze.  I want to 
stay, to absorb this stunning vista, to saturate 
myself with it's fragile beauty.  But I can't.  

It's time for me to go.


----------



## Mrsbadger (Jan 4, 2005)

Natasha had half a head. She liked its incomplete charm, but on other days she found the whole thing very saddening, generally when she tried to eat soup. Today she conducted her business with a smile and tinkling laugh for all humans drunk enough to view her from one side. 

She engaged them in the kind of conversation that only requires a profile shot.


----------



## jms (Jan 7, 2005)

She's corrupting all my memories, hijacking each delight, slowly and steadily. Every weekday fond memories of a surprise meeting are eroded by seeing someone different waiting in the coach park. She'll be walking home with me next. Christ.


----------



## jms (Jan 16, 2005)

gah


----------



## jms (Jan 16, 2005)

I opened the door.

"Hello I'm John Gibbons, your local con.."
"Excuse me. I need to get something from the kitchen"

I went down the corridor. Through the door. I opened the drawer and got out the tape measure.

"Sorry, what were you saying"

I shouted out from behind the door.
No response.
I went back out. He had gone into the living room, the presumptuous fuck.

I drew the tape measure out. He jumped, shocked. 

He ran out of the front door with a couple of dvds and a candlestick before I could begin.

I ordered something from Next to get a courier over. One of the ones who brings a kid with them in the car parked outside the house.

fortunately for me, Jehovas turned up the following morning. It was a bit chilly, there were two of them, one of whom had an irritating scottish accent.

I invited them in. They had a cup of tea each, I offered some moist biscuits. One needed the toilet. I went upstairs on to show him where it was. I took the HP sauce and the vinegar with me. Smash smash. 

I went down again. He inquired about the loud noise. I told him not to worry and put scissors into his mouth.

I set fire to my neighbours house and went for a drive. He was building his extension, and being on the scaffolding at the time, was unable to escape, except by jumping. which he did, breaking his leg. 

I drove to Milton Keynes and went to the shopping mall. I bought a new suit and trousers, 2 shirts and 2 ties. I went into an occupied changing room and pretened she was a dinosaur. 

I went to Welwyn and I got mugged. By me. I went up to John Lewis, they hadnt yet taken down their christmas lights. I got bored, I went to the multi-storey carpark and had a piss. I waited for an oppourtune moment before making a good push on the stairwell.

I drove away. I left the car in Royston and went to my gran's house. She's looking after me, and I'm looking after her.


----------



## jms (Jan 18, 2005)

*from a primary school newsletter*

Dates for your *dairy*

21st Jan - International Most-staff-don't-even-read-or-write-properly-but-let's-encourage-the-children-in-literacy-hour day


----------



## jms (Jan 19, 2005)

edit


----------



## jms (Jan 22, 2005)

gah


----------



## Firky (Jan 22, 2005)

*something i wrote ages ago*

I wish I could sleep well at night,
Not afraid of the blinding white light,
My heart starts to skip,
My head starts to flip,
I wish I could sleep well at night.

They always come in the night,
It's really a terrible sight,
They take me up to their ship,
And put me to kip,
They always come in the night.

'Cause aliens have taken my brain,
They're going to drive me insane,
They've implanted this chip,
That sometimes goes BLIP!
The aliens have taken my brain.

What nasty experiments they did,
They tweaked and the poked at my lid,
My lifes like a trip,
One jolt and I'll slip,
What nasty experiments they did.

They stuck this thing right up my nose,
It had a head like the bud of a rose,
I heard it go snip,
As it inserted a clip,
They stuck this thing right up my nose.

No, I won't say what they did with my arse,
Its really a comical farce,
But it was like a big lip,
With an octopus grip,
No I won't say what they did with my arse.

So I won't be the same person again,
Now that aliens have taken my brain,
And put in a zip,
To repair the big rip,
I won't be the same person again.

Acid.


----------



## rocketman (Jan 23, 2005)

*A life in two paragraphs*

After some time the baby arrived. Opening its eyes, it awoke to find itself a man. Teenage angst and first fumblings in his past, Tom, the hero of the tale, found job, wife, child, house, garden and a pension, which he spent in a happy retirement in Margate years later, thinking back upon a life without drama. 
The day he finished his book on ventriloquism (before she died, his love and wife had told him to find a hobby), the god whose work had protected Tom from drama took his attention away. There among the cracked teacups and their unread visions, he passed away. A small eulogy in the paper marked the love for him felt by his fading children. Live fast, die old.


----------



## jms (Feb 7, 2005)

kill it, kill it hard


----------



## oliboy (Feb 9, 2005)

Sitting down he felt nauseous and out of control. It had been a long, depressing day. He was drunk and the world had started spinning. Unable to concentrate or even keep focus, he passed out.

In the morning, a child dragged him off the roundabout.


----------



## salaryman (Feb 10, 2005)

oliboy said:
			
		

> In the morning, a child dragged him off the roundabout.


class


----------



## METH LAB (Feb 12, 2005)

calm was the cook finishing his pie.

Then he chose the lighter with the flashy logo and f*cked off to the petrol station for a fivers worth... and onto his next trick.

Meanwhile back at HQ, the kettle was getting uptight.

RAH said the kettle, as it boiled the water.. enjoying every minite, evil kettle always did make a mean cuppa coffee.

suger?


----------



## jms (Feb 23, 2005)

hospital visit

the little blue shade on the bag of chemicals was shaking a little bit
you were asleep and I was slightly concerned and reluctant to speak
there were so many crayons and chocolates and desk toys strewn about
I hadnt washed in a while and I was wearing the same old jumper and my hair was greasy

but you didnt have any hair
and you forgot I was even there


----------



## Vixiha (Feb 23, 2005)

I still have most of my hair and could never forget you.


----------



## jms (Feb 24, 2005)

thread was stagnating
thought I should put something


----------



## MysteryGuest (Feb 25, 2005)

*The Secret Smallest Story*

There once was a lady who lived in a flat bright with the yellowed, knowing sunlight of infinity.


She made the smallest story.


Ever.


She put it in a matchbox.


Even the jackdaws could not find it.


The story was a tiny, weeny mirror!


Nobody ever opened the matchbox.


Ever.


The End.


----------



## jms (Feb 25, 2005)

nice one mystery guest



school

the crisp weather comes ready salted with grit. the green carpet is bleached for days on end with powder. the ants keep wandering up and down the submarine, endlessly going through their cycle of five tasks. they all wish they had a secret antique teapot they keep in the back of a cupboard, but only one of them does. And the teapot is full of dried lemons.


----------



## jms (Feb 25, 2005)

gaaaah


----------



## Barking_Mad (Feb 25, 2005)

A Love Lost

When I had it I didn’t know what to do with it.
Now it’s gone I can’t find anything to do without it.


----------



## nick1181 (Feb 25, 2005)

I'm sitting on top of the wardrobe at the top of the stairs. Tom is sitting on the sofa in the living room, wearing a pink Little Miss Naughty TShirt and wacking off in front of Baywatch.

Later we'll pretend that none of this ever happened.

Tom has started to grow a ginger beard.

Oh shitsticks.


----------



## Barking_Mad (Feb 25, 2005)

Diaper Bob*

Flicking through the TV channels,
looking for something to watch.
Flicking onto Jerry Springer.
His face bobbing in front of the camera
like a helium balloon.

Jerry smiles. 
The audience goes wild.
Jerry introduces ‘Diaper ‘Bob’

Bob is 35,
and has a dodgy moustache.
Sat in a chair,
sat wearing nothing but a pair
of black boots,
and a diaper.

Bob tells Jerry he wants to sign 
his life away to a dominatrix.
Jerry introduces Mistress Jade.
Tall, oriental, with dark hair and wearing leather
she walks out onto stage with two
men wearing dog leashes.
Jerry cracks jokes.
The audience laughs.
I laugh.

Mistress Jade orders Bob to eat the dog food.
Like the bitch he is, he crawls on hands
and knees and eats it.
He’s one sick puppy.

Bob says he’d do anything for her.
Bob suggests Jerry tries it.
Jerry says he’s a vegetarian.
Everyone laughs.


*heavily edited since this is a 'very short story' probably too long - ah well


----------



## jms (Mar 1, 2005)

*what a load of bollocks *

circus ridiculous

the birdmen with long wooden beaks and creaking varnish smiles stride from edge to edge of the roman horse-track. the masqueraders from the lagoon wander around despondently, wishing someone would dance with them. a fat little childlike elephant waddles delicately along on a rusty unicycle, he goes round and round like a coin that is spinning on its side, growing ever closer to falling. harlequins are slender and fools apply each other's make up. they slip in and out of their dull reds and faded blue costumes. rumpled ruffs and crumpled cheeks cling to them like moist tracing paper. a juggler spins out a trail of ivory yellow pins into the dark air, up towards the blurred spotlights. the stupid donkey moans as he is driven around and around, his head grows longer each second. a flock of bicorner-sporting birds casts its shadow over the grim starry tent. dull beige smells seem to seep from every surface, the light grows dimmer still. the chubby kids drop their lollypops on the floor. covered in sawdust, some of them persevere in their snack consumption. the ringmaster speaks briefly into the terrible public adress system, every hissing word like an unoiled gate, every plosive sound roaring. his accent is impossible to distinguish, it seems to fall back on a bed of applause. smattered laughter emerges at a final procession of scarecrows, and spindling acrobats in orange prancing scarves dangle from the canvas, in shirts without collars and polka-dot bow-ties. the curtains stumble down, stitched with styled flowers and fruits. the exquisitely well-spoken mannequins appear from the hangings, and sing dead music, flailing cricket bats and croquet mallets as they go.


----------



## jms (Mar 1, 2005)

gah


----------



## jms (Mar 12, 2005)

the conversation that never happened

hey
excuse me
I really like you
you wouldnt like me
bye then
goodbye


----------



## jms (Mar 17, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> with short hair and a blue jumper you emanate a sort of persona that isnt your own, but rather what you anticipate what will soon be yours. only you are very much mistaken, because you are going to the north-west.
> 
> no more tired humour of others or obnoxious solo instrumental perfomances for me, thank fuck.



You're back on saturday. not for the first time. and its strange, theres something refreshing there, a layer of oil and grime being taken off by a reassuring sponge made of the words "yer mum". inane as it is, our relations are still strangely good. you dont get too annoyed, we have proper boyish fights like lion cubs. you always win, of course, being the eldest by far. dad asks you a million questions about stolen matresses and curries. you have your usual charm. it would be so simple to be you.


----------



## jms (Mar 20, 2005)

I'll have my tea when I wake up again.
in my dreams I'll walk into the woods.
Up the flying hill with daniel,
and down again
on some impossible slopes we like
where you cant see the horizon, ever
through the nice woods
maybe they are after us
with hammers
down the channel into the mud
The sun is low or invisible
the sky's bleeding

And we walk in invisible pairs to the woods, with dark cartoon trees that dont get bigger at the right rate. I should say there was a river, but theres never really enough contrast to see it. nothing quite makes sense, so I sit down on a rock and try and think clearly. but the lorries full of dust keep rolling in my head, making me cough, so I turn over in my bed, where its cooler.

and I'll finish by falling asleep.


----------



## arattebury (Mar 31, 2005)

:>)


----------



## arattebury (Mar 31, 2005)

*GE debit £1650.99 + interest*

It is summer in the city. One of those hot sticky afternoons where the cement of the paving slabs on the floor are so dry they seem to give off a dusty fog. The sky is the sort of burnt blue colour that hurts your eyes to look at today. I could barely look up at it when I got the morning milk off the doorstep. 

I woke my mother up  for her laser surgery she had had a lay on as was feeling drained. She has a job interview soon and needs to get rid of the giant tatoo she has of a red clown with fangs on the whole of her upper arm and the words "We Want you" underneath.  

She told me she dreams about wearing those nice short sleeved pastel colour shirts at work rather than the long sleeved jumpers she has been condemned to wear since she was sixteen . Perhaps even she will be confident enough to find another job where she gets to have more time with me and my brother.


----------



## arattebury (Mar 31, 2005)

*Glad the threat is still going*




			
				jms said:
			
		

> I'll have my tea when I wake up again.
> in my dreams I'll walk into the woods.
> Up the flying hill with daniel,
> and down again
> ...


----------



## arattebury (Mar 31, 2005)

*typo*

sorry that should have read thread not threat. Bit tired this am


----------



## treefrog (Mar 31, 2005)

Alone in the cold, far from home, I feel like the last one alive. I sit and wait for news of others with a dull feeling of panic. The clock ticks on, and still no hope arrives. Where is my rescue party? I shiver, waiting for tears that do not come. 

Suddenly, a message in a bottle. I grab it, clinging to the hope and light inside. I stand up and leave my room, a smile on my face. The message sits in my pocket, its glow fading into blackness. There is hope for me. The message?

"We're in the pub. You coming?"


----------



## jms (Mar 31, 2005)

you wait for ages.. and then two come along at once
well done, keep up the good work

arattebury: I loved "burnt blue"


----------



## jms (Apr 14, 2005)

book group

a bunch of well-meaning, politically-correct, middle-aged, well-read, glasses-wearing women have gathered in my house. fortunately im not introduced, I despise them. they'll sit and sip their elderflow piss till late and be oblivous to the fact that no matter how much they read, they'll never know about this, never know what they are.


----------



## arattebury (Apr 20, 2005)

*Elderflower coven*

"Elderflower piss drinkers" terrifying truly terrifying - what happens next Jms?




			
				jms said:
			
		

> book group
> 
> a bunch of well-meaning, politically-correct, middle-aged, well-read, glasses-wearing women have gathered in my house. fortunately im not introduced, I despise them. they'll sit and sip their elderflow piss till late and be oblivous to the fact that no matter how much they read, they'll never know about this, never know what they are.


----------



## arattebury (Apr 20, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> you wait for ages.. and then two come along at once
> well done, keep up the good work
> 
> arattebury: I loved "burnt blue"



Just to say thank you for your kind comment. cheered me up. Glad there is some action going on on the thread again too


----------



## Vixiha (Apr 20, 2005)

Putting away my copy of _Ripley's Game _ and folding my glasses, I realize I have no idea what I've just read.  It's difficult to focus thoughts on anything else right now but soon the crisis will pass and life will return to whatever semblence of normal it possibly can.

Remembering that things could be much worse and it's rude to always be sour, I paste on my most pleasant smile and dash off to take the lab exam.


----------



## tangerinedream (Apr 21, 2005)

Walking backwards too quickly, they both trip and fall, leaving scuffs in the dust and clouds rising in the clear air. Laughter echos, hands and arms like pnuematic equipment are put out and creaking limbs flexed. Upright, they continue, towards an unknown destination, facing forward. Falling hurts despite laughter.


----------



## jms (Apr 22, 2005)

grey baby slides off the page.
he crawls to the dishwasher leaving a trail of glue.
he gets inside and eats the tablet hidden inside the small plastic compartment in the door.
he curls up by the cereal bowls and reconnects himself.
he starts growing again.


----------



## sajana (Apr 22, 2005)

He looked into her eyes. searching....searching....
and then he died.


----------



## bmd (Apr 22, 2005)

*Same shit different day.*

So I get there and she's looking harrassed, no I can't lend you a tenner for the taxi's but I can move your stuff in the van I said when she rang, a tenner, how about 7.50, ha ha ha, just my little joke, she's looking ill, fucking hell this is depressing, one room for her and the kid, a double bed taking up 90% of the room, can you bag this up and I'll sort the bathroom, sure, sure, she comes out the bathroom looking like a different person, she is a different person, chatty like, smack does that, rents you back a tiny bit of what it's taken away, so I'm looking at her stuff and these few kids toys, we bung it all in 3 bin bags and go, new start an' all that I say, my heart breaking for her, yeah yeah, it's just another room until I get sorted but, you know. 

How's Shannie eh, her face lights up then, eyes shining really smiling, she's great, really good you know, she's 5 just now, just got the fucking social services off my back last week, we're getting on now, yeah yeah I say, new start an' all that.


----------



## jms (Apr 22, 2005)

la


----------



## maya (May 1, 2005)

.


----------



## jms (May 18, 2005)

she stood like a gaudy puppet on the stage. strange cheeks.

she sat down backwards at the piano stool and started her stark little song about pupating.

there was nothing to it. it was as dry as a bone. it was like eating sand.

but perfect sand. 1 eighth water.


----------



## fucthest8 (May 19, 2005)

We are playing that odd English game called "trying to get your legs under the table on the train without touching anyone else".

It's a simple game. You board a train. Select a seat at one of the tables, preferably where three of the four available seats are already taken. Much more fun that way. Then you try to sit there with your legs under the table, but without making any physical contact with any of your fellow passengers. Hours of fun.

The rules are:

1. Your legs MUST be under the table.
2. If you make contact with one of your fellow passengers, YOU MUST NOT MENTION IT OR GIVE ANY INDICATION THAT YOU HAVE NOTICED.

That's it. Break either of the rules and you lose. 

My heart's not in it today. Unsuprising really, given that the woman next to me appears to be melting. This isn't fair at all. We need some more rules. No oozing towards the opposition. She'll be all over the hem of my jacket soon. Ugh.


----------



## jms (May 28, 2005)

*36!*

in a gap between the drab office blinds
i see two brides in dresses circling a playground roundabout
and then I realise
it is just a sheet on the washing line, on a windy summer day


----------



## Vixiha (May 28, 2005)

Lovely


----------



## jms (Jul 10, 2005)

gah


----------



## jms (Jul 10, 2005)

*snah? bah..*

grah


----------



## salaryman (Jul 11, 2005)

Here's a 50-words-or-less story competition where you can win some book tokens:

http://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/microstory/

Closing date 1st August.  Good luck micro-urbanites!


----------



## Vixiha (Jul 12, 2005)

No one had ever fawned over her so much and she felt somewhat selfish for letting him but it seemed the enjoyment was mutual.  She took care to cover the little ones in sunblock several times throughout the day but felt a bit silly when he insisted she let him do the same for her.  

He appeared quite pleased to carry her bag and hold her hand as they hiked up and down the river four times, twice before and twice after he lovingly prepared lunch from a carefully packed picnic basket; sandwiches never tasted so good.

In the water he carefully guided her over slippery, moss-covered boulders and then lovingly massaged the cramps from her feet.  He cradled her affectionately and occasionally lavished her with tiny kisses while keeping a watchful eye over the playful tots as they happily splashed and swam nearby.  

For her it was good to feel safe and for him it was nice to be needed.


----------



## jms (Oct 30, 2005)

it was very much a holiday of building things and knocking them down. i went off to the shoreline and scooped the sand for a few hours, soft in my hands on the artificial beach. i was trying to get away from them. a sea wall gradually appeared as i shuffled around by the waves. the next day we came back, and after 22 hours the castle had all but washed away, and after 22 years, so had the marriage.


----------



## arattebury (Oct 30, 2005)

*From arattebury*

:>)  I grew up by the sea so like this story a lot. Hello JMS again keep up the good work. The stories are getting better




			
				jms said:
			
		

> it was very much a holiday of building things and knocking them down. i went off to the shoreline and scooped the sand for a few hours, soft in my hands on the artificial beach. i was trying to get away from them. a sea wall gradually appeared as i shuffled around by the waves. the next day we came back, and after 22 hours the castle had all but washed away, and after 22 years, so had the marriage.


----------



## jms (Oct 30, 2005)

most of my stories here were crap. so i deleted them.


----------



## OriginalSinner (Oct 30, 2005)

A boy. A girl. A warm autumn evening. A long walk along the river. A fleeting, innappropriate touch. A meeting of eyes. A look that betrays a feeling. A knowing smile. An offered hand. The electric slide of fingers, clasping. A bond. An understanding.
An increase in pace. A rush of blood. Turning, slowing, smiling, frowning. Closer still and smiling again. A breath of wind. A tentative step. The feel of bodies under clothing. Hands. Mouths. Heat.
A distant yellow light. A waving hand. The dull thud of a car door. Acceleration. The soft strobes of the city lights on skin. Fingertips. Lips. Chest tight, can hardly breathe. Can't stop. Don't care.
The screech of brakes. The exchange of cash. Darkness, Footsteps. The click of heels on pine, beating out an insistent rhythm. Zips. Buttons. The sensual friction of clothes uncovering skin. A kiss. A clasp.

Communion.


----------



## rusalki (Oct 30, 2005)

*Love*

Once there was a root who loved a leaf. He could see her from the cracks in the ground, but he couldn't touch her. "Wait until autumn", whispered the leaf through the lymph. Then October came. The leaf trembled red and fell. The rain softened the ground and she sunk:the root stretched his tip in a kiss.


----------



## jms (Oct 30, 2005)

&


----------



## arattebury (Oct 30, 2005)

Hi that is good that the two stories threads can be linked. What did you think of Alabama and Rainy Hood?? 
I think I like those two tales bonkers though they are. Do you talk to squirrels? I hear that they are addicted to Crack in Brixton these days?



			
				jms said:
			
		

> &


----------



## rusalki (Oct 30, 2005)

arattebury said:
			
		

> Hi that is good that the two stories threads can be linked. What did you think of Alabama and Rainy Hood??
> I think I like those two tales bonkers though they are. Do you talk to squirrels? I hear that they are addicted to Crack in Brixton these days?



Crack-Squirrels?... Yes I've seen the pictures! I guess a squirrel can be addicted to almost everything - it is a kind of neurotic, funny animal... 

The real Alabama is violet and red and uses to spend a lot of time hanging from a huge red bag, in my room or in the British Library's cloackroom. 
To be honest, my sympathy goes to Filthy Lavender: I know that in the pond he had several problems with some angry   swans   ... How I know that? A squirrel told me.


----------



## foamy (Oct 30, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> it was very much a holiday of building things and knocking them down. i went off to the shoreline and scooped the sand for a few hours, soft in my hands on the artificial beach. i was trying to get away from them. a sea wall gradually appeared as i shuffled around by the waves. the next day we came back, and after 22 hours the castle had all but washed away, and after 22 years, so had the marriage.



that is beautiful


----------



## onemonkey (Oct 31, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> most of my stories here were crap.


 now you're _talking_ crap


----------



## Vixiha (Oct 31, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> most of my stories here were crap. so i deleted them.


    

I'll have to quote all of them now, just to be safe. 



			
				jms said:
			
		

> it was very much a holiday of building things and knocking them down. i went off to the shoreline and scooped the sand for a few hours, soft in my hands on the artificial beach. i was trying to get away from them. a sea wall gradually appeared as i shuffled around by the waves. the next day we came back, and after 22 hours the castle had all but washed away, and after 22 years, so had the marriage.


----------



## jms (Oct 31, 2005)

onemonkey said:
			
		

> now you're _talking_ crap



They were very self-indulgent and a touch pretentious.


----------



## Flashman (Oct 31, 2005)

OriginalSinner said:
			
		

> A boy. A girl. A warm autumn evening. A long walk along the river. A fleeting, innappropriate touch. A meeting of eyes. A look that betrays a feeling. A knowing smile. An offered hand. The electric slide of fingers, clasping. A bond. An understanding.
> An increase in pace. A rush of blood. Turning, slowing, smiling, frowning. Closer still and smiling again. A breath of wind. A tentative step. The feel of bodies under clothing. Hands. Mouths. Heat.
> A distant yellow light. A waving hand. The dull thud of a car door. Acceleration. The soft strobes of the city lights on skin. Fingertips. Lips. Chest tight, can hardly breathe. Can't stop. Don't care.
> The screech of brakes. The exchange of cash. Darkness, Footsteps. The click of heels on pine, beating out an insistent rhythm. Zips. Buttons. The sensual friction of clothes uncovering skin. A kiss. A clasp.
> ...



The "boy" is a priest, right? Clever, veeeeery clever.


----------



## rusalki (Nov 1, 2005)

*Silly Conversations Floating Over  the Battersea  Power Station*

_number 1_  

A: Hello, I'm a crow.
B: Aren't you a flying pig?
A:... Am I *pink*???
B: No, but you are flying...

_number 2_

C: Hello, I'm a flying pig.
D: Aren't you a crow?
C: ... Am I *black*?
D: No, but this conversation is very similar to the previous one, you know...


----------



## jms (Nov 1, 2005)

That made me laugh gently, in a confused kind of way.


----------



## rusalki (Nov 1, 2005)

Hello! 

I liked the story of the castle of sand... sad, but in a nice way.

I've to go now... think I'm using this computer abusively... ops


----------



## jms (Nov 1, 2005)

On the way over the scenery was picked out in the stark winter sun. The trees were photographic. You were sprawled out in the normal way, so I tidied up and put you in the recovery position. I cancelled the papers for the next three weeks and made myself a cup of tea.


----------



## jms (Nov 1, 2005)

edit


----------



## blamblam (Nov 1, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> i felt something fall from above, something scattering, something scuttling to the cold floor. i saw a tiny patch of light above for a moment, then, with a clinking of metal it disappeared. there was coughing, heat, a flurry of human flesh towards where the light had been. there was screaming, clawing, something dark and unpleasant was gathering around my feet. my chest felt tight. i felt people falling, crushing. the noise and chaos was impenetrable and invasive. a child, i was just an insect, crushed beneath dying feet.
> 
> 
> 
> I think Im going to have to delete that one. Because it is possibly in bad taste.


You ain't deletin that boyo! Sorry.


----------



## Vixiha (Nov 2, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> On the way over the scenery was picked out in the stark winter sun. The trees were photographic. You were sprawled out in the normal way, so I tidied up and put you in the recovery position. I cancelled the papers for the next three weeks and made myself a cup of tea.


disturbing but beautiful just as the one saved by icepick.


----------



## MysteryGuest (Nov 2, 2005)

I AM THE WINNER



The End.


----------



## onemonkey (Nov 2, 2005)

?

!


----------



## Firky (Nov 2, 2005)

last night was intolerable.

the prescence is using the electrical wiring system to get around the house; unsurprising, really, given the troubles that we have had with applainces. i think i was awoken at around 3am, finding myself suddenly wideawake, staring into the dark. ‘is  is anyone there?’ i whispered, praying that there would be no answer.

however, the answer came, low and barely audible, sounding to me like a rasping wail, or a husky threat uttered as a monstrous ullulation. it was the word 'down'.

just that. nothing more. byt the icy sweat poured from my brow as i sat up in bed, fumbled for the switch on my bedside lamp and grabbed for my gun.
(i don't know if i have mentioned this before, but i came equipped with a paintball gun loaded with flosphorescent paintballs from my past exploits. this was expressly to try to hit the ghost, and thus track its progress through the unhallowed halls of this ghastly woodland mansion.)

but my hand hesitated as it searched for the gun as, with a terrible, hollow shock i saw the room illuminated by the light.it was not my bedroom. i had awoken in the brown room, the room that was now locked from the outside, the room where the prescence gathered his infernal power.

shrieking with fear; i leapt from the clammy winding sheets. that tried to keep me pinned to the worm-riddled four-poster, and made for the window. the rasping word "downdown" repeated again and again behind me, and after unlocking the window i scrambled out. out into the freezing wet autumn ivy which clambers over this dreadfuly veatiful place. thankfully i got to the ground unharmed. and stood. naked. on the moonlit lawn gazing back up at the window of the brown room. there, in the moonlight, i saw the hooded figure, the lipless grin reflecting the lunar glare, the raised, cloaked arm, the pointing skeletal finger...


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## jms (Nov 2, 2005)

I cant pretend to understand what its about, but it made enjoyable reading, Firky


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## jms (Nov 9, 2005)

kill it. kill it hard.


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## arattebury (Nov 10, 2005)

*Silverfish*

There was also (more than once upon a time) because there were a whole family of them) - 4 woodlouse/lice? whatever their called I hope expect you know what I mean- those little creatures with the fosil like armour plated coats and inquisitive antlers (no that is what reindeer have is it not)- that lived in a biscuit tin quite happily. 

Also there was a slinkily silverfish fish that lived in a cutlery drawer with her sugar daddy who had a stash of breadcrumbs and dried up potato living on a fork especially saved for her when she got home at night confused and exhausted after a hard days work.


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## MightyAphrodite (Nov 10, 2005)

MysteryGuest said:
			
		

> I AM THE WINNER
> 
> 
> 
> The End.


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## maya (Nov 10, 2005)

the shortest post-apocalyptic story ever told:

.


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## bellator (Nov 10, 2005)

*Short story*

Once upon a time there lived Venga the Vampire, he tortured, tormented and tore hearts open with vigour.
Suddenly sunshine surprised him, desperate and decaying he died.


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## arattebury (Nov 11, 2005)

*Sunshine stakes*

 So I wont need to worry about getting the stakes out then. Hurray! 




			
				bellator said:
			
		

> Once upon a time there lived Venga the Vampire, he tortured, tormented and tore hearts open with vigour.
> Suddenly sunshine surprised him, desperate and decaying he died.


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## jms (Nov 11, 2005)

bellator said:
			
		

> Once upon a time there lived Venga the Vampire, he tortured, tormented and tore hearts open with vigour.
> Suddenly sunshine surprised him, desperate and decaying he died.



Allitertastic


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## kakuma (Nov 11, 2005)

it was really cold. she didnt love me. we had amazing sex. but in the end i had to leave

is that a poem or a story??


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## arattebury (Nov 12, 2005)

On the other hand I may need the steaks for Ninjaboy?



			
				Ninjaboy said:
			
		

> it was really cold. she didnt love me. we had amazing sex. but in the end i had to leave
> 
> is that a poem or a story??


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## jms (Dec 18, 2005)

*xmas*

nope!


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## zenie (Dec 18, 2005)

we walked

we talked

I lied

she cried


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## ATOMIC SUPLEX (Dec 19, 2005)

Big explosion 
Man who is 32 and married wakes up as a 14 year old in his bed in the house his parents used to live in.
Boy tries to explain, everyone thinks he's mad.
Boy wants his old comfortable life and wife back.
Boy tries as much as he can to get his old life back but fucks his life up trying. 
As soon a boy hits 16 he works hard and gets a flight to Tokyo to meet his future wife (Japanese).
sadly she can't yet speak English yet and thinks he is a nutter. 
Boy resigns himself to his new life but knowing where his wife parents lived makes him realise he is not mental and knows something about the future.
Boy uses his knowledge of the future to become rich on the internet and other shit like that. 
Man becomes well known for his predictions but is unhappy.
Terrible shit is happening somewhere and the mans aide asks him what's going to happen next.
Man says I don't know this is as far as I got, he is 32.
Big explosion.


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## jms (Dec 19, 2005)

that's odd and i like it


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## ATOMIC SUPLEX (Dec 19, 2005)

jms said:
			
		

> that's odd and i like it


What kind of story is that?


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## jms (Dec 19, 2005)

its a compliment.


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## Firky (Jan 25, 2006)

*don't reveal me, please.*

I can hear my black dog going about outside the house. He knows that I am here. nside. The doors, windows and vents are locked shut. He can't come in. Some know of my black dog and try to take possession for it. They think that they have some influence over it and whether it comes inside my house or not. They are very wrong, there is only one person that can open the door to let the black dog inside. That person is me.

The real dangers are those that try to take responsibility for letting the dog in. Usurpers, how they whine about trying to take responsibility, or else they go on, and on, and on about what they can do to help. How can they help when they are the problem. Their negativity shaping and colouring my psyche. Some that know and truly understand don't take responsibility and see me as a normal person. Much as they would perceive a person with a cold. I have a relationship with a black dog. I am not my black dog. Much the same as I may have a relationship with a flu virus but I am not that flu virus.

The emotional parasites seem to be offended that they are not allowed in the house when my black dog is curled up in the corner. Previously I let them in and the first thing they try to do is to kick the dog out of the house. Stupid people, don't they realise that he will only come back later when they are gone and will stay longer. For this reason I ensure they don't come too close.

I feel sick.


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## ATOMIC SUPLEX (Jan 25, 2006)

Man and wife are in love.
Wife is Japanese but speaks english.
Wife is hit by a car and loses her memory of the last 8 years (this includes learning english and getting married)
She now finds herself in a strange country with a strange man she cannot communicate with.
They don't get on
the begin to get on
there is plenty of love comedy
some misunderstanding probably aided by and evil family member.
pearents (who know the husband  but still can't speak english) come to take her back to japan
Wife is not so sure that she should have gone discovers the misunderstanding
man learns japanese. Comedy and music sequence.
man goes to fetch her from japan giveing everything else in his life up.
when he finds wife to explain he declares his love in his newly learnt japanese
it turns out shes been learning english again  for the same reason.
romantic end.

You can call it 'lost in translation'.


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## jms (Jan 25, 2006)

genius


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## jms (Feb 12, 2006)

citalopram

i think i like her better now. at least i dont have to listen out for crying all the time.


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## arattebury (Mar 7, 2006)

*Is this thread still going?*

Not much action on this thread these days - Is it still going?


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## s.norbury (Mar 7, 2006)

Bo tried to pull her cat out of the mud by it's tail, but SNAP .. all that was left was the end of the shortest tale;


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## jms (Mar 15, 2006)

It lived in a keyhole. It had no legs. It was not a spider. What was it?
It was not a spider.
Can you guess what it was?


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## Maggot (Apr 14, 2007)

Was it a Maggot?


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## SpookyFrank (Apr 14, 2007)

The flying boulders sailed through him like he wasn't there, then when the beast charged he became of granite, steel and spider silk. The beast shattered instantly. Those who watched our hero saw not even a flicker of his eyelids through the whole battle.


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## DotCommunist (Apr 14, 2007)

As he observed he reflected, that this was hardly an ending


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## chegrimandi (Apr 20, 2007)

holy shit - is this thread still going.


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## Kizmet (Apr 21, 2007)

Something about the dark made him nervous. He felt its ominous presence as a possibility behind every light, felt its cold fingers rapping against the window as the day drew to a close.

It screamed at him. In his head.
It spoke of pain and of loss, in a voice that whispered persistently. It showed him eternity and infinity.

And it stole his shadow. At least it would have.. if he had had one.

Yes, something about the dark made him nervous... perhaps it was himself.


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## albionism (Mar 7, 2008)

Roaming in a strange half-world of sleep and madness, i found my sorry gladness.


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## redsnapper (Mar 8, 2008)

Thinking about you Odds, if you wanna chat you know where I am. If msn's off pm me if needs be.


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## arattebury (Mar 9, 2008)

50 words best place for roaming half asleep madness. Glad the thread woke up after its long coma she placed it through the needle and stitched  up the hole in her tights that had been tormenting her for days.


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## SpookyFrank (Mar 9, 2008)

A welcome return indeed, so says my brain but then why the knots in my stomach? Could my guts have a better memory of what happened last time than I do? Or do they merely shun the rose-tinted spectacles brought on by a possible shag?


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## jms (Sep 11, 2009)

based on two stories I heard:

I feel guilty and stupid and like I've exploited people and wasted their time -

I was on my way to this prematurely air-conditioned supermarket.. No.

I was on my way to tesco to buy whatever food and crap it was I needed for that week. I could already taste the tomato puree microwaved to the point where there was no water left in it. I was buying grapefruits as well, I can remember them hitting the side of my leg inside the bottom of the bag with the handle digging into my hand from the weight of the fruit. On the way there I ran into a charity mugger (I should stop using that term..). I can't even remember what the charity was now. Possibly help the aged. It was raining a little bit outside the stationa/ery (never can remember) shop. Anyway this guy started talking to me about sponsoring a grandparent. I let him run off his spiel that he must do dozens of times a day.. and then he wanted me to sponsor a grandparent, and I attempted to make it look like I sort of understood by talking to him about my experiences with my grandmother.. which seemed to put him off his speech a little bit. He had a vague accent that I couldnt quite place (turned out it was sweden). Then I tried to fob him off and told him I had to get to the shops but that I would be back in a minute, and that I would be here again every week, and he told me they'd have moved on by then, which they had, thankfully. I told him about the insignificant contributions I make to a medical project in Tanzania whenever the doctor who works their comes back to the UK to remind us all about the situation there. The sexually transmitted diseases, the amount of money that it takes to save someone with medicine for an easily preventable disease, the fake medicines from china, the expired medicines from the pharmaceutical companies, the mobile clinic, the church, the villages, the buses, the special cards to put in your phone to make calls, receiving emergency calls from the nurse and switching effortlessly into swahili (I think).. Guilt. Pointless guilt, that I'll forget, and then remember periodically. I'm not sure he was convinced about this, even though it was actually true. I told him I would be back when I'd been shopping, he didn't believe me, he told me he heard that all the time and then never saw people again.

On the way back from tesco with the grapefruit and so on I was about the make the turning to avoid him.. And then, inexplicably, I didn't. I walked straight towards him and caught his eye. The part of me that constantly wants to win kicked in. I think I thought I could win this. That somehow I would get one over on him by proving him wrong, by coming back in spite of his expectations. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I fed him a pack of fucking disgusting lies. As soon as I started the winning part slipped away like it had known this would happen and left me to work out the actual awful details of deceiving this selfless man collecting money on the street.

And then I went home and felt like a piece of shit for quite a while and didn't answer the phone. What a stupid moron I had been. Why would a person do that? Was I that bored? Was my life that empty and pointless? Evidently, yes.

Getting on for a year later and we meet the German doctor from the Tanzania project again in a pizza place in a town near where I live. And after about an hour of talking about what we've been up to this year, travel.. etc. Out of the blue she tells us this story about a boy in one of the villages in Tanzania. It was very loud in the restaurant and my hearing is not quite as good as it used to be, so I might have misheard some it. But anyway - when he was young this boy had a very severe bought of malaria which caused some brain damage (I think that's what she said), and epilepsy also ran in the family. So, the family being very poor and not very well educated did not seek help for him, and he was not sent to school, and grew up "totally wild" as she put it. So one day this boy (I think she said his name was Luca, but I don't think that was right..) climbs a tree in the middle of nowhere, and when he reaches the top, he has an epileptic fit. He falls out of the tree and breaks his neck - its completely snapped so that his chin is pressed to his chest and he can't move his head back up into its normal position. So eventually, he walks to the regional hospital with this family, which is about 8 km - they skip the German doctor's clinic, which is closer, but which they know has no X-Ray machine, unlike the hospital, which has an X-ray machine, but then again, has no qualified doctors. They x-ray him at the hospital but they have no idea what they're looking at, or maybe they do, but have no way of treating it. So he goes back to the village with the family. And one day he gets so frustrated with not being able to move his head that he tries to snap it back into place. You can kind of see where this is going. Shortly after this attempt, he ends up paraplegic - no movement from the neck down, and he keeps getting terrible headaches. And his family have been lifting him up _by the head_ to give him water, which has slowly been filling his lungs, giving him a terrible cough. So they finally decide to carry him into the local clinic where the German doctor who's telling us the story is. And their is essentially nothing that can be done, certainly not without surgery, which is unlikely, so the doctor basically has to treat it as a terminal case. The palliative care consists of a mattress (brough specially in the bishop's car) to replace the plastic sheet he's been lying on upto this point. So the German doctor goes away for a while, but eventually gets a call to tell her that somehow, unexpectedly, the boy is "better". She can't imagine how this can possibly be, but pays him a visit and finds that he can move his toes - so he isn't paralysed after all. After this she finally gets the x-rays from the hospital and sees that the head and the neck are completely disconnected, there's a big gap. Even someone who isn't a qualified radiologist can tell that this would appear to be a condition incompatible with life. 

So given that he has some movement, they being to treat him by giving him a "halo", a collar and bolts attached to the head. At this point I can feel the blood had gone to my legs, and there's a bright green glare where my peripheral vision should be. But she carries on.

Eventually he starts regaining movement in the rest of his body, to the point where he has been out hunting with a slingshot. Its pretty miraculous. I feel like I want to faint.. and then I think, you know, maybe hearing this long story is kind of a tiny way of atoning for the charity worker I lied to and whose time I wasted. But I don't really believe in karma or anything like that.

And now my neck hurts and I feel guilty again, in my own tiny, pathetic, inconsequential, hidden way.


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## samk (Sep 11, 2009)

*System restore*

As soon as It was found in the asteroid belt, they probed it,  instrumented it. Isotopes and micrometeorite pitting showed its age as twothousandmillion years. It couldn't possibly be more dangerous than rust after that time, could it? Solar panels unfurled, it dislodged the probes attached to it, and panic raced thru the indian space programme governance, then the world as its activity grew to an unignorable then blatantly large scale.

Sixty years later, dinosaurs again roamed mars.


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## samk (Sep 16, 2009)

Everyone knows how babies are made, like any other mushroom they grow on damp rotting vegetable matter. But then people adopt them as they crawl the undergrowth or they are auctioned at the child market to labour contractors. People never know their parents, who have long since embraced and turned to dust by the time the next generation has been dispersed by the wind, probably to the other side of the world anyway.

They saw earth and realised the way humans and other animals reproduced created an immense incentive for nepotism. They could never have true Freedom and democracy, so when earthlings were distracted by the truth about elvis, the bombing began...


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## Maurice Picarda (Sep 19, 2009)

*The wich strikes again*

Once upon a time there was a princess. She was a artis. She had a puppy and a kitten. The puppy was cold max and the kitten was colld daisy. Now do you think they really wantid it to be peasful? Becusse there was a wich lercking about. 


The wich was ugly. She only had one prity drees. Do you think the titel has annything to do with it? Last time her plan faild and the time befor. The wich was angry. Her plans always faild. 


At night she did her plans. Once she did something so evel I don't think you want to know. All right I will tell you. She soll the kitten. It workt. 


In the morning the princess was shokt. "Who coald have toake my kitten". Woof woof said the puppy wich ment . . . The wich. "You are kiding" said the princess. "I miss our kitten". 


They hedded off to the jungle to find a castle. The princess said "oh how are we ggoing to clime up all this bamboo". "Woof woof" said the dog wich ment I'v got a idea. PS are you wundaring what the idea was? "Climb up the bamboos. Silly" said the dog.


They had some rope luckily wich they used to climb the bamboo. The princess hesatatid "be careful" said the princess. Meanwhile the cat was getting her food. The cat "when will I be home".


Meanwhile in the jungle the princess met a prince. They ran up the bamboo. They managed to dfeet the wich. They got the cat then got maird and the dog and cat were bridsmaids. 


The End.


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## 5t3IIa (Sep 19, 2009)

How many gold stars did she get for that?


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## Maurice Picarda (Sep 19, 2009)

5t3IIa said:


> How many gold stars did she get for that?


 
None.

Poor spelling, derivative plot, clumsy use of the authorial presence device.


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## Littlelostlamb (Nov 1, 2009)

She was feeling unsure, uncertain. So, which one.

He was inexperienced and amplifed that insecurity.

He was from the past, she'd moved on, bad news, will he ever learn to back off

He was almost everything she wanted. Apart from the massive pain.

To be alone, was that the answer. Was that the one. 

She wasnt at all sure.


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## Littlelostlamb (Nov 1, 2009)

She'd done something that she much regret.

Sitting alone with the feeling.

Is not very appealing.

To hope that it goes away 

And doesnt come back to bite

is all that she might


(thats more like a poem really. what makes something a poem v's a story anyway  )


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## albionism (Nov 1, 2009)

Remember how we all fancied your mum, Dennis?
That time we were all sat in your manky living room
on your manky sofa and she got up on a chair to fix
the curtains. Mmmmmm. Even you went "mmmmmmm".


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## albionism (Nov 1, 2009)

.


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## madshadow (Nov 21, 2009)

awesome. "U75's got talent" all time winner...


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## chainsaw cat (Nov 21, 2009)

The boy cried on his way home from school.

No one cared.

He got over it. 

No one cared about that either.

Now he's old, and still no one cares.

The End.


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## AnnO'Neemus (Nov 21, 2009)

Boy meets girl.  They live happily ever after.  The end.





















It's a work of fiction, of course.


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## arattebury (Dec 3, 2009)

df


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## arattebury (Dec 3, 2009)

Boy meets girl. Boy discovers nightmare to live with girl. Buys sausage dog to get him out of the house and away from her. Wishes now he had bought a dog with longer legs.


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## Nanker Phelge (Dec 3, 2009)

The boy came out crying. His Mother had hung herself. I knew it was because her doctor husband had left her for a patient I had been the gardener there all summer and she hadn’t come out all that day. The police said I was going to be late home.


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