Despite his wishes to the contrary, the fat man was being slowly lowered into the earth from whence he came. He had seen his share of trouble, and had whiled away plenty of his life in prisons, but he could not say that his life was wasted. It was, in fact... rather fulfilling. Most of the world despised him. And maybe that's why he was not being cremated at present. His body stopped at six feet under, but he felt himself sink, sink, sink deep into the ground. The fat man saw decades and centuries go by before his eyes. He witnessed the world sink further into depravity. Perversion and radical sexualities – things unheard of in his time – became the standard of living. Any horrifying fetish one could imagine had its own locale to perform such acts. He saw it all.
By the time he truly realized what was happening – his eternal soul moving about without him even willing it, he was in an empty room. It was all white. Nothingness.
“Hello.”
He quickly turned about to find the origin of the voice. Behind him, a hairless being, completely nude. Androgynous. Its flesh had a pallor. The skin of a dead man. Its eyes were great and wide and piercing. The devil? He knew he must be in hell. It motioned to its left, where the fat man noted a door which had not been so before. Rather nervously, he opened it, the hairless being standing behind him.
In the next room, again, it was simply white, save two people – beautiful people – in the middle. Fucking. Wildly. The fat man had no expression, clearly having been steeled by his own experiences in life. Noticing the fat man's unaffected air, the hairless being motioned again, a second door appearing on the wall beside him. As if compelled, the fat man went through, unthinkingly.
Through this door, a pair of men, one gripping the other by the mouth as he penetrated him. They were muscled, but not terribly attractive. The man on top was unshaven and looked to be a derelict. The one on the bottom was thrashing about, sour sweat pouring down his chest. The fat man did naught but bat an eye. As the bottom man let out a series of animal grunts, the hairless being motioned again, and the fat man was in another room.
The fat man gasped; something had finally breached his calm exterior. In the center of the room, a man in his sixties. A bishop – still wearing the hat. He had aged poorly, his wrinkled flesh hanging off his gaunt structure, his hair white. Before the bishop a girl of not more than thirteen, her lips wrapped around him. Behind him, a boy of twelve playing with him. A wide, terrible grin stretched out on the face of the hairless being. The number in the room multiplied several fold.
Now there dozens, some fucking, some sucking. Shit smeared on the ground, children and crones alike engaging in acts more terrible than imaginable. Some beating others, no implement blunt or sharp gone unused. The fat man put a hand to his mouth, his eyes went wide. Everybody suddenly stopped in the same instant. They turned to the fat man with empty eyes and beckoned to him. Simultaneously, in voices sweet and wretched. “Come.”
The fat man felt pulled by some unknown force. As if nothing could ever prevent him from joining their orgy. Before his feet brought him fully there, he took a deep breath.
“Come, Marquis, come.”
His arms, working by themselves, stripped every article from his body.
“Come, de Sade, you are in heaven.”
The Marquis grinned joyously as he joined them.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
PROMPT THREE
Here's one of my absolute favorite exercises:
Write a bad story.
DUE: Wednesday, September 10, 11:59 PM.
Write a bad story.
DUE: Wednesday, September 10, 11:59 PM.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Prompt #2 - Where I Found Myself Not Too Long Ago
My original ideas for this prompt were completely different than what you see here. The harder I tried to write out my Plan A material, the more boring and lame it got. So here's what I finally came up with.
I pass by a window on my way to the bedroom, but I refuse to let myself even look at it. I know all too well that the sky beyond it is bottomless cornflower-blue, and the rich green leaves on the tree whose branches form a perfect cradling arc over the house across the street are like an army of flags waving on a hill, enticing me over to greet them. Best to avoid temptation, as there's still work to be done.
The shades on the bedroom windows have been drawn since yesterday afternoon, when the setting sun glared through them and made it almost impossible for me to see the words in my book. Resisting the urge to yank them up, I cross over to the stereo and press the power button. The room instantly fills with music; something in the pit of my stomach slackens, like a knot unraveling that I didn't even know had been tied.
I pick up the dustcloth and set to work, allowing myself to get swept into the rhythm. I keep a steady pace around the room by counting out the beat, swishing the cloth over the furniture as though each motion were a step in a dance. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the headboard; two-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the nightstand. Soon, I'm back where I started, and I trade the dustcloth for the broom. I imagine the floorboards are the keys of a giant piano and the bristles of my broom are thousands of spindly fingers, and I compose a silent melody.
Before long, I've finished with the whole room, and it's finally time to enjoy that delicious-looking day outside. I put away the cleaning supplies and switch off the stereo -- but the music doesn't stop.
The summer breeze whispers through the trees lining the street, creating a cadence of rustling leaves that flows around me as I walk. My feet, clad in last year's fraying flip-flops, scuff haltingly along the sidewalk, picking their way over the lumps where tree roots have protested being paved over. Somewhere nearby, a cicada hums to himself. I am not completely alone -- I pass a jogging woman and an elderly couple out for a stroll, each of which smile and nod to me, and I return the favor.
Even if I had met no one, I would not consider myself alone. The events of the day before yesterday, when my friends and I gathered to drive to the same old places and eat junk food and generally do nothing much at all, stream incessantly through my head. Each burst of laughter, each sarcastic comment, each impromptu critique of the newest song to blast through the car speakers seems as vivid as if it had happened mere seconds ago. I smile to myself.
I reach the park. A wide swath of grass stretches before me, framed by gnarled trees on three sides and a moderately busy road on the fourth. I cross the road and make my way across the grass, hunkering down on the far side of a rock so that I can see a bit of each. I almost open my book, but I simply sit for a moment, my fingers splayed over the spine.
I've never been a very pious person, but, I suddenly find myself thinking, if there is a Heaven out there somewhere, I hope it's not much different than this.
I pass by a window on my way to the bedroom, but I refuse to let myself even look at it. I know all too well that the sky beyond it is bottomless cornflower-blue, and the rich green leaves on the tree whose branches form a perfect cradling arc over the house across the street are like an army of flags waving on a hill, enticing me over to greet them. Best to avoid temptation, as there's still work to be done.
The shades on the bedroom windows have been drawn since yesterday afternoon, when the setting sun glared through them and made it almost impossible for me to see the words in my book. Resisting the urge to yank them up, I cross over to the stereo and press the power button. The room instantly fills with music; something in the pit of my stomach slackens, like a knot unraveling that I didn't even know had been tied.
I pick up the dustcloth and set to work, allowing myself to get swept into the rhythm. I keep a steady pace around the room by counting out the beat, swishing the cloth over the furniture as though each motion were a step in a dance. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the headboard; two-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the nightstand. Soon, I'm back where I started, and I trade the dustcloth for the broom. I imagine the floorboards are the keys of a giant piano and the bristles of my broom are thousands of spindly fingers, and I compose a silent melody.
Before long, I've finished with the whole room, and it's finally time to enjoy that delicious-looking day outside. I put away the cleaning supplies and switch off the stereo -- but the music doesn't stop.
The summer breeze whispers through the trees lining the street, creating a cadence of rustling leaves that flows around me as I walk. My feet, clad in last year's fraying flip-flops, scuff haltingly along the sidewalk, picking their way over the lumps where tree roots have protested being paved over. Somewhere nearby, a cicada hums to himself. I am not completely alone -- I pass a jogging woman and an elderly couple out for a stroll, each of which smile and nod to me, and I return the favor.
Even if I had met no one, I would not consider myself alone. The events of the day before yesterday, when my friends and I gathered to drive to the same old places and eat junk food and generally do nothing much at all, stream incessantly through my head. Each burst of laughter, each sarcastic comment, each impromptu critique of the newest song to blast through the car speakers seems as vivid as if it had happened mere seconds ago. I smile to myself.
I reach the park. A wide swath of grass stretches before me, framed by gnarled trees on three sides and a moderately busy road on the fourth. I cross the road and make my way across the grass, hunkering down on the far side of a rock so that I can see a bit of each. I almost open my book, but I simply sit for a moment, my fingers splayed over the spine.
I've never been a very pious person, but, I suddenly find myself thinking, if there is a Heaven out there somewhere, I hope it's not much different than this.
Prompt #2
I wanted to do so much more with this, but the deadline crept up behind me too quickly! Oh well, perhaps I'll revisit it once I'm back on campus.
~~~~~~~~~~
A pleasant feeling, that.
The water, I mean. Gentle, a cat’s caress around my ankles, cooling the fever in my blood, but adding warmth to my soul. A slight tug, I shuffle forward. Comforting. The tug becomes more enticing, ever-so-slightly more powerful. Another small step, then another, another. I sit, for it is far easier to let the flow take me.
Silly. The water isn’t nearly deep enough. But then, suddenly, it is. The riverbed has dropped out from underneath me. I float along on my back contentedly, closing my eyes, allowing the river to gently lap over me from time to time as it swiftly carries me away.
I remember flashes.
A car ride, a thunderstorm, a bridge. A feeling of claustrophobia, a feeling of suffocation, hopelessness.
But it all seems so far away, so far away indeed.
I float along endlessly. That is to say, until I reach the end. I feel myself bump along the ground, my butt dragging against the side of the riverbank. Startled, I sit up, water cascading from my hair and body as I do so. I lean forward, allowing my hair to fall in a curtain in front of my face. I watch as the seeming waterfall slows to the rate of a dripping faucet, the once solid mass of hair now separating into thick, wavy columns.
I am dead. I don’t let little things bother me, though.
It takes a moment for my eyes to full adjust. Sweeping the hair away from my face helps. I lean back, resting on the palms of my hands. I squish and squeeze the mud through my fingers for a while. The soft, gritty texture makes me smile.
A slight breeze rustles through the tall grass that frames the bank. I push myself to my feet. The sluggish trudging out of the river begins. Shloop! Shloop! It’s as if the mud of the river wants to cement me in place, but I wish to see what is beyond the banks. I carry on. Shloop!
I am relieved of my shoes. I write it off as a present to the river, in thanks for a smooth ride. They’ll probably be re-gifted.
The land is full of lush, green grass. I remove my sodden socks so I can feel the slight sharpness as I walk. I glance back at the river, noting that my shoes have disappeared entirely into the mud.
“When you are ready, return to me.” The river says.
I nod and continue to walk away, all the while admonishing myself for listening to a river. A river, after all, cannot talk. Therefore, listening to one would be a silly choice. Nonetheless, I took the words to heart, tucking them away in my mind.
~~~~~~~~~~
A pleasant feeling, that.
The water, I mean. Gentle, a cat’s caress around my ankles, cooling the fever in my blood, but adding warmth to my soul. A slight tug, I shuffle forward. Comforting. The tug becomes more enticing, ever-so-slightly more powerful. Another small step, then another, another. I sit, for it is far easier to let the flow take me.
Silly. The water isn’t nearly deep enough. But then, suddenly, it is. The riverbed has dropped out from underneath me. I float along on my back contentedly, closing my eyes, allowing the river to gently lap over me from time to time as it swiftly carries me away.
I remember flashes.
A car ride, a thunderstorm, a bridge. A feeling of claustrophobia, a feeling of suffocation, hopelessness.
But it all seems so far away, so far away indeed.
I float along endlessly. That is to say, until I reach the end. I feel myself bump along the ground, my butt dragging against the side of the riverbank. Startled, I sit up, water cascading from my hair and body as I do so. I lean forward, allowing my hair to fall in a curtain in front of my face. I watch as the seeming waterfall slows to the rate of a dripping faucet, the once solid mass of hair now separating into thick, wavy columns.
I am dead. I don’t let little things bother me, though.
It takes a moment for my eyes to full adjust. Sweeping the hair away from my face helps. I lean back, resting on the palms of my hands. I squish and squeeze the mud through my fingers for a while. The soft, gritty texture makes me smile.
A slight breeze rustles through the tall grass that frames the bank. I push myself to my feet. The sluggish trudging out of the river begins. Shloop! Shloop! It’s as if the mud of the river wants to cement me in place, but I wish to see what is beyond the banks. I carry on. Shloop!
I am relieved of my shoes. I write it off as a present to the river, in thanks for a smooth ride. They’ll probably be re-gifted.
The land is full of lush, green grass. I remove my sodden socks so I can feel the slight sharpness as I walk. I glance back at the river, noting that my shoes have disappeared entirely into the mud.
“When you are ready, return to me.” The river says.
I nod and continue to walk away, all the while admonishing myself for listening to a river. A river, after all, cannot talk. Therefore, listening to one would be a silly choice. Nonetheless, I took the words to heart, tucking them away in my mind.
Light Years
Okay, so, I'm not super happy with what I made. I might go back and change it. I think it's a little lame.
When they were lowering my casket into the ground, I was already gone, being lifted high above a thousand tiny lights. I couldn't see but one clearly, but I could hear their screams. Hear their shrieks and cries and see their hands lifted up towards the black sky. Shifting shapes and colors danced behind me on a towering wall and a group of ten men and ten women swirled below, synchronized with the sounds going on around them.
I didn't force anything. The movements came naturally. Somehow, I knew all the words. I knew each step I was supposed to take and each spot to land on. I knew that in the third act, I had to clap three times before the second chorus. I knew that nothing would make sense if I didn't scream "Come on people, let me hear you sing!" during the break. And if I wasn't behind the fourth screen to the right when the fifth song started, everything would look off-balance.
Down below, beneath the crowd and beneath my stage, a man lacing up my boots asked me, "Are you tired yet? You've got a lot more to go."
"No, no, I'm fine. You know me."
I'm never short for breath, and I've completely forgotten what it's like to sweat. No matter how many hip thrusts or front flips I do in a row, I'm always back on my feet and ready for more, craving the attention and carrying on another song to hear my name praised.
"Keep going! Just one more song!" I walk up and down a long, black catwalk and the screams get louder. I'm not doing anything special, but the lights seem to get hotter. If something reaches the outside of my stage, I never see it again. I once tossed a hat overboard and it was devoured by the hungry voices. I can't always hear them clearly, and even though I feed from their loyalty, I'm not sure I'd ever want to be with one up close.
I am still looking out into the ocean that cries out my name. I am still waiting for the music stop. I'm constantly afraid that soon the sounds will stop. Or that I'll lose my voice. Or that the curtain will finally drop. If the Sword of Damocles above my head ever falls, it better be for good reason.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Runnin’ Dry (Submission for OwieArt)
Hey, guys! This isn't my submission for Miss Lady's prompt, but I need to host this story here. I recently joined the staff at OwieArt, and this is my first piece for them. Critique is still welcome, of course.
Runnin' Dry (Part 1)
T.M. (Duke/Volume-Junkies)
I was my father's housewife. My jobs were, but not limited to, ironing shirts, making breakfast, ensuring a good amount of shampoo was left for his morning shower, changing his razor, and picking up the trail of socks he left throughout the week. It wasn't a spiteful setup, and he never came out and demanded anything; it's just the way things worked out. It started gradually—cleaning up the coffee mugs in his office and putting his pencils back in the cup holder. Eventually I noticed just how much of a bachelor he was. One could accurately describe him as an infant with an overly active schedule.
He was that guy that all the temps fell for. Coifed black hair and nicely tailored suit. Shoes with a shine that the blind could recognize. What they didn't see was the 5 a.m. scrambling around the house and him spilling his coffee on the kitchen floor. His appearance in the professional world was not intentional. He doesn't attempt to hide his life's disarray, but he certainly didn't try to flaunt it. The problem was that he never stopped working. He's that guy you see driving home on the highway with his cell phone glued to his ear, as you wonder, "Does he know that he's in the fast lane?"
Talking to one another was reserved for weeknights during dinner. By dinner, I mean that we sat on the couch and watched television, feasting upon whatever wasn't expired or stale. And when eight o'clock rolled around, well, that when he turned his phone back on, and I would draw a bath for my brother George. I had it pretty easy, actually. I ran that house. I never saw the need to enforce a bunch of typical household rules. I never forced my brother to eat his peas or made a big deal if someone drank out of the milk carton. Popcorn for dinner was okay. Smoking in the house is not a big deal. Curfews were non-existent.
~
Annie was tall, had a tendency to use a little too much perfume, and her hair looked as if it lowered on her head Darth Vader-style. She tried the best she could, but no matter how hard she tried, she didn't know how to talk to kids. It's difficult for a seven year old to understand words like "dynamic" and "refine." Sitting on the couch, squished to one side as to avoid the chocolate sauce stains, she looked into the piles of laundry I had yet to do. Her black coat was highlighted by the gold purse in her lap, and she would stroke it nervously, as if in her mind George and I were about to pounce.
"Ben!" I heard him shout-- the kind of shout that could mean a number of things: he couldn't find the right tie, he lost his wallet, or he noticed that I had been taking quarters out of the jug in his room. I left George alone to stare at her. One kid is more than enough to make Annie squirm in her seat.
"Yeeees, Jeff?" I said, turning the corner into his room.
"Listen, I'll be out late. As in, really late."
"As in, you'll be home tomorrow morning."
"As in, watch your mouth, you smart-ass," he said, tightening his tie. "Pass me my coat." As always, it was lying on the other side of the bed atop of pile of old shoes. "You can order out tonight. Twenty dollars maximum."
"Sweet. Thank you," I said, lightly ripping the money from his hand and grinning.
"So, where're you taking her tonight? The 99? Friendly's? Sonic?"
"Sonic? No, we're not going to the seventh dimension to find the only Sonic in existence."
"Way to work for your 'love'," I said, flipping through the newspaper lying on his bed. He sprayed cologne on his wrist and held it to my face.
"What do you think?" he said with bright eyes. I scowled.
"Well," I started, "it's certainly...potent…" I said, wriggling my nose.
"Thanks for the help. Annie gave it to me."
"Sorry, Jeff. You're just not my type, and Annie's, well, not my type."
"Some fag you are," he said, shutting off the light and leaving me in the dark.
"Bitch."
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
PROMPT TWO: Heaven
Due to religious differences, we as a species have varied perceptions of just what “Heaven” will be like. For this prompt, write a short story of an ideal “Heaven,” either for you or your character. If you do not believe in any kind of after life, then please feel free to write about the resulting nonexistence.
Due Date: August 30TH, 11:59 p.m.
Due Date: August 30TH, 11:59 p.m.
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