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Discuss entertainment media here, including TV, cinema, the Internet, books and literature, and other non-musical works or multimedia productions.
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Postby SlappyMcGee » 2009.09.15 (18:11)

Be creative in this space. Write short stories, poems, fan-fictions, literotica, etc...
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Postby Tunco » 2009.09.15 (18:43)

I am thinking. I am thinking to create a sentence made of words, and I pronounce, at least "mentally" pronounce every word in my head and putting them into the right places to make a sentence, which looks a lot more complicated than it is. Even when I say "I" I think something,but do I think something like "Hmm, let's think this so it will be this" when thinking? No. Does it make sense? No. But I call this "words of conscioussness". Which means thinking about thinking about think what you think at the moment.

Look, lot of sentences there and here. This is a word. This is a sentence. Now it starts to make some sense, does it? Yes. People should think of think before they think something and this goes forever. But it can't go forever. Thinking is not a reflex. So there must be an explanation. Now I'm thinking, thinking of thinking, the exact word; think. It starts to make more sense. Nice.

I thought of all above. You should think of thinking when you lose your mind and forgot to think about thinking and thinking meaningless.

I hope you find this post meaningful.
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Postby Skyling » 2009.09.21 (19:08)

Last edited by Skyling on 2009.09.21 (19:33), edited 1 time in total.
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Postby unoriginal name » 2009.09.21 (19:13)


That is a pretty little composition that does not fit its arch-pretentious name.
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[url]slappy-mcgee-blowjob-sandwich[/url]


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Postby SlappyMcGee » 2009.09.21 (23:11)

I'm going to be deleting posts that I consider spam. This is for creative writing. That doesn't mean, "GUYS, COCKS." That means if you would make your own 'squibbles-esque thread, don't and post it here. Short stories, not ASCII.
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Postby Losttortuga » 2009.09.22 (03:03)

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Postby capt_weasle » 2009.09.23 (16:51)

The working introduction to the story I'm trying to put together. Let me know how it is.

"The still air echoed with memories. While the room remained eerily quiet, the deafening hum of the past was enough to make anyone want something more than solitary confinement. There is an odd sense of peace within the crowd; yet, when alone, everything is heard. Every tick, every shudder, every whisper that begs the flood of memories to stop. Before the imprisonment, any sense of fallibility was ignored. No force, whether it be earthly or ethereal, could impend his remarkable progress. Until he learned that the one thing that could stop him was himself. The crowded streets outside gave him a natural cover. It was due to a twist of cosmic irony that, when completely stripped of everyone around him, and placed in a world where no one could see him, that he was utterly exposed. Perhaps he wasn’t unbreakable as he had hoped."
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Postby capt_weasle » 2009.09.30 (17:55)

I decided to go a different route with my writing. This consists of the same story as what I had posted previously, but starting from a different perspective. I think it's better. Comments?

The child was born autistic. It was promptly shot in the head. The good doctor only wanted to spare the lifetime of pain and servitude that the child would surely procure. No room for errors, he had said. I remember that day. The tears flowed to her cheeks, her eyes burning with regret, her mouth open as if to cry out. Nothing came. The doctor and the nurses slowly faded away, leaving the room empty, even with two dark figures shaking in the corner. To the rest, nothing had happened. Life went on.
It was late September, the trees beginning to brown. The street was a contradiction of colors, the green ending abruptly into the brown and grey. The sharp wind chased the dried leaves in circles, almost playfully. I ducked inside to avoid the biting cold. Up the stairs, third door down. I stopped at the second. Door ajar, a sliver of light came in through the dirtied window, highlighting what was left of the sky-blue walls. The intense summer heat had peeled most of the paint away, peeled the memories away. A lackadaisical mobile hung silently in the air, slowly dancing for an audience that had not yet arrived. The shivers ran back up my arm and I continued down the hall. Despite the immense sorrow that seeped from the room, it remained open, even if only a crack. No one brought themselves to close it.
“Don’t you think that closing the door could have changed things?”
“Nothing ever could.”
The last room in the hallway was the hardest to walk into. At the foot of the door were the photo albums, filled partly with happy moments, but mostly with dust. The room was plain. A constant challenge to keep warm without a fireplace.
“Do you think the cold fostered some sort of resentment?”
“No. Heat fosters resentment. Anger. The cold only reminds you that there isn’t anything you can do about it.”
There was a lone chair sitting in front of the window. They were the only two things regularly used.
“Surely it was still your home? You don’t wish to be back there, instead of being locked up in a place such as this?”
My eyes drifted open to my damp surroundings. The fading light eased in through the barred windows, bringing another day to its close.
“I would rather be here.”
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Postby unoriginal name » 2009.10.04 (17:30)

So I didn't write this, but I wanted to share it with you guys in a more persistent way then just pasting it in IRC. If there's a more appropriate thread for this, let me know. It's by Paul Jessup, "critically acclaimed writer of weird, strange and slippery fiction." It's called The House at the End of the World and is horror of a particularly surreal kind, so fair warning to those with particularly squeamish psyches.

http://www.farragoswainscot.com/2009/12 ... t_end.html

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[url]slappy-mcgee-blowjob-sandwich[/url]



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Postby Tunco » 2009.10.04 (17:51)

Last winter it was my birthday, erm, I mean, the morning of that day. Walking with mom, going to home. I said to my mom that I missed my father so much. My mom said me to wait there, went near a snow man.

"Mr. Snowman, can you look here please?"
"Yes?"
"My son, misses his father, um, could you pretend like you are his father for only today?"
"He will understand I'm not his father."
"He has problems, he can't recognize that."
"I'm coming then."

We wen't to home with mom, and dad. I was happy like never before. At home, we ate dinner, celebrated my birth, and then we started to look through a old photo album. We were keeping cold inside so that dad could stay. We could do anything for him. But dad started to change.

He started to become arrogant to my mom and me, his behaviour got worse and worse.

"HEHY WOMAN? WHATZ WIT TEH DINNER YA ASSHOLE?"

I looked at him. He looked at me.
"What are you looking at you whore?" he said to me.
Then he didn't like the food for the dinner, he started to beat mom. We could stop him, well, I could. I made inside hot as possible. He started to melt. He started to die.

"MOTHERFUCKERS FUCKYOU IM NOT YOUR DAD FUCK YOU ASSHOLES MAKE I COLD AGAAIIIN"
Agaaaiiinn..." No more dad. Just some water. We dumped the water, and ate a good dinner. We were happy again.

Today, a year later, coming back to home, same day, same time, morning, I said to my mom:

"Mom, I miss my aunt."

She looked at me with a sad face. She said me to wait there, she went near a snowman.

"Mr. Snowman?"

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Postby 乳头的早餐谷物 » 2009.10.06 (17:00)

Grandmaster Dash in the house.

I don't care for your fascist schedules--
Fashionably late or forgotten you fed your
Cat? Anyway, I don't care for that
Nor rats or bats, I go tit-for-tat

You can't lock me up 'cause I'm not a prisoner
Can't let me out 'cause I fucked your sister
Is your dilemma gonna be an impediment?
You're a fish in a creek stuck in the sediment


To be continued???
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Postby SlappyMcGee » 2009.10.06 (18:01)

ortsz wrote:Grandmaster Dash in the house.

I don't care for your fascist schedules--
Fashionably late or forgotten you fed your
Cat? Anyway, I don't care for that
Nor rats or bats, I go tit-for-tat

You can't lock me up 'cause I'm not a prisoner
Can't let me out 'cause I fucked your sister
Is your dilemma gonna be an impediment?
You're a fish in a creek stuck in the sediment


To be continued???


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Postby noops » 2009.10.08 (16:40)

Man. This is a good idea. I just need some sort of inspiration

Slaps, gimme some inspiration. You too, Tanner. You guys and your inspiration circle, or whatever the hell it is.
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Postby  yahoozy » 2009.11.12 (22:45)

These are a couple of poems I freewrote then polished for Creative Writing. I'm partial to the second; it's more biting, more thoughtfully composed, and the parallel at the end is awesome on my part.

They Forged a Cyclicality Which Fatigued the World

The world’s an Ouroboros;
Swallowing its ignorance and
Perpetually influencing itself.
New people with
Old ideas,
Swallowing God and
Country
Without thought.
The extent of knowledge lies with
The clothes on their backs and
What’s in their ears, and eyes,
And mouths-
Useless when you’re
Deaf, and
Blind, and
Tasteless.
Their bodies, masses of
Vestige.
We thinkers are
A dying culture.

Save Yours

Back when Dad woke me for church on Sunday,
When I was enveloped in
A blissful ignorance,
Mind yet corroded by
Rationale, and intellect, and
Correctness,
And the wooden cross nailed to the wall was not
Infuriating
To me,
We were happy.

Today,
Beneath my disheveled hair,
Thinly veiled behind strained,
Sleepless eyes,
A truth –
The nails I’ve shoved into my father’s
Heart
Hurt more than those you’ve shoved into
Your Father’s
Hands.

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Postby a happy song » 2009.11.13 (14:48)

ortsz wrote:Grandmaster Dash in the house.
You can't lock me up 'cause I'm not a prisoner
Can't let me out 'cause I fucked your sister
Is your dilemma gonna be an impediment?
You're a fish in a creek stuck in the sediment


That is so badass.
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Postby Sunset » 2009.12.13 (03:38)

Idk what to title this.

There were, once, three brothers Each of the brothers were skilled in one of the many arts. The first one, being plump and hairy, was a master crafter. He could make anything out of wood, iron, or any other useful material. The second one was a combatant man. He was a very fierceful man, always asking for a challenge wherever he may be. The third brother was a very skinny man, with a mind full of ideas and wisdom, he helped his brothers with what they should and should not do. They all lived in a town named Marigold, and lived together. They left town one day to visit the shop in Gaina, a town just across a river. What they met, was hardship.

They had to cross through a ravanous river full of piranhas, and other carnivorous marine life. The first brother cut down a tree and swung it over the river. He attempted to cross it, and he failed. He was eaten alive by the swarming piranhas, fiercely eating at his flesh. The second brother felt the first brother was unthoughtful and naive. He thought that the river was just wide enough to jump. With a few bold steps back, he leapt for his life. The piranhas pulled him down with a gentle swoop, and he was done for.

The third brother had the knowledge of wisdom, and knew he could not trust the rapids. Instead, he simply went back to the village. He had asked the village butcher for some poison. The butcher, unwillingly, gave it to the man. The man threw the poison into the river, and all the piranhas died out, as well as the other marine life. Using the bridge his brother had made, he safely got to the shop village.

--------
I dunno if it's good or not, but it passes for me.

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Postby Tunco » 2010.01.18 (16:54)

Like, I don't know, what if if it was too early to do such a thing? There is nothing I can do know, just wait till my face touches the ground, and my brain and skull smashes up. I don't know, I know it will happen too fast but I know it will hurt too.

Let's see, there were some cases when some people don't die, even from 50 stories up. Well, suiciding felt like the best choice at the moment, and I just did it, but I'm not sure if it's a good idea, at the moment. I'm just thinking this in order to calm myself, but it doesn't help. I think suiciding wasn't the best choice, but well, I used my time like I had to hurry and jumped out the window. Bleh.

Did your finger or hand ever got cut by a very sharp knife? Well, yesterday or a month before, I was slicing some apples, and I cut my skin, my finger. It was barely one and a half inches long though, and it only got cut from the skin, knife didn't go through my flesh. And god, it hurt. Now when I imagine my face hitting the ground and getting smashed up, it seems like I will suffer a lot. But not much. Only two seconds, maximum.

I believe in god, but I wonder what hell or heaven looks like. Being depressed all the time and not being an atheist is not easy, though my wife will cry a lot after me. Not my family. She is the only one that will be sad when I'm dead, my mom and dad will be rather happy, they won't even come to my funeral, I guess. They clearly said that they didn't want me in this house anymore, no matter what happens. Dad even threatened me that if I ever come near this house he will kill me.

As you can understand by now, my family means a lot of things to me. Love, respect, and all other stuff. But these terms losed their meaning for me a long time ago. I got only a few seconds now. I feel that my heart beat per second is quickly increasing.

I try to stay calm but I can't. I yell to people at the ground, to catch and hold me while I'm in the air, preventing me hitting the ground. But instead, they get scared of me when I yell, they form a circle around the spot I will hit to, and eventually, die.

Only a few meters left. I pray. I yell. I beg. I regret.

Then I die.

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Postby  yahoozy » 2010.01.26 (08:30)

Intellect Is a Throbbing Art
I was in an academy of children
Prepared for the asylum
Swallowing God, swallowing country
The dancers, the prancers
The motherfuckers
The poets, the laureates
The intellectuals, the elite
New people with
Old mentalities
Stark in the gutters, in the hallways
In the corridors, and in
The mausoleums
Where they stumble into
Inelegantly
And cry out against their dogmas
Cry out against the unconventional cretins
Who fashioned them a macrocosm from
A microcosm
And forged an ourorboros for us
Forged a cyclicality which fatigued the world
And left us rotting
And hysterical
Itching for our requiems
Sweaty and uncomfortable
Naked in a glasshouse
Impulse and repercussion on display.
I was in an academy of children
These children, who are children
To their Father and
Children to their mentors and
Children to their children
Sweetened and left salted with equivocation
Left fucked in the sewers
In the alleys
And in the churches
And they moaned a pleasured moan
As they slid into their comas
Left unconscious to the meddlers
Measuring the girth of their divinity
A collective shithole
Feigning a voice of immaculacy
That ministers their livelihood
Ministers their saintliness
They listen entranced and rejoice
And the voice
The voice carved skeletons
From their flesh
And the skeletons
Before being abandoned and erased
Signaled to me
That a pretense which enraptures
Is still a pretense.

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Postby capt_weasle » 2010.01.26 (16:20)

So I'm taking Intermediate Creative Writing, and my first assignment is a short story (3 to 7 pages, single space) of my choosing. I can write anything, as my professor wished for the class to be as open ended as possible, which is awesome. Anyway, I have two weeks to write this, and this is where you come into play. About a month ago I wrote a short piece because I was in the middle of an actual essay and I felt the need to distract myself. It was entirely off of the top of my head, so it isn't very organized. What I ask of you is to let me know whether the following is intriguing/entertaining enough to be continued, or it's just such a mess/uninteresting/whatever that I should start a new story entirely. If you think I should continue the story as is, critique on what could be improved. If you don't like it, let me know why or give me suggestions for a new story. Other peoples ideas help me to create my own. Link is below, your help is appreciated.

http://pastebin.com/m6ed124e4
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Postby 乳头的早餐谷物 » 2010.01.28 (12:17)

I refuse to read this because you cross-posted.
M E A T N E T 1 9 9 2

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Postby noops » 2010.01.28 (13:47)

capt_weasle, I quite liked that story. I particularly enjoy your writing style, as I myself tend to use a bastardized version of it, and I think that you really should continue with it. It seems quite humorous and interesting.

"Perhaps I am being a bit rash, but after many a day spent cleaning up after the simple folk who did not realize that the floor was not a trash can, but rather just a floor, it was an easy thing to revoke that essential life-long tool we prefer to call giving people the benefit of the doubt. I prefer to call it “Thinking people are not as stupid as they look, but then being horribly wrong,” but perhaps I will save that for a different time."

One of my favorite parts, right there.
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Postby capt_weasle » 2010.02.08 (04:19)

A work in progress:

The Gentlemen’s Club

It was the height of summer, and the blistering heat combined with the promise of a cooled room kept my feet moving quickly. Directly across the street sat a moderately sized building that resembled some of the finer country homes in Chatsworth and Montacute. I stopped just outside the door, as I always have, and briefly glanced at the large handcrafted letters displayed above the front entrance. “Green Park Gentlemen’s Club, Est. 1864.” Had Alden been there he would have been ushering me inside; however today I was alone, and lingered outside the door. Alden had never shared my enthusiasm for architecture, but then again I had never shared his enthusiasm for mingling with the members of the club. A gust of hot wind reminded me of the suns wrath and I proceeded through the door.
Green Park was one of the more exclusive clubs within the St. James district, despite being only thirty years old. Of course Alden had always been the one with the connections, and had he not extended an invitation to me, I would never have sought one out. While the younger portion of the English men in the area was off receiving their voting rights and seeking out clubs to assert their descent into manhood, my motives differed. It was somewhat of a contradiction, really. While I could not stand to be a part of the political talk and pretentious “philosophical” debates, I continued to attend the club, if only to watch these conversations unfold. It was infinitely fascinating to watch these affluent men discuss the hardships of life when hardly any had worked more than a week in their lives. It gave one a sense of perspective, which was rare for such a venue.

I took my usual spot by the grand fireplace, which for now was cold and empty. The main bow window gave an unobstructed view to the park ahead, after which the club had been named. From my seat I could make out a small group of figures walking towards the building, being tossed about by the irate wind. The front entrance opened to the disheveled group, and had they enough energy there might have been some argument as to who was inside the cooled room first. Yet judging by the gait of the man in front this position had already been occupied. This man – Damion, if memory served me correctly – led the men to the centre of the room, sitting around a small oak table as the server brought hot chocolate and coffee. Whispering filled the empty air as the men began to relax, and I leaned my ear towards the group to get a better understanding of the situation.

An older man, whom I recognized as a son of one of the clubs founders, walked over and briefly shook hands with the group before returning to his position by the bar. The whispering stilled, a short wave of congratulations and acceptance moved about the room, and everyone went back to their business. Against my expectations, Damion continued to mingle with the rest of the men sitting around the table. Surely he had no interest in small talk with the new members? Some other motivation seeped from his deceitfully polite smile. Ah yes, there it was. The two-faced nature of the elite; that was what drew me back. Like a child to the zoo. Quietly, I removed myself from my place by the hearth and moved closer to the group.

“Oh, you’re just trying to con me!” One of the larger members of the circle sat back, bringing to his lips a cigar thick enough to compliment his waist line.

“I assure you, I would never do such a thing in the midst of you gentlemen.” Damion relaxed in his chair and gave a reassuring look that seemed to captivate the group and dispel any sense of trickery that he may have previously conveyed. Unfortunately for Damion, the large one remained unconvinced.

“Surely no one could be persuaded to pay such a large sum of money for something so trivial?” Another puff from his cigar and his fat head disappeared beneath a cloud of smoke.
“When two men have a rivalry going so far back, there is no end to what one is willing to pay in order to best the other.” Damion spoke softly, looking down at the oak table before him. I realized what he had been discussing and remembered the time he and some nameless man took bets as to which piece of ice would melt on the table first. This other man, who was known to be grossly addicted to gambling, immediately seized upon what was sure to be an easy win. In the end he proved to be wrong and after a fit and some profane – if not true – accusations, the man was escorted out of the premises three thousand pounds poorer.

The cloud of smoke leaned closer to the table and protested once more. “What a silly bet. Why would one risk so much on something so insignificant?” Damion frowned, but from his eyes I could tell that he wasn’t paying so much attention to the dissenter. He had been consistently eyeing one of the other new members, who had not spoken since his arrival. I studied this man for a moment, and it was an odd sight. He was rather tall, albeit with a poor stance which made him appear to be a bent stick, with a large pair of glasses sitting atop his pug nose. While Damion always had a more firmly built and appealing look, those who he usually took company with in the club were well-rounded, so to speak. It was an interesting juxtaposition, even more so with the addition of this thin gent. His eyes were beaming, slowly glazing over from fascination. This was why Damion had been keeping an eye on him. Whether he was impressionable or merely gullible, this man revered Damion as a demigod.

The obese dissident let out a condescending laugh, not doubt imaging two men twisting themselves around the table, cheering on blocks of frozen liquid. Unlike the others, he seemed unmovable. Interestingly enough, though, the other men in the group began to nod in agreement, which infuriated Damion. The others would never have noticed, but I could tell by his stance that he would have none of this.

Standing up with an air of tranquility, he addressed the group without taking eye off of the large dissident seated to his side. “I can tell you don’t really believe what I have told you, and I would not want you to think so little of me.” He reached into his coat pocket and revealed a small revolver. Although he produced it was such ease and professionalism, there was a sudden tension in the room that had not been there before. A crooked smile raised on his dark face.

“I’m sure none of you have heard of this game before.” The group shared a puzzled look, glancing at one another in an attempt to guess what was going to happen next. Damion pulled a small silver bullet from the same pocket and set both objects on the table as he sat down.

“A friend of mine had the opportunity to travel to Russia last winter. His interest in journalism compelled him to spend time with the Russian army, and while most of what he brought back with him was sentimental nonsense, there was one thing that interested me so very much.” He picked up the revolver, turning it over in his hands. A gleam slowly grew in his eyes. “You see, Russian winter is enough to drive one mad, and combined with the current state of affairs many soldiers had suicidal tendencies. To prove their bravery and apathy towards death, they engaged in deadly games of chance. This particular game involved putting a single round in a revolver, spinning the cylinder, pointing it at the temple…” He picked up the unloaded gun and rested it against the side of his head. There was a click as he pulled the trigger. The thin one flinched. The room was dead silent. Their eyes were glued to Damion’s and he knew it. “… and hope you’re lucky enough to survive the next round.” The fat man with the cigar chuckled nervously.

“Proving your bravery doesn’t really matter when you’re dead, does it?” He smothered the end of the cigar in an ash tray and produced another from his coat pocket. Damion cocked an eyebrow and looked him in the eye, just long enough to make the man drop his weary smile.

For the first time I noticed the faint smell of alcohol. I suppose I had been too occupied with observing the group’s interactions to have realized that they were drunk. Well, perhaps not completely inebriated, but enough to push judgment aside.

“So, you’re a coward, then?” Damion sat closer to the table, his crooked grin extending across the top of his chin. The fat one was silent.

“What a corker of a story!” The thin, bent one spoke for the first time, his face flashing a soft red. “As if you would actually go through with such a game!” I could tell his comment was not made in doubt. The fool was begging for an invitation.

With a quick wave of his hand Damion summoned the server, who gave him a small cup of coffee. Quietly sipping the dark, hot liquid, several minutes passed before he answered. Meanwhile the group exchanged quiet words while shifting their gaze between the thin man and Damion. Bets were beginning to form.

“And you would not?” Damion broke the tension. “Joining such a prestigious club as this is not the only way to assert ones manhood.” The dissenter sat back, scrunching his face in a look of resentment. The thin one sat up. By the look on Damion’s face, his prey had taken the bait far sooner than he had anticipated. “In fact, things have been getting rather generic. This is the largest group of newly accepted members we have ever had.” He was eyeing the cloud of smoke. “Perhaps we should consider a change in terms of acceptance.” Damion looked around at the others before setting his gaze on the skinny, bent man. “Who would like to begin?”
Slowly, a bony hand reached out and took hold of the revolver. Placing the weapon in his left hand he reached out toward the table again to retrieve the bullet. At this point the entire room had gathered around the small band of newcomers. I looked up at the man who had moments before greeted the group. Beads of sweat populated his forehead. The thin one took a moment to collect himself before sliding the polished bullet into the cylinder. He pushed it in its place and closed his eyes. In what was a second to me but must have been a lifetime for him, he spun the cylinder and placed the gun to his head. There was a quick flash of silver as the cylinder slowed to a stop. From my position I could not tell where the bullet had come to rest.
A sudden twitch of the finger produced a sharp click, and relief spilled into the room. Once again, there was a lengthy pause, but shortly after a quivering smile broke out over the mans face. While it would be a proud moment in the future, for now he looked as though he wanted to vomit. He handed the revolver out towards Damion, who for a moment looked at the gun, puzzled. The fat one smiled.

“You are a man, are you not?” Another cigar appeared between his crooked teeth. There was another pause. How odd. More seasoned patrons of Green Park could tell you that Damion would not back down on his word. As it was, however, no one spoke. For the first time they silently wondered if he would attempt to ease his way out of the situation.

“You would doubt me?” Damion made sure all eyes were tied to his as he smiled a moment longer. He spun the cylinder and raised the weapon.

Another click. More shared relief. However I just realized that there had not been a flash of silver as the cylinder came to a pause. I was not the only one to notice.

“You palmed the shot!” The thin man was no longer quivering. Instead he was on the edge of his seat, eyes wide, pointing his finger. Though his judgment was not at its most focused point, he pressed the issue. “You cheat! You let us risk our lives and you don’t even think to follow through with risking yours?” It was amazing to watch this unfold. This new member had completely changed from his complete infatuation with Damion to a subtle hatred. No doubt the gap between these sentiments was influenced by the alcohol.

“Why, I must express amusement to this accusation. Clearly you all were watching me this whole time. I had not tampered with the gun since you were in possession of it.” However, at the moment he was covering the gun with his hand, and I could not tell if he had palmed it or not. From the looks coming from the rest of the clubs patrons, neither could they. Damion stood up.

“My dear friend, those beers we had earlier must be fooling you.” This seemed to be a compelling point to the thin one, and his face moved from anger to a more thoughtful complacency. Those beers were indeed fooling him. “I can see this has made you quite upset, and I must admit I was rather too quick to put this silly game into affect.” He moved around the table to the skinny lad, learning down next to him before placing one arm around his shoulder. Everyone else in the room was too confused by the situation to say anything. I had mistaken the outburst on his behalf for an epiphany, where in reality everything had stayed the same. His still seemed to follow Damion’s words like they were honey.

“No, no I was sure you palmed the bullet.” His eyes moved about, trying to remember the details. Had anyone else actually been paying closer attention to the gun instead of Damion, perhaps they could have solved the dilemma.

“Perhaps I will be able to convince you my nature is not so devious. I know of a wonderful place just north of here by the name of Café Paradiso. I suppose you and I should become more acquainted over lunch tomorrow?” There was a nod of agreement. “But first let us relax. There is much to be enjoyed here in the club, and a new member such as yourself must be eager to indulge.” Damion returned to his seat. To anyone who had not just witnessed these recent events, the night carried on as usual within Green Park. Yet there was still a small degree of tension between Damion and the thin one, whose name had never been mentioned that night. At least not that I had heard.

***

Perhaps it was because I never saw the thin newcomer again, or perhaps it was because there was no Café Paradiso north of Green Park Gentlemen’s Club, but I stopped attending not a month after the incident with the gun and the silver bullet.
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Postby capt_weasle » 2010.03.14 (22:04)

The Prisoner


Jake sat in the corner of his cell, waiting for the rain to stop. He sat quietly, eyes staring intently at the barred window in the opposite side of the room. The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. A sudden gust of wind shook the window violently and Jake averted his gaze away from the window. The wall beside him was littered with thousands of marks; two-thousand, four-hundred and thirty-seven to be precise. Six years, eight months, seven days. He fumbled around his coat pocket for a moment before producing a small, black rock. He reached up towards the wall and added another mark. Two-thousand, four hundred and thirty-eight. He smiled to himself. Another mark on the wall meant another day and another step closer to his freedom. At first the marks were chains, each one a reminder of all of the days he would be spending in this accursed prison. But now, now that he had a plan to break out the marks represented liberty. Two more marks and he would be out. However the rain threatened it all. How he hated the rain.

Moving towards his bed, while staying away from the window and the rain outside, Jake reached out and lifted his mattress. Underneath was a small broken piece of plastic, whittled down to roughly the shape of a sewing needle. Placing it in between his teeth, he moved his hand around the underside of the mattress until he found the small opening. He reached inside and pulled out a tattered old raincoat and a mess of threads. He returned to the far corner of the cell and began his work. He had been collecting materials for a good six months, and working on his project for another four. The coat he held in his hands was one of around twenty, all stuffed tight inside of his mattress. He had been secretly hoarding cigarettes over the past six years, and sold them to the other prisoners in exchange for the coats. He never really liked cigarettes anyway. The stuff would kill you.

Jake worked diligently and silently. He would sew any defects in the coats using thread from stolen pillow cases and seal it off with the contact cement he smuggled out of the prison workshop. Each coat was sewn and glued to another, eventually taking the form of a raft. He managed to create three large cylindrical tubes that connected in a triangle, which provided the buoyancy. The rest of the coats made the floor of the raft, hopefully strong enough to support his weight. He had been working in the dead of night for the past four months, having memorized the times when the guards would make their rounds to ensure that no one would become aware of his actions. Not even the other prisoners knew of his plans. No was to be trusted.

There was a quick flash of light followed moments later by the low rumbling of thunder. Jake looked out the window, slightly startled. The rain still fell, making him burn with both hatred and fear. Lighting flashed brightly outside the window, briefly illuminating the night sky and giving a glimpse at the jagged mainland in the distance. Between that far shore and the prison window lay the dark, swelling Pacific. Jake’s mind wandered off, his eyes following the drops of rain as they traveled down the window pane.

There was another flash of lightning and suddenly Jake was no longer in his prison cell. He was standing on a street corner on a warm summer day. Directly in front of him was a large gray building, a bright sign hanging above the intricately designed glass door. Richardson & Co. Embroidery. He stepped up to the building and peered through the door. She was inside, looking at the large tapestries hanging on the walls. Her face was a blur, washed away by over half of a decade of separation, but her named was ingrained into his memory. Lilly Haddock. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and from the day the two met as children in a park, he longed to be with her. She was the reason he took up sewing, the reason he attended the classes at the store. He did anything to spend time with her, to be close to her. She smiled when Jake walked in through the door, but it wasn’t directed towards him. A man named William Richardson appeared in front of Jake, whom he remembered to be the owner of the store and the one who had taught the sewing classes. William walked towards Lilly and the two embraced one another, sharing a kiss. Anger filled Jakes eyes and suddenly he was kneeling at the shore of a lake. It was raining. His hands gripped the neck of the man named William. The two were struggling, Jake forcing the other mans head into the shallow water. She was supposed to be with me! Suddenly Jake was in a park, the sky darkening overhead. In front of him was William, walking amiably along the edge of the lake. Jake ran to catch up with him, asking the man if he remembered him from sewing class. William said he did not. Jake responded by hitting the man in the head with a rock. Weak from the blow, William could do nothing to protest while he was being dragged towards the lake. Jake was once again at the lakes shore, forcing his victim under the icy water. The water was knee deep and there was nothing William could use as leverage to lift himself out beyond the surface. Moments later the struggling came to an end. Jake was now in a courtroom. The judge sat high, swinging the gavel down hard. Jake Maloney you are hereby sentenced to serve life in prison for the drowning of William Richardson. Lighting flashed, thunder bellowed, rain pounded.

Jake was looking out the window in his cell. Everyday for the first two years of his sentencing that scene had played through his mind. At first it was nightmarish, but he soon found pride in his deed. He had fought for the woman he had loved, and the only thing he regretted was that she still didn’t love him. Despite his assertive attitude over the matter, he was still haunted by the image of William as his face became cold and still under the clear waters of the lake. The rain had been pouring that day, and even all of that water couldn’t wash away the fear, the hatred, the blood. He reminisced about the days in his childhood he would spend just watching the rain fall. Those days were long gone and now the rain only represented hatred and fear. The rain reminded Jake of him, and worse it reminded Jake of her. There would only be two more days until the escape, and the memories came crashing through his head. Now that he would finally be free, the prospect that he might see her again was overwhelming. Resolving to put all of his effort into his plan, Jake pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind and continued his work.


After the fourth day of heavy rain the sun came out and the ocean calmed. It was just before noon and there was an unusually busy atmosphere about the prison. Many of the prisoners were glad to get outside, and although the day was warm and bright, everyone was preparing for the evening. Even the guards were oddly cheery, walking about in their red, white and blue ball caps. The fourth of July had always been the highlight of the prison, as the position of the island on which it was situated gave it a good vantage point to shoot off fireworks for the people watching from the mainland. The unusually heavy rain created suspicions that the display would be cancelled, but the sudden change in weather brought up everyone’s spirits, as much as you can do so for a prison.

Jake sat eagerly in his cell, waiting. He would occasionally get up and walk over towards the window, as it was now safe to do so without the threat of rain. Yet despite his anxiety swelling in anticipation for the night, he still held doubts and fears. The Pacific Ocean stretched out beyond his window, and from his position on the prisons third floor Jake could see for miles. This was the greatest obstacle. Just outside the window was a three-story drop to a narrow edge of rock, which dropped off to the ocean below. His section of the prison was on the far side of the island, facing the mainland, sitting atop the twenty or so foot cliff. This was his means of escape.

Pacing back and forth around his cell, Jake went though his plan again and again. He had been planning his escape for almost a year, but now that it was underway it all seemed surreal. He walked over to the corner by the window, casually glancing behind his bed but not directly looking, just in case someone was watching him from afar. Each individual prison cell was not directly attached to its adjacent cell; rather there was a small amount of space in between each one. Why this was the case Jake had never quite figured out. He had managed to chisel around the edge of an old vent behind his bed with a spoon, creating a hole just large enough to fit through if he sucked in his stomach. There was little room in between the cells, as several pipes filled most of the empty space. Through that space he managed to break open anther vent, this one leading to the roof of the prison. From there he would carefully climb down the edge of the prison wall, using the windows as a foothold until he reached the edge of the cliff. From that point on he would have to rely on his raincoat raft. This is where he became fearful. The hundreds of nights spent working after dark, Jake had become extremely observant. During those nights he had to ensure every movement, every action, every breath was silent and effective. He had no room for mistakes. However, as confident as he was in his plan, the dark ocean still presented a complication. He knew he would have to overcome it, but it would be a painful process. He was determined, even more so because tonight was his only chance at escape. If missed, such a chance would not come around for another year.

Jake smiled. Even though he was surrounded by ocean, this island was his only means escaping prison. A prison in the middle of a desert would mean death. Here on the island he could escape into the harbor. The guards would be busy prepping for the fireworks display, and the waters between the prison and the mainland would fill with yachts, barges and kayakers. The fireworks would provide him with cover and distraction. No one would notice his escape. No one would expect it. Just another kayaker, paddling around the harbor trying to get a good view of the show. It was perfect. They would never know what happened. He would paddle out using pieces of drift wood and make his way to the nearest secluded shore. Once he was out of the prison they would never see him again. He amused himself at the thought of the inspectors searching his cell after they realized he was gone. Why would one wish to make his escape on the busiest night of the year? The harbor is filled with spectators! Surely someone ought to notice this man, they would say. And another officer would chime in. I say it is an ingenious plan, going out on the busiest night of the year. Getting lost in the crowd! He expects us to say such a plan would be crazy and dismiss it! It is deviously simple. Jake was bursting with pride but he knew the day was not over. He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes.


The night came quick enough. Between the anxiety Jake felt and the already busy atmosphere in the prison, everything went along rather fast. He just wanted it to be over, to be free. He wiped his sweaty palms against his coat. The last patrol went through five minutes prior, and the next would not arrive for another half hour or so. It was dark outside, but lights filled the waters as people waited in their boats for the fireworks. In another ten minutes half of the lights in his section of the prison would turn off, a result of the main warden not wanting the prison lights to distract from the display. He was not allowed to completely shut them down, so he compromised. The resulting dimness provided Jake with enough time to slip out of his cell through the broken vent. The night before he had transferred all of the necessary materials out from the inside of his mattress and into the space between the cells; the inflatable raft made of the raincoats, the driftwood paddle, a canteen filled with drinking water, and a flare gun he managed to purchase from another prisoner. He hadn’t a clue as to why or how another prisoner was able to smuggle such an item to the prison, but it seemed valuable enough, perhaps as a makeshift weapon if things went wrong. Jake glanced at the clock sitting on the wall just outside of his cell. Two minutes until lights-off.

Three pillows were situated underneath the covers of Jake’s bed, fashioned to look like a person. He hoped that the patrol would think he was sleeping, which would allow him enough time to get away from the prison before they realized he was missing during the nightly roll-call. He readied himself at the end of his bed, watching the clock. He would have to move swiftly and quietly. He had about thirty minutes to get outside and down to the water before the fireworks began. Crouching down beside the vent, he placed his hands around the vent cover. The lights went out and suddenly everything was dark. Jake removed the vent cover and pushed himself through the hole, arms first. After a moment of struggling he was back in the small space between his cell and the next one over. It took him a moment to find all of his materials, but he was swift and silent and focused. Holding onto one of the many pipes with one hand and holding his materials in the other, he lifted himself towards the other broken vent leading to the roof. The materials were the first thing on the roof, followed by Jake. Having counted the time since the lights went out, he figured he had about twenty eight minutes to go. He had to get off of the roof and out to the water by the time the fireworks began, otherwise the light from the explosions would give away his position to the guard towers. He needed to blend in with the other boats as soon as possible.

Having placed the flare gun, canteen and paddle on the un-inflated raft, Jake folded it all together and placed the bundle under his arm. Taking one last breath of confidence, he began his descent down the side of the prison. The prison was old and ocean-facing wall had succumbed to erosion over the years. In addition to the window sills there were enough crevices to get a good foothold while climbing down the wall. During his descent he avoided climbing directly in front of the other windows. No need for anyone to notice. Within a few minutes he was sitting at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the water. A crashing realization came upon him. He could not swim. Of course he had always known this, and had contemplated every other possible way of escaping the island, pushing the thought to the farthest regions of his mind. Now it stared him in the face. This was the only means of escape, and he knew it. It was now or never.

Twenty-three minutes to go. Setting aside the rest of his materials Jake began filling the raft with air. It was exhausting work, but nothing he had not expected. He had used his time in the prison gym to ensure he could handle his escape. His lungs quickly became jaded but after a good fifteen minutes it was done. He took a moment to catch his breath. Eight minutes left. Jake looked down at the cliff. It wasn’t a sheer drop, rather a steep decline, and he had to be careful about getting the raft down without puncturing it. Once again he started a descent, but this one would be his last. Soon he was at the waters edge, three minutes to go. He carefully pushed the raft into the water, holding it tight as the currents were already tugging it away. Making sure he had his materials, he climbed onto the raft and pushed away from the cliff. The raft held him and a wave of relief washed over his pale face. There was a sudden loud bang and his heart felt like it would explode from the shock. For the slightest moment he thought that he was being shot at, but a heavy blue light filled the night sky and he realized the fireworks had begun.

Jake paddled hard. The motion of the water rocked his raft and pushed him with the currents, but he held strong. He was unwavering in his goal, and he forced the raft towards the distant shore. The night was filled with colors and explosions. If he had been paying attention he would have seen how beautiful it all was. The prison fireworks display was the best in the harbor. The vibrant blue melting with the brilliant oranges and yellows painted a short-lasting picture in the sky. A few of the fireworks exploded into the shape of a star, all in reds whites and blues.

Jake had been paddling for several minutes now, and the prison began to fade in the distance, occasionally lit up by the fireworks. However every time the bay would be lit up, he would become nervous. He did not want to be seen. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea after all. Doubts flooded his mind. Water flooded his raft. Water flooded his raft.

Jake looked down in shock. One of his seams was not holding. Several of his seams were not holding. He stopped rowing and began to bail the water out. He was in a panic. He had not realized that the wakes from the boats would create such choppy waters. Waves began to pound the side of the raft. He looked up frantically, sweeping the area, looking for nearby boats between explosions of light. The prison shore was too far away by now; he could not go back. He did not want to go back. Water ate away at the raft, clawing towards Jake. He was in shock, thousands of thoughts crashing together in his mind. I can’t swim. I should have expected this. I should have triple-checked the seams. I can’t swim. I should have known about the waves. I don’t want to die. I can’t swim. I don’t want to die. In a sudden glimmer of hope, he remembered the flare gun in his pocket and quickly took it out. No, no, I can’t draw attention! What does it matter? I’m serving life anyway, they can’t possible extend my sentence. Can they? He looked down at the faded orange pistol. He had no desire to go back to the prison, but he had no intentions of dying either. Prison, or death. Prison. Death. Prison…
Going back was his only option. The raft was starting to go under, breaking beneath the weight of the waves. He had no more time to think. Hoping someone – anyone – would possibly notice, Jake raised the flare gun high above his and pulled the trigger. A bright orange light filled the night sky.


Out on the shore, several families gathered together for the celebration. The grill was out and the hotdogs and burgers were cooking. Children chased each other around the beach, their worried mothers eyeing them warily. Fathers and husbands sat around a fire, sipping their beers and discussing work and politics. When the fireworks began, everyone gathered on the sand, their oohs and aahs silently drifting in the air at the sight of each explosion. The children giggled, poking each other and telling everyone else that the last explosion was their favorite. Not three minutes into the show something unusual happened and one of a small child ran up to her father and tugged at his shirt. She pointed to a fading trail of orange coming from the harbor, inquiring why that particular firework did not explode like all the others. The father quickly dismissed it as a dud, or perhaps a firecracker shot off from one of the many yachts in the harbor. Nothing to worry about. Pleased at his answer the girl went back to her companions, quickly becoming mesmerized by the rest of the display and soon forgetting about the one odd orange firework that looked so different from the others. The night continued as usual, the children playing, the fathers talking and the mothers scolding their children for getting too close to the water, because for heavens sake they didn’t know how to swim and they would surely drown out in that dreadful ocean.
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Postby  yahoozy » 2010.04.12 (01:58)



“Now, continuing Genesis.”

Havel is alone in a crowded room of twenty-one. His eyes are closed, and head tilted back, only retaining enough consciousness to hear an ambiance of briskly walking business shoes and car horns set subtly against Brother Abe’s sermon. He feels nearly disconnected from the world, and he can’t discern what Abe has to say; he doesn’t really care. The only thing on or in his head is a faint and very content smile.

“And the Lord caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept. And He took one of his ribs, and closed up the place with flesh instead thereof. And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from the man, made He a woman, and brought her unto the man. And the man said: ‘This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.’ Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh.”

Havel thrusts open his eyes. He peers around the room: the first floor of the tenement, Abe’s church, lined in folding-metal-chair pews. A wall of dusty, discolored bricks peers back at him - any trace of that warm, red-brown hue it used to bear now faded and laced in an uninviting amalgam of dust and mold, all leading up to a ceiling of rusted, corroded pipes, which occasionally greets the tenants by brushing off some of its rot and decay onto their shoulders and scalp. The air is cold and moist, the smell of wet garbage and cologne drifts in from the threshold; it’s morning.

He angles his head upward to see the fellow communers. Meredith’s there, a few seats to the right of him. When Havel first moved in, Meredith invited him into her room to smoke marijuana and drink with her friends. They talked politics, and religion, but never for long. The conversations seemed to always segue into more controversial topics; drug experiences, law troubles, and lots of sex. She smiled then, she smiled a lot. She isn’t smiling now, though. She’s all drowsy eyes and pronounced wrinkles. She’s listening to Abe’s sermon with a different expression - one of intent, maybe.

A few seats to the left of Havel is Karen, a girl with whom he formed a relationship with a year or so back; the kind of consensual, casual relationship that is marked more by sex and escape than it is togetherness. He was fine with that, though. They both were. It made them happy. It was a happiness Havel saw in every square inch of her expression. An expression of disappointment replaces it, as if she’d been living her life incorrectly.

They all have the same face. None of them are happy anymore.

“And, in process of time, it came to pass that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the Lord. And Abel - he also brought of the firstlings of his flock, and of the fat thereof. And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering, but unto Cain and to his offering He had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.”

Havel feels it is necessary to act. He stands; his tall, lanky body effortlessly drifts upward as his long, dark hair falls gently onto his shoulders. Everyone stares up at him; his defined, bony face holds a semblance of serious purpose, rather than his usual apathetic demeanor. His eyes are clear and gazing outward, pointing at Abe, and trembling with thought. The room’s all quiet now, and tensing along with Havel’s muscles.

After quickly gathering thought, he opens his mouth to speak. He stops after a single meek utterance of a syllable. There is a paralyzing thought: If he were to speak out, if he were to refute, this would no longer be here. He could no longer sit and meditate to Abe’s droning prayer adjacent urbania. This was his happiness. His happiness was something he couldn’t sacrifice.

“Is there something you want to add, Havel?”

“No, no. Good sermon you’re giving, that’s all.”

A confused silence pervades the room.

“Oh. Alright, Havel, thank you.”

Havel grabs the back of his chair slowly eases back into a sitting position. He crosses his hands over his stomach, leans his head back, and closes his eyes as Abe continues his sermon.

“And the Lord said unto Cain, ‘Why art thou wroth, and why is thy countenance fallen? If thou doest well, shall it not be lifted up? And if thou doest not well, sin coucheth at the door. And unto thee is its desire, but thou mayest rule over it.’ And Cain spoke unto Abel, his brother, and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew him.”

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Postby noops » 2010.04.18 (17:44)

Stranger


It's 8 A.M. in a church on the outskirts of The City of Lights, out there in the middle of the desert, Lu Varmad. An old man is asleep in the pew to the left and in the back of the church; his left hand is hidden beneath a bandage burgundy with congealing blood. His clothes are in tatters, and his right shoe is missing.
It is not often that visitors come to the small church; the people who come here are, more often than not, godless heathens, who would much rather go off to a wedding chapel than a proper church. It was because of this, that when Rev. Julius Grant came from his sleeping quarters that morning, late, as always, an astonished gasp exited his mouth.
He nudged the man; he didn't stir. He examined his hand, turning it over in his hands, to try and get a good idea of the damage. He had obviously lost a significant amount of blood, but a wound was not found, and he didn't much feel like opening up a, presumably, bad injury for the sake of curiousity.
He went into his office, and put a kettle of tea on. He often had tea stored somewhere around there, it relaxed him, and anyway it tasted good, so he had a good supply ready. Just in case, he made enough for the stranger as well as himself.
When it was done, he poured himself a cup, left the rest in the pot, and put it on the stove at a low heat to keep it warm. If there was one thing he hated, it was cold tea.
He approached the stranger yet again. There was a trace of animation on his face; a flicker of a dream, perhaps, and not a good one, at that. He nudged him again. And again, but this time, a little harder.
He stirred this time, and opened his eyes a sliver. He spoke,
“Uuuuuuuughnnnnnnnh...” was the moan that escaped him.
“Hello, stranger. I woke up this morning only to find you sleeping in this church.”
Another groan, but this time, more coherent. “Wha... A churchoo say?” With what appeared to be a great effort, he leaned forward; you could positively feel and hear his joints as they creaked along. Finally, after a great deal of awkward stretching, he rested his forearms onto the pew in front of him and interlaced his fingers. He let his head drop. His bandage gave the pew a faintly warm intonation where it touched.
“. . .Yes. . . A church. I am the reverend here,” Rev. Grant said.
“I. . . Unh. . .I gathered. Who else. . .would be in a church here? . . .At this hour. Most people are prolly hungover right. . . Right now. Or they're drinkin' again, drinkin' themselves stupid.” A grayed mat of hair sat atop his head, scraggly, unkempt, and it hung in front of his forehead. It faced him as he said “'Ppreciate it,” and he reached for the cup of lukewarm tea that the reverend only just remembered he was holding.
“. . .Oh, sure,” he said. The man leaned up, straightening his back, and, gradually, softly, reclined into the back of the hard, wooden surface. The cup brought to his lips, the head brought to the back of the pew, and the tea was drained. He finished it with a contented “Aaaah,” and followed up with “You got any more?”.
Rev. Grant got up without a word and returned with another cup, this one metal, the other one glass.
“Thanks,” he said, quietly, and drained that too, in much less time than the first and with much less effort. When he was done, his brain seemed to pause for a moment, and his thumb traced the lip of the cup as a pair of yellowed eyes stared into the altar ahead and a pair of white eyes stared at the yellow ones.
“Er. . . If you don't mind my asking,” the Rev. started.
The yellow eyes turned, slowly, along with the head, even slower.
“How exactly did you come into this predicament? I am a reverend, you know. Your secrets I shall take to the grave, and beyond, if you like.” He flashed a small smile, and withdrew it; his sense of humor was lost on him, and if it wasn't he didn't appreciate it. Not even a chuckle.
“Hmm,” was the low rumble that came from this man's throat.
“At least tell me your name.”
The man blinked slowly. His mouth moved slowly, also, as it formed the word
“Emmanuel,”
and his gaze again turned to the two large, stained plexiglass windows depicting Christ, once whilst splitting breadand fish, and once walking on water with Paul.

Just a little something a whipped up last night. Stranger is only the working title, and I think I'll change it, as well as some other things, later. I've gotten some positive feedback on it, so I think that I'll finish it, at some time or other.

EDIT: I'm not sure why, but the indentations that mark the new paragraphs don't show up... Hmm...
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