HeeHeeHe...
***
Devilish Link
Suzy was one of those new, modern children who loved school. She loved the books, the computers, the teachers, her fellow students, she even loved the homework the teachers assigned.
Sitting at home, her seventh grade teacher had given her an assignment to do a report on fairies. This was an exciting project as Suzy loved all those great movies containing fairies, such as Tinkerbell on the Disney movie, Peter Pan.
"Suzy, dinner is in ten minutes," her mother downstairs knew her daughter already knew but it never hurts to remind her, especially when her daughter gets caught up so easily in her school work.
"All right mom, I'll be down soon."
On her computer screen she entered the word - fairy - on the search engine bar. The computer instantly showed over one-million pages dealing with fairies. However she did not need to read that many pages as the first one on the list caught her attention immediately. She clicked on, Wishfulfairies.com...
What opened on that link was truly magical.It showed the face of a cute little girl, a fairy, turn into the face of a serpent. Suzy froze in horror. No matter how hard she tried no part of her body could move with the exception being her eyes.
She could not close her eyes, she could not move her hands, and she sat helpless watching the tongue of the serpent come out of her computer screen and wrap around her neck...
"Suzy? Suzy, dinner is served. Get down here now." Strange, her daughter was always very prompt.
"Suzy, get down here now!" Still hearing no answer, the mother felt a tingle of apprehension. She wiped her hands on her apron and headed up the stairs to her daughters room.
Standing outside her daughters closed door she knocked softly, "Suzy?" and hearing no answer she turned the door handle and entered...
"Ahhh!"
Suzy's mother felt both shock and pain. When she opened the door she did not see her daughter, instead she saw a large snake coiled on the floor. Her last view was the large serpents head rearing up and striking her in the face with fangs dripping venom.
On the screen of the computer, the face of a cute fairy girl was laughing.
Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]
Moderator: Editors
Re: Writers Parasite
Devils Bottle
"That damn grin...stop it, stop it, stop..."
(whispers around the room slithered to make known, or was it the air conditioner?)
In the background the sound of the reefer in the kitchen made clunking sounds, most likely from not having been cleaned of the massive dust accumulation from years of neglect.
(whisper)
"I said stop it, stop it you evil prick..."
The largest of the black fly's sitting on the greasy wall-papered room viewed a sorry looking bastard sitting in a recliner far past being worn out. This sorry looking bastard was at an age that children would call, 'ancient' and adults would call pathetic.
Amazing that such a retch could even exist, even have a name, and a good name at that - Issac. But amazement comes in many form and currently that form was Issac, a sorry looking bastard sitting in a recliner covered in old food stains, cat piss, stale beer and hundreds of corpses of dead fly's.
Sitting in the chair, Issac had a bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and a fly swatter in the other.
"Take that you little prick..."
The quick flick of his wrist carried the yellow fly swatter to smash another black fly.
"HaHaHa... I said, stop it, stop looking at me..."
No one was there to see what actually happened, and if they were they would not believe it. On a pile of child porn pictures placed haphazardly on a table in front of Issac, a black fly leaped from the picture of a naked six-year old pictured doing something to a cat. First one fly, and then another, and then a steady stream of black fly's flew from the pages...
"Stop! Please stop! Noooo..."
A black mass flew onto Issac's body. They flew into his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his ass...All orifices of Issac were violated much in the way the children in the pictures were being violated.
After many weeks, the smell of the rotting body sitting in a dirty, disgusting, gore covered recliner, was enough to get the attention of the outside world.
When the first policeman entered the room, he gagged, covered his face and vomited.
When the rest of the police and cleanup crew got there the scene showed a rotting dead body of a sorry looking bastard sitting in the chair. In his right hand was an empty bottle of whiskey and in his left a handle of a shattered mirror. His face showed the deep lacerations of where he had beaten himself with a mirror. And on the wall, high above and looking at the whole scene, was a very large black fly with what looked like an evil smile.
"That damn grin...stop it, stop it, stop..."
(whispers around the room slithered to make known, or was it the air conditioner?)
In the background the sound of the reefer in the kitchen made clunking sounds, most likely from not having been cleaned of the massive dust accumulation from years of neglect.
(whisper)
"I said stop it, stop it you evil prick..."
The largest of the black fly's sitting on the greasy wall-papered room viewed a sorry looking bastard sitting in a recliner far past being worn out. This sorry looking bastard was at an age that children would call, 'ancient' and adults would call pathetic.
Amazing that such a retch could even exist, even have a name, and a good name at that - Issac. But amazement comes in many form and currently that form was Issac, a sorry looking bastard sitting in a recliner covered in old food stains, cat piss, stale beer and hundreds of corpses of dead fly's.
Sitting in the chair, Issac had a bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and a fly swatter in the other.
"Take that you little prick..."
The quick flick of his wrist carried the yellow fly swatter to smash another black fly.
"HaHaHa... I said, stop it, stop looking at me..."
No one was there to see what actually happened, and if they were they would not believe it. On a pile of child porn pictures placed haphazardly on a table in front of Issac, a black fly leaped from the picture of a naked six-year old pictured doing something to a cat. First one fly, and then another, and then a steady stream of black fly's flew from the pages...
"Stop! Please stop! Noooo..."
A black mass flew onto Issac's body. They flew into his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his ass...All orifices of Issac were violated much in the way the children in the pictures were being violated.
After many weeks, the smell of the rotting body sitting in a dirty, disgusting, gore covered recliner, was enough to get the attention of the outside world.
When the first policeman entered the room, he gagged, covered his face and vomited.
When the rest of the police and cleanup crew got there the scene showed a rotting dead body of a sorry looking bastard sitting in the chair. In his right hand was an empty bottle of whiskey and in his left a handle of a shattered mirror. His face showed the deep lacerations of where he had beaten himself with a mirror. And on the wall, high above and looking at the whole scene, was a very large black fly with what looked like an evil smile.
Re: Writers Parasite
Blade of Damascus
Far past the time of learning sharpness of the blade. Obsidian chips sliced open the history to provide sustenance and protection of those humans of humanities past.
Sharpened bone, napped stone, and finally the forges burned hot enough to melt the iron, the bronze, the gold, the steel. Now the bone and horn of ox and stag were relegated to being the handle and not the cutting edge.
Upon the puddled blood pools of ancient battlefields, weapons designed to penetrate human flesh and blood showed the world the success of their use. Lopped heads, torn corpses, severed limbs; joyous victory for those who were alive and on the winning side.
Wars too numerous to count and too common to list, abounded. Millions of those once alive were victim to such means of death. Until the edge was turned to explosions and blunt trauma force of molded lead.
What a glorious testimony for those advocating death...Nuclear explosions, poison gas, and biological horrors released, and yet?
Today there is comfort in holding the handle to the past. The terror of ISIS or as simple as one man listening to the powerful voice in his head.
In France, just a moment ago, an employer was found,his head hung from a gate, severed by one soul bearing human of hate.
It was said. “When I heard this, I was shocked. It’s shameful,” she said. “I am a Muslim, but you can’t kill like this. It’s not who we are. In Islam, we’re not told to slit throats. We only slit the throats of sheep. You don’t slit the throats of people.”
Well said, well said indeed. There is no difference to many people between being a wolf or being a sheep. And I remember the story of Abraham well, when God told him to sacrifice his son and who in that story was the sheep, the weak one, the one who failed?
God backed down showing how weak is his will, a helpless sheep and he dares to lead a world?
Only those who hold the handle - willing to slice deep - who listen to the wolf, the leader, the killer of sheep. Only those people will be deemed worthy to succeed in this world. Only those who worship and obey me...
Lucifer
Far past the time of learning sharpness of the blade. Obsidian chips sliced open the history to provide sustenance and protection of those humans of humanities past.
Sharpened bone, napped stone, and finally the forges burned hot enough to melt the iron, the bronze, the gold, the steel. Now the bone and horn of ox and stag were relegated to being the handle and not the cutting edge.
Upon the puddled blood pools of ancient battlefields, weapons designed to penetrate human flesh and blood showed the world the success of their use. Lopped heads, torn corpses, severed limbs; joyous victory for those who were alive and on the winning side.
Wars too numerous to count and too common to list, abounded. Millions of those once alive were victim to such means of death. Until the edge was turned to explosions and blunt trauma force of molded lead.
What a glorious testimony for those advocating death...Nuclear explosions, poison gas, and biological horrors released, and yet?
Today there is comfort in holding the handle to the past. The terror of ISIS or as simple as one man listening to the powerful voice in his head.
In France, just a moment ago, an employer was found,his head hung from a gate, severed by one soul bearing human of hate.
It was said. “When I heard this, I was shocked. It’s shameful,” she said. “I am a Muslim, but you can’t kill like this. It’s not who we are. In Islam, we’re not told to slit throats. We only slit the throats of sheep. You don’t slit the throats of people.”
Well said, well said indeed. There is no difference to many people between being a wolf or being a sheep. And I remember the story of Abraham well, when God told him to sacrifice his son and who in that story was the sheep, the weak one, the one who failed?
God backed down showing how weak is his will, a helpless sheep and he dares to lead a world?
Only those who hold the handle - willing to slice deep - who listen to the wolf, the leader, the killer of sheep. Only those people will be deemed worthy to succeed in this world. Only those who worship and obey me...
Lucifer
Re: Writers Parasite
hee eelo leetle eyes balls... i'es watcheed n readed foor awile n its times now to writ.
(C'jun. Multiply Q factor...Level 1.126. Adjust now for variables in transfer. 3,2,1...Transfer complete)
Hello reader, name given to what is, is Cau## (Slipping sector 7, responding, responding, fixed)
is Causy Towan, the given country clown. Not from where you realm...Given pause to literature you with a story now.
Think processed with line subjugation of mass, mas-s-s-s (Losing contact, 3.33 mitro's)
Think of mind snake, snake, sssss...
(End transmission. Formulate set parameter, now)
The Snake
Gray silvery liner, clinging ribs well fed. Night time: Time of the hunter.
Chronological passing of the many moments had lead to the hunt, the stealth, the attack, feast and digestion.
Rat, mouse, rabbit, even other reptiles, some even known to cause warts - food for the minds of that ruling the ground.
Leathery eggs hatched in the moist yet warm soil, eggs laid by the past. To differentiate between male or female was hard to taste when not dependent upon the tongue.
Undulation. Seductive in waving motion until noticed with rattle, or not, silenced.
There! An exclamation never uttered as you never saw it, never knew, and now only can this sound touch your mind. A hunter or huntress, a hunger pressed.
Nibbling that, that word used so much as the mouth of the mouse - rodent, pest, meal - that grass.
Recently mowed by steel blade and drunken mammal, a male full of curse while drinking fermented barley with meaning of this, slept. Plant left level and thirsty while the mouse feasted on darkness.
Consumed by consumption, completed center...Wait! Did you hear that? No? Listen...
Viewed from above was nothing, not even the color of invisible. From the ground, only shorn dale, for humans flat. For those others a mountainous obstacle, and safe?
Open. Yawning double-jointed mechanical wedded by biological bone, it struck.
Quivering feet, those still exposed, and squeezed.
Soon it was over, is over and never yet, until the next meal.
Away now, release your mind tangled with webs spun as if a spider was inside your head. Sleep well tonight, sleep well tonight earth's child, for the Snake soon to come. Releassssed. To feed...
(C'jun. Multiply Q factor...Level 1.126. Adjust now for variables in transfer. 3,2,1...Transfer complete)
Hello reader, name given to what is, is Cau## (Slipping sector 7, responding, responding, fixed)
is Causy Towan, the given country clown. Not from where you realm...Given pause to literature you with a story now.
Think processed with line subjugation of mass, mas-s-s-s (Losing contact, 3.33 mitro's)
Think of mind snake, snake, sssss...
(End transmission. Formulate set parameter, now)
The Snake
Gray silvery liner, clinging ribs well fed. Night time: Time of the hunter.
Chronological passing of the many moments had lead to the hunt, the stealth, the attack, feast and digestion.
Rat, mouse, rabbit, even other reptiles, some even known to cause warts - food for the minds of that ruling the ground.
Leathery eggs hatched in the moist yet warm soil, eggs laid by the past. To differentiate between male or female was hard to taste when not dependent upon the tongue.
Undulation. Seductive in waving motion until noticed with rattle, or not, silenced.
There! An exclamation never uttered as you never saw it, never knew, and now only can this sound touch your mind. A hunter or huntress, a hunger pressed.
Nibbling that, that word used so much as the mouth of the mouse - rodent, pest, meal - that grass.
Recently mowed by steel blade and drunken mammal, a male full of curse while drinking fermented barley with meaning of this, slept. Plant left level and thirsty while the mouse feasted on darkness.
Consumed by consumption, completed center...Wait! Did you hear that? No? Listen...
Viewed from above was nothing, not even the color of invisible. From the ground, only shorn dale, for humans flat. For those others a mountainous obstacle, and safe?
Open. Yawning double-jointed mechanical wedded by biological bone, it struck.
Quivering feet, those still exposed, and squeezed.
Soon it was over, is over and never yet, until the next meal.
Away now, release your mind tangled with webs spun as if a spider was inside your head. Sleep well tonight, sleep well tonight earth's child, for the Snake soon to come. Releassssed. To feed...
Re: Writers Parasite
Dreaming Field of Corn ( Cum Tempore )
John Yoder was a faithful man, a hardworking Amish man who toiled the day hard; sweat pouring from his browned forehead to mingle with the gray hair of his full beard. For John, the Amish way was always his way, his means of finding God.
Remember your first taste of deja vu? Most likely you forgot as soon as the hair started growing in your pubic area with your voice changing along with your sexual desires. To remind you of the taste, think about what you did today. Think hard, as hard as John Yoder works daily, taking only one day off a week to observe the given day-of-rest. What did you taste?
Most readers eyes have glazed over, some have stopped reading, choosing instead to think of sex, food, sleep, or pain. Some are still wondering about what they are reading, and some are thinking about what they tasted today. To help you think, you have lived this day before in the past and will do so in the future again.
-
"Pappa, what are you writing?" John's youngest son, Mark questioned as he saw his father sitting erect at the simple wood table, pencil in hand and writing by the light of a lantern.
"Mark, it is past your time for bed. Go now and retire, and make sure you give God your evening prayers."
"Yes, pappa, I was just curious about what you're writing."
"What I do is what men do and not for you to understand at this time. Go now for tomorrow you and I have many lambs to castrate."
"Yes father," and with that said in a voice of resignation the young boy came over to his father and hugged him all the while trying to see what it was that was being written.
After the evening ritual of father loving son was finished John turned his attention back to what was, and must be written.
John Yoder was Amish, of this there was no doubt, but John once was a prostitute with her clients being wealthy Greek Senators. He once lived in isolation in Persia as a leper. The lives of John were many and varied. He had lived as male, female, mother, father, lover, killer, good, evil... And that was his past, he had also lived in the future as an explorer, an astronaut; living lives so strange and different it included the occupations of sexual scientist ( designing a semen doctrine to change the canon of religion, unloading a cannon of guilt and doubt.) to a rider of whales. His future was as diverse and different as his past.
You and 99.9999999999999999% of this world inhabitants as well as other worlds, are unaware as to the lives lived past and future with almost the same percentage not even aware of the life being lived during this moment. John was different, oh so very different.
In the first moment of consciousness in the first moment of time, Gods finger cast a small shadow as the finger was igniting light. This shadow took life and gave life, a life far different than beast, angel, demon, or any corporeal entity. There is no earthly name for what 'John Yoder' is, was, or will be but his writing was/is the will of God and it must be presented, it must be done so it can start, so it can finish.
Of any who are interested in what John was writing when his son came in, the following is his last entry for the day: Donald Trump tastes the bullet given velocity of disgust...
John Yoder was a faithful man, a hardworking Amish man who toiled the day hard; sweat pouring from his browned forehead to mingle with the gray hair of his full beard. For John, the Amish way was always his way, his means of finding God.
Remember your first taste of deja vu? Most likely you forgot as soon as the hair started growing in your pubic area with your voice changing along with your sexual desires. To remind you of the taste, think about what you did today. Think hard, as hard as John Yoder works daily, taking only one day off a week to observe the given day-of-rest. What did you taste?
Most readers eyes have glazed over, some have stopped reading, choosing instead to think of sex, food, sleep, or pain. Some are still wondering about what they are reading, and some are thinking about what they tasted today. To help you think, you have lived this day before in the past and will do so in the future again.
-
"Pappa, what are you writing?" John's youngest son, Mark questioned as he saw his father sitting erect at the simple wood table, pencil in hand and writing by the light of a lantern.
"Mark, it is past your time for bed. Go now and retire, and make sure you give God your evening prayers."
"Yes, pappa, I was just curious about what you're writing."
"What I do is what men do and not for you to understand at this time. Go now for tomorrow you and I have many lambs to castrate."
"Yes father," and with that said in a voice of resignation the young boy came over to his father and hugged him all the while trying to see what it was that was being written.
After the evening ritual of father loving son was finished John turned his attention back to what was, and must be written.
John Yoder was Amish, of this there was no doubt, but John once was a prostitute with her clients being wealthy Greek Senators. He once lived in isolation in Persia as a leper. The lives of John were many and varied. He had lived as male, female, mother, father, lover, killer, good, evil... And that was his past, he had also lived in the future as an explorer, an astronaut; living lives so strange and different it included the occupations of sexual scientist ( designing a semen doctrine to change the canon of religion, unloading a cannon of guilt and doubt.) to a rider of whales. His future was as diverse and different as his past.
You and 99.9999999999999999% of this world inhabitants as well as other worlds, are unaware as to the lives lived past and future with almost the same percentage not even aware of the life being lived during this moment. John was different, oh so very different.
In the first moment of consciousness in the first moment of time, Gods finger cast a small shadow as the finger was igniting light. This shadow took life and gave life, a life far different than beast, angel, demon, or any corporeal entity. There is no earthly name for what 'John Yoder' is, was, or will be but his writing was/is the will of God and it must be presented, it must be done so it can start, so it can finish.
Of any who are interested in what John was writing when his son came in, the following is his last entry for the day: Donald Trump tastes the bullet given velocity of disgust...
Re: Writers Parasite
"If its been thought of its been tried..."
Evolution on Steroids
By: You Don't Even Want To Know
Mysteries abound in an endless spectrum of dimensions. Of course the primitive three are already predictable down to the most impossible degree, it is only with the expansion into what humans call 'Supernatural' does the game change.
Imagine:
It was a disease, a curse, and to some, a blessing.
Birth control to include IUD's, condoms, pills, even resorting to ripping apart babies in the womb to promote research, have been a gift of choice humanity embraced. That is until the disease hit.
It was the year when two black holes collided, the collision set off a ripple of time warping and physical effects flung far and wide. One of those ripples crossed the path of Earth.
Every man and woman bearing a soul suddenly found themselves multiplied to where they existed by the thousands. Individual in 'oneness' but the possibilities exploded as to results.
Males sperm, millions of them swimming in each ejaculation once found obstacles and death in forms of physical birth control but the ripple changed all of this. Sperm once inserted in the females body quickly burrowed into surrounding tissue. Any ejaculate on the surface of the skin anywhere on the females body to include hair, face, leg, toe - anywhere on the body - they too quickly burrowed into the flesh.
Once inside the body the sperm thrived, they evolved, they grew, they thought, and they were vicious.
Every egg dropped, ready for fertilization, was fertilized, and not only once but millions of times until each and every sperm had success.
Imagine: One human female giving birth to millions and this with only one egg. Multiply the monthly egg supply, the amount of sexual activity, the number of males copulating with females...
If the male engaged in sexual activity and ejaculated multiple times, all - each and every sperm contacting the female - resulted in creation. After the egg(s) resulted in fertilization, only then did the door close to further sperm penetration. Those late cummers were destroyed by cells in the female, only allowing those already hosted to stay until the creation process was underway and complete. Then the whole process could begin anew.
A side effect to the ripple was much like salmon spawning. By this statement the meaning is after successful transfer of sperm, the male died. Children were raised without a biological father. However, the female was soon open for more sperm reception once the birthing process was complete.
Needless to say, the thought process about everything society ever held true, changed. Soon males decided to remain celibate and live a long life, mentoring and raising the millions of children multiplied by billions of mothers, or engage in that one-time sexual moment and die.
Females had no choice of not being a mother as any attempt at destroying the creation process also ended their life. There was no exceptions, no doubt, no other choice other than to engage in sex and create.
If one is wondering about a male 'raping' a female by masturbating and casting ejaculate upon one or multiple woman, the process did not work. It resulted in instant death for the male as his sperm knew his thoughts before being released.
Intelligence is usually deemed for that creature having a brain. While the sperm did not have a brain it was touched by that which you cannot understand.
Short explanation: One male for one female at every moment. After the mating the male died, after the birthing the female needed another male. One mating resulted in millions of babies from one egg and each-and-every sperm. There were no dead or immobile sperm nor where any eggs unfit. Once females reached biological breeding age they must breed and birth for the time they stop with egg production or are unable to find a sexual partner, they too, die.
The results were amazing: Evolution in a way you cannot even imagine...
Evolution on Steroids
By: You Don't Even Want To Know
Mysteries abound in an endless spectrum of dimensions. Of course the primitive three are already predictable down to the most impossible degree, it is only with the expansion into what humans call 'Supernatural' does the game change.
Imagine:
It was a disease, a curse, and to some, a blessing.
Birth control to include IUD's, condoms, pills, even resorting to ripping apart babies in the womb to promote research, have been a gift of choice humanity embraced. That is until the disease hit.
It was the year when two black holes collided, the collision set off a ripple of time warping and physical effects flung far and wide. One of those ripples crossed the path of Earth.
Every man and woman bearing a soul suddenly found themselves multiplied to where they existed by the thousands. Individual in 'oneness' but the possibilities exploded as to results.
Males sperm, millions of them swimming in each ejaculation once found obstacles and death in forms of physical birth control but the ripple changed all of this. Sperm once inserted in the females body quickly burrowed into surrounding tissue. Any ejaculate on the surface of the skin anywhere on the females body to include hair, face, leg, toe - anywhere on the body - they too quickly burrowed into the flesh.
Once inside the body the sperm thrived, they evolved, they grew, they thought, and they were vicious.
Every egg dropped, ready for fertilization, was fertilized, and not only once but millions of times until each and every sperm had success.
Imagine: One human female giving birth to millions and this with only one egg. Multiply the monthly egg supply, the amount of sexual activity, the number of males copulating with females...
If the male engaged in sexual activity and ejaculated multiple times, all - each and every sperm contacting the female - resulted in creation. After the egg(s) resulted in fertilization, only then did the door close to further sperm penetration. Those late cummers were destroyed by cells in the female, only allowing those already hosted to stay until the creation process was underway and complete. Then the whole process could begin anew.
A side effect to the ripple was much like salmon spawning. By this statement the meaning is after successful transfer of sperm, the male died. Children were raised without a biological father. However, the female was soon open for more sperm reception once the birthing process was complete.
Needless to say, the thought process about everything society ever held true, changed. Soon males decided to remain celibate and live a long life, mentoring and raising the millions of children multiplied by billions of mothers, or engage in that one-time sexual moment and die.
Females had no choice of not being a mother as any attempt at destroying the creation process also ended their life. There was no exceptions, no doubt, no other choice other than to engage in sex and create.
If one is wondering about a male 'raping' a female by masturbating and casting ejaculate upon one or multiple woman, the process did not work. It resulted in instant death for the male as his sperm knew his thoughts before being released.
Intelligence is usually deemed for that creature having a brain. While the sperm did not have a brain it was touched by that which you cannot understand.
Short explanation: One male for one female at every moment. After the mating the male died, after the birthing the female needed another male. One mating resulted in millions of babies from one egg and each-and-every sperm. There were no dead or immobile sperm nor where any eggs unfit. Once females reached biological breeding age they must breed and birth for the time they stop with egg production or are unable to find a sexual partner, they too, die.
The results were amazing: Evolution in a way you cannot even imagine...
Re: Writers Parasite
There are no limits or bounds in writing, only the power of rejection in the mind of the reader has any sway and even this is fleeting as once put to print the words take on a life of their own.
Thrash away Tao, thrash away and the parasite will feed, it needs too, it has too.
***
Sensing a coming; dinner bell sounding.
Vibrations to set the juices flowing.
Cyber awareness, energy consumed.
Feast upon to create.
Boundless.
Endless.
Ideal to excellent results resulting in digested fragments
Leaving a story to live or die
the parasite cares only for the meal, the chance.
Thrash away Tao, thrash away and the parasite will feed, it needs too, it has too.
***
Sensing a coming; dinner bell sounding.
Vibrations to set the juices flowing.
Cyber awareness, energy consumed.
Feast upon to create.
Boundless.
Endless.
Ideal to excellent results resulting in digested fragments
Leaving a story to live or die
the parasite cares only for the meal, the chance.
Re: Writers Parasite
welcome to the dark side.
start with teacher or the flesh drinker?
the parasite now feeds...
***
Nine Deaths
Nanquan purred with content, calmly licking the fresh blood from its paws. Nanquan was a name given by humans, foolish humans, the same humans whom the 'cat' had recently killed. Nanquan was no cat and the letters of the human alphabet n-a-q-u-q arranged in an understandable order did not even come close to the demons name.
It is said a demons name is power, a power of such importance that to know and understand the name gives one great power, the power to move to shake heaven and earth.
Religion: The root of a foolish tree so embraced by mortals. Christians, Hindus, Islam, Jews... names to give comfort to those living blobs of flesh, flesh so tasty and sweet.
'Nanquan' had been there when Mohammad was speaking with his masters emissary, whispering dark lies under the light clouds of deceit. That night the demon fed well and many children were born nine months later with the yellow eyes of evil burning in their eyes.
For thousands of years- the demon shadow now in the form of a black cat calmly licking its paws- it had witnessed the folly of mankind coming to terms with its mortality. It had seen the Jesus God die upon a cross in a bloody manner for the humans. It had fed well during the many great wars where evil battled evil with goodness hiding in fear. So many years, so many shapes, so much death...
Humans believed in so much. They believe in themselves, in fire, in the stars, they believed so much and yet they did not even give pause to believe in how good they tasted. Human flesh was tasty but weak. A few even believed that when they died they would be reincarnated. Some religions advocated such, and such were correct. The soul does transfer, there is rebirth, and the demon knew this fact full well.
The 14th Dalai Lama had passed away, a full life of 90 years. For humans this was long for the demon, only a heartbeat.
Before passing the 14th Dalai Lama had decided to be reborn and this is where the demon arrived.
The tending Bhikkuni monks had just helped a poor peasant woman deliver the 15th Dalai Lama when the demon cat 'Nanquan' arrived and slayed all but the new baby. Laying in the pool of fresh blood the infant was still covered with the blood from the inside and now the outside of his mother. After licking his paws, the demon slowly proceeded towards the crying flesh and was about to strike when in a calm voice the infant uttered the demons name _____________a.
start with teacher or the flesh drinker?
the parasite now feeds...
***
Nine Deaths
Nanquan purred with content, calmly licking the fresh blood from its paws. Nanquan was a name given by humans, foolish humans, the same humans whom the 'cat' had recently killed. Nanquan was no cat and the letters of the human alphabet n-a-q-u-q arranged in an understandable order did not even come close to the demons name.
It is said a demons name is power, a power of such importance that to know and understand the name gives one great power, the power to move to shake heaven and earth.
Religion: The root of a foolish tree so embraced by mortals. Christians, Hindus, Islam, Jews... names to give comfort to those living blobs of flesh, flesh so tasty and sweet.
'Nanquan' had been there when Mohammad was speaking with his masters emissary, whispering dark lies under the light clouds of deceit. That night the demon fed well and many children were born nine months later with the yellow eyes of evil burning in their eyes.
For thousands of years- the demon shadow now in the form of a black cat calmly licking its paws- it had witnessed the folly of mankind coming to terms with its mortality. It had seen the Jesus God die upon a cross in a bloody manner for the humans. It had fed well during the many great wars where evil battled evil with goodness hiding in fear. So many years, so many shapes, so much death...
Humans believed in so much. They believe in themselves, in fire, in the stars, they believed so much and yet they did not even give pause to believe in how good they tasted. Human flesh was tasty but weak. A few even believed that when they died they would be reincarnated. Some religions advocated such, and such were correct. The soul does transfer, there is rebirth, and the demon knew this fact full well.
The 14th Dalai Lama had passed away, a full life of 90 years. For humans this was long for the demon, only a heartbeat.
Before passing the 14th Dalai Lama had decided to be reborn and this is where the demon arrived.
The tending Bhikkuni monks had just helped a poor peasant woman deliver the 15th Dalai Lama when the demon cat 'Nanquan' arrived and slayed all but the new baby. Laying in the pool of fresh blood the infant was still covered with the blood from the inside and now the outside of his mother. After licking his paws, the demon slowly proceeded towards the crying flesh and was about to strike when in a calm voice the infant uttered the demons name _____________a.
Re: Writers Parasite
dear writers, readers, mutants, deviants, saints, sinners, and scientifically genetically altered skunks. if you ever, ever, ever feel the shadow of what some call, 'writers block' just pick a common everyday comfortable item, place, name, or whatever, and run with it...
***
Costco
"Stop by and pick up some Kirkland minced garlic," feminine authority at its best.
"Okay," a voice of subservient acceptance.
"Oh, and we're out of toilet paper."
"Which one do you want? Do you want the Kirkland or the one with that little bear on the cover?"
"I'll leave that decision up to you. I do think the one with the bear is softer plus I don't use as much."
Off into the urban jungle this man named Mike strode. Walking down the concrete sidewalk he unlocked his Kia econo piece of crap and with the small gutless engine brought to life he turned up the volume on the cheap plastic covered radio. Blaring forth from the speakers came the modern version of country western music. The song lyrics dealt with some redneck screwing a drunk woman on the tailgate of a pickup truck. Lately all the country music seemed to be the same with only the artists names being different.
Arriving at the huge box store's parking lot Mike found a space far out from the entrance. He preferred parking far away as too many idiots parked close to the building and after witnessing shopping carts banging off some of the fancy paint jobs Mike thought it best to park his Kia off by itself, after all he still has 42 monthly payments to go.
Locking the door he turned toward the store knowing it would take over five minutes to get to the door. As he started walking he noticed a naked woman in the back of an older red Ford pickup parked nearby. She was one of those women who looked very pretty fully clothed and even better when au natural.
"Evening cowboy..."
"Huh? Are you talking to me?" Mike seemed a little flustered as he turned his head from left to right, looking for someone else that this beautiful lady could be talking too.
"Yes, of course I'm talking to you. You're the only one around, " the wink was unmistakable. Mike felt his blood pressure starting to rise as his heart beat a little harder.
"Could you be a dear and help me lower the tailgate?"
Shaking his head as if that would help clear his mind, Mike managed to utter, "Uh, yeah, sure."
With ease the tailgate opened at the same time the beautiful woman spread her long legs, exposing what most men only dream of.
(and this is the part of the story you finish. maybe it will have a happy ending? maybe it will gush with copious cliches? erupt with possibility? maybe the seed of inspiration has been planted in your mind, fertilizing the plant of exploration... enjoy!)
***
Costco
"Stop by and pick up some Kirkland minced garlic," feminine authority at its best.
"Okay," a voice of subservient acceptance.
"Oh, and we're out of toilet paper."
"Which one do you want? Do you want the Kirkland or the one with that little bear on the cover?"
"I'll leave that decision up to you. I do think the one with the bear is softer plus I don't use as much."
Off into the urban jungle this man named Mike strode. Walking down the concrete sidewalk he unlocked his Kia econo piece of crap and with the small gutless engine brought to life he turned up the volume on the cheap plastic covered radio. Blaring forth from the speakers came the modern version of country western music. The song lyrics dealt with some redneck screwing a drunk woman on the tailgate of a pickup truck. Lately all the country music seemed to be the same with only the artists names being different.
Arriving at the huge box store's parking lot Mike found a space far out from the entrance. He preferred parking far away as too many idiots parked close to the building and after witnessing shopping carts banging off some of the fancy paint jobs Mike thought it best to park his Kia off by itself, after all he still has 42 monthly payments to go.
Locking the door he turned toward the store knowing it would take over five minutes to get to the door. As he started walking he noticed a naked woman in the back of an older red Ford pickup parked nearby. She was one of those women who looked very pretty fully clothed and even better when au natural.
"Evening cowboy..."
"Huh? Are you talking to me?" Mike seemed a little flustered as he turned his head from left to right, looking for someone else that this beautiful lady could be talking too.
"Yes, of course I'm talking to you. You're the only one around, " the wink was unmistakable. Mike felt his blood pressure starting to rise as his heart beat a little harder.
"Could you be a dear and help me lower the tailgate?"
Shaking his head as if that would help clear his mind, Mike managed to utter, "Uh, yeah, sure."
With ease the tailgate opened at the same time the beautiful woman spread her long legs, exposing what most men only dream of.
(and this is the part of the story you finish. maybe it will have a happy ending? maybe it will gush with copious cliches? erupt with possibility? maybe the seed of inspiration has been planted in your mind, fertilizing the plant of exploration... enjoy!)
Re: Writers Parasite
Killing Signs
By: Endless ammo
STOP
One Way
Las Vegas - 120 miles
Yield...
From border to border, east to west, north to south, signage riddled with torn holes. Bullets of every shape piercing, or at the least, dimpling the surface of tax paid metal placards.
Who does this? When is it done?
Never do you witness, never do you hear, but you see the ample examples daily.
***
Sentinels placed to ensure order. Across the galaxy order quickly gives way to chaos, it is the way of the worlds. Before the civilized world of mankind evolved to what is current, the Sentinels placed. Millions of years ago, it was a stone placed upon a stone. Then it was blaze marks upon a strategic tree; endless placement and endless chaos attempts.
The Sentinels have only one enemy, those against placed. They are a group known as, Displaced.
There are games played in life. Sexual, political, religious, scientific - all a part of Sentinels and the Displaced.
If you don't believe touch the next pristine road sign you see. Run your hand across the surface. Feel the vibration. Place your ear against the 'metal'. Then, do the same to one riddled with violence, you will experience the battle between the two.
Scary? Hardly, as you think the writer of this is crazy, but to give you just a simple taste of the battle, feel the balance between the battle constantly occurring in the destruction of something so simple as the word...
1. Fuck You!
2. (x)uck You(x)
3. (x)u(x)k Y(x)u(x)
4. (x)(x)(x)(x)(x)(x)(x)
X marks the spot, the choice of ammo is up to the Displaced.
By: Endless ammo
STOP
One Way
Las Vegas - 120 miles
Yield...
From border to border, east to west, north to south, signage riddled with torn holes. Bullets of every shape piercing, or at the least, dimpling the surface of tax paid metal placards.
Who does this? When is it done?
Never do you witness, never do you hear, but you see the ample examples daily.
***
Sentinels placed to ensure order. Across the galaxy order quickly gives way to chaos, it is the way of the worlds. Before the civilized world of mankind evolved to what is current, the Sentinels placed. Millions of years ago, it was a stone placed upon a stone. Then it was blaze marks upon a strategic tree; endless placement and endless chaos attempts.
The Sentinels have only one enemy, those against placed. They are a group known as, Displaced.
There are games played in life. Sexual, political, religious, scientific - all a part of Sentinels and the Displaced.
If you don't believe touch the next pristine road sign you see. Run your hand across the surface. Feel the vibration. Place your ear against the 'metal'. Then, do the same to one riddled with violence, you will experience the battle between the two.
Scary? Hardly, as you think the writer of this is crazy, but to give you just a simple taste of the battle, feel the balance between the battle constantly occurring in the destruction of something so simple as the word...
1. Fuck You!
2. (x)uck You(x)
3. (x)u(x)k Y(x)u(x)
4. (x)(x)(x)(x)(x)(x)(x)
X marks the spot, the choice of ammo is up to the Displaced.
Re: Writers Parasite
Death
She was not old, at least by the standard age given to elephants. Her life in Kenya was one of normalcy and marauding local villages crops. However she was dead at the moment, shot for sport or maybe in revenge for a recent killing of a young black boy by another elephant, after all, all elephants look the same.
Amazing how large a pile of dead elephant looks. One tourist on vacation from Europe had his picture taken of himself while standing atop the bloated pachyderm. This tourist, and his fellow members, were quickly driven off by a charging bull elephant. They hastily bid retreat in a Land Rover, leaving a cloud of dust as the only evidence they had been there.
With the dust settling the bull was soon joined by the rest of the group. This group consisted of females with their young along with some juvenile elephants still struggling with their sexual identity ( normal PC for this fucked up moment in the world, imagine, a species struggling with their sexual identity...)
The dead female was once a part of this herd, or family if you will. She had spent her entire life with the group and had mated twice with the bull, one ending in a successful birth of a young male and the other ended up with her baby dying at birth.
To witness a group of elephants cry and stay by a dead 'friend' is strange to most people as most people think all creatures other than themselves are just mindless creatures, not worthy of any emotions other than hunger. Of course some people step over dead people laying in the street, lost in their cell phones or texting, so it makes one wonder which species are mindless creatures.
When it comes to death Tom's father recently succumbed to the ravages of cancer. It is said that if a human lives long enough they will experience cancer - natures gift to the aged. Tom's father had lead an accomplished life; family raised, wages earned, taxes paid, and he was paid in return with old age and pancreatic cancer. His death was painful but very successful. Death always wins but in death there is nourishment.
nour·ish·ment
ˈnəriSHmənt/
noun
noun: nourishment
the food or other substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition.
"tubers from which plants obtain nourishment"
synonyms: food, sustenance, nutriment, nutrition, subsistence, provisions, provender, fare; More
informalgrub, nosh, chow, eats, scoff, chuck;
formalcomestibles;
datedvictuals
"forests provide cover and nourishment for deer"
the action of nourishing someone or something.
"they suck out the sap and eliminate from it a sweet liquid for the nourishment of their young"
Yes, nourishment was indeed a fitting word for the father of Tom. Tom, a member of a family of creatures known as To'rak. You see, To'rak are a species crossed between human beings and the forest spirits known in children's tales as, Sprites. And of course you can't see or recognize them as your species walks over dead people in the street, lost in your cell phone or texting. And, most of you are still
struggling with your sexual identity.
Tom closed the door behind himself as he turned to pay his last respects for his father. He had great and deep respect for the ashen colored corpse laying on the bed. He remembered the wonderful youth he had experienced, a youth complete with sport and learning. It was hard to see his father laying there, already beginning to decompose as in nature nothing stays the same. It all changes no matter if energy or matter.
Tom stood in silence for over five minutes letting his human side mourn and remember. After the five minutes were over Tom took off his jacket and carefully placed the jacket on a chair nearby. He then slowly unbuttoned his shirt and placed over the jacket. Then, bare chested, Tom stretched his arms straight out to the side and tilting his head back his eyes faced the ceiling where they turned from his normal hazel colored human eyes into twin orbs of intense solid blue. From his mouth a subtle moan was released.
The chest of Tom bulged and split in two, revealing a black cavern filled with teeth. These teeth parted and a tongue reached out and wrapped around the neck of the dead body, quickly pulling the body into what some would call, chest cavity.
This horrific scene was soon over leaving nothing but an empty bed and a man known as, Tom, buttoning up his shirt. With a final flourish Tom put on his jacket and turned to leave the room. Turning off the light and closing the door behind him, Tom uttered, "Thanks dad, until we meet again at the final harvest..."
She was not old, at least by the standard age given to elephants. Her life in Kenya was one of normalcy and marauding local villages crops. However she was dead at the moment, shot for sport or maybe in revenge for a recent killing of a young black boy by another elephant, after all, all elephants look the same.
Amazing how large a pile of dead elephant looks. One tourist on vacation from Europe had his picture taken of himself while standing atop the bloated pachyderm. This tourist, and his fellow members, were quickly driven off by a charging bull elephant. They hastily bid retreat in a Land Rover, leaving a cloud of dust as the only evidence they had been there.
With the dust settling the bull was soon joined by the rest of the group. This group consisted of females with their young along with some juvenile elephants still struggling with their sexual identity ( normal PC for this fucked up moment in the world, imagine, a species struggling with their sexual identity...)
The dead female was once a part of this herd, or family if you will. She had spent her entire life with the group and had mated twice with the bull, one ending in a successful birth of a young male and the other ended up with her baby dying at birth.
To witness a group of elephants cry and stay by a dead 'friend' is strange to most people as most people think all creatures other than themselves are just mindless creatures, not worthy of any emotions other than hunger. Of course some people step over dead people laying in the street, lost in their cell phones or texting, so it makes one wonder which species are mindless creatures.
When it comes to death Tom's father recently succumbed to the ravages of cancer. It is said that if a human lives long enough they will experience cancer - natures gift to the aged. Tom's father had lead an accomplished life; family raised, wages earned, taxes paid, and he was paid in return with old age and pancreatic cancer. His death was painful but very successful. Death always wins but in death there is nourishment.
nour·ish·ment
ˈnəriSHmənt/
noun
noun: nourishment
the food or other substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition.
"tubers from which plants obtain nourishment"
synonyms: food, sustenance, nutriment, nutrition, subsistence, provisions, provender, fare; More
informalgrub, nosh, chow, eats, scoff, chuck;
formalcomestibles;
datedvictuals
"forests provide cover and nourishment for deer"
the action of nourishing someone or something.
"they suck out the sap and eliminate from it a sweet liquid for the nourishment of their young"
Yes, nourishment was indeed a fitting word for the father of Tom. Tom, a member of a family of creatures known as To'rak. You see, To'rak are a species crossed between human beings and the forest spirits known in children's tales as, Sprites. And of course you can't see or recognize them as your species walks over dead people in the street, lost in your cell phone or texting. And, most of you are still
struggling with your sexual identity.
Tom closed the door behind himself as he turned to pay his last respects for his father. He had great and deep respect for the ashen colored corpse laying on the bed. He remembered the wonderful youth he had experienced, a youth complete with sport and learning. It was hard to see his father laying there, already beginning to decompose as in nature nothing stays the same. It all changes no matter if energy or matter.
Tom stood in silence for over five minutes letting his human side mourn and remember. After the five minutes were over Tom took off his jacket and carefully placed the jacket on a chair nearby. He then slowly unbuttoned his shirt and placed over the jacket. Then, bare chested, Tom stretched his arms straight out to the side and tilting his head back his eyes faced the ceiling where they turned from his normal hazel colored human eyes into twin orbs of intense solid blue. From his mouth a subtle moan was released.
The chest of Tom bulged and split in two, revealing a black cavern filled with teeth. These teeth parted and a tongue reached out and wrapped around the neck of the dead body, quickly pulling the body into what some would call, chest cavity.
This horrific scene was soon over leaving nothing but an empty bed and a man known as, Tom, buttoning up his shirt. With a final flourish Tom put on his jacket and turned to leave the room. Turning off the light and closing the door behind him, Tom uttered, "Thanks dad, until we meet again at the final harvest..."
Re: Writers Parasite
Language of Halloween
Written by: Who gives a fuck
"Trick or Treat!" Little bastards dressed in some 'Made in China' costumes yelled standing outside my door.
Here you go you little pricks, take this candy and choke on it.
"Thanks mister," they gleefully said as they walked off to sucker more sweets from the neighbors.
I had to laugh at their respective choices of dress for this night of horrors. They all looked pathetic though the little girl dressed as Hillary Clinton made me laugh because the little 'girl' was actually a little boy in the beginning stages of suffering in his choice of sexual identity, much like that actual witch, Hillary Clinton, presidential wanna be...Cunt! (or maybe, Dick?)
Halloween, a pagan holiday, a Christian holiday; children they could give a shit as they only cared for getting candy and getting the attention of other grown ups as they say, "Ooh what a cute little monster you are, is that a wolf man costume?"
Year after year, the same ol crap, little urchins dressed to match the little monsters they truly are inside, or will become as they mature into big ol mature monsters. Oh sure, they may seem to be cute little children playing make-believe, but who in the hell are they kidding?
"Knock knock..." strange, what's wrong with pushing the door bell?
Opening the door I was prepared for another herd of stinky , snot nosed brats, but no one was there. Probably some fuck playing a joke on me, or 'trick' as the saying goes. I got better things to do than fall for tricks but if they come back I'll be ready with a baseball bat.
"Knock knock..." okay, now I've had it.
Opening the door quickly with bat held at the ready I ran outside expecting to beat the crap out of some pimple covered teens but I could not see or hear anything other than my own heavy breathing and cursing fit for a Marine on leave in a Bangkok whorehouse. Little fucks, maybe I should start shooting someone.
"Knock knock..." I just ignored it.
"Knock knock..." Oh, for fucks sake.
"Knock knock..."
(You may not know this but for most of you, you will. Hell is a special place, a very special place. It is filled with so many rooms fit for the individual. In the case of Robin, his room was one of eternal Halloween, all because he put some razor blade in some caramel apples and rat poison in some Snicker bars. Doomed for endless door knocks filled with little demons asking for candy, endless door knocks where no one is there, endless moments where Hillary Clinton fucks him up the ass. And as Satan is often want to say on Halloween...)
"Ha, Ha, Ha! Trick or Treat!"
Written by: Who gives a fuck
"Trick or Treat!" Little bastards dressed in some 'Made in China' costumes yelled standing outside my door.
Here you go you little pricks, take this candy and choke on it.
"Thanks mister," they gleefully said as they walked off to sucker more sweets from the neighbors.
I had to laugh at their respective choices of dress for this night of horrors. They all looked pathetic though the little girl dressed as Hillary Clinton made me laugh because the little 'girl' was actually a little boy in the beginning stages of suffering in his choice of sexual identity, much like that actual witch, Hillary Clinton, presidential wanna be...Cunt! (or maybe, Dick?)
Halloween, a pagan holiday, a Christian holiday; children they could give a shit as they only cared for getting candy and getting the attention of other grown ups as they say, "Ooh what a cute little monster you are, is that a wolf man costume?"
Year after year, the same ol crap, little urchins dressed to match the little monsters they truly are inside, or will become as they mature into big ol mature monsters. Oh sure, they may seem to be cute little children playing make-believe, but who in the hell are they kidding?
"Knock knock..." strange, what's wrong with pushing the door bell?
Opening the door I was prepared for another herd of stinky , snot nosed brats, but no one was there. Probably some fuck playing a joke on me, or 'trick' as the saying goes. I got better things to do than fall for tricks but if they come back I'll be ready with a baseball bat.
"Knock knock..." okay, now I've had it.
Opening the door quickly with bat held at the ready I ran outside expecting to beat the crap out of some pimple covered teens but I could not see or hear anything other than my own heavy breathing and cursing fit for a Marine on leave in a Bangkok whorehouse. Little fucks, maybe I should start shooting someone.
"Knock knock..." I just ignored it.
"Knock knock..." Oh, for fucks sake.
"Knock knock..."
(You may not know this but for most of you, you will. Hell is a special place, a very special place. It is filled with so many rooms fit for the individual. In the case of Robin, his room was one of eternal Halloween, all because he put some razor blade in some caramel apples and rat poison in some Snicker bars. Doomed for endless door knocks filled with little demons asking for candy, endless door knocks where no one is there, endless moments where Hillary Clinton fucks him up the ass. And as Satan is often want to say on Halloween...)
"Ha, Ha, Ha! Trick or Treat!"
Re: Writers Parasite
Inspiration comes from so many places, evil places of evil. Take Paris for example, a country called France was visited and kissed by disciples of allah as "Alluha Akbar" can only mean homage to allah. Is allah evil? Depends on who you ask. Ask evil if evil is evil and the answer is, 'no'. Ask goodness if evil is evil...wait a minute, who is good? But the story is there as it has always been there...
***
"Alluha Akbar!"
Written by: a nut, albeit, an evil nut
"Sir, you're bleeding."
"I am?"
"Yes, you have blood pouring out of your ears and chest."
"My God, you're right, I am bleeding. How did this happen?"
"I shot you and then I stabbed you."
"Why? Why would you do that to me? I have done nothing to you, I don't even know who you are."
"Oh yes you do. You know me because I am you."
This man laying there on the French street was most likely going into shock due to the massive blood loss but he could have sworn he was talking with a crazy person who had claimed he had done this atrocity to him.
"How can I be you? You're not bleeding but I am."
"Look closer."
Looking closer, the man on the ground saw the man standing above him. He could not see the face as that was obscured in blackness but he could see blood starting to ooze out of the mans chest. He was starting to fade and would soon pass out from blood loss but he was startled to hear laughter.
"Ha, see? I told you I am you."
"That's impossible."
"No, I killed you just as I killed all those concert goers. I answer only to Allah just like you, yes?"
"Allah is the one true god, yes, of course I submit to Allah, but you cannot be me."
"Really? Don't you remember the AK-47 in your hands spitting out the bullets into the crowd? Think man, you are me and I am you."
"No. No this cannot be. Allahu Akbar!"
And with the reality of the killer meeting himself with the veil of evil removed, the scene ends with the policeman's bullet penetrating the skull of the terrorist.
In the background the voice of evil could be heard by those wearing an evil heart..."Kill. Kill my children of Allah, kill those who pollute the world, the infidel, the jew. Kill them all. Alluha Akbar. Alluha Akbar. Alluha Akbar."
(a bit harsh? no, not at all. words know nothing of emotion, only the reader can have emotion. did you hate this story? did you like this story? it does not matter as there will be more killing, more blame, more television, and yes as there is always the words there will be more stories. maybe you're a terrorist and are planning on some serious carnage, maybe you're a peaceful person, maybe you're a writer and will write a story to get this one out of your head. i could care less for this story as it is already written, what i now care for is to say prayers for those lost today, tomorrow and in the coming days. and on a personal note: fuck this 'form' of allah all those terrorists love to embrace)
***
"Alluha Akbar!"
Written by: a nut, albeit, an evil nut
"Sir, you're bleeding."
"I am?"
"Yes, you have blood pouring out of your ears and chest."
"My God, you're right, I am bleeding. How did this happen?"
"I shot you and then I stabbed you."
"Why? Why would you do that to me? I have done nothing to you, I don't even know who you are."
"Oh yes you do. You know me because I am you."
This man laying there on the French street was most likely going into shock due to the massive blood loss but he could have sworn he was talking with a crazy person who had claimed he had done this atrocity to him.
"How can I be you? You're not bleeding but I am."
"Look closer."
Looking closer, the man on the ground saw the man standing above him. He could not see the face as that was obscured in blackness but he could see blood starting to ooze out of the mans chest. He was starting to fade and would soon pass out from blood loss but he was startled to hear laughter.
"Ha, see? I told you I am you."
"That's impossible."
"No, I killed you just as I killed all those concert goers. I answer only to Allah just like you, yes?"
"Allah is the one true god, yes, of course I submit to Allah, but you cannot be me."
"Really? Don't you remember the AK-47 in your hands spitting out the bullets into the crowd? Think man, you are me and I am you."
"No. No this cannot be. Allahu Akbar!"
And with the reality of the killer meeting himself with the veil of evil removed, the scene ends with the policeman's bullet penetrating the skull of the terrorist.
In the background the voice of evil could be heard by those wearing an evil heart..."Kill. Kill my children of Allah, kill those who pollute the world, the infidel, the jew. Kill them all. Alluha Akbar. Alluha Akbar. Alluha Akbar."
(a bit harsh? no, not at all. words know nothing of emotion, only the reader can have emotion. did you hate this story? did you like this story? it does not matter as there will be more killing, more blame, more television, and yes as there is always the words there will be more stories. maybe you're a terrorist and are planning on some serious carnage, maybe you're a peaceful person, maybe you're a writer and will write a story to get this one out of your head. i could care less for this story as it is already written, what i now care for is to say prayers for those lost today, tomorrow and in the coming days. and on a personal note: fuck this 'form' of allah all those terrorists love to embrace)
Re: Writers Parasite
Thanks Rick, it is so very true, I am a fucking mad man, actually watched the last Democratic debate...My god, the stupidity on display was beyond the stupidity of book publishers. Had to go to my 'happy place' after watching, I sucked my thumb, hugged my blanky, and watched VHS videos showing fluffy kittens playing with yarn... I'll have to schedule a session with a therapist ( subliminal message of the word, therapist = rapist, ie, mind fuck)
I'm glad you like the idea of the parasite rambling, and I like the inspiration you gave me.
***
Texts, Twitter, and Facebook
"Psst, hey buddy..."
"Huh? Are you talking to me?" A bewildered young man looked around to see if the strange looking man standing in front of him was indeed talking to him. (sorta like the situation in the earlier story about the naked woman in the pickup. an update on that story, she is suing for child support, poor bastard.)
"Yessss, I am talking to you."
It was strange for this strange man to be there talking to Robin because this was the modern age of science. This was the era of communication via texting, tweets, and cyber messaging. No one talked to others, especially strangers to strangers.
"Uh, so what do you want?"
"I've got a great deal for you, one so great it will change your life."
Robin had heard a lot of strange things in his life, such things as 'trust me', or 'i don't believe in lawsuits', he even had heard the earth was flat, by some people who lived in Oregon, so it did not take much to think that the man saying he had a great deal, one that would change his life, was just another flake.
"So, what kind of deal do you have, how will it be so great it will change my life?"
With a smile the man dressed in black said, "Watch this, " and with that said the shape of the man changed into the dark form of a horned demon with thin wings and long arms with long fingers armed with razor sharp claws. This form reached out and tore a sleeping homeless person into tiny pieces. The death of the man was so quick there was no sound of pain or protest uttered.
Needless to say, Robin was shocked beyond more words than the two he managed to squeak out of his trembling lips, "Holy shit..."
Changing back into human form the dark shape said with humor in its voice, "Like that huh? Human garbage just laying there ripe for the picking."
Finding courage to speak Robin said, "Just stay away. Get back. I want nothing to do with you." (I know, Robin is a like the rest of humanity, a giant pussy and when faced with an adverse situation was not very articulate with his choice of words. I mean, come on, 'stay away? get back?... boring, boring, boring)
Robin had been caught up with the modern age of Smart phones and apps. On his Facebook page he had 2026 friends and of those there was only one classmate he knew from Highschool named, Mike, who constantly updated the community about his dietary habits, sleep cycles, love life, and his constant attempts to bash God. The other 2025 people were complete strangers he had never met or knew. But Robin loved the 'likes' he received. To have witnessed the change of the demon and the atrocity committed against the homeless man was causing the main drive of Robins mind to crash and it definitely needed a reboot.
"Hey, Robin, wake up. Come on, I ain't gonna hurt you."
Being unconscious only works temporarily and when coming too Robin found he was looking into the dull red eyes of a demon in human form.
"Why me, why are you picking on me?"
"Why? Ha, isn't it obvious? You're a mad man, you're fucking fruitloops, and you're a writer. Man, you are the perfect person to make a deal with."
With numbness in a mind being rebooted Robin sighed and asked, "So, what is it you want of me? My soul?"
I admit, it was humorous to see the demon blow snot out of its nose as it laughed, "Your soul? Man, that's funny, your soul ain't worth shit as you lost that a loooong time ago. Remember the deal you made when you were six years old with the man in the van offering you candy to suck his dick?"
Amazing how simple memories can come flooding back once your mind reboots. It was such a powerful wave of memories that Robin started to cry.
"Oh come on, don't be such a cry baby. Here let me wipe your tears," and with a quick flick of the demons tongue it licked the salty tears away.
"I give up, what is it you want of me."
"Ah, now we can finally get to the matter at hand. I want, I mean, we want you to write a story titled, 'Texts Tweets and Facebook'."
"Why?
"Because we have faith that you will write it in such a way so as to lure unsuspecting minds into our trap."
"But what will I write about? I don't have a story about texting or tweets, and why Facebook?"
"You poor sod, don't you know that Facebook is the tool of our master, Satan? It took thousands of years but now that Facebook exists it has become so very easy to enslave humanity."
(and that's how the Devil works to get those desired to do its business)
"Wait a minute, who are you?" A figure appeared next to Robin dressed in a gray suit, now there was a demon and another stranger in the story for a total of three live characters and the rotting pieces of the homeless person.
"What are you doing here? This is not your story." The poor demon seemed a little pissed at the intrusion of this new character.
"You know the rules and you broke them so here I am." There appeared to be a white glow coming from the face of this new stranger.
It did not take long for a really strange fight to start between the demon and the glowing stranger, and it did not take long for Robin to exit the scene. Running as fast as he could, in his mind he could not wait to get home and get on Facebook but first he would send a text and tweet to the world gushing with words on what had just happened...Too bad he did not snap a picture with his cell phone...
I'm glad you like the idea of the parasite rambling, and I like the inspiration you gave me.
***
Texts, Twitter, and Facebook
"Psst, hey buddy..."
"Huh? Are you talking to me?" A bewildered young man looked around to see if the strange looking man standing in front of him was indeed talking to him. (sorta like the situation in the earlier story about the naked woman in the pickup. an update on that story, she is suing for child support, poor bastard.)
"Yessss, I am talking to you."
It was strange for this strange man to be there talking to Robin because this was the modern age of science. This was the era of communication via texting, tweets, and cyber messaging. No one talked to others, especially strangers to strangers.
"Uh, so what do you want?"
"I've got a great deal for you, one so great it will change your life."
Robin had heard a lot of strange things in his life, such things as 'trust me', or 'i don't believe in lawsuits', he even had heard the earth was flat, by some people who lived in Oregon, so it did not take much to think that the man saying he had a great deal, one that would change his life, was just another flake.
"So, what kind of deal do you have, how will it be so great it will change my life?"
With a smile the man dressed in black said, "Watch this, " and with that said the shape of the man changed into the dark form of a horned demon with thin wings and long arms with long fingers armed with razor sharp claws. This form reached out and tore a sleeping homeless person into tiny pieces. The death of the man was so quick there was no sound of pain or protest uttered.
Needless to say, Robin was shocked beyond more words than the two he managed to squeak out of his trembling lips, "Holy shit..."
Changing back into human form the dark shape said with humor in its voice, "Like that huh? Human garbage just laying there ripe for the picking."
Finding courage to speak Robin said, "Just stay away. Get back. I want nothing to do with you." (I know, Robin is a like the rest of humanity, a giant pussy and when faced with an adverse situation was not very articulate with his choice of words. I mean, come on, 'stay away? get back?... boring, boring, boring)
Robin had been caught up with the modern age of Smart phones and apps. On his Facebook page he had 2026 friends and of those there was only one classmate he knew from Highschool named, Mike, who constantly updated the community about his dietary habits, sleep cycles, love life, and his constant attempts to bash God. The other 2025 people were complete strangers he had never met or knew. But Robin loved the 'likes' he received. To have witnessed the change of the demon and the atrocity committed against the homeless man was causing the main drive of Robins mind to crash and it definitely needed a reboot.
"Hey, Robin, wake up. Come on, I ain't gonna hurt you."
Being unconscious only works temporarily and when coming too Robin found he was looking into the dull red eyes of a demon in human form.
"Why me, why are you picking on me?"
"Why? Ha, isn't it obvious? You're a mad man, you're fucking fruitloops, and you're a writer. Man, you are the perfect person to make a deal with."
With numbness in a mind being rebooted Robin sighed and asked, "So, what is it you want of me? My soul?"
I admit, it was humorous to see the demon blow snot out of its nose as it laughed, "Your soul? Man, that's funny, your soul ain't worth shit as you lost that a loooong time ago. Remember the deal you made when you were six years old with the man in the van offering you candy to suck his dick?"
Amazing how simple memories can come flooding back once your mind reboots. It was such a powerful wave of memories that Robin started to cry.
"Oh come on, don't be such a cry baby. Here let me wipe your tears," and with a quick flick of the demons tongue it licked the salty tears away.
"I give up, what is it you want of me."
"Ah, now we can finally get to the matter at hand. I want, I mean, we want you to write a story titled, 'Texts Tweets and Facebook'."
"Why?
"Because we have faith that you will write it in such a way so as to lure unsuspecting minds into our trap."
"But what will I write about? I don't have a story about texting or tweets, and why Facebook?"
"You poor sod, don't you know that Facebook is the tool of our master, Satan? It took thousands of years but now that Facebook exists it has become so very easy to enslave humanity."
(and that's how the Devil works to get those desired to do its business)
"Wait a minute, who are you?" A figure appeared next to Robin dressed in a gray suit, now there was a demon and another stranger in the story for a total of three live characters and the rotting pieces of the homeless person.
"What are you doing here? This is not your story." The poor demon seemed a little pissed at the intrusion of this new character.
"You know the rules and you broke them so here I am." There appeared to be a white glow coming from the face of this new stranger.
It did not take long for a really strange fight to start between the demon and the glowing stranger, and it did not take long for Robin to exit the scene. Running as fast as he could, in his mind he could not wait to get home and get on Facebook but first he would send a text and tweet to the world gushing with words on what had just happened...Too bad he did not snap a picture with his cell phone...
Re: Writers Parasite
ah yes, feed the parasite, feed, feed, feed...
***
Blue balls
Glowing balls
Great balls of fire...
Syrian sand to blow, to go down upon; engulf; engorged to temptation...
Russian penetration
Chinese voyeurism
American impotence
while civilians bleed from forced participation.
France felt the kiss and bent over
Germany, (seductress bitch) opened her leather pants
Israel the stern face of reason
while the rest of the world tests.
To nuke or not to nuke, this is not the real question
To kill the child of terrorism before it is born'
Ah, now the real question.
Islam: Radical form to follow the text of the Quran
or even the common relative pertaining to social experimentation''
Religion?
Politics?
Color?
Terror knows, it is the bouncing ball of destruction.
Nip it in the bud by annihilation
Kill it in the womb
a form of worldly condom...
yet?
Everyone is given the chance
and they choose.
Life
Death
when really it does not matter as the matter coming
falling from space
to make this blue ball turn red in ash and flame.
***
Blue balls
Glowing balls
Great balls of fire...
Syrian sand to blow, to go down upon; engulf; engorged to temptation...
Russian penetration
Chinese voyeurism
American impotence
while civilians bleed from forced participation.
France felt the kiss and bent over
Germany, (seductress bitch) opened her leather pants
Israel the stern face of reason
while the rest of the world tests.
To nuke or not to nuke, this is not the real question
To kill the child of terrorism before it is born'
Ah, now the real question.
Islam: Radical form to follow the text of the Quran
or even the common relative pertaining to social experimentation''
Religion?
Politics?
Color?
Terror knows, it is the bouncing ball of destruction.
Nip it in the bud by annihilation
Kill it in the womb
a form of worldly condom...
yet?
Everyone is given the chance
and they choose.
Life
Death
when really it does not matter as the matter coming
falling from space
to make this blue ball turn red in ash and flame.
Re: Writers Parasite
de·bate
dəˈbāt/
noun
noun: debate; plural noun: debates
1.
a formal discussion on a particular topic in a public meeting or legislative assembly, in which opposing arguments are put forward.
synonyms: discussion, discourse, parley, dialogue; More
argument, counterargument, dispute, wrangle, war of words;
argumentation, disputation, dissension, disagreement, contention, conflict;
negotiations, talks;
informalconfab, powwow
"a debate on the reforms"
an argument about a particular subject, especially one in which many people are involved.
"the national debate on abortion"
verb
verb: debate; 3rd person present: debates; past tense: debated; past participle: debated; gerund or present participle: debating
1.
argue about (a subject), especially in a formal manner.
"the board debated his proposal"
synonyms: discuss, talk over/through, talk about, thrash out, hash out, argue, dispute; More
informalkick around, bat around
"they will debate the future of rail transport"
consider a possible course of action in one's mind before reaching a decision.
"he debated whether he should leave the matter alone or speak to her"
synonyms: consider, think over/about, chew over, mull over, ponder, revolve, deliberate, contemplate, muse, meditate; formalcogitate
"he debated whether to call her"
Origin
Middle English: via Old French from Latin dis- (expressing reversal) + battere ‘to fight.’
Translate debate to
Use over time for: debate
***
okay? it's crappy to the point of standard obvious observation.
1. Europe loves Islam just as they mutually despise Christians and Jews
2.The world is transfixed with sexual innuendo
3. The world will as it physically is known, will be destroyed by cosmic intervention
4. American military and political leadership are led by castrated eunuchs
(facts to back this up are beyond obvious as with the opposite being true: Internet 'data' and 'facts' can support such folly as global warming caused by puny humans, Islam is the religion of 'peace', and Obama is smart. Speaking of Obama, another suggestive poem...
***
Mirror On the Wall
"Mirror mirror, on the wall, who is the best leader of all..."
not you Barack
nor you Bush
or you, and you, and you...
"So mirror mirror on the wall, answer the question..."
The best leader of all is one who places the well being of those they govern
to be
greater than themselves
and especially better than submitting to narcissism
and asking a mirror on a wall...
dəˈbāt/
noun
noun: debate; plural noun: debates
1.
a formal discussion on a particular topic in a public meeting or legislative assembly, in which opposing arguments are put forward.
synonyms: discussion, discourse, parley, dialogue; More
argument, counterargument, dispute, wrangle, war of words;
argumentation, disputation, dissension, disagreement, contention, conflict;
negotiations, talks;
informalconfab, powwow
"a debate on the reforms"
an argument about a particular subject, especially one in which many people are involved.
"the national debate on abortion"
verb
verb: debate; 3rd person present: debates; past tense: debated; past participle: debated; gerund or present participle: debating
1.
argue about (a subject), especially in a formal manner.
"the board debated his proposal"
synonyms: discuss, talk over/through, talk about, thrash out, hash out, argue, dispute; More
informalkick around, bat around
"they will debate the future of rail transport"
consider a possible course of action in one's mind before reaching a decision.
"he debated whether he should leave the matter alone or speak to her"
synonyms: consider, think over/about, chew over, mull over, ponder, revolve, deliberate, contemplate, muse, meditate; formalcogitate
"he debated whether to call her"
Origin
Middle English: via Old French from Latin dis- (expressing reversal) + battere ‘to fight.’
Translate debate to
Use over time for: debate
***
okay? it's crappy to the point of standard obvious observation.
1. Europe loves Islam just as they mutually despise Christians and Jews
2.The world is transfixed with sexual innuendo
3. The world will as it physically is known, will be destroyed by cosmic intervention
4. American military and political leadership are led by castrated eunuchs
(facts to back this up are beyond obvious as with the opposite being true: Internet 'data' and 'facts' can support such folly as global warming caused by puny humans, Islam is the religion of 'peace', and Obama is smart. Speaking of Obama, another suggestive poem...
***
Mirror On the Wall
"Mirror mirror, on the wall, who is the best leader of all..."
not you Barack
nor you Bush
or you, and you, and you...
"So mirror mirror on the wall, answer the question..."
The best leader of all is one who places the well being of those they govern
to be
greater than themselves
and especially better than submitting to narcissism
and asking a mirror on a wall...
Re: Writers Parasite
i interrupt this programming to announce a important statement: Writers become too comfortable in what they believe.
so far ample examples of my personal bias have been put into words.
for a writer to expand it is important to write about what you find uncomfortable. i personally love to bash Democrats with ding-dong Obama as my favorite target, so to write a story about what you like/dislike in the opposite way is a great practice in using words in a way others enjoy but the writer finds uncomfortable.
i suggest if you're a writer you try writing the opposite of what you normally love to write.
***
President Obama's White Balls
(get your mind of the gutter, i'm going to write about his golf balls...)
"There is no challenge hitting a little white ball with a stick, anybody can do it."
In life there is no shortage of those who make disparaging comments about that which they have no experience with. Imagine a celibate monk teaching students the art of kamasutra. The game of golf is one of those sports where it is often open season on negative comments by those who have never even held one of those hard, white balls in their sweaty hands.
President Obama is well known for his love of golf and from what some say he is fairly good at it. In his stress filled days dealing with irate homosexuals and hostile Republican's, the President found great comfort in playing a sport he dearly loves. Hitting those white, dimpled balls with a resounding 'whack' of his driver made him feel much better.
One day of golf stood out for him as it was a wonderful sunny day as normal but in the air you could sense a coming thunder storm. It had been a particularly stressful week for the President as his Secretary of State, John Kerry had been involved in a bicycle accident and his wife was fighting with their two daughters.
"Boy it feels good to be out here," and it was obvious to the secret service agents on duty with him that day that the President was truly happy to be away from the reality of the daily grind.
The fifth hole on this particular course was a tough one for him as it involved both a sand-trap and a very large pond filled with water. Many of the Presidents balls had been lost in the pond as he tried to hit them over and now that the wind was starting to build in preparation of the pending storm it looked like it would be especially hard for him to beat this hole.
"Give me the number four," the president asked his caddy.
"Four sir? I think you should use Big Bertha, you're starting to get good with that one."
"No son, today is special and I'm going to challenge myself."
The caddy did as requested and handed the four iron to his boss saying, "Good luck sir."
"Thanks."
The golf ball was situated in an area where nature met civilization. By this I mean the immaculate mowed greens bordered on the wilderness where squirrels play.
Lining up to the ball the President concentrated and when he felt the time was right, unleashed the iron and swung down hard on the ball. There was the satisfying sound of metal hitting the hardness of the ball and with a blur the ball sped off towards the pond but at a lower trajectory and at an angle towards the side of the pond, the side where there was a large grove of oak trees.'
"Damn, " the President said as he smiled, "Looks like I should have used the Big Bertha."
Walking over to where he thought he saw his ball drop among the tree's, Obama chanced to see a squirrel jumping out of a golf cart with something in its mouth. Squinting and looking closer he could see the little animal had puffy full cheeks and judging by what had dropped out of the mouth it was obvious the squirrel was busy stealing sunflower seeds.
Pausing for a moment to enjoy the endeavors of this industrious thief the President said aloud to himself, "You go little fella, get all the seeds you can because it looks to be a long winter coming."
In the distance the sound of thunder could be heard and it would not be long until the cold water-filled wind would arrive.
***
Good story? Bad story? Who cares because I don't, I just wanted to point out that it is good to write about that which you normally ridicule. Try it, it is much harder than you think.
so far ample examples of my personal bias have been put into words.
for a writer to expand it is important to write about what you find uncomfortable. i personally love to bash Democrats with ding-dong Obama as my favorite target, so to write a story about what you like/dislike in the opposite way is a great practice in using words in a way others enjoy but the writer finds uncomfortable.
i suggest if you're a writer you try writing the opposite of what you normally love to write.
***
President Obama's White Balls
(get your mind of the gutter, i'm going to write about his golf balls...)
"There is no challenge hitting a little white ball with a stick, anybody can do it."
In life there is no shortage of those who make disparaging comments about that which they have no experience with. Imagine a celibate monk teaching students the art of kamasutra. The game of golf is one of those sports where it is often open season on negative comments by those who have never even held one of those hard, white balls in their sweaty hands.
President Obama is well known for his love of golf and from what some say he is fairly good at it. In his stress filled days dealing with irate homosexuals and hostile Republican's, the President found great comfort in playing a sport he dearly loves. Hitting those white, dimpled balls with a resounding 'whack' of his driver made him feel much better.
One day of golf stood out for him as it was a wonderful sunny day as normal but in the air you could sense a coming thunder storm. It had been a particularly stressful week for the President as his Secretary of State, John Kerry had been involved in a bicycle accident and his wife was fighting with their two daughters.
"Boy it feels good to be out here," and it was obvious to the secret service agents on duty with him that day that the President was truly happy to be away from the reality of the daily grind.
The fifth hole on this particular course was a tough one for him as it involved both a sand-trap and a very large pond filled with water. Many of the Presidents balls had been lost in the pond as he tried to hit them over and now that the wind was starting to build in preparation of the pending storm it looked like it would be especially hard for him to beat this hole.
"Give me the number four," the president asked his caddy.
"Four sir? I think you should use Big Bertha, you're starting to get good with that one."
"No son, today is special and I'm going to challenge myself."
The caddy did as requested and handed the four iron to his boss saying, "Good luck sir."
"Thanks."
The golf ball was situated in an area where nature met civilization. By this I mean the immaculate mowed greens bordered on the wilderness where squirrels play.
Lining up to the ball the President concentrated and when he felt the time was right, unleashed the iron and swung down hard on the ball. There was the satisfying sound of metal hitting the hardness of the ball and with a blur the ball sped off towards the pond but at a lower trajectory and at an angle towards the side of the pond, the side where there was a large grove of oak trees.'
"Damn, " the President said as he smiled, "Looks like I should have used the Big Bertha."
Walking over to where he thought he saw his ball drop among the tree's, Obama chanced to see a squirrel jumping out of a golf cart with something in its mouth. Squinting and looking closer he could see the little animal had puffy full cheeks and judging by what had dropped out of the mouth it was obvious the squirrel was busy stealing sunflower seeds.
Pausing for a moment to enjoy the endeavors of this industrious thief the President said aloud to himself, "You go little fella, get all the seeds you can because it looks to be a long winter coming."
In the distance the sound of thunder could be heard and it would not be long until the cold water-filled wind would arrive.
***
Good story? Bad story? Who cares because I don't, I just wanted to point out that it is good to write about that which you normally ridicule. Try it, it is much harder than you think.
Re: Writers Parasite
Gated Community
Written by: A prisoner
Purple mountains majesty above a fruited plain... Sounds like a line in a song.
"Whatcha doin there?" Curiosity, old as mankind and always in style.
There was no response other than the continued banging of a steel hammer on the molten hot slag of steel held with tongs on the anvil.
"I says, whatcha doin there Morlin."
Wit a sighe the largge man called Mortin said, "I's maken a new shakle for da man."
"Whys da man neads a new shakle fer, dere aint nobodee du fer weeks?"
"Aint mi place to say, just du as he say."
Continued banging showed the results of a continuous torrent of sweat to pour from the face of the smithy named Mortin. Next to the anvil were a growing pile of shackles, tools of the prison trade necessary to keep citizens of a country once known as America in line.
Slavery once was common and then a concept of freedom was tried but was found to be an unfitting situation for those who desire total control of a population so a marriage of freedom and slavery was made. Now the populace was held prisoner with the freedom to choose to live subjugated or to rebel and die.
Written by: A prisoner
Purple mountains majesty above a fruited plain... Sounds like a line in a song.
"Whatcha doin there?" Curiosity, old as mankind and always in style.
There was no response other than the continued banging of a steel hammer on the molten hot slag of steel held with tongs on the anvil.
"I says, whatcha doin there Morlin."
Wit a sighe the largge man called Mortin said, "I's maken a new shakle for da man."
"Whys da man neads a new shakle fer, dere aint nobodee du fer weeks?"
"Aint mi place to say, just du as he say."
Continued banging showed the results of a continuous torrent of sweat to pour from the face of the smithy named Mortin. Next to the anvil were a growing pile of shackles, tools of the prison trade necessary to keep citizens of a country once known as America in line.
Slavery once was common and then a concept of freedom was tried but was found to be an unfitting situation for those who desire total control of a population so a marriage of freedom and slavery was made. Now the populace was held prisoner with the freedom to choose to live subjugated or to rebel and die.
Re: Writers Parasite
The Shepherd
Wrapped in ragged cloth, a cloth sewn by one in love and soiled by daily toil, the shepherd watched.
He watched as the lightning from the black tumultuous clouds struck fear in the flock, smashing into their reality, their consciousness. He gave comfort with his words.
He watched as the wolves rabid in hunger, in the hunt for the weak, the innocent, he watched and defended with his life.
He watched as the robbers, their, hearts filled with evil intentions tried to steal away as much they could, he watched and stood guard.
He watched as the flock celebrated Spring with the many births.
He watched as the flock aged into Fall, succumbing to death, caressing and giving aid as life left those no longer able to survive.
He loves his flock and his attention never wavers, never fails, never falters, for the shepherd is the hope, the life, the love, the guidance the flock needs and the shepherd is so true that he is and was always willing to give his own life to ensure the survival of his flock.
Wrapped in ragged cloth, a cloth sewn by one in love and soiled by daily toil, the shepherd watched.
He watched as the lightning from the black tumultuous clouds struck fear in the flock, smashing into their reality, their consciousness. He gave comfort with his words.
He watched as the wolves rabid in hunger, in the hunt for the weak, the innocent, he watched and defended with his life.
He watched as the robbers, their, hearts filled with evil intentions tried to steal away as much they could, he watched and stood guard.
He watched as the flock celebrated Spring with the many births.
He watched as the flock aged into Fall, succumbing to death, caressing and giving aid as life left those no longer able to survive.
He loves his flock and his attention never wavers, never fails, never falters, for the shepherd is the hope, the life, the love, the guidance the flock needs and the shepherd is so true that he is and was always willing to give his own life to ensure the survival of his flock.
Re: Writers Parasite
a perfect time for the parasite to feast...'
***
"Ha, ha, ha, ha...Hee, hee, snort, giggle," some say laughter is good for the soul...
"Hee, hee, ha, ha!"
"What's wrong him doctor, he has been laughing non-stop for a day, we're worried about his health."
Doctors know about health as much as a teen boy knows about sex by looking at prostitutes pleasuring themselves through a pin hole in the wall. By this I mean they know enough to be dangerous just as the teen can get a woman pregnant, they just don't know how it all truly works.
"Well, I must say I've never seen anything like this before."
"Ha, snort, gurgle, gurgle, snort...Ha ha ha, hee, hee..." Dried blood showed where the man had started to bleed from his nose and then dry up, apparently due to the continuous bout with laughter.
It appeared surreal to see a laughing man in a sterile surrounding of the hospital emergency room. For sure it was strange to hear the laughter pouring out behind the closed curtain, out the door, and float down the hallway past rooms where other patients groaned in silence or out loud as they suffered their own painful hell.
With exasperation in her voice the woman who had accompanied the laughing man into the hospital asked the doctor, "Please doc, ain't there anything you can do? Maybe knock him out with sleeping gas?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that however I can administer a sedative into his arm, maybe that will calm him down." So with the assistance of a large male nurse the two managed to inject a large dose of fluid designed to calm at least three race horses. After a few minutes the shot did not work, in fact it appeared to make the man laugh only louder.
"HA! Ha, ha, ha, hee, heee, snort, gasp, snort, fart, snort, ha..."
The man was laughing so hard the spreading stain on the front of his pants showed where he had urinated on himself and the spread of the foul smell of fresh shit was ample evidence he also had released the contents of his bowels.
Suddenly, there was silence, followed by the sound of a thud as the laughing of the man ceased and his body falling dead to the floor.
"Oh my God doctor, is he okay? What happened? Is he still alive?"
Rushing to give aid the male nurse and doctor tried their best to revive what was now only flesh that would rot quickly. The room appeared strange and quiet without the constant laughter that had filled it to the brim only minutes ago.
As the doctor tried to console the grieving female survivor he asked her, "What was he doing before his laughing fit?"
Drying her tears she said, "I honestly don't know doctor. We both were at home and I was making dinner while he was on the computer. He does like to look at porn sites, weather sites, and he tends, I mean he used to gamble a lot..."
"Was he doing anything else such as drinking alcohol? Did you know if he used drugs or other substances?"
"No, no aside from porn and gambling he was a good church going man...Wait a minute, I do remember the site he was on was called Aphelion and he was talking about sheep or something. Yes, after he said sheep were people he started laughing."
There was a pause and the story ends with the doctor saying, "I guess we'll never know for sure what caused such laughter," such is the mystery of life.
(and yes, laughter is indeed good for the soul.)
***
"Ha, ha, ha, ha...Hee, hee, snort, giggle," some say laughter is good for the soul...
"Hee, hee, ha, ha!"
"What's wrong him doctor, he has been laughing non-stop for a day, we're worried about his health."
Doctors know about health as much as a teen boy knows about sex by looking at prostitutes pleasuring themselves through a pin hole in the wall. By this I mean they know enough to be dangerous just as the teen can get a woman pregnant, they just don't know how it all truly works.
"Well, I must say I've never seen anything like this before."
"Ha, snort, gurgle, gurgle, snort...Ha ha ha, hee, hee..." Dried blood showed where the man had started to bleed from his nose and then dry up, apparently due to the continuous bout with laughter.
It appeared surreal to see a laughing man in a sterile surrounding of the hospital emergency room. For sure it was strange to hear the laughter pouring out behind the closed curtain, out the door, and float down the hallway past rooms where other patients groaned in silence or out loud as they suffered their own painful hell.
With exasperation in her voice the woman who had accompanied the laughing man into the hospital asked the doctor, "Please doc, ain't there anything you can do? Maybe knock him out with sleeping gas?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that however I can administer a sedative into his arm, maybe that will calm him down." So with the assistance of a large male nurse the two managed to inject a large dose of fluid designed to calm at least three race horses. After a few minutes the shot did not work, in fact it appeared to make the man laugh only louder.
"HA! Ha, ha, ha, hee, heee, snort, gasp, snort, fart, snort, ha..."
The man was laughing so hard the spreading stain on the front of his pants showed where he had urinated on himself and the spread of the foul smell of fresh shit was ample evidence he also had released the contents of his bowels.
Suddenly, there was silence, followed by the sound of a thud as the laughing of the man ceased and his body falling dead to the floor.
"Oh my God doctor, is he okay? What happened? Is he still alive?"
Rushing to give aid the male nurse and doctor tried their best to revive what was now only flesh that would rot quickly. The room appeared strange and quiet without the constant laughter that had filled it to the brim only minutes ago.
As the doctor tried to console the grieving female survivor he asked her, "What was he doing before his laughing fit?"
Drying her tears she said, "I honestly don't know doctor. We both were at home and I was making dinner while he was on the computer. He does like to look at porn sites, weather sites, and he tends, I mean he used to gamble a lot..."
"Was he doing anything else such as drinking alcohol? Did you know if he used drugs or other substances?"
"No, no aside from porn and gambling he was a good church going man...Wait a minute, I do remember the site he was on was called Aphelion and he was talking about sheep or something. Yes, after he said sheep were people he started laughing."
There was a pause and the story ends with the doctor saying, "I guess we'll never know for sure what caused such laughter," such is the mystery of life.
(and yes, laughter is indeed good for the soul.)
Re: Writers Parasite
the parasite loves inspiration...
***
I Wonder
A world born in molten heat followed by what can only be measured in billions of years.
A world filled with the luck, misfortune, fate, destiny, chaos - of evolution.
A world filled with fickle weather
bombarded by comets, asteroids, meteors, and space treasure.
A world filled with life and death.
A world at war with itself and all the rest.
A world waiting.
"I wonder..."
The world really does not give a shit.
***
I Wonder
A world born in molten heat followed by what can only be measured in billions of years.
A world filled with the luck, misfortune, fate, destiny, chaos - of evolution.
A world filled with fickle weather
bombarded by comets, asteroids, meteors, and space treasure.
A world filled with life and death.
A world at war with itself and all the rest.
A world waiting.
"I wonder..."
The world really does not give a shit.
Re: Writers Parasite
Above A College Grad's Intelligence Quota
justice for just is, or is it?
it is it seems just for justification\\\
filled with ramifications
for example: Black Lies Matter
A bit extreme for that which seeks power.
Power: Kinetic or potential maybe a little spiritual
or is it bullshit?
Ah yes, words of bullshit astound justice for just is, or is it?
Why question when really it is just, just is,
about power...
My way, not your way.
My thoughts are what is, it just is, and there is no 'is it'.
Ask a racist negro or jaded KKK bigot what just is
or an atheist; lists to include all that is, just (as) really though
is.
Of course the police, the justice, the courts of opinion backed by opinion and settled law:
Protect and serve
so I say
bullshit.
Bullshit: Just is a word, a phrase,
it is it seems just for not only justification
it is a metaphor much like most metaphoric sway
(which is why vanilla ice cream will always be in fashion, black coffee the taste of many nations, and sadly so too sticky rice, and lest we forget Spanish fly there is always modern society labeled - tofu...)
And on a personal note to this prison planet enslaving an entire world, "Bullshit with a happy dose of fuck-you!"
justice for just is, or is it?
it is it seems just for justification\\\
filled with ramifications
for example: Black Lies Matter
A bit extreme for that which seeks power.
Power: Kinetic or potential maybe a little spiritual
or is it bullshit?
Ah yes, words of bullshit astound justice for just is, or is it?
Why question when really it is just, just is,
about power...
My way, not your way.
My thoughts are what is, it just is, and there is no 'is it'.
Ask a racist negro or jaded KKK bigot what just is
or an atheist; lists to include all that is, just (as) really though
is.
Of course the police, the justice, the courts of opinion backed by opinion and settled law:
Protect and serve
so I say
bullshit.
Bullshit: Just is a word, a phrase,
it is it seems just for not only justification
it is a metaphor much like most metaphoric sway
(which is why vanilla ice cream will always be in fashion, black coffee the taste of many nations, and sadly so too sticky rice, and lest we forget Spanish fly there is always modern society labeled - tofu...)
And on a personal note to this prison planet enslaving an entire world, "Bullshit with a happy dose of fuck-you!"
Re: Writers Parasite
constructing stories, bourbon, and the imagination that some drink their own urine...speaking of pee, inspiration.
***
Dr. Spanky
The psychologist was a bit on the portly side; thinning hair combed over to hide a bald spot, glasses and a thin gray gotee. Sitting on what looked like a very comfortable chair with his legs crossed holding a note pad on his lap.
Speaking to the young male laying on the leather sofa the doctor asked, "What comes to mind when you think about your mother?"
Reclined but appearing agitated the young man replied, "She didn't much like me. I mean she bitched and cranked all the time, especially when I started my construction company."
"Mmm, I see. Why do you think she was angry about your company." The doctor had put his pad away and placed his pen in the pocket of his shirt. In his eyes there was a spark of interest.
"I don't know doc, I mean the construct of her mind was a bit whacked after she caught my father having sex with a goat. I mean, seriously, a goat? I was pretty young at the time but I remember my dad building the goat shed and how proud he was when he finished. Mother also was very happy until she went to get father for dinner and caught him screwing one of the does."
"Was your father Muslim?" (strange question for a doctor to ask) The doctor calmly reached over and poured himself a shot of some fine Kentucky bourbon.
With a slight pause the man said, "No, my parents didn't believe in no God or religion, said it was all a construct of the mind. Maybe that's why she was angry with me starting a construction company?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"No, absolutely not. If there was a God then why do people die horrible deaths and suffer. Why would a God allow suffering? No, I'm pretty sure there is no such thing as a God."
"I see, and how did you feel when you were six years old and saw your mother naked and squatting to pee?"
A shocked look appeared on the mans face, "How did you know about that? I never told you or anyone about that. There is no way you could have known about that..."
The face of the doctor was now a picture of coldness. "So, tell me how you felt. Was it disgust or did you get excited."
"This is bullshit, I don't need this," and the young man started to sit up but was restrained as leather straps reached out and grabbed the man's arms and legs, pulling his body back down and securing him tightly.
"Hey! What's going on, you can't do this... Let me go!"
Standing up from his comfortable chair the doctor reached down and unbuttoned the young mans pants, pulling them down to reveal a naked lower torso. After the reveal the leather straps pulled to each side of his body while the surface of the sofa seemed to come alive with pictures of screaming human heads. The doctor uttered the words, 'Notralar', and the faces immediately disappeared and the body of the half-naked man was turned so that now the body was laying on its back with a bulge from the furniture causing an arch in the back causing the belly to jut upward.
"Now now, there is nothing to be upset about. There is no one to help you not even God. Too bad you do not believe in him because otherwise I would not be able to do what I'm now going to do to you."
The doctor might have been a bit portly and considered not very attractive to most people but his cock, oh my, his cock was HUGE. It currently was very erect and throbbing. Standing naked so the young man could view him the doctor asked, "So, what do you think? Impressive huh, and it's all for you, lets call it another construct of your mind."
Imagine this, one portly mind doc with a huge erection, laughing in a tone some would call, 'not of this world' and a young man laying strapped on a fancy sofa screaming his head off.
"Nooo, no, please stop. Oh my god, help, anyone, heeeelp me!"
"Nope, not going to happen and at the moment I'm the only God you need to believe in."
Approaching the spread legs the doctor straddled the young man and from his huge cock a very thin black ribbon emerged, one very thin and appeared to be covered in small scales. The tip held a very small head of a serpent.
Seeing this the young man screamed even louder, but it did not faze the doctor now smiling and enjoying his snake, a very long snake. This snake penetrated the body of the young man but not in the orifice you are fixated on.- Most humans are anal and thus fixated on the emergence of shit and the insertion of sex toys and body parts.- The snake entered the young mans penis causing the man to pass out only to instantly come too and scream some more.
The doctor pumped his portly body up-and-down while his snake wound its way through the body to emerge from the mans nostrils and then reenter through the ears and then come out of the mouth where the snake head then hovered in front of the man's eyes. The head slowly weaved a dance in front of one eye and then another while the doctor pumped harder and harder and harder until he convulsed in spasms with ejaculate spurting from the head of the snake out into the eyes of the man...
*
Now, a bit of weird construct of the mind though I find it perfectly acceptable and normal but since I was there and you only get to taste it in words causing what you might find the story a bit 'strange'. Writers should write 'strange', hell, they should just write, that is what writers are supposed to do.
As to this story you might think it was hell for the young man but if that was the case why was the young man's cock rock hard through the whole ordeal and why were his screams turned to soft moaning?
Yes, mind construction of the human being is beyond predictable and though Psychologists are nothing more than trained monkeys just imagine Lucifer as one, of course some of you do not believe in God which is just A-OK by me, just fine and dandy. I highly encourage you fully embrace yourself, your thoughts, your fantasies...
***
Dr. Spanky
The psychologist was a bit on the portly side; thinning hair combed over to hide a bald spot, glasses and a thin gray gotee. Sitting on what looked like a very comfortable chair with his legs crossed holding a note pad on his lap.
Speaking to the young male laying on the leather sofa the doctor asked, "What comes to mind when you think about your mother?"
Reclined but appearing agitated the young man replied, "She didn't much like me. I mean she bitched and cranked all the time, especially when I started my construction company."
"Mmm, I see. Why do you think she was angry about your company." The doctor had put his pad away and placed his pen in the pocket of his shirt. In his eyes there was a spark of interest.
"I don't know doc, I mean the construct of her mind was a bit whacked after she caught my father having sex with a goat. I mean, seriously, a goat? I was pretty young at the time but I remember my dad building the goat shed and how proud he was when he finished. Mother also was very happy until she went to get father for dinner and caught him screwing one of the does."
"Was your father Muslim?" (strange question for a doctor to ask) The doctor calmly reached over and poured himself a shot of some fine Kentucky bourbon.
With a slight pause the man said, "No, my parents didn't believe in no God or religion, said it was all a construct of the mind. Maybe that's why she was angry with me starting a construction company?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"No, absolutely not. If there was a God then why do people die horrible deaths and suffer. Why would a God allow suffering? No, I'm pretty sure there is no such thing as a God."
"I see, and how did you feel when you were six years old and saw your mother naked and squatting to pee?"
A shocked look appeared on the mans face, "How did you know about that? I never told you or anyone about that. There is no way you could have known about that..."
The face of the doctor was now a picture of coldness. "So, tell me how you felt. Was it disgust or did you get excited."
"This is bullshit, I don't need this," and the young man started to sit up but was restrained as leather straps reached out and grabbed the man's arms and legs, pulling his body back down and securing him tightly.
"Hey! What's going on, you can't do this... Let me go!"
Standing up from his comfortable chair the doctor reached down and unbuttoned the young mans pants, pulling them down to reveal a naked lower torso. After the reveal the leather straps pulled to each side of his body while the surface of the sofa seemed to come alive with pictures of screaming human heads. The doctor uttered the words, 'Notralar', and the faces immediately disappeared and the body of the half-naked man was turned so that now the body was laying on its back with a bulge from the furniture causing an arch in the back causing the belly to jut upward.
"Now now, there is nothing to be upset about. There is no one to help you not even God. Too bad you do not believe in him because otherwise I would not be able to do what I'm now going to do to you."
The doctor might have been a bit portly and considered not very attractive to most people but his cock, oh my, his cock was HUGE. It currently was very erect and throbbing. Standing naked so the young man could view him the doctor asked, "So, what do you think? Impressive huh, and it's all for you, lets call it another construct of your mind."
Imagine this, one portly mind doc with a huge erection, laughing in a tone some would call, 'not of this world' and a young man laying strapped on a fancy sofa screaming his head off.
"Nooo, no, please stop. Oh my god, help, anyone, heeeelp me!"
"Nope, not going to happen and at the moment I'm the only God you need to believe in."
Approaching the spread legs the doctor straddled the young man and from his huge cock a very thin black ribbon emerged, one very thin and appeared to be covered in small scales. The tip held a very small head of a serpent.
Seeing this the young man screamed even louder, but it did not faze the doctor now smiling and enjoying his snake, a very long snake. This snake penetrated the body of the young man but not in the orifice you are fixated on.- Most humans are anal and thus fixated on the emergence of shit and the insertion of sex toys and body parts.- The snake entered the young mans penis causing the man to pass out only to instantly come too and scream some more.
The doctor pumped his portly body up-and-down while his snake wound its way through the body to emerge from the mans nostrils and then reenter through the ears and then come out of the mouth where the snake head then hovered in front of the man's eyes. The head slowly weaved a dance in front of one eye and then another while the doctor pumped harder and harder and harder until he convulsed in spasms with ejaculate spurting from the head of the snake out into the eyes of the man...
*
Now, a bit of weird construct of the mind though I find it perfectly acceptable and normal but since I was there and you only get to taste it in words causing what you might find the story a bit 'strange'. Writers should write 'strange', hell, they should just write, that is what writers are supposed to do.
As to this story you might think it was hell for the young man but if that was the case why was the young man's cock rock hard through the whole ordeal and why were his screams turned to soft moaning?
Yes, mind construction of the human being is beyond predictable and though Psychologists are nothing more than trained monkeys just imagine Lucifer as one, of course some of you do not believe in God which is just A-OK by me, just fine and dandy. I highly encourage you fully embrace yourself, your thoughts, your fantasies...
Re: Writers Parasite
Writing a story can be as simple as what goes on around you daily. For example, I'm constantly having my computer hacked for reasons beyond comprehension. You see, I have no secrets, nothing to be used against me in a 'court of law' and my passwords are easy, '1,2,3,4,5' and 'password'. My social security number is meaningless. My search history - meaningless. Everything on my computer is worthless but still people hack into my email, my acccounts...curiosity? Curiosity can kill and as such a simple story is created.
***
"Why don't you use Norton anti-virus, it really works."
"And just who do you think creates virus's?"
"You know, a bunch of nerds wanting to get laid. Terrorists. People looking to cause trouble..."
"A virus on the computer is for amateurs but to gain access to ones computer without the user knowing, that is the secret. As for a virus it is much the same as the radar gun law enforcement uses to clock speeding vehicles. The company manufacturing the radar gun is the same company manufacturing the radar detectors. The same is true for a computer virus, Norton, Microsoft, Apple, they all create computer malware so that they can turn around and sell the user the 'cure'."
"Bullshit. That's not true and if it is, prove it."
"Let me tell you of a story titled '1984'. A society of, Big Brother. A government spying on its people. Amazing how modern science has blinded most to the fact that they are being watched, listened to, and controlled by those in power. Yet, people just shrug and go about their business, content to just be happy that they are 'free'."
"What the hell are you talking about? The government does not care about everyone, you sound delusional."
"Really, so if I told you that I actually construct bombs in preparation for taking out the electrical grid plus I have a huge stockpile of Ricin poison ready to be released in the NY subway you don't think the 'government' does not care? You sir, are naive to say the least. The last successful terrorist was the Unabomber and his success was due to paranoia and his care to stay off the telephone, the internet, the world. He even manufactured his own screws. His failure was family and betrayal otherwise he would still be a curse for the governing body."
"Well sure, it is good the government monitors terrorists. It is for the greater good."
"And you think the government is good? Just ask some Indians a hundred years ago how great the government is. Currently, just ask an honest, hard working person about what they think of the government. Do you trust the government? For that matter, do you trust anyone?"
"Yes, I do trust the government and I trust Norton and I trust my husband...I don't trust you though."
"Good that you don't trust me and it's pathetic you trust all those others."
"To get back on topic about the computer world did you know that manufactures have installed on every cell phone, smart phone and computer, the technology for those who know the access codes, the ability to access any piece of equipment out there in the world?"
"Bullshit, and if you believe in such you're truly a nut."
"Fine, continue believing what you believe as for me I use this knowledge to my advantage. For those who access my modern day gadgets they think they are unnoticed, that they can be smug in their attempts but actually it is I who am spying on them. And for those in the government who are now interested in my inventory of bombs they definitely will want to see the POA regarding timing and targets, I hope they really dig deep, as deep as I've penetrated their consciousness, for there is more in this world than electronic gadgets, malware, virus's and feeble minded hackers, much, much more. Of course the world will come to find out exactly what horrors are awaiting it."
***
"Why don't you use Norton anti-virus, it really works."
"And just who do you think creates virus's?"
"You know, a bunch of nerds wanting to get laid. Terrorists. People looking to cause trouble..."
"A virus on the computer is for amateurs but to gain access to ones computer without the user knowing, that is the secret. As for a virus it is much the same as the radar gun law enforcement uses to clock speeding vehicles. The company manufacturing the radar gun is the same company manufacturing the radar detectors. The same is true for a computer virus, Norton, Microsoft, Apple, they all create computer malware so that they can turn around and sell the user the 'cure'."
"Bullshit. That's not true and if it is, prove it."
"Let me tell you of a story titled '1984'. A society of, Big Brother. A government spying on its people. Amazing how modern science has blinded most to the fact that they are being watched, listened to, and controlled by those in power. Yet, people just shrug and go about their business, content to just be happy that they are 'free'."
"What the hell are you talking about? The government does not care about everyone, you sound delusional."
"Really, so if I told you that I actually construct bombs in preparation for taking out the electrical grid plus I have a huge stockpile of Ricin poison ready to be released in the NY subway you don't think the 'government' does not care? You sir, are naive to say the least. The last successful terrorist was the Unabomber and his success was due to paranoia and his care to stay off the telephone, the internet, the world. He even manufactured his own screws. His failure was family and betrayal otherwise he would still be a curse for the governing body."
"Well sure, it is good the government monitors terrorists. It is for the greater good."
"And you think the government is good? Just ask some Indians a hundred years ago how great the government is. Currently, just ask an honest, hard working person about what they think of the government. Do you trust the government? For that matter, do you trust anyone?"
"Yes, I do trust the government and I trust Norton and I trust my husband...I don't trust you though."
"Good that you don't trust me and it's pathetic you trust all those others."
"To get back on topic about the computer world did you know that manufactures have installed on every cell phone, smart phone and computer, the technology for those who know the access codes, the ability to access any piece of equipment out there in the world?"
"Bullshit, and if you believe in such you're truly a nut."
"Fine, continue believing what you believe as for me I use this knowledge to my advantage. For those who access my modern day gadgets they think they are unnoticed, that they can be smug in their attempts but actually it is I who am spying on them. And for those in the government who are now interested in my inventory of bombs they definitely will want to see the POA regarding timing and targets, I hope they really dig deep, as deep as I've penetrated their consciousness, for there is more in this world than electronic gadgets, malware, virus's and feeble minded hackers, much, much more. Of course the world will come to find out exactly what horrors are awaiting it."
Re: Writers Parasite
Mother Russia. Imperial. Supreme.
Chinese might. Strength in numbers.
American military
. Eagle with cancer.
"Mommy what's wrong with that man?" Children always ask the correct question for any moment and at this moment the child was asking about a filthy, dried-vomit covered man sitting on the sidewalk. He was muttering and laughing at the same time.
"Shh, it's rude to stare and talk that way, "and with what some mothers do she steered her child away from what she personally found repulsive.
"Yes, yes, it is time...Hee hee. Time just as you said it would." The wretch of a man muttered contently.
"Russia loses a jet. Pilots get. Syria to the moooooon!"
"Come master, come. This world is ripe. Come kill, come, come, come..."
(WWIII is soooo yesterday. Boring and yawn inducing. Now Universal war, that is much more my style. Open the gates of Hell, let loose the horsemen of the Apocalypse. Smash the heavens, destroy the galaxies, kill, kill, kill... all in the name of me of course.)
Chinese might. Strength in numbers.
American military
. Eagle with cancer.
"Mommy what's wrong with that man?" Children always ask the correct question for any moment and at this moment the child was asking about a filthy, dried-vomit covered man sitting on the sidewalk. He was muttering and laughing at the same time.
"Shh, it's rude to stare and talk that way, "and with what some mothers do she steered her child away from what she personally found repulsive.
"Yes, yes, it is time...Hee hee. Time just as you said it would." The wretch of a man muttered contently.
"Russia loses a jet. Pilots get. Syria to the moooooon!"
"Come master, come. This world is ripe. Come kill, come, come, come..."
(WWIII is soooo yesterday. Boring and yawn inducing. Now Universal war, that is much more my style. Open the gates of Hell, let loose the horsemen of the Apocalypse. Smash the heavens, destroy the galaxies, kill, kill, kill... all in the name of me of course.)
Re: Writers Parasite
For citizens living upon a landmass in North America called, United States, today is a humorous holiday called, Thanksgiving. As with most holidays it is nothing more than an excuse to take a day off from work and embrace the full commercial aspects of currency flow, political ideals, and even some weird connection to religious significance.
While some people give thanks it is only because they were lucky. They give thanks for family which has not yet totally been destroyed, they give thanks for wealth, health, love, and some even give thanks they got away from prosecution for the many crimes they commit. Currently negro's and some caucasion's in Chicago are giving thanks they can destroy, foment, and act like monkeys in a zoo.
Holidays are inspirational for a writer, it is lucky they arrive with predictability, and speaking of luck, I'm thankful for Thanksgiving this year so i can get this story out of my head and flush twice for courtesy.
***
Luck of the Draw
Written by: A lucky bastard
Sue was a woman who loved gambling. She loved it so much it destroyed her love life, her bank account, her employment, her health. For Sue gambling was a force in her life as powerful as breathing and sleep.
"Use the same numbers please," she told the clerk at the convenience store 7-11. This was the same store she always played Powerball using the same numbers she always used. The clerk was used to this woman coming in at the same time each week, you could almost set your watch to her habit.
"Here you go ma'am, good luck."
Luck, Sue had luck, lots and lots of luck, though it was not good luck or even plain old luck, but she sure had bad luck. She could be considered rich in bad luck. In all her years of gambling an accountant tallying up her costs would come to the final conclusion that for every dollar she won she spent five.
There were those fine moments when she got a taste of success. Once was when she won the daily double at the horse track and then there was the great moment of hitting a royal flush on an electronic poker machine. Usually though, whatever gambling she attended, was rich in failure leaving Sue cold and alone with her thoughts.
Every year Thanksgiving arrived announcing the beginning of the Holiday Season. It was a time of people smiling, giving total strangers peaceful, "Happy Thanksgiving to ya," or "Have a great Holiday season." For Sue it was just a painful reminder of losing her husband and custody of her three children. Both her husband and children hated her and in return she actually was glad they were gone. It was good they were gone so that when she finally won big she would not have to share the wealth.
Sue was not a big eater. As physical looks are concerned she was the picture of a walking skeleton. Her flesh was pasty white and she had dark bags hanging under her ashen colored eyes. Not many men glanced for long in her direction as she sat for hours in the local casino. For her she did not get caught up in the gluttony of Thanksgiving. She hated the taste of turkey and stuffing made her gag. Pumpkin pie was tolerable but not as good for her as a Hostess Twinkie. There was however one Thanksgiving cliche she loved which was eating some cranberry sauce out of a can.
On Wednesday evening Sue learned her lottery numbers were not drawn and even though they never were she felt let-down yet filled with hope for the Saturday drawing. Today was Thursday, Thanksgiving and for Sue it was hell to see all those happy people walking around saying, "Happy Thanksgiving." For her she planned on spending it in a sports bar where she could drink and gamble.
Before going into one of her favorite havens, this particular one called, 'Bobs Sport Bar', she went to her favorite 7-11 and asked the clerk, "Use the same numbers please," and now she had her Powerball ticket for Saturday. She also grabbed a can of cranberry sauce, which she would enjoy at the bar.
Paying for her purchases and ignoring the clerks, "Have a good Thanksgiving," Sue clutched her plastic bag and headed for the bar.
"Hello Sue," the bartender knew Sue and knew better than to wish her any 'happy' whatever, that is unless she won something then he would say, "Congratulations." Needless to say he did not congratulations very often.
"What will you have today Sue, the usual?"
"Yes, oh but have the kitchen send out an order of toast, I'm treating myself today."
"No problem Sue, you want the usual game card?"
Of course she wanted the usual game card. Everything in her life was usual. Same habits, same diet, same numbers, same bad luck.
"Here you go, one order of toast, one Bud Light, and one game card. Good luck."
"Thanks Bob." Her voice sounded more robotic than human.
Sipping on her beer, Sue took the cranberry sauce from the plastic bag and pulled open the lid. She took a spoon and pried out the contents where she spread the sauce on the two pieces of toast. Biting down she found enjoyment in the bitter taste.
Taking another sip of her beer she turned her concentration to filling out today's game card. Last year she remembered she actually won $100 and since that was one of her few success's she could remember it.
As she was filling it out, she felt a pain in her throat. The pain was not sharp, rather it was more an expanding feeling. Clutching her throat in both hands she found she was no longer able to breath. In her panic she stood trying to say something. She could not even manage to let a gurgling sound escape.
Others in the bar looked at her as if she was on television but did not look too concerned as they turned back to their drinks, games, and television. Oh sure, one good samaritan came over as did Bob, but by then it was too late.
Bob the bartender knelt down by her unconscious body and said, "Sue. Sue, are you okay?" What a stupid question as Sue was not okay, she was of course dead.
***
Yep, poor ol Sue. Luckless bitch and now dead on this wonderful holiday day called Thanksgiving. It was not a total loss for her though as she was the lucky one to find the one can of cranberry sauce that contained the poison put there by a witch. A witch who enjoyed putting the poison into one of the many millions of cans of cranberry sauce each year. For Sue, she was the grand winner and she finally beat the odds.
Happy Thanksgiving.
While some people give thanks it is only because they were lucky. They give thanks for family which has not yet totally been destroyed, they give thanks for wealth, health, love, and some even give thanks they got away from prosecution for the many crimes they commit. Currently negro's and some caucasion's in Chicago are giving thanks they can destroy, foment, and act like monkeys in a zoo.
Holidays are inspirational for a writer, it is lucky they arrive with predictability, and speaking of luck, I'm thankful for Thanksgiving this year so i can get this story out of my head and flush twice for courtesy.
***
Luck of the Draw
Written by: A lucky bastard
Sue was a woman who loved gambling. She loved it so much it destroyed her love life, her bank account, her employment, her health. For Sue gambling was a force in her life as powerful as breathing and sleep.
"Use the same numbers please," she told the clerk at the convenience store 7-11. This was the same store she always played Powerball using the same numbers she always used. The clerk was used to this woman coming in at the same time each week, you could almost set your watch to her habit.
"Here you go ma'am, good luck."
Luck, Sue had luck, lots and lots of luck, though it was not good luck or even plain old luck, but she sure had bad luck. She could be considered rich in bad luck. In all her years of gambling an accountant tallying up her costs would come to the final conclusion that for every dollar she won she spent five.
There were those fine moments when she got a taste of success. Once was when she won the daily double at the horse track and then there was the great moment of hitting a royal flush on an electronic poker machine. Usually though, whatever gambling she attended, was rich in failure leaving Sue cold and alone with her thoughts.
Every year Thanksgiving arrived announcing the beginning of the Holiday Season. It was a time of people smiling, giving total strangers peaceful, "Happy Thanksgiving to ya," or "Have a great Holiday season." For Sue it was just a painful reminder of losing her husband and custody of her three children. Both her husband and children hated her and in return she actually was glad they were gone. It was good they were gone so that when she finally won big she would not have to share the wealth.
Sue was not a big eater. As physical looks are concerned she was the picture of a walking skeleton. Her flesh was pasty white and she had dark bags hanging under her ashen colored eyes. Not many men glanced for long in her direction as she sat for hours in the local casino. For her she did not get caught up in the gluttony of Thanksgiving. She hated the taste of turkey and stuffing made her gag. Pumpkin pie was tolerable but not as good for her as a Hostess Twinkie. There was however one Thanksgiving cliche she loved which was eating some cranberry sauce out of a can.
On Wednesday evening Sue learned her lottery numbers were not drawn and even though they never were she felt let-down yet filled with hope for the Saturday drawing. Today was Thursday, Thanksgiving and for Sue it was hell to see all those happy people walking around saying, "Happy Thanksgiving." For her she planned on spending it in a sports bar where she could drink and gamble.
Before going into one of her favorite havens, this particular one called, 'Bobs Sport Bar', she went to her favorite 7-11 and asked the clerk, "Use the same numbers please," and now she had her Powerball ticket for Saturday. She also grabbed a can of cranberry sauce, which she would enjoy at the bar.
Paying for her purchases and ignoring the clerks, "Have a good Thanksgiving," Sue clutched her plastic bag and headed for the bar.
"Hello Sue," the bartender knew Sue and knew better than to wish her any 'happy' whatever, that is unless she won something then he would say, "Congratulations." Needless to say he did not congratulations very often.
"What will you have today Sue, the usual?"
"Yes, oh but have the kitchen send out an order of toast, I'm treating myself today."
"No problem Sue, you want the usual game card?"
Of course she wanted the usual game card. Everything in her life was usual. Same habits, same diet, same numbers, same bad luck.
"Here you go, one order of toast, one Bud Light, and one game card. Good luck."
"Thanks Bob." Her voice sounded more robotic than human.
Sipping on her beer, Sue took the cranberry sauce from the plastic bag and pulled open the lid. She took a spoon and pried out the contents where she spread the sauce on the two pieces of toast. Biting down she found enjoyment in the bitter taste.
Taking another sip of her beer she turned her concentration to filling out today's game card. Last year she remembered she actually won $100 and since that was one of her few success's she could remember it.
As she was filling it out, she felt a pain in her throat. The pain was not sharp, rather it was more an expanding feeling. Clutching her throat in both hands she found she was no longer able to breath. In her panic she stood trying to say something. She could not even manage to let a gurgling sound escape.
Others in the bar looked at her as if she was on television but did not look too concerned as they turned back to their drinks, games, and television. Oh sure, one good samaritan came over as did Bob, but by then it was too late.
Bob the bartender knelt down by her unconscious body and said, "Sue. Sue, are you okay?" What a stupid question as Sue was not okay, she was of course dead.
***
Yep, poor ol Sue. Luckless bitch and now dead on this wonderful holiday day called Thanksgiving. It was not a total loss for her though as she was the lucky one to find the one can of cranberry sauce that contained the poison put there by a witch. A witch who enjoyed putting the poison into one of the many millions of cans of cranberry sauce each year. For Sue, she was the grand winner and she finally beat the odds.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Re: Writers Parasite
Dec 1, 2015 and here you sit reading/about to read, or ready to read no further instead choosing to go raid the fridge, sleep or engage in carnal activity of one sort or another. Why. Curiosity? Boredom? Looking for writing ideas? I know why I'm here writing this and that is very simple, I like to write. I might not be a very good writer or maybe I'm a fucking genius (Ha Ha, burp) but I love to write and as you can see from my multiple use of 'I' I'm a bit into myself.
It is good to be into yourself as how else can a writer write about somebody else. And come on, be honest, how many of you males stare at yourself bare chested in a reflection of a mirror and suck your fat gut in pretending to be a muscle man...Same for you women but I'm going to try and keep today's rant rated less than X or psychotic. Point being: You imagine, you dream, and if you're a writer, you write.
At this exact moment (history for those now reading except for those lazy bastards in intelligence that monitor my every keystroke...any luck on find that POA agent Barton? I gave you another clue last night...) I have absolutely no clue on what is going to be written. Absolutely no idea and since I've already stated that it will be less than X rated or too psychotic that leaves only one thing.
Now, for you who find topics to write about hard to imagine than just write a story regarding some action that personally happened to you in the last hour before sitting down to write something. For example, in the last hour what did I do...
1. Bathroom - boring
2.Watched television -boring
3. Ordered swim fins on Amazon for the wife - Mmm, definitely some great potential but my sex drive is too strong tonight to go in that direction.
4.Cut my finger nails with a clipper - boring yet definitely with potential for some great horror...
5. Ate dinner - Boring and...wait a minute, by jove I think I've got it.
At dinner I ate leftovers and for dessert I had pie with whipped cream and vanilla extract sprinkled over it all. At first it sounds boring but to let you know I have had to cut back on my consumption of alcohol because I become a different person and lets just say you don't want to be around me when I'm under the influence, baaaad things happen to the world.
It just so happened that we purchased vanilla extract recently at Costco and this was sprinkled very liberally over the dessert and it just so happened that it contains 35% alcohol. Needless to say that after not letting any alcohol into my body for over three years it awakened a bit of a beast in me. Not g-o-o-d.
Oh sure, I washed most of the blood off my hands but Dawn dish soap only goes so far, so I used Comet bleach crystals to finish cleansing the blood. Now my hands are nice and soft. That was the easy part, washing the hands. The carpet however is going to be a bitch to clean. Amazing how much blood a female woman can spill. You'd think that after 31 years of marriage the woman would shrink but noooo, damn blood is everywhere. And to add insult to injury I have to also clean up the mess of the two dogs and three gold fish. Oh well, at least you can now see that such simple actions you do in the last hour before writing can stimulate your writing ideas.
My next action is now to finish cleaning up the gore and to pour out the rest of the contents of the vanilla extract into the sink.
***
The above is my example how any situation can be made into a story. While it is true I did not kill my wife, dogs or imaginary gold fish it is true about the vanilla extract. That damn shit was 35% alcohol. Why in the name of Zeus would so high of a alcohol content be needed.
For any of you underage folks who are aspiring to be great alcoholics you can win over the State and go to Costco and buy a whole case of the stuff. It will work as good as any bottle of whiskey and it is legal for you to buy because nobody would ever suspect. Now go write a good story.
It is good to be into yourself as how else can a writer write about somebody else. And come on, be honest, how many of you males stare at yourself bare chested in a reflection of a mirror and suck your fat gut in pretending to be a muscle man...Same for you women but I'm going to try and keep today's rant rated less than X or psychotic. Point being: You imagine, you dream, and if you're a writer, you write.
At this exact moment (history for those now reading except for those lazy bastards in intelligence that monitor my every keystroke...any luck on find that POA agent Barton? I gave you another clue last night...) I have absolutely no clue on what is going to be written. Absolutely no idea and since I've already stated that it will be less than X rated or too psychotic that leaves only one thing.
Now, for you who find topics to write about hard to imagine than just write a story regarding some action that personally happened to you in the last hour before sitting down to write something. For example, in the last hour what did I do...
1. Bathroom - boring
2.Watched television -boring
3. Ordered swim fins on Amazon for the wife - Mmm, definitely some great potential but my sex drive is too strong tonight to go in that direction.
4.Cut my finger nails with a clipper - boring yet definitely with potential for some great horror...
5. Ate dinner - Boring and...wait a minute, by jove I think I've got it.
At dinner I ate leftovers and for dessert I had pie with whipped cream and vanilla extract sprinkled over it all. At first it sounds boring but to let you know I have had to cut back on my consumption of alcohol because I become a different person and lets just say you don't want to be around me when I'm under the influence, baaaad things happen to the world.
It just so happened that we purchased vanilla extract recently at Costco and this was sprinkled very liberally over the dessert and it just so happened that it contains 35% alcohol. Needless to say that after not letting any alcohol into my body for over three years it awakened a bit of a beast in me. Not g-o-o-d.
Oh sure, I washed most of the blood off my hands but Dawn dish soap only goes so far, so I used Comet bleach crystals to finish cleansing the blood. Now my hands are nice and soft. That was the easy part, washing the hands. The carpet however is going to be a bitch to clean. Amazing how much blood a female woman can spill. You'd think that after 31 years of marriage the woman would shrink but noooo, damn blood is everywhere. And to add insult to injury I have to also clean up the mess of the two dogs and three gold fish. Oh well, at least you can now see that such simple actions you do in the last hour before writing can stimulate your writing ideas.
My next action is now to finish cleaning up the gore and to pour out the rest of the contents of the vanilla extract into the sink.
***
The above is my example how any situation can be made into a story. While it is true I did not kill my wife, dogs or imaginary gold fish it is true about the vanilla extract. That damn shit was 35% alcohol. Why in the name of Zeus would so high of a alcohol content be needed.
For any of you underage folks who are aspiring to be great alcoholics you can win over the State and go to Costco and buy a whole case of the stuff. It will work as good as any bottle of whiskey and it is legal for you to buy because nobody would ever suspect. Now go write a good story.
Re: Writers Parasite
sometime a working man can be inspired by something more than wages, love is one such concept.
I've presented some strange ideas about writing so far in this 'writers parasite'. Hopefully some have been inspired to write, maybe even enjoyed the ranting of what i find normal. There is one topic i've not written of and since i've been inspired by a woman with large steel balls...
A new chapter:
Life is so very wonderful. Even when faced with despair and loneliness there always comes unexpected events to bring love and joy. While i try to find meaning and 'think' there are no mysteries left for my emotions to experience, along comes an emotion i've never really come to understand...
Lately to experience what must be truly experienced. Bringing so many thoughts buried and forgotten or never known with childish wonderment; journey with excitement and wonder.
The following is a poem written for a wonderful person. This one is for you, Mack.
***
Ladder of Love
Towering so high clouds become the floor and not the ceiling.
Filled by rung after rung so easy to grasp and climb.
A base rooted in the heart.
She was a farmer coming from farmers seed
with a growing smile, one glowing and taking root ever since freeing herself
turning her head to look with smile
at me.
There was no stopping now this climb upon the ladder
Doubt tried, apprehension, denial, even common sense
all the while the earth looked smaller as i climbed the ladder with ease.
The heart is a fickle beast, often beset by lust, by greed, by want even passion,
but love?
This love becomes clearer the higher the climb
soon the white doves drown out the voice of the beast.
Why
Why me?
i with my faults, my vices, my choices.
Set in my place with a future secure until the feather of the dove falls
Set to be felt so even feet feel light with a heartbeat skipped, my future now obscure
Free?
Higher and higher this climb, soon blue of sky gives way to white light of galaxies.
Far below lay who i was now replaced with her memories
she with her laugh, her strength, her beauty, even her thoughts...
Only to cause the climb to go higher.
Far past the moons glow, past the depths of Pluto's laughter, past the Big Dipper, the great Bear of love.
Farther than the Milky way, further, farther, higher
and still this ladder called to me.
It has been said falling in love is hard, and without love this is true.
It has been said everything going up must come down for this is the law of gravity.
It has been asked, "What is true love?" so many try to find this answer when it already has been answered
and denied.
Falling in love...
simple words really until one realizes you truly are not in love until you release yourself from the binding of the ladder
to have faith and let love take you in travel; course unknown, unbound, unrestrained,
until you know for certain in your heart that no matter what happens
no matter where how or when it all ends up
your whole being truly knows the peace love brings.
And while i fall and glow with this knowledge
a knowledge of myself i cannot escape
to you Mack, it is a relief now
to no longer need the aid of a ladder or words of man
other than to say,
thanks.
I've presented some strange ideas about writing so far in this 'writers parasite'. Hopefully some have been inspired to write, maybe even enjoyed the ranting of what i find normal. There is one topic i've not written of and since i've been inspired by a woman with large steel balls...
A new chapter:
Life is so very wonderful. Even when faced with despair and loneliness there always comes unexpected events to bring love and joy. While i try to find meaning and 'think' there are no mysteries left for my emotions to experience, along comes an emotion i've never really come to understand...
Lately to experience what must be truly experienced. Bringing so many thoughts buried and forgotten or never known with childish wonderment; journey with excitement and wonder.
The following is a poem written for a wonderful person. This one is for you, Mack.
***
Ladder of Love
Towering so high clouds become the floor and not the ceiling.
Filled by rung after rung so easy to grasp and climb.
A base rooted in the heart.
She was a farmer coming from farmers seed
with a growing smile, one glowing and taking root ever since freeing herself
turning her head to look with smile
at me.
There was no stopping now this climb upon the ladder
Doubt tried, apprehension, denial, even common sense
all the while the earth looked smaller as i climbed the ladder with ease.
The heart is a fickle beast, often beset by lust, by greed, by want even passion,
but love?
This love becomes clearer the higher the climb
soon the white doves drown out the voice of the beast.
Why
Why me?
i with my faults, my vices, my choices.
Set in my place with a future secure until the feather of the dove falls
Set to be felt so even feet feel light with a heartbeat skipped, my future now obscure
Free?
Higher and higher this climb, soon blue of sky gives way to white light of galaxies.
Far below lay who i was now replaced with her memories
she with her laugh, her strength, her beauty, even her thoughts...
Only to cause the climb to go higher.
Far past the moons glow, past the depths of Pluto's laughter, past the Big Dipper, the great Bear of love.
Farther than the Milky way, further, farther, higher
and still this ladder called to me.
It has been said falling in love is hard, and without love this is true.
It has been said everything going up must come down for this is the law of gravity.
It has been asked, "What is true love?" so many try to find this answer when it already has been answered
and denied.
Falling in love...
simple words really until one realizes you truly are not in love until you release yourself from the binding of the ladder
to have faith and let love take you in travel; course unknown, unbound, unrestrained,
until you know for certain in your heart that no matter what happens
no matter where how or when it all ends up
your whole being truly knows the peace love brings.
And while i fall and glow with this knowledge
a knowledge of myself i cannot escape
to you Mack, it is a relief now
to no longer need the aid of a ladder or words of man
other than to say,
thanks.
Re: Writers Parasite
ever write song lyrics? neither have i.
***
She left me for a man of lies and smelling of guns
Drugs she bought from the fruit of her thighs
Stole my shoes and kicked my dog
Scratched a note on my pickup truck
Makes me wonder...
(see? anyone can write fucked up country western songs. maybe you can finish it)
***
She left me for a man of lies and smelling of guns
Drugs she bought from the fruit of her thighs
Stole my shoes and kicked my dog
Scratched a note on my pickup truck
Makes me wonder...
(see? anyone can write fucked up country western songs. maybe you can finish it)
Re: Writers Parasite
lest we all forget, as writers it is 'good' to get your freak on, let it all hang out, or in short, have fun when writing. the following is just a bunch of gibberish which may or may not turn into a story and i really do not care as i will have great fun writing it anyway.
probably not telling anyone something they don't already know but what i know is that most writers want to be 'famous', 'discovered', 'published', 'rich', and i say that all takes a much lower priority than enjoying the writing. writing is the foreplay, the licking of nipples, the rubbing, to others reading, the story is just a bunch of words which will be orgasmic or just another case of genital herpes.
***
"Crikey mate, ya are gonna kill yourself drinking that. The boatswain is gonna flay ya alive if he catches ya stealing anymore of the Captains rum."
"Ah, stow it mate. Ain't no ones gonna catch us. Here, take a swig."
"Ya are a crazy mate, that's for sure. Ya best stow that an get the hell outta the Captain's cab..."
'Hey! Who's in there?" The boatswain was a brute of a man, one simmering with cruelty, a cruelty accrued after years of being at sea with Captain Morgan. It was also no secret of the seafaring folk about the evil the Captain unleashed to those he pirated against. The two had tortured and killed many innocent people and not so innocent in the past. Now, the boatswain was going to inflict some wrath on the sailor his eyes were locked on too, the poor sod standing in fear just inside the captain's cabin.
"So, it's you Martin. What, a thinking you were gonna steal some rum? Come here."
Martin was Robin's mate, his bunk mate and friend. He had tried to get Robin to stop sipping the Captain's rum but it was himself now caught in the web of the sadistic leader of the sailors who only answer truly to the Captain as all other officers of the ship were also scared of the devil-of-the sea.
"I was just, just..." poor ol Martin was squirming like a fresh fly caught by the grubby hands of the cook down in galley and one the sadistic boatswain was about to squish as easily as the cook just squeezed the fly, the guts spilling into the gruel soon to be fed to the crew.
"You just were gonna do what Martin, pee your pants? Cry? You're not even a man."
"But I dddidd, I didn't do anything. I was just checking..."
"Ha, checking fer some rum perhaps? No, you wiggly little worm, I have something you need." And with a sick smile on his lips the boatswain had Martin tied to a spar and ordered two of the crew to strip the man naked.
Captain Morgan was standing on the poop deck and was attracted to the sight and sound of the crew milling about on the main deck. Striding over and grasping the wooden railing his loud voice boomed, "Ar, there boatswain, what be this all about? What crime there has that dog done?" The Captain respected no one or no life but he did admire the boatswain's cruelty and his ability to keep his surly crew in line.
Tipping his head on raising his right thumb to his cap in respect the reply, "Good day Captain. Caught this dog trying to steal some of your rum sir, thought I'd teach him a lesson."
"Steal my rum huh? Sounds like he needs more than a lesson." And so to keep the world in tune with his hate the captain drew his pistol from his broad waist belt, drew a bead on Martin and after the smoke cleared from the shot, Martin's head hung limp and bloody. His payment for a crime he never committed was, death.
"Cut the body and throw it overboard." With that said, the captain turned his attention back towards one of the naked female prisoners he had 'liberated' from the last ship he plundered. Poor wench, she too would soon join the body of Martin, to forever swim the currents gliding past the keel below.
"Steal the captains rum and you die," the boatswain said so the rest of the crew could hear. And he also took his captain orders literally, he did cut the body, he cut the dead mans head off so he could hang it from the rigging where it would show the crew just who was in charge. Soon it all was over and the crew went back to its business once the sound of Martins body splashed into the sea.
Meanwhile Robin had placed the bottle of rum back on the captain's chest. He had witnessed and heard what had happened to his friend, but Robin was not your average seaman that traveled aboard pirate ships, or any ship of man for that matter. He was a visitor from a place far away from any sea, land or place called, Earth. He was an eternal traveler who studied and observed the life evolving on the many worlds. 'His' could as well been 'her' or 'it' in description as 'Robin' had taken many forms of life's shapes. It was how he could experience and learn about the worlds.
What had just happened on Captain Morgans ship was judged to be hateful on this planet but one worlds hate is another worlds form of love. For Robin, he did not feel remorse but he did feel. What he felt now was that this world was ready for its next step of evolution and that he was no longer needed here nor would he learn anything new.
Reaching out above the secure bottle of rum Robin squeezed his hand and opening his fingers a small drop of liquid formed and wavered in the air above the bottle before dropping down and hitting the glass. The whole bottle glowed for a second as did the body of Robin. His body glowed and simmered and if you blinked your eyes you would have seen nothing but an empty captains cabin, a bottle of rum and no sign at all of any evidence of Robin.
Robin had moved on to the next place of learning, leaving behind a bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, a bottle filled with a liquid that would change the world by multiplying its contents and changing the brain structure of the human species, thus kick starting the next phase of human evolution, the end of which would make the hate of Captain Morgan and his boatswain seem like sleep, replaced by a species that would actually consume worlds...
***
See? Fun and enjoyable to write. As for reading you either got an orgasm or you will soon be covered in little red pimples dominating your genitalia.
Now, go write something.
probably not telling anyone something they don't already know but what i know is that most writers want to be 'famous', 'discovered', 'published', 'rich', and i say that all takes a much lower priority than enjoying the writing. writing is the foreplay, the licking of nipples, the rubbing, to others reading, the story is just a bunch of words which will be orgasmic or just another case of genital herpes.
***
"Crikey mate, ya are gonna kill yourself drinking that. The boatswain is gonna flay ya alive if he catches ya stealing anymore of the Captains rum."
"Ah, stow it mate. Ain't no ones gonna catch us. Here, take a swig."
"Ya are a crazy mate, that's for sure. Ya best stow that an get the hell outta the Captain's cab..."
'Hey! Who's in there?" The boatswain was a brute of a man, one simmering with cruelty, a cruelty accrued after years of being at sea with Captain Morgan. It was also no secret of the seafaring folk about the evil the Captain unleashed to those he pirated against. The two had tortured and killed many innocent people and not so innocent in the past. Now, the boatswain was going to inflict some wrath on the sailor his eyes were locked on too, the poor sod standing in fear just inside the captain's cabin.
"So, it's you Martin. What, a thinking you were gonna steal some rum? Come here."
Martin was Robin's mate, his bunk mate and friend. He had tried to get Robin to stop sipping the Captain's rum but it was himself now caught in the web of the sadistic leader of the sailors who only answer truly to the Captain as all other officers of the ship were also scared of the devil-of-the sea.
"I was just, just..." poor ol Martin was squirming like a fresh fly caught by the grubby hands of the cook down in galley and one the sadistic boatswain was about to squish as easily as the cook just squeezed the fly, the guts spilling into the gruel soon to be fed to the crew.
"You just were gonna do what Martin, pee your pants? Cry? You're not even a man."
"But I dddidd, I didn't do anything. I was just checking..."
"Ha, checking fer some rum perhaps? No, you wiggly little worm, I have something you need." And with a sick smile on his lips the boatswain had Martin tied to a spar and ordered two of the crew to strip the man naked.
Captain Morgan was standing on the poop deck and was attracted to the sight and sound of the crew milling about on the main deck. Striding over and grasping the wooden railing his loud voice boomed, "Ar, there boatswain, what be this all about? What crime there has that dog done?" The Captain respected no one or no life but he did admire the boatswain's cruelty and his ability to keep his surly crew in line.
Tipping his head on raising his right thumb to his cap in respect the reply, "Good day Captain. Caught this dog trying to steal some of your rum sir, thought I'd teach him a lesson."
"Steal my rum huh? Sounds like he needs more than a lesson." And so to keep the world in tune with his hate the captain drew his pistol from his broad waist belt, drew a bead on Martin and after the smoke cleared from the shot, Martin's head hung limp and bloody. His payment for a crime he never committed was, death.
"Cut the body and throw it overboard." With that said, the captain turned his attention back towards one of the naked female prisoners he had 'liberated' from the last ship he plundered. Poor wench, she too would soon join the body of Martin, to forever swim the currents gliding past the keel below.
"Steal the captains rum and you die," the boatswain said so the rest of the crew could hear. And he also took his captain orders literally, he did cut the body, he cut the dead mans head off so he could hang it from the rigging where it would show the crew just who was in charge. Soon it all was over and the crew went back to its business once the sound of Martins body splashed into the sea.
Meanwhile Robin had placed the bottle of rum back on the captain's chest. He had witnessed and heard what had happened to his friend, but Robin was not your average seaman that traveled aboard pirate ships, or any ship of man for that matter. He was a visitor from a place far away from any sea, land or place called, Earth. He was an eternal traveler who studied and observed the life evolving on the many worlds. 'His' could as well been 'her' or 'it' in description as 'Robin' had taken many forms of life's shapes. It was how he could experience and learn about the worlds.
What had just happened on Captain Morgans ship was judged to be hateful on this planet but one worlds hate is another worlds form of love. For Robin, he did not feel remorse but he did feel. What he felt now was that this world was ready for its next step of evolution and that he was no longer needed here nor would he learn anything new.
Reaching out above the secure bottle of rum Robin squeezed his hand and opening his fingers a small drop of liquid formed and wavered in the air above the bottle before dropping down and hitting the glass. The whole bottle glowed for a second as did the body of Robin. His body glowed and simmered and if you blinked your eyes you would have seen nothing but an empty captains cabin, a bottle of rum and no sign at all of any evidence of Robin.
Robin had moved on to the next place of learning, leaving behind a bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, a bottle filled with a liquid that would change the world by multiplying its contents and changing the brain structure of the human species, thus kick starting the next phase of human evolution, the end of which would make the hate of Captain Morgan and his boatswain seem like sleep, replaced by a species that would actually consume worlds...
***
See? Fun and enjoyable to write. As for reading you either got an orgasm or you will soon be covered in little red pimples dominating your genitalia.
Now, go write something.