Zone zero
Binary code entered:
Accepted, 999 999 969 1
Ignition, passed and gone.
Altered shutter speed, 3, 2, 1...
gone.
***
"Uh, Robin? Or are you the parasite?"
We cannot process your request in the future.
"Huh? What the hell..."
We cannot process your request in the present.
"What is this shit I'm reading? This makes no sense."
We cannot process your request in the past.
"I'm outa here."
Processing, death to proceed in 29.0 seconds.
Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]
Moderator: Editors
Re: Writers Parasite
Listen
Written by..."By whom, you? Ha! I'm the only (splat)"
as I was saying, written by anybody reading and wants it. You see, this thread is designed to stimulate a writers mind, hell if it inspires a readers mind to want to write, even better.
I could care less for fame or fortune as what would I do with money, spend it? Lose it? Worry about it? And fame? What the hell is that good for. For example: Name as many pharaohs as you can, go ahead, I'll wait... See? Those bastards owned the world, even thought they owned the 'other' worlds, and look at them now, even worms want nothing to do with them.
***
The man had been deaf since birth. He also had been blessed with being paralyzed, he also could not speak or see.
Laying on a bed he basically was raised on, his only exercise was when a medical orderly moved his various body parts but overall, he looked like a skeleton.
What do you think goes on inside such a man? Yes, he could not move, he could not see, he could not hear, he could not speak, but what did he think about?
Inside the man's mind was a turmoil of activity.
Ever since his birth his mind was a battleground of converging dimensions. Twenty six dimensions existed in the mans brain and thus his mind was filled with what no other human could handle. The 'sounds' alone would destroy a planet.
Everything would have been fine if the world had decided to leave the man alone. Let the poor wretch live a few more years until his body could no longer take it, but this world fucks with everything.
A medical doctor had decided to hook up the newest bit off medical technology to the skull of this man. This doctor thought he might be able to 'help' or 'cure' this man... This man. This helpless man.
Once the machine was hooked up and the power applied, Pandora's box was literally opened as the machine exploded but not before releasing what was residing untouched by a world all these years...
***
There. Listen. This is a basic outline for a great story. Take it. Write it. Find fame and fortune. And when you're drunk and peeing in an alley after getting a great lap dance, think of how weird life is.
Written by..."By whom, you? Ha! I'm the only (splat)"
as I was saying, written by anybody reading and wants it. You see, this thread is designed to stimulate a writers mind, hell if it inspires a readers mind to want to write, even better.
I could care less for fame or fortune as what would I do with money, spend it? Lose it? Worry about it? And fame? What the hell is that good for. For example: Name as many pharaohs as you can, go ahead, I'll wait... See? Those bastards owned the world, even thought they owned the 'other' worlds, and look at them now, even worms want nothing to do with them.
***
The man had been deaf since birth. He also had been blessed with being paralyzed, he also could not speak or see.
Laying on a bed he basically was raised on, his only exercise was when a medical orderly moved his various body parts but overall, he looked like a skeleton.
What do you think goes on inside such a man? Yes, he could not move, he could not see, he could not hear, he could not speak, but what did he think about?
Inside the man's mind was a turmoil of activity.
Ever since his birth his mind was a battleground of converging dimensions. Twenty six dimensions existed in the mans brain and thus his mind was filled with what no other human could handle. The 'sounds' alone would destroy a planet.
Everything would have been fine if the world had decided to leave the man alone. Let the poor wretch live a few more years until his body could no longer take it, but this world fucks with everything.
A medical doctor had decided to hook up the newest bit off medical technology to the skull of this man. This doctor thought he might be able to 'help' or 'cure' this man... This man. This helpless man.
Once the machine was hooked up and the power applied, Pandora's box was literally opened as the machine exploded but not before releasing what was residing untouched by a world all these years...
***
There. Listen. This is a basic outline for a great story. Take it. Write it. Find fame and fortune. And when you're drunk and peeing in an alley after getting a great lap dance, think of how weird life is.
Re: Writers Parasite
Rites of Passage
So, writer, have you gone through the three stages in the rites of passage on your way to being a writer? Don't know what those stages are? Trust me, you'll learn.
Now, for the following story you have to be a free thinker and some of you writers are housing minds of mush in your skulls. Some of you don't believe in God, god, gods, some of you don't believe in Demons, demons, trump...(just kidding about trump as that guy definitely has a date with destiny and I'm glad I'm not going to be standing in his shoes when he does.)
Show of hands, how many time travelers have you met? Anyone? You Eddie? Tao? No? None? Okay, how many idiot writers do you know by name?
"Ha! That's easy. Robin B. Lipinski is on the top of the list," a sentiment shared by many and they are correct, but Robin could give a shit, he only wants to inspire you to write.
Getting back to time travelers, don't know any do you? Of course not and you wouldn't recognize them either. Lets just say there are time travelers, you know, for the sake of conversation. Let's say some of those travelers went 'back' in time to various events, oh, lets say, the day the dinosaurs died...
"Boring Robin, stories about such have been written ad nauseam..."
Yeah, but since I'm a heretic how about time travelers going back to the day Jesus was crucified. How about with the full blessing of Jesus...
"You're going to burn in Hell!"
Trust me, been there, done that. Not fun.
Anyway, some people say the Bible is complete. There is nothing more to say or write... Really? Ha.
If you study the Bible you will see it is a compilation of writers, men from all walks of life. History. Time. Well, what about the stories of Jesus written while being with Jesus written by the' hidden Apostle', (with the full blessing of Jesus)only written back in the Time of the traveler, the Apostle needed for the time needed, far into the future. Words to fit with the teaching of Jesus, the story, only written for those who needed to understand as the progress of evolution progresses...
Got ya didn't I you miserable close minded dweeb. Go ahead, write a 'story'. Get a label of heretic. Get banned from local churches for writing such heresy.
And remember, there is no God, god, or gods are there? There is no evil entity known as Satan either... Oh, and for sure there is no such thing as 'time travelers'...
So, writer, have you gone through the three stages in the rites of passage on your way to being a writer? Don't know what those stages are? Trust me, you'll learn.
Now, for the following story you have to be a free thinker and some of you writers are housing minds of mush in your skulls. Some of you don't believe in God, god, gods, some of you don't believe in Demons, demons, trump...(just kidding about trump as that guy definitely has a date with destiny and I'm glad I'm not going to be standing in his shoes when he does.)
Show of hands, how many time travelers have you met? Anyone? You Eddie? Tao? No? None? Okay, how many idiot writers do you know by name?
"Ha! That's easy. Robin B. Lipinski is on the top of the list," a sentiment shared by many and they are correct, but Robin could give a shit, he only wants to inspire you to write.
Getting back to time travelers, don't know any do you? Of course not and you wouldn't recognize them either. Lets just say there are time travelers, you know, for the sake of conversation. Let's say some of those travelers went 'back' in time to various events, oh, lets say, the day the dinosaurs died...
"Boring Robin, stories about such have been written ad nauseam..."
Yeah, but since I'm a heretic how about time travelers going back to the day Jesus was crucified. How about with the full blessing of Jesus...
"You're going to burn in Hell!"
Trust me, been there, done that. Not fun.
Anyway, some people say the Bible is complete. There is nothing more to say or write... Really? Ha.
If you study the Bible you will see it is a compilation of writers, men from all walks of life. History. Time. Well, what about the stories of Jesus written while being with Jesus written by the' hidden Apostle', (with the full blessing of Jesus)only written back in the Time of the traveler, the Apostle needed for the time needed, far into the future. Words to fit with the teaching of Jesus, the story, only written for those who needed to understand as the progress of evolution progresses...
Got ya didn't I you miserable close minded dweeb. Go ahead, write a 'story'. Get a label of heretic. Get banned from local churches for writing such heresy.
And remember, there is no God, god, or gods are there? There is no evil entity known as Satan either... Oh, and for sure there is no such thing as 'time travelers'...
Re: Writers Parasite
(extracted, analyzed, approved)
Sexual Energy
Energy: Definition. Checking. Checking. Checking. Error, unable as what is displayed cannot be correct...
Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It is the communication between minds, dreams, worlds. Harness a river with a dam, force the water to cause the turbines blades to move and one can turn on their television miles away. Electricity? Energy? No, communication.
He was filled with energy today, and why? Communication. Energy. Vibes. Strange?
No, what was strange is how he tied himself to a chair. Bound his his feet and hands but first after locking the door and throwing the key out the window and then nailing the window shut.
Why?
He heard and was struck by the energy of sexual communication. He knew and understood, which is why the tape and chains.
Howling, with sweat pouring off his chest, his shirt now in tatters, an erection tearing fabric, and his howl? Eerie. A wolf mind filled with lust and longing, his mate far away, howling in heat.
Howl after howl, pulling hair and a scream half between the worlds of man and magic...
When the story was over, the chair was empty, the chains broken in two, and a door now shattered with pieces laying on the floor. In the distance came a howl, came the communication, the energy.
Sexual Energy
Energy: Definition. Checking. Checking. Checking. Error, unable as what is displayed cannot be correct...
Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It is the communication between minds, dreams, worlds. Harness a river with a dam, force the water to cause the turbines blades to move and one can turn on their television miles away. Electricity? Energy? No, communication.
He was filled with energy today, and why? Communication. Energy. Vibes. Strange?
No, what was strange is how he tied himself to a chair. Bound his his feet and hands but first after locking the door and throwing the key out the window and then nailing the window shut.
Why?
He heard and was struck by the energy of sexual communication. He knew and understood, which is why the tape and chains.
Howling, with sweat pouring off his chest, his shirt now in tatters, an erection tearing fabric, and his howl? Eerie. A wolf mind filled with lust and longing, his mate far away, howling in heat.
Howl after howl, pulling hair and a scream half between the worlds of man and magic...
When the story was over, the chair was empty, the chains broken in two, and a door now shattered with pieces laying on the floor. In the distance came a howl, came the communication, the energy.
Re: Writers Parasite
Lucky Bath
Written by: A Sick Man
Vance R. Luna, an average man with an average life of an average age for one stuck in a factory job of thirty years. Or, you could think of Vance as a loser, a piece of human shit that breathed air better spent fueling the coal fired generators just down the road from where Vance lived. Or, you could relate with this Vance if you are an average woman/man with an average life of an average age for one stuck in whatever shitty job you have. Your choice.
Vance did his job with an average performance and by now your mind is sick of reading about Vance and seeing the word average, so, to also let you know, Vance was waaaaay far below average in his luck. You see, for as shitty as Vance's life was he did have the dream of one day becoming a professional singer...
"No shit, a singer? Vance? A man who was bald, fat, ugly, and his Spanish heritage mixed with Irish, no way."
Shut up, you're a rude reader. Anyway, Vance dreamed of being a professional singer and of course no one would listen to his songs. Oh, he tried. He sang in the shower, he sang at work but was drowned out by the noise of the machines, and he recorded his songs and sent them away to various companies in hope of being discovered.
In thirty years of work and singing, he had never gotten a positive answer if he got any answer at all. All his recordings were complete failures, yet Vance continued. Vance continued because that was the only dream he could cling on too, every aspect of his life a complete failure.
One day though, one day was especially bad for Vance as he learned he had been fired from a factory he slaved at for thirty years. Management said, "Vance, we're going to have to let you go, we have machinery that can replace you. We know you only had another year until retirement but to show we're not completely heartless, we'll give you 25% of what you would gotten next year. And, here is a plastic potted plant to show our appreciation. Good luck."
Vance was devastated. He was used to bad news but this news hurt a little more than normal, after all thirty years was a lot to have invested in a shitty job. He went home, took a wonderful bath complete with bubbly soap and while he soaked he had a DVD player playing one of his recordings. He did enjoy singing so he sang along with his recording.
After taking the bath, he dressed in his finest clothes and then took a rope, tied a hangman's noose at the end, then he flung it up and over a hanging lame and he was just preparing to stand on the table and hang himself when the phone rang. This is strange as no one called Vance, so the strange sound caused a natural reflex of answering it, "Hello?" He said with caution in his voice.
"Is this Vance R. Luna?"
"Yes?"
"Hello Vance, this is Marko Lang from Spitty Recordings...
"Yes?"
"Well, I just wanted to call and let you know Mr. Ponkins loved your recording you sent in."
"Really? That's, that's...great."
"Yes, I thought you'd be happy. Anyway, could you come into our office here in New York next week so we can talk about a contract or do you have an agent you'd like to send instead?"
"No. No agent. I'll be there. What day and time?"
"How about Monday at 10:30am?"
"Sounds great, see you then."
Vance hung up the telephone and was on cloud nine. One minute preparing to die and the next getting the greatest news in the world. He was so happy he had to pee. Nerves and all.
Singing to himself and very much excited and happy, Vance went into the bathroom where his songs were still being played on the DVD. The floor was still wet where he had recently taken a bath and as his luck would have it, he slipped. As he slipped his arms flailed. As he flailed and fell his right arm swung and knocked the DVD player into the bathwater still filled with soapy bubbles.
Vance died that day, the best day of his life and his worst.
Written by: A Sick Man
Vance R. Luna, an average man with an average life of an average age for one stuck in a factory job of thirty years. Or, you could think of Vance as a loser, a piece of human shit that breathed air better spent fueling the coal fired generators just down the road from where Vance lived. Or, you could relate with this Vance if you are an average woman/man with an average life of an average age for one stuck in whatever shitty job you have. Your choice.
Vance did his job with an average performance and by now your mind is sick of reading about Vance and seeing the word average, so, to also let you know, Vance was waaaaay far below average in his luck. You see, for as shitty as Vance's life was he did have the dream of one day becoming a professional singer...
"No shit, a singer? Vance? A man who was bald, fat, ugly, and his Spanish heritage mixed with Irish, no way."
Shut up, you're a rude reader. Anyway, Vance dreamed of being a professional singer and of course no one would listen to his songs. Oh, he tried. He sang in the shower, he sang at work but was drowned out by the noise of the machines, and he recorded his songs and sent them away to various companies in hope of being discovered.
In thirty years of work and singing, he had never gotten a positive answer if he got any answer at all. All his recordings were complete failures, yet Vance continued. Vance continued because that was the only dream he could cling on too, every aspect of his life a complete failure.
One day though, one day was especially bad for Vance as he learned he had been fired from a factory he slaved at for thirty years. Management said, "Vance, we're going to have to let you go, we have machinery that can replace you. We know you only had another year until retirement but to show we're not completely heartless, we'll give you 25% of what you would gotten next year. And, here is a plastic potted plant to show our appreciation. Good luck."
Vance was devastated. He was used to bad news but this news hurt a little more than normal, after all thirty years was a lot to have invested in a shitty job. He went home, took a wonderful bath complete with bubbly soap and while he soaked he had a DVD player playing one of his recordings. He did enjoy singing so he sang along with his recording.
After taking the bath, he dressed in his finest clothes and then took a rope, tied a hangman's noose at the end, then he flung it up and over a hanging lame and he was just preparing to stand on the table and hang himself when the phone rang. This is strange as no one called Vance, so the strange sound caused a natural reflex of answering it, "Hello?" He said with caution in his voice.
"Is this Vance R. Luna?"
"Yes?"
"Hello Vance, this is Marko Lang from Spitty Recordings...
"Yes?"
"Well, I just wanted to call and let you know Mr. Ponkins loved your recording you sent in."
"Really? That's, that's...great."
"Yes, I thought you'd be happy. Anyway, could you come into our office here in New York next week so we can talk about a contract or do you have an agent you'd like to send instead?"
"No. No agent. I'll be there. What day and time?"
"How about Monday at 10:30am?"
"Sounds great, see you then."
Vance hung up the telephone and was on cloud nine. One minute preparing to die and the next getting the greatest news in the world. He was so happy he had to pee. Nerves and all.
Singing to himself and very much excited and happy, Vance went into the bathroom where his songs were still being played on the DVD. The floor was still wet where he had recently taken a bath and as his luck would have it, he slipped. As he slipped his arms flailed. As he flailed and fell his right arm swung and knocked the DVD player into the bathwater still filled with soapy bubbles.
Vance died that day, the best day of his life and his worst.
Re: Writers Parasite
Ice Cream
Amazing that people trust food. They don't trust themselves but when going to a store, restaurant, food cart...
Just because it has, 'FDA, USDA, CIA, FBI...' any government 'stamp', along with being wrapped so nicely with nice printing on the label, calories, ingredients, and an expiration date - people gobble it all up without a second thought. Completely trusting they have been sold a clean bill of goods.
***
It was your normal white truck with a smiley clown face painted on it. Parked on the street with its large speakers blaring out musical bell sounds.
The sounds worked as a line of small people known as children, lined up with parental approval and parents money, they gladly exchanged the money for the confection of their choosing.
There was hand scooped ice cream, ice cream bars, popsicle's, fudge bars... a vast choice for those young minds. Speaking of minds, ever get a brain freeze? Ah, the joy of happily munching down something cold only to get a throbbing pain in the shoulder, or head. Every human has usually experienced the pain, and then gleefully keep on munching.
Business that day was good for the ice cream vendor, the heat ensuring he sold almost all of his inventory.
For the little people that day was not so good, already most of the children had frozen solid. First their little brains froze and then the rest of their bodies.
If those little frozen people had looked closely at the vendor instead of concentrating on the target of deliciousness, they would have noticed the man dressed in white wearing a white hat - shimmered. If they were still alive they would have noticed that the truck, the music, and the man, were gone. They blinked out of existence.
Meanwhile, all those little frozen bodies now melted, only instead of flesh they turned into a delicious green goo so favored on the ship hiding behind the Moon. Soon, another white truck with a man dressed in white wearing a white hat, would go around and scoop up the goo. On the side of that truck the lettering will show, 'Department of Sanitation'.
***
So, you trust your food source? Ever see the food with - 'Made in China' on it? You trust China? For that matter do you trust the teen boy working the grill at whatever fast food restaurant you choose? Like the special sauce?
Along the same lines, don't lick your shirt if it's made in Thailand, Vietnam, Korea...they use a really powerful chemical to kill bugs that eat fabric.
I'm hungry. The parasite is hungry. I think I'll go eat some instant noodles labeled so nicely, 'Tongs Tasty Thai Soup,' made in China of course
Amazing that people trust food. They don't trust themselves but when going to a store, restaurant, food cart...
Just because it has, 'FDA, USDA, CIA, FBI...' any government 'stamp', along with being wrapped so nicely with nice printing on the label, calories, ingredients, and an expiration date - people gobble it all up without a second thought. Completely trusting they have been sold a clean bill of goods.
***
It was your normal white truck with a smiley clown face painted on it. Parked on the street with its large speakers blaring out musical bell sounds.
The sounds worked as a line of small people known as children, lined up with parental approval and parents money, they gladly exchanged the money for the confection of their choosing.
There was hand scooped ice cream, ice cream bars, popsicle's, fudge bars... a vast choice for those young minds. Speaking of minds, ever get a brain freeze? Ah, the joy of happily munching down something cold only to get a throbbing pain in the shoulder, or head. Every human has usually experienced the pain, and then gleefully keep on munching.
Business that day was good for the ice cream vendor, the heat ensuring he sold almost all of his inventory.
For the little people that day was not so good, already most of the children had frozen solid. First their little brains froze and then the rest of their bodies.
If those little frozen people had looked closely at the vendor instead of concentrating on the target of deliciousness, they would have noticed the man dressed in white wearing a white hat - shimmered. If they were still alive they would have noticed that the truck, the music, and the man, were gone. They blinked out of existence.
Meanwhile, all those little frozen bodies now melted, only instead of flesh they turned into a delicious green goo so favored on the ship hiding behind the Moon. Soon, another white truck with a man dressed in white wearing a white hat, would go around and scoop up the goo. On the side of that truck the lettering will show, 'Department of Sanitation'.
***
So, you trust your food source? Ever see the food with - 'Made in China' on it? You trust China? For that matter do you trust the teen boy working the grill at whatever fast food restaurant you choose? Like the special sauce?
Along the same lines, don't lick your shirt if it's made in Thailand, Vietnam, Korea...they use a really powerful chemical to kill bugs that eat fabric.
I'm hungry. The parasite is hungry. I think I'll go eat some instant noodles labeled so nicely, 'Tongs Tasty Thai Soup,' made in China of course
Re: Writers Parasite
Robin is gone tonight, last saw him crying to his doctor, sucking his thumb, and talking to a therapist...pussy. So the parasite gets to play today. Today is a perfect day to write a poem and display it here. It is not a poem Robin would write as lately he is a weak assed wanna be but I, however, will write one.
This poem is written, it is now a part of this fucked up world. Now if Robin could only lose what's left of his mind, it would make my life a whole lot better.
***
A Force
From fools follow what will fall from the Stars
First they said, 'We come in peace..."
For what are words if believed, swallowing science and view?
Technology beyond belief but before the masses
Joy
Clapping
"Wow, they came, they're here, they are our friends!"
Galaxies glimmer and fade - bright to dark and inside.
Eyes filled with stars and glory
Flags waving praise following accomplishment, and landing.
Inside the mind, can you feel it? Do you know the glow, the marks upon the soil showing what, where, when...
They looked to be so, harmless
They, them, those, to this; tragic.
When and over and beginning,
the way will wonder
the mind will wander
and many will lose their minds.
This poem is written, it is now a part of this fucked up world. Now if Robin could only lose what's left of his mind, it would make my life a whole lot better.
***
A Force
From fools follow what will fall from the Stars
First they said, 'We come in peace..."
For what are words if believed, swallowing science and view?
Technology beyond belief but before the masses
Joy
Clapping
"Wow, they came, they're here, they are our friends!"
Galaxies glimmer and fade - bright to dark and inside.
Eyes filled with stars and glory
Flags waving praise following accomplishment, and landing.
Inside the mind, can you feel it? Do you know the glow, the marks upon the soil showing what, where, when...
They looked to be so, harmless
They, them, those, to this; tragic.
When and over and beginning,
the way will wonder
the mind will wander
and many will lose their minds.
Re: Writers Parasite
"Tonight I'm gonna write..."
No, not tonight. I saw what you wrote yesterday and it made me angry.
"That wasn't me, that was..."
No, it was you and you don't want to see me get angry.
"What, you already stabbed, sliced, burned, and killed me a thousand different ways already. What more could you do? Oh, sure, that's what the delete button is for..."
***
Anger
Tasty to feel, bitter to taste, and full of color.
Red, some say, to represent.
Green, some say, leading to envy.
Black, some say, foul soul empty.
Some say, "He's crazy..."
Some say though not what they are inside,
angry.
Losing control?
Angry.
Loss?
Angry.
Change?
Angry.
Pain?
Angry.
Happy?
Angry...
Anger fills what needs, it sprouts where nothing else can grow
harvested to fulfill
it makes a world.
Are you angry today?
If not yesterday or today, then tomorrow
or
hiding when really,
there is always the smile.
No, not tonight. I saw what you wrote yesterday and it made me angry.
"That wasn't me, that was..."
No, it was you and you don't want to see me get angry.
"What, you already stabbed, sliced, burned, and killed me a thousand different ways already. What more could you do? Oh, sure, that's what the delete button is for..."
***
Anger
Tasty to feel, bitter to taste, and full of color.
Red, some say, to represent.
Green, some say, leading to envy.
Black, some say, foul soul empty.
Some say, "He's crazy..."
Some say though not what they are inside,
angry.
Losing control?
Angry.
Loss?
Angry.
Change?
Angry.
Pain?
Angry.
Happy?
Angry...
Anger fills what needs, it sprouts where nothing else can grow
harvested to fulfill
it makes a world.
Are you angry today?
If not yesterday or today, then tomorrow
or
hiding when really,
there is always the smile.
Re: Writers Parasite
Wonderful Eddie! That was your 666 post, of course it was because it had to be, everything in its place...Happiness, anger, sex, abstinence.
I love anger. Anger is just another 'word' for evolution which is why so many of those religious nuts need to be angry, only then can they grow.
***
Anger
Fuck You!
I hate You!
Can't you die?
Ahh..., smell the anger.
Savor the the relish
Those who only smile, hide the death inside
yet
death is not angry
only life.
Jesus was angry
so many forget as they are angry
When he died in pain,
he fulfilled the reality of life winning over death.
I love anger. Anger is just another 'word' for evolution which is why so many of those religious nuts need to be angry, only then can they grow.
***
Anger
Fuck You!
I hate You!
Can't you die?
Ahh..., smell the anger.
Savor the the relish
Those who only smile, hide the death inside
yet
death is not angry
only life.
Jesus was angry
so many forget as they are angry
When he died in pain,
he fulfilled the reality of life winning over death.
Re: Writers Parasite
Sex
Written by: Sex
Show of hands, how many of you readers like sex? Um, yep, just as I thought, all of you. Now, how many writers think about sex while writing? Same answer. You see, people are the definition of sex otherwise there wouldn't be readers or writers.
Now, there is the hard core way of writing about sex, "His cock was alive, it pulsed, throbbing with each beat of his lust filled heart..."
and there is the nice way, "Together the bond released a future..."
and then there is the way of the parasite...
"HeeHee, I fucked Robin in the ass when he was sleeping. I hate that prick, always telling me what I can and what I cannot do. So, when he was asleep and dreaming of Unicorns and cotton candy, I took my engorged member, lubed it up with some of that damn Crisco he burned me with... fooled him, yeah, I burned up but I managed to save some of it and so I rubbed it all over my dick and then I jammed it into his ass."
Really? Is that the story you're going to stick with?
"Oh shit, you're not supposed to be here, aren't you supposed to be sleeping?"
What, so you can fuck me in the ass? And since we're talking about ass-fucking, why would you do that and not cover me in Crisco and burn me?
"Uh, hmmm, well, uh..."
So, you're telling me you have a thing for ass? Makes sense for a parasite to also be an ass-fucker. I bet you would fuck the ass of a duck or dog, maybe a squirrel?
"No. Man. That's, that's just...sick. And I'm not an ass-fucker."
But you just wrote that you are, so what are you.
"I, I am a free willed, inspirational ...hey, what are you doing with that knife...Hey! Get away from me! Aggg!" (snip)
There, now he has one less 'thingy' to think about.
***
Sex sells in writing. People love sex. People are sex. The trick in writing about it is to tune into the mind of the reader and write about it.
Some like weird and bizarre, some like the subtle. Now, go write something, maybe a childhood story for your children's next Sunday school class.
Written by: Sex
Show of hands, how many of you readers like sex? Um, yep, just as I thought, all of you. Now, how many writers think about sex while writing? Same answer. You see, people are the definition of sex otherwise there wouldn't be readers or writers.
Now, there is the hard core way of writing about sex, "His cock was alive, it pulsed, throbbing with each beat of his lust filled heart..."
and there is the nice way, "Together the bond released a future..."
and then there is the way of the parasite...
"HeeHee, I fucked Robin in the ass when he was sleeping. I hate that prick, always telling me what I can and what I cannot do. So, when he was asleep and dreaming of Unicorns and cotton candy, I took my engorged member, lubed it up with some of that damn Crisco he burned me with... fooled him, yeah, I burned up but I managed to save some of it and so I rubbed it all over my dick and then I jammed it into his ass."
Really? Is that the story you're going to stick with?
"Oh shit, you're not supposed to be here, aren't you supposed to be sleeping?"
What, so you can fuck me in the ass? And since we're talking about ass-fucking, why would you do that and not cover me in Crisco and burn me?
"Uh, hmmm, well, uh..."
So, you're telling me you have a thing for ass? Makes sense for a parasite to also be an ass-fucker. I bet you would fuck the ass of a duck or dog, maybe a squirrel?
"No. Man. That's, that's just...sick. And I'm not an ass-fucker."
But you just wrote that you are, so what are you.
"I, I am a free willed, inspirational ...hey, what are you doing with that knife...Hey! Get away from me! Aggg!" (snip)
There, now he has one less 'thingy' to think about.
***
Sex sells in writing. People love sex. People are sex. The trick in writing about it is to tune into the mind of the reader and write about it.
Some like weird and bizarre, some like the subtle. Now, go write something, maybe a childhood story for your children's next Sunday school class.
Re: Writers Parasite
"I'mmmmm baaa-aaack!"
Uh huh, notice your limping today? Write your name in the snow lately?
"You're a dick Robin, always thinking you'll get the upper hand over me..."
Not thinking, knowing. You're a parasite and you will always...
"Excuse me you two, you're both acting childish." A beautiful voice enters this totally fucked up thread...
"Who the fuck are you?" The parasite was a bit cranky, you would be too if your 'thingy' was snipped.
Robin was silent and a bit embarrassed at hearing the beautiful voice as he knew the voice to be that of being his muse, his writers muse.
(All you writers need a muse. Sure, a parasite has benefits as they adhere to no boundaries, but a muse is always there for you)
"Yes, I'm Robins muse. I'm a bit surprised to see how there is so much better topics to write about than snipping off the penis of a parasite."
"Yeah, you got that one muse, I mean come on, relishing in cutting off my manhood, that Robin..."
"Be silent parasite. You and Robin might enjoy the childish behavior but you have no power over me."
"Yes I..."
"No. No you are a part of me just as I am a part of Robin. I inspire. I create. I know Robin better than he knows himself. Thus parasite, I also know you full well also..."
(You can't see it but the parasite turned a bit red, well, yeah there still was the red from all the blood spilled from the 'thingy' episode yesterday but of all the emotions on earth only Robin and his muse had any control over this parasite, and the parasite knew it)
"Okay. Alright. You win. Man, if I still had my thingy it would have been nice if you stroked..."
(slap)
"Ouch. Yeah, okay. Deserved that one."
***
See writers? Just using yourself, your own parasite, your own muse, you can not only enjoy writing but you too can show the reading world just how fucked up you are. As for my muse, best thing this writer could ever have. Maybe some day I'll introduce you to my critic, the last I saw him he was chained inside a box and sitting at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
Uh huh, notice your limping today? Write your name in the snow lately?
"You're a dick Robin, always thinking you'll get the upper hand over me..."
Not thinking, knowing. You're a parasite and you will always...
"Excuse me you two, you're both acting childish." A beautiful voice enters this totally fucked up thread...
"Who the fuck are you?" The parasite was a bit cranky, you would be too if your 'thingy' was snipped.
Robin was silent and a bit embarrassed at hearing the beautiful voice as he knew the voice to be that of being his muse, his writers muse.
(All you writers need a muse. Sure, a parasite has benefits as they adhere to no boundaries, but a muse is always there for you)
"Yes, I'm Robins muse. I'm a bit surprised to see how there is so much better topics to write about than snipping off the penis of a parasite."
"Yeah, you got that one muse, I mean come on, relishing in cutting off my manhood, that Robin..."
"Be silent parasite. You and Robin might enjoy the childish behavior but you have no power over me."
"Yes I..."
"No. No you are a part of me just as I am a part of Robin. I inspire. I create. I know Robin better than he knows himself. Thus parasite, I also know you full well also..."
(You can't see it but the parasite turned a bit red, well, yeah there still was the red from all the blood spilled from the 'thingy' episode yesterday but of all the emotions on earth only Robin and his muse had any control over this parasite, and the parasite knew it)
"Okay. Alright. You win. Man, if I still had my thingy it would have been nice if you stroked..."
(slap)
"Ouch. Yeah, okay. Deserved that one."
***
See writers? Just using yourself, your own parasite, your own muse, you can not only enjoy writing but you too can show the reading world just how fucked up you are. As for my muse, best thing this writer could ever have. Maybe some day I'll introduce you to my critic, the last I saw him he was chained inside a box and sitting at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
Re: Writers Parasite
Today was a great day as today there were two rainbows in the sky and another rainbow so fat it was more like a rainbow wall of color.
Writers are inspired by just about everything there is and nature is one such inspiration.
The parasite is banned tonight for his improper remarks yesterday to my muse, now if the parasite starts making derogatory comments about my enslaved critic covered in barnacles, I would welcome it.
***
Color
Written by: Nature
Battles go by the blue sky called clouds of many colors
Rain falls
Snow fly's
Temperatures follow.
Such beauty when seeing the bow
Temporary but lasting
If only the world could pause from its view of hate
and smell the sky, think of clouds, and see the colors.
Writers are inspired by just about everything there is and nature is one such inspiration.
The parasite is banned tonight for his improper remarks yesterday to my muse, now if the parasite starts making derogatory comments about my enslaved critic covered in barnacles, I would welcome it.
***
Color
Written by: Nature
Battles go by the blue sky called clouds of many colors
Rain falls
Snow fly's
Temperatures follow.
Such beauty when seeing the bow
Temporary but lasting
If only the world could pause from its view of hate
and smell the sky, think of clouds, and see the colors.
Re: Writers Parasite
"Oy vay..."
"Huh? Who are you? Wait, let me guess, another one of Robin's voices in his head."
"Who is this Robin? I know no Robin. And who are you, you look strange."
"I'm a writers parasite and I used to be the only one here but now, muse this, Robin that, some critic doomed to eternal pain, and now you? Geez, maybe I should become a science parasite."
"You speak funny, but...wait, who's that?" The short little Jewish man looked shocked as he pointed to something special.
"Oh, that's Robins Muse, pain in the...I mean, wonderful entity, just wonderful." The parasite is a pain in everyone's ass.
The short little Jewish man shook his head and said, "You all are a little too strange for me. I was looking for Yashua's Bar Mitzvah and ended up here. May you all live in peace. I go now." And with that, the short little Jewish man disappeared without even leaving his name.
The parasite of course added a derogatory comment, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."
***
It was a rock, an ordinary rock resting for thousands of years. First it lay buried in darkness, covered by a mountain of other rocks. Century after century passed until during one century, it was revealed to the world.
To reveal means to uncover the blindness to sight. Words. Pictures. Nature. All reveals.
Rain. Ice. Snow. Wind. The mountain eroded until the rock was revealed. This rock stood still, silent, and alone atop a cliff until one day the conditions were right and the rock rolled.
Gravity. Moments. Force. Nature. Magic. Revealing the motion set into place, and the rock moved into life. Its very actions set into motion other motions, other life, revealing more in the avalanche to follow.
As the rock careened down the canyon walls, it bounced and announced and with great force, slammed into the world.
So many pieces, so many flung in all directions, the rock continued to reveal as the dust now floated the winds.
Being.
"Huh? Who are you? Wait, let me guess, another one of Robin's voices in his head."
"Who is this Robin? I know no Robin. And who are you, you look strange."
"I'm a writers parasite and I used to be the only one here but now, muse this, Robin that, some critic doomed to eternal pain, and now you? Geez, maybe I should become a science parasite."
"You speak funny, but...wait, who's that?" The short little Jewish man looked shocked as he pointed to something special.
"Oh, that's Robins Muse, pain in the...I mean, wonderful entity, just wonderful." The parasite is a pain in everyone's ass.
The short little Jewish man shook his head and said, "You all are a little too strange for me. I was looking for Yashua's Bar Mitzvah and ended up here. May you all live in peace. I go now." And with that, the short little Jewish man disappeared without even leaving his name.
The parasite of course added a derogatory comment, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."
***
It was a rock, an ordinary rock resting for thousands of years. First it lay buried in darkness, covered by a mountain of other rocks. Century after century passed until during one century, it was revealed to the world.
To reveal means to uncover the blindness to sight. Words. Pictures. Nature. All reveals.
Rain. Ice. Snow. Wind. The mountain eroded until the rock was revealed. This rock stood still, silent, and alone atop a cliff until one day the conditions were right and the rock rolled.
Gravity. Moments. Force. Nature. Magic. Revealing the motion set into place, and the rock moved into life. Its very actions set into motion other motions, other life, revealing more in the avalanche to follow.
As the rock careened down the canyon walls, it bounced and announced and with great force, slammed into the world.
So many pieces, so many flung in all directions, the rock continued to reveal as the dust now floated the winds.
Being.
Re: Writers Parasite
First, a moment of silence as Robin had a short story accepted for an anthology. Yes, I know, this could only be impossible as Robin's writing, well, is a bit, strange? He had an invitation to write a short story last June so what the hell, he wrote a story the same day he got the invite, submitted it, and it was accepted.
Now, Robin wanted you writers to know that if Robin can have a piece of his, uh, writing... accepted then by the gods ruling the city dump, you all can.
This moment of silence is over and it is time to write something.
***
Longing With Loneliness
To that residing far away, wondering and wanting
Over horizon and hill
Filled with trepidation's ghostly wisps upon an iron chest.
Yellow flowers carry the message of a sunny day
Cows graze the green dale and stone
Hawks guard the sky secure.
There are smiles and comfort abound
Arms to wrestle the shadows of demons to ground
Soon the sun rises, the moon dances with light.
Where what is wanted, wherever, it comes
Comfort
Joy
Life...
Peace
***
W-h-a-t in the hell was that! A poem? Cows grazing? Dancing moon? Ye gods, what a bunch of drivel...
If I wrote a poem about (I have to scroll up to see what crappy title was picked) 'Longing With Loneliness'
Shit, that's lame. Okay.
Longing With Loneliness
Written by: The Writers Parasite
Left by legs once grasping the strippers pole
Money only now a G-string spent
and a fucking huge erect...
(Slap!)
Ah, come on muse. Don't you have some book report you have to write? Can't you...Hey, not again. Shit, you're a cruel bitch. Ahhh!
(This time the 'thingy' was spared, but the head of the parasite was removed and the muse put the disgusting, dirty, greasy, and utterly nasty thing into the cyber trash bin. Then did a complete removal of it all from the hard drive)
Now, Robin wanted you writers to know that if Robin can have a piece of his, uh, writing... accepted then by the gods ruling the city dump, you all can.
This moment of silence is over and it is time to write something.
***
Longing With Loneliness
To that residing far away, wondering and wanting
Over horizon and hill
Filled with trepidation's ghostly wisps upon an iron chest.
Yellow flowers carry the message of a sunny day
Cows graze the green dale and stone
Hawks guard the sky secure.
There are smiles and comfort abound
Arms to wrestle the shadows of demons to ground
Soon the sun rises, the moon dances with light.
Where what is wanted, wherever, it comes
Comfort
Joy
Life...
Peace
***
W-h-a-t in the hell was that! A poem? Cows grazing? Dancing moon? Ye gods, what a bunch of drivel...
If I wrote a poem about (I have to scroll up to see what crappy title was picked) 'Longing With Loneliness'
Shit, that's lame. Okay.
Longing With Loneliness
Written by: The Writers Parasite
Left by legs once grasping the strippers pole
Money only now a G-string spent
and a fucking huge erect...
(Slap!)
Ah, come on muse. Don't you have some book report you have to write? Can't you...Hey, not again. Shit, you're a cruel bitch. Ahhh!
(This time the 'thingy' was spared, but the head of the parasite was removed and the muse put the disgusting, dirty, greasy, and utterly nasty thing into the cyber trash bin. Then did a complete removal of it all from the hard drive)
Re: Writers Parasite
Imagine that once radiation was used to illuminate numbers on a wristwatch and opium was once sold in the Sears catalog. So much inspiration.
***
"Whatcha gonna do with them there bombs Pete?"
"Oh, I dunno. Was a thinking maybe using them as fencing material."
"Why in tarnation would ya being doint that? Ain't that a dangerous thing to do?"
"Nah, don't see's as how. Them bombs only go boom if'n ya hit that little button on the top, n I plan on standing them with them little buttons pointing down inta the dirt. That'a'ways nothing can hit the button."
Scratching his head in perplextion Pete's friend asked, "But, if'n you puts the bombs facing down, won't the ground makes em go boom?"
"Huh, never thought of that. Let's try it and see..."
BOOM!
(it's fun writing silly. if I were using bombs for fencing I'd put electrical tape over the button. electrical tape is handy stuff)
***
"Whatcha gonna do with them there bombs Pete?"
"Oh, I dunno. Was a thinking maybe using them as fencing material."
"Why in tarnation would ya being doint that? Ain't that a dangerous thing to do?"
"Nah, don't see's as how. Them bombs only go boom if'n ya hit that little button on the top, n I plan on standing them with them little buttons pointing down inta the dirt. That'a'ways nothing can hit the button."
Scratching his head in perplextion Pete's friend asked, "But, if'n you puts the bombs facing down, won't the ground makes em go boom?"
"Huh, never thought of that. Let's try it and see..."
BOOM!
(it's fun writing silly. if I were using bombs for fencing I'd put electrical tape over the button. electrical tape is handy stuff)
Re: Writers Parasite
Molin's Mind
"wracked flesh flayed upon a feeling of folly
for what is satisfaction if fed lies utterance fooled
tarry the tally till thus
as much as a circle tries so much so much so, so goes the truth
lost among ignorance, upon a feeling of folly
black
white
when blind following.
winds voice volleys carried such to plunge deep the lines of earth, the lines of a Universe
the lines ever the lines close
circled and forever
never really knowing.
See? There among the people?
Such fools to follow, such following fools
It is as it as is it
Lies..."
Behemeth
***
This is a poem I would submit to Aphelion if it were to be submitted but never again will there be submission to any or all. Only God has my respect and understanding as this world is nothing but a parasite for the soul. This is the poem of the protector, one who knows, one who grows, one and only as only it can be.
"wracked flesh flayed upon a feeling of folly
for what is satisfaction if fed lies utterance fooled
tarry the tally till thus
as much as a circle tries so much so much so, so goes the truth
lost among ignorance, upon a feeling of folly
black
white
when blind following.
winds voice volleys carried such to plunge deep the lines of earth, the lines of a Universe
the lines ever the lines close
circled and forever
never really knowing.
See? There among the people?
Such fools to follow, such following fools
It is as it as is it
Lies..."
Behemeth
***
This is a poem I would submit to Aphelion if it were to be submitted but never again will there be submission to any or all. Only God has my respect and understanding as this world is nothing but a parasite for the soul. This is the poem of the protector, one who knows, one who grows, one and only as only it can be.
Re: Writers Parasite
From her voice there is the sound of comfort,
Enya
this is inspired by your magical voice,
may the spirits continue to guide you and the Light of truth follow.
***
Ancient pits these rings, these circles
People of the mist and moor danced
Sharing the life.
Oceans filled excitement as the Moon kissed
Waves pulled and tossed
Deer leap far from shadow
Owl seen.
Leaf to come following season
to fall complete
harvest .
From your bosom , your breath, your voice
embraced this ear and soul
a writers thanks for the inspiration
Enya.
***
Robin is taking a different path now to show writers another form of writing. Inspiration of course is very important to a writer, so too, music.
If you're a writer, write a poem about your favorite singer/band. Try to listen to music you can't 'stand' and then write a story that comes into your mind.
If you want to really enjoy some great talent, listen to Enya, her voice is an earthly form of magic.
Now, go write something.
Enya
this is inspired by your magical voice,
may the spirits continue to guide you and the Light of truth follow.
***
Ancient pits these rings, these circles
People of the mist and moor danced
Sharing the life.
Oceans filled excitement as the Moon kissed
Waves pulled and tossed
Deer leap far from shadow
Owl seen.
Leaf to come following season
to fall complete
harvest .
From your bosom , your breath, your voice
embraced this ear and soul
a writers thanks for the inspiration
Enya.
***
Robin is taking a different path now to show writers another form of writing. Inspiration of course is very important to a writer, so too, music.
If you're a writer, write a poem about your favorite singer/band. Try to listen to music you can't 'stand' and then write a story that comes into your mind.
If you want to really enjoy some great talent, listen to Enya, her voice is an earthly form of magic.
Now, go write something.
Re: Writers Parasite
A bit, 'different'...
***
Balancing Log
From the line in the middle rose a granite mountain, rising really is not a word to fit the sight; mountain miles above reality.
Balanced at the pinnacle rested in balance, the Tree of Life. Living yet harvested. Only a fine point of bark separating the world from oblivion.
Spinning like a needle on a compass far below as the battle goes between North and South. As the Tree spin it spun out light to illuminate the darkness.
An owl flew by, course between the world and the balance of the Tree. It circled three times while the Tree wavered and stopped, lining up to talk.
Another owl joined, only it took up roost in one of the branches of the Tree, causing motion.
Yet again, another owl arrived, taking station on the world far below, and finally, the fourth owl grabbed the moon in its claws, squeezing until blood flowed.
By morning, all was normal again except now the Tree was no longer in balance, the mountain it balanced upon was leveled flat, the owls now ate their young, regurgitating branches once a part of the Tree.
In New York, a man fell to his death while exiting his taxi, and then another, and another, and by the end of the day, a mighty city was leveled flat.
***
Balancing Log
From the line in the middle rose a granite mountain, rising really is not a word to fit the sight; mountain miles above reality.
Balanced at the pinnacle rested in balance, the Tree of Life. Living yet harvested. Only a fine point of bark separating the world from oblivion.
Spinning like a needle on a compass far below as the battle goes between North and South. As the Tree spin it spun out light to illuminate the darkness.
An owl flew by, course between the world and the balance of the Tree. It circled three times while the Tree wavered and stopped, lining up to talk.
Another owl joined, only it took up roost in one of the branches of the Tree, causing motion.
Yet again, another owl arrived, taking station on the world far below, and finally, the fourth owl grabbed the moon in its claws, squeezing until blood flowed.
By morning, all was normal again except now the Tree was no longer in balance, the mountain it balanced upon was leveled flat, the owls now ate their young, regurgitating branches once a part of the Tree.
In New York, a man fell to his death while exiting his taxi, and then another, and another, and by the end of the day, a mighty city was leveled flat.
Re: Writers Parasite
A latex condom, just a simple condom used daily all around the world to catch sperm and prevent pregnancy. They cum in many sizes, colors, and even flavors but in the end (a bit of a pun here) in the end they still are simply condoms.
Pete had bought and used hundreds of condoms in his 47 years of life and tonight was just another moment of fucking, and fuck he did. His partner was a face he met at a bar and after only a few drinks and some words he soon had her in a motel where he unwrapped an unused simple latex condom.
It only took a few minutes and soon he had unloaded his load, and she unloaded his wallet and the moment was over...almost.
"Shit, damn thing won't come off," Pete was a bit flummoxed as he was having trouble removing his used condom from his now shriveled dick.
The hooker was amused, "Whatsa matter honey, having trouble?" She smiled as she could care less for men and their troubles, she had enough troubles of her own, but she did love money, oh yes, money.
"I can't get the damn thing off," and trying to pinch the cum pocket at the end of the condom he yelled out, "Shit! That hurts." And hurt it did, almost as if the condom had now become a part of his body.
Usually after sexual intercourse, males need to urinate as that is natures way of cleaning out 'nasty's.' Pete's body could wait no longer and he started to pee, filling the end of the condom with urine and stretching the rubber. This stretching caused Pete extreme pain.
The prostitute got scared and said, "Hold on honey, I'll call for help," and so she did, dialing 9-11. I wish you could have been there to see the conversation as to what was wrong...
***
There you go you sick perverted writers. Go with this topic. Explore it. Write a great story about how a simple latex condom becomes a part of a man permantly and if removed, the man will die, almost as if removing his heart. Think this story has been written before? Never, so make it yours or change it to be about a woman and her forms of birth control.
Pete had bought and used hundreds of condoms in his 47 years of life and tonight was just another moment of fucking, and fuck he did. His partner was a face he met at a bar and after only a few drinks and some words he soon had her in a motel where he unwrapped an unused simple latex condom.
It only took a few minutes and soon he had unloaded his load, and she unloaded his wallet and the moment was over...almost.
"Shit, damn thing won't come off," Pete was a bit flummoxed as he was having trouble removing his used condom from his now shriveled dick.
The hooker was amused, "Whatsa matter honey, having trouble?" She smiled as she could care less for men and their troubles, she had enough troubles of her own, but she did love money, oh yes, money.
"I can't get the damn thing off," and trying to pinch the cum pocket at the end of the condom he yelled out, "Shit! That hurts." And hurt it did, almost as if the condom had now become a part of his body.
Usually after sexual intercourse, males need to urinate as that is natures way of cleaning out 'nasty's.' Pete's body could wait no longer and he started to pee, filling the end of the condom with urine and stretching the rubber. This stretching caused Pete extreme pain.
The prostitute got scared and said, "Hold on honey, I'll call for help," and so she did, dialing 9-11. I wish you could have been there to see the conversation as to what was wrong...
***
There you go you sick perverted writers. Go with this topic. Explore it. Write a great story about how a simple latex condom becomes a part of a man permantly and if removed, the man will die, almost as if removing his heart. Think this story has been written before? Never, so make it yours or change it to be about a woman and her forms of birth control.
Re: Writers Parasite
"Damn Robin, latex condoms? Weird shit."
Not really, it was weird when the intestines of sheep were once used as primitive condoms, or when medicine men used to jump around and blow smoke in hopes of making it rain, and who the hell thought Obama was going to be a great President? Now that alone is much more bizarre than a latex condom becoming a permanent fixture of a man.
***
Dick was his name, Dick B. (last name omitted to protect the reality)
Dick was a one-eyed man chomping on a cigar and running a well used lawn mower. A bungee cord held the steering wheel onto the mower and it was a bit surreal to see this one-eyed man chomping on a cigar mowing in the rain.
Stopping to visit it was interesting to see who was more crazy, Dick or Robin. It can be argued that Robin is a dick but it is impossible for a dick to be Robin, but I digress. Both people stood talking about mowing lawns, the weather, and most importantly, Dick's crawler (bulldozer for you idiots).
Dick said, "I overhauled the engine three years ago, maybe four, and the sound coming from it is not coming from the pistons, or crank..."
"How's the oil pressure?" Robin asked while his body was absorbing another gallon of rain water.
"Lost the pressure but put in some new oil, the thicker kind and got the pressure up again."
"Oil pump, " Robin was now swimming laps around the recently mowed swamp.
"No, don't think so. Thinking it's coming from the lower end."
The water started getting about ten feet deep and it was time for Robin to swim home leaving Dick to float away in his house.
***
Today happened and this was written to show you writers that a story is in absolutely everything, even a story regarding two idiots visiting in a downpour. As a writer it is okay to exaggerate a bit about reality so to set the record straight, the water only got five feet deep, Robin can't swim, and Dick was the smart one as he sought the shelter of his home.
Not really, it was weird when the intestines of sheep were once used as primitive condoms, or when medicine men used to jump around and blow smoke in hopes of making it rain, and who the hell thought Obama was going to be a great President? Now that alone is much more bizarre than a latex condom becoming a permanent fixture of a man.
***
Dick was his name, Dick B. (last name omitted to protect the reality)
Dick was a one-eyed man chomping on a cigar and running a well used lawn mower. A bungee cord held the steering wheel onto the mower and it was a bit surreal to see this one-eyed man chomping on a cigar mowing in the rain.
Stopping to visit it was interesting to see who was more crazy, Dick or Robin. It can be argued that Robin is a dick but it is impossible for a dick to be Robin, but I digress. Both people stood talking about mowing lawns, the weather, and most importantly, Dick's crawler (bulldozer for you idiots).
Dick said, "I overhauled the engine three years ago, maybe four, and the sound coming from it is not coming from the pistons, or crank..."
"How's the oil pressure?" Robin asked while his body was absorbing another gallon of rain water.
"Lost the pressure but put in some new oil, the thicker kind and got the pressure up again."
"Oil pump, " Robin was now swimming laps around the recently mowed swamp.
"No, don't think so. Thinking it's coming from the lower end."
The water started getting about ten feet deep and it was time for Robin to swim home leaving Dick to float away in his house.
***
Today happened and this was written to show you writers that a story is in absolutely everything, even a story regarding two idiots visiting in a downpour. As a writer it is okay to exaggerate a bit about reality so to set the record straight, the water only got five feet deep, Robin can't swim, and Dick was the smart one as he sought the shelter of his home.
Re: Writers Parasite
Tillers Hammer
Written by: Memory
Dripping drops. Splattered mat of crushed bone affixed to forged steel, steel hammered by the gods themselves back in the misty days of Artlo.
Lifted by the arm of Tiller a god himself, a god of war of battle of strength. Bronze handle covered in the tanned flesh of the Beast, wire hair bristled sharply biting deeply into the leather hands of Tiller, a bloodless penetration unlike the penetration his hammer did, over and over and over, repeating the actions of carnage for years. Body, soul, nature, all falling to the level of this powerful man.
Once it was rumored that Tiller was human, that he had fallen in love only to have the invading army of Shadows take everything he held dear, away. It was said that the Shadows engulfed his body and tortured his soul until nature itself - changed. Of course rumors are only rumors until proven to be facts, but how could the rumor of Tiller be proven when he was older than the planet?
Unknown is a mystery relished by the imagination. While his past was only rumor and dreams, his present was obvious as the destruction left in his wake spanned many planets in many universes. He was aloof yet with a purpose not even the shadows dared try to challenge, his strength coming from the Hammer and his marriage to the chaos gods, gods best left alone.
A new army had formed on a planet worshiping a God, a power daring to try those who followed the Shadows. On this planet the call spread out as the gods of chaos cried, "T no ti so ti go'l T"
Tiller rose from his thrones and shaking his head to the many directions of fate, he strode through the gate to land on this planet daring to challenge chaos. His Hammer humming in song, his armor shined, his black eyes seeing Death.
Laser, bombs, bullets, swords, disease, Angels, Demons, God... a battle waged causing the pending bridge of Life to collapse. City after city fell to the Hammer. Angels destroyed. Demons destroyed. Everything laid waste as the god of chaos smiled.
Soon, the battle of eternity was coming to a close for yet another win for Tiller, one he cared less for other than to sate his desires known only to him.
So much death, so much pain, so much hate and yet Tiller had no emotions, he had nothing but the strength to destroy. His existence depended on his actions, actions causing so many negative actions...
"Please. Stop. Don't hurt my brother..."
Tiller, a god, a power, his Hammer the destruction of thousands of planets, his giant stature reeking now of magic and death, paused. Below him and his Hammer held at the ready stood a young girl standing before her crying brother who was holding a blanket woven of common sheep's wool.
The little girl reached out her small hand which held a simple flower, one of the last flowers remaining on the planet. "Please sir, I have no gold, treasure, I have nothing, but I have this simple flower the last thing of beauty on this world, this is all I can offer you. Please take it and if you must, take me but please spare my brother."
So much had been offered to Tiller in the past. Weapons of such imagination. Angels of such heavenly power. Demons pouring the Hell fire itself, attempting to destroy Tiller, and yet nothing could hurt him.
Tiller bent down to one knee, the ground shaking as he lowered his body down to be closer to this girl. Reaching out a hand he accepted the flower and in his eyes a tear formed. Never before had he cried, never before had he witnessed such innocence, never before had he been humbled such.
The gods of chaos screamed. Angels and Demons fled. God smiled.
In the coming centuries, the body of Tiller changed into an ocean filled with new life. New land masses rose filled with new life. There was peace. There was flowers. As for the Hammer of Tiller, it became a new Universe as the New gods of chaos were once again, searching.
Written by: Memory
Dripping drops. Splattered mat of crushed bone affixed to forged steel, steel hammered by the gods themselves back in the misty days of Artlo.
Lifted by the arm of Tiller a god himself, a god of war of battle of strength. Bronze handle covered in the tanned flesh of the Beast, wire hair bristled sharply biting deeply into the leather hands of Tiller, a bloodless penetration unlike the penetration his hammer did, over and over and over, repeating the actions of carnage for years. Body, soul, nature, all falling to the level of this powerful man.
Once it was rumored that Tiller was human, that he had fallen in love only to have the invading army of Shadows take everything he held dear, away. It was said that the Shadows engulfed his body and tortured his soul until nature itself - changed. Of course rumors are only rumors until proven to be facts, but how could the rumor of Tiller be proven when he was older than the planet?
Unknown is a mystery relished by the imagination. While his past was only rumor and dreams, his present was obvious as the destruction left in his wake spanned many planets in many universes. He was aloof yet with a purpose not even the shadows dared try to challenge, his strength coming from the Hammer and his marriage to the chaos gods, gods best left alone.
A new army had formed on a planet worshiping a God, a power daring to try those who followed the Shadows. On this planet the call spread out as the gods of chaos cried, "T no ti so ti go'l T"
Tiller rose from his thrones and shaking his head to the many directions of fate, he strode through the gate to land on this planet daring to challenge chaos. His Hammer humming in song, his armor shined, his black eyes seeing Death.
Laser, bombs, bullets, swords, disease, Angels, Demons, God... a battle waged causing the pending bridge of Life to collapse. City after city fell to the Hammer. Angels destroyed. Demons destroyed. Everything laid waste as the god of chaos smiled.
Soon, the battle of eternity was coming to a close for yet another win for Tiller, one he cared less for other than to sate his desires known only to him.
So much death, so much pain, so much hate and yet Tiller had no emotions, he had nothing but the strength to destroy. His existence depended on his actions, actions causing so many negative actions...
"Please. Stop. Don't hurt my brother..."
Tiller, a god, a power, his Hammer the destruction of thousands of planets, his giant stature reeking now of magic and death, paused. Below him and his Hammer held at the ready stood a young girl standing before her crying brother who was holding a blanket woven of common sheep's wool.
The little girl reached out her small hand which held a simple flower, one of the last flowers remaining on the planet. "Please sir, I have no gold, treasure, I have nothing, but I have this simple flower the last thing of beauty on this world, this is all I can offer you. Please take it and if you must, take me but please spare my brother."
So much had been offered to Tiller in the past. Weapons of such imagination. Angels of such heavenly power. Demons pouring the Hell fire itself, attempting to destroy Tiller, and yet nothing could hurt him.
Tiller bent down to one knee, the ground shaking as he lowered his body down to be closer to this girl. Reaching out a hand he accepted the flower and in his eyes a tear formed. Never before had he cried, never before had he witnessed such innocence, never before had he been humbled such.
The gods of chaos screamed. Angels and Demons fled. God smiled.
In the coming centuries, the body of Tiller changed into an ocean filled with new life. New land masses rose filled with new life. There was peace. There was flowers. As for the Hammer of Tiller, it became a new Universe as the New gods of chaos were once again, searching.
Re: Writers Parasite
I liked this months editorial by Dan. In my opinion, leaps-and-bounds better than all the previous ones I've read written by him. Good job.
Now, as for my writing... it sucks, but what the hell, sucking is better than blowing... I mean, blowing is okay and it sucks when hitting your thumb with a hammer...Now, for a baby, sucking the thumb is better than blowing strained peas...Ah, fuck it, gonna have fun writing a sucky story.
***
Sucking
Vampires suck blood which is strange as you would think arterial pressure would be such to be on par as trying to suck water from a water hose with the water pressure being 60psi. Yet, in all the movies, all the stories, suck, suck, sucking.
Vinny the vampire sucked at being a blood sucking monster of the night. The reason he sucked is because he actually had a fondness for Greek Yogurt. Yep, you read correctly. This devil of the night would sneak into Costco and steal cases of the yogurt. Then he would sneak into the library and read Agatha Christie mystery novels and suck up container after container of yogurt.
Word got out in the nether world about Vinny's 'habit'. A lot of head shaking and gnashing of teeth.
"That Vinny sucks. Can't even go out and suck blood out of those sucky humans. Problem is, there is nothing we can do about it and that in of itself, sucks."
"Ah, I wouldn't worry about it. I think Vinny is just going through a phase."
"So, you're on his side? I bet he sucked you into his little world, didn't he. Go ahead, admit it, you like that he does not suck blood."
"No, not at all. I suck blood, look at my teeth," and the normal vampire named Vance bared his fangs, fangs covered in fresh blood taken from a fat German baker.
"Yeah, I see you sucked..."
***
Oh shit, my head hurts writing this crap. It sucks, but at first it was fun writing about suck, and now it truly sucks. Maybe I should go suck my thumb.
How many of you writers have fun just writing stuff that sucks? I bet most of you are so wound up that if you sneezed too hard, your brain would explode, and yes, that would suck...
Have fun with writing. Enjoy it. And if others find some of what you write suck, then say, "Why thank you, glad you noticed."
Now, as for my writing... it sucks, but what the hell, sucking is better than blowing... I mean, blowing is okay and it sucks when hitting your thumb with a hammer...Now, for a baby, sucking the thumb is better than blowing strained peas...Ah, fuck it, gonna have fun writing a sucky story.
***
Sucking
Vampires suck blood which is strange as you would think arterial pressure would be such to be on par as trying to suck water from a water hose with the water pressure being 60psi. Yet, in all the movies, all the stories, suck, suck, sucking.
Vinny the vampire sucked at being a blood sucking monster of the night. The reason he sucked is because he actually had a fondness for Greek Yogurt. Yep, you read correctly. This devil of the night would sneak into Costco and steal cases of the yogurt. Then he would sneak into the library and read Agatha Christie mystery novels and suck up container after container of yogurt.
Word got out in the nether world about Vinny's 'habit'. A lot of head shaking and gnashing of teeth.
"That Vinny sucks. Can't even go out and suck blood out of those sucky humans. Problem is, there is nothing we can do about it and that in of itself, sucks."
"Ah, I wouldn't worry about it. I think Vinny is just going through a phase."
"So, you're on his side? I bet he sucked you into his little world, didn't he. Go ahead, admit it, you like that he does not suck blood."
"No, not at all. I suck blood, look at my teeth," and the normal vampire named Vance bared his fangs, fangs covered in fresh blood taken from a fat German baker.
"Yeah, I see you sucked..."
***
Oh shit, my head hurts writing this crap. It sucks, but at first it was fun writing about suck, and now it truly sucks. Maybe I should go suck my thumb.
How many of you writers have fun just writing stuff that sucks? I bet most of you are so wound up that if you sneezed too hard, your brain would explode, and yes, that would suck...
Have fun with writing. Enjoy it. And if others find some of what you write suck, then say, "Why thank you, glad you noticed."
Re: Writers Parasite
For writers the most important action in life (other than breathing and eating) is to write.
I need a challenge, the parasite is in a coma.
Anyone out there willing to play?
***
Come play with me with words
Words to try the mind
Mindful of possibility
Write about anything as everything is something
or
not
unless
of course
a coma.
***
Now, after saying such bullshit I'm going to write about dust.
Dust
Poor bastard standing on the ladder in the brutal heat. Sanding old paint and breathing in the flavors of age, dust, and seasons.
Flying by the Canadian geese honked in mindless chatter as they flew up and down the river while on a power pole sat an osprey with a tail flopping on a recently clutched fish.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down...that damn ladder taught the lesson of gravity and balance, and through it all, the poor bastard stood on the ladder in the brutal heat breathing dust.
"Why don't you wear a dust mask?" A simple question asked and one of reason.
"Who gives a shit, we're all going to die someday," the poor bastard replied.
"Oh, that's not a good way of thinking. Don't you care about your health?"
What is health? Is it a body in tune with nature and whole? Is it a mind sound and happy? If this were so than why are so many sick people, sick people with broken bodies and poor minds, smiling?
Dust. Health. Masks.
Life always going up and down, up and down, up and down...
I need a challenge, the parasite is in a coma.
Anyone out there willing to play?
***
Come play with me with words
Words to try the mind
Mindful of possibility
Write about anything as everything is something
or
not
unless
of course
a coma.
***
Now, after saying such bullshit I'm going to write about dust.
Dust
Poor bastard standing on the ladder in the brutal heat. Sanding old paint and breathing in the flavors of age, dust, and seasons.
Flying by the Canadian geese honked in mindless chatter as they flew up and down the river while on a power pole sat an osprey with a tail flopping on a recently clutched fish.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down...that damn ladder taught the lesson of gravity and balance, and through it all, the poor bastard stood on the ladder in the brutal heat breathing dust.
"Why don't you wear a dust mask?" A simple question asked and one of reason.
"Who gives a shit, we're all going to die someday," the poor bastard replied.
"Oh, that's not a good way of thinking. Don't you care about your health?"
What is health? Is it a body in tune with nature and whole? Is it a mind sound and happy? If this were so than why are so many sick people, sick people with broken bodies and poor minds, smiling?
Dust. Health. Masks.
Life always going up and down, up and down, up and down...
Re: Writers Parasite
What does a writer do when they have a bad day? Of course, they write. If they don't write or only write when they 'feel' like it then they are truly not a writer.
Darkness is inspirational just as the positive warmth of the Sun. Both bring to light what is inside a writers mind and both have their place.
Today Robin had a shitty day but at least he saw another osprey eating a fish it caught. Yesterday he saw one catch a fish. Maybe tomorrow he will see a fish jump out of the water and catch an osprey...which leads to the parasite feasting on such a topic.
***
Prey
What if a mouse snuck up and ate a cat?
Or a worm strangle a bird?
Impossible?
A biped with skinny arms and legs throwing a small stone tipped stick...
Killing a saber tooth tiger
or
cave bear...
When did humans go from being helpless prey
to
king of killing that which kills?
Amen
Darkness is inspirational just as the positive warmth of the Sun. Both bring to light what is inside a writers mind and both have their place.
Today Robin had a shitty day but at least he saw another osprey eating a fish it caught. Yesterday he saw one catch a fish. Maybe tomorrow he will see a fish jump out of the water and catch an osprey...which leads to the parasite feasting on such a topic.
***
Prey
What if a mouse snuck up and ate a cat?
Or a worm strangle a bird?
Impossible?
A biped with skinny arms and legs throwing a small stone tipped stick...
Killing a saber tooth tiger
or
cave bear...
When did humans go from being helpless prey
to
king of killing that which kills?
Amen
Re: Writers Parasite
Musical Poetry
Lyrics unfold as the voice carries
emotion of days spent and coming
clouds forming on the morning, evening spent.
Baby crying in a world trying, dying to be heard
Old man's tortured lungs gasping, squeezed by pneumonia
Penetration of penis of words of weapons of inspiration...
All around a world sings praise of life of death
both in order; stanza stacked
forming
End a beginning,
Beginning a end.
Lyrics unfold as the voice carries
emotion of days spent and coming
clouds forming on the morning, evening spent.
Baby crying in a world trying, dying to be heard
Old man's tortured lungs gasping, squeezed by pneumonia
Penetration of penis of words of weapons of inspiration...
All around a world sings praise of life of death
both in order; stanza stacked
forming
End a beginning,
Beginning a end.
Re: Writers Parasite
Why does it always happen when new?
New car, new windshield - connecting with an old rock resulting in a ding in the metal, a cracked windshield - then, nothing happens for months.
Murphy's Law: It sucks
***
It was a new planet,one of billions created in a passing moment, some could say, folly.
New, pretty, beautiful, lovely, pristine... and just after it was created.
"Bam!"
Evil touched the surface, bouncing off like a rock off a windshield, continuing on its way to find some other planet to crash into.
Meanwhile, for millions of years, not much else happened for the planet. Just your normal evolutionary progress of trial-and-error filled with normal evolutionary boredom and excitement...
And just as the new car has the crack spreading slowly across the windshield, aging and causing the vision of the driver to blur so too the evil spread across the planet.
There are options of removing and replacing broken windshields and planets but then Murphy's Law will enforce its will again, and again, and again...
I say, lets get together and get rid of Murphy's Law, replace it with pizza!
New car, new windshield - connecting with an old rock resulting in a ding in the metal, a cracked windshield - then, nothing happens for months.
Murphy's Law: It sucks
***
It was a new planet,one of billions created in a passing moment, some could say, folly.
New, pretty, beautiful, lovely, pristine... and just after it was created.
"Bam!"
Evil touched the surface, bouncing off like a rock off a windshield, continuing on its way to find some other planet to crash into.
Meanwhile, for millions of years, not much else happened for the planet. Just your normal evolutionary progress of trial-and-error filled with normal evolutionary boredom and excitement...
And just as the new car has the crack spreading slowly across the windshield, aging and causing the vision of the driver to blur so too the evil spread across the planet.
There are options of removing and replacing broken windshields and planets but then Murphy's Law will enforce its will again, and again, and again...
I say, lets get together and get rid of Murphy's Law, replace it with pizza!
-
Lester Curtis
- Long Fiction Editor
- Posts: 2736
- Joined: January 11, 2010, 12:03:56 AM
- Location: by the time you read this, I'll be somewhere else
Re: Writers Parasite
Murphy's Pizza—? What, you want 'em to put the wrong toppings on your pie EVERY time instead of just once in a while?
I was raised by humans. What's your excuse?
Re: Writers Parasite
Nah, Robin's pizza...You can never go wrong with anchovies (fresh or sour), sour cream (fresh or spoiled), pineapple (definitely spoiled) mushrooms (all varieties to include poisonous) and of course, cheese...Lots of cheese. Stinky, bitter, moldy,... and for your inspiration Lester, a short parasite rendition of Pizza.
***
Poor mans food, that is what pizza was created for. Back in the day the cook of the home had leftovers which sometimes where only remnants of a meal but since food was scarce in poor families nothing was wasted.
What better way than to throw all the scraps on top of some dough and bake it. Thus pizza was born.
A trick Robin learned back when he was a glutton, was that when sharing pizza with a group of friends it was wise to order anchovies and pineapple on half of the pie thus ensuring having the half all to himself. This worked great until another fat glutton from Canada arrived one day and he too enjoyed the strong taste of fish.
It worked out though as this 'person' disappeared one day which coincided with some wonderful pizza's being baked. They were delicious. Filled with large chunks of 'Canadian' bacon along with anchovies and pineapple. Man, those little pigs living under the flag of the Maple leaf sure are tasty!
***
Poor mans food, that is what pizza was created for. Back in the day the cook of the home had leftovers which sometimes where only remnants of a meal but since food was scarce in poor families nothing was wasted.
What better way than to throw all the scraps on top of some dough and bake it. Thus pizza was born.
A trick Robin learned back when he was a glutton, was that when sharing pizza with a group of friends it was wise to order anchovies and pineapple on half of the pie thus ensuring having the half all to himself. This worked great until another fat glutton from Canada arrived one day and he too enjoyed the strong taste of fish.
It worked out though as this 'person' disappeared one day which coincided with some wonderful pizza's being baked. They were delicious. Filled with large chunks of 'Canadian' bacon along with anchovies and pineapple. Man, those little pigs living under the flag of the Maple leaf sure are tasty!
Re: Writers Parasite
A man wrote me and told me that Steve owes the propane company for 1000 gallons of propane, now why such gossip?
A man wrote me and told me that Steve and Bonnie are involved with the IRS, now why such gossip?
Of course, the parasite will feed upon such writing.
***
Gossip
Did you hear?
"What?"
Donald Trump is going to be elected president and then he will be assassinated...
"Who told you that?"
He did...
"You mean he called you on the telephone and told you?
No, he told me.
"You're full of shit. What about Hillary getting elected, what about her?"
Where she is going she won't be telling anyone much of anything.
***
Gossip: An age old tradition of passing on news to the tribe. A way of warning, of letting others be aware, often true often not often entertaining...But imagine this, 'Trump Day' a Federal holiday only a few weeks after celebrating Martin Luther King Day. That would be interesting gossip indeed. R.I.P. Donald, gives a whole new meaning to 'parting hair'.
A man wrote me and told me that Steve and Bonnie are involved with the IRS, now why such gossip?
Of course, the parasite will feed upon such writing.
***
Gossip
Did you hear?
"What?"
Donald Trump is going to be elected president and then he will be assassinated...
"Who told you that?"
He did...
"You mean he called you on the telephone and told you?
No, he told me.
"You're full of shit. What about Hillary getting elected, what about her?"
Where she is going she won't be telling anyone much of anything.
***
Gossip: An age old tradition of passing on news to the tribe. A way of warning, of letting others be aware, often true often not often entertaining...But imagine this, 'Trump Day' a Federal holiday only a few weeks after celebrating Martin Luther King Day. That would be interesting gossip indeed. R.I.P. Donald, gives a whole new meaning to 'parting hair'.
Re: Writers Parasite
Remember Vincent Price? For those of you who don't remember much, I'll give you a multiple choice: A. Vincent Price was the 17th president of the United States B. Vincent Price was an actor along with Bill Cosby in the movie, Alien C. Vincent Price wrote poetry for Playboy magazine D. All of the above.
Of Course the answer is E.
Vincent was pretty good in his day regarding horror, in this day he would not do well as most people are numb. Just go to any current horror movie and watch not the movie but the faces of the young people. I've seen gravestones in a cemetery with more emotion than what's on the kids faces, and that is scary.
***
Friday the 13th
Fluffy was a black cat. He once had testicles but his owner got him 'fixed' (amazing, cut off balls and call it fixed, strange logic)
Fluffy once had balls and fucked other cats but now he wore a little silver bell and grew fat. Yes, Fluffy was now a fat black cat with no balls.
Some people are scared of black cats and I suppose if Fluffy still had his balls he could be one scary bastard but now it was humorous to watch fluffy waddle across the yard.
Some people are scared when they see a black cat cross in front of them, for Bernie though, he licked his lips in anticipation when he spotted Fluffy cross in front of him, the cats body roiling with fat and the tinkling sound coming from the little silver bell.
Bernie was a strange man. He stepped on cracks on the sidewalk, walked under ladders, broke mirrors, and he loved to eat black cats. On this particular Friday the 13th Bernie dined on Fluffy, eating almost the entire cat but Fluffy was fat and so there would be left-overs for the 14th. Judging by the look on Bernie's face, Fluffy was a tasty feline. As for the little silver bell it was added to the pile of other collars and bells.
Outside, Fluffy's owner was heard yelling out, "Fluffffy, here fluffy. Dinner time. Here fluffy..."
***
On a related note, I've not eaten house cat but I've eaten mountain lion and the meat of the lion is white and tastes so much like pork you cannot tell the difference.
Bon appetit
Of Course the answer is E.
Vincent was pretty good in his day regarding horror, in this day he would not do well as most people are numb. Just go to any current horror movie and watch not the movie but the faces of the young people. I've seen gravestones in a cemetery with more emotion than what's on the kids faces, and that is scary.
***
Friday the 13th
Fluffy was a black cat. He once had testicles but his owner got him 'fixed' (amazing, cut off balls and call it fixed, strange logic)
Fluffy once had balls and fucked other cats but now he wore a little silver bell and grew fat. Yes, Fluffy was now a fat black cat with no balls.
Some people are scared of black cats and I suppose if Fluffy still had his balls he could be one scary bastard but now it was humorous to watch fluffy waddle across the yard.
Some people are scared when they see a black cat cross in front of them, for Bernie though, he licked his lips in anticipation when he spotted Fluffy cross in front of him, the cats body roiling with fat and the tinkling sound coming from the little silver bell.
Bernie was a strange man. He stepped on cracks on the sidewalk, walked under ladders, broke mirrors, and he loved to eat black cats. On this particular Friday the 13th Bernie dined on Fluffy, eating almost the entire cat but Fluffy was fat and so there would be left-overs for the 14th. Judging by the look on Bernie's face, Fluffy was a tasty feline. As for the little silver bell it was added to the pile of other collars and bells.
Outside, Fluffy's owner was heard yelling out, "Fluffffy, here fluffy. Dinner time. Here fluffy..."
***
On a related note, I've not eaten house cat but I've eaten mountain lion and the meat of the lion is white and tastes so much like pork you cannot tell the difference.
Bon appetit