I got the idea a while back from Radosaur, who’s been doing it for a few weeks now, and, well, I’m pretty good with words, so yeah. In general, I’ll do anything you guys pitch me, but I’m not all that keen on erotic literature. For some reason, that whole genre has always eluded me.
And another thing: requests should be posted in this thread. If you’d rather keep the subject of the story and the story private, post in this thread so I can still do my stats, but Tubmail me the actual subject. The stories will be delivered to you as soon as I finish them, by means of Tubmail and/or Rapidshare. If you do not explicitly specify that you want to keep the story private, I may decide to use fragments of it as examples of my work in this thread.
1.
So as I feel my words leaking through my fingertips I think about the other times this nearly happened and I stand in awe. She sat sideways from him Understand that I need to do this he thought This is all useless right here and now I don’t care about her excuses but she just would not stop justifying herself in his eyes it was all rubbish as the drunken nights of old would slowly seep into his subconscious being. Understand, Gregor, understand me and she insisted that he smile and nod and pretend he cared Dear don’t you think it’s about time we forgot about all this nonsense and just speak the truth but instead he smiled politely and nodded like the false truths she wanted were real but they’re not and I couldn’t care less about the guilt you feel while bringing the inevitable endings (thousands of them) into my eyes.
I feel the lies and deception inside of my veins and I sense the throbbing of my heart while it tries to eject them from my system without realizing that it’s a perfect symbiosis and not only that but I’ve never been closer to myself than now, when I wanted to run into the great nothingness that my arms can’t grab.
Well don’t just sit there, Gregor, answer she shouted back at him And you would like me to just tell you that I understand and that it’s ok but I’m not doing that so then you have to live with my stare in the back of your head and the memory of the haze I’m traversing.
I have a throng of emotions (mostly negative ones) racing through the back of my head and a horde of curse words struggling to get out through my mouth and become material, but I keep them inside, so that I may experience them myself and transform my own flawed psyche into something stronger, perhaps deranged, but stronger.
Perhaps I’ve been a bit too rash in my past decision to just fling my involuntary flashbacks at you, my friend and reader. I should probably start at the beginning of all this nonsense but I can’t actually pinpoint when the turmoil started. It seems it’s been this way forever: the endless rationalization of the past mistakes and the failure to avoid them in the future. I guess I’m a bit hard to follow right now, but please bear with me, as, I promise, the outcome will be as satisfying to you as painful it is to me.
Right now we are in a room filled with the most unlikely group of people, from rash, hot-blooded soccer fans, to the apparently cultured, frail pseudo-intellectuals that I hate with the depth that only a man who has quietly watched the desperation acgreat timesulate in his innermost self for the most of his life can posses. In a corner, there is an apparent couple. No, not the guys with the tie-dye t-shirts. A bit more to the left. There you are the two sitting and staring into each other’s eyes. Now, a casual observer would quickly dismiss the way that they look at each other as love or at least the sort of deformed teenage lust that is most often mistaken for love, but I know that you are a far-better trained individual and you will notice the way in which he tightens his fists around his arms while never changing the direction of the stare. Of course, you will also notice the way in which she’s talking, nervously, just to fill the conversational gaps that his refusal to speak generate. You may have already noticed that her stare doesn’t falter either. They are acting, but they’re not very good at it.
Let’s go a bit closer and try to hear what they’re (or, better said, she’s) saying.
“Gregor, you have to understand the deep significance of this fact. You must see beyond your own petty point of view and regard the higher plane. I am being offered a new existence, entrance into a new plane of existence. Surely you can see how I am forced to make this decision.” She says this while franticly searching for something inside the small, leather hand-bag she always carries around.
“Gregor, you must understand what it is you’re asking me to give up! It’s amazing to me how you can disregard my wish to accede to this new life. I’ve been looking for a door like this to open up ever since I was a child!” She is getting impatient with his silence. She never could keep her cool, now that you mention it. He was always better at games like this.
“Gregor, God damn it! Just say something instead of staring at me with that all-knowing look that has always annoyed me! God damn it, Gregor!”
He flinches a bit, all the while stroking his left eyebrow with a nervous gesture, never taking his eyes off of hers and, while reaching for a new cigarette (the old one is done now, turned to ash in his hand, even though he never did get a chance to inhale the smoke… he usually forgets things like this), brakes the wall of silence that he had surrounded himself in for the past fifteen minutes:
“Your problem is that you think that I don’t understand. You think that I don’t realize what’s wrong in this whole picture. First of all, you have not been a God-damned mystic your entire life. Second of all, you are not a mystic now, as mystics do not exist. We both know that they never have and that this is entirely a story made up so you could do this without any remorse. Third of all, and most importantly, even though I may admit the fact that you are the mystic you claim to be, there is no proof that you would be ready for the trials that would await you, would any of the ridiculous story you just tried to spoon-feed me be even remotely real. Fact of the matter is, my love, that you’re just bored with your life the way it is and you want to change it, blowing everything else to hell, as you do.”
Okay, in case you, my friend, haven’t figured it out (even though I doubt that this is a truth that can be oblivious to such an astute reader as you most evidently are) that I am Gregor, and that this is the end of the story that I am going to tell you. Buckle up, my friend, as it is most definitely going to be one hell of a ride.
5.
Many winters pbumed and the children played in the snow once more. The lone prince just stood there on the ledge of the jade towers’ platform. He didn’t disturb anyone and the people just learned not to bother him anymore.
6.
Dear Gregor,
It’s been a long road and at the end of it I see nothing for us. The thing is, Gregor, that you’re not like other people. I made you that way and that is why you can never be happy and why I can never stay by your side. You are the monster that spawned from within the darkest corners of my soul. But, Gregor, you are not the beast you seem to think you are. You are perhaps deformed, but not evil.
Fact of the matter is, Gregor, that I needed you, if only to know you were out there. My exact opposite Yes I’m sure it’s thrilling for you to know you’ve created me the way I am, or, as you would say, “The Yin to my Yang”; Bull****.
My dearest Gregor,
I find myself thinking of you in times of darkness and despair. The Group is now gone and I have nobody to fall back onto. You’re not here to help me overcome my problems and now I realize the fool I was in thinking I made you who you are. Truth be told, Gregor, you made me.
Yours forever
I.
17.
So it came down to this. You had decided to write. You didn’t know what, though. So you just sat down, and started to write. You had no idea what you were doing and as your fingers hit the keys they formed words that didn’t really sprout from you and for which you could take no merit what so ever. These words aren’t yours and băga-mi-aș pula să-mi bag. Funny repetition in swear words. Nobody seems to notice the poetic value that they have, until someone points it out. In fact you hadn’t even noticed. Why the extra “să-mi bag”? It makes no sense unless it’s there solely for the poetic, esthetic and phonetic effect, because, semantically speaking, it is in fact redundant. The problem with you is that you still don’t know what it is you’re writing, so just write telegrams from the other side.
The weather is bad stop It’s almost winter stop. Miss stop.
This would actually extend to an entire paragraph, were you to write it as a letter and not a telegram. Telegrams are short, by default. Nobody uses them unless it’s urgent, because they charge by the word, which is the strangest thing you could ever think of, because words are your currency and, the more you have, the richer you are. Screw Occam: abundance of words does generate complex and meaningful semantics. But you’re getting side-tracked. You were saying how this telegram from the other side would be an entire paragraph, were you to write it as a letter. So you do:
The rain has stopped for a moment and started again, stronger than before. It is as if the skies are broken and the entire universe is being poured down, in liquid form, in an attempt to dissolve me into nothingness . The trees have fallen off of the leaves a long time ago and now they’re waiting to be covered by a dense, solid fog. Snow will not yet show itself, but I can feel it is drawing near. I miss my natal plains where I used to run with my heels up to my forehead and where I buried myself in fresh soil and waited for a tree to sprout up and grow more of me so that I could one day see the world in its entirety at the same time. Avata Vata Avata Vata Avata Vata Avata r.
Your ideas are no more and you are not here and here is not you and the place you’re in is not anywhere and this is what Nirvana must feel like but I remember now that Nirvana is about not feeling anything and about calm and peace beyond what normal men achieve but you do it all the time it’s like when you sleep but you’re awake but not really because even though your eyes are open they’re not actually seeing anything and even though you can hear you’re not actually listening to anything and even though you’re not dreaming you’re not thinking and this comes so naturally you can’t believe that people spend their entire lives chasing this it’s like any drug trip and now you think you know what chasing the dragon means but you’re not really sure and it’s annoying to know exactly how futile this all is because the writing is not coming from you but from somewhere else and you get angrier and angrier and then you get kicked out of Nirvana, leaving Buddha, Shiva and Vishnu to hang out in their exclusivist club alone once more but the river doesn’t stop there and you feel that the words are bleeding away from you and they hurt as you’re not the best medium to transmit them from one world to the other and the words words words words words words words words words
The thing with you is that you feel this all much too intensely and you shouldn’t really. And there is Pulp Fiction on repeat in the background and you hear it for the millionth time but you notice it just now. “Why do people have to constantly yak about bull****?” And it’s true. And the character is right. The fictional character has realized this before you. How does it feel, philosopher? How does it feel, filozoafe? You have just been outsmarted by a person that never really existed. Are you proud? You should be really and the words are still dripping away, slowing down with each one as there aren’t that many left ‘cause just like blood words have to be replenished by the organism and you’re going to die when the last one pours out. You do know that, filozoafe, don’t you?
Why does nobody do this? Why does nobody talk about swearing and how beautiful it is? It is incredible what phonetic and esthetic beauty one can perceive in simple curse words. The English language is a bit limited in this department, but then again, there are languages in which swearing is almost an art. Romanian for example:
Futu-ți morții mă-tii să ți-i fut astăzi și mâine. Băga-mi-aș pula-n mă-ta să-mi bag.
For the non-speaker, this does appear to be a harmless expression. Look at it carefully. Doesn’t it look beautiful? Try to pronounce it, to the best of your possibilities (note: “ă” is pronounced „ah”, „ț” is „tz” and „ș” is „sh”). Just say it a few times, and see how it sounds. I’m serious here, and you, my most obedient of readers, must comply. For if you do not, I say that you forfeit the rest of this book and start reading something worthwhile, for this is obviously a waste of your time. Should you choose to stay with me, we will find out many an interesting thing while taking this journey. The exercises we make are ours and ours alone and nobody can take what we have learned away from us and we hate the people who try and we’re done here for the moment and now you turn your head and you see the pulp fiction on the background and you stop to look and after fifteen minutes you start to write again in hopes that now you will have something better to say but you really don’t, not at all and now you’re in the god damn word-by word chaos area and there are almost no words left and you feel that you’re slowly fading away and the words are leaking out somehow and they’re still there but not quite as many, actually there are only a few left and they’re leaving you with an impressive speed and you don’t know what to do with yourself and this doesn’t make more sense to you than it does to you because the words mean nothing in fact they’re there just do block any form of meaningful communication and the words are leaking and there are no more words and the words are leaking and now pretty soon not now though the words will be done and then this will be over and the writing will stop and you will stop and the words will stop and then there will be nothing left and there is nothing left inside and the words have stopped.
ITT: I write short stories for BPs
