?

Log in

Writer Feedback's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
Writer Feedback

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

[17 Jul 2006|08:14pm]

biweeklybrkdwn

is this community still alive?
is anyone still out there?

post comment

[07 Dec 2004|10:39pm]

iamdanakscully
sortof ripping off e.e. cummings, but at least i'll admit to it.
please comment and tell me it sucks and what to do with it.
thanks.
_______________________________
i always expect it to be better
this was close to
numbing
too much pink icing (sugar) on an Empty stomach
s l i dingover flesh
sort of feverishly
sand.
under.
skin
or damp socks
i'm -Inconveniently convenient
warmmilkandcrumbs .spilled
they tickle and
violate i feel
gross
used
and Pretty.
so i dig long nails in deeper and bite
a lip to draw blood. out
with reality
post comment

New here [12 Nov 2004|02:20pm]

lovingpoison
Well, to start off I must say I'm only sixteen...please do not expect much. This is a short horror story I wrote a few months ago, and when I posted it on another website it was eclipsed by my stories with more popular subject matter. This remains my favourite, and I would love good, critcal reviews. Thanks.

Chapter OneCollapse )

Chapter TwoCollapse )

Chapter ThreeCollapse )

Chapter FourCollapse )
post comment

[10 Jul 2004|12:37am]

deadsoulborn
Alright, before you read this, I'm sorry for wasting your time because it's terrible. Quick update on my life, only because it pertains to this community.

I moved from syracuse, NY to memphis, TN. Somewhere in the move, my computer got messed up, so I had to reformat. I had a cd with ALL my writing on it, and I LOST IT. All my books of the originals I accidentally left at my parents house, and before I left I told them they could throw away everything in my room that was left because I no longer wanted it. So, I'm completely pissed off at myself now.

This is a story I wrote in an hour and a half, and as far as I'm concerned it's drivel. But tell me what you think anyways please. It was a concious departure from my usual style (stories of mostly description, now an actual story) just to see if I could do it.

I also have a proposition... that being if someone would like to actually try and write a collaborative story (someone write a starting paragraph/few sentances, sends it to the other for them to write for a while, and it continues) I would like to try it. A clash of styles may come up because of influences/vocabulary/etc., but it could be interesting.

Anyways....


I always associate the noise of doors slamming to the pain I feel in my fingers. Every time it gets damp I can feel it in my knuckles. His face flashes in my eyes as I massage my hands. When I heard the police say that she was dead, and he opened his mouth in a false exasperated choke, I could see blood on the tip of his tongue that led down his throat like a tunnel to hell. When we walked into the house that cold night three weeks later, it didn’t seem the same. I could hear her tortured screams echo down the halls, bouncing off the walls and drilling into my head. She was still alive in the room. Her voice hung in the white textured curtains and parts of the green and red floral carpet. The blood red walls held no trace of her except the color was reminiscent of what was sprayed all over her crème colored rug in the master bedroom.

I knew what his plan was. He had come after me before. It used to just be on drunken binges when I was younger where he felt he had an excuse for his actions. It soon progressed to when he wasn’t drunk, and it turned into his means of dealing with the smallest situations. When I got older and he slapped me for getting home late, I punched him in the throat. He fell back and caught himself with his left hand, holding his neck with his right. After he stumbled around and regained his breath he threw me to the ground and stood on my neck while he wrenched my shoulder, breaking my arm just below the elbow. I understood that day that he would always win. The way he talked his own language when he was kicking or beating me, muttering in a low rumble of syllables. He spoke in tongues. Or the way his face looked contorted, his brow furrowed and teeth clenched, while he was disciplining me. I also understood that day that he wasn’t human, and that he didn’t deserve to live.

He had hit my mother for as long as I could remember. She had always been a release for him, drunk or not. If something went wrong at the office for him, it was her fault and therefore she would get backhanded as soon as she opened her mouth when he got home. I remember once, his ring on the pointer of his right hand caught her in the corner of her eye, ripping the skin and causing her eye to droop slightly down in its socket. From that point on she always closed her eyes when he first walked in a room. That was four years ago, and I saw her wince so much at him that I developed her same action as a twitch.

I was obsessed with my father. The hatred I felt for him made everything else in my mind rot. It strained my perception of emotion and feeling. I remember mother coming in and telling me “He loves you. Don’t think that he doesn’t.” She hated him. I saw it when she would open her eyes to him. It was so strong that she got lost in the strength of it. It attracted her to him. It brought her closer to him. I saw how they acted with each other. When he was the worst he could be, I gave him the most respect. Not out of fear, but because of his power and the adoration I had for it. I began to love him on an august day. My mother and I were getting food ready for him when he came home from work and it wasn’t finished. He took the pot I was boiling water in for corn on the cob and threw it on me. It scalded my whole body and left me temporarily paralyzed on the kitchen floor. All I could do was look up at him while he ripped at her hair with one hand and choked her with the other, yelling at her about how she never had things done on time and that from then on they would be. After that, he let go of her hair, and his lips curled into a smile as he moved his head slowly towards her and kissed her. He left me with a constant reminder of that day. The day that love and hate melded into the same deep, obsessive feeling.

The way he walked was magnificent. He came off as meek when you looked at him, but I knew the power in his hands. I knew that he demanded and deserved what he wanted by the way he controlled my mother and me. When he hit me, I felt privileged that he took the time out of his day to acknowledge me. I didn’t want to be like him but I idolized him. The obsession teetered on a savage lust I felt for him and an unbridled rage that I had just by catching a glimpse of him. He was always in control of a situation, and I admired that he knew just how to take care of something. I also admired that he was confident enough to do what he thought was right. But I hated him for his arrogance, and for being in control of everything and hungry for power. My love for him was contradicted in every way.

Even now, sitting in this shack in a poverty stricken shack in Morocco 3 years later, I remember it all perfectly. Her body was hanging half off the bed. Her legs laying on the black comforter with its wide white horizontal stripes. Her torso stood straight up, upside down, with her broken neck connected to it. The side of her head lay flat on the floor and was staring at me. There was a gash in her forehead, which was swollen heavily, and blood splattered on the floor, wall and bed. Her eye was still twitching as he walked out of the bathroom, wiping his hands with a towel. He was muttering to himself again, and I had learned his language by then. “She’s no longer a problem here. I finally took care of it.” When he saw me, he ran after me and caught up to me, grabbing me by the neck of my shirt. I was already crying. When he told me that I hadn’t seen anything, and that I better go along with whatever he says, I couldn’t speak to agree. He pulled me towards him and broke two of his already bruised fingers on my right cheek. He asked again and I wildly shook my head, showing any sign of understanding that I could.

I couldn’t see what he had set up in order for the police to believe his story. All I could see was black from the swollen skin and membrane around my eyes. There was a lot of noise coming from his bathroom and bedroom, like the sound of shelves being ripped out of the closet and everything crashing to the ground. I heard footsteps rush by me, mumbles, the sound of a window breaking, water running, and a series of dull thuds. At the end I heard his side of a phone call to the police explaining that someone had broken in to our house, beat him unconscious after he attempted to fight back, raped his wife and then killed her, and that he didn’t know where I was. He stated he was too scared to look for me, in case someone was still in the house. When I heard him hang up the phone, I felt the side of his foot smash into my head. When I came to, there were police everywhere and 3 medical technicians swarming around me and everyone screaming, “He’s awake!”

He was the smartest man I knew. He was standing there, crying, his face was bloody and bruised. His left hand was wrapped up in gauze and he wouldn’t stop asking to see me. I couldn’t feel anything. Everything felt numb. I felt like I was floating. I could hardly see anything, but when the police asked me if I knew anything that happened and handed me a pad of paper, I could see his stare. I knew not to say anything. I didn’t understand the pad though. It was then that I tried to open my mouth to say that I didn’t know what had happened to me, and I realized that I had no control over it. I touched my face and realized I had gauze wrapped around the lower part of my head. My mouth was hanging open and the bones that held my jaw on my right side of my face were protruding through the skin. We were both in the hospital for weeks, and the news followed everything. They ate everything my father handed them too. His description of the assailant, the way he said he felt, what had happened… all thought out beforehand to perfection.

The way my father had acted with everyone else he knew or came in contact with made him out to be the meekest, gentle person to ever live. It was impossible for him to do anything like murder his wife and beat up his son. Everything he had always done was covered up so well. The fear and respect my mother and I showed him made us never say a word about what went on in our house. He never drank in public. He never lost his temper with other people. Everything negative about him was completely void to everyone else. He got it all out with us. It was such an amazing scheme. I explained it all in the letter I wrote and sent out to all the news channels and the police station.

When I murdered him, I didn’t go through all the trouble he did of trying to cover everything up. My plan was to kill him and leave. And it worked. When my father left the hospital, I was still in there for 2 weeks. I asked for a copy of all of my visits and injuries. When I got them, I hid them in my suitcase when he came to pick me up. I made copies of all of them late at night. I scanned in all the reports, except filled them in appropriately, changing things such as “Fell off bicycle” to “Father kicked him down stairs.” Copies of those and my x-rays were sent to everyone that mattered, and I walked into his room later that night. He was sitting on the bed, his knees bent like her waist at the edge and in the same place. His hand had a cast on it and he was putting on his shirt. When it was going over his head I rushed at him and drove my elbow into the base of his skull. His arms were still tangled when he doubled over himself, and I kicked him in the face, breaking his nose and sending him crashing back to the bed, gurgling on his own blood. I grabbed him by the knees and dragged him over to the edge of his room, setting his head in the doorway. It left a trail of black blood that stained the carpet like blueberries. The first time I smashed the door into his skull, he came back to reality long enough to see me spit in his face and put my foot on his chest to hold him in place. I slammed the door again, and blood sprayed into my face. I could taste it on my tongue. I remembered how he looked that night. It was just like when I started to love him, and he leaned towards my mother and kissed her after. He had done it that night too. I did three more quick slams on his head and then stomped on his chest when he started to writhe on the floor. There was a pool of blood at my feet and he was no longer recognizable. His face had turned into a bubbling swamp of red. I looked down at him and quickly leaned over to examine him more carefully. I couldn’t make him out anymore. He was powerless. His voice was just a choke. I wiped off a spot where his lips were and kissed him. Standing up, I grabbed the door and slammed it once more, catching the top part of his skull. It squeezed his head and caused the door to slam shut, breaking all of my fingers except for my thumbs, and ripping the flesh back to the knuckle. I couldn’t feel it until later. I kicked his convulsing corpse until it laid still, and stepped over him to leave.

I snuck on a cargo ship to Europe that I knew was waiting to leave that night. I never felt regret for any of what I did to him. I’ve been drifting from place to place in Europe and western Asia, doing various grunt work jobs. I shoveled coalmines in Germany, helped build poor housing in Istanbul, even did small bouts of drug dealing in Spain and Hungary. I do what I need to move on, and leave. I’ve stopped being a human three years ago. I don’t have a name, identity, or background. I have a face and the shell of a body, so I exist. When I kissed him, I breathed the last part of my humanity into him so he could die and feel it. He needed to know what pain was. He needed to feel what he did to us. And he needed to feel what he taught me love was. There was the white of his eyes that shone through his blood, and I saw the fear there. I brought him back to life. And he deserved it.
3 comments|post comment

[04 Jul 2004|11:50pm]

deadsoulborn
Sorry for the lack of updates/feedback. I just moved from Syracuse, New York to Memphis, Tennessee on short notice and am still going through the motions of getting set up and comfortable here. Just letting you know I'm still around and will soon (hopefully... probably within the week) be ready to start up with the posts again. Looking forward to reading everything that's new once I get the time.
post comment

[23 Jun 2004|01:24pm]

bladed_rapture
[ mood | hopeful ]

I am not sure what the rules of advertizement are here but I wanted to tell everyone that I've made a web page for my writings, in case anyone wants to take a look. The site is Phantasmagoria. If this advertizing is unwanted, it's all right with me if this post is deleted. Thank you all!

post comment

Hey, I'm new.. [18 Jun 2004|10:04am]

deviant8
[ mood | indifferent ]

Hi.. I'm new here, i thought that i would post a poem that i wrote a couple of weeks ago.. It's probably crap and stuff.. But tell me what you think. :)

"Untilted"
If i was lying on my
Death bed,
My sore and swollen eyes
Staring up at you,
Would you see
My Pain?
My Anguish?

Would you allow me the release?


I hear you inside
Me.
Taunting, Teasing, Screaming,
Pushing.
But does it matter?

No.

Does anything matter?
Where would i be?
Where would i go?
Do you care?

My insides ache
Because of You.
I hurt,
Because of You.
Did it matter?

No.

If i slipped so
Innocently
Away,
Your fingers intwined with mine,
Would it matter?

Your mind would flick back,
like a movie,
To my skin
Burning under hot wax.

That didn't matter.

Pale white skin
Displaying
Gaping red gashes.

But that didn't matter either.

You'd go out into the
Bustling city streets
To find another
Me.
Wouldn't You.

It didn't matter.
You'd say it was all a dream,
A nightmare even,

It didn't matter
Did it?

You'd forget the feel of my body
Against Yours,
The touch of my skin,
The overwhelming sense of
Passion.

Would it matter that
You
Forgot
All that we ever were,
And all that we ever
Could have been.

2 comments|post comment

Introduction .. [09 Jun 2004|01:43pm]

rhetoricians
[ mood | proud ]

I've been a member of this community for .. what feels like forever, but I've never really posted. I guess I should do so now, eh? (Bear with the 15 year old ..)

~~

Currently Untitled
Natasha May could barely breathe as she traced the tabletop with her index finger. Normally, she'd love this diner. It was clean, the staff was friendly, and they always gave you free cake on your birthday. Burt she didn't care for clean or friendly, and it wasn't her birthday. All she saw was the boy across the table from her.
Damien Resse stared at the syrup flask, repeating the words printed on the label over and over to himself inside his head. 'Pure maple, pure maple, pure maple ..' the words came together. He couldn't keep his eyes off of her .. they were hungry for something other than pure maple.
Natasha had intended to just come into the diner for a one-stop shop. Just eggs and bacon. One plateful.But, like her father who had just wanted one puff of his friend's cigarette, she couldn't move. And her father was now a chain smoker.
He had just wanted a pancake .. originally, he hadn't even known she was there. But all the other booths were taken .. and he knew her. Didn't he?
Natasha looked up as Damien plunked down across from her with a rolled-up pancake clutched tightly in his hot little fist. Her heart palpitated.
Damien's heart skipped a beat.
"Hi .." She was nervous.
"Hey." He was a bit more collected.
The blue jeans .. he was wearing the same style blue jeans as he had been wearing when he had grabbed her on the playground, under the alcove so long ago. When he had kissed her .. and she had bolted away like a stunted deer. He loved the gentle curve of her hips ..
She met his eyes which examined her own. Magnetic eyes .. her hair practically melted on her head.
He couldn't help but onder what she looked like in her underwear. He was willing to bet it was wonderful.
All her father had said to her that day .. hurtful and stinging .. had melted away. All that was left was him. And he was, really, all she needed. The gash on her arm .. gone.
He leaned forward a bit.
She shifted backwards, trapped against the tall booth back.
He leaned forward some more.
People walking past the plate glass window, before which the children sat, slowed their steps a bit. An old woman beamed a regretful smile. Ah, she too knew of this "love".
He caught her face in his palms.
She began to sweat buckets, wanting to strain backwards, yet remaining immobile.
He leaned all the way forward .. seized her lips.
She felt faint.
He never wanted to let go.
She didn't really either. Her father's words echoed on in her head .. "Suffer" .. she jolted back, her hand at her lips, burning. On fire.
He blinked. There had been chemistry. He had felt it.
And so had she. Which was why she slid her payment under her plate of untouched Special #5 and left the diner, tears sparkling in her beautiful eyes. Natasha May was in love.
He licked his lips .. happy. He sat back in the booth he now had to himself .. he even ate some of her eggs while ignoring angry glares from some other patrons. He had captured her heart .. at long last. Damien Resse was in love.
And the old woman outside the plate glass window beamed ruefully as Natasha stumbled past her, weeping. She knew .. the girl was in deep. The woman, too, had been in deep. The woman rolled down her sleeve to conceal the finger-gouge marks he had given her, and staggered home, where she died in her sleep two hours later.
She too had known love ..

3 comments|post comment

[05 Jun 2004|10:05pm]

deadsoulborn
Older, but never really got any feedback or comments on it from anyone I know. I think I wrote it about a year ago before I took a 10 month break from writing... And started again about 2 months ago or so. My writing has never been very well disciplined, but I apoligize if it has been scatterbrained or just very poorly written.

Also, alot of my writing is rather sexual, but not in a trashy way. I wasn't sure of the opinions of the members of the community, whether they are ok with reading stories with sexual content or if they would be offended or anything along those lines. It's not written as erotica or anything like that. The stories I write deal alot with the belief of death and sensuality being one in the same, or the thoughts of erotism (not eroticism.) So, even if you don't want to comment on my story, please comment on whether you mind reading stories containing this type of subject matter or not. Thank you.

_______

The wood grain floor covered in blood. The blood seeps into the cracks in the panelling making a series of parallel streams running throughout my room. The white paint on the walls peeling away, showing a dark red undercoating. In the corners of the room, skin is stuck to the walls making it look like it is living. The walls pulsate like I'm inside a large decaying giant.

The cold air rolls in through the window above my bed. The glass pane is shattered. My body is bleeding and my arms have no flesh, but I don't remember if I did it or not. The screen tattered and frayed, blowing with the wind. The shadows from the moonlight mixed with the breeze making the loose ends of the screening loft around creates the illusion of a pair of hands floating over me, waiting for me to be off gaurd so it can wrap its fingers around my neck and force the life out of me. The cold air runs across my body and steals my warmth, giving me the feeling that my life is leaving me. Floating away with the steam from my breath and drowning in its warmth. My mind makes me believe that I am dying because it wants me to. I close my eyes and begin to fade away. My body struggles to stay alive for an instant, forcing my mind into thought as if something is holding it. Thoughts of warmth. It thinks of her body against mine in the bed, giving off a heat so intense that I feel I am burning up. My body invites it. It tricks my synapses into believing her fingers are touching my cheek. That her lips are pressed against mine and she is filling me with warmth. Her tounge coating my dry mouth with warm saliva and returning sense to it. Feeling. Like resuscitation to a cadaver. I open my eyes and can see her. I memorized the way her eyes looked when they met mine. Deep and beautiful. I want to drown in them. I put my hand out to touch her face and she immediately starts to decay. Her skin atrophies and then she disappears. There is no sign as to what just happened.

I pick up a peice of shattered glass from the floor and continue where I left off last night.
3 comments|post comment

[05 Jun 2004|09:24pm]

bladed_rapture
I decided to join this community after reading some of the posts made by other members. The talent a number of you seem to possess attracted me and you all put it into play rather well. This community seems welcoming enough, but usually I do not share my writings with people I do not know personally. It's a self-confidence issue, obviously. Well, since I now realize that my self-introduction makes little sense I will continue on to post a short story I just recently wrote.

Also, when you all comment, would you mind interpreting this, as you will? I want to know if anyone has any inkling what this story is truly about.

Crystal DomeCollapse )
3 comments|post comment

my muse commited suicide. help wanted. [02 Jun 2004|10:04pm]

iamdanakscully
[ mood | restless ]

Winter was chapped lips in November and bloody noses by February. Even blisters from wearing boots. Cold was the sensation from putting cream or lotion on, and having the sting run up your spine as it filled the cracks of your hands. The streets were white from the salt, and everyone was in a bad mood by the end of January-the gyms empty from all the broken New Years Resolutions.

Ada peeled the boots from her swollen ankles and launched them across the room. The first thing she did was burn all of her Charles Bukowski books, and the second was to take a shower. The water felt sticky and sweet, dried apple juice on her porcelain body. Cheap.

The flames from the Bukowski books licked at the curtains, and she used it to ignite her last clove. After this one she would quit. She sucked the life out of the clove, inhaled until she was smoking the filter. She put it out with her bare heel.

The room was hot now, and from behind her closed eye-lids, Ada could see the bright flickers of the Charles Bukowski poems and her curtains, and her life burning into the same gray ash.

The flames climbed up the walls and she pictured her life burning then floating away on a pierce of air, a feather, suddenly something you could blow away.

Eyelash. Ada thought, and felt her own shriveling up under the excruciating heat. The fire was close, live and wicked.

Then the lyrics and words had dripped down the walls, lava and quicksilver, splashing onto the floor. Then it all went blue, night falling hard and knocking out the world. There were stars, and Ada reached up to them, and they were cold and hard, they seemed to melt when they touched her, and cleaned off parts of her blackened skin. Ada licked her face and realized the stars were water.

* * *

Now they all sing happy birthday and bring out a cake to mark the year since she’d seen heaven. The cake is vanilla with little pink sugar-roses, like the burn that still is a scar on her heel.

Happy birthday Ada. They say.
Nineteen already? They ask.
Now, make a wish.

They would have asked her to blow out the candles, but they are not lit.

3 comments|post comment

[26 May 2004|03:18pm]

xoxofriend
[ mood | drained ]

A poem I wrote, I think you can guess what its about. If you hate it, tell me. If you have a suggestion, tell me. Don't be afraid to be honest. Thanks in advance to everyone who gives feedback.

This is crossposted so if I clogged your friends page comment and I'll delete a post.

can't


understand


t   h   i   s.


t   h   i   s


thing that will never disappoint you.


t    h    i    s


thing that will always be there,


in the drugstore


in the little box beside your bed.


t    h   i   s


will never not call,


will always sink into were its supposed to.


                t h    i s


is one sweet friend that


won’t lie and tell you that he loves you


then cheat on you with no


remorse


or rhyme or reason.


you can't look into me and tell me that


      t     h     i     s


isn't good for me


because you don't know the half of it.


you can't look outside of me and tell me that


      t     h     i     s


isn’t the only thing that will


externalize


what’s going on within me.


and of all those kids doing


this


I can honestly say that


I don’t know if my


pain


will ever be worth it so I need these


precious


fading


strawberry


gashes

to remind me of who I am.
6 comments|post comment

[25 May 2004|06:31pm]

deadsoulborn
When I can't breathe, I reach my hand down my throat to massage my lungs. When I wake they forget how to function. When I start choking, I turn my wrist so it can fit down my neck. My tounge used to gag me, but I cut it away long ago. My voice disgusted me anyway. I pick at my ribs in turn, from the bottom my my ribcage up, to excavate them from my body. Each time I do this, I pry one a little looser. There are only four left that hold the form of my chest up. My sternum was a long process of chipping and filing, but it has paid off. When I lean all the way forward, my collar bone can meet with my hips. When I finish I will be able to fold into myself and virtually disappear. I do this to be more of a person but less of a physical object. I remember when she used to watch my ritual of staying alive. She would mock my suffocation with deep sighs and roll her eyes. Her eyes are still rolling, down in my stomach. I know they are. I can feel them when I start to breathe again.
3 comments|post comment

Princess Boot Camp [08 May 2004|03:28pm]

iamdanakscully
So what you want me to do is direct a movie about a boot camp?
Stanley Kubrick asks me.
Yes. For Princesses. A la Full Metal Jacket.
He tells me its a possibility.
The first thing I want him to do is shave them
and put them in a room full of mirrors.
They will do push-ups, counting to 100 in German.
As they sweat away their designer make-up and perfumes,
I’ll be up front--beating Prince Charming with long-stemed roses and wigs.
I’ll make the princesses watch.
Then it’s time for running in high-heels.
I’ll ride the white horse around, bareback, barking orders.
You’ve got a blister? Well that’s your problem.
Once they like it, they can leave.
They can keep their gun and black belt.
They can go collect a manbitch in Vegas, get an abortion, go nuts. Get a job.
And Cut. And Print.
That’s a Wrap.
Kubrick shakes my hand and tells me I’m crazy.
So what? I got to keep Mr.Charming’s head.
(and the horse.)
1 comment|post comment

First post... [01 May 2004|11:15pm]

deadsoulborn
Hey. My name is Steven. I've been thinking about attempting to get published for a little while now and just wanted to get some feedback on some of my short stories. I'll gladly recieve any feedback, good or bad, because any would be constructive for me to know what to work on or keep. I'm rather anxious for it also, as I've posted on my own journal and no one wants to respond. Sorry for the rant... I'm looking forward to reading everyone elses contributions to this community also. Thank you.



The hall is set up in hues of blue and white. Every step brings me closer to a room that is filled with chairs. The chairs blend perfectly into the surroundings, only noticable by the way the distances between them and the wall shift as I take my steps. There doesn't seem to be a temperature inside this place, but I can see my breath escape from my mouth in clouds of smoke. The floorspace is filled with entrails and tattered flesh. The ground is damp and soft and gives way a half inch under my shoes. There's a slight rustling noise up the distance. When the hall opens up, I can see an offset area.

There are two children playing with eachother on the floor. The little girl's face has no features. Her skin was stretched over it in an attempt to suffocate her. She looks up at me holding two orbs. I can't make out what they are until her infant brother turns around with his eye sockets empty. His skin seems almost transparent and I can see the network of veins and his organs function under it. His eyeholes blink at me and the little girls skin shifts as she lets out a muffled giggle. I look at them until they turn back to eachother and continue on with what they were doing. My legs carry me away from them and I walk into the main room to seat myself.

There's a young woman sitting a few seats down from me. Her hair is fixed perfectly and she is applying her make-up as careful as she can with her quivering hands. I look down at her body and her chest is exhumed. She sets her lipgloss down and flashes me a look with her yellow eyes. She uncrosses and crosses her legs slowly and rolls her tounge in her mouth. I can hear it scrape against her teeth. I can hear her nerves snap as she pushes her teeth forward. The children start to pay attention at the snap of her gums and start to watch her moves. They sidle up against the wall, the little girl stretching her legs out as far as she can, making sure not to step on the discarded bone fragments and unrecognizable remains that litter the floor. The infant drags himself, plowing a way to get himself through the decay. They both motion their head for me to continue on letting myself be mezmorized by her actions. The way she contorts her body and moves her tounge brings to mind every torture and traumatic gesture that has ever been associated, in any way, with advert sexual overtones. She slides her body towards me in sections. Her head and torso lead her legs as if they are paralyzed, while her arms stretch to drag her carcass towards me. She leaves a trail of plasma and blood as she moves, marking everywhere she has ever been. When she gets closer to me, I can smell her rotting flesh over the perfume she was applying a few moments ago. When her body touches mine, my nerves turn cold. I can't feel what is happening. I already know. I already know this woman is using me in some way. I know she wants me to fill her insides with my flesh. I look at her face as her caked on foundation starts to flake away like sheets of skin. Her skin is a dark black underneath it all. She puts her hand on my arm to pull herself up and rests her chin on my knee. I hear a sharp crack and can feel her jaw snap when she lays the pressure on it. Shes uses the rest of her strength to stretch her spine up to come eye level with me. She lets her neck go limp and her head falls towards me with her jaw hanging open. Her maggot-like tounge fills my mouth. My head erupts in flames and I can feel my heart in my chest dissapating. I press my hand against her forehead and shove it away from me, smashing it against the wall. As her skull comes in contact with the sea blue stone, it shatters. Bone splinters shred through my hand and it instantly turns black. I grab a shard of bone and carve away at my forearm before it can spread into my body. I watch her body spasm to the floor and listen to her bones rattle as she gives into death.

The little girl walks over from the wall she was plastered to and leans toward the woman and her brother follows her. The clouds of breath stopped appearing from the womans mouth before the girl would let herself get closer. She kneels next to her and moves her fingers against her face. She finds a bone fragment protruding from the womans forehead. She pulls it and works it around the perimeter of the womans face, cutting and prying the skin from her body. Steam rises from the heat of the tissue as she removes the face and presses it against her face. She stares at me, smiles, and leans forward on the floor to pick up my hand right before she turns and skips away, whistling with her new lips. The infant slides across the floor and digs his way into the womans womb, staring at me blindly before he crawls inside and falls asleep.
1 comment|post comment

[01 May 2004|09:59pm]

artsoup
It is no more simple for the little yellow butterfly than it is for me.The butterfly has those pretty wings though,and I was born without them.
post comment

empty canvas painted words; [15 Apr 2004|05:26pm]

loseyourbreath
wasted words forever going unheard
music, the road, and smoke are the only ones that understand me
he said, i guess thats the way it ought to be
i suppose he is right
blinding haze keeps me in a daze and i shall never put up a fight
i count the days and forget the ways you will never see me
my soul is repulsive
my life is not mine to live
the sickness is killing me slowly but the pain of your betrayal will take me out in seconds
i hear the shattering of silence breaking and the oath to my life beckons
i could really let this hang me upside down
and i have no more decisions but to just turn back around
the thoughts made sense like this was something
but the feelings that are lacking remind me that this is nothing
supposing it is okay to just move forward
thoughts are suppressing while my vision moves inward
direction to take is not one but all
becoming a compass i will never fall
dreams of what it seems but not as it ever is
blood dripping pain the killing of your kiss
the freedom of the slaves was only but a metaphor
the tables have turned and now we all are forever more
the whole worlds on block cannot get through to me
my death cannot stop but it brings me clarity
and whats the use in words because they are overused
worn out and meaningless as the taste of fired bliss
burnt out and worthless the end is what i missed
wasted words forever going unheard
music, the road, and smoke are the only ones that understand me
he said, i guess thats the way it ought to be
i suppose he is right

blinding haze keeps me in a daze and i shall never put up a fight.
1 comment|post comment

unaltered soul [15 Apr 2004|04:42pm]

loseyourbreath
time changes with the wind
like your feelings change ever so silently
tell me when will these circles ever end
fire burning half inside of me
nobody knows why they just dont care
pretending to be a friend but never ever there
i really am starting to believe in the answers i obtain
my thoughts dont make sense of my feelings
the pieces just dont fit right in this degree
different names but the faces are all the same
everyone is familiar but a constant stranger
history only twists and turns
we repeat ourselves
what does anything really mean anymore
some believe nothing
do you even know what you believe anymore
somethings you just cannot believe
like it will never be accepted in your life
but why are we like this
is it in our blood
is it in our minds
why are we forced upon living the certain way
why do they look down upon me for living the way i want
no rules no laws no regulations
just me and the things i want to see
am i wrong for making my own path
add up the numbers and do the math
right and wrong are simply points of view
it all makes sense if you look inside you
the world slowly changes around me
while things slowly change inside me
instead of searching for the person you are
create yourself
live by your own rules
find your inner peace
one day someday i believe in world peace
but maybe just for today thats all out of reach
the new generations have a new world within them
new world order is about to begin
music is the truth
its the path to take
dont worry about conversations
or how much money you make
its all about you and the dreams you behold
dont become another part of their mold
dont let them convince you of what you have to do
the only thing you have to do
is simply just be you
fear is just an illusion
to blind you with subtle confusion
find your passion you already have yourself
you dont need anything else
they say thats the way things ought to be
keep that frame of mind
things ought to be however you want them to be
pain only means you have an open heart
doesnt have to always tear you apart
i wish for all to have free will
the old way of life must be killed
they dont like the freedom in my mind
cannot be sucha thing
as one of a kind
fuck what they say
i am what i am
they think people need to understand eachother
but i think people need to just accept eachother
we are not meant to be understood
we are only meant to love one another
too much confusion losing love to illusion
the answers will never be in your head
the answers will never be what someone else said
you gotta dig deep inside
thats where all the answers
hide
post comment

Transcending [08 Apr 2004|02:28pm]

drivnbass
Enchantment
Magic
I drink you in
You will find ecstasy
You will know my hands
You will see my face
The touch
The darkness
The sweat
Sweet
Lost in a trance
This new magic
This religion
Art
Mastered by masters
This is old
This is deep
Passion, boiling over
Takes your mind
Your body
Your thoughts
This isn’t escape
This is risk
This transcends our realities
“Transcending boundaries” TN 2004
1 comment|post comment

New [08 Apr 2004|12:41pm]

drivnbass
Time

Rolling along

Leaves this feeling

Inside me

Alone

Desperation, searching

For the unknown

Alive

But not satisfied

Till this itch is scratched

I’ve been buried

And reborn

But still searching

Looking

Needing

But never

Understanding

What this need is

What this want is

What I’m searching for

Why

Confusion

Gnawing hunger

A dragon on my back

With claws

Ripping through to my heart

Anxiety

This need

This want

It’s not love

Not this need

Not this search

“A Shamans Dragon” TN 2004
1 comment|post comment

navigation
[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]