Poetry competition CLOSED 1st July 2013 2:10am
WINNER
MrAlptraum (Mr A)
MrAlptraum (Mr A)
Short story Fiction
Poetry Contest Description
write a short story
Have a look at the picture, pick a perspective and write a short story. 750 words 10% either way
If you're unsure how to go about it, have a look at some of this mans shorts : http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poets/hemihead/
Also look at some of the comments for tips on plot, character progression etc.
Have a bit of craic,
Anonymous
[font=Verdana]I understood why Amit was there, but he'd still receive such a leathering from me when we reached home that he'd wish he hadn't been. The power ranger beside him, our friend Michael, looked like a sci-fi gimp, which I told him during a party when I produced the photo, not realising that the woman he was with was an employer he'd spent all night schmoozing. She'd made a vague, haughty sound, placed her wine glass in his free hand and walked away to examine a bookshelf, or pretend to. As for Amit, I got my revenge against him, after I was done hurling every insult from "stupid cunt" to "abominable rake", by telling his girlfriend that his absence from their bed that night was due to him entertaining a power ranger on a train. I'm surprised she didn't call the police and denounce him as a child molester. I soothed her by admitting that it wasn't a real power ranger. Just a gimp. She left him two weeks later. Not because of me, but just because Amit, as much as I love him, is the kind of idiot who sleeps with power rangers. While half-naked. On trains.
The Eden from which that photograph sprung, like a tree of knowledge that no-one would ever eat from, was a student bar frequented by twentysomethings and middle-aged men. Amit had found some queer to buy him drinks in the vain hope that Amit would eventually bare his arsehole to him, which I knew would never happen, because the drinks weren't strong enough. I felt sorry for the queer because he was nice and conceded defeat with absolute civility, putting on his hat to go hunting elsewhere, though he looked offended when I mentioned that the public toilets close early in winter. It was then that we saw Michael, surrounded by girls like a prophet who turns wine into date rape. I'd been studying psychology for two years, but still couldn't work out what mysterious pearl of attraction was hidden behind Michael's acne scars and grossly pronounced nipples, yet girls always surrounded him. I suspected that his nipples made them think he had some terminal disease, so they'd give him pity sex. It worked for my granddad during his last days at the hospital, and he was in a coma.
Michael, I should say at this point, loved dressing up. I'd once walked in on him being spanked by a call girl while dressed as a dandy. His presented arse was tightly held in bondage by sailor blue riding breeches, and on his head sat a powdery judge's wig. The call girl was naked, except for the tattoo "daddy's lil' stinker" just above her vagina. She gave me one disinterested look and asked where my videocamera was. At the student bar Michael detached himself from the girls and told us about a party he'd heard was happening that night in a lecturer's hotel room. Furthermore, he'd learned from a friend that the lecturer's wife was "wet for nerdy white boys", and on relating this pulled a blue power ranger costume from his shoulder bag. A dejected Amit declared that the lecturer's wife was racist and promised to leave "a big Indian dump" in her shower at the earliest opportunity, a promise he sadly kept. Looking back, Michael's costume and Amit's dump were the mystical objects which lead to our social demise that night...
After changing in our shared taxi, Michael plunged ahead of us while Amit went straight to the bathroom and I seated myself beside a TV. During a phase of deep depression, when I'd been spurned by yet another girl pretending to only speak Chinese (despite her Leeds accent), I heard a scream, turned and saw Michael being punched repeatedly by the lecturer. His penis was poking through his costume and the lecturer's wife started running about in a disgusted panic as shit clung to one of her heels. Evidently, Michael had tried making love to her in the shower. At this point Amit cried "enjoy your Indian takeaway, bitch!" before dragging the lecturer away from Michael and with one punch knocking him unconscious. Unfortunately, perhaps remembering the call girl, Michael was now erect and shot a large wad of semen onto Amit's trousers. Amit immediately removed then flung them at the lecturer's wife, who in repulsion fell backwards, striking her head on a windowsill and spraying blood everywhere. Like a native woman after five minutes alone with five English soldiers, she lay unconscious in a pool of blood, shit and semen. Amit and Michael, realising their dire situation, made a run for it. I reluctantly followed, taking a picture of them when they finally passed out from exhaustion in an underground train ten minutes later.
The Eden from which that photograph sprung, like a tree of knowledge that no-one would ever eat from, was a student bar frequented by twentysomethings and middle-aged men. Amit had found some queer to buy him drinks in the vain hope that Amit would eventually bare his arsehole to him, which I knew would never happen, because the drinks weren't strong enough. I felt sorry for the queer because he was nice and conceded defeat with absolute civility, putting on his hat to go hunting elsewhere, though he looked offended when I mentioned that the public toilets close early in winter. It was then that we saw Michael, surrounded by girls like a prophet who turns wine into date rape. I'd been studying psychology for two years, but still couldn't work out what mysterious pearl of attraction was hidden behind Michael's acne scars and grossly pronounced nipples, yet girls always surrounded him. I suspected that his nipples made them think he had some terminal disease, so they'd give him pity sex. It worked for my granddad during his last days at the hospital, and he was in a coma.
Michael, I should say at this point, loved dressing up. I'd once walked in on him being spanked by a call girl while dressed as a dandy. His presented arse was tightly held in bondage by sailor blue riding breeches, and on his head sat a powdery judge's wig. The call girl was naked, except for the tattoo "daddy's lil' stinker" just above her vagina. She gave me one disinterested look and asked where my videocamera was. At the student bar Michael detached himself from the girls and told us about a party he'd heard was happening that night in a lecturer's hotel room. Furthermore, he'd learned from a friend that the lecturer's wife was "wet for nerdy white boys", and on relating this pulled a blue power ranger costume from his shoulder bag. A dejected Amit declared that the lecturer's wife was racist and promised to leave "a big Indian dump" in her shower at the earliest opportunity, a promise he sadly kept. Looking back, Michael's costume and Amit's dump were the mystical objects which lead to our social demise that night...
After changing in our shared taxi, Michael plunged ahead of us while Amit went straight to the bathroom and I seated myself beside a TV. During a phase of deep depression, when I'd been spurned by yet another girl pretending to only speak Chinese (despite her Leeds accent), I heard a scream, turned and saw Michael being punched repeatedly by the lecturer. His penis was poking through his costume and the lecturer's wife started running about in a disgusted panic as shit clung to one of her heels. Evidently, Michael had tried making love to her in the shower. At this point Amit cried "enjoy your Indian takeaway, bitch!" before dragging the lecturer away from Michael and with one punch knocking him unconscious. Unfortunately, perhaps remembering the call girl, Michael was now erect and shot a large wad of semen onto Amit's trousers. Amit immediately removed then flung them at the lecturer's wife, who in repulsion fell backwards, striking her head on a windowsill and spraying blood everywhere. Like a native woman after five minutes alone with five English soldiers, she lay unconscious in a pool of blood, shit and semen. Amit and Michael, realising their dire situation, made a run for it. I reluctantly followed, taking a picture of them when they finally passed out from exhaustion in an underground train ten minutes later.
great stuff man, haha 
Anonymous
The Argument
They laid there, as dead as I knew they would be in the end. Like two sad piles of heroism gone awry, conquered. The minute Jimmy uttered the words "my way" and put on his cape, I knew. Even if Johnny hadn't shown up at all hours, drunk on his own views as always,singing in his loudest twang "my way", it would have gone to shit. These things always turn around on people. You invent the guillotine, you might die by it.
I knew all that the morning they left, arguing over who'd convince whom and how many whom's they'd convince, including the most important ones-the nobodies. They both knew the nobodies had nothing better to do and all the time to devote to following them. Jimmy was ranting on about how he'd show everyone that his way was the only way, and he believed himself too. Johnny was convinced that there was no way so it didn't matter where you went and then you always ended up being where you're meant to go, that was his way and the only one, in his opinion. He really believed himself too.
I felt foolish driving them to the airport but I knew they wouldn't shut up and stop fighting unless they proved their respective points. I'd seen this type of thing before. There's a certain curiosity in people, nearly always in small minded people, to find out the just how many other people they can convince. makes up for not having any real conviction. I dodged in and out of heavy traffic, wanting to curse the numskull drivers, all void of any sense at all. Jimmy was starting to sound so self righteous it was nauseating. He rambled on in a now put on super human voice, "everyone must conform, be alike, the same-so we can all live in harmony!, no drugs, no parties, no self expression, we all need suits like mine". I'd heard this superior tone ring out from podiums in every town I'd been through and it always went stale the same way-immediately and stinking. The thing is though, you can argue logic with illogical people all day but there's no logic in it. I kept quiet for that very reason. I'd have liked to slam on the brakes and at least jolt him hard, before tossing him out, but it's the mentality of the inferior to not understand how these are just things we hate deep within ourselves mirrored back with magnification.
Johnny was starting to slur a bit, even that early in the day, but he jumped right in with his version of the way. "We all just need to do what we do, just party on, ignore it all, just be happy-mellow..and use as much as it takes of whatever gets us by". I'm always irked by those types too. They never want anyone to do anything until something needs done in their eyes. leaving every unsettled moment just another chance for self pity with applause. It's just as bad to believe in everything as it is to believe in nothing. It's just as sick to waste life on self denial as self indulgence in over indulgence. Even the common ant has a responsibility to himself and a job to get done, a purpose. Purpose comes with trial and error and those who can't be bothered establishing their own, either borrow and follow or lie and lead. Those who know, don't need a meteorologist to let them know it's raining when their heads are wet with skyward eyes, it's obvious.
By the time we got checked in at the ticket counter and they'd spent all the money they'd borrowed from friends on tickets around the globe, they both looked unwell. No sooner had I thought this and wondered what was wrong when a man walked up, old and shriveled, hidden mostly under a poncho and holding a guitar and nothing else. he was the kind of guy you could picture picking tobacco all day and spending the rest of his time on a front porch, with a dog. I was intrigued by how well he blended in even though he stood out completely. I put it down to his looking so harmless. He looked strong yet non threatening. He whispered in my ear, "hate is a plague that kills from the inside" and walked on.
Then, down went Jimmy and Johnny right after him. People started cheering. Shouting and clapping like it was a momentous occasion.
I stood there in complete bewilderment, trying to figure out what was going down and over all the ruckus I could hear that old mans guitar.
They laid there, as dead as I knew they would be in the end. Like two sad piles of heroism gone awry, conquered. The minute Jimmy uttered the words "my way" and put on his cape, I knew. Even if Johnny hadn't shown up at all hours, drunk on his own views as always,singing in his loudest twang "my way", it would have gone to shit. These things always turn around on people. You invent the guillotine, you might die by it.
I knew all that the morning they left, arguing over who'd convince whom and how many whom's they'd convince, including the most important ones-the nobodies. They both knew the nobodies had nothing better to do and all the time to devote to following them. Jimmy was ranting on about how he'd show everyone that his way was the only way, and he believed himself too. Johnny was convinced that there was no way so it didn't matter where you went and then you always ended up being where you're meant to go, that was his way and the only one, in his opinion. He really believed himself too.
I felt foolish driving them to the airport but I knew they wouldn't shut up and stop fighting unless they proved their respective points. I'd seen this type of thing before. There's a certain curiosity in people, nearly always in small minded people, to find out the just how many other people they can convince. makes up for not having any real conviction. I dodged in and out of heavy traffic, wanting to curse the numskull drivers, all void of any sense at all. Jimmy was starting to sound so self righteous it was nauseating. He rambled on in a now put on super human voice, "everyone must conform, be alike, the same-so we can all live in harmony!, no drugs, no parties, no self expression, we all need suits like mine". I'd heard this superior tone ring out from podiums in every town I'd been through and it always went stale the same way-immediately and stinking. The thing is though, you can argue logic with illogical people all day but there's no logic in it. I kept quiet for that very reason. I'd have liked to slam on the brakes and at least jolt him hard, before tossing him out, but it's the mentality of the inferior to not understand how these are just things we hate deep within ourselves mirrored back with magnification.
Johnny was starting to slur a bit, even that early in the day, but he jumped right in with his version of the way. "We all just need to do what we do, just party on, ignore it all, just be happy-mellow..and use as much as it takes of whatever gets us by". I'm always irked by those types too. They never want anyone to do anything until something needs done in their eyes. leaving every unsettled moment just another chance for self pity with applause. It's just as bad to believe in everything as it is to believe in nothing. It's just as sick to waste life on self denial as self indulgence in over indulgence. Even the common ant has a responsibility to himself and a job to get done, a purpose. Purpose comes with trial and error and those who can't be bothered establishing their own, either borrow and follow or lie and lead. Those who know, don't need a meteorologist to let them know it's raining when their heads are wet with skyward eyes, it's obvious.
By the time we got checked in at the ticket counter and they'd spent all the money they'd borrowed from friends on tickets around the globe, they both looked unwell. No sooner had I thought this and wondered what was wrong when a man walked up, old and shriveled, hidden mostly under a poncho and holding a guitar and nothing else. he was the kind of guy you could picture picking tobacco all day and spending the rest of his time on a front porch, with a dog. I was intrigued by how well he blended in even though he stood out completely. I put it down to his looking so harmless. He looked strong yet non threatening. He whispered in my ear, "hate is a plague that kills from the inside" and walked on.
Then, down went Jimmy and Johnny right after him. People started cheering. Shouting and clapping like it was a momentous occasion.
I stood there in complete bewilderment, trying to figure out what was going down and over all the ruckus I could hear that old mans guitar.
Anonymous
THE TORONTO SUBWAY
I was having a dreadful Wednesday. For this semester I taught from 9 am to 9 pm with 3 courses and time in between for office hours. It was just bad scheduling and by the time I finished I was exhausted. Carrying assignments and tests home to be marked I got on the subway at Dundas Station. I thought the students were acting weird that day, but my fellow passengers were stranger than that.
I gingerly stepped over one man lying semi-naked on the floor because I just had to sit. He did not move as I piled my bag of homework next to me. As I was a Registered Nurse, seeing half-naked people did not alarm me; but the fact that nobody cared was somewhat in the "Twilight Zone". Then I noticed that there was an unconscious man in a "Superman" suit next to him. Finally, looking straight ahead was a businessman sprawled all over the seat; his briefcase on the floor beside him.
As we arrived at Queen's station, two Policemen and several paramedics got on. The paramedics put all three men on gurneys and took them out. The police then had the doors closed and started to ask questions. This went on for about one half hour. Then the doors opened again; more police were waiting for those who got off.
The next station was King station and more people left. Finally we got to Union station where I made a rush for the GO Commuter train to take me home to Mississauga. When I found a seat I realized that I was sitting next to Alice Friend, my neighbour.
"What happened?", I asked Alice, who was also a nurse.
"Well you know I work at St. Mike's and there have been rumors from Emergency that people have been dropping here and there after doing some weird things.
Alice pursed her lips and replied: "You will hear something on the news tonight, so I may as well tell you. Someone sabotaged your favorite "Malboro" brand." She looked at me dismally, having asked me to stop smoking a long time ago.
"With what?", I asked as I felt in my purse for my ciggies. Fortunately it was an open pack.
She started her usual lecture style, "The Company is looking into it. Either there was sabotage when the cigarettes were made or where they were sold. People start to hallucinate and then act oddly before passing out." She stared at my hands clutching my last open pack of cigarettes. "Some say the cigarettes were tampered with in Toronto only, so if I were you, I would quit now."
When I got home, I looked for a cigarette and liquor. It was nearly midnight and no-one was home, not my husband, not my children. I put on the TV and watched while smoking my last of the safe smokes. The problem was all over Toronto and the suburbs like ours. Finally the word had come from above: STOP SMOKING. After a few drinks and another cigarette I started to look around the house. I found my son in the basement passed out, nude. I took his vital signs as I dialed 911. The line was blocked, as there were too many calls. I dialed the number the TV had given. "Let them sleep it off" and bring into ER if behaviour persists.
I fell asleep waiting for my son to show signs of awakening. He got up before me and said, "Mom, are you OK? You smoked one of those cigarettes too, didn't you?" I looked at him and he looked OK. My other son and husband materialized. It seems that somebody had an issue with the "Marlboro Man". The Mayor of Toronto had admitted to smoking crack cocaine and some group called "MAKE TORONTO HIGH" had done this to expose the Mayor's shaky record.
So the shit hit the fan. Toronto and suburbs came to a halt for two more days until all the cigarettes were taken off the shelves and all the people detoxed. They are analyzing what exactly the substance was but it seemed to be very mild and did not leave lasting effects. The mayor is probably going to be forced to resign. Smoking crack cocaine while performing your duties of Mayor of Canada's most well known city is frowned upon. That is why Toronto is in Ontario, which is known as "UPPER CANADA".
742 words
This is version 1.1.
the French are winners
Dr. Shang Hao working for years as a proctologist remembered a promise he made to himself . Ending his career was bittersweet, his accomplishments were vast ,but his dreams where not yet realized.He never received that grant from the University to explore the limits of the human asshole. In the 80s he did experiments with Richard Gere and gerbils but,there was so much more we needed to know he thought. His whole life spent calling DEA agents seeing if any Colombians were caught holding more than 40 bags of heroin up their ass. Waiting like a child on Christmas morning but, Santa never delivered to his fireplace that dream. His colleagues laughed saying his dreams were a fallacy. He always told himself,you set your goals and you go forth. Spending most of the 90s in a depressed stupor. His dreams started to fade.
The Internet came into being and soon he was communicating to the masses. It started with a chat room, then went to a blog ,then a full-blown website.www.What's up your ass.com was up and running and within one month 700 entries of people taking pictures of things they jammed up their asses came pouring in. Receiving data and categorizing the entries .He was in heaven.The Asians where the first ones to post, pictures from chopsticks to small panda bears. Than the Americans posted pictures of small statuettes of Abraham Lincoln then a whole complete set of a nativity scene, Because not only are they proud of being an American they're proud of being Christians as well. Of all the entries from different countries it was obvious to him that Europe was the place to be. All the money he had acquired from this website and the clothing line that sprang from it called "No lube sports apparel" catering to the gay community with the slogan "Just cause you're gay doesn't mean you're not tough! No Lube " was put into a contest to be held on the Day after the last day of his retirement on a subway in Europe .The top banner announced
WORLD'S BIGGEST ASSHOLE CONTEST
Ahmed the terrorist. Trained in a recruiting camp in Yemen. Saw the contest and thought he could win because he had been stretching his asshole with bricks of C-4 for almost 2 years straight.
C.j the American child's birthday entertainer who billed himself as ( The Strange Ranger) saw the contest and entered it as a tribute to his father who fought in World War II. The last thing is father asked him to do before he died was to remind those damn Europeans that this would be Hitler Ville if it wasn't for us.
Ching Wa was a businessman from China whose responsibility it was to test every pogo stick made at the factory for quality control. Cheaper parts and slave labor made quality-control hard on Ching Wa's asshole. But he thought what he lacked and girth he would make up for an length. He still thought he had a chance
All the rest who entered the contest where Europeans mostly from France.
Held on the subway,that way he didn't have to worry about permits and legalities.Dr. Shang Hao the retired proctologist announced to the crowd what exactly he would be jamming up all their asses. The anticipation mounted as he pulled out the crate of thousands of water bottles. The crowd cheered while dropping their pants and bending over.Dr. Shang Hao inserted one water bottle in every ass until he was up to 20.
Ching Wa was the first to feel the pain,the pogo sticks were never this wide he thought to himself.Dr. Shang Hao helped him over to the seat across from him. Putting on his pants thinking that would hold all the bottles of water up there.
Next was the American rolling on the floor back and forth in hopes the bottles would move sideways within his body.
Ahmed told the doctor you might as well jam two more up my ass because I'm feeling lucky. Then the doctor inserted one bottle,then the next, Ahmed took all that he could take and fell to the floor face first.Dr. Shang Hao did not think one bit of it ,he just kept eyeballing all of the Europeans looking like they were bored. The contest continued into the middle of the night with the guy in the red shirt winning a brand-new wardrobe of No lube sports apparel,complete with a colonoscopy hand bag kit with matching shoes and a copy of the new Sarah Palin book (about to be made into a movie), entitled 'How did I get my head so far up my ass'?
Dr. Shang Hao working for years as a proctologist remembered a promise he made to himself . Ending his career was bittersweet, his accomplishments were vast ,but his dreams where not yet realized.He never received that grant from the University to explore the limits of the human asshole. In the 80s he did experiments with Richard Gere and gerbils but,there was so much more we needed to know he thought. His whole life spent calling DEA agents seeing if any Colombians were caught holding more than 40 bags of heroin up their ass. Waiting like a child on Christmas morning but, Santa never delivered to his fireplace that dream. His colleagues laughed saying his dreams were a fallacy. He always told himself,you set your goals and you go forth. Spending most of the 90s in a depressed stupor. His dreams started to fade.
The Internet came into being and soon he was communicating to the masses. It started with a chat room, then went to a blog ,then a full-blown website.www.What's up your ass.com was up and running and within one month 700 entries of people taking pictures of things they jammed up their asses came pouring in. Receiving data and categorizing the entries .He was in heaven.The Asians where the first ones to post, pictures from chopsticks to small panda bears. Than the Americans posted pictures of small statuettes of Abraham Lincoln then a whole complete set of a nativity scene, Because not only are they proud of being an American they're proud of being Christians as well. Of all the entries from different countries it was obvious to him that Europe was the place to be. All the money he had acquired from this website and the clothing line that sprang from it called "No lube sports apparel" catering to the gay community with the slogan "Just cause you're gay doesn't mean you're not tough! No Lube " was put into a contest to be held on the Day after the last day of his retirement on a subway in Europe .The top banner announced
WORLD'S BIGGEST ASSHOLE CONTEST
Ahmed the terrorist. Trained in a recruiting camp in Yemen. Saw the contest and thought he could win because he had been stretching his asshole with bricks of C-4 for almost 2 years straight.
C.j the American child's birthday entertainer who billed himself as ( The Strange Ranger) saw the contest and entered it as a tribute to his father who fought in World War II. The last thing is father asked him to do before he died was to remind those damn Europeans that this would be Hitler Ville if it wasn't for us.
Ching Wa was a businessman from China whose responsibility it was to test every pogo stick made at the factory for quality control. Cheaper parts and slave labor made quality-control hard on Ching Wa's asshole. But he thought what he lacked and girth he would make up for an length. He still thought he had a chance
All the rest who entered the contest where Europeans mostly from France.
Held on the subway,that way he didn't have to worry about permits and legalities.Dr. Shang Hao the retired proctologist announced to the crowd what exactly he would be jamming up all their asses. The anticipation mounted as he pulled out the crate of thousands of water bottles. The crowd cheered while dropping their pants and bending over.Dr. Shang Hao inserted one water bottle in every ass until he was up to 20.
Ching Wa was the first to feel the pain,the pogo sticks were never this wide he thought to himself.Dr. Shang Hao helped him over to the seat across from him. Putting on his pants thinking that would hold all the bottles of water up there.
Next was the American rolling on the floor back and forth in hopes the bottles would move sideways within his body.
Ahmed told the doctor you might as well jam two more up my ass because I'm feeling lucky. Then the doctor inserted one bottle,then the next, Ahmed took all that he could take and fell to the floor face first.Dr. Shang Hao did not think one bit of it ,he just kept eyeballing all of the Europeans looking like they were bored. The contest continued into the middle of the night with the guy in the red shirt winning a brand-new wardrobe of No lube sports apparel,complete with a colonoscopy hand bag kit with matching shoes and a copy of the new Sarah Palin book (about to be made into a movie), entitled 'How did I get my head so far up my ass'?
If somebody didn't crack him on the back of the head, who knows what he'd have done to the dark skinned boy, and just because the boy ran when he saw a mask. The heroes are all feared, and despised now. Even the word hero has a new, ominous definition. Whether good or bad, these heroes are thinning out. They're being found in drug dens, and whore-houses, high and intoxicated; knives and bullets in their backs, throats cut or hung themselves. They were idols once. Every kid had a favourite, but they were out-grown by the mad and crime. Made the mistake of working on the same level as the chaos, allowing it to crawl up their suits, into their mouths and down into whatever it could feed on.
They've become freaks, mutants and the miscreated. Nobody knows of their origin. When they appeared to excel at catching criminals the government didn't hesitate to exploit them, and give them their own rules. Through all these talents, the heroes are still emotionally human. How many times can one person rationally deal with child murderers, rapists and sodomists, before the cracks start to show? All handed to a court that grants them food, warmth and clean clothes until they die, then the privilege of a funeral.
This place is kept alive by death. No money in the living anymore; life's become much too short. Women turn to brothels for safety in numbers. Junkies kill the junkies if they don't kill themselves, and the government sits watching them drown in the gutters, scratching around looking for daylight. It's a slow way to fix these streets, but the only way, and the suits know this. Sometimes you've got to let a virus run its course, and let the cells die with it before its host can be helped. Everything that breaks, stays broken, except the two tall buildings where the money flows in, at the centre. Street after street all share the same character: windows shattered, the richer ones boarded up, the grey bricks black from house fires, street-lights cut out bar the handful that've been wired separately, shouting, gun shots, screaming and no sirens. No law. No hope. The good folk have left or died, but most have nowhere to go. The city has locked itself away, for the process of a microcosm apocalypse, and the fat-cats are getting impatient, trying to reason with the heroes again, to end this pandemonium for good, but they can't; far too human.
The only real justice is death. Let whoever takes 'em, sort 'em out when they're dead. The whole city is crowded and contaminated; the sickening result of a failed system. These masked men, they call heroes, are no different from the scum they're trying to scoop out of this cesspool.
The real heroes are the machinists in the factories making body-bags and detergents; the men in the crematoriums that keep the chimneys breathing, coughing and smothering the city in its own, foul death.
A friend once asked me, if running away is an act of cowardice - even if it's more running towards, than away. I told her, of course it is. Told her, when the problems are on your back, you can run as far as you like, but they're still on your back. I've built her grave back up eight times after it's been burned and destroyed. She was a true hero. Still had the vision, and delusion, that people could be fixed or taught. Thought we were all the same in our core's substance. I'd laugh. What fuckin' substance? I'd shout smiling, pointing out the window over the broken streets. Nothing but disposable matter.
The smarter heroes stayed smart. Realised the only way to hide in this mess was to go unmasked. It's been so long, that I've forgotten what colour my mask was. When I walk down the streets, or through the subways, and look into all the kids' faces, kids that know nothing else, I too get tastes of that same hope that's destroyed so many of us. It makes the blood redder as you rinse it off through the long nights.
(Not really an entry, as it's void of all typical story fundamentals, but I wanted to try something different.)
They've become freaks, mutants and the miscreated. Nobody knows of their origin. When they appeared to excel at catching criminals the government didn't hesitate to exploit them, and give them their own rules. Through all these talents, the heroes are still emotionally human. How many times can one person rationally deal with child murderers, rapists and sodomists, before the cracks start to show? All handed to a court that grants them food, warmth and clean clothes until they die, then the privilege of a funeral.
This place is kept alive by death. No money in the living anymore; life's become much too short. Women turn to brothels for safety in numbers. Junkies kill the junkies if they don't kill themselves, and the government sits watching them drown in the gutters, scratching around looking for daylight. It's a slow way to fix these streets, but the only way, and the suits know this. Sometimes you've got to let a virus run its course, and let the cells die with it before its host can be helped. Everything that breaks, stays broken, except the two tall buildings where the money flows in, at the centre. Street after street all share the same character: windows shattered, the richer ones boarded up, the grey bricks black from house fires, street-lights cut out bar the handful that've been wired separately, shouting, gun shots, screaming and no sirens. No law. No hope. The good folk have left or died, but most have nowhere to go. The city has locked itself away, for the process of a microcosm apocalypse, and the fat-cats are getting impatient, trying to reason with the heroes again, to end this pandemonium for good, but they can't; far too human.
The only real justice is death. Let whoever takes 'em, sort 'em out when they're dead. The whole city is crowded and contaminated; the sickening result of a failed system. These masked men, they call heroes, are no different from the scum they're trying to scoop out of this cesspool.
The real heroes are the machinists in the factories making body-bags and detergents; the men in the crematoriums that keep the chimneys breathing, coughing and smothering the city in its own, foul death.
A friend once asked me, if running away is an act of cowardice - even if it's more running towards, than away. I told her, of course it is. Told her, when the problems are on your back, you can run as far as you like, but they're still on your back. I've built her grave back up eight times after it's been burned and destroyed. She was a true hero. Still had the vision, and delusion, that people could be fixed or taught. Thought we were all the same in our core's substance. I'd laugh. What fuckin' substance? I'd shout smiling, pointing out the window over the broken streets. Nothing but disposable matter.
The smarter heroes stayed smart. Realised the only way to hide in this mess was to go unmasked. It's been so long, that I've forgotten what colour my mask was. When I walk down the streets, or through the subways, and look into all the kids' faces, kids that know nothing else, I too get tastes of that same hope that's destroyed so many of us. It makes the blood redder as you rinse it off through the long nights.
(Not really an entry, as it's void of all typical story fundamentals, but I wanted to try something different.)
Anonymous
ok, I've edited for content expansion-should be right on word count now-or somewhere close.
cheers Mikki, good stuff, there's a 10% leeway anyway. though your word count exceeds the 10% by four words ...*sigh* you'll need to be sorting that, I mean come on!! simple fucking math, what's wrong with you at all? 
The Morbid Insanity of Charlie The Milkman
Somewhere off in the distance a window shattered and then quickly faded away again into the nothingness.
Waking from a dreamless sleep Charlie's eyes snap open, he was sitting by his lonesome in the dark bedroom.
"HELLo Charles, Did yOu slEeeEep well?"
The sound makes him jump at first but then realizing it was only Mortimer a gangly limbed string puppet with a face that looked much like it had lost several rounds with the wrong end of a claw hammer and a mop of hair congeiled with dried blood, he became slightly less afraid...
Mortimer's good eye flicked about the room aimlessly as if it were looking for invisible bats that may have been clinging to the ceiling somewhere near the old wardrobe at the back of the room.
You know, the one with the door that always hung slightly asque and had at one point in its existance held a full length mirror-- but Mortimer had long since taken care of that...
"No, dreamless as always. I'm starting to wonder if they'll ever give them back"
A small frown creasing Charlie's otherwise blank waxen face.
Mortimer flicked his blood matted hair to one side and looked towards Charlie with a cock-eyed expression, his mouth twisting into a maniacal grin that looked as though the corners of his lips were attached to fish hooks on tightly pulled strings.
"But Charles, hOW can they return to YoU what does NOT beloooong?"
Mortimer's voice rose slightly and then fell back away into the silence of the room like a disturbing after thought.
His voice always reminded Charlie of a brushfire on the savannah, it was crackly and rasped harshly when he emphasized things in the kind of way only a demented toy can do.
"Thats to bad you know" Mortimer paused and let his head lawl brokenly over his shoulder until the full glare of his twisted grin fell on Charlie before continuing."I wAs goInG to Ask if yoU'vE bEEn HaviNg the saMe dReaM I'Ve BeeN hAviNg"
Hmm... Oh yeah what might that be Mortimer? Charlie asked, his voice hollow already knowing the answer he was
about to receive.
"I'Ve bEen dReaMinG of a liTtlE giRl who's hAir is cLotTed with blOOd lyiNg nExt to her dEaD mOtHer on a piSs soaKeD maTtrEsS. ShE has eYes lIke an uNdeaD doLL and She mUrmuRs QuiEtly to the vOicEs she HeaRs in her heAd..." Mortimer stopped reguarding Charlie for a long moment of silence before he went on.
"ShE kiLLeD hEr You knOw..."
"Killed who?" Charlie questioned almost absent mindedly as he dragged his eyes away from the shards of broken glass that clung to the peeling wood of his bedroom window, like the last few survivers of the Titanic.
"HeR mOtheR OF coURse!!" Mortimer growled in a slightly irrated tone that quickly died off.
A stiff breeze hissed outside but only a few wisps of moving air dared to enter Charlie's bedroom, stiring up the smell of moldy towels left in a forgotten corner after a day at the pool that mingled with the sickly sweet dregs of rotting wood.
"Charles...?"
Mortimer rasped sounding almost gleeful having shared his repetitive dream.
"hmm... I think you may have told me about this dream before Mortimer." Charlie replied as he cast a weary side glance in Mortimers direction without meeting his cock-eyed stare.
"Oh But Charles yOu knoW how I lOve The dReaM of tHat litTle Girl aNd her dEad mOthEr..."
"I heard a noise last night Mortimer, was that you coming in?" Charlie questioned almost reluctantly as he finally let his gaze meet that of his deranged puppet.
Mortimer's fish hook grin seemed to tighten and grow just that little bit more as his wandering eye fell into line with it's pair and both rested fixedly upon Charlie.
"I broUghT the TruCk bACk frOm tHe wOodS Last niGHt Charles... I eVen mAnaGed to Get it iNto thE gAraGe ThIs tImE, I tHinK I Did fAirly Well, iT's alMosT sTraIghT eVen."
Somewhere off in the distance a window shattered and then quickly faded away again into the nothingness.
Waking from a dreamless sleep Charlie's eyes snap open, he was sitting by his lonesome in the dark bedroom.
"HELLo Charles, Did yOu slEeeEep well?"
The sound makes him jump at first but then realizing it was only Mortimer a gangly limbed string puppet with a face that looked much like it had lost several rounds with the wrong end of a claw hammer and a mop of hair congeiled with dried blood, he became slightly less afraid...
Mortimer's good eye flicked about the room aimlessly as if it were looking for invisible bats that may have been clinging to the ceiling somewhere near the old wardrobe at the back of the room.
You know, the one with the door that always hung slightly asque and had at one point in its existance held a full length mirror-- but Mortimer had long since taken care of that...
"No, dreamless as always. I'm starting to wonder if they'll ever give them back"
A small frown creasing Charlie's otherwise blank waxen face.
Mortimer flicked his blood matted hair to one side and looked towards Charlie with a cock-eyed expression, his mouth twisting into a maniacal grin that looked as though the corners of his lips were attached to fish hooks on tightly pulled strings.
"But Charles, hOW can they return to YoU what does NOT beloooong?"
Mortimer's voice rose slightly and then fell back away into the silence of the room like a disturbing after thought.
His voice always reminded Charlie of a brushfire on the savannah, it was crackly and rasped harshly when he emphasized things in the kind of way only a demented toy can do.
"Thats to bad you know" Mortimer paused and let his head lawl brokenly over his shoulder until the full glare of his twisted grin fell on Charlie before continuing."I wAs goInG to Ask if yoU'vE bEEn HaviNg the saMe dReaM I'Ve BeeN hAviNg"
Hmm... Oh yeah what might that be Mortimer? Charlie asked, his voice hollow already knowing the answer he was
about to receive.
"I'Ve bEen dReaMinG of a liTtlE giRl who's hAir is cLotTed with blOOd lyiNg nExt to her dEaD mOtHer on a piSs soaKeD maTtrEsS. ShE has eYes lIke an uNdeaD doLL and She mUrmuRs QuiEtly to the vOicEs she HeaRs in her heAd..." Mortimer stopped reguarding Charlie for a long moment of silence before he went on.
"ShE kiLLeD hEr You knOw..."
"Killed who?" Charlie questioned almost absent mindedly as he dragged his eyes away from the shards of broken glass that clung to the peeling wood of his bedroom window, like the last few survivers of the Titanic.
"HeR mOtheR OF coURse!!" Mortimer growled in a slightly irrated tone that quickly died off.
A stiff breeze hissed outside but only a few wisps of moving air dared to enter Charlie's bedroom, stiring up the smell of moldy towels left in a forgotten corner after a day at the pool that mingled with the sickly sweet dregs of rotting wood.
"Charles...?"
Mortimer rasped sounding almost gleeful having shared his repetitive dream.
"hmm... I think you may have told me about this dream before Mortimer." Charlie replied as he cast a weary side glance in Mortimers direction without meeting his cock-eyed stare.
"Oh But Charles yOu knoW how I lOve The dReaM of tHat litTle Girl aNd her dEad mOthEr..."
"I heard a noise last night Mortimer, was that you coming in?" Charlie questioned almost reluctantly as he finally let his gaze meet that of his deranged puppet.
Mortimer's fish hook grin seemed to tighten and grow just that little bit more as his wandering eye fell into line with it's pair and both rested fixedly upon Charlie.
"I broUghT the TruCk bACk frOm tHe wOodS Last niGHt Charles... I eVen mAnaGed to Get it iNto thE gAraGe ThIs tImE, I tHinK I Did fAirly Well, iT's alMosT sTraIghT eVen."
