Too close to me and you,
lived some people in a commune,
they liked a crazy man,
who wrote out his plan,
about the future,
he was sure,
thought he knew,
what we'd go through,
to end the war,
between haves and have-nots,
to have peace once more,
but peace can't be bought,
by faulty economic schemes,
or high-falutin' dreams,
of an imaginary world,
so before our story's told,
know sweet children,
however frilled the house you live in,
or pitiable your pit,
we all have some things,
and have-not some things,
the categories in this story,
have and have-not,
are imaginary,
it's fine to imagine alot,
but don't ignore reality,
for airy imaginings.
In the commune,
people were farmers,
harvest came soon,
later followed by winter,
season by season,
the workdays went unseasoned,
no celebrations,
split holiday and workday,
every hour "brothers" worked hard,
planting flour across acres,
yard by yard.
Once a month,
the commune met,
to make some rules,
to prepare and set,
any changes:
in who got what tools,
what would be bought from outside,
apportionments of gruel,
and John Lame Mule (full of pride),
considered it cruel,
he was on Elder's bad side,
so he got the least gruel.
At one of the monthly meetings,
John LM made a speech,
he said they had have-nots,
but brotherhood waited in reach,
some men had wives and daughters,
but some brethren were lonely bachelors,
so John LM proposed,
smiling 'round his hooked nose,
the married brothers share,
their wives or daughters fair,
with single brothers who found,
them fine in or out of gowns,
"if they need bound",
John LM said,
"bop them upside the head,
then every brother is wed,
with every sister here,
and our Karl's wise utopia,
draws more near"
some married men opposed
what John LM proposed
but the majority's prose,
above contention rose,
so in the town hall,
women large and daughters small,
were had by all,
bachelors who with haste,
wanted a taste,
of sharing a marital bed.
Some women left the commune,
some of them left notes,
others left with ropes,
the Elder's wife was shared most,
for a while she was comatose,
then rejecting the noose,
she cooked her own goose,
with a dose,
of mandrake.
All sisters were shared,
but some were like a favorite toy,
passed from boy to boy,
while others were like toys forgotten,
left in wooden boxes rotten,
these nagging old hens,
soon made friends,
sitting in a knitting circle,
they clucked of how a cull,
of the most-lended sisters,
may befit kind Karl's order,
Old Bess McGrueder,
suggested the ladies should,
offer The Others lumber(wood),
for liposuction machines,
their tubes of plastic sheen,
would let the ladies siphon,
the fat "those sirens",
packed in too-slim bras,
many ladies cawed,
"...just asking to be shared
dressing so flirty"
and if they were thin,
they'd be less dirty,
then the means of production,
for feminine seduction,
could be pumped in pairs,
of ladies wanting shared,
where women breathed,
and where women sat,
they'd redistribute fat,
between sips of tea,
ladies talked equality.
Old Ms.Sheeat,
stroking her pussy cat,
said they could not glean,
funds for a machine,
but trust her because she,
had a simpler people's solution,
the spinster's fair resolution,
of feminist equality,
would be applied to bodies,
by nails, fists, knives, and tools,
with these instruments they'd school,
man-hoarding sisters,
in how ladies must pool,
their resources together,
to survive the foul weather,
of the male gaze,
through a judgmental haze,
of machismo's appraisal,
the same-looking feminine,
would sail common to commune women.
That night the least shared women,
tore down the means of production,
of feminine seduction,
from the most shared women,
making the latter's faces,
match the former's feminine graces,
until one sister was as good as another,
and had no favor from a brother.
The little daughter of the Elder,
survived that night a cripple,
but she had not bled.
The Elder heard the people,
when they were his people,
and now the people's revolution,
had passed his resolve,
he found he could not solve,
this world of relative shapes,
he longed for a single equal form,
an end to uneven landscapes,
an end to the rich robbing the poor,
to become wealthier all the more,
he longed for a world without worlds,
thoughts without words,
existence without substance,
distinction without variation,
he asked on and on,
what should be his action?
No more a monthly meeting,
nor brother's kind greeting,
he couldn't consult the commune,
with pacing feet,
he asked the empty air,
until he heard an answer,
(something else was there)
in his quiet house.
This widow heard their voices,
The Elder joined their chorus,
an unseen sounding,
a larger commune's founding,
for the first time,
in a long time,
The Elder's ears chimed,
with long missed sounds,
his wife's teeth and tongue,
through his head did resound,
she and most of the brethren,
missed their flesh,
the clucking hens,
and deflated bachelors,
were doors,
the means of production of life,
and The Elder heard what waited in store,
quite, cold for everyone,
loneliness for evermore,
he heard their demands,
and soberly came to understand,
the brethren had amassed,
and told him their wishes at last:
to be fair,
bros must share,
with the majority of brethren passed.
They commanded the Elder,
to gather the people's paybox,
and take it to The Others,
to buy enough mandrake,
to give the Watersnake Well,
the toxin it'd take,
to poison its' fangs.
The Elder looked strange,
to The Others,
but they gave him his supplies,
done making his buys,
he returned to the people,
neighbors asked where he would go,
when he walked by,
didn't they know?
the commune had a meeting,
so now he must try,
to equate the distribution of the means of production of life,
between the people with bodies,
and the voices without,
he did not doubt,
The Elder was sure,
he did the people more good,
than ever before.
He called the commune to gather,
some asked, "what's the matter",
folks stepped aside for his daughter,
she hobbled up front,
compared to most sisters,
she was a runt,
"To equality comrades!
Let's lift the people's cup
and together sup."
So the whole commune drank,
and their numbers shrank,
in a day,
from many,
to none.
One of The Others
took the land of the brothers
and demolished their buildings
for his new mall's opening.
Showing posts with label aesop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aesop. Show all posts
Monday, January 11, 2010
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
For Instinct
I step, resetting my weight, trying to get my tight muscles loose again. Ignore the urge to rub my hands together and step instead. My main-gate shift’s almost here. Watch says 2306. Close enough, Charlie’s been glum lately, I’ll let him off early. “I’m taking my shift now” “Are you sure? There’s 9 minutes left.” “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Go home; I’ve got you covered buddy”. “Thanks man.”
These may have been Almend’s thoughts before he murdered Amschel. Arriving at base near midnight Amschel was shot through the gate while disembarking from his limo. His guards overmatched Almend’s bullets and killed him. At eleven, Amschel died.
There was no record indicating prior inclinations on Almend’s part to kill unprovoked or attack. He did not know Amschel and, being in his employ, had no apparent reason to kill him. Yet, seeing the boy, Almend reactively shot to kill.
Amschel was the director of world planning. All his family obeyed his demands and nations obeyed their demands. Attaining such a position in a family of back-stabbers, cunning brutes, clever devils and bankers required frightful craft. Amschel died at 11.
His completely unexpected assassination opened a route through to the destruction of his family’s glamour through which other families saw them as betters and so served them. Amschel had needed to kill, sequester, isolate, or otherwise make unfindable/useless all his rivals for family rule so, at his death, there wasn’t a family member left with the presence of dastardly will to hold all others in fearful obedience. In-fighting broke out between the family members; throughout the world wars waged. Such violent quarrel may not have ended the family’s rule because such spiteful in-fighting had long been their way: for generations brother murdered brother, father whipped daughter, mother poisoned husband, and son hired a hit on elder. These destructive effects were worsened with simultaneous violence in favor of paranoid insulation. No one expected or understood Almend’s assassination of Amschel. He couldn’t have known Amschel’s importance (adults were always kept around him so he’d more appear like a child being led so, should an attack on world-leader come, his bodyguards-disguised-as-parents would be killed instead). Suspicions were cast that another family member must have done it –though all serious contenders had been thought estranged/lost or executed. Other heads-of-family searched fervently for betrayers within their own organizations, killing many of their own guards as Almend had been one of Amschel’s guards. Communication and therefore the overall efficiency of the family’s organizations were hampered by powerful members holing themselves up in fortress-estates to be contacted through bottlenecks. Subordinates found themselves left to decide matters when information deferred up provoked no answer before decision-time came. Increasing independence in lower leaders of the hierarchy led to splintering loyalties. The illusion of needing to work with Amschel’s family began to dissolve and whole continental regions turned against them. Family-heads were in no state of mind to organize defenses as they had their advisers slimmed with executions and wasted money on protection from phantom enemy cells. Ideas of cells within manors took root in servants minds and some were actually formed. Frustrated with hurting demands, some security commanders staged coups. One set the standard when he realized most of the organization didn’t see their ruler anymore and so wouldn’t even be able to check if he was telling the truth when he claimed he spoke for their master. All bets went off when a regional ruler convinced state-heads to sabotage the currencies they’d been forced to use. Means of economic control, items kept clean of invisible warfare, became fair game. All the infrastructure of world rule was being burned while subjects of increasingly low rank-in-hierarchy began to self-determinate.
Almend saw Amschel. He felt him. A terrible child, horrid, abominable, twisted. A gunshot and the pain in his breast shamed Amschel, letting him know he’d done wrong.
Understand, that bullet didn’t hit Amschel; it struck a pane of bullet-proof glass. It did not pierce through; it did not shatter. Some fiber was smashed to particles, a pattering event, and the pane was rent. Though no hole was made, the pocket dug was a great impact all the same. Cracks spread from where the bullet-tip had hit and segmented the once solid pane. Pieces of glass fell onto the ledge, a plane oriented to an opposing axis, or floated as light particle-powder in an a-axial atmosphere. Even the edges and corners shuddered, knew a change took place.
Comprehend, a single sheet of glass wasn’t destroyed but a mosaic demonic. Singularly beautiful glasses were fashioned together into a horrible picture. The structure ghastly, its’ visage torture. A piece of woe was partially undone in its’ frame so some glass fragments fell free of the ugly image to be beautiful individually yet not hideous in context.
Believe, not for a bullet but a drop of water the mosaic shattered.
Know, cracks are not destruction but a return of original formation. Once the water and glass were together. They were earth. But heat=movement ascended water with dust left behind. A mini-mimic star (spark) struck the sand drops so they flowed as liquid then consolidated, cooled by the spirited air to a purified dryness. No longer would such glass be beaten by sun-rays. Now it was so solid it reflected and its’ parts were so close together man could only see the gaps. Individual water molecules on a higher level became depressed, pulled together by their most forceful / best-positioned members so they were so strong in their struggles against other bodies of water-particles that their anger scraped off as paths of negativity* that’d destroy whatever they’re channeled into. Such collection was ultimately a darkening of substance, stopping light from reaching lower levels, and returning water to the lower tiers it had come from. There, a drop hit the light-dried and hardened glass. Together they may again coincide to provide dirt.
*What’s an electron’s polarity?
These may have been Almend’s thoughts before he murdered Amschel. Arriving at base near midnight Amschel was shot through the gate while disembarking from his limo. His guards overmatched Almend’s bullets and killed him. At eleven, Amschel died.
There was no record indicating prior inclinations on Almend’s part to kill unprovoked or attack. He did not know Amschel and, being in his employ, had no apparent reason to kill him. Yet, seeing the boy, Almend reactively shot to kill.
Amschel was the director of world planning. All his family obeyed his demands and nations obeyed their demands. Attaining such a position in a family of back-stabbers, cunning brutes, clever devils and bankers required frightful craft. Amschel died at 11.
His completely unexpected assassination opened a route through to the destruction of his family’s glamour through which other families saw them as betters and so served them. Amschel had needed to kill, sequester, isolate, or otherwise make unfindable/useless all his rivals for family rule so, at his death, there wasn’t a family member left with the presence of dastardly will to hold all others in fearful obedience. In-fighting broke out between the family members; throughout the world wars waged. Such violent quarrel may not have ended the family’s rule because such spiteful in-fighting had long been their way: for generations brother murdered brother, father whipped daughter, mother poisoned husband, and son hired a hit on elder. These destructive effects were worsened with simultaneous violence in favor of paranoid insulation. No one expected or understood Almend’s assassination of Amschel. He couldn’t have known Amschel’s importance (adults were always kept around him so he’d more appear like a child being led so, should an attack on world-leader come, his bodyguards-disguised-as-parents would be killed instead). Suspicions were cast that another family member must have done it –though all serious contenders had been thought estranged/lost or executed. Other heads-of-family searched fervently for betrayers within their own organizations, killing many of their own guards as Almend had been one of Amschel’s guards. Communication and therefore the overall efficiency of the family’s organizations were hampered by powerful members holing themselves up in fortress-estates to be contacted through bottlenecks. Subordinates found themselves left to decide matters when information deferred up provoked no answer before decision-time came. Increasing independence in lower leaders of the hierarchy led to splintering loyalties. The illusion of needing to work with Amschel’s family began to dissolve and whole continental regions turned against them. Family-heads were in no state of mind to organize defenses as they had their advisers slimmed with executions and wasted money on protection from phantom enemy cells. Ideas of cells within manors took root in servants minds and some were actually formed. Frustrated with hurting demands, some security commanders staged coups. One set the standard when he realized most of the organization didn’t see their ruler anymore and so wouldn’t even be able to check if he was telling the truth when he claimed he spoke for their master. All bets went off when a regional ruler convinced state-heads to sabotage the currencies they’d been forced to use. Means of economic control, items kept clean of invisible warfare, became fair game. All the infrastructure of world rule was being burned while subjects of increasingly low rank-in-hierarchy began to self-determinate.
Almend saw Amschel. He felt him. A terrible child, horrid, abominable, twisted. A gunshot and the pain in his breast shamed Amschel, letting him know he’d done wrong.
Understand, that bullet didn’t hit Amschel; it struck a pane of bullet-proof glass. It did not pierce through; it did not shatter. Some fiber was smashed to particles, a pattering event, and the pane was rent. Though no hole was made, the pocket dug was a great impact all the same. Cracks spread from where the bullet-tip had hit and segmented the once solid pane. Pieces of glass fell onto the ledge, a plane oriented to an opposing axis, or floated as light particle-powder in an a-axial atmosphere. Even the edges and corners shuddered, knew a change took place.
Comprehend, a single sheet of glass wasn’t destroyed but a mosaic demonic. Singularly beautiful glasses were fashioned together into a horrible picture. The structure ghastly, its’ visage torture. A piece of woe was partially undone in its’ frame so some glass fragments fell free of the ugly image to be beautiful individually yet not hideous in context.
Believe, not for a bullet but a drop of water the mosaic shattered.
Know, cracks are not destruction but a return of original formation. Once the water and glass were together. They were earth. But heat=movement ascended water with dust left behind. A mini-mimic star (spark) struck the sand drops so they flowed as liquid then consolidated, cooled by the spirited air to a purified dryness. No longer would such glass be beaten by sun-rays. Now it was so solid it reflected and its’ parts were so close together man could only see the gaps. Individual water molecules on a higher level became depressed, pulled together by their most forceful / best-positioned members so they were so strong in their struggles against other bodies of water-particles that their anger scraped off as paths of negativity* that’d destroy whatever they’re channeled into. Such collection was ultimately a darkening of substance, stopping light from reaching lower levels, and returning water to the lower tiers it had come from. There, a drop hit the light-dried and hardened glass. Together they may again coincide to provide dirt.
*What’s an electron’s polarity?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A Purposefully 90 Degree Senseo of Reasoning
Hedrag’s thoughtful. Hedrag connected his feet to the ground so that it was marked. Soil clung in clumps that overlapped in spherical shapes like cumulous clouds, around his bare feet. Stiff, pale, goose-skin on Hedrag’s exposed torso-parts stung ‘til numbed by discs of snow. They nearly cut. From between a pair of trees (one deep grey the other ash) bent low came forth a single animal. An unhealthy froth escaped the wolves slacken muzzle. Across from the mad beast, Hedrag would not let his arms relax. Paws stepped diagonally and this canine didn’t seem to know it wasn’t alone. It looked around, alert, as if it heard something then returned to the way it came.
He likes how Sen Po helps him think. Slick with fever-sweat Hedrag flipped. He could feel the sheets bunched between his legs, pulled taunt across his shoulder, slack at his feet. But that feeling began to fade as his dream-state was regained.
Whenever he’s clear-headed and led to question things physical by illness he must inquire into his body’s state by exercising.. Bubbles nearly yet made amorphous by their momentum –shapes slithered in a spacious linear pattern. Counter to them was a harness strapped to Hedrag’s back. He propelled over a rise in the ground and hurt his eyes looking at the sun beyond. Past the greasy layers of tense ocean membrane that sloshed above him there was a bloom of brilliance. To avoid that sight-strainer he pushed his head down-tilt. Surging towards him from below in gloom
coughs communicated with Hedrag. Shunted breath comforted. Attention to physical details was stirring but his mind fought it. Those sensations were going away…
for a second time Hedrag was having the first dream told of here until | it had heard Hedrag. Its’ restrained posture shattered into fleeting forelimbs. In the time he took spinning those claws and jaws were nearly into Hedrag. His legs smashed into the building crust of snow like mortar shells in much-chewed earth. Granules mashed with snow. The trail Hedrag left was spattered with dirt from where he had earlier stood. Though his pants (which did crescendo) could still not supply necessary respiration Hedrag ran. An asthma attack came. Choked, he stumbled into bark and nearly against his fat was a spindly set of paws.
What didn’t make itself can’t unmake itself. It tried. Hedrag’s mind could not keep such dreams away. Room windows left open to lower the fever allowed whatever the wind carried into Gollsieb(Hedrag’s mother)’s abode; a leaf scraped its’ dry-rolled edge on his back
They dug into his padded hind. Maybe because of his blubber’s thick-shift protection but the feel of claws breaking in Hedrag’s back, beneath epidermis, didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Spun by that pain-driven beast to face it. A crude shove got the mutt-father off him. Because this wolf came forward Hedrag gave it one on the nose. Heavy scarlet blood spurted out. Growled then charged in again. Backhand lifted its’ forward paws off the ground. Backtread. Stretched front legs and hunched rear legs ready for pouncing. Right foot placed back, torso turned, left shoulder presented, fists up. A drawn out snarl and two barks more before the wolf ran off.
Sen Po is his favorite form of exercise. “…Sen Po class and he just passed out,” Hedrag’s mother “the poor dear. Dubbor is out on business so I left Lisjea with Temin and rushed off to get him” came home “I was so worried when he couldn’t be woken. I was going to call you” with her friend “and cancel but then he woke up and said he just wanted to rest.” from lunch “Has his fever dropped?” while Hedrag slept.
To not respond to physical difficulty by reevaluating physical-spiritual relations Hedrag would eliminate a trait he has had sense conception. The last dream Hedrag had is replaying until…the wolf’s claws are like fire. They don’t sting –they don’t cut. They’re not sharp or prickly but they sear as steam does. Their heat soaks into his chubby exterior. Yet it feels as if Hedrag had sat too long in front of a furnace, swiftly excess warmth flees from his form. Connected wet sand (frozen snow clusters) catch in Hedrag’s throat, rub-burn his cheeks, make ribbon-cuts against his gums, and uncomfortably soak patches of his hair. Battering paws role Hedrag over. Sweaty breath proclaims the jaws coming after it. In time to see a central cut of his throat trail behind the rearing wolf, Hedrag opens his eyes. Larger than the pair that preceded it, the wolf’s third swallow pulls a juicy red sample of Hedrag from the wolf’s back-tossed head into its’ stomach. Canine tongue lashes flesh from fur.
In a way, he would die. . “ihHEE-ug” lets Ms. Dubbor Poma’ort know her son’s up. He scrabbles fabric to free his body. Desperate. Sat up, Hedrag’s eyes resolve twin light-stopping fuzzes into his mom and her friend. “How do you feel honey?” “Better…good enough to get up.” Weak, feeling like his body has a fulcrum at his shins, Hedrag treks to the kitchen in a pause-stagger fashion. Whatever his Mom and her friend mean is incomprehensible noise to Hedrag as he sips water that seeps into cracks in his throat. Grabbing the deck chair gives him the option of sitting in addition to that of falling on it. Wooden chair bars catch Hedrag’s sticky skin between them. Women’s sounds decrescendo poco a poco until Hedrag is shivering alone. There’sn’t enough hair on his body to stop the outdoor chill from tormenting. Careful to keep balanced on his slippery footing, Hedrag moves away from the wood around him. He’s till having trouble seeing. Is something there? Yes…approaching, slightly downhill from his home, Hedrag can see a fat –nearly naked man! Unreasonably sick, he chases this stranger. Hedrag’s eyes stung as he ran, bloodshot and moist. When that man falls Hedrag hits into him (burning with fever) then turns him over to see his face and taste his throat.
Hedrag shakes himself awake. He wonders how he knows…anything>that his sense can be trusted
“I have an answer for Hadrag’s last question; he suffered and endured the flu in torment because didn’t it make part of his life interesting to consider?”-Narrator.
*that’d require a persistent present tense
He likes how Sen Po helps him think. Slick with fever-sweat Hedrag flipped. He could feel the sheets bunched between his legs, pulled taunt across his shoulder, slack at his feet. But that feeling began to fade as his dream-state was regained.
Whenever he’s clear-headed and led to question things physical by illness he must inquire into his body’s state by exercising.. Bubbles nearly yet made amorphous by their momentum –shapes slithered in a spacious linear pattern. Counter to them was a harness strapped to Hedrag’s back. He propelled over a rise in the ground and hurt his eyes looking at the sun beyond. Past the greasy layers of tense ocean membrane that sloshed above him there was a bloom of brilliance. To avoid that sight-strainer he pushed his head down-tilt. Surging towards him from below in gloom
coughs communicated with Hedrag. Shunted breath comforted. Attention to physical details was stirring but his mind fought it. Those sensations were going away…
for a second time Hedrag was having the first dream told of here until | it had heard Hedrag. Its’ restrained posture shattered into fleeting forelimbs. In the time he took spinning those claws and jaws were nearly into Hedrag. His legs smashed into the building crust of snow like mortar shells in much-chewed earth. Granules mashed with snow. The trail Hedrag left was spattered with dirt from where he had earlier stood. Though his pants (which did crescendo) could still not supply necessary respiration Hedrag ran. An asthma attack came. Choked, he stumbled into bark and nearly against his fat was a spindly set of paws.
What didn’t make itself can’t unmake itself. It tried. Hedrag’s mind could not keep such dreams away. Room windows left open to lower the fever allowed whatever the wind carried into Gollsieb(Hedrag’s mother)’s abode; a leaf scraped its’ dry-rolled edge on his back
They dug into his padded hind. Maybe because of his blubber’s thick-shift protection but the feel of claws breaking in Hedrag’s back, beneath epidermis, didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Spun by that pain-driven beast to face it. A crude shove got the mutt-father off him. Because this wolf came forward Hedrag gave it one on the nose. Heavy scarlet blood spurted out. Growled then charged in again. Backhand lifted its’ forward paws off the ground. Backtread. Stretched front legs and hunched rear legs ready for pouncing. Right foot placed back, torso turned, left shoulder presented, fists up. A drawn out snarl and two barks more before the wolf ran off.
Sen Po is his favorite form of exercise. “…Sen Po class and he just passed out,” Hedrag’s mother “the poor dear. Dubbor is out on business so I left Lisjea with Temin and rushed off to get him” came home “I was so worried when he couldn’t be woken. I was going to call you” with her friend “and cancel but then he woke up and said he just wanted to rest.” from lunch “Has his fever dropped?” while Hedrag slept.
To not respond to physical difficulty by reevaluating physical-spiritual relations Hedrag would eliminate a trait he has had sense conception. The last dream Hedrag had is replaying until…the wolf’s claws are like fire. They don’t sting –they don’t cut. They’re not sharp or prickly but they sear as steam does. Their heat soaks into his chubby exterior. Yet it feels as if Hedrag had sat too long in front of a furnace, swiftly excess warmth flees from his form. Connected wet sand (frozen snow clusters) catch in Hedrag’s throat, rub-burn his cheeks, make ribbon-cuts against his gums, and uncomfortably soak patches of his hair. Battering paws role Hedrag over. Sweaty breath proclaims the jaws coming after it. In time to see a central cut of his throat trail behind the rearing wolf, Hedrag opens his eyes. Larger than the pair that preceded it, the wolf’s third swallow pulls a juicy red sample of Hedrag from the wolf’s back-tossed head into its’ stomach. Canine tongue lashes flesh from fur.
In a way, he would die. . “ihHEE-ug” lets Ms. Dubbor Poma’ort know her son’s up. He scrabbles fabric to free his body. Desperate. Sat up, Hedrag’s eyes resolve twin light-stopping fuzzes into his mom and her friend. “How do you feel honey?” “Better…good enough to get up.” Weak, feeling like his body has a fulcrum at his shins, Hedrag treks to the kitchen in a pause-stagger fashion. Whatever his Mom and her friend mean is incomprehensible noise to Hedrag as he sips water that seeps into cracks in his throat. Grabbing the deck chair gives him the option of sitting in addition to that of falling on it. Wooden chair bars catch Hedrag’s sticky skin between them. Women’s sounds decrescendo poco a poco until Hedrag is shivering alone. There’sn’t enough hair on his body to stop the outdoor chill from tormenting. Careful to keep balanced on his slippery footing, Hedrag moves away from the wood around him. He’s till having trouble seeing. Is something there? Yes…approaching, slightly downhill from his home, Hedrag can see a fat –nearly naked man! Unreasonably sick, he chases this stranger. Hedrag’s eyes stung as he ran, bloodshot and moist. When that man falls Hedrag hits into him (burning with fever) then turns him over to see his face and taste his throat.
Hedrag shakes himself awake. He wonders how he knows…anything>that his sense can be trusted
“I have an answer for Hadrag’s last question; he suffered and endured the flu in torment because didn’t it make part of his life interesting to consider?”-Narrator.
*that’d require a persistent present tense
Revelry in the Wordplay of Storytelling
Written on 7/21/2007 21:15. I was pleased with the pacing.
He stuck his fingers in her twat. Don’t be vulgar. He was checking her virginity. Intact. As it should be. Twixt the time his fingers spread and slid past her labia to be sure she’s still corked and that he paused, remembering, she felt the discomfort anyone does in such a situation. Yes he’s a professional but usually such touch is reserved for sensual intimacy. Besides his hands’re clammy. He’s done this before and isn’t aroused but he is a guy with fingers-in-pussy. She’s in that familiar situation: a potential victim waiting to hear if the diagnosis is lethal.
Fla Uns was aroused. What Fla Uns was remembering were all the times Yodannu Hesin attracted him. Yodannu Hesin (during the pause) wondered why Fla wasn’t done. Mentally reliving old times he fingered her. There was: anger, outrage, exclamations, apologies, Yodannu saying within herself that she’d like to know sex before death and maybe lost virginity would save her life, an erection Fla was ashamed of, a failed attempt to hide it, mutual horniness, and the Townservant of Kobiralohiba had sex with his first sacrifice.
On their way to Kobiralohiba, were they worried? Did Yodannu regret knowing Fla so well, fearful of being sacrificed? Did she suspect Fla fucked all the sacrifices, making up the monster’s existence? He was awful excited/anxious (though trying to cover it up there). Peddling the bicycle pulling Yodannu’s carriage along. Could be worse for him. Would he be eaten or lynched? His situation was that of feeling he’d made a mistake he couldn’t undo, that this time he was screwed, and the adrenal trepidation awaiting judgment.
Fla Uns buried Yodannu Hesin in the appointed lava-channel. She fought him because personal survival screamed “let the townsfolk die! Get away!”…Fla left her with some bruises and went back to town.
I might be ok I MIGHT BE OK! Fla left town. He headed up a thick-treed mountain pass leading away from there, past the fire mountain, to freedom.
Kobiralohiba took a bite of Yodannu. He sputtered/spat the few-chewed parts of her (taken from above her pelvis bone). “Plegh!” That’s not virgin! That tastes terrible!
In town folks were trying to keep living yet dieing. Vain attempts. As Kobiralohiba rampaged through town flame children sprung from his body and played. Everything in town was combusted upside its’ head by the monster and his flame children. Sparks were carried on the wind, spores, and took root in the nearby forest to grow across the land. In seconds. Fla couldn’t see with all that damn smoke. Then he couldn’t breathe with all that damn smoke.
He stuck his fingers in her twat. Don’t be vulgar. He was checking her virginity. Intact. As it should be. Twixt the time his fingers spread and slid past her labia to be sure she’s still corked and that he paused, remembering, she felt the discomfort anyone does in such a situation. Yes he’s a professional but usually such touch is reserved for sensual intimacy. Besides his hands’re clammy. He’s done this before and isn’t aroused but he is a guy with fingers-in-pussy. She’s in that familiar situation: a potential victim waiting to hear if the diagnosis is lethal.
Fla Uns was aroused. What Fla Uns was remembering were all the times Yodannu Hesin attracted him. Yodannu Hesin (during the pause) wondered why Fla wasn’t done. Mentally reliving old times he fingered her. There was: anger, outrage, exclamations, apologies, Yodannu saying within herself that she’d like to know sex before death and maybe lost virginity would save her life, an erection Fla was ashamed of, a failed attempt to hide it, mutual horniness, and the Townservant of Kobiralohiba had sex with his first sacrifice.
On their way to Kobiralohiba, were they worried? Did Yodannu regret knowing Fla so well, fearful of being sacrificed? Did she suspect Fla fucked all the sacrifices, making up the monster’s existence? He was awful excited/anxious (though trying to cover it up there). Peddling the bicycle pulling Yodannu’s carriage along. Could be worse for him. Would he be eaten or lynched? His situation was that of feeling he’d made a mistake he couldn’t undo, that this time he was screwed, and the adrenal trepidation awaiting judgment.
Fla Uns buried Yodannu Hesin in the appointed lava-channel. She fought him because personal survival screamed “let the townsfolk die! Get away!”…Fla left her with some bruises and went back to town.
I might be ok I MIGHT BE OK! Fla left town. He headed up a thick-treed mountain pass leading away from there, past the fire mountain, to freedom.
Kobiralohiba took a bite of Yodannu. He sputtered/spat the few-chewed parts of her (taken from above her pelvis bone). “Plegh!” That’s not virgin! That tastes terrible!
In town folks were trying to keep living yet dieing. Vain attempts. As Kobiralohiba rampaged through town flame children sprung from his body and played. Everything in town was combusted upside its’ head by the monster and his flame children. Sparks were carried on the wind, spores, and took root in the nearby forest to grow across the land. In seconds. Fla couldn’t see with all that damn smoke. Then he couldn’t breathe with all that damn smoke.
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