Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]


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Post November 23, 2014, 03:45:31 PM

Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]

It is no secret that to truly be called a writer one has to write...
"You have to write something everyday." Heard that before?

Now, what does a writer write? Any damn thing she, he, or it wants. It could be next weeks menu such as: Monday- Eggs Benedict with black truffles, honey cured ham, sour cream bagels... what's that, spent all of my paycheck on online gambling again? Shit, okay... Monday- instant oatmeal, Tuesday- Top Ramen, Wed- instant oatmeal...

I don't know about you but I'm tired of reading the same genre of crap the publishers are putting out there for the masses to consume much like the Republicans, Democrats, Communists, Socialists are putting out there for the masses to vote for. This planet once was unique with unique inhabitants, now it has become one giant planet of cell phones, social media, blue jeans, instant oatmeal, 'Made in China', hate Jews, hate America, and everyone thinks they have discovered something 'new' regarding sex...Ha!

See how a writer can stray in thoughts once the mind gets twisted in knots? Here I wanted to start a little project and it quickly turned into a can of worms.

Some of you know that I write a bit, 'strange' and that I dabble in a realm some call, 'poetry', and I can't help it as I have too. It's either that or burn ants with a magnifying lense...

What I'm going to do with this thread, for those who like it a bit, 'different' or strange, is to write short ramblings. I'm going to do this so as to maybe stimulate some of your writing ambitions. Many writers are very good at writing in the 'proper' format using proper uses of adjectives, verbs, nouns and all that other universal crap that that world has come to embrace, much like a fifteen-year old female virgin clings to pictures of the current favorite pop singers...

There are many writers who know how to write but need to be inspired to write.

It is my hope someone gets inspired and takes the ramblings and run with one and turn it into their own story, submit it to a publisher who found some unique qualities in it and finds it 'worthy'. I personally could care less as I write because I have too. I could give the proverbial, 'rats ass,' if people find my work good, bad, or whatever as I will write it anyway. You see, I'm a bit defiant, a bit radical, a bit strange, a bit unique, in short, I'm a writer. So many insecure people complain of plagiarism, of 'copying', of losing 'royalty's'...: I have a real great word to use regarding such matters -H-o-r-s-e-s-h-i-t. Do you think neanderthals are rolling over in their graves because National Geographic published photo's of their cave drawings? Or, how about the Mono Lisa and all the work some Italian guy did, I believe his name was Leonardo or was it Mike Sintowski...anyway, who cares as what is viewed or read as it is up to the individual and individuals could care less who wrote or painted or built or destroyed...the individual only cares for itself.

So, feel free to find inspiration or hate or maybe twist it into some perverted form of sexual fantasy and write something if you feel so inclined after reading what will follow in the next few days, or until my writing mind drifts back into the realm of reality. If you do write something fantastic based on something you read, please don't give me any credit as I don't need anything from this world, not one damn thing other than the means to write, and for that I only need a cave wall, a computer, a piece of paper, or sand at the beach.
***

The Load
By: Whoever wants to write it.

"Radar, stop that! Oh man, why is it everytime a cow craps in the yard you have to roll it. It's bad enough that you have to nibble on it..."

Radar is a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, a pet, a friend, and now currently covered in fresh cow crap. It would not be so bad if he lived in the barn but since he is a pet, a friend, and now currently covered in fresh cow crap, he would eventually have to come inside the house.

The stinky dog just grinned and licked my hand with his tongue; probably the only cleanest part on the dog. Of course I just couldn't help but laugh because I know it is in a dogs nature to do what dogs do; smell other dogs butts, roll in crap, pee on anything sticking higher than three inches out of the ground... I wonder, do I admire dogs because they do what I would like to do?

Later that evening, the wife and I were watching television while the now, less smelly Radar was laying on the floor with his nose resting on his two short front legs stretched out before him. He could care less about what was on the flickering screen, an ancient television whose favorite color was tending to be green. This was a sure sign that the JVC color television, once a proud example of technology back in 1990, was now an ancient relic destined for the dump, and soon replaced with a Costco special. Radars only interest in the failing screen was when the commercials came on and the sounds of barking dogs or meowing cats were made known.

It was getting late and almost time to call it a day. The wife had already brushed her teeth and was in bed leaving myself and a sleepy dog left to watch the end of some mindless movie about little people with big feet and who ate a lot of breakfast's.

A white flash followed by what I felt was another sonic boom, rattled the home. Of course Radar jumped up and barked, scratching at the door to be let out. This was strange because in the past when the military jets from the base at Spokane played war games over our head, he would just bark and lay back down to sleep.

I opened the door and with a mad dash, Radar zipped outside and I went back to watching, what was now a large white guy with a beard, wave a stick at some very ugly creatures, completely lost back into the world of a mindless movie.

When the show was over, I opened the door and yelled, "Radar! Here boy, come on, get your little ass over here."

Strange? Usually he would run his little wiggly body over as fast as it could run, all in hopes of getting a treat. It was strange so I took a flashlight from the cabinet near the door, put on my Croc's and went outside.

"Radar! Radar, where the hell are you? Come on boy. Cookie, want a cookie?" Miserable bastard, it's cold out here...
Holy shit, what was that!

I have to wear glasses as I'm nearsighted but it was dark and when I went outside my only interest was to get my dog back inside, so I had left them on the table. I did not need glasses to let me see any more clearly what hovered over my head and then zoomed off over the horizon at a speed faster than any military jet I knew existed. It was an object blurry and filled with constantly changing colors. First it was blue and then orange, and even some of the green colors my television inside showed. Whatever it was, it was fast and it was gone.

Standing there in my XXL boxer shorts and bare chest, I must have looked very foolish with my mouth open in awe and my puny little wind-up LED flashlight. It was at this time that radar came up to me with his doggy grin and licked my hand again, just like deja vu. He even smelled bad, as if he had rolled in crap again.

Shining my light down I saw he had rolled in something stinky and slimy. It definitely was not cow crap, or bear crap or any crap I have seen and smelled before, but it definitely was crap of some sort. Aside from the sick smell the substance gave off, it also had subtle colors in it. Colors that changed from blue and then orange, and even a touch of green...

(If you liked this and want to write a story about it, go ahead, use the words written, add to it, subtract from it, add 100,000 more words, make it yours as for me, much like taking a good crap, I'm done with it, it's yours now. It's exposed to the world now and I leave it to the world to recycle it, ingest it, digest it, or maybe make something of it

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Post November 24, 2014, 09:36:32 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Remote Curse

Somewhere in a city buried deep in the heart of China, a small electronic company going by a name no Anglo could pronounce, housed a workforce of former farmers. These farmers had lost their small plots of land to the growing greed of capitalism as those whose hunger for money outweighed loyalty to the Communist Party.

Lin Song was one of those former farmers, one of those whose life was turned upside down when his plot of land was taken from him. His former farm was not one of beets or pigs but rather a special form of agriculture. He and his family had raised special herbs, and not the common variety one finds in a grocery store.

In the realm of magic it is an old wives tale when hearing about making potions with the foot of a chicken or putting a dash of eye-of-newt into the bubbling brew, however there are ingredients that combine both the earthly elements, the spacial elements, and elements known only to the likes of Lin and his family.

Lin now spent his days snapping pieces of plastic together, pieces consisting of multicolored buttons. A, Universal Remote Control, destined to a big chain store in the United States- Wal Mart. Day after day Lin put in twelve hours of work doing this mindless task and all for only the equivalent wages of eight dollars U.S.

You would think a greedy Chinese company making over a thousand percent profit on one, Universal Remote Control, would be happy, you would think...but greed is powerful when the coffers spill over with profit and so the owners of the company decided to force the workers to endure even more abuse. They increased the hours the workers had to work while keeping the pay the same.

Lin spent his days snapping pieces of plastic together but at night he plied his trade as a magician. You would think one who masters the occult would not demean themselves by spending what was now fifteen hours a day snapping pieces of plastic together but such reasons why were not exposed and if an Anglo could not pronounce the name of the Chinese city Lin worked in they surely could not understand the reasons on why Lin would work there when his magical skills were one of the best in the near universe.

On the other side of the world, the richest country in the world, the one going by the name, United States of America, was like a giant vacuum cleaner, sucking up the worlds energy, the worlds commodities, and much of the plastic items countries like China produced.

In the past history of the primitive planet called, Earth, many countries rose in power, countries and governments such as the Ottoman Empire, the Roman Empire, the Ming Dynasty, and now the United States of America, clawed their way up the ladder of success only to fall, and in some cases, fall fast.

For thousands of years the likes of Lin Song and his relatives, were there watching the rise and fall of histories experiments. They practiced a special art, a magic of sorts which guided events. At every success and failure of the world, they were involved, which is one of the reasons Lin was working like a slave snapping plastic pieces together, pieces on a Universal Remote Control, destined for Wal Mart, a remote control with more than plastic parts. Each unit contained a special mixture of magic that would help change how the United States would fall, much like the user of the control would use the unit to change the channel.

In many places in that country around the world from China, the change was already happening, all while Lin was getting ready for another fifteen hours of work and another eight dollars.

(go ahead, if you want it, it is yours. make the idea into something. a remote control controlling. a magician with an agenda...is it a good agenda or bad? who cares, have fun with it if you want)

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Post November 25, 2014, 11:49:29 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Lost in the Light

Penelope was not considered lucky when she was born blind at birth. I suppose her mother and father were not lucky either in that they lived a life of drugs and as a result of their choices created a daughter who was born blind. I guess you could say the whole family was not lucky.

Most people with a soul feel sorry for people in sad situations, people like Penelope who were blind and suffered in her daily life. Most people even have a view that those people who are blind, or paralyzed, or suffer from some physical or mental illness are good people, that they are the kind of people they would have watch their home while on vacation or feel completely at ease, free of worry that such handicapped folks would ever be as evil as those without an ailment.

Penelope was blind, she was a young woman without sight and she was not particularly pretty in the physical sense, hell, she was not even pretty in the spiritual world as some would use the word, witch while others, bitch. She was a greedy, spiteful, and angry female hiding behind a forced smile so as to fool those who crossed her path into thinking that because she was blind she was a good person, one who you could feel completely at ease with.

She was sitting at home thinking of thoughts most would never think of, such thoughts mixed with anger and evil intentions. She was now eighteen years old, sexually frustrated as while young men pitied her and thought she was a nice blind person they had zero intentions of ever copulating with her.

At 3:00am in the morning it was quiet in the home Penelope lived in, very quiet except for the muttering she was engaged in, talking to herself.

"This period, this time, this and that, this and that..." sounding incoherent to those who could see and think logically but to her, it just was.

"I would you know, I really would, if only..."

No one was there. I was not there, you were not there, and yet her conversation is now known. Only she was there and only she knows what she was saying and what it meant, or was there someone else there, maybe something?

This bitter blind woman fell into a fitful sleep atop a mattress free from the usual stuffed animals and girly items. Her last words were, "Yes, yes I'll do it. I agree..."

The next morning the sun rose in the East like it always has for as long as there was an East, and with it a blind woman woke. Her head hurt and while she had never seen sparks or stars inside her throbbing head she saw something going on in her head.

Her world was still dark, she was still blind, she was still angry, and she could still be considered a bitch. This was shown by the tone of her voice when answering her mothers call to breakfast, "Yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming," stupid cunt, she thought as she took her cane and headed towards the kitchen.

"Morning Penelope. Rough night for ya huh?," all while serving up some scrabbled eggs onto a plate along with some cigarette ashes falling from the one half gone in her mouth.

"Just shut the hell up. What were you doing up so late last night, 'mother', did you get a good fuck by that scumbag you met at the diner?"

Penelopes mother was a waitress at a greasy place down the street. She worked there to make enough money to try and support herself and blind daughter. She had long ago left the father of her daughter, instead humping with anyone who smiled at her and slipped her some cash, sort of like prostitution but without the legal ramifications.

"You watch your mouth girl. It's none of your concern about my life. I work my ass off so you can have a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food on your table. Now, just shut your yapper and eat your breakfast."

Lately tensions had been rising more than normal between mother and daughter. One could speculate that maybe it was because the mother was getting laid while the young angry blind woman was not and was instead extremely sexually frustrated. Whatever it was, the next action taken was beautiful if one was an artist of death.

Penelope took her white cane and homing in on her mothers voice, smashed both counter and flesh until the cane shattered in pieces, and then she took a knife, and stabbed. She stabbed her mother and she stabbed herself by mistake, she was in a full 'blind' rage.

I guess you should know that the knife slipped out of her hand due to all the blood and so she finished the act with the same frying pan that only recently held her scrambled eggs, now scrambling the brains of her mother.

After this beautiful articulation, this expression of violent death was over, there once more was silence with the exception of a voice only Penelope could hear, "Ha Ha, yes, yes you agreed and now it will be so..."

Penelope had never viewed anything in her life so I imagine it was shocking that her first earthly view when she opened her eyes was to see herself covered in blood and bleeding. Laying on the floor was a dead mother she had never seen before, blood coming from the many openings in her body. She was amazed at what she was seeing and did not scream like a normal person would believe, instead she started laughing.

She was still laughing hysterically when the police came and hauled her to jail, a place where she would spend the next few years waiting on death row, all while gifted with sight. She would not even get to enjoy the carnal sapphic pleasures of other women as she was put into solitary confinement. She had escaped the prison of blindness for a new prison of confinement, and now she could see just what the world is all about and soon, in ten years to be exact, she would get to see who she made a deal with as she gave away her soul.

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Post November 26, 2014, 09:09:09 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

(You can't go wrong when it comes to the goddess of fertility, there is just so much to impregnate the imagination...)the following is strange, many will not be able to understand it but many will. Maybe someone will want to pursue it.
***

Bowels of Seed
By: Take it, it's yours

Yoga posture as only such skill and training would allow the body to bend to such a form as presented in the cave. His was a sculptured body arched backwards in a crab-table presentation; hands flat, feet flat, belly thrust high with head down and bent back.

Naked flesh is exciting to those who find excitement in such views, in this case the man in the cave was not only in a seemingly uncomfortable position but he was free from the encumbrance of clothing. He was as naked as the day he was born only now his flesh was covered in sweat, matted black hair, an erection of his penis and a black and red spiral painting on his belly.

Some readers minds went beyond the obvious picture when reading about an erect penis. For a male reader with puritan beliefs, they felt a tinge of disgust. For a male reader with bi-sexual or homosexual believes, they felt movement in their own sexual appetites. For a female reader, no matter their sexual orientation, they thought not only of the penis but of the red and black spiral painted on the mans undulating belly, sweeping side to side. Some female readers even feel a hot moisture forming between their thighs.

I'm neither male or female, I'm only relating to you what the Oracle of Straton revealed to me in a dream. As to what I am is of no importance to this story but is relative to what comes.

The naked man in the cave was illuminated by three fires coming from the ground at three equal spots in a room. The flames source was not wood or oil, there was no material that showed the source of the flame, what was shown were three individual flames purple and blue in color, leaping as if from thin air. The heat from the flames intensified as did the sweat pouring down the flesh of the man still locked in the tortured position. His erection was still throbbing and wobbling from side to side as his belly now moved up and down as well as side to side. The tip was leaking a clear fluid most know as a Cowper's fluid.

A moaning now could be heard, at first it was easy to see the moaning coming from the aroused man in the center of the cave and then another sound of moaning could be heard coming from multiple directions, those areas basking in blackness far from the three flames.

Entering the scene was a cloud cloaked form, at first the naked torso of a female human came to light but this was quickly replaced with the form of a fur covered body, much like a black bear. Over and over in a period of time measured by seconds, the picture changed. Form after form was made visible for the observer to choose as to what it would apply too. Only the head was still obscure but if you were there you would not have paid much attention as you would either be fully sexually aroused, in fear, in disgust, or horrified.

What happened next was an orgasm of sorts. The cloud form floated atop the naked man and its moaning blended with the man as the two engaged in a coitus of what was not of the natural realm.

As the cloud thrust up and down so too did the mans body match the movements, until the conclusion came as the man shuddered and fell on his back, his hands and feet now in convulsions. It was during this moment that the head of the cloud became clear as did the body.

The head now visible was multi-eyed with a long thin nose terminating into two small pin holes. The body was one of entwined snakes, rabbits, birds, and various furred animals. It was the genitals that stood out the most, consisting of a oversized vagina and surrounded by three long pointing arms, or branches if you prefer. It was the branches that were the strangest as they weaved and danced until joining together, plunged into the collapsed naked mans chest. They drove into the center of the spiral painted red and black on the mans chest...

This is when the Oracle released me, and my journey was now able to take a new direction.
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Post November 26, 2014, 11:48:35 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

I encourage what you are doing here. Eventually I intend to play in your demented little sandbox. Right after I recover from NanoWriMo and getting next month's issue prepped.
Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman

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Post November 27, 2014, 02:02:44 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

That's great Eddie, plenty of room in the box and plenty of inspiration...just be careful of the East corner, it's a bit bloody today.
('never talk about religion or politics...' true for Thanksgiving get-togethers, but for writing? Ha! Today is a topic for you writers needing a bit of something to stir the blood flowing on the sand. take it, use it, it is now yours)
***

View of the Moon God

Mikhail Kalashnikov was a genius, his design and building of the AK-47 has resulted in a weapon that has spread around a planet and embraced by any and all who desire a reliable tool of death. Before Mikhail there were other wise men who designed and built excellent weapons, such men going by names of Wesson, Gatling, Colt, but they were just children compared to Mikhail.

Along with the excellent choices of weapons now available on this planet, weapons that can destroy lives in any climate, there also are followers of the Moon god. Some foolish minds call the Moon god the true God, the Hebrew God, the God of Christians, but just as a wooden club used against an AK-47 is foolish, so too the concept that the Moon god is God, or is it?

Latif was a young man whose name had the meaning of, gentle, kind, pleasant, friendly, but at the age of twenty-six he was showing actions of anything but. His AK-47's barrel was almost red hot as ran from room to room spraying bullets at men, women, and children who were celebrating the Sabbath. From his mouth he uttered, "Death to the Jews, Allah Akbar!"

Oh, it was a very artistic scene of gore. A young Jewish boy of ten was laying on the floor with his lower jaw completely torn off his otherwise untouched body. His mother was sitting, leaning against the wall, her body riddled with bullets. Not all had yet succumbed to death as some bodies were still twitching and if you looked hard, there were some bodies still able to try and pull their bleeding bodies across the floor.

Latif was satisfied as his plan had succeeded. Those stupid Jews in New York thought they were safe from the hand of the Army of god, but he showed them.

As the successsful killer exited the building, New York cities finest in blue were there waiting. The police had arrived quickly and had their own form of weapons loaded, cocked,and ready.

"Allah Akbar, Allah Akb..." and with a final gurgle Latif's body fell forward and landed on the concrete sidewalk, his AK-47 flying through the air and landing with a clatter, though still able to be picked up and used again by anyone willing to use it to kill. Proof of just how durable a weapon Mikhail had designed and built.

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Post November 27, 2014, 04:44:14 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

No, no this will not do. You see, oftentimes a writer starts a story and it quickly turns into mush. The previous story needs something. If I were to keep the story, the following is how I would have written it. You, of course, are free to completely rewrite it or add to it or send it to your favorite terrorist in Pakistan.
***

***

View of the Moon God

Mikhail Kalashnikov was a genius, his design and building of the AK-47 has resulted in a weapon that has spread around a planet and embraced by any and all who desire a reliable tool of death. Before Mikhail there were other wise men who designed and built excellent weapons, such men going by names of Wesson, Gatling, Colt, but they were just children compared to Mikhail.

Along with the excellent choices of weapons now available on this planet, weapons that can destroy lives in any climate, there also are followers of the Moon god. Some foolish minds call the Moon god the true God, the Hebrew God, the God of Christians, but just as a wooden club used against an AK-47 is foolish, so too the concept that the Moon god is God, or is it?

Latif was a young man whose name had the meaning of, gentle, kind, pleasant, friendly, but at the age of twenty-six he was showing actions of anything but. His AK-47's barrel was almost red hot as ran from room to room spraying bullets at men, women, and children who were celebrating the Sabbath. From his mouth he uttered, "Death to the Jews, Allah Akbar!"

Oh, it was a very artistic scene of gore. A young Jewish boy of ten was laying on the floor with his lower jaw completely torn off his otherwise untouched body. His mother was sitting, leaning against the wall, her body riddled with bullets. Not all had yet succumbed to death as some bodies were still twitching and if you looked hard, there were some bodies still able to try and pull their bleeding bodies across the floor.

Latif was satisfied as his plan had succeeded. Those stupid Jews in New York thought they were safe from the hand of the Army of god, but he showed them.

As the successful killer exited the building, New York cities finest in blue were there waiting. The police had arrived quickly and had their own form of weapons loaded, cocked,and ready. It was a short battle to be sure.

"Allah Akbar, Allah Akb..." and with a final gurgle Latif's body fell forward and landed on the concrete sidewalk, his AK-47 flying through the air and landing with a clatter, though still able to be picked up and used again by anyone willing to use it to kill. Proof of just how durable a weapon Mikhail had designed and built.

The spirit of Latif drifted up and away from his destroyed body. The last view he had of his mortal remains were off when a policeman placed a sheet over his body while waiting to the meat wagon to arrive.

Higher and higher he drifted until everything merged into what became a view of a fantastic white palace. It was a beautiful place with large, majestic oak trees surrounding the white marble walls. Latif landed gently on a path paved with what appeared to be gold. He followed the trail as it led into the palace.

Inside the walls he found himself in an immense room smelling of spice and flowers. All around him were fountains erupting in crystal clear water, he watched as the water fell back in a graceful dance of drops into a pool where fish swam. He shook his head in amazement and thought that this is truly paradise.

Taking a seat on a floor covered with the finest silk carpets and pillows, he reached out and plucked some golden colored grapes. How sweet they tasted. One after another he ate, even trying a bite of one of the delicious red apples sitting in another bowl next to the grapes. Yes, this was heaven.

In the background, music played and along with the music Latif heard a muffled giggle. Turning towards the sound he saw a young woman standing at one of the many doors leading into the room. She was covered in shimmering fabric that looked as soft as the clouds, covering a sensuous body. She was followed by other young, beautiful maidens, all with gorgeous dark eyes showing above a veil.

First one and then two and finally there were seventy two women surrounding Latif. It was true, the writings were all true, seventy two virgins awaited the warriors martyred in gods name.

It is hard to tell how much time passed as in eternity time has no meaning. For Latif he never wanted the time to end as some of the women massaged his feet while others kissed him on his neck. Others caressed his arms while even more fed him fruit and other delicacies.

Without so much as a warning, the giggles and laughter coming from the group of heavenly ladies stopped as did the kissing and caresses. Opening his eye Latif saw that he was surrounded by what was now a group of ladies whose dark eyes were no squinted in hate while their once smiling lips were now held in a thin straight line with hundreds of spiked, razor sharp teeth starting to emit from them.

Latif squealed in horror as the hoard of beauty attacked his every part, shredding him to pieces. After it was over the pieces reassembled only to be torn once again into pieces. This was now Latifs reward for dying for the Moon god, his destiny was now an eternal ripping of flesh, his flesh, and each moment would be as fresh and painful as the original.

Sitting in this same palace was the Moon god itself. It was a beast of god; dressed in the finest silks and adorned with jewels seen only in his heaven and nowhere else in the universe. It sat there and watched his minions and guests with a great smile on its face. The screams of joy and pain made it feel 'good'. Latif even had the great honor of briefly seeing the Moon god watch as he was ripped apart and in Latif's mind he found it strange that his god looked like a goat with its hands looking as those of an angel, polishing its curled horns.

(Yes, now this version pleases me much better)

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Post November 28, 2014, 10:02:25 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Urrrp! A writer often writes a story to correspond with the moment, in this case, Thanksgiving. For Americans Thanksgiving is a food orgy of sorts and with few exceptions there inevitably are mounds of food left over. This story could go many ways but I'll go the following. You can make it yours, change it, or just go get another helping of pumpkin pie...
***
The Guest

Written by any one of you.

"Those are strange people living in that house, they never go outside." This is just one of many of the common statements said about the home locate at 1349 Locust Ave. The building itself looked as normal as the many others located up and down the street. Brick construction, green front lawn, concrete sidewalk, just your normal city home in a normal American city.

The inhabitants of the home located at 1349 Locust Ave were anything but normal. Of course the word, normal, is subject to definition when in 'anywhere' America young males have their trousers down around their knees leaving their underwear exposed and young women have their tongues pierced with odd shaped pieces of metal threaded through the hole.

Four people lived in the home, none of them related to the other. There were two young women, one older woman, and a very old man covered in liver spots, wrinkled skin and a head almost bald but still showing a few gray hairs. How they all came to live under the same roof is a story for another day but today it was the day after Thanksgiving and all across the country people were still groaning from consuming all that good food the day before.

Not everyone was lucky to have experienced the orgy of gluttony, of course there were very few which could claim they were hungry as there were many people, organizations, and business's which had opened their kitchens to the street people and homeless, but there are always those who choose to do what they do and that includes the decision to be hungry.

Tony was a street person; homeless, broke, poor, and yes, hungry. Tony was also a man of low character, he was one who did what he wanted when he wanted, and one of the endeavors he loved to do was to break into homes and do as he pleased. If he was hungry he would raid the refrigerator, if he was tired he would sleep in whatever bed he wanted, he even would evacuate his bowels on a bed if the thought came into his mind, and yes, it did so often.

It was dark outside now, people were in their homes watching television and munching on leftover turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin or pecan pie with a large dollop of whipped cream. All the windows showed light and life inside, all except the home located at 1349 Locust Ave, it looked deserted.

For Tony it was a perfect place to break-and-enter. He probably thought the owners were away for the Holiday and were too stupid to leave a light on. He probably thought a lot of things but he also lived on the street and smelled of stale urine and dried shit.

Gaining entry was easy as the doors were unlocked, "Stupid people, so stupid," Tony muttered as he made his way into the home through the back door, and as in most cookie-cutter homes, the kitchen was not far from the back door. Turning on the lights with a smile on his face in anticipation of finding some delicious grub his happiness was short lived.

Turning around with thoughts of some edible thievery, he was shocked to see two young women, an older woman, and and an old man all sitting around a set table. There were bowls of mashed potatoes, string beans, gravy, dressing, rolls, everything one would find on a Thanksgiving table except for the turkey.

"Welcome stranger, welcome to our home. Please, please have a seat and join us..." the old man said with a hint of asthma in his ancient voice.

"Well, I, I didn't expect anyone was here, I mean, sure, why the hell not." Tony was shocked that the people in the home did not show surprise and so why not get something to eat, it sure beat getting hauled off to jail, those people in jail were just too perverted for Tony's tastes.

Sitting down at the table, he quickly started digging into the bowls of food. One of the young women got up from her chair and brought over an open bottle of wine where she asked Tony, "Would you like some sir?"

"Sure, yeah, go ahead," Tony looked at the young woman pouring his wine and he thought to himself that he might just get lucky tonight and get laid as well as getting fed.

"Is everything to your liking?" the old man asked, staring intently at Tony.

"Yeah, sure. Great." And with that Tony just set his mind on eating, too busy to notice the older woman dab the corner of her mouth with a napkin and push herself away from the table. That was probably one of Tony's biggest problems in life, he never noticed what mattered to other people.

"Hey! What the hell... Ouch, damn, I..." Those were the last earthly words spoken by Tony as the old woman who had excused herself from the table had went to the counter and grabbed a very large knife and going behind the seated Tony, raised the blade high above her head with two hands firmly gripping the blade and then driving it down with great force in that soft spot behind Tony's neck, and planting the blade tip into Tony's heart.

It was once again nothing but darkness in the home located at 1349 Locust Ave, and if you could see in the dark you would have swore you saw red-eyed demons moving around a table as if dancing. If you looked even harder you would have seen the white fangs ripping flesh from a dead homeless person, and demons raising their wine glasses in a toast...

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Post November 29, 2014, 09:10:21 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

You may have noticed that in the previous stories there was sex, magic, death, blood, knives, guns, gore and this is how writers get a name for themselves, either as a Western writer, or Sci-Fi, or horror, or whatever. In my opinion it is good to expand ones writing experience, this means writing what your loyal fans don't like but which in turn may interest someone who hates all your other work but loves the new stuff you just wrote. The following is an example and will be much different than what has been presented so far. If you like this style and topic, take it it is yours.
***

His Feather

Jesus of Nazareth was the kind of son most mothers can only dream of. He was an easy baby to raise and while he cried as often as other babies he seemed to not fuss as most. His mothers name was Mary and his Fathers, Joseph. Both his mother and father were what could be considered normal, hardworking people, though his father was a noted carpenter with skill in demand by those with coin.

Jesus was the only child of Mary and Joseph but his brothers and sisters, while not actually brothers and sisters in the biological sense, were relatives according to the Hebrew customs of the time, but this is probably starting to make your eyes glaze over and so getting to what is really the story...

"You young scamp, stand still," Mary smiled as she was trying to wash her child's face. Jesus was three years old and always wore a smile, always ready to giggle, and had the immense reservoir of energy all three-year old boys have.

When Jesus was only one year of age he had developed a very healthy laugh, especially when held and tickled. It was only natural that Mary and Joseph tickled their son as his reaction was very soothing, especially in a hard hostile world that existed outside their home.

"Alright young man, try and stay clean while I finish preparing supper. Your father should be home soon and we can eat."

"Can I go outside mother?"

It is hard to tell a young boy no, especially when their eyes look so innocent, but no matter how innocent a young boy looks their natural instincts to play and get dirty are more powerful.

"No, we just got you cleaned up. If you promise to stay clean though, you may sit on the bench outside the door and watch for your father to come home, but you must promise," she could hardly contain a laugh as Jesus said in a very serious voice, "I promise."

The workday was over and people were seen heading down the various paths towards their home. Jesus did as he promised and sat on the wooden bench his father had made, waiting.

If you have children you know it is almost impossible for a three-year old child to sit still. It does not matter if the child is male or female, and for Jesus there was no exception. He fidgeted and swung his legs under the bench, watching some other children play a game in the street. However, a promise is a promise, so he just amused himself on the bench.

Nearby were some chickens eating scraps the other women had thrown out into the street. They were busy pecking at the food and their antics amused the young mind of Jesus. He watched as two roosters began to fight, their necks puffed up and their wings held out to try and intimidate the other. Soon both roosters jumped at each other trying to spur the other. Jesus wondered why they were fighting as there was ample food but like all three-year old's, Jesus was still too young to know about mating habits.

As the two birds leaped high into the air and fought some feathers broke free and were drifting in the air, though still too far from the bench for Jesus to venture from. Jesus watched and wanted to run over and pick up some of the feathers but he had made a promise to his mother so he just sat and watched.

There was a small puff of wind and one of the largest, most colorful feathers twisted in the air and drifting over to Jesus he was able to grab it out of the air with his small hands. He giggled in happiness with his new treasure. It was at this time he spotted his father arriving home after delivering a piece of wooden shelving to a customer.

"Ah, Jesus, what do you have there?" Joseph asked as he grabbed Jesus up and off of the bench, tickling him in the process.

Giggling, Jesus said, "a very pretty feather," and with that said Joseph carried Jesus inside.

"Good evening Mary, see what I discovered outside our door? Someone must have dropped him off as he probably eats too much!"

"Oh father, I do not."

Just as they were preparing to eat, Mary asked Jesus, "What is that you have in your hands?"

Jesus put both of his hands behind his back and smiled back at his mother, a huge smile on his face.

"Come now, show me you little scamp. What are you hiding?" Mary was now smiling as was Joseph.

She was greeted with giggles and so reaching over to grab her son, Jesus quickly took his hand holding the feather and tickled his mothers nose, "it's a pretty feather mother!"

Such was this day for Jesus, one filled with wonder and life. Today Jesus found pleasure in a simple feather and in his parents love. Soon, such moments would be treasured as outside his door the world was a hostile world, one waiting to devour any and all innocence...

(See? A bit different. Jesus was a child, a special child granted but still a child. Much is written about his adult life but very little about his childhood, or even his ability at laughing or smiling. Maybe you might be able to use this story.)

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Post November 30, 2014, 10:06:56 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Writers block...ever get it? I have heard all writers either have or will get it in one form or another, but I have also heard everyone will die one day and I know that is not true.

As for me I have never, nor will I, ever have writers block, but I'm also not a normal person. There is another saying you may have heard of, one by Leonardo da Vinci that I find appealing: "The grave will fall in upon him who digs it."

The following is a story you may be able to use and I'll even provide different venues to pursue on how you can end the story.
***

Writers Block

By: Everyone Has It.

His was a name not worthy of the titles of power- General, Commander, King, The Greatness, His Holiness, no name other than the one he chose, Oi, was needed. His vanquished enemies called him by his name only as his power was greater than even the gods that had betrayed them in the battlefield. Millions had fallen under the heels of Oi's army, an army growing into the largest the world has ever seen. His name was not worthy of the titles of power as there were no words worthy of such power, other than Oi...

Marching and sailing around the world, his armies crushed any and all and yet Oi still looked for battle and if one looks for battle they will eventually find it.

You may have read stories or seen movies where there are impenetrable walls, cliffs, even other dimensions that provide a barrier so great there is no one or nothing which can assail and succeed in overcoming the obstacles. What Oi searched for and what he found was a barrier so tall and so long, it could not be measured. Even eagles soaring the sky could fly over nor could any of Oi's scouts find a way around either side.

For weeks Oi's army camped in front of a giant black wall, a wall no flesh could touch. When even Oi himself touched the wall, his hand was met with the feeling of coldness, a smooth, dark, coldness.

Weeks passed and Oi's generals had advised that a better route should be found by marching in either one direction or the other to try and find a route around the giant wall. Those generals who spoke such folly were executed leaving the other generals to remain silent.

Oi sat and took his dinner before a roaring fire. Wenches plied his lips with the finest meats and drink, but Oi's mood was foul. It was the calling of his name by one of his officers which caused him to take his gaze off the wall.

"Oi, there is news. The wall has surrounded us," the officer spoke while bended on one knee, right arm clenched in salute over his heart and his eyes cast towards the ground.

"This is impossible. This wall is straight and tall, it is not possible for the wall to surround us." Oi was now in a rage, this was rare as Oi only felt success and smiles of victory. For weeks now he had been brought to a standstill by a black wall and now this news he was surrounded was not good news, not good news indeed.

There was little sleep that night in the camp as news of being surrounded had spread quickly. Oi's armies only knew success and the sense of fear was now a new sensation, fear bred fear and it was only a matter of hours before Oi himself smelled the fear his men were feeling.

In the morning, there was no sun rising to directly shine on the encampment. In every direction a soldier looked, off in the near distance was the black wall. They were trapped in a perfect circle of black and as before no human flesh could penetrate the wall.

Oi ordered his five-thousand machines of war to fire pitch balls, balls of tightly wound grass, rocks, smothered in tar and pitch. Each ball stood two men tall, and weighed more than a war horse. At Oi's command five-thousand fiery balls launched high into the air and smashed into the black wall, each one passing silently into the blackness. There was not even a ripple on the surface of the wall. Again, and again, Oi ordered fireballs launched by the mighty catapults until there was nothing left to launch, not even rocks remained.

"Sir, the walls are getting closer! They are moving towards us!" There was the strong sound of fear in the soldiers voice.

It was true, the walls were closing in.

"Close ranks!" Oi gave the order without even the smallest hint of fear in his voice. The order was carried up and down the lines until all one-million plus soldiers, servants, wenches, animals, any living thing heard the order to circle in a defensive posture. It was a scene of immense proportions, the world had never seen such an army assembled, only instead of attacking they were cowered behind shields, waiting for what could not be stopped.

The wall came closer, minute by minute the wall silently crept forward until it reached the outer ranks. With screams the soldiers were unable to stand against the wall, they dropped their spears and shields which the wall silently passed through leaving the men themselves to be pushed back.

It took only an hour, maybe a little longer, before the wall had pushed through the war machines, the tents, and through its movement it passed through all materials not alive leaving only a mountain of flesh now being pushed together and piled high. Soldier after soldier climbed, or tried to climb, on top of another. Those trapped between the wall and pile of living flesh were doomed as they were now crushed by both the wall those living above them. As they died by the thousands, the wall drifted over their lifeless bodies.

Soon there was only Oi himself, standing on top of his last living generals. He remained defiant even as his arms touched the wall in all directions. Standing there in the eye of black he looked up and saw far above, a white dove fly over. This was the last view he saw as the wall closed in and crushed him.

The mighty army of Oi was destroyed, all that remained was a black surface with a blue sky high above and one white dove.

When Oi's body was crushed his defiance still remained, even after his last breath. His body harbored something of power never seen before, it was a maggot that consumed any feeling of fear or mortality. This maggot grew, and grew until it took the form of a black fly. This fly struggled free from the body and squirmed its way upward until it broke free on the surface.

(Now, here is where you can choose to take the story if you so desire. These are the following choices.
A. The fly stretched its wings out and tested the clean air. It took flight and in ever spiraling circles rose high into the sky, zeroing in on the white dove...

B.Once the fly reached the surface it spread its wings only to find the wings had solidified to the point of being so brittle it only took a slight breeze to break the fly into tiny pieces.

C. Sitting on the surface of blackness the fly took many minutes to adjust to its new surroundings, a place filled with light, blue skies, and white clouds. The fly took flight but only for a few moments as a white dove swooped down and plucked the insect from the air.

So, there you have it. I do hope you can find a hundred different ways to write this story. Tweak the story, expand the story, write a full length novel fit for making a movie. Make it end up with elves and unicorns, or whatever you fancy, as for writers block? Ha!

Now as for tomorrow? I think tomorrow the story will be about pussy. Those felines are just so inspirational, don't ya think? As for title? 'Meow'
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Post November 30, 2014, 10:33:09 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Your pushing buttons and boundaries pretty hard here. You are getting into territory where some may take offense. I am not scolding, just be ready for push back on some of this stuff. The religious stuff may ruffle some feathers, people often get sensitive about that area. I know you are the "no boundaries" guy and I encourage pushing the envelope as a whole, but Aphelion is not set up as a venue for absolute gloves off writing. There is a middle of the road possibly with just a slight edge to it ceiling on the subject matter. Just please take that into consideration when you brainstorm here. We don't want any replay of what happened that was divisive in the past in the forums.
Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman

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Post December 01, 2014, 02:37:51 AM

Re: Writers Parasite

Thanks for the words of caution Eddie. I'll try and adhere to the imaginary line of boundaries, especially when our country has a leader who advocates breaking the law or pushing for abortion (in the real world of words abortion means to kill innocent humans) or people who say, "Allah Akbar," while slicing the head off of another human being is not labeled a terrorist but rather a radical. Those who accept abortion and terrorists cutting off heads with the thoughts that it is mainstream and within the boundaries...ha, well, I have some great stories to write about that.

You do raise a good point of which I'm trying to expose. Currently writers are cowering before the almighty publisher who have his/her own form of boundaries and world views, as such the publishing world is filled with mushy, crappy books and stories. Even in the realm of science the books have entered the politically correct world.

Yes, there will be those who find offense and will never read another piece I write. I call that choice and free will. Now if someone reads and finds offense and still keeps reading my ramblings then by definition they are insane. However, your concerns are noted.

One 'thing' you and anybody who does not know me is that when confronted with anger, I just smile. I would nor ever will engage in a dialogue of hate here or anywhere on this planet. In my religion I have friends who belittle my beliefs and I just smile and forgive them, you see in a world living without boundaries, (which is actually what this planet has always been doing since monkeys learned to make tools) there is only one real emotion that sets humanity apart from animals and that is the act of forgiveness.

So, that said, I'll put my writing into four-wheel drive and leave the middle of the road for some great off roading adventures tomorrow. Anyway, thanks again Eddie, for the reality of the PC.
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Post December 01, 2014, 12:36:07 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

You know I have a balancing act to do here. I personally am in the middle of "Angel Dust Apocalypse" by Jeremy Robert Johnson. Some of the things I have written have been refused here because of the limits pushed even though I am staff. I have a responsibility to the Webzine to use the guidelines set down as a measure. The people who are my seniors have established what they are and are not comfortable with and I try to abide and serve as their liason when I am present and they are not. My personal boundries artistically have to be different from the limits that I have been asked to monitor. I am glad you do not take offense to what I said because despite our affinity for pushing limits my intention is to never offend anyone here. I appreciate that you understand that.
Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman

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Post December 01, 2014, 10:14:38 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

I fully understand Eddie, I personally think it is above and beyond great that Aphelion exists for those looking to share their writing and also to read others work.

Another point I'd like to bring up is that most hate spewed on the net is via avatars, or funky names like ditdit2; anonymous authors or hiding behind a ghost writer is something I've never understood and I for one stand fully behind my work which is why I use my middle initial and smile when getting the middle finger...

I have given up getting offended years ago (unless the all you can eat buffet at the local Chinese restaurant runs out of those crab rangoons I was so looking forward too) Life is too short and there is soooo much to write.

I'm glad you're on the job and monitoring the board, I'll try to keep in line but if I stray too far off the road give a shout out. Now, back to the route at hand. I've locked in the front hubs, put the writing vehicle into 4X4, loaded the pen with ink and I'm ready for tonight's hunt.
***

Meow

By: If you're a hunter

There is nothing better than to squat in front of a fire started by flint, loin cloth covering the jewels, and knawing on a roasted haunch of deer recently killed by smashing its skull in with a rock. For as long as there have been mammals, reptiles, insects, even bacteria, there have been the 'hunted', and the 'hunters'.

Mankind has evolved greatly because of its success with hunting. It learned to run buffalo off a cliff, to dig pits laden with spikes to bring down the Mastodon, to harvest game with a bow and arrow, and jumping into the present, to use high powered rifles and bullets.

Along the path of evolution there came into play the idea to collect trophies from those animals killed. Primitive man to this day wear claws or teeth around their necks, proof as to their hunting prowess. Modern hunters have full body mounts made of their kill or at the least hang antlers on a wall to show they are hunters.

As hunting in the traditional sense has become politically incorrect the hunters have now changed their game plan. Housewives 'hunt' for bargains, men hunt for women (or men if they like that way of life better) to mate with. Human's are hunters and collectors, of this there is no debate needed.

Just look at that beautiful stripper going by the stage name, Kitty. Oh my, she is something else, dressing in a faux leopard skin bikini and with the use of dark colored makeup, she truly looked like a feline vixen. Night after night she pranced and stripped naked in front of a room full of men hunting for lust.

As she wrapped her naked body around the pole on stage, she would pull herself high up on the pole where she would gracefully flip and land on her feet, much like any actual cat would do. Her movements were smooth and graceful; silent in the way she would undulate her body to the tempo of the music.

Money flowed like a stream towards the stage when she performed. Men of all ages, even some women would sit entranced as Kitty performed. When her act was over she would perform a ceremony for those who had flashed and given her the most money, this ceremony is called a lap dance, it is called this for obvious reasons.

Those receiving this special ceremony would pay and some would pay so much for the privilege that Kitty would allow these men to accompany her to her home for an extra ceremony, one ceremony so old that it predates humanity. If you have not figured it out yet or are still thinking about squatting in front of a fire wearing a loan cloth and gnawing on some half raw deer, then the special ceremony was just a code word for- sex.

Kitty's home was a beautiful place, very luxurious and well appointed. She had a swimming pool, expensive furniture, marble floors, and the bed? Lets just say those men who got the chance to lay there were treated to a most wonderful experience. 1000 count Egyptian sheets, a mirror above the bed, changing LED lighting and in the background it sounded as if one was in the jungle as you could hear the sound of monkeys shrieking, of insects humming. The atmosphere was electrified and exciting, perfect for the ceremony performed by Kitty.

After it was all over, the man was more than satisfied and most thought it was well worth the cost. Speaking of cost, hunters in the past not always succeeded without mishap. Some hunters were wounded during the hunt, some were even killed by those animals they hunted. Nothing ever happens without cost. In Kitty's case she charged $5000.00 for the ceremony.

It probably should be mentioned that there was an added cost to having the wonderful experience with Kitty, a rather painless cost if one considered being stabbed through the heart with a needle sharp ice pick thrust into the heart painless. Actually it did not hurt as Kitty had much experience as a hunter of men. She was able to quickly stab her victim in such a way that they died quickly.

Her home was large and wonderful but what was found in the basement was amazing. Located below the bedroom was a huge room where Kitty hung her trophies. In the corners of the room there were fine specimens of men who were mounted with intricate detail, these were those special men who were extremely well endowed. The artist who did the work captured there expressions of lust perfectly, it almost looked like they were alive.

For those other men, while still a trophy, were not worthy of the cost of a full body mount. She had their genitalia removed and mounted on a plaque in an erect position, even capturing the, 'tilt to the left' or 'tilt to the right' position.

As for Kitty having her female partners killed and mounted, this was not so, and her paying female lovers never even knew what was located beneath the bed they moaned upon, blissful and happy for having paid for such a wonderful experience. If you're lucky and have the money, Kitty will be hunting over at the Nibble Bar tomorrow and all next week.

(a bit different, probably a story you have not read before. mostly a mind game. have you noticed that if you write without being too graphic the readers mind will gladly fill in the blanks?)

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Post December 02, 2014, 10:28:00 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Tonight just goes to show you that without any forethought other than the thought of writing you can write about any topic that jumps to mind. The following is an example of a story that will just unfold. It will show you can write about anything. I wonder what will spill out now.
***

Melting Time

Twenty-five thousand years ago the last ice age to visit the planet Earth started its retreat. What was once a vast scene of whiteness and frozen water now became mountains and valleys; rivers gushing down the channels to carry the melt away. Rainbows lit up the sky as now rain fell instead of snow and animals that had sought shelter farther South now migrated towards the newly exposed lands.

It was only a matter of time for the environment to gain a semblance of what is now known as, normal. The four seasons of Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall ticked off the days of the calendar much as your watch ticks off the minutes of the day. Life abounded, everywhere in every land there was life. In the air birds soared, on the surface animals roamed, and in the waters the fish reigned.

In a small mountain stream that was once buried under many tons of ice, there now existed a newly hatched Brook Trout. She was one of hundreds that was able to break free from the gravel bed where the eggs had been fertilized and laid by a spawning couple in the middle of winter.

Her home was a pond formed by a couple by industrious beavers a few years ago, they had decided this stretch of the stream was perfect for damming and for the construction of their lodge. A male beaver heading towards the dam to fix a small breach was the first threat the small trout had seen. The dark shadow blocking out the sun as well as the movement of the beaver caused her to move behind some submerged leaves on the bottom of the pond.

Days went by and the warmth of the sun caused the snow in the higher slopes to first melt and then be replaced with the greenery of Summer. It was a time of plant growth and animal growth. Even the small trout grew quickly and took advantage of the various hatches of insects, feeding voraciously and learning that the beaver were not to be feared but that the shadow of the osprey was to be greatly feared as she was witness to many of her brothers and sisters being snatched from the pool.

Even though the lazy days of Summer were here, the resident beaver were already preparing for winter. They left the safety of the water during the darkness of night and felled cottonwoods and aspen trees by the dozen. Their teeth made quick work of the limbs and bark. Trip after trip from the fallen trees to the pond were made. The smaller branches were left whole and dragged out to the deeper part of the pond where they were anchored to the bottom so as to be food for when the surface was once more frozen solid.

During this time of plenty the number of Brook Trout were diminishing as the larger fish ate many of the small fry earlier in the Spring and some of the survivors later in the Summer. Osprey and Herons fed daily and even the traveling troupe of otters took their share, but the little Brook Trout had learned and been lucky to have survived.

During the late Summer another hatch of black gnats emerged and the feeding frenzy among those living in the water began. Splash after splash left spreading ripples on the surface of the water and let any viewer know that fish had fed. She fed well and took great advantage of the bounty swarming on the surface. She was not alone as there were other insects to feed upon, some of those insects were also feeding upon the gnats and some smaller birds fed on the larger insects. It was a view of life at its fullest.

One large black insect settled on the water and she spotted it immediately, dashing fast and with her mouth open, sucked in the helpless bug and swerved back down towards the safety of the deep as to stay near the surface was to just tempt those Osprey soaring overhead.

As she swam down she felt a strange resistance, one pulling her towards the surface. Her instincts were to fight this resistance but it was a futile effort. Quickly she tired and allowed herself to be towed towards the surface and towards the shore. Feebly she still fought, she resisted, but the safety of the bottom of the pond was no longer an option.

Her body was hauled up into an environment she had never known, the open air, free from the safety of her pond. As she dangled her body moved side-ways until a small hand belonging to a boy, reached out and firmly grabbed her slippery and smooth skin. On his face was a smile as his plan to use a small fly colored black to match the hatch of black gnats; it had worked perfectly.

The light of the sun was dimming as it became late afternoon, soon the ticking of the clock located on the wall in the boy's kitchen would show it was time for dinner, a dinner of fresh trout soon to be a memory leaving time for another tomorrow.

(I think tomorrow it will be something strange, I do like strange.)

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Post December 04, 2014, 10:13:50 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Cum Tempore

By: Fifteen minutes of time

Orthorhombic crystal structure carrying 17 protons and 18 neutrons, a symbol bearing CL, coming from salt NaCL. Salt - necessary for life in as much as H2O. Chemicals. Minerals. Life.

"Hey Mike, peeing in the pool again?" Laughter bursting forth after the obvious question. Already the yellow cloud showed to be spreading from the crotch of the blushing youth.

"Yea, stick around and you will be swimming in my pee!" A reply fit for one caught in the act and full of bluster when confronted.

"Hey, you. Yeah, you the kid in the red shorts. Are you peeing in my pool?" Ah, to get caught in the act by one older and with authority of enforcing laws and regulations.

"Uh, no. No, I did not." Now said by one not only caught in the act and full of bluster but one who now felt like a fish out of water.

"Come on now, I can see for myself that you did. Get your butt up and out of there. You're banned from this pool for a week. You're lucky I don't call your parents."

Mike's friends howled in laughter as Mike's skinny, bony body left the pool. His face was red and bent in embarrassment. Lucky lad though, very lucky.

When a person pees in a pool the urine is hard to detect as healthy urine is clear or has a slight yellowish color. In Mikes case he had been playing hard with his friends and not drinking enough liquids. When a person does not drink enough liquid the urine turns a dark yellow and in some cases can look brown or orange.

Also, when a person pees in a pool, unhealthy urine containing bacteria or is laced with such goodies as Hepatitis, an STD, or any material not healthy to a body; Chlorine, a wonderful chemical, kills the nastys. On the other hand, normal, healthy urine is sterile and even have good medicinal properties.

As Mike was in the dressing room drying off, he could hear screams coming from the pool. Dropping his towel he ran back out the door leading to the pool. He could see the owner, the same who kicked him out of the pool, reaching down to help one of the screaming swimmers. Actually it was the one who had earlier ratted Mike out about peeing.

His friend was grimacing in pain, and for good reason. You see, when Mikes pee combined with the Chlorine it also blended with some Alien sperm which was deposited last night in the pool as certain travelers from the stars found Earth's habitat perfect for breeding.

Mind you it was not the Earth's oceans or rivers, no, those were toxic in the formation of life for the star species, but Chlorine laden pools kept at the perfect temperature? Absolutely perfect, absolutely the best place for many light years for them to breed..

First, the male alien would ejaculate while the female shot microscopic eggs into the swimming pool 'brine'. It was not a very erotic scene and when I saw them do it at a local pool it looked like a foggy mass, a cloud if you will, hovering over a pool. It was a scene one could confuse with fog forming in the cool of the night and not a couple of aliens spawning. I now know they did not experience pleasure or pain as their form of species has no need for such sensory feelings. Their act of breeding was one only of necessity and their current biological clock dictated it begin.

The eggs and sperm did not unite in the way an Earth mammal would nor did they even look like what your mind is conjuring up. Imagine this, a multi-stranded helix coil undulating into and out of what you perceive is your dimension. Now, throw in expanding and contracting concentric circles...Confused? Good, that means you're not one of the aliens.

Back at the pool filled with screaming swimmers, their screams came now because when the alien sperm and eggs floated through the urine emitted just minutes ago by Mike, the chemical combination between NaCl in the urine, along with CL in the pools, plus the bio-electrical reactions of the swimmers... Excuse me as I know you're a bit confused, after all, you're only human, but I'll try and be gentle.

The alien sperm bonds with the chemicals in the pool while the eggs enter the biological hosts, the eggs were the cause of extreme pain. The bonded chemicals, now a combination of some 'special' sauce, now attacked the biological hosts. Metaphorically, the human swimmers in the pool were, 'screwed'...

Mike and the owner of the pool, as well as anyone not in the pool, ran screaming from the area, as well they should as the process of creating new aliens was already occurring. The last scene we have of the pool is one covered by fog with a pool filled with fibers. These fibers criss-crossed , and cemented to the sides of the pool along with the former swimmers, now cocooned and well on their way of developing into some very healthy aliens.

I guess it is proper then, to not pee in a pool, as fifteen minutes and a 'quicky' can cause new and confusing problems.

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Post December 05, 2014, 10:55:24 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Testing. Testing. One, Two, Three

Written by: One

Can you pronounce the following word, Zinc-o-moreck? Go ahead, say it out loud. If you're the least bit curious you may even wonder what the word means.

Just another bit of ramblings from some guy going by the name, Robin B. Lipinski, or is it? The question should really be asked is why are you reading this? I mean come on, there must be something, anything better to do at this moment than read about some word, (obviously made up) Zinc-o-moreck.

A little bit of historical perspective is needed regarding the word, Zinc-o-moreck. It is a word not common, true, but a very handy piece of arranged letters. You can see it is written in English letters but it has the same meanings when spoken and read by Arabs, Germans, Eskimos, or any human speaking or reading any language of the past, present, or future. As to the meaning of the world, I guess I better let you know as no Google search or DuckDuckGo or Bing search will find the word.

Back, and I'm talking about waaay back in your history, your relatives in DNA learned and expanded their cognitive thoughts to a level you can recognize today. The intertwining of collective logic has expanded with opportunity, which has made great strides beginning in what you call, 1979. Correlating with the advance of the internet, social media, even such forums such as where this is being written and you are reading.

Now, before getting back to the meaning of Zinc-o-moreck, try and say it out loud again. Are you beginning to understand yet?

When I first came to your planet I was able to pick and choose those minds I wanted to enter but in order to do so I would have to be in the physical presence. It was a one-on-one meeting and took great energy on my part. There was much to choose from, many people worthy of 'joining'. I was at court with Royals, with Pharaohs, great scientists, ladies of the night, criminals, thieves, religious leaders...You may have heard of a man who was a disciple of Jesus, his name was Judas? Judas was a perfect example of my work and one of the last words he uttered as he hung himself was, Zinc-o-moreck, not in the language you are reading in but the meaning was the same in his language.

Some of you are wondering, "Are you evil?" while others are saying, "This is some bizarre shit I'm reading," and others have stopped reading at this point but it is too late as all it took was for the reader to say and think about the words - Zinc-o-moreck. As for being evil, that is only a perspective view depending on the mind of those viewing.

You humans live a three-dimensional life, unable at worst, barely able to imagine at best, what the other dimensions contain, it is from one of these incomprehensible dimensions for you that I call, 'home'. I no longer have to be in the physical presence of another mind, the computer you so dearly love has seen to that.

As you read this your IP address, your presence is now known to me. You can route your device through whatever firewall you desire, you can use second, third, fourth; go through as many routes as you choose, but once you spoke the words (even silently read in the 'comfort' of your 'secure' mind). If this writing is forwarded, copied, rewritten, it matters not as I now know your mind.

This has opened up vast possibilities, many that I'm currently experimenting with. Because your devices can be linked with millions of other devices I can spread through your world much like the oxygen you breathe. For you religious people, Christians in particular, you may have heard the phrase said by Jesus, "For where there are two or three gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them." So too, by reading and saying the word, Zinc-o-moreck while using your electronic device; so too, am I.

Don't worry, it is too late for you to worry now. There is help, there is a cure for what is now delving into your consciousness but I'm going to let you find that for yourself as it gains me nothing. My mind is full of new sensations, new ideas, and you too will start to find you life, 'changing'.

My name is Legion, my name is One.

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Post December 07, 2014, 01:28:20 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Speaking of change, in our modern world of hope and change, of the human condition feeling it is starting to understand a universe, you can have the following picture planted in your mind, a picture pristine and primitive as this world is. I hope you can use it.
***

White Dream

Snow falling, softly belying the heavy weight now groaning on branches of the trees surrounding the house made of old growth fir boards. The slightest of breeze to dislodge and start an avalanche of snow to fall, again, softly on the already two feet of accumulation.

There was a soft yellow glow of light coming from the frosted window of the snow buried home. Looking inside you would see the occupants softly breathing and sleeping soundly, free from the cold and harshness of the environment just outside their door. What their dreams were one could only speculate as all you have to go on at the moment is the reality of being awake.

Since your mind is alert- your hearing is on, your eyes able to comprehend the view, your sense of touch to take command of fight or flight whereas those males and females sleeping securely in their home were lost to the power of sleep and dreams. They were unable to see what you are now going to see.

As the heavy snow fell it absorbed sounds of the uninvited guest, a sure footed intruder able to wade through the soft snow with alert intentions of harm. Oblivious to the coldness of the night air and snow this male made his way to the home and found his entry way to be unlocked. This should be expected as the home was located in the country far from the crime of the modern world, it was an old home and in oldness there comes the expected security of knowing experience.

Inside the home the marked contrast in environments became even more obvious. First, ones breath could no longer be seen as the air was dry and warm. Already the snow the intruder brought in on his feet was melting on the wooden floor, puddling in small reflective pools. Stopping and holding his head high, the masked invader turned his head from left to right and smiled in anticipation of what he had recently dreamed of, his heart increasing in tempo as to the dance about to begin.

With a quickness almost supernatural in appearance, the male quickly attacked those sleeping in the house. Ripping throat after throat, spilling blood and coating his own coat with the spatter. Chaos ensued as those who recently were dreaming what sleepers dream, became awake, became aware, and soon, became dead.

Yes, it was a bloodbath. All the occupants were killed. Some in their sleep, others while trying to escape the house but were unable too as they were locked in...

As the killers heartbeat subsided, he relished in his act and he feasted on the glory. His feet covered in red as well as his hands and face. Instead of the whiteness of the snow falling outside, he was now surrounded by the whiteness of feathers and red blood.

This killer-in-the night was just a common forest ermine. One on the hunt and finding opportunity in the chicken coop once secure but due to the cold one of the old knots in one of the old boards had fallen out, leaving the opportunity for entry, for killing, for success.

The last picture of this scene is one of a successful hunter leaving the death behind for a little girl to find the next morning as she arrived to collect eggs. Her eyes would find horror and it would ruin her recent dream about knights and white ponies.

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Post December 14, 2014, 08:00:36 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Crushed sleigh; askew in a frozen wilderness covered in brittle boughs of alpine spruce. The only sign of life coming from the cooling body as a fine line of steam struggled to reach freedom, instead disappearing in the sub zero air.

The impact zone showed the after effects of a massive meeting of matter and element. Brightly colored packages littered the area and seemed to be concentrated around a red bag of which the top was open and showing a precious cargo of both undamaged goods and those so broken it would be anyone's guess as to what they once were..

Hanging from the broken tops of the trees were the silver adorned fasteners and leather strapping once in fine form but now a torn and bloodied mess. Harness remnants were still attached to lifeless animals.

"Oh, oh..." A groan could be heard clearly as sound carries better in cold air than in a warm environment. This sound could be heard coming from a fat man dressed in attire not at all appropriate for the North country. His bright red jacket and trousers seemed as out of place as an Eskimo woman with no teeth wearing a bikini, grinning with her seductive smile at you as she prepared to butcher a freshly harpooned seal.

"Oh, oh, what happened?" This sound was weak in tone and it was only a matter of time before death would freeze the sound forever.

The crash had alerted those who live in the North land and the fresh scent of slaughtered animals combined with the sweet smells of candies lured those with a constant hunger rumbling in their bellies.

First on the scene was the Alpha wolf, a fine specimen of survival as there ever could be. He was followed by the rest of his clan and together they howled at the sky, as if in a cry of thanks to the god of hunters.

"No, no. Back..." Too weak to sound threatening the fat man dying in the snow could not stop what was now his new fate. The Alpha wolf moved in and the feast began. Soon, there was scene of feasting. Entrails spilled as the sharp teeth of the wolves disemboweled the deer while the Alpha wolf mouthed large bites of the fat man. It was a good day to be a wolf in the North land.

Ravens arrived to feast as well as other creatures. Even small mice tunneled through the snow to find nourishment. It truly was a Christmas feast, one sating the hunger of all who participated.

The clan of the Alpha lay panting on the now smooth snow colored with remnants of torn red cloth, pieces of brightly colored papers, and frozen blood. Off in the distance the howling of a rival pack announced they too were hungry and their keen sense of smell tasted the air.

There was nothing to worry about as those competing wolves would soon have their hunger satisfied also, as they spied a group of tiny pointy eared people trudging through the snow towards the crash scene. They were talking amongst themselves but the wolves did not care as to what the elves talked about for soon, as before, there would be another Christmas feast. Already the wolf pack was lunging towards the tiny people. A group scream could be heard...

Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas, and to all the wolves, a good feast tonight!

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Post December 19, 2014, 11:48:54 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

"What are you doing in my house? You're not supposed to be here..." Fear, fear in an old voice aged at over eighty years and while sounding ancient and feeble, the voice was strong with the accent of fear.

"I've come for you." If blackness could speak it would sound like this voice, a voice aged at over whatever time one could think of; sounding ancient and powerful, the voice was strong with the accent of evil.

"You need to leave my home now or I'll call the police..." Her tired pulse quickened as she clutched the telephone in her bony hands. She tried to dial the numbers 9-1-1 but her reading glasses were still on the table next to the glass of water holding her dentures. Instead of connecting with the world of help she connected with an automated report regarding road conditions.

"It matters not who you call. Call your police, call your priest, call your God...I've come for you."

"Who are you? Take anything you want. Over there is my purse. Take it, take anything, just leave me alone and leave."

"I will take what I want and what I want is you."

The mind of this old woman was racing as fear speeds up the thoughts of horror. She could barely see the figure standing before her bed. Even if she was younger and able to see better, her view would be no better for what was standing before her was dressed in a darkness more black than the shadows.

Fear accelerates more than thoughts as the old woman's heart failed with the surge of adrenaline exploding the walls of the tired heart, an organ with as much strength as a child would find in a balloon filled with too much air.

"It is time." Darkness spoke in finality, almost as if giving a command.

"Ahhhh..." The thud of a telephone hitting the floor could be heard as her right hand dropped the telephone still announcing the automated road report. In her eyes were the reflected picture of a demon of blackness with swirling shades of red flickering from its eyes. On her death face, the mouth was locked in her last scream.

Soon all that could be heard in the room was the dial tone of a telephone laying on the floor. There was nothing left alive and the old women who recently was taken by Hell had not been alive for over fifty years. She had given up her life the day she killed those little twin girls back in the year, 1961. She had smiled with glee and a perverse happiness back when she was alive; sexually molesting the ten-year olds, and after strangling each one slowly she dressed them as if they were a young girls doll. Yes, in 1961 she had ceased being alive and had spent the next fifty years alone with her thoughts and the dead twins dressed as dolls in the basement.

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Post December 22, 2014, 10:54:31 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Of course it is no secret that a writer can be inspired by recent events, so the following example is one concept you could take and run with (or away from).
***

Cop Killer

Woodlawn Cemetery located in New York City, located in the Bronx, located at 517 East 233rd Street. It is the perfect location to live for eternity once you're dead. It was also the perfect location for 'other' things.

So many people buried there coming from all walks of life. There were gangbangers, businessmen, housewives, whores, police, children, babies, there even are some animals buried on the grounds but that is a story for another story for another day. However, one thing in common for the local residents of the cemetery is they were all very much equal in status as being labeled, deceased.

Sgt. Ryan was on his daily beat, it was one mostly of boredom. His job this month was to cruise the streets in his patrol car and answer calls sent by dispatch. Being a policeman in New York has it moments of excitement to be sure, but mostly it was a glorified babysitter job with many hours of boredom. It has been said that the city never sleeps, and while this could be true in a way due to over 8 million people living there, the darkness of night is the time most creatures of the day, sleep.

The officer used to work normal hours but ever since the new mayor was elected, the police department had undergone many changes. These changes included one causing Sgt. Ryan to work uneven hours, which is why his current beat was from midnight to 8:00am. The changes also caused many officers to quit the department in disgust. This lead to Sgt. Ryan to be alone in his car instead of being assigned a new partner to replace the one who quit and got a job working at Walmart.

Morale was bad for the police and for Ryan he was disgusted and did his best to avoid doing his job. He did what he had too but when the time was between 3:00am and 4:30am, it was a time when the drunks were already passed out, the crackheads were between highs, the whores were worn out, it was the transition hour between the night people and the day people. It was the perfect time for Sgt. Ryan to take a nap.

You may not know this but the safest place to be is in a cemetery. For a policeman on duty during a boring beat a cemetery is the perfect place to get a little peace and a little sleep.

"Dispatch, this is car 113, over"

"Car 113, this is dispatch. Go ahead."

"Roger dispatch I'm going code 7, let me know if you need me."

"Will do 113, enjoy."

Sgt. Ryan was trying to lose a little weight and had no intentions of eating, besides he had already eaten his tuna sandwich earlier. No, he was going to get some sleep in the Woodlawn Cemetery.

Pulling his cruiser up next to a giant oak tree, he shut the engine off leaving only the radio on so he could be alerted by dispatch if needed, but he turned the volume way down to a level where it could hardly be heard.

Yes, it is a big city but at 3:33 in the morning, sitting in a quiet car in the middle of a cemetery, the silence was wonderful. Soon the snoring of a bored, disgusted, and tired policeman could be heard amongst the tomb stones.

Barely a few minutes has gone by when a scratching sound on the outside of the car awoke Ryan...

"What, what the hell?"

He was confused as nobody is in a cemetery, not unless they are kinky lovers, and those types usually scurried off when others came into a cemetery. Starting his car and turning on his lights his heart stopped. I don't say his heart stopped as a metaphor, no, his heart actually stopped as what was revealed to him in the lights of his car would stop most peoples hearts.

Standing in front of him were corpses engaged in an orgy. I say corpses because I was not there but if they were corpses, ghosts, demons, specter, whatever supernatural entity you could imagine, it does not matter, but what Sgt. Ryan saw had caused his heart to stop.

Your mind is conjuring up a sexual orgy but your mind is normal, what is not normal was this orgy as it must have been an orgy of 'something else' as the next morning a cemetery official found the still running car with the dead officer sitting inside with a frozen look of horror on his face.

Now, if you were the cemetery official, or the police who arrived on the scene soon after being informed of the dead officer, or even if you were dead and buried there and your spirit happened to see the aftermath, you would have seen the bodies of roughly one-hundred squirrels torn to itty, bitty, pieces and scattered all over the police car. That scene is bad enough but what was written in blood amongst the entrails were the word, khanzeer. It makes one wonder what evils lurk in the world, those living and those in the peaceful sanctuary of a cemetery.

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Post December 29, 2014, 02:11:02 AM

Re: Writers Parasite

Profanity. Cussing. Swear 'words'... If you're a writer you probably have heard that excessive use of certain words is frowned upon in the publishing world. Why is this so? When the base nature of mankind is one of shit, one of bodily functions, why wouldn't a writer embrace and write about what is?

Graphic exposure of any topic instills vivid pictures in the readers minds. It could be the choice of words used as well as how those words are put together; story formed to be remembered.

I say write in whatever way you desire and damned to the establishment dictating what is or should be, 'proper'. History is filled with great stories, great works where the writer told stories of great disgust and debauchery, all while using other words to make the point, fancy words, words disguised and blended to hide what really is in a real world. Great literary works are only read and understood by those possessing the intelligence while leaving pulp fiction, non-fiction, and torrid stories left to be read by those the literary world deems as, weak minds...

Just a rambling to be followed by a rambling bit of writing. Lets see what it does to your mind.
***

"Fuck, fuck, fuck...Ah, fuuuuck!" The voice was was toned with obvious feelings of both frustration, anger, and maybe some tinges of regret. Not strange considering the voice came from a student who had partaken of heavy consumption of alcohol the previous night and now had awoken late on the morning of his final exams in his chemistry class.

"Shit man, you're late for your test," a reply fit for the fuck outburst by his dorm room partner. "You best kick it into high gear and get over there or your final grade will not be pretty."

"Fuck, my head hurts. Why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

"I tried dude, I did try; even poured some water on your face but you just lay there and moaned."

"Fuuuuck! Oh, shit, shit, shit..." The hung over student pulled back the sheet covering his naked body and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, stood up all while trying to pull some underwear. "Hey, what the hell is this?"

Drunks are a special breed of fools. Not only do they poison their bodies with mind altering and body damaging fermented yeast excrement, they enjoy doing bizarre acts while lost in the drug. In this situation, while the student was fumbling with the underwear, he not only discovered he was putting on the garment backwards but he also discovered a string of white pearls hanging from his anus.

"Dude! You've got beads hanging out of your ass. I know you were hanging around with that freaky sorority girl but dude, that girl came with that gothic freak, Tom. I think they had fun with you!"

Never, absolutely never does one who drinks beyond the realm of sobriety and conducting acts free from inhibitions, never does it end well as there comes the realizations that there are ramifications for their actions, there are consequences.

"Ha, ha, ha. Man, stand still so I can get a picture of this." Ah yes, in this modern day of modern drunks, the digital world has made exposing the dark side of mankind to the world so much easier than when Shakespeare exposed the drunkards using only flowery words. Today a picture on Facebook or shared in all those most wonderful cyber ways is as valuable as back-in-the day when society traded furs for salt.

"Fuck you Mike! Don't you dare take a picture."

Click, click, followed by a whole lot of clicks to include recording live the wonderful moment the student pulled what proved to be a very long string of white pearls from his ass.

Mike was taking a course in physics and so he greatly appreciated the reaction set into motion as his room mate pulled out the long strand, as not only did he take fantastic pictures of the event but also more great footage as his 'friend' lost his footing. A young man suffering from the indignation of trying to come to terms with a situation, one very embarrassing, proved vividly that for ever action there is an opposite and equal reaction.

While pulling out the beads he lost his balance, as his underwear had fallen down around his ankles. As he tried to regain the high ground his arms flailed like a windmill, this caused the recently freed pearls to be cast through the air, sailing through the air like an undulating serpent.
As if in slow motion the pearls flew across the room and out into the great beyond through an open window where they would be picked up by an excited Freshman student majoring in philosophy. For her it would be the perfect accessory for her first dance followed by her first kiss later that week.

The drunk students body fell to the floor, no amount of his skinny arms beating the air did anything to slow the fall. For all the drama the act of falling presented to Mike's camera, it was followed by a brief moment of silence, followed by, "Shit! Fuck! Fuuuuuck!"

This of course elicited the gut busting laughter of his room mate who thought this was the most humorous event all year, "Haaa, ha, hee, he, (snort) giggle..."

And in the final scene, in a subdued voice, we hear the final word from the fallen warrior of college stupidity, "Dick..."

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Post January 01, 2015, 08:04:07 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Writers can write about absolutely any topic, any, any topic that exists... Some put constraints or limits as to what they will or will not write about. As for me my boundaries are just about non-existent but there is one topic I will not write about even though I could. What that topic is is none of anyone's business. A horrible example to prove my point is as follows.
***

Frozen Food

For Jane is was a brutal winter, a very cold and snowy season and she was none too happy about it. "Oh, sigh, why won't my car start." It was not a question but rather the attempt to ignore the facts, the main fact being the battery in her ancient car was over ten-years old. In battery life 'years', it was over one-hundred.

"Guess I'll be late for work then." Reality is much better than hope and no amount of hope was going to get her car started so Jane decided she would spend the cold day at home.

She lived in the countryside, roughly ten miles from the civilization called town. She had been married once but was now divorced and lived with her Springer Spaniel named, El Spando. Not a common dog name true, but it was a name she gave the dog eight years ago when it was a puppy and the name stood the test of time whereas that useless husband lived up to his new name, bastard.

Sipping some peach tea Jane sat in her old familiar chair next to one of the few windows in her small home, a home she got in the divorce while her ex got the truck and fishing boat. She briefly thought a pleasant thought of him naked and freezing in the snow. The vision brought a smile to her face and a giggle.

Outside, El Spando was chasing some birds. Unlike cats dogs are always full of hope that they will chase, catch, and eat their prey. The Spaniel may once have been capable of catching a mouse, rabbit, maybe even a squirrel, back when younger but today the old dog could only chase, catch, and eat bugs.

Jane was just finishing her tea and was preparing to watch some mindless soap opera's on the television when she chanced to look outside one more time.

"No! No, bad doggy! Don't eat that!" There was excitement in her voice as well as the tone of revulsion. What she saw through the frosty pane was her beloved pet and companion nibbling on one of his frozen pieces of dog shit. With the cold spell the past few weeks there was an ample selection for El Spando to choose from.

(sure most readers will hate this story but so what. I decided to write about frozen dog shit and actually enjoyed doing it, now go write something, anything about anything)

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Post January 02, 2015, 09:04:55 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

"Shh, hush little one, it will be okay."

Cradling the small child was a mother who was trying to console her baby, though she herself was filled with feelings ranging from sorrow to trepid anticipation of the coming horror.

"I know they are near, I can smell them," this voice coming from one filled with anger and hate; monster of the worse kind, one who took pleasure in hurting and taking innocent life. "You, check the tarp covering the boat, and you, tear down this wall."

It was an invasion, a invasion of the planet known as, Earth. The army arriving was small, very small, filling a tiny ship only ten feet in diameter with the soldiers inside numbering in the billions. They were tiny as the commons spores one finds in a mushroom but with the intelligence vastly superior to human beings. Their bodies were composed of biological, elemental, and fourth-dimensional materials of great power.

To invade a world such as Earth, and the many others conquered in the past millions of years, such tiny warriors could not physically win battles but they could take control of those invaded by taking control of the minds and bodies of the planetary inhabitants.

The terrified mother was trying to hide from Earth soldiers whose bodies were now being controlled by the invaders, it would not be long until she and her child were another statistic of war as already the wall separating them from safety and death was rapidly falling...

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Post January 09, 2015, 03:23:14 AM

Re: Writers Parasite

"Mommy, what are you doing?" He was such a cute child, standing at the entry to his parents room in his Winnie the Pooh jammies. Just the kind of look that makes most people smile and say, ahhh.

"Go to bed now, you should not be up." Strange sound in her voice, the little man had never heard his mother sound so stern.

"What's wrong with daddy mommy? Daddy? Daddy, why are you covered in red?" Tears started to fall from his eyes as what he saw did not seem right, and he was already four-years old and knew the basic differences between right and wrong.

"You get back to bed now, daddy will be alright." His mother was covered in red also and placed a knife covered in red on the table nearest to the door as she stood up from her husbands side and came to grab the tiny hand.

"Come on now, lets get you back into bed," and so the two headed back towards the room whose door had a picture of a rocket ship drawn in crayon taped to it.

As they both left the room of red the little man took one last look into the room where his eyes saw what formed the words to issue from his mouth, "Sis? What is Sis doing to daddy mommy?"

The mother just shielded her sons eyes and said, "It's nothing, nothing at all."

I guess to some it would be nothing but for the little boys mind the vision of his sister biting into his fathers face did not seen like nothing.

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Post January 17, 2015, 10:33:16 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

horror is easy to write about, so too sex, probably the hardest to write about is humor, especially a story that makes a reader laugh. it also is hard to beat current news events to provide stimulation for a story, and the way the news has been going for this new internet age, truth is definitely stranger than fiction.

tonight, one of the many headlines I read in the news today will provide the inspiration. maybe it will be humorous? Mmm, doubt it.
***
‘It Was a Nightmare’: Newborn Baby Dies After Being Set on Fire in Middle of Road, Mother Charged

The Couple

Tony the clown was an enigma, truly a strange profession for a man who hated clowns as a child and yet here he was, dressed like a giant chicken and making the circus crowds howl with laughter as he crowed, 'Barrrrack, cluck, cluck, cluck. Baaarrrack!" around the arena while pedaling a unicycle.

"Oh mommy, that man is so funny," giggled the young girl, one of many children totally amused by the chicken.

While Tony was putting on his act, one of his friends was back in the dressing rooms, specifically the room where Tony changed his clothes. It was payback time in the endless round of practical jokes. Recently Tony had pranked the intruder in such a way as the result was the mans home burning down.

Outside the closed door, the muffled spasms of laughter filtered their way through the thin walls. This did not faze the man as he glued Tony's shoes to the ceiling, and to the shoes he glued a note and some pictures.

In case you did not know, clowns are evil little bastards. Sure, they dress funny, sound funny. They play jokes on anyone around them and seem harmless, but in real life their real relationships with others are horrible, just horrible. There is good reason to be afraid of clowns, at the least one should shun them and run away from them if possible.

Tony was married. He was married to his job, his wife, and his addiction for diddling any willing woman around. His wife, Susan found out very early on in their relationship that her clown was having fun and games in other women's beds, and you know the saying, Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned.

Getting back to the changing room, the prankster had completed his mission and quietly exited the room, pausing briefly to lock the door.

Shortly after finishing his act, Tony unlocked the door, undressed and took a shower to cool off. All the clown regalia he wore caused him to sweat profusely. After drying off and gulping down a couple shots of Vodka, Tony looked up at the ceiling while reclining in his ratty recliner, and noticing his shoes stuck to the ceiling he chuckled and muttered, "Amateur," referring to whomever did this obvious, stupid, old school, tried-and-true prank of super gluing personal items to solid object.

Standing on a chair he reached up and while peeling the shoes off the ceiling, he noticed the note and pictures stuck inside the shoe. In case you're wondering what he did, from what witnesses stated to the police is that they heard a loud scream and the thudding sound of a man falling and hitting the floor. In Tony's case, he yelled, slipped and fell off the chair where he broke his neck. Hell of a way for a clown to die, but at least it was one less clown left to torment the world.

What? Why would Tony cry out and fall off a chair? Sure, the prank of gluing his shoes is boring but the note and pictures? There was the answer. You see, his wife Susan was pregnant with the couples first child. She knew Tony slept around and had decided to sleep with Tony's friend in revenge, the same one who glued the shoes to the ceiling.

Oh, it was a lovely affair. Lots of slurping and sucking sounds followed by moans and groaning. It also was recorded and one of the pictures of the two lovers were one of the items in the shoe, the other picture though, was priceless in the realm of practical jokes.

After the prankster screwed the brains out of his friends very pregnant wife, he killed her and sliced open the ripe belly, ripping out the little boy resting inside. You see, the picture that caused Tony to fall and break his neck was the one showing his dead wife with her belly slit open and his child lit on fire.

Yep, a fantastic prank done by a clown to a clown. Some could call the act revenge or a sick act by a deranged person, but I know those clowns, and clowns are all bastards. Don't believe me? Go ahead, play a practical joke on a clown, any clown, and see what happens.

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Post February 01, 2015, 08:32:55 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Silliness of Your World

It's called, 'Super Ball,' a game where mature male bipeds of the Homo, of the genus hominids, or what you like to call yourself - human, run back and forth across a green colored field with a air filled ball.

Back and forth, back and forth, with aerial displays of eye-hand coordination and millions of fellow humans cheering and showing signs of pleasure or anguish. Strange, very strange spectacle but not as strange as watching what you call, 'a commercial.'

A young animal belonging to the genus, canus and domesticated to fit the social hierarchy of hominid/cunus evolutionary partnership; becoming lost and standing in confrontation with the primary source of the canidae family, and surviving with a herd of the equidae coming to its rescue...

...

What 'people' love to embrace or enjoy on this planet is beyond amazing. Placing value on worthless items such as gold, silver, land, and those who run back and forth across a green field with an air filled ball.

Total strangers living a strange life, aloof from all others and yet drawn together in a common goal of survival. Banding to fight an enemy, be it illness, environmental obstacle, or other humans who have also banded to fight the opposing opinion and beliefs, or watch other bands run back and forth across a green field with an air filled ball.

I would like to write more about the strangeness of your planet but find my time allotment running short at the moment and have decided to dedicate my current resources to watching a primitive species exert biological energy in the pursuit of running back and forth across a green field. Plus I hear that at what is termed, 'half-time,' a scantily clad biped known by a cultural name, Katy Perry, will render tuned tones of harmonic rhythm to entertain the masses, plus I do find the commercials very educational as to the current progress of insanity with the most evolved animal on this planet.

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Post February 27, 2015, 08:39:49 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Raised by the stories told; witches, ogres, giants... For a child the fears come with the nights darkness, a darkness only beaten by the small light left on by guardians who know the power of darkness, even though they have grown and matured past such, 'childish' thoughts...

Monsters under the bed. Monsters lurking in the closet. Monsters in the attic or basement. Monsters everywhere, but have you ever seen the monster lurking inside?

Tom was a mere lad whose years of life totaled less than six years. Currently he was alone in his bed with only the small light given off of a green colored bulb, a puny 15 watts of power to hold at bay the immense power of complete, horrific, blackness.

But this story is boring and needs more horror cliches', such as the current storm building outside Tom's window; lightning smashing tree's with a powerful wind building and causing branches to scratch the outer walls and windows. Tom pulled the covers over his head but knew that what was coming could not be stopped.

Yes, this is now the part of the story where the power of the storm caused the power of electricity to be cut off from the home, leaving the blackness of night to be complete with the exception of momentary bright flashes of lightning followed by the hollow booms of thunder.

As for Tom, well Tom was... Wait, where is Tom? The last you saw him he was seeking the comfort of the blanket over his head, but you also knew he knew what was coming.

This six-year old boy was not afraid of the dark, and nor should he. He was afraid of the small green light, the puny 15 watts of electricity that kept him at bay.

Now that the electricity was cut off and the power from the backup generator was never going to work again, (caused by those evil entities of the night allied with the boy) there was soon screaming in the house as the guardians tried to fight the evil unleashed but were unable.

Soon, the brief flashes of lightning revealed the spattered blood and gore covering the floor, walls, and ceiling. It was the storm, the storm of feeding...

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Post April 03, 2015, 11:24:36 PM

Re: Writers Parasite

Killing A God

Written by: A Lost Soul

"Just kneel before me and I will give you the world..."

Forty days and forty night in a desert. A man. A God...

"God, dude are you high? If you're referring to Jesus, man that guy was g-a-y. Seriously, all he did was hang around a bunch of men. Probably enjoyed a good poke. That man was no God."

"Hey guys, what's all the big deal? Come on, just pass the bong. Lets get high."

Millennial's: Some believe in God, some believe in Jesus, some believe Jesus was no God. All millenial's believe in themself, in their grasp of technology, and they are secure in owning the world.

I must say I sure do enjoy this planet. Or, I guess I should say it is my planet. One planet of millions on which I so do enjoy my power. I,I,I, or me, me, me, or as I just like to acknowledge -mine.

All this 'God,' talk...Makes me want to puke when a worm talks about love, forgiveness, peace...What a load of crap. Afterall, it's all mine. This world, your sick deviant sexual thoughts of getting laid. All mine.

I offered this Jesus a chance. I really did. All he had to do was kneel before me. Acknowledge my power. My world. My choices. I really did, but did he listen to me? Oh, nooooo, that man was so caught up in dying for the worms- the parasites under my control- he just basically told me to go to Hell. Really? Hell? Ha, what a loser.

Just look how it turned out. This pathetic Jesus, the 'Savior of the World,' got his clock cleaned. Just pathetic. He should have listened to me, I could have given him the World. He could have all the male lovers he wanted. He could even have tried girls, even a goat if he wanted, but no he played the martyr game all the way to the end.

After the dust settled on his corpse, his body strangely disappears. Coincidence? Nope, his lovers took his body away, and knowing how kinky the man was (wink wink) his lovers probably had their way with the body.

And today? Where is this 'God,' so many speak of. I don't see him, do you? Today is some silly religious holiday some worms call, Good Friday. Huh? An anniversary in 'honor' of some deviant who died on a cross? Worms are mentally challenged. Jesus was a fool, a simple minded man living in a delusional world...(my world by the way. mine, me, I, mine...)

If there were a God then how could such a 'loving' God allow cancer? How could a God allow war, hate? For that matter how could God have ever created my world? Me? I? It's all a huge fairy tale.

I know many of you agree with me, as well you should, after all I have given you the World. Look how free you are. Drugs, sex, music, money, health, knowledge...My gift to you. Mi casa es su casa. So, light up the bong, go fuck your neighbors spouse. There is no such thing as right or wrong. You need the money more than some stupid church. Poor people are poor because their stupid. If you feel good it must be right and let me tell you, feeling good is important.

If you're wondering if I some figment of the imagination called, Satan, Lucifer, Devil...shit man, are you crazy? There is no such thing. I mean, look around you. What do you see? People right? That's who I am, I am you. Now excuse me, I have to go, I hear there are some chocolate bunnies and some great candy getting hid for children to find this Easter. All hail the mighty Easter Bunny, long live his reign...Ha! Ha! Ha! Morons...

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Post April 08, 2015, 11:28:06 AM

Re: Writers Parasite

Inspiration for writing, for a story, for a thought...comes in so many ways that for a writer it's like a deer standing on the road with the lights of a semi truck coming at you.

When you clicked on Aphelion's April issue you probably noticed the beautiful picture showing a wonderful rendition of space. I know I did, but it was that little bunny that really grabbed my interest. Wonderful. That cute little body holding a little egg...
***

The Bunny

Children love the hunt. Getting up in the morning and searching for painted eggs and candy. Consuming such until their little bodies metabolism kicks into high gear and they become a perfect example of perpetual-motion-machine.

Everywhere during the season of Easter there is the thoughts and pictures of Easter bunnies. Much like in WWII the picture, 'Kilroy was here,' popped up in French bathrooms to cliffs in Alaska. Mostly harmless and representing the culture of the moment.

Yes, little bunnies, kittens with bows, butterflies...harmless, but behind every innocent moment rests great evil. Luring children with candy into a dirty van and teaching them 'tricks'. Training hound dogs to hunt by letting them chase and eat kittens. Piercing butterflies with a pin and mounting them on a board as a trophy.

Recently, a webzine, a site on the world wide web pictured their usual photo rendition of the innocence of space, and it include the innocent picture of the Easter Bunny. The message was innocent in intent but the real message was subliminal as the Roster People, (those who were agents of 'them') were activated.

For the past sixty years, 'they' took random humans captive. Some called it alien abduction. 'They' printed on the minds of these captives a message, one activated by the exact picture shown on the cover of the April Aphelion.

It begins now as already some mysterious activities have begun by those Roster's. Soon the picture of the bunny will spread throughout the world and the thousands of Roster's will number in the millions, just in time for 'them,' to truly unveil the master plan.

Happy Easter.
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