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XyZspineZyX
09-19-2003, 07:51 AM
Is life just a fairytale that's muttered by some stranger as he walks the lonely streets at night and winks at passers by?
In an effort to confront our own reality, we slip into a world where thoughts are driven by forces aligned to madness. Just a misunderstanding of the way things are supposed to be. Supposed to be, according to those who think it is. Reality based on nothing more than illusion.blah blah blah . Let's cut the metaphorical banter and get down to business.
I must confess, the redeeming features of Turch are minimal. His god-fearing nature unable to subdue darker intentions. Odd, considering he cowers at the thought of hell, that he could be capable of vices that could only be regarded as evil. And the devil it seems, was a companion of constant persuasion.
An accountant- a dull occupation by definition. He works for the tax department. Numbers dancing on the screen. The ghostly user plays a repetitious solo on the keyboard. A musical harmony unappreciated for it's simplicity. Blank stare, no care, nothing moves. The epitome of the living dead. Never time to discover the simple beauty that glares outside the window. Poor fool, wake a moment and smell the rotting flesh that crumbles from your bones. You're dead buddy, ain't no question. Just waiting 'till you're ripe enough to bury. Don't fall asleep at your desk or someone may cart you off to the hillside and plant your sorry bones in the soil. Tick, tick, the slow advance of the inevitable. Tack. Go home.
Single room apartment. A small cube of lonely radio music and cold pizza. Cupboards full of corn flakes, pancake mix, and three and a half bags of sugar. Home sweet home. The cell in some converted prison for those who blindly do as one would, considering the options open to them. Such a dull story is the daily ritual that it may evoke thoughts of suicide if told in great detail. Ah, bless the simplicity. No complex problems to plague one's brain, only the constant battering of the ever present question, what to do now?
Isn't television the simple answer? Auto pilot for the conscious mind. Switch off and enjoy the ride. Ladies and gentlemen, relax as we guide you through your thoughts. This is the way it is and this is what you believe. 'Guiding light oh tell me how to see. Lives played out that seem so real but I may never be.'
Ropes, gloves, pliers, that sort of thing. Stashed amongst Pornographic magazines neatly stacked and catalogued as if it were a collection of rare insects. Everything neatly in it's place, at home.
Hidden in the corner of the rotting garden. A cavern away from the lights where all the everything that no-one thinks is anything anymore ends up. It's odd how it always smells the same. It seems that no matter what goods may be disposed, the sensory stimulation always leads to disgust. Maybe an inherent safety device so we avoid such surrounds. No matter if it be the meals that are disposed, or the forgotten that consume them.
Out of sight, out of mind. Such high hopes for those who wish only to plod along the rosy street and never see the dung off which it grows. A false smile that can never be contorted. God forbid that reality should infect ones happy little sugar coated fairy world. Darkness is always there, and our only friend, almighty television, keeps on flashing these images as if it were trying to wake us up. Not so. We just smile and change the channel. New image, laughter emanating from a mirror of ourselves. Much better, the horrors are no more. Bliss is never that simple though.
Turch was under his sensory influence. A face contorted with a ghastly expression. Such a putrid smell. Such a waste. All these goods once desired to acquire. Turch had his own form of respect for the recycling fad. Finding the garbage on the streets and implementing them in more useful applications. Art, he considered his hobby, and why not? A form of personal expression was considered art, he was always told. Art is the physical expression of personal emotions and ideas regardless of its medium. Good, Turch thought, as his medium was one that he could not so easily be shared. But art is art, and Turch was an artist. Less than fortunate for him that his art was not as long lasting as the usual expressions under the title, but the enjoyment of creation was more than compensation.
For this he used an old apron, protecting his white shirt from the mess of his artistic endeavour. A fresh canvas lain neatly on the wooden workbench. One could almost commend Turch for finding a use for that which may otherwise mean nothing. He could not bare the thought of letting anything slip into the abyss of worthlessness he felt he had fallen into long ago. He had to be remembered somehow, or his whole life could simply have been a way for others to get things done. Not that he would be worthless, but not considered worthy of wasting space in our already overflowing memory. Only the good things gain a home in forever, and the evil. But Dull is not worthy, the dull march into oblivion.
Turch has no intention of joining so many others in oblivion. Besides, it's crowded and the food is nothing to write home about. No, nothing was not a Turch thing. Nothing was up for grabs. Music. Time to listen to music.
Screaming, like from some fifties horror film, suitable accompaniment to the mellow lounge music. An overload of sensory input evoking a verbal release valve. Long and evocative. Turch found some kind of pleasure, relaxation, in the sounds. He was working on his art in a frenzy of excitement. When was television ever this exciting?
Tax lodgement overdue. Audit the client. Time to demonstrate his authority. Power. A form of control now burning in Turch's veins. White knuckles grip his tools. Step out of oblivion and into forever. A fever of superiority unleashing a brutal rendezvous with hell.
Beautiful curves, unseen in such splendour now free for any taking.
Ok brothers, a grim tale best not shared unfolds. Best to drink a happy drink to block those images late at night. It is the fuel of nightmares. And Reality, it seems, was far more exciting for Turch. The roaches infest the city and are everywhere. Maybe next to you. Ever hear screaming in the night?
Crimson cornflakes fill a clean white bowl. Crispy flakes low in fat. Skim Milk, a lot of sugar, and a dabble of blood. The perfect start to the day. Breakfast is an important meal, a quick drink and cheese on toast just is doesn't cut it. General Montgomery insisted on a full English breakfast every morning of the war. Nutrition is everything.
White shirt uniform dry-cleaned and ready for war. Uniform of normality and the mundane. This soldier of the city readies for combat. Little happy tunes on morning radio fill the room with bliss of unchallenged conformity.
A glistening smile, daydreams flood through his head. You know the one. Turning up to work with a shiny new semi-auto assault rifle and pumping round after round through your boss. Watch the bullets tear through flesh and then see if he can still be a *****. That'll teach that (BEEEEP)er not to (BEEEEP) with me. Die you pig (BEEEEP)ing maggot! You ain't (BEEEEP)in' (poop) now mother (BEEEEP)er! Or would the language need to be so vulgar at such a time? Maybe words of higher sophistication, a cool intellect supplemented by his dashing bravado. 'You sir, are a cad, and I shall run you through.'
You've all heard the rant before. 'You are a product of your environment.' Packaged meat with designer labels. Busy little bees in nests of concrete and glass. Feeding shiny horses that will gallop without feet. Dreams and hopes and little fears dance in magic sunlight every night. And what can we consume any more of in our greed than feelings that we could not share for fear that we may lose them. Perhaps we breed an ill respect for ourselves as we seek to gain much more than we can have.
Where was I? Oh yes, bullets shredding bosses in the cubicle construction. Hell with flouro lighting. System error, someone's talking.
Turch looks up. The Devil again.
"What the hell you doin' Turch?"
"Nothin'. Just playing around."
"Any reason?" The devil seemed to be quite inquisitive.
"No, I just like it." Turch was distracted. He had something else on his mind. Chinese banker seemed to be skimming funds off his business and not claiming it as income. This bugged Turch. Time for the gun fantasy he thought. Shotgun? Or maybe one of those ak-47's the bad guys love so much.
"So what next Turch?"
Turch shrugged. He had no time to deal with the devil today. Other matters needed his attention. "Do you mind?"
"Well, it's just that I'm wondering why, Turch. Not that I mind at all. In fact, I'm all in favour of this sort of activity."
"Why not."
"Good question. What now?"
"I don't know." Turch fiddles with a stapler.
"I do. I am what you wish you were."
"No, not at all. I already am."
"You think?"
Contemplation. Not all the answers are that simple. Turch drives a staple into his hand. He doesn't flinch.
"Yeah." Turch takes out a folder tucked in a lower drawer. He slaps it on the table for the devil to see. Home developed, photographic artistry.
"Take a look" A computer weary face is smiling with satisfaction.
"Beautiful. Nice photos. The texture and lighting are wonderful, and such good framing." Devil flicks through black and whites of last night's creation.
" I could offer you an excellent position in my staff, when the day comes, of course."
"No thanks. Hell is not where I'd like to be."
"You may not have a choice considering your hobby. They have standards upstairs."
"We'll see. Now let me be"
"you're going to hell."
"no!"
"You're going to hell with me!"
"No! No! NO!"
For a brief moment, Turch can see what he's done. Regret. It sinks into him for a moment and bites at his heart before being defeated by internal demons. A chill runs down his spine as he walks back in the door of his apartment. But it too is soon paralyzed. Ah, the comfort of TV. Not alone. Not alone. TV will understand. Apron replaces shirt. Cane replaces briefcase. Relax to the music of the scream. Relax in his art. Frustration released. Frustration against the world. Against his life. Against his own insignificance. He will NOT find a place in oblivion! The door stays open. The screams escape. And in some distant concrete bunker a hand lifts the phone.
Sometimes, that which seems unpalatable is best ignored. But reality can often crush your own beliefs. Often reality, hidden in denial, rears it's ugly head to take a bite! The punch line to life's joke jumps out in front of you and screams! "Open your eyes! Open your eyes. Open your (BEEEEP)ing eyes!"
Roach. Roach. Turch is nothing but a small roach. For every one you read about in the paper, or see on almighty Television, there are hundreds, even thousands, hidden away in the cracks of civilization. Thousands hidden in the dark feeding off the weak and the innocent. And you'll never hear about them. You'll never know. They will live and die unknown. People you walk past in the street hiding secrets you cannot imagine in your darkest nightmare. Not until some word escapes to which you may find shocking, disturbing, surreal. Surreal? Or super real? Shattering your mundane existence with a truth from the darkness you deny. Deny to keep yourself human. There are people like Turch prowling throughout the world. Throughout the city. A whole collection of evil hearts lurking around each corner. Maybe next to you.

Ever hear screaming in the night?





http://webhome.idirect.com/~nkirv/ASHcom%205%20alone3%20copy.jpg

Shut up when you talk to me.

XyZspineZyX
09-19-2003, 07:51 AM
Is life just a fairytale that's muttered by some stranger as he walks the lonely streets at night and winks at passers by?
In an effort to confront our own reality, we slip into a world where thoughts are driven by forces aligned to madness. Just a misunderstanding of the way things are supposed to be. Supposed to be, according to those who think it is. Reality based on nothing more than illusion.blah blah blah . Let's cut the metaphorical banter and get down to business.
I must confess, the redeeming features of Turch are minimal. His god-fearing nature unable to subdue darker intentions. Odd, considering he cowers at the thought of hell, that he could be capable of vices that could only be regarded as evil. And the devil it seems, was a companion of constant persuasion.
An accountant- a dull occupation by definition. He works for the tax department. Numbers dancing on the screen. The ghostly user plays a repetitious solo on the keyboard. A musical harmony unappreciated for it's simplicity. Blank stare, no care, nothing moves. The epitome of the living dead. Never time to discover the simple beauty that glares outside the window. Poor fool, wake a moment and smell the rotting flesh that crumbles from your bones. You're dead buddy, ain't no question. Just waiting 'till you're ripe enough to bury. Don't fall asleep at your desk or someone may cart you off to the hillside and plant your sorry bones in the soil. Tick, tick, the slow advance of the inevitable. Tack. Go home.
Single room apartment. A small cube of lonely radio music and cold pizza. Cupboards full of corn flakes, pancake mix, and three and a half bags of sugar. Home sweet home. The cell in some converted prison for those who blindly do as one would, considering the options open to them. Such a dull story is the daily ritual that it may evoke thoughts of suicide if told in great detail. Ah, bless the simplicity. No complex problems to plague one's brain, only the constant battering of the ever present question, what to do now?
Isn't television the simple answer? Auto pilot for the conscious mind. Switch off and enjoy the ride. Ladies and gentlemen, relax as we guide you through your thoughts. This is the way it is and this is what you believe. 'Guiding light oh tell me how to see. Lives played out that seem so real but I may never be.'
Ropes, gloves, pliers, that sort of thing. Stashed amongst Pornographic magazines neatly stacked and catalogued as if it were a collection of rare insects. Everything neatly in it's place, at home.
Hidden in the corner of the rotting garden. A cavern away from the lights where all the everything that no-one thinks is anything anymore ends up. It's odd how it always smells the same. It seems that no matter what goods may be disposed, the sensory stimulation always leads to disgust. Maybe an inherent safety device so we avoid such surrounds. No matter if it be the meals that are disposed, or the forgotten that consume them.
Out of sight, out of mind. Such high hopes for those who wish only to plod along the rosy street and never see the dung off which it grows. A false smile that can never be contorted. God forbid that reality should infect ones happy little sugar coated fairy world. Darkness is always there, and our only friend, almighty television, keeps on flashing these images as if it were trying to wake us up. Not so. We just smile and change the channel. New image, laughter emanating from a mirror of ourselves. Much better, the horrors are no more. Bliss is never that simple though.
Turch was under his sensory influence. A face contorted with a ghastly expression. Such a putrid smell. Such a waste. All these goods once desired to acquire. Turch had his own form of respect for the recycling fad. Finding the garbage on the streets and implementing them in more useful applications. Art, he considered his hobby, and why not? A form of personal expression was considered art, he was always told. Art is the physical expression of personal emotions and ideas regardless of its medium. Good, Turch thought, as his medium was one that he could not so easily be shared. But art is art, and Turch was an artist. Less than fortunate for him that his art was not as long lasting as the usual expressions under the title, but the enjoyment of creation was more than compensation.
For this he used an old apron, protecting his white shirt from the mess of his artistic endeavour. A fresh canvas lain neatly on the wooden workbench. One could almost commend Turch for finding a use for that which may otherwise mean nothing. He could not bare the thought of letting anything slip into the abyss of worthlessness he felt he had fallen into long ago. He had to be remembered somehow, or his whole life could simply have been a way for others to get things done. Not that he would be worthless, but not considered worthy of wasting space in our already overflowing memory. Only the good things gain a home in forever, and the evil. But Dull is not worthy, the dull march into oblivion.
Turch has no intention of joining so many others in oblivion. Besides, it's crowded and the food is nothing to write home about. No, nothing was not a Turch thing. Nothing was up for grabs. Music. Time to listen to music.
Screaming, like from some fifties horror film, suitable accompaniment to the mellow lounge music. An overload of sensory input evoking a verbal release valve. Long and evocative. Turch found some kind of pleasure, relaxation, in the sounds. He was working on his art in a frenzy of excitement. When was television ever this exciting?
Tax lodgement overdue. Audit the client. Time to demonstrate his authority. Power. A form of control now burning in Turch's veins. White knuckles grip his tools. Step out of oblivion and into forever. A fever of superiority unleashing a brutal rendezvous with hell.
Beautiful curves, unseen in such splendour now free for any taking.
Ok brothers, a grim tale best not shared unfolds. Best to drink a happy drink to block those images late at night. It is the fuel of nightmares. And Reality, it seems, was far more exciting for Turch. The roaches infest the city and are everywhere. Maybe next to you. Ever hear screaming in the night?
Crimson cornflakes fill a clean white bowl. Crispy flakes low in fat. Skim Milk, a lot of sugar, and a dabble of blood. The perfect start to the day. Breakfast is an important meal, a quick drink and cheese on toast just is doesn't cut it. General Montgomery insisted on a full English breakfast every morning of the war. Nutrition is everything.
White shirt uniform dry-cleaned and ready for war. Uniform of normality and the mundane. This soldier of the city readies for combat. Little happy tunes on morning radio fill the room with bliss of unchallenged conformity.
A glistening smile, daydreams flood through his head. You know the one. Turning up to work with a shiny new semi-auto assault rifle and pumping round after round through your boss. Watch the bullets tear through flesh and then see if he can still be a *****. That'll teach that (BEEEEP)er not to (BEEEEP) with me. Die you pig (BEEEEP)ing maggot! You ain't (BEEEEP)in' (poop) now mother (BEEEEP)er! Or would the language need to be so vulgar at such a time? Maybe words of higher sophistication, a cool intellect supplemented by his dashing bravado. 'You sir, are a cad, and I shall run you through.'
You've all heard the rant before. 'You are a product of your environment.' Packaged meat with designer labels. Busy little bees in nests of concrete and glass. Feeding shiny horses that will gallop without feet. Dreams and hopes and little fears dance in magic sunlight every night. And what can we consume any more of in our greed than feelings that we could not share for fear that we may lose them. Perhaps we breed an ill respect for ourselves as we seek to gain much more than we can have.
Where was I? Oh yes, bullets shredding bosses in the cubicle construction. Hell with flouro lighting. System error, someone's talking.
Turch looks up. The Devil again.
"What the hell you doin' Turch?"
"Nothin'. Just playing around."
"Any reason?" The devil seemed to be quite inquisitive.
"No, I just like it." Turch was distracted. He had something else on his mind. Chinese banker seemed to be skimming funds off his business and not claiming it as income. This bugged Turch. Time for the gun fantasy he thought. Shotgun? Or maybe one of those ak-47's the bad guys love so much.
"So what next Turch?"
Turch shrugged. He had no time to deal with the devil today. Other matters needed his attention. "Do you mind?"
"Well, it's just that I'm wondering why, Turch. Not that I mind at all. In fact, I'm all in favour of this sort of activity."
"Why not."
"Good question. What now?"
"I don't know." Turch fiddles with a stapler.
"I do. I am what you wish you were."
"No, not at all. I already am."
"You think?"
Contemplation. Not all the answers are that simple. Turch drives a staple into his hand. He doesn't flinch.
"Yeah." Turch takes out a folder tucked in a lower drawer. He slaps it on the table for the devil to see. Home developed, photographic artistry.
"Take a look" A computer weary face is smiling with satisfaction.
"Beautiful. Nice photos. The texture and lighting are wonderful, and such good framing." Devil flicks through black and whites of last night's creation.
" I could offer you an excellent position in my staff, when the day comes, of course."
"No thanks. Hell is not where I'd like to be."
"You may not have a choice considering your hobby. They have standards upstairs."
"We'll see. Now let me be"
"you're going to hell."
"no!"
"You're going to hell with me!"
"No! No! NO!"
For a brief moment, Turch can see what he's done. Regret. It sinks into him for a moment and bites at his heart before being defeated by internal demons. A chill runs down his spine as he walks back in the door of his apartment. But it too is soon paralyzed. Ah, the comfort of TV. Not alone. Not alone. TV will understand. Apron replaces shirt. Cane replaces briefcase. Relax to the music of the scream. Relax in his art. Frustration released. Frustration against the world. Against his life. Against his own insignificance. He will NOT find a place in oblivion! The door stays open. The screams escape. And in some distant concrete bunker a hand lifts the phone.
Sometimes, that which seems unpalatable is best ignored. But reality can often crush your own beliefs. Often reality, hidden in denial, rears it's ugly head to take a bite! The punch line to life's joke jumps out in front of you and screams! "Open your eyes! Open your eyes. Open your (BEEEEP)ing eyes!"
Roach. Roach. Turch is nothing but a small roach. For every one you read about in the paper, or see on almighty Television, there are hundreds, even thousands, hidden away in the cracks of civilization. Thousands hidden in the dark feeding off the weak and the innocent. And you'll never hear about them. You'll never know. They will live and die unknown. People you walk past in the street hiding secrets you cannot imagine in your darkest nightmare. Not until some word escapes to which you may find shocking, disturbing, surreal. Surreal? Or super real? Shattering your mundane existence with a truth from the darkness you deny. Deny to keep yourself human. There are people like Turch prowling throughout the world. Throughout the city. A whole collection of evil hearts lurking around each corner. Maybe next to you.

Ever hear screaming in the night?





http://webhome.idirect.com/~nkirv/ASHcom%205%20alone3%20copy.jpg

Shut up when you talk to me.

XyZspineZyX
09-19-2003, 10:21 AM
ENTER key, know it...use it



----------------------------------
42nd Infantry Division
113th Infantry Regiment (Mortars)
New Jersey Guard

XyZspineZyX
09-19-2003, 01:49 PM
Fantastic stuff. I'm not sure if I've read this before, or if I'm just suffering from deja vu, but I still enjoyed it all the same. /i/smilies/16x16_smiley-happy.gif

*tips hat*.

P.S. Dont worry about the layout. Your use of teh "Enter" key was just fine. Some people just dont like big chunks of text and want it cut into little pieces for them to chew and swallow.

http://www.jc3.homestead.com/files/sig_slackbladder.jpg

XyZspineZyX
09-19-2003, 05:37 PM
Nice, Ash. Eerie.



A man only needs one rectum. - F. Salter, "Recon Scout"

http://www.justresting.com/pictures/JustResting.jpg

XyZspineZyX
09-20-2003, 04:08 AM
I think i have posted the first half before. Also the use of enter does not help when i use TAB instead for paragraph indentation and it does not carry over to the forum.

http://webhome.idirect.com/~nkirv/ASHcom%205%20alone3%20copy.jpg

Shut up when you talk to me.

XyZspineZyX
09-20-2003, 05:33 AM
Very nice.

Slackie, I had the same feeling like I might have read it before, but so long ago that it was still new to me /i/smilies/16x16_smiley-happy.gif

http://www.myimgs.com/data/kymmiko/ninjasignourl.jpg

XyZspineZyX
09-25-2003, 03:01 AM
where is that from, I like it

XyZspineZyX
09-25-2003, 03:07 AM
/i/smilies/16x16_smiley-surprised.gif



EMAN RETURNS!


Hey buddy /i/smilies/16x16_smiley-happy.gif


Where ya been?



(And whatever happened to that great sig of yours?/i/smilies/16x16_smiley-happy.gif )

http://www.desiredfx.net/sigs/files/furiousgopher.jpg
<FONT COLOR="#B8860B">[b]<font size="1">Don't Make The Gopher Furious
Forum Gopher

XyZspineZyX
09-25-2003, 04:33 AM
enceenoman wrote:
- where is that from, I like it
-


Mesa wrote it. The first half a while back and I recently added the ending. Still needs work on the ending, I need to expand it.



http://webhome.idirect.com/~nkirv/ASHcom%205%20alone3%20copy.jpg

Shut up when you talk to me.