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Mitch
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The darkness is all around. It envelops like a closing fist.

His eyes are closed tightly, coiled on his head in thick concetration.

[i]Mosquitoes come, suck your blood[/i]
whispers
like love.
[i]Mosquitoes come
suck your blood[/i]

He is a murderer. His leather seats dash his car like a cozy sofa. The dashboard is litten up in a neon fizz.

And he is a murderer.

He sits with his head going nowhere, his thoughts reoccuring to flashes and sparks, all litten up but just there, like his dashboard. Like his entire life.

Inside his mind the metal messenger of death is ringing. And he picks it up. A little clang and a little clatter.

[i]Hello[/i]...

Little deathbirds whisper in his head, the hollowed-out skulls of memories.

In his mind he can see the messenger of death in his hands, he can see himself speaking to it, telling it all he wants. All he loves. All he hates. And the messenger smiles, he can see it as he hears it. A small uplift of small cheeks, a big grin, a qauvering grin, like a beating heart.

In his mind he can see the wound seeping into him, like acid poison, like crumbling, skipping stairs, falling one by one in an endless depth. He can see it taint and bleed and spasm and kill. He can taste the smell of gunpowdered wishes, like snow falling endlessly and helplessly and scentlessly in its dead, flittering white. He can see white covering him, like a coat, and blackness right on his eyes, his beady, empty eyes. He can feel splattering, mangling wishes and dreams and brainmatter strewn about, a murderer's art, a picture only blood could paint and blood could finger.

[i]Bang[/i]

He can hear the bang in his mind. He can hear little voices, a small choir of whores, telling him to stop, to end, to resist, to cease. To not give up. The whores were empty hearts, red bloodholes in his mind, faded kisses that nourished nothing, only cold skin. They were white as paper, thin as ribs. Little bases that gave his face a head. Little cements that glooped in an endless loop, so frantically, so quickly. And they were all drying, all melting, and all tears as they stood around and moped and sulked by a now filled piece of Earth. By a murder's rug, and his stone home.

The hate that rises through the pavements. The little cats that are as feline as love. The little slips of paper of a torn up test grade, buried forever in a trash can. A bottle of soda smeared with fingerprints, small, tedious fingerprints. A little boy with a little heart and a little life doing handstands in the rain, his hands wet with enthusiasm. A bigger boy, tall as the moon, short as the ground. But gravity always wins.

[i]But gravity always wins...[/i]

Between his eyes I see his brain, a silent tape in the open breeze. Spinning like a pinball in a machine fed too many quarters and too little love. Spinning like a twirling, spasming girl kissing and wooing with endless amority. I see a tape unraveling like a red carpet on a short stair that ends as soon as it begins. I see a tape playing with its sound dying, its wheels overused, overknown, overneeded.

I hear a man in the classroom singing, "Lalalalalala listen to yourself, go on and on as if you spoke to someone else." I see flashes, endless lightbulbs burning out and preparing to be dead and gone forever and ever. I see metal in the cold night, dancing on his closed eyes, dancing with his brain in a slow dance that never ends only when it stops.

He thinks of all the people in life. He looks at them like knives, too sharp and growing too dull, one day to be broken forever. Tears touch his mind like a lost ocean, but he pushes them back, he pushes them back in a wave of water, a wave that will cover everything in its hands.

He grabs the messenger of death for real this time. He winces in anguish, in some last plea, in some last wish, some last dream, some last could have been. He pauses for a moment longer, like a sloth, slowly, coldly. Movies are playing in his head, movies just as powerful and moving as any other. Memories face him and touch him and grasp him like an old man too dead to know what he's doing.

And then he puts the metal messenger to his head. He places his finger over the trigger like a teacher first grabbing chalk, first teaching. His finger lays on the little slab of the trigger, uncertain and capable of its potentials. Uncertain and capable potentials that will kill other uncertain and capable potentials. Like a sigh that turns to a scream, bloodcurdling and cold as hell.

With a twitch of his brain his muscles move the trigger back forcefully with his finger. Little shadows dance and recede. Little memories breathe one last breath then cough and die. Hands move and wiggle for the last time. A face moves and licks and breathes for the last moments and fades to just another rag doll, just another doll that was stuffed and nothing and dead.

[i]Bang[/i]

The bang is sudden. Sudden like a wrenching, decayed ghost appearing and showing its face. The red is all over the car, the bullet a cannibal to its own end. The murderer a murderer to his own end. The blood is all over; it is all over his face, all over his hands, all over the ground. A spaghetti of brain matter paints the leather seats, brain matter that once was. That once had a being. That once danced like a neon sign.

He squirms for a while longer. Then there is nothing. Nothing but a lone car in a lone road with its litten dashboard, just sitting.

A few days later, snow fell, a confetti parade for the devil. A purgatorial white that scattered and clawed in a gnawing cold, cutting the air with a dead breeze. It fell like one last sneeze, showering the world in the white of bone, in the purging color of white.

The snow ate at us all, chewing and munching on us. All of us food that hasn't died. All of us paralyzed.
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[color=indigo] I enjoy the way that it reads and the uncomfortable picture it paints. It is like a hollowed out film noir mixed with an oddly whimsical poem. I also enjoy the way that you wrote it in first but made a suggestive third person motif. In other words, I enjoyed the point of views subtlety.[/color]
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[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Mitch [/i]
[B]

He is a murderer. His leather seats dash his car like a cozy sofa. The dashboard is litten up in a neon fizz.

And he is a murderer.

He sits with his head going nowhere, his thoughts reoccuring to flashes and sparks, all litten up but just there, like his dashboard. Like his entire life.

Inside his mind the metal messenger of death is ringing. And he picks it up. A little clang and a little clatter.

[/b] [color=deeppink]Very nice imagery here. You manage to leave undefined whether or not the weapon of choice is a gun or a knife. Good job.

[/color][b]
[i]Hello[/i]...

Little deathbirds whisper in his head, the hollowed-out skulls of memories.

In his mind he can see the messenger of death in his hands, he can see himself speaking to it, telling it all he wants. All he loves. All he hates. And the messenger smiles, he can see it as he hears it. A small uplift of small cheeks, a big grin, a qauvering grin, like a beating heart.
[/b][color=deeppink]

I love this part. I can see the person sitting in his car, voices in his head as he mumurs all the thoughts he couldn't say to anyone else to the gun/knife.

[/color][b]
In his mind he can see the wound seeping into him, like acid poison, like crumbling, skipping stairs, falling one by one in an endless depth. He can see it taint and bleed and spasm and kill. He can taste the smell of gunpowdered wishes, like snow falling endlessly and helplessly and scentlessly in its dead, flittering white. He can see white covering him, like a coat, and blackness right on his eyes, his beady, empty eyes. He can feel splattering, mangling wishes and dreams and brainmatter strewn about, a murderer's art, a picture only blood could paint and blood could finger.
[/b][color=deeppink]

Once again, clever vagueness. Is he pondering death, or is he already dead? Perhaps he is already dead in his minds' eye. The last line is particularily vivid and beautiful.


[/color][b]
[i]Bang[/i]
[/b][color=deeppink]
Nearly fooled me. But not quite.

[/color][b]
He can hear the bang in his mind. He can hear little voices, a small choir of whores, telling him to stop, to end, to resist, to cease. To not give up. The whores were empty hearts, red bloodholes in his mind, faded kisses that nourished nothing, only cold skin. They were white as paper, thin as ribs. Little bases that gave his face a head. Little cements that glooped in an endless loop, so frantically, so quickly. And they were all drying, all melting, and all tears as they stood around and moped and sulked by a now filled piece of Earth. By a murder's rug, and his stone home.
[/b][color=deeppink]

Again, beautiful imagery. The little voices...the whores. Contradicting his fragile conviction. And yet he knows that their promises are empty, that they bring only sadness even in their songs of hope. Such tragedy.

[/color][b]
The hate that rises through the pavements. The little cats that are as feline as love. The little slips of paper of a torn up test grade, buried forever in a trash can. A bottle of soda smeared with fingerprints, small, tedious fingerprints. A little boy with a little heart and a little life doing handstands in the rain, his hands wet with enthusiasm. A bigger boy, tall as the moon, short as the ground. But gravity always wins.

[i]But gravity always wins...[/i]
[/b][color=deeppink]

My second favorite part. Where he truly realizes that there is no hope. Gravity must always win. The little boy keeps dancing in my mind...doing his endless handstands in the rain.

[/color][b]
Between his eyes I see his brain, a silent tape in the open breeze. Spinning like a pinball in a machine fed too many quarters and too little love. Spinning like a twirling, spasming girl kissing and wooing with endless amority. I see a tape unraveling like a red carpet on a short stair that ends as soon as it begins. I see a tape playing with its sound dying, its wheels overused, overknown, overneeded.
[/b][color=deeppink]

My favorite part. I can see all the random thoughts and memories just whirring through his head. It's so symbolic, with the tape reel and the pinball machine. He's on a drugged, dazed overdrive, his emotions spinning away. This was just amazing.

[/color][b]
I hear a man in the classroom singing, "Lalalalalala listen to yourself, go on and on as if you spoke to someone else." I see flashes, endless lightbulbs burning out and preparing to be dead and gone forever and ever. I see metal in the cold night, dancing on his closed eyes, dancing with his brain in a slow dance that never ends only when it stops.
[/b][color=deeppink]

He's about to die. What sad thoughts must be echoing through his head, as he sees his reflection in the cold metal? Such sad eyes.

[/color][b]
He thinks of all the people in life. He looks at them like knives, too sharp and growing too dull, one day to be broken forever. Tears touch his mind like a lost ocean, but he pushes them back, he pushes them back in a wave of water, a wave that will cover everything in its hands.
[/b][color=deeppink]

Water against water? Memories against emotions, it makes them all numb.

[/color][b]
He grabs the messenger of death for real this time. He winces in anguish, in some last plea, in some last wish, some last dream, some last could have been. He pauses for a moment longer, like a sloth, slowly, coldly. Movies are playing in his head, movies just as powerful and moving as any other. Memories face him and touch him and grasp him like an old man too dead to know what he's doing.
[/b][color=deeppink]

A last breath of hope. Fading...and yet you're so desperate to hold onto it. Clinging to that last bit of air in your lungs. It's fading so fast. I like the last line. It's very real...it brings life to imagery.

[/color][b]
And then he puts the metal messenger to his head. He places his finger over the trigger like a teacher first grabbing chalk, first teaching. His finger lays on the little slab of the trigger, uncertain and capable of its potentials. Uncertain and capable potentials that will kill other uncertain and capable potentials. Like a sigh that turns to a scream, bloodcurdling and cold as hell.
[/b][color=deeppink]

Yet this is my favorite too. The part with the new teacher first grabbing the chalk is such an intresting metaphor, it conveys the meaning beautifully. And then the uncertain and capable potentials of the gun's bullet...killing the uncertain and capable potentials of the young mind. So alike and yet so different. The last line was amazing too...I guess this ties as favorite.
[/color][b]

With a twitch of his brain his muscles move the trigger back forcefully with his finger. Little shadows dance and recede. Little memories breathe one last breath then cough and die. Hands move and wiggle for the last time. A face moves and licks and breathes for the last moments and fades to just another rag doll, just another doll that was stuffed and nothing and dead.

[i]Bang[/i]

The bang is sudden. Sudden like a wrenching, decayed ghost appearing and showing its face. The red is all over the car, the bullet a cannibal to its own end. The murderer a murderer to his own end. The blood is all over; it is all over his face, all over his hands, all over the ground. A spaghetti of brain matter paints the leather seats, brain matter that once was. That once had a being. That once danced like a neon sign.

He squirms for a while longer. Then there is nothing. Nothing but a lone car in a lone road with its litten dashboard, just sitting.

[/b][color=deeppink]
A beautiful massacre. A macabre masterpiece. The blood is sinful and pure, an act of cowardice and of bravery, the ultimate paradox. Beautifully dark imagery here. So very gothic.
[/color][b]

A few days later, snow fell, a confetti parade for the devil. A purgatorial white that scattered and clawed in a gnawing cold, cutting the air with a dead breeze. It fell like one last sneeze, showering the world in the white of bone, in the purging color of white.

The snow ate at us all, chewing and munching on us. All of us food that hasn't died. All of us paralyzed.
[/B]

[/QUOTE]

[color=deeppink]
Twas most amazing Mitch. What can I say? You rock. ^-~

-Karma
{PS: I was listening to Beehtoven when I wrote this. Pretty neat effect.}
[/color]
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Guest plushy_junky
[COLOR=royalblue]royal blue[/COLOR] [FONT=times new roman]times[/FONT] whoooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. dude, that was like... oh mah gawd. @__@

:wow:

that was "mummy i found $1000 bill in an empty Burger King cup next to the cart drop-off at a Wal-mart parking lot" awesome. I mean, shiz, do you write in fictionpress.com? YOU SHOULD IF YOU DONT!

:wow::wow::wow:

that deserved 10 stars outta 5 man.

and a bonus star for being angsty but not whining on.

dude.

:wow:

you rock.
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[size=1]In Memorium, Part II. Just finished.[/size]

The officer was as yellow as piss. He smiled as he stepped out of his car to go to Starbucks. It was a glorious day outside, the sun in the sky, covered by clouds, hiding up a little man too big to be seen.

The officer smelled snow in the air, like a meth bust. The day was skeletal, thin as paper, and the sky breathed a coldness only cold could make; like a needle in humanity's arm, intravenously injected that shook a body to salt and pepper, black and white. It was a grey day, grey like an old man's elegy being spoken in a stonecold rain, acidic but dead.

The call had buzzed the officer as he had just gotten his coffee from Starbucks, hissing in his ears as he drank his coffee. He almost burned his tongue raw as he was told what had happened. A star had fallen, he was told. A young star, one that had still been gold and pristine, just like the badge he wore. Driving off, no longer happy as piss, he felt the yellow smiles drain out of him as another toilet was flushed and purged, bringing in another mess soon to taint the now clean water that was just too clear to actually happen.

Things like this were never pretty. Never.

Officer Dalton tuned on his radio, putting it on the classic rock station. Soon Queen crashed in his patrol car, the ever so familiar song playing like a gun, cold as hell, like a sigh that was actually a scream.

[i]Momma, life had just begun...
Now I've gone and thrown it all away[/i]

Suddenly officer Dalton wasn't steering his wheel as he drove to the old road. He was in his head, brooding over a shivering memory, a snowflake that had melted and was refreezing in the cooly feeling that had hit him after he'd gotten the news of the death.

Wide eyes and goons groaned in his head, angels that died devils, fallen angels that had been clipped of wings. A racking mallet, banged with blood, so smushed it was curved like a pelvic bone, all thin and used, personal and covered in skin. The rag doll, sitting in his chair in his room, a lost attic all banged up and grim. Sad as a tear, and dead as a clacking clanging clock. The shadows covered the deadman like maggots covering some rat. The light ate away all the dead image, all the dead tissues and things that didn't need to be seen.

He lay a shadow in his chair. His long hair wisped in knots in black, his arms hung on the chair's arms, flopped off of them, beached and whale, black as a hole. He stood one with the chair, broken with the chair.

Then officer Dalton could see his hand reaching out, pushing the switch. Light flittered in on the maggoty darkness, shaming the rag doll in his full glory. His eyes were wide and goon, like some drug user tripped past a high. Tripped past death and glory. The boy was a fragment, sad and unfinished, unfurnished.

Hair clotted the mallet, a decorative art of blood only a murderer's art could make. The boy's head shown a clear and beaten brain, the brain's demeated spaghetti panting and dried like a prune all over. He could see the chair's torso and the boy's form.

[i]Any way the wind blows[/i]

A sudden wind racked outside, and through the window by the chair and its seater it blew and blew, curtains like clothes moving and swaying like a mother's hand nurishing a wound. The doll body fell over in the sudden gust, and officer Dalton could now see his empty smashed head, a broken and brittled rib and bone. And below the cracked head, he could see wide staring eyes, accusing eyes, spheres that screamed at him.

He shivered, almost ran, almost cried.

"Hey hey hey, it's DJ Sam here."

[i]Snap[/i]

"DJ Sam here. It's gonna be a cold bit out taday fer sure. Supposed ta snow taday. Snow hard an long, ya know. "

[i]DJ Sam here DJ Sam here DJ Sam here...[/i]

Officer Dalton breathed deeply, finally getting rid of the boy's wide, accusing eyes. Getting rid of the mallet and the chair and the wind and it all.

[i]Snap snap snap snap snap[/i]

But it wouldn't go away. He could hear bones snapping, feeble white ribbons being cut and broken. He could hear the boy crying, screaming, and the mallet hollowing it all out. It wouldn't die. A fire too bright with cold, too full of weeds and heart. It wouldn't die.

[i]Screech[/i]

Suddenly he snapped back into reality. He was veering off the road, tires screeching, car droning not to crash. He slowed down, slow and silent like a sigh. He came to a stop on the dead side of the road, letting out a long breath of air, focusing his mind on what was now, not what was.

DJ Sam jitted incessantly, finally ending as another song was put on. Led Zeppelin aired in, Dazed and Confused and as jittery as DJ Sam. Robert Plant sang like a saint, an angel in human skin.

[i]The flesh of fallen angels

The flesh of fallen stars, of black stars[/i]

Dalton opened his glove compartment as he held one finger on his temple. Soon the nervous crack crack of Asprin could be heard, a neurotic little apostrophe to Dalton's head. Then he put the lid back on, as cautious as ever, and placed it back in his glove compartment, the metallic hing of it reverberating on his sudden headache as it closed.

[i]Been dazed and confused so long it's not true[/i]

Dalton did an amen to that, and shifted his car back into drive, and was off, off to the circus of horrors, the petshop of death.
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