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Postby Mut » Tue Aug 06, 2002 4:19 am

Um ... thanks.

Edited By Mut on 06 Aug. 2002 at 03:07
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Postby ds490 » Tue Aug 06, 2002 3:14 pm

Great story, Mut.
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Postby ds490 » Tue Aug 06, 2002 3:47 pm

My Life
Oh, god, I don't know what happened. I went to sleep one person and woke up as another. Not physically, but emotionally. How'd this happen?
Before last night I was an average teen. I was cool. I had a girlfriend. I had friends. I was living a great life.
But now everything is so much more clearer. My life before was so superficial. How did I live like that? I can't answer because I'm not that person anymore.
My eyes open and I find myself in my bed, the plain white ceiling staring back at me.
I sit up and look around me. DMX posters hang on the wall.
I realize that I never liked DMX.
I stand and look in my dresser. Those pants are too damn baggy.
I dress, then notice a chain sitting on my desk.
I remember that the chain cost $60. I paid sixty dollars for a chain?
I sit back down on my bed.
What's going on? What happened to me?
I used to be happy in this superficial dream but now I realize how immature it is.
With a cringe, I realize something. It hurts.
I have no personality, no hobbies, no friends. I've simply acted as a clone of those who are bigger than me. My life of 16 years has been a lie. A lie.
I don't like any of this s***. I don't know why I bought these $100 jeans which are way to big for me. I don't know why I love my girlfriend...hell, I don't love her.
My life has been a lie, and only now do I realize it. This is all wrong, it's not me.
I am startled as the phone rings. I stand and hesitantly pick up the reciever.
"Hello?" I say.
"Yo, dog, you gonna be at the party tonight or what?" The familiar voice of one of your 'friends' says.
You pause.
Your life has been a lie, but it has been a life. Your friends may not like you, and you may not like them, but they are your friends.
Which is better? Expressing yourself and being lonely or sacraficing your individuality for respect and friendship?

"You bet your ass," you reply.

Edited By ds490 on 06 Aug. 2002 at 11:47
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Postby ds490 » Tue Aug 06, 2002 4:09 pm

There's a saying: History is written by the winners.
How sadly true that is.

I like my life, but I can't help but feel depressed because I know how it's going to end. The humans will chop me up and serve me for dinner.
I wish I could fight back, but if I do they'll just kill me early.
They call me 'livestock' because to them I have no soul.
Just because I stand in a field chewing my cud all day, that doesn't mean I'm not a living being with a conciousness.
That's right, I'm a cow.
I hate it when they milk me. That's meant for my children.
Where are my children?
They took them away from me. They took my babies. I know they're going to grow up just like me, and that makes me sick.
Sometimes I think about the morality of my situation.
I respect the fact that the humans need to live. They are, after all, higher on the food chain. And the food chain is one thing in their sick world that ignores morals.
Morals. Right and wrong, good and evil.
These are fantasy terms, really.
In the real world there are no rules. No right, no wrong, no good, no evil. There's just what people think. Thought dictates everything.
So if they kill me- oh, and they will -is that right or wrong? On one hand, they're feeding themselves so they can live. On the other hand, they're killing me to do it.
It's so confusing. My tiny brain is busy contemplating this as I chew my cud, the farmers watching and judging me. they think I'm stupid. Why? I never took an IQ test. I could be smarter than the smartest human, but I couldn't do anything about it because I can't speak and I don't have hands. Humans judge so quickly. They've been the smartest creatures on this planet for thousands of years, according to them. If they're so smart, then why are they the animals who are destroying our atmosphere or killing eachother.
Humans are no smarter than my fellow cattle.

I was contemplating this one day when the farmer was milking me. He talked to me- of course, I didn't understand a word of his dribble.
With a sudden surge of emotion, I squeezed the muscles in my udder, spraying the human with milk. He spilt the half-full bucket onto the ground.
He just stood, milk dripping off his lap, looking stupified.
And in that moment, I was happy.
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Postby Mut » Tue Aug 06, 2002 7:34 pm

Ds, I really liked "My Life". Interesting change of direction at the end.

You know, this thread has become like one big collection of short stories. An anthology, so to speak. Moderators, delete it and you will be lynched. :p
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Postby Woodfish » Tue Aug 06, 2002 8:51 pm

Aaah, dammit, I had just written a story (well sort of), clicked on Preview Post, had a check, then stupidly clicked Back on the browser. Know this text box is blank, and I've lost it all. Damn. Oh well, I'll write one another time.
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Postby ds490 » Tue Aug 06, 2002 8:51 pm

The Old Man
I lay here in my hospital bed as I have for years now. I am rigidly still, my muscles stiff, as I stare at the ceiling.
That's the number of the little black dots on the tiles that make up the ceiling. I've been counting for a while now. I lost count a few times, and was so frustrated I promised myself I would stop. But the time passed, and I was almost forced to resume counting- starting over. You see I'm an old man with a disease. I forget what it is, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that I know for sure the rest of my life will be spent lying in this bed. I'll probably never walk or talk again. I lack the energy. All I can do is breathe, blink and think. So I can only distract myself with my thoughts.

They won't let me die. I wish they would, really. I've had enough of this life. I wouldn't want to die if I was free to walk in the park and feed the geese as I used to be...but all that is a memory. My family thinks it's best to keep me around. I wish I could tell them how I felt but I just can't.
The nurses are nice, although sometimes the new ones or the fill-ins look in my drawers for money...they're stupid. I've been in this God forsaken room more years than I care to count- all of my money's been stolen already.

My mind has become my home. My imagination keeps me occupied some of the time, the rest I fill with contemplation or counting things.
My family seldom visits. I'm sure they care about me, but they're busy and can't be bothered to see me.

The utter boredom and repetiveness of my life has numbed me. My mind has become calloused, my sense of time utterly consumed by nothingness.

One of the worst parts of this is the chamber pots. The nurses' schedule and my digestive tract are very out of sync.
Most times when I urinate it's just after the nurses have gone home for the night and I'm supposed to sleep. But with the awful smell of old, sick man's urine in the room, how could I sleep?
Sleep. It's something I try to do as much as possible. It does not come easy because I do it so much.
They took the clock out of the room some years back, so the only way I know what time of day it is is by the sun. That hardly works because they keep my widnow closed most of the time. They say it heats up the room and that's not good for me.

I haven't seen myself in a mirror in God knows how long. I've long forgotten what I look like- and that's probably all the better, because I'm an old coot.
I think I was married. I can't remember her name, or how she looked, but I don't remember having to clean my house or cook. But then, I don't remember my name. The only thing I can clearly recall is this hospital room.
Speaking of women, I can't remember having sex, although I'm sure I have kids- they're the ones paying for my residence here. The closest thing I had to sex was when an attractive nurse flashed me before she left the hospital. I guess she knew how hellish this was for me. What was her name?
I don't know...and I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?

I yawn, causing my jaw to ache right away. I don't remember yawning. Probably because I'm never tired since I sleep so much. I guess maybe I can sleep now. Good.

Every time I start a comment in this thread I delete it and do a story. I'm up to nine now... :0
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Postby ds490 » Wed Aug 07, 2002 12:37 am

Death Row
The dark, sweet chocolate entered his mouth. The sweetness stung painfully, but the taste of the rich cake was well worth it.
He hadn't had anything chocolate in seven years. The jail food was bland, tasteless, and his mouth had adapted to that.
He squeezed the plastic fork with his lips as he withdrew it, savouring every moment of the sweetness.
He sat on his bed, in his jail cell, eating as the two guards watched with hateful eyes. Hateful eyes. Hate.
He was used to the hate. The hate from fellow inmates, the hate from the guards, the hate from himself.
Who wouldn't hate a killer? Especially one like him. He killed his three brothers, quite brutally.
He's been on death row for a year. Before that he had a life sentence, but then they found the other two victims and they upped it to death by lethal injection.
Sure, he regretted it. Who wouldn't regret it?
But weather or not he regretted it, it didn't matter. He was dead anyway. That night they were going to shoot him full of lethal poison.
So he enjoyed his cake. The cake was his last meal request. It was chocolate fudge.
So he sat and ate his cake. He kept his mind on the cake, ignoring what was going to happen to him.
He couldn't stop his mind from wandering to the execution. Would it hurt? Would it be quick? Hopefully it would just be a prick in the arm, then the end. Heh. Hopefully there'll be a pardon waiting for you when you arrive in the room.
He didn't want to die. That was obvious. He regretted what he did. He served a lot of time in this hell hole. Maybe if they could read his mind they would know that he doesn't deserve to die. But they are so close-minded...with reason. So many others would fake being 'reborn' or something. He wouldn't lie, but they don't know that.

They strapped him down in a comfortable chair. Everyone except some man in a white lab coat left the room. He looked him in the eye, finding no chance of convincing him not to do it.
He sighed. It was the one cared that he had paid his debt.
It all felt so hopeless.
The man in the white lab coat filled the needle with some kind of yellow liquid.
Over the intercom the Warden began reading him his conviction- like he hadn't heard it enough already.
Three counts of murder. He couldn't believe it. He had killed three people. He can hardly remember doing was all a blur.
As the needle neared his forearm, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
"Stop!" The Warden's stressed voice shouted through the intercom.
The man in the white lab coat stood rigidly, pulling the needle away from the convict's tense, sweaty skin.
"You've gotten a pardon," the Warden said. "You're sentence has been reduced to sixty years."
His eyes widened, hope surging through his desperate veins in place of the venom. He would live. His life had been handed back to him. He cried with joy.
Everyone smiled at him. He felt so happy. He was alive. He was alive.
He looked the Warden in the eyes. He wanted to hug him. But suddenly, with a shock, the Warden's smile disappeared. He hit the intercom button once more, and spoke.
"Just kidding. Stick him, Gene,"
The man in the white lab coat shoved the needle into his arm soon after the convict's smile faded.
The last sight he saw was all the people on the other side of the glass, laughing at him...pointing...
And then, as darkness consumed his world, he thought something he never thought before.

"I'm sorry"
~ ds490
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Postby Sockets » Wed Aug 07, 2002 1:21 am

That was funny.
Forgive me for the past...
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Postby Lancer Sykera » Wed Aug 07, 2002 3:05 am

Mut's 'Simon' was pretty good....

Hmmm...every single story here except Harbringer and The Dance involves death. How cheerful

Alright! I finally got recognized for a good reason!!!

Maybe I'll actually read some other peoples stories now...

This thread is mad ####ing hot s***.....
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Postby Mut » Wed Aug 07, 2002 3:05 am

(In regards to "Death Row")

That was good. That was d*mn good. I think I actually felt some emotion there, a little sadness for what was to happen to the main character. You're improving with every story, Ds. Nice job.

Edited By Mut on 06 Aug. 2002 at 23:06
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Postby Mut » Wed Aug 07, 2002 3:08 am

Maybe I'll actually read some other peoples stories now...

You should. There are a lot of really good short stories in here. Worth the read, if you've got the time.
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Postby Mystery » Wed Aug 07, 2002 3:41 am

Mut- I really hope you are making a game. I, and I am sure many others, really enjoy your writing.
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Postby ds490 » Wed Aug 07, 2002 3:44 am

My Best Friend
Oh, it hurt when I was told Charlie wasn't real. It hurt.
My mom took me into the living room that night and she said, "Bobby, I need to tell you something,"
I, naturally, was curious.
"What is is, mommy?" I asked.
"It's about Charlie. Listen. Charlie- he's in your head, baby. He ain't real." After that she just knealt there, shaking her head, her watery eyes locked with mine.
I was six at the time. Life was okay. Our small family got by as best we could, my papa working in a factory and my mama cleaning people's houses. It was easier for us that many of the other black families- I mean, the sixties were tough times for us. But when I was six I didn't know about no racism. I ain't never met a white man before, either. But none of that mattered.
The point is my best-my only friend wasn't real. At first I didn't believe mom. I thought she was playing some game with me.
Our eyes locked, mom tried to smile. I thought it was that sort of after-a-joke was really a sort of break-the-akward-silence smile.
I smiled back, thinking she was joking. I hopped off the bed and ran up the hall to my room. My mom stood and looked at me as I ran. I was so little. Yet she and dad had let me believe Charlie was real too long- so long I couldn't let go.
I went to my room and played chess with Charlie.
He won.
I can't remember how I played games with him...
After that we talked about girls. That was the age where kissing a girl was gross. But Charlie said he wanted to kiss a girl. He even named her...but to the best of my memory she was made up too.
We went outside and played hide and go seek. Again, how I played games with him is beyond me.
The rest of the day we played. Sometimes I would notice mom watching us- me- from the window. I would wave, but she just walked out of view. I would shrug it off and continue playing.

Mom and dad called a man to the house. I forget his name. I think he was a therapist or something.
He was a nice man. He had a gentle voice and generally nice feel about him. After dinner he took me to my room and talked to me.
"So I hear you have a friend. What's his name?" He asked me.
"Charlie," I answered quickly- I didn't have no other friends so his name came to my mind right away.
"Yes. How old is Charlie?"
"Six, like me." I replied.
"Is Charlie here now?"
What a stupid question.
"If he was here you would see him!" I said.
He nodded.
"Silly," I added with a smile.
"Where does Charlie live?"
"In the grey house down the street...I forgot the number." I replied.
That house was abandoned. I played in it from time to time, when the older kids weren't using it. I believed Charlie lived there with his sister and parents.
The man asked me more questions- all of them about Charlie. I answered the best I could, honestly, of course.
Afterwards he walked out of my room and talked with my mother.
I thought I heard her cry that night- but it was probably just the wind or something.

The night after my mom told me about Charlie something happened. Me and Charlie were talking when I heard my parents talking loudly. Not yelling, but loudly.
"Listen, Clark, our boy has a problem."
"It's natural for kids to have imaginary friends!"
Imaginary? What did he mean? I hoped that he wasn't part of this joke.
"He's ill. He needs help-"
"We don't know for sure that he's ill and even if he is, how are we supposed to get help?" There was a pause.
"I-I don't know." My mother seemed to be holding back tears.
"If he does have problems then we'll have to deal with it."
I was so confused. Was Charlie real? Of course...he was my best friend! You can't just tell me my best friend doesn't exist!
I looked at Charlie hard. I asked him straight out if he was real.
He looked back at me, his eyes teary. He shook his head, and faded away.
I sat and stared, mistified.
After a few moments it hit me. I fell over onto the floor and cried like I never cried before.
My best friend. He wasn't real. My only friend.
I stopped crying after a while and simply moaned. It hurt, almost literally. I loved him like a brother. My best friend. A figmint of my imagination.
My parents heard my moans and stopped fighting. They rushed into the room and found me. They wondered if I was injured, but soon realized what really caused my pain.

I never had a friend like Charlie since. I grew up. I got a job. I got married and had kids. I accomplished all I could have hoped for. But I never let go of Charlie.

I never forgot my best friend.

Edited By ds490 on 06 Aug. 2002 at 23:44
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Postby ds490 » Wed Aug 07, 2002 4:08 am

c*** (could someone please turn off censoring that word?)...I posted too many damn stories and now I can't decide which one to enter...
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