Little Boy

The world has come to a series of ghettos and off limits junk yards.

I get my ass kicked every day.

My dad is gone.

I have 1234 dollars.

This is life buddy…

…

…

…

…

It's 6:31 and I've lived in this ghetto for a total of four hours. I made friends! Their names are Ervin Drake and Jamie Myers. They're two guys who were walking up the street while I was sitting on my porch. And before I knew it my money was all spent with the exception of 20 dollars.

First they asked me if I wanted a cigarette. And seeing as though I have had no friendships for the entirety of my life I decided it would be fine.

I coughed violently for ten minutes. The smoke engulfs your throat and tickles. That's what happened to me at least.

…

So I've saved up this money since I was about six. I wanted a fucking trampoline so bad. And I got a cliché answer from my parents. So I saved money from birthdays, from those random times a grandparent offers you some cash. Only catch is I never bought that trampoline. But the two guys…said they would make me a god. Said I would be invincible, like superman. If I just offered them the money. I secretly kept those twenty dollars from myself. I told them I had 1214 dollars. I think they believe me.

…

They take me to some woods. We walked down the streets like thugs. It was weird…gave me a sense of…belonging. "This is what makes you superman" Jamie says. Once the bag was removed from his back he pulls out a large freezer bag full of some plant and a vial of colorful pills. And I wonder That's the shit my money went to! "Trust me man its good." I guess he realized I was surprised by the look on my face.

…

My father had this necklace. A chain. With a miraculous medal on it. The Virgin Mary's figure was carved into it. That's all I remember.

…

Ervin rolled the some of the green plant he called "marijuana" in a brown wrapping. When he was done he had a tight brown stick he called a "blunt". Jamie took one of the pills. Ervin lit the "blunt". I inhaled it after him. Now I coughed when I smoked a cigarette. But I nearly died after smoking the blunt. It stung not tickled.

…

I feel dead. Everything sounds as if in slow motion. Jamie said he was "tripping balls" and Ervin said he was "stoned" and that I was too. "You're fucking high bro…" he said painfully with a lung full of smoke. I felt terrible. I couldn't get up. I felt light headed. I felt like everything as a movie. And deep down…I knew it was great.

…

"Wanna see something cool man?" Jamie says. And I say, "Hell yeah."

…

"This is the shit the government doesn't want you to see." Jamie smiles at me and crawls under the fence. There's a hole that nobody notices that goes right under the fence allowing you enough space to crawl under. And when I get up I don't know if it was the plant or the pills but there were bodies. On crosses. Face down, naked in water. Fat ones, skinny ones, black ones, white ones, all dead ones. And there was a pile of bones sitting alone. And on his neck…

…

DAMN! FUCK! The Virgin Mary staring at me. Telling me its alright.

…

They beat me and left me with the bodies. They took my twenty dollars. Soon I walk home.

…

All I think about is the bodies…of Jamie and Ervin's fist. I sit in my room…like a pile of bones.    

 

So this wasn't that great. I've had writers block for a long time. This was my best attempt though.

See if you like it…I'm trying to get better….

 

-Jake

The Legend of the Tell-Tale Heart

    We took a drive. A casual one. A usual one. We drove up to the mountains. The winding road ahead was constantly shifting in and out of view. I didn't eat before I left home. I didn't really feel like it. Now I was having a cigarette on an empty stomach. She watched. I cried. She stared as I wept. We stopped at a rest stop. We made love. I continued to drive. We made it a few miles. I stopped to piss. She didn't have to. I got back in the car. She was sleeping. I held her hand. I started driving.

    She was still asleep. I took her out of the car. I cried harder than ever. Dirt flew. Metal glinted in the moonlight. A windless night—a perfect one. My vision was blurred. I shoved her. She took it. I left. I drove back down the mountain. I stopped at the rest stop. I had a cigarette. Now I had time. All the time in the world.

    At home, I slept. I slept sound, considering what happened. I tossed and turned. I couldn't handle it anymore. It was killing me. I felt like that guy, in that story. Or was it a poem? I couldn't remember it at the moment. It was the one with the heart. The heart underneath the floorboards. Or was it a body? And the guy heard the heartbeat. And he went crazy. That's what I was. I heard the heartbeat. I heard it and it was driving me insane. I cried. I laughed. I cried again. I screamed. No longer could I bear it. No longer could my own heart take it. It couldn't take the knowledge. It couldn't take the sound.

    I hit the wall. I hit it as hard as I could. Broke my hand. Didn't feel pain. Now I do. I kicked the wall. Broke my toenails. Didn't feel that too. Now I feel that, too. The silence choked me. The sound swallowed me. I tried to fight it. I tried to hit it back. I cut myself. I tried to end it. I took pills. I threw it all up. I drank. I threw that all up too. I felt no love. I felt no pity. I felt no sadness. I was light. I was drifting. I smiled. I tore out some hair. I clawed my face. I laughed. It was joyous. I loved it. I hated it.

    I killed it. I killed her. I buried her. 6 feet deep and 7 feet wide. A part of Mother Earth. I was guilty. I confessed. I called the cops. They came. I broke my hand, I clawed my face. I cut my wrists, I threw up. I broke my toenails, I tore out my hair. They saw me. I cried. They injected me. I felt… still…

    I awoke in a hospital. The white room slightly blinded me as I stared around at the walls. I didn't want to be in this dreadful place, but I knew I had to. I was pretty banged up, and the doctors said that I was in terrible shape. They said that I was lucky to be alive. I cried again, but it hurt. After I recovered, I thought they would send me to jail. They didn't. They sent me to a mental hospital. There I stayed for several years. I forgot the sound of anything good on television. I forgot the taste of the outside air. I forgot the exhilarating feeling as I crested the hill on a rollercoaster. I missed the wind in my hair, and the sound and sights of cars.

    I finally got home. They gave me these pills that make me feel great. I don't remember much of what happened that night, just bits and pieces, like photographs. I only remember certain pictures or clips of that night. I hope the pills they gave me take those pictures away. I couldn't stand to know why I was suddenly alone. I couldn't stand to know why people avoided me in my neighborhood. I hated them. I hated them all. But, for some reason I didn't. I didn't hate them all. In fact, I loved them dearly. I loved them as if I was their father, and they were my children. I loved them to death. I still don't know why, but I'm trying to figure it out. I'm trying to piece my life back together. I'll never do drugs, I'll never drink. I'll never have sex, I'll never own a pet. I'll never have kids, I'll never have a wife. Because I'm afraid. Not afraid of having sex, or doing drugs. I'm not afraid of having kids, a wife, and a cute little dog. I'm not afraid of them, I'm afraid for them. Afraid of what I could do. Afraid of what I've done.

    Sometimes at night, I awake with a start. I think that I can hear that heartbeat. When that happens, I go to the bathroom and wash my face. I take a pill, and calm down. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I can swear that I see her. I can swear for a split second that I see her and in her eyes, all the shit I've done bores into my heart. And my heart beats. It beats quicker than ever. It beats furiously in my chest, and I think I'll have a heart attack. But I soon realize that she isn't there and I shake my head. I lay back down in bed and close my eyes. However, my heart would still be beating. Slower, now that I've lied down. However, I can hear it. I don't feel the thumping, but I can hear it. The beating of the Tell-Tale Heart.

 

This is what I've written. I don't really know, I like it a lot. Tell me what you think!

--Jon

I understand that we've been neglecting this thing
and I don't know about you guys but this was awesome xD
so I think that we should start it up again.
I'm working on a new project
and I'm calling it 'Runner'
and so I would like it if we start posting in this again.
Idk, I have nothing else to do in class, so I figure, "why not?"
So I'll have you guys know that I'm going to be posting stuff in here soon :P

-Jon

THIS IS ALL DEAD.


-Kayla

Emanuel and the Clairvoyance

An end is nigh and crows will fall
Yet through it all I refuse
The Devil will dance and the aegis breaks
At the inchoate bowel

Even the skinner barely killed
And hell rides can be a thrill
All inspired by the weak
The searchlight’s lust will be filled

Oh pity me darling for the cutting begun
But the pendulum at a halt
For I am blind to the night’s red
In my mouth the taste of salt

All inspired by the weak
The searchlight’s lust will be filled

It was a coward for success
Just as the misery
But I promise you it’s hotter in hell
Let us go together in bliss

Even the skinner barely killed
And hell rides can be a thrill
All inspired by the false
The eye’s lust will be filled

Oh pity me darling for the cutting begun
But the pendulum at a halt
I hate the crust of night’s tears
Let us dance in your opus cult

Although I’m burning
I swear I’m free
Though tonight I watch the doves fall down
They will fly tomorrow you see
Even if today the humor mask is true
It is not your face
Through my denial it will break
Wearing it you will rue

No don’t pity me friends
For I am king
And forever
It is my slave

______

Yeah all you TNP guys
This is sorta a little song thingy I wrote
See what you think

The Textbook of Enlightenment

He had a problem
A burden

He knew it all

Everyone saw it in the least

He himself could not look at his infamous eyes with a look of passion

He was a "god"

and all with a sense of perfection

People around him try so hard

And try to grasp something larger

Which only angered him

They knew nothing

He knew true chaos

The small world around the people was nothing yet in this he meant nothing to them

Which also angered him

Knowing everything can end in only knowing so little

Damn those small minded

They know only what is around them and get their insignificant pleasure through primitive thought

His one wish is to destroy them in their puny nothingness

But he feared his father

If only gods could die





--------


sigh

This isnt really anything

Just self expression

-Jake

Incomprehensible

I think the reason I really like it when the weather’s force is so prominent is because it starts to feel like the wind itself, or the rain, or the snow, or whatever, is actually a part of something that has order. It makes me feel like I have a friend, or a companion, and when I open up the door, and the winds blowing so hard that it rips it out of my hand scaring the shit out of me, it makes me feel like maybe, the wind is just having a bad day. And that for once it’s being selfish and it isn’t thinking about being gentle, so as not to hurt the human beings. I mean, I get that nothing is connected. Or at least, I get that there’s a possibility that nothing’s connected. I once read in this book called Accepting the Universe by John Burroughs, that said weather isn’t a negative thing; not even when it hurts us. It really makes a whole hell of a lot of sense, because the weather is just the weather, and its’ just happening. It’s not making any consideration to the humans, because we ourselves are just part of nature too. Usually, I think of stuff like that before I end up reading it in a book. But that time, I happened to read it before I got to think it up myself. Personally, ever since I was a little little girl, I always loved the weather. I’m not talking the quiet stuff either though. Until I turned about 12 maybe, I swear I wanted to be a tornado chaser.
There’s something about tragedy that I can’t get enough of. Some weird, twisted, sadistic part of me that wants to have to suffer. I don’t mean it in a suicidal way. I just mean being so close to something so much bigger than me… seeing how easily it can just be without thinking about other people… it makes me want to cry, but in a good way.
It just is.
I know there’s more to my fascination for it.
I feel like the explanation I just gave only touched on the reasons behind it.
But I really can’t place it.
I just know that I get this rush in me. Something that has a root, embedded so deep underneath all of the shit that’s piled on top of what once was my core central being, that can explain just exactly what the fuck I mean. Maybe I just want to be miserable. Because misery is true passion, and with that kind of misery, you never have to question if it’s justified. If I was more eloquent, maybe I could write a real book. Maybe I could take all the things that make me feel like I’m alive, and put them somewhere; compile them, so they make sense.
But the problem is, sometimes, putting ideas in to stories destroy them a little bit. Just imagine, a singular solitary image, or a mysterious, insightful kid, with a childish face, upon who’s surface gazes eyes that you knew held things like clarity you could only imagine. Imagine that this kid was always eating apples, and imagine that he always cut them with a pocket knife.
I can like that kid right now.
But the minute I throw him in with a story lacking passion for everything other than him, it’s like I’ve diagnosed him with a terminal illness. Soon, I’ll relate him to that that stupid story.
And eventually, I’ll end up hating him. Just like I’ve hated all the other characters I once cherished so much in the past.
Because I can’t show anyone else what I mean by clarity, and wisdom. No one but me can understand what I mean when I say the kid has an understanding of things unfathomable.
And in the end, he just ends up getting lost. Thrown in with all the others, once so precious in the mind of their creators, now so warn, and used and tarnished, from being thrown from lips of people who take the idea, and form them in to their own.
They’re only dead to the creators.
Which is why, I think I’d rather keep my characters locked up inside my head.
Where they continue to remain precious.
Where no one can tell me they’re cliché.
Because the way I think about them; they’re really not.


---------------------------------------

Hey,
I know it's been kind of long.
This is the first chance I've had to be on a computer
and I didn't even mean too
but I just started thinking
and putting things down in to words

it's not really a story.
but it's what i really believe in.

by the way
this is Miranda.