Writing Threats



  • Miss you Planks. So thankful you created this thread. When the Martians come for me, I'll show them no resilience. Lampshade over my head to shadowbox my brilliance. Egg mcmuffin biscuit lover don't forget the bacon. I'm only temporary, my place will soon be taken. Like a starving beast the thirst raged on and the waters dried she drank so long but the clouds they hid behind the trees, keeping it all for their own needs. The silence halted everything, but there is nothing to be seen- the pauses found the spaces between spreading like breaths across the breeze and all is froze solidly, waiting for the fall here to me: a gasp across the airs delicately. At times you have to hunker down and bear what is brought to you, even when it is not clear and comes with little explanation or understanding. When you can not ask why or ask anything at all. When you are not free to express how circumstances affect you. When you are unable to have a voice. You just cope, and know that it too will pass- as all things do.
  • that's pretty awesome. "egg mcmuffin biscuit lover don't forget the bacon" reminds me of brautigan, and it's a fantastic line.
  • That'll be the phrase of a generation, and by that I mean that I'll start using it as a conversational joke. Love you guys, I forgot how much I like this place.
  • edited September 2012
    I'mma throw something I've been working on here. Fire away, guys, and thanks for reading: The surface of the sun draws a leisurely finger against the notches of his spine. It is hot in the room, a rusty little fan placed over the door not changing this in any significant way. Coincidentally, the surface of the sun is also hot, but not to him. To his mind, the expanding and contracting orange gases that bubble against his skin are completely, undeniably real, and so is the icy tinge he feels in every cell of his back every time one of the bubbles explodes. Time moves slower underneath. When he is under, Rabbit does not feel the collection of bruises arrayed across his torso like a bloody buffet. The orange bubbles of heat that ripple against his flesh contrast with the violets on his chest, the purple splashes on his arms, the ugly blue gash across the side of his stomach. When he is not under, Rabbit is bent over in pain, not able to walk much, wincing with every slight movement his muscles make. Not so here. Here, he floats. The blue gash is actually older than the other wounds, and unlike them, it will never again return to the dark reddish hue that is the natural colour of Rabbit’s skin. It is a much older scar, made by a bullet, a reasonable percentage of which is still there, microscopic pieces of shrapnel lodged skin deep. When he is under, Rabbit cannot remember how the scar came to be. At every other time, he cannot forget. He moves slightly, turning his face to the side, and lets the rays of the sun warm his eyes. There is a clock in the room. The fact that it tells time is irrelevant; the real reason for its presence is the noise it makes. The regular ticking, coupled with the steady whir of the fan, create the backbone for Rabbit’s momentary daydream. In fact, when the fan stutters and fizzles to a halt, Rabbit starts stirring. He fights it for as long as he can; focusing his entire willpower on staying underneath, but this only makes it worse. Staying underneath is delicate, and trying not to go over is like trying to stop a train with your bare-hands. It isn’t impossible, but it is never a pleasant experience. So when he sits upright, after almost half a minute of fighting his own mind, Rabbit feels a dull headache falling onto him like a shadow. He remembers what he was promised, which was two full hours underneath, and realises he has barely done half that. Besides, these clocks could never be trusted. They always seem to be slightly faster than usual. Rabbit stands at the window, staring outside in a haze. His feet are still weak, so he holds on to the cracked wooden frame as he leans his forehead against the glass. A grey sun is setting over the sprawl of grey blocks, and the people milling around blur into lines of movement. Like a camera with slow exposure. When you go over, you lose your daydream of choice but the slowness stays with you for a couple of minutes. Rabbit tries to remember what he has left to do today as he gazes down criss-crossing side streets, and in his mind something is clear, that the people walking around are not walking at all. To his mind, they are standing still while the earth beneath them moves in patterns, regular rhythms taking them where they are destined to go. Rabbit laughs to himself, nervously. Tyedye always turns him into Alexander Danton. Rabbit exits the small concrete cube into a narrow corridor leading to a stairway down to the ground floor. The walls to both sides are cut in every few paces, leading into cubicles just like his. In this place, someone was considerate enough to put a moulding brown carpet across the corridor, so as not to interrupt neighbours. Rabbit looks through each and every doorway as he walks towards the stairs, and he thinks. He’d taken a risk coming here, going under right in the open, where anyone can just walk in and find him. That means, probably, that they haven’t tracked him yet. Rabbit decides to skip the lounges today. He’ll go to his room right now, pack everything and leave. Rabbit knows this is best. His feet are still light, and he shakes them to try to get them working properly again. He stops at the doorway, looking at the people in the reception. Two young women, with pale yellowed skin and sunken eyes, sit on the sofa waiting for their turn as they whisper to each other. A skinny black kid, too impatient to sit, eyes rolled back in his hand, leaning against the railing ready to dart up the stairs. He tries to get a look at the receptionist, but she sits in a cloud of black-green smoke. Rabbit pulls on his hat, takes a deep breath and steps out into the night. Btw purp, that belongs in a book or something, good stuff!
  • this thread just got resurrected (son!)
  • why we write WHY WE FIGHT
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