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short storiez if youre bored

 
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DICHOTOMY
BLOWN MINDS


Joined: 26 Mar 2008
Posts: 4640

PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 12:20 am    Post subject: short storiez if youre bored Reply with quote

“You know, a man who says he has nothing to live for is definitely the most courageous of liars.” Patrick said as he dropped one smooth golden bullet into the magazine and spun it; his almost heinous blue eyes following. The piece was nothing special: your standard nine millimeter. The basic design gave the appearance of a Sig, most likely a P228, though the wear on the side suggests that Patrick wasn’t the slightest of hand. You see, my father was always very fond of guns, and I was always very fond of my father. Patrick raised the nose of the pistol to the back of the fat man’s head, “Look here, you put a gun to the head of a man who’s got nothin’ to live for and,” the Sig let out a click, “he weeps like a baby.” Pudge dropped to his knees sweating, not unusual of his kind, and sobbed like a beaten hooker. I would’ve felt bad if he wasn’t such an asshole.
“You done?” I said, Patrick looked at me blankly. “Of course not, you’re never done.”
“Yeah and you never shut your fricken mouth do ya kid?” Patrick snapped. He slid over to the broad who was trying to comfort the blubbering bastard who used to be my friend. “It true you pregnant Marie?” Patrick questioned.
“Yeah,” Marie said poignantly. Patrick grabbed Marie by the jaw and shoved the barrel between her lipsticked lips. I couldn’t image what the piece of shit gun could’ve tasted like. Patrick again flicked the trigger. Click.
“Congratulations! You still Are!” Patrick announced.
“Aw what the fuck Patrick? Why do ya gotta be such a dick all the time? You think you’re smart or something?” I hissed. The words just came out of my mouth. Patrick was right, I can’t shut up.
“It’s not that I think that I’m so smart. It’s that the rest of the world is a fuckin cross-eyed second grader with down syndrome. The normal world is just too, well, slow.” Patrick pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. Click. I used sweat changing lanes on the highway, now I don’t even blink. Patrick watched that mag spin and he knew damn well it wasn’t goin’ off on me. I was his golden child. I was untouchable. Patrick spun around the room, Mitch was still standing, staring, thick. Patrick lifted the pistol again. Click. There was no one left in the room. “Guess it’s my turn eh kid?” Patrick laughed as he raised the Sig to his temple. “Time for me to play the game, although…I always have been a cheater.” Patrick spun around and fired at Mitch. I could’ve sworn time slowed down and you could watch every shred of Mitch’s flesh and bone peel around that bullet as it pieced his forehead. His thick skull couldn’t save his ass this time. “See what I mean about the world bein’ slow kid?”
“Jesus, I always wanted to go to med school but fuck me Patrick that’s disgusting.” I whined. I’m always whining. “Who’s gonna clean that shit up?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not” Patrick discharged the singed bullet case, wiped the gat on his leg and put it back in his suit pocket. “Get some sleep Nick, You’re gonna need it.” Sleep. I remember a time when I could sleep. Remember how I used to stay awake writing papers and bullshitting with my roommate. I used to choose not to sleep. Now, I don’t have time for sleep, what I would give to close my eyes for one second.
The usual scene is waiting for me when I get home. There are two more eviction notices on my door handle, pink and mocking. My apartment reeks like bleach. Bleach gets the blood out of fabric in three washes, max. I flick on the light. It stings. I’m not sure what was worse, my senses stinging from the stench and glare, or the realization that I still live in this shithole apartment. I feel something brush against my leg. Gypsy. “Aww Gyps I’m sorry babe!” I say apologetically. I always forget to feed that damn cat, and yet she never runs away. I think this is a good quality in any woman and I smile. “There ya go babe,” I say as I put her food bowl on the ground, “you have a rough day too huh?” I realize I’m talking to a cat. Maybe I’m crazy? No if I was crazy, I’d live in a better place than this. I open my cabinets and groan. Two sliced of bread. Not even the good bread slices, the shitty end ones. I open the next cabinet and those beautiful orange cylinders stare back at me wearing their white hats like they’re on their way to Sunday Mass. Brand name: Vicodin, Generic Name: acetaminophen/hydrocodone, Nick Maloney name: Supper. I don’t even put the pills in my hand any more, just throw them straight down my throat like a kid eats broccoli or a bitch drinks, well you know.
I shuffle my way to my bedroom I don’t even bother turning on the lights. I set my glock on the dresser and move into the bathroom. I flick the light switch, again it stings. After my eyes adjust I can see someone staring back at me. I don’t recognize the face in the mirror. I put water on my cheeks and the back of my neck. Fuck shaving, I have no one to impress. After a sorry attempt at personal hygiene and dropping my clothes I throw myself in bed. My bed is the one thing in my apartment that I actually take pride in, besides my lady Gypsy of course. I have a queen size Serta-box spring and mattress. I have Egyptian cotton sheets, thousand thread count, single ply. The whole glorious arrangement is topped with a navy blue down comforter, a true masterpiece. Too bad I can never sleep.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I really need to change my cell ringer. It’s a horrible cacophony of sounds. Regardless, I throw my hand over to my night stand and fumble for the phone. “He-Hello” I manage to grunt.
“Nicky my boy! Wake up and smell the powder!” Patrick excites. He is always ready. I manage to mumble something into my end of the phone. Patrick asks me if I got fucked. I lie. I’m told to go to 147 North Pilgrim. I have exactly forty-three minutes to get there; it’s a 30 minute walk. It takes me seven minutes to make my bed, always seven. I tuck the corners of the sheets under the mattress. I press the seams of the top sheet as it folds over my comforter. I place the pillows perfectly. I have six minutes to get dressed. I grab a pair of jeans from the floor. They’re the same ones I wore yesterday. Even better, the belt is still attached. I pull a t-shirt from a different pile of the floor wardrobe. It’s black. It’s all I ever wear. The shirt slides over my head and gets caught on the cross around my neck. I always wear it. I feel as if Ma would kick my ass if she knew what I was doing, and somehow the cross keeps me on her good side. I slide on my boots grab my phone and start to leave. For some reason I catch myself far away in the bathroom mirror. Dirty blonde hair matted, 5 o’clock shadow three days old, young yet so old. Today is the first day I’ve actually looked at myself in a long time. The lady of the house rubs against my leg again, I look at the stove, thirty-two minutes, it’s a thirty minute walk. “Sorry girl.” I murmur, “I’ll be home soon.”
I arrive at 147 North Pilgrim exactly two minutes early. It’s a very grey morning. The street looks sleepy. “Nick, what the fuck get in here!” a voice shrieks. Pudge is sticking his fat head out of the warehouse door. His cheeks are flushed as if he just ran a mile, though the fat bastard probably just took three steps. I look around, breathe deep, and walk in the door.
“Where’s Patri.” I start to say. I stop myself. Five men in black coats are standing across from Pudge and I. One has a brief case; the others are armed to the teeth.
“We’re in deep shit Nick. Deep shit. Meters!” Pudge stammers. He leans into me so the men can’t hear us. “Where’s your fuck buddy, huh Nick? Mr. Chosen one. Where the fuck is he?”
“Calm down Pudge Patrick’s coming. He always shows. Don’t worry.” I say this sternly. I do not stutter.
“Yeah well you see these guys,” Pudge flicks his eyes to his right as if I’m completely oblivious, “Well these is not nice guys and they ain’t patient neither so you better hope that bastard shows.” I catch a glimpse of Pudge’s cheap Chinatown watch. Patrick is two minutes late, 120 seconds. Patrick is never late.
“Gentlemen!” a raspy wrenching voice echoes around the warehouse. “ I believe we agreed 10:30, it’s now 10:32.” He is a stickler for time too. I like that. I open my mouth to calm the situation, Pudge butts in,
“Ya see, my boss ain’t here yet, and I’m not one to do business without him here, so If we could wait a coup.”
“I don’t wait.” The brief cased man says, “Ever.” Just as his lips came to a close the two goons on each side of them open up their rounds. Pudge and I dive behind a large cement column. Pudge is screaming. I’m silent, amazed that the guy could move so fast.
“Jesus Christ Nick!” Pudge shrieks. “We gotta get out!”
“Well no shit,” I say calmly, I don’t even blink. “Listen the door is right fuckin there they stopped shootin’ grab your piece and strafe to the door. I remember when I used to play video games that weren’t as well thought out as the current situation. “On my lead, ready…” I reach in my pocket to grab my glock as I step out from the pillar. I grab air. I forgot my fucking gun. I never forget it. I bring it to Mass with my family and I forget it today. I blame lack of sleep. I run. The sound fades from around me, I don’t hear shots or Pudge shrieking. As I reach the door I feel the most amazing sensation in my left side. It’s a burning, yet sharp sensation, I can’t quite place it. I imagine it’s what a woman feels the first time she’s fucked. I leave Pudge. I don’t really care. I start running a different way from the one I walked before. This way home takes thirty-four minutes on foot walking. However, I’m not walking, I’m running. I haven’t run in years. I glance at my feet: red. I look down at my shirt red. I don’t wear red, it makes my cheeks look flushed. Then it hits me. Fuck.
I make it to my apartment, still performing a sad excuse for running. There’s another pink slip on my door I rip it off. I slam the door behind me and lock it. I shuffle past Gypsy and she stares at me with hungry green eyes. Poor thing, I have never deserved her. I bust through my bedroom door and rip off my now red-black t-shirt. I grab a towel from the floor and wrap it around my size 32 waist. I’ve been a 32 since I can remember. I can feel the blood running from my face. I’m dizzy, light-headed, high. Seems I found something better than Vicodin, though Vicodin doesn’t ruin perfectly could T-shirts. I rip the comforter off and flop my limp body on my gorgeous bed. I cringe at the thought of staining my white Egyptian cotton sheets. Bleach gets blood out of fabric in three washes, max. My head hits the pillow. Gypsy is staring at me, meowing. The sound fades again. The room is serene, quiet, and calm. I close my eyes; this is going to be the best sleep I’ve had in years.



and the second




My name is Ryan. I’m not quite sure why that’s my name. I hear it means something like “little king.” I’m not sure if that was intended to be a cruel joke by my mother or it was just picked at random. My best friend’s girlfriend tells me she’s never met an unattractive Ryan. My best friend’s girlfriend is a slut. Her name is Tracy. Tracy wears low cut cotton t-shirts and cheerleading shorts. She’s pretty much everything in this world I despise wrapped into one skanky package. I suppose I’m just like every other twenty something year old out there. I go to school. I work a shit job. I stay up all night watching girls get fucked on my laptop while my roommate is asleep. I reside in a constant state of apathy and doubt and use my sullen appearance to trick girls into thinking I’m sensitive in hopes that they will sleep with me. I’m pretty much your average college dick.
“Mr. Shannon?” reality fades back.
“Yeah.” I manage to get out. The girl next to me rolls her eyes.
“Glad to see you’re back” Professor Woods says poignantly, “ Since you’ve decided to join us, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind coming to the board and solving this expression using Coulomb’s Law.” I hate Physics. Don’t get me wrong I’m fucking Matt Damon when it comes to solving calculus problems, but just because I’m great at it doesn’t mean I enjoy it. Dr. Woods is staring at me. I roll my weight to the left and attempt to shimmy my way out of the seat without refolding the desk. Who calls on someone sitting in the middle of a row? I knock my pencil to the ground as a stand up. It rolls under the row in front of me. I’m never getting it back. I shuffle past the black girl sitting next to me, her bright pink hoodie staring at me obnoxiously and tight. I jam my thigh into the desk after hers. What I assume to be her idea of a man glares at me. I keep stepping side by side until I make into the aisle way. From across the room I can see Tracy looking at me. Smiling coyly, mocking. I drag my feet up the aisle past the kids who actually want to learn this shit and make it up to the white boards. Dr. Woods slaps a marker in my hand. “Well then…” he says.
I step back from the white board. My eyes blur and then refocus. The professor’s chicken scratch markings and smudged diagrams start to take shape in my head. I can feel ninety sets of eyes peering through the back of my skull. I bring the marker to the board. Like some kind of spiritual possession, my arm begins to move and I begin to make my own markings on the white plastic canvas. My vision tunnels. All sound and distraction is gone, my hand is flying. Finally I stop. I set the marker on the metal edge and take a step back from the board. “Impressive Mr. Shannon.” Says the professor, “I don’t know how you keep up when all you do is day dream about God knows what.” A small murmur of laughter breaks out in the classroom. I turn around without saying anything and walk back to my seat. As I approach my row I can see Tracy whispering to some frat boy next to her. Her eyes glance over at me as she flicks her tongue to form flirtatious dialog with Mr. Beta Phi. I hate her so much.
Classes are finally over for the week. That’s probably a good thing due to the fact that I was about to start stabbing at the underside of my wrist with a mechanical pencil in that last one. It’s cold out today and the air is mysteriously clear despite the smog that surrounds this excuse for a city. I hate the way people look at me when I’m walking out of class. They stare and silently judge because they have nothing better to do with their miserable lives while waiting for some nonsense Philosophy class. I am not a philosopher; death is of no concern to me.
“Ryan!” a girl shrieks. I wonder to myself how Minnie Mouse blew her way into this school. “Ryan wait up you loser.” I stop and turn around. It’s Miranda. Miranda is a girl with a nice body and a not-so-nice face – a forty pacer if you will. I messed around with her once about a year ago. She’s been saying hi to me ever since. I don’t take my headphones out of my ears in hopes that she will realize I don’t want to listen to what she has to say. Also, Close to Me is playing and you do not pause Robert Smith. “Ryan hey,” she’s panting harder than the time we fucked, this concerns me for some reason. “ I’m throwing this thing tonight at my apartment you should come.”
“What like a party?” I ask.
“Well, yeah. What else?” I think that she could be throwing her dignity a funeral but instead I drop my sight to my feet. “Um yeah so you know where I live.” She giggles nervously. “Starts around eleven, hope you can make it out”
“Yeah I dunno.” I reply. She stares at me as if she is awaiting my real answer. I give her a half smile instead. She grins back. This is my chance to walk away, and God knows I take it. I finally make it to my apartment after 20 minutes or so of walking. My ex girlfriend’s favorite song is playing as I unlock my door. I’ll never admit to anyone that I like that damn song or my ex girlfriend. My roommates are sitting in the living room slouched next to each other on the couch. The TV is projecting a blue light on their faces. Mitch raises the bong to his face and takes a deep hit. He manages to choke out a hello as I make my way to my room. I give him a courtesy wave before I slam the door behind me. I can’t wait to pay those pothead fuckers’ welfare checks. I throw my backpack in the same place I throw it every day. There are scuff marks on the wall there. I flip open my laptop and squint at the screen. No notifications. I pull my belt from its loops and throw it on the ground with the rest of my cherished possessions and fling myself onto my futon excuse for a bed. My pocket vibrates. I pull my phone out of my ass pocket and hold it up to my face. It’s my mother. I ignore it. Part of me feels bad for screening her calls since she’s sick and everything. The bigger part of me however, decides that it doesn’t want to deal with her ass right now.
I stare at the ceiling and try to make shapes out of the shitty stucco job. My phone vibrates again. Jesus Christ Ma give it up. I pull my phone out to throw it across the room but realize it is not my mother calling. Johnny, my best friend, Tracy’s chess piece, is calling me. I hit the talk button and let out an excuse for a greeting. “Sup Faggot” That is Johnny for hello, “ Listen that piece Miranda is throwing this thing at her apartment tonight you should go bro it’s gonna be sick.”
“Yeah I heard.” I say unamused.
“Oh come on bro like you’re going to do anything else tonight. Porn never leaves you dude. Go!” I don’t want to go anywhere but I haven’t seen Johnny in ages since he started dating the Whore.
“Alright but just cuz I think you’re so cute.” I reply.
“There ya go Ry, Pick you up at 11:30 k bro? later” Johnny hangs up the phone. A conflict rings in my head. Should I muscle up the energy to shower for this thing? I stare at the ceiling some more wondering how I can dodge the gorgon herself, Miranda. I have no use for her as a person or play thing.
My eyes snap open as a feel a trembling on my side. Phone again. It’s Johnny. It’s 11:15, I must have dozed off. Johnny’s text reads he’s five minutes away and to get my “faggot ass” downstairs. Showering is out of the question now. I throw some water in my hair and pull the wrinkles out of my shirt. They’re going to have to deal with me like this. I have no one to impress. When I get down stairs Johnny is waiting is his obnoxious burnt orange car. “No one can catch the flaming Z.” he says. Flaming Z sounds like something he may have caught from that bitch Tracy. I open the back car door and slump down. My knees about hit my chin in the tiny backseat. I don’t know how he fucks in here. Johnny is playing some obnoxious rap song. One of those remixes of old 80’s songs that nobody liked, not even in the 80’s. Tracy is dancing in the front seat. I can see her bra through her shirt. Skank.
“So Ry Guy, you excited to see Miranda tonight.” Johnny smiles.
“Fuck off John boy.” I snap.
“Aw come on bro, she’s not that bad. She’s got mad DSL just close your eyes and imagine someone else.” Johnny says. Sometimes I hate my best friend. We pull up to Miranda’s place. It’s a lot nicer than mine. Daddy must have a decent paycheck. I unfold myself out of the car like some sort of human origami. Tracy slowly gets out of the car bending over as she shuts the door. Her jean skirt is so short you can see a quarter of her ass when she does it. Her G-string straps peek out the top of the skirt. She disgusts me. Johnny walks around and locks arms with the tramp and they begin walking in front of me. I can hear the music from outside. It’s the same fucking song from the car. I can tell I’m going to hate this already. Before we can knock the door swings open. Miranda is grinning and stumbling like an idiot. She flings an arm around Tracy’s neck and leads her inside. Johnny gives me the ”hit that” look. I ignore it and walk inside. The scene before me is as cliché as they come. A small fold out beer pong table in the corner of the room. A girl from my organic class is pushing her tits together to distract the other team. I am surrounded by class. Miranda comes back, two cups in hand. She smiles and hands one to me. I give it to Johnny. Tracy is working her way around the room. Hugs and kisses for everyone. She’s sipping out of a red plastic cup- the most regal of cocktail glasses. Johnny tells me to relax before joining my roommate Mitch on the couch. Mitch is wearing an artsy T shirt and smoking a bowl.
“RYYYAAANNN” Mitch yells, “ I FUCKED YOUR MOTHERRRRR.” I ignore him all together. “Aw come on man loosen up.” Mitch may have some truth in his words. I make my way to the water heater closet where the keg is kept and pour myself a beer. I don’t like drinking. However, the luke warm piss brew will hopefully numb the hate inside that I have for this whole affair. I stay standing in the closet, pounding cup after cup, like some Hemmingway character. My cheeks start to tingle and go numb. I can feel the ethanol under my skin. I spot Miranda close-talking some frat pledge across the apartment. I feel like I should warn him. Before I can stand up straight from the wall Tracy bumps me with her hip.
“Don’t think I don’t see you eyeing that Miranda girl Ry” she hisses in my ear.
“Actually I was about to go save that poor fuck from a mistake.” I reply.
“Sure you were. It’s okay, she’s pretty cute.” Tracy sings.
“She’s not my type.” I say.
“Oh really? Then what is Mr. Ryan Shannon’s ‘type?’” Tracy says mockingly.
“That’s none of your damn business” I say sharply.
“Aw come on Ry, tell me, what do you like… blondes?” Tracy asks twirling her bleached hair.
“Only natural ones.” I smirk.
“Oh, well then, are you a fan of big breasts then,” Tracy says dropping her hands from her hair and grazing tits, “Or are you an ass man?” Tracy turns her hip out like she’s a contestant in a fucking Ms. Universe pageant. Before I can answer it hits me. This bitch is flirting with me. I can see Johnny across the room slumped in the couch with Mitch haze circling around them. I look back at Tracy, she’s biting her lip. The skank wants to fuck me. Her boyfriend’s best friend. I think if I fuck this whore, Johnny will kick her out in her G-stringed ass and I won’t have to deal her bullshit anymore. I think I am going to fuck this bitch until she cries.
“I guess you can say I may be a Tracy man.” I tell her. I am going to fuck her. She smiles and grabs my wrist. She’s leads me out of the closet and around the corner to someone’s open bed room. It’s Miranda’s, I’ve been here before. The skank locks the door and pushes me down on the bed. All I can think about Is how much I hate her. She slips her tank top over her head and straddles me on the mattress. I unzip her skirt and pull it down. She’s wearing black underwear. Black underwear is only worn for one night stands. I can feel her lips smirk as we’re kissing.
“Something funny?” I ask.
“No I just can’t help but smile” she breathes. I want to change that. I don’t want to see her fucking face smile. I flip her over onto the bed. She unbuttons my jeans and slides them down my legs. I pull off her underwear and she smiles again. I hate her stupid fucking smile. She puts her hands around my neck and moans. I grab her hands from my neck and pin them against the mattress. She smiles.”You like it rough huh Ryan.” I can feel hate piercing through my eyes. I place one hand on her neck. “ I never would’ve guessed you were a kinky one” she smirks again. I press down on her neck, she’s still moaning. I press harder, my body weight behind it. I can see fear in her eyes now. “RYAN!” she gasps, “Ryan you’re really choking me stop.” I don’t stop I press harder still, I can see her lips turning purple. She’s finally stopped smiling. All I can think about is how much I hate that stupid whore. I can feel her manicured nails breaking as she claws at me with her left arm. She can’t scream, though even if she could, Lil’ Wayne would silence her. Her body goes limp underneath me. She stops breathing. Her blue eyes are still open. I hear footsteps behind me, muffled words calling for me, the door swings open.

“Mr. Shannon?, Mis-ter Shan-non, Ah glad to see you’re back” Dr. Woods says.
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Gavin
I Beat BBC News


Joined: 18 Apr 2006
Posts: 10724
Location: Scotland

PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 1:56 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

You can't play Russian roulette with an automatic weapon. It'll always load the chamber and kill you/ them. You can't "spin" the bullet in the magazine.

THIS STORY BEGINS WITH AN LOGCUL ERRER.
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IroniaSudby
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Joined: 28 Apr 2009
Posts: 880
Location: New York City

PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 2:38 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

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hotrodperlmutter
crescent fresh


Joined: 04 Apr 2009
Posts: 16657
Location: KCMO

PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 3:21 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

bit like palahniuk.

and you shouldn't be able to pause robert smith because you shouldn't be playing him.
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gaybear
Inventor of the Blues


Joined: 20 Apr 2006
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 4:17 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

i like the second one.
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izodiak
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Joined: 25 Jan 2008
Posts: 1463
Location: Latvia

PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 1:35 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

(I liked the second story that gerryhernandez posted, so I posted a one, I really liked a some time ago, that I saved on my computer)
THIS IS A STORY ABOUT THE BEACH. By Steven Wright

I, Phillip, a small boy of twelve, lay exhausted, not knowing if I was sleeping or if I was daydreaming that I was sleeping. Gently I rocked back in forth in my hammock, a hammock woven out of the eyelashes of 1000 deer. There was always a gentle breeze at the top of the 300-foot stainless-steel trees where my hammock was located. All the trees were stainless-steel in the Shiny National Forest. Some of the trees had been sawed down and cut into 60-foot lengths, then sold as flagpoles to people who lived in reality, many, many years away. I had never worked so hard in my life as in these past few hours. My clothes proved that I had labored, stained with confusion, compliments and criticism, all things that are not machine washable.

I was living on Water Island. A small island, sizewise. The island had no shore. All islands are above sea level, but this was ridiculous. The entire land mass was 200 feet above the ocean. All sand. Not one human had ever been near the water. And why the hell should they? You don't see fish trying to get on the roofs of buildings.

The year was a very long time ago. The island was ruled by a king. King Sammy. King Sammy lived in the Great Formica Castle, located at the bottom of Sand Valley. The king experienced temporary insanity every day. The Formica grew wild. There was much Formica left over after the castle was completed. The extra Formica would be sold to people who lived in reality, many, many years away. Nobody ever imagined that parts of King Sammy's castle would end up in kitchens.

The king was the king because he controlled gravity. That was the only reason he was king. Which was good enough when you think about it. If he didn't like you for any reason, he would snap his fingers and you would float higher and higher until he snapped them again and you would stay at that height forever or until he brought you back down again, maybe.

People were living at different heights all over the place. The people the king hated the most were very high up in the sky, sitting on stainless-steel chairs. The people who who lived in reality, many, many years away, would look into the sky and invent the word "star." They would also invent the word "shooting star," which was actually a person on a chair that the king was moving to another position.

The reason I lived in a hammock at 300 feet was I was a waiter at the castle, and one night, entranced by the beauty of the king's niece, I accidentally served soup on flat dishes. I smiled at the young girl, the king snapped his fingers, and I went up through a skylight and have been living at 300 feet ever since. I overtook Styrofoam Canyon.

To please King Sammy and again live on the ground was indeed my goal. I was notified of my chance to do this one day at about an hour before the beginning of time. A bird flew to my hammock delivering a small letter. An invitation to possible fate. It was from the king himself. It said, "Dear Phillip: As you know, this year I will be celebrating my birthday on August 11th. If you can arrange a unique festival I will again allow you to live on the ground or at least at eye level and maybe date my niece, Princess Sammintine. I know your great-great-grandfather invented socializing. That is why I'm giving you this chance. If not, I'm sure you will be reaching further heights. Sincerely, King Sammy."

Actually my great-great-grandfather was really a hermit and invented socializing just as a joke.

So here was my chance to redeem myself and live on the ground again. I decided I would go to sleep and dream about what to do. Often I would wave goodbye when I went to sleep. As a small boy I would sometimes sleep with my eyes open so all my dreams would take place in my room. It was raining. There was a great rainbow. Rainbows over Water Island were made of a light plastic.

I was standing on a cliff looking out into the great ocean. The ocean was called Land Ocean. Just then a herd of deer ran by. None of them had eyelashes.

The water was beautiful. The king loved water. Hmmm hmm. The king was very fond of water, to the point where he installed a pool that surrounded the entire castle. Other kings would later copy this idea.

King Sammy could not swim. People who were great swimmers were despised by the king and forced to live on twelve-foot chairs. My dream then switched to housekeeping, which startled me awake.

Yes, yes, the king loved water. If only Water Island had a shore.

I began to work. I got rid of the sand the only way I knew how, I vacuumed it. Night and day I vacuumed until the sand on Water Island got lower and lower, closer to the ocean. Inadvertently, I was inventing the beach.

It was the night of August 10th. I needed much help. So I hired hundreds of small children to help remove the sand. I gave them little plastic buckets and little plastic shovels. The children removed tons of sand. They worked very hard, although they thought they were playing.

Soon the land was level with the water. An unusually beautiful sight to see for the first time: the shore, the beach. I walked up and down this peaceful area trying to avoid the broken glass.

I wrote a letter to King Sammy. "Dear King Sammy: Meet me where I'm going to be. Sincerely, Phillip."

I then prepared the festival. I brought loads of food and ale packed in boxes that were built in the Styrofoam Canyon. I brought small, horizontal fireplaces that stood on little legs. I hired a group of minstrels who could only play music too loud.

Fate lessons of the past and present were now in session. Tradition was about to begin. King Sammy arrived at the beach with fifteen court jesters, his wife, Edna, Princess Sammintine, and several other men and women who were walking around at different heights. Some of them he really didn't like and made them arrive in their underwear. People in reality would do this willingly, many, many years away.

The minstrels began to play. The king danced with the waves. I danced with the shadow of the king, and the idea of Princess Sammintine kissed the back of my memory of the events that took place.

We drank until we almost drowned on land.

A seventy-two-year-old childhood friend of the king cut the plastic rainbows into circles and filled them with air to create colorful bouncing balls. As the king snapped his fingers to the music, people were flying up and down all over the beach. The children with plastic buckets were now heavily into the construction of little castles made of sand, so the king would feel at home.

The more the king drank, the more he liked the people, and the more he liked the people, the lower they were to the ground.

Soon people were actually lying down on little cotton flags all over the beach.

I invited a few of the great swimmers on twelve-foot chairs. The king ordered them to stay in their chairs unless someone was drowning. They wore bright orange shorts.

I had a waterproof pen. The ocean was very calm. The king wanted bigger waves. So I drew huge waves on the ocean. The ships didn't understand.

As the madness continued, I made my way over to Princess Sammintine. I asked her if she wanted a massage. She said, "Yes, but not physically." I said, "How do you like the beach?" She said, "Well, it's kind of sandy." I apologized for the beach's being sandy. Then I said, "Will you marry me?" She said, "No, you're boring, and besides I've seen fatter legs on a bird."

I smiled at Princess Sammintine and accidentally served clam chowder on flat dishes. The king snapped his fingers, and I went up 300 feet onto my hammock in the sky.

I lay there swinging in the breeze, knowing that a situation like that would never take place again.
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kim wrote:
plankton people will be plankton people
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kim
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 4:50 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

the cashier at the grocery store today looked a lot like you i wanted to say hey gerry fucking weirdo, i had lots of beer and cheap food like a proper marginal and she told me i could get 2 euro off on the beer with a piece of paper but i didn't have it but she had it below the cash register and used it on my receipt so i still got the 2 euro off but didn't tell me a short story though.
point is i prefer cheap beer over short stories.
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 5:40 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

;D
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 5:46 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

izodiak wrote:
;D



haha, so me after 12 beers
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 6:20 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Gavin wrote:
You can't play Russian roulette with an automatic weapon. It'll always load the chamber and kill you/ them. You can't "spin" the bullet in the magazine.

THIS STORY BEGINS WITH AN LOGCUL ERRER.



Glaring misunderstanding of gun design aside, loved it.
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 12, 2009 10:40 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

kim wrote:
izodiak wrote:
;D



haha, so me after 12 beers


but Im mostly sober, shit.
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