(More alternating writing with Avery. I guess you could consider it a sequel to the previous one.)
The millions of people coursing through my veins reject my body; I separate myself from me, our entities separate at long last. At last long, I am an asexual flake of crust. I crawl, I, I am an I. I can snap, I can retract, I am above reproduction, I am laughing at you. Your peals of laughter hurt me, how dare I? What was I thinking, me? You weren't thinking, you, that is the issue's core. Now think your non-thoughts, insignificant fool. Stop trying to break from me, our insignificance is fulfilling like some sort of garage sale. Remember that time I found the glow in the dark yoyo. Your insistence on substance astonishes me. Stop being so damn visible, please. Please let the visibility stop being. I think we spoke too soon, my lip is bleeding again. All this logic makes me wonder what John is doing. Oh look, my legs have found the audacity to move me. Jackasses. ha. My ass is attached to my legs, and they are moving. I'm actually being consistent. I like this repetitive motion, I think we should continue. Well, I guess we can see where they take you. Oh yeah, the walls are gone, we're now moving through the ceiling. Is a ceiling still the ceiling if you lay on your back? John would know the answer. I wish we were more like John, he has most answers. How could we lose her? I think I'm feeling sadness- well, that's what she called it. Maybe it is just the ceiling without walls. You know what? Fuck John. He's an asshole. What's the fun of having all the answers? That's when the inquisitive journey ceases to be. Ceases? What was I thinking nothing ceases here. We couldn't even find a fucking door. We had an eternity to look and I gave up. My thoughts are pathetic anyhow. John is pathetic, you are so fucking pathetic, I can't even walk without tripping over these tiles. Tiles? Where were those last eternity? Let's take a peek underneath, shall we? Fanfuckingtastic, it's my door. It's smaller than I expected. The yellow red orange color barely makes sense, it barely writes our number, it barely reads. This door is shrinking with time, how can that be? The numbers are changing...I thought time wasn't possible here. I reach for the handle before it laughs out of existence. As I touch it I am already through it. All this drab whiteness is bland and depressing. I wonder why God has done this to me, ME, of ALL people, ME. We then realize that behind God is a man, the only separation being the curtain of oblivion. My existence is just as meek as his, He just has a name. Our room is just as I expected though, the white is somehow comforting, my existence somehow more appealing. You are contemplating shutting the door behind us. Or, at least you would, if there ever was a door. I do notice a patch of grey in what I guess you could call "the distance." Might as well give it a chance, nothing else here possibly, maybe, whatever let's just walk. I'm trying not to smirk at your sad attempt to blame God. He doesn't even deserve a capital "G." He made people like John, who the hell likes her? Plus, he's a man, I've never even met the guy, bet he's horrible at conversating. I bet he has a grating, "holier than thou" personality. Hell, where do I think the term "God complex" comes from? ANyways, I'm in the grey now. Not all you made it out to be. Who the hell forgot to put up a "wet paint" sign my hands are all grey and sticky now, dammit. Now I'm stumped. The foolishness of this irks me, would you write me in a visual story next go-around, I like colors.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The scribbles of the non reliable pen.
By Avery Collins and Dylan Vaz
(this is another of those alternating-sentences things. We didn't really stick to the "one sentence at a time thing," but who cares.)
The hallway was of such immense length that the walls, floor, and ceiling met at a single point in both directions, doors all along the way. Numbers were a rust-yellow jumbled in no specific order, as if each door had been rearranged over time. I was oddly familiar with this. I began walking, trying every door, only to find each one locked, as it was not meant for me. This place isn't for me, it isn't for us either. You and I we are those people. My curious gait quickly became a fervent gallop, a raving search for my door, our number. I am moving too fast, I think I'm going the wrong way, my anxiety is quickly approaching its peak. My lips are now bleeding from my impatience gnawing. I give up our search, seat myself upon the floor with distinct exasperation. My door opens behind us. WHy did you call this our door. This is not my door, not your space. This opening vaguely resembles that floral pattern, that one I despise, this cannot be it. My hatred of the door bleeds to the rest, they sicken me. I don't want to see them, you make them blink away, changing the substance of this bleak reality. We can continue to change this reality over and over, it will make no difference you have no power. I'm just repeating text, you are just clearing your throat, keep going its still itching. He stands, her eyes closed to their surroundings, nothing exists to me. Now we can begin. Make the move...take a step you cunt, open your eyes you coward. We cannot hop away from this, let's try skipping. I am a child, crippled by my old old age. You no longer exist, we are finally at peace.
The number is seventy-six, sixty seven, six, seven, I can't remember. You shouldn't have played that game.
(Don't worry, there is more, but we felt it worked better separated into to separate Chapter 1s.)
(this is another of those alternating-sentences things. We didn't really stick to the "one sentence at a time thing," but who cares.)
The hallway was of such immense length that the walls, floor, and ceiling met at a single point in both directions, doors all along the way. Numbers were a rust-yellow jumbled in no specific order, as if each door had been rearranged over time. I was oddly familiar with this. I began walking, trying every door, only to find each one locked, as it was not meant for me. This place isn't for me, it isn't for us either. You and I we are those people. My curious gait quickly became a fervent gallop, a raving search for my door, our number. I am moving too fast, I think I'm going the wrong way, my anxiety is quickly approaching its peak. My lips are now bleeding from my impatience gnawing. I give up our search, seat myself upon the floor with distinct exasperation. My door opens behind us. WHy did you call this our door. This is not my door, not your space. This opening vaguely resembles that floral pattern, that one I despise, this cannot be it. My hatred of the door bleeds to the rest, they sicken me. I don't want to see them, you make them blink away, changing the substance of this bleak reality. We can continue to change this reality over and over, it will make no difference you have no power. I'm just repeating text, you are just clearing your throat, keep going its still itching. He stands, her eyes closed to their surroundings, nothing exists to me. Now we can begin. Make the move...take a step you cunt, open your eyes you coward. We cannot hop away from this, let's try skipping. I am a child, crippled by my old old age. You no longer exist, we are finally at peace.
The number is seventy-six, sixty seven, six, seven, I can't remember. You shouldn't have played that game.
(Don't worry, there is more, but we felt it worked better separated into to separate Chapter 1s.)
Friday, April 23, 2010
Linear Boredom.
By Dylan Vaz, Avery Collins, and Kneesmith.
(We did this in about twenty minutes, and we wrote it by alternating sentences, the order being Me, Kneesmith, then Avery.)
So it begins. For the 3rd time. The pandas are continuing to drop the bombs. The war with the koalas was a long one fraught with senseless hysteria. But the people will become detached, and soon the bombs would stop, and the koalas will hide their faces for a few years until things seemed clear again. Years and years continued to pass until the koalas began to form extravagant powers. Then the pandas gained the ability of unassisted flight, and the fourth wave of wars began, this time with no end. And until I get out of bed this will just repeat over and over in my head. So I pull back the covers and step to the floor. The familiar staleness of my padded cell hit me like a sledgehammer of stark reality, and I dove upon the tray the guard had pushed under the door. Fucking bastard, never leaves enough ketchup.
THE END.
(We did this in about twenty minutes, and we wrote it by alternating sentences, the order being Me, Kneesmith, then Avery.)
So it begins. For the 3rd time. The pandas are continuing to drop the bombs. The war with the koalas was a long one fraught with senseless hysteria. But the people will become detached, and soon the bombs would stop, and the koalas will hide their faces for a few years until things seemed clear again. Years and years continued to pass until the koalas began to form extravagant powers. Then the pandas gained the ability of unassisted flight, and the fourth wave of wars began, this time with no end. And until I get out of bed this will just repeat over and over in my head. So I pull back the covers and step to the floor. The familiar staleness of my padded cell hit me like a sledgehammer of stark reality, and I dove upon the tray the guard had pushed under the door. Fucking bastard, never leaves enough ketchup.
THE END.
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