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Written before "Ameoba"

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MrMario
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Posted 04/02/09 - 9:03 PM:
Subject: Written before "Ameoba"
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The shuffling of our bare feet, the heavy breathing of our lungs, his breath smelling like the morning.
He pulled back his hand to my left and he swung his entire body forward along with a fist that seemed almost magnetically attracted to my face. This guy was like a cougar. It all happened so fast, I felt that metallic feeling in my nose quicker than the air that was following his punch. My head flew back and I felt my sweat moistened hair whip. A bubble popped in my neck, and that botherd me more than the taste of metal in my mouth. Guess my nose bleed fast enough to flow under my top lip and onto my tounge. I yelled for a stop. He stood up straight and held his hand out to me. He said thanks, and I said your welcome.
I put my shirt on, my socks, my shoes, my jacket. My shirt clung to the sweat on my back, my feet fell in love smooth insides of my socks and the cushins of my dirt stained sneakers, and my toreso loathed the emensed heat inside my jacket. The sweat of my forearms clung to the material inside my sleaves, and my neck soaked the fake wool-like stuff sourounding the inside of the collar. I spat out a wad of blood and snot. My nose dripped a little on the floor. The guy who beat me to kingdom come, in one swing, slapped me on the back and gave me a wink and a quick nod. I waved at him and looked back down at the blood still dripping from my nose. I tried to make a circle with my own life juice on the dirt ground of the cellar, but as the guy was walking away he accidently steped in (or better yet, on) the sacrifice of my blood to the ground.
My nose stopped bleeding two or three minutes later. Mean while a well aged 52 year old man, probably within his thirtyith year of marrage, was teaching this twenty-two year old kid a lesson. I figured he was imagening kicking the ass of his son who admited to being gay. Or who dropped out of college. Or was caught by the police in the middle of shooting himself up.
I got up, and walked up the wooden stairs of the cellar. Each step was squeakyer than the next. I oppened the hatch.
The grey sprinkiling sky was cooling down my face and each step I took was squishyer than the next. The brown and yellow leaves clung to eachother in their wetness. The cold was a extinguisher to my lungs. My lungs exhaled smoke. It was a cold, wet, fall afternoon. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my sleave, and any blood that would be left in my nose was wiped up with the heel of my hand. I took another deep breath, and this time, the air got to my stomach. And it burned such a good burn. I exhaled again and breathed smoke again.
I dug inside the pocket of my jacket. You know the pockets that are on the inside of the left flap of your jacket at your chest? It was that one.
I dug around for a thin, black, square box. I pulled it out, opened it up, and saw I only had three left. I fingerd around for my love.
She was bant slightly. Oh, but how fragile she was. Filled with such beauty, and wraped in such beauty. Smooth and stimulating to the touch. She needed me and I needed her. The head was smooth and dark, and I was the only one who could kiss it.
She needed me, for without me, she could never reach her full potential and be the beautiful creation she should be. I needed her, because, I have to love something that will love me back for loving her.
I put her between my middle and index finger in my left hand. I moved her up to my top lip and smelled. Her beautiful and exotic scent made my nerve endings explode. It over came the smell of blood in my nostrils and my brain started to yell at me for exhaleing such a delicacy. My nipples went hard. You can tell yourself it was because of the cold, but...
I placed her between my lips and pulled her back out. I licked my lips and it was sweet. With my index finger, I wiped away the saliva from between my lips and gently placed her back. I cupped the end of her, pulled out my lighter and lit her fire. I breathed her in. My entire body climaxed. I kept her in as long as I could and breathed her out slowly. It always hurt me to do that. My chest would get heavy, but the sadness would go away instantaniously. Why? Because I knew she would come back. I kind of felt bad, because, even thought I loved her and she loved me, she would always wither and grey. I couldent just throw her away.
So I kept her.
I put her back in the box,
back in the pocket,
back next to my heart. I never wantedher to go away... Ever.

In my friends house there is a couch, and coffee table strewn with bags of chips, empty cans of fizzer,two game paddles, and video game rags open to the cheats pages. He could have been trying to hide some snuff rags under his couch, because you could tell. The corner of one of them was stiking out from underneath. It wasent too noticeable from a glance, but if you looked just long enough, you could see the bruneet you go to school with, with her wavy, smooth, strawberry smelling, shoulder length hair, on a lightly tanned head, on an equally lighty tanned torsoe, with two perfectly round, well sized, volumtious brown tipped, silicon tits. You know the girl who invited you to her eightteenth birthday party two months earlyer? She was that one.
Porn is everywhere. In your dads sock drawer. Under your moms cooking and home living rags. Under your sisters pillow. In between the pages of your brothers bible. Not even celebacy could keep the Virgen Mary from being deflowerd.
Ever been to 42nd St. in New York City? It's the porn mecca of the U.S. Entire blocks devoted to double-headed-anal-lesbians, and transvestite escort numbers. Adult bookstores open twenty-four hours a day. Except on Christmas, of course. Back-ally trenchcoat wearers, with pockets full of pictures and tiny video cassettes with recordings of some young teenage girl's uncurtained window, or from cameras hidden under dirty clothes by parents looking to make a few extra sticky pieces of polly.
My friend was busy making stewd ramen.
Why are you doin' that?
"My parents are visiting. I should have atleast dinner made, huh?"
I guess so. That explains the smut rag under the couch. I wanted to say "I think I go to school with her."
"How did ya' know? Is it showing?"
A malenky bit. It isent too horribly noticeable. His parents arent going to look at the ruffels of his couch for a long time, are they?
"Guess not. But just to make sure..." He left the pot stewing on the stove top, walked past me, his eyes focused of the rag, walked to the side of the couch and kicked my calssmate further in. "Thats better." Said he.
I sighed. Great. Now I have to get on my knees and reach under his dust bunny infested couch.
"Why would you want to do that?"
I want to borrow it.
"Allright. It's a year old anyway. You can have it if you want.
No thanks man. I never own my own smut.
"Why? Afraid of gettin' nabbed by your parents?"
No. The way I look at it, havin' a snuff rag is like teenage years. At first just even looking at it gives you a hard on, but as you go on, it starts to loose its luster. This is why people get into drugs or lose the smut and actually have sex instead of just beating to it. So it's true, too much of a good thing is bad. Not nessecarly because its bad for you, but because, it gets boring. There is somewhat of a bright side though, dude: You can allways find a new rag. Just not a new life.
"Yeah," he sighed. " Anyways, my parents are gonna be here in fifteen minutes. I gotta' finish cleanin' up. If you want , you could join us."
No thanks. I'll just grab your snuff and leave. Uh, how long are they gonna' be here?
"Probably just two or three hours."
I'll come back then. I'll bring somethings.
"Allright then, I'll see ya'."
I waived back at him, and walked back to the door. Halfway into the turn of the knob, I turned around, and looked at the couch. Did I really want it that bad? I guess I want to see my class mate. Kinda' like a year book. Only it has spreads of her spreading.
I walked back to the couch and got on my hands and knees. I fort how nice and deep the green shag rug was. I reached a hand and searched. I felt at least five more rags and took a guess. I pulled it out and looked at the corners. Yup. It's this one.
I got back up and walked towards the door.
"Oh yeah! Before you go. Wash up your face, It looks like hell, dude."
Yeah. Thanks man.

I got home. The lack of scent was uncomfortable. The portrait over the t.v. mantel showed a picture of the perfect family: Late 30 year old for parents, an older brother, a middle child sister, a baby boy and the sillouette of a cross on the wall behind them. At home, the parents, now in theire late-40's hardly ever talk to eachother, the sister was every drug known to man, the baby died of crib-death, and the older brother, he's hardly ever home. The only time he comes home is after school, for dinner, to bathe, to sleep, and to water a rose that he stole from the funeral of his baby brother.
He girlfriend of five years, Margot, she started going out with him a month or so before the baby died. She helped him through all his greef. She held him as he cried, and cried...
In his house he would treat her as delacte as he would the baby when it was alive. He said so much to her, that, eventually, he saw her as a part of him. An extention of himself. He was so sweet to her. She adored that. He loved her for everything. He loved her for loving him. He could'nt wait for her to come visit him again. Summers of leaving his house at nine in the morning to see her. He'd catch her asleep, sometimes. Once she went to bed unclothed. A huskless ear of corn. He didnt do anything to her. At least, not intercorse wise. He just carresed her, and felt her. Her sweet, soft, dark hair; the smell of clean clothes sourrended her; Her eyes, they were a deep, mystrious, discolored green and brown; Her lips were poofy and soft, dry feeling; Her toung tasted like morning, but when he liked his lips, they were sweet. He kissed her all over. On her head, on her forehead, once on each eye and cheek, on her nose, on her lips, on her neck, on her chest, once on each breast, on her soft tummy, on her pubic cushin, on her. She blossomed. A beautiful, soft rose. Every part of her, was a delicate peddal. Such beauty. It was hard to belive such beauty could be contained in a single being.
"I love you," said he.
"I love you," said she.
I guess, E.E. Cummings wasent soo full of shit after all, he thought to himself.
In him, she brought back a child's lost innocence. She kinda' had that effect.

I grabbed the spray bottle and lightly moistened the soil. The stem and peddals looked like they had started to wilt. I reached for the left drawer and grabbed for the little baggy. Blue paper-mache things filled the corner and I made a pinch for those. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together over the soil around the rose. I tried real hard not to tough the rose. I didnt want to get the salt from my fingers on it. I put it back on the window sill and looked out. The sky was still grey but the drizzle had stoped. I looked at my watch and it was two-o'clock.
I got another hour.
I jumped on the bed and pulled the rag out of my pocket. It was crimson on the cover with pictures of all these classmates. Then I saw her again. Her brown hair and her lightly tanned skin. I opened to her section passing the double-headed-anal-lesbians and transvestite escort numbers to get to her. Eight back-to-back pages of her.
I ripped them out. I ripped every piece of her out of her passionless year book. I tore apart the pages in my hand and cried. I let the confetti of tan and brunette run through my hands and let my face fall into them. I looked at my hands through my blurred, teary vision. I felt a spot on my face. I could feel the pressure, but not the sensation. I peeled off the piece of rag on my face. It was her face. Eyes closed and mouth agape for her cum shot.
I wiped away the tears and snot. My nose was bleeding again. I grabbed every last piece of her that I vould and put them in a caly pot. I burned her. I burned and crushed her ashes. I made a pinch for the ashes. The blood on my nose kept dripping, but I didnt give a shit anymore. I sprinkled the ashes on the soil and a drop of me fell on the rose peddals and on the soil.
My nose started to ooz. I snatched the rag and kept my blood from falling on the rug and hard wood floor. I got outside and ran. I would run to his house.
Half way between, I dropped the rag in the street. If you glanced at it long enough, you could tell the difference between the crimson from me and the crimson on the rag. Looks like I'm coming to dinner early.
I dug in my coat and grabed the black box. I pulled her out and placed her between my lips. I never thought I'd do this while running. I pulled the lighter out.
Shit. Come on!
I dropped her. She fell from me into a puddle. You know the puddles that form where the sidwalk and the street met? She fell there.
I got to his house anyways. There wasent time.
I opened the door and the first thing I said was: "Margot?"
Her face came off his and she looked at me with big innocent eyes. "Please wait! Let me say something," said she.
"Yeah, just calm down," said he.
"Oh my god. Are you okay?" asked she.
I turned around, and ran back down Jackson. I looked at my watch. Thirty to three. The cellar should still be open.
Dammit. I slipped on the grass and fell forward. I check the inside chest pocket. The box was flat. I threw it on the ground next to my blood.
I got to the house and threw open the cellar doors. The smell of sweat and B.O. was gone. All that hit me was the heat.
I walked down the stairs as quick as I could. Over the voices, I yelled out for someone who hadent fought yet, while I ripped off my shirt, shoes, socks. Some one stepped forward with a grin, but it went away as soon as he saw my face. I agreed and got in the middle. We waited and heard a go.
He swung twice and I dodged and right hooked him. He uppercutted, me and I just stood there. I didnt call for a stop.
I just stood there.

MrMario
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Posted 04/08/09 - 7:35 PM:

Incase it offended anyone:
Sorry about the "Fight Club" rip off, but I needed him to bleed.

That and some pornographic imagery.
I tried to make the Margot thing as pure, but impacting, as possible.
libertygrl
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Posted 04/09/09 - 4:00 PM:

love affair with a cigarette, i remember those days...

the bit about margot is sweet.

favorite parts:

"There is somewhat of a bright side though, dude: You can allways find a new rag. Just not a new life."

"I ripped every piece of her out of her passionless year book."

"I guess, E.E. Cummings wasent soo full of shit after all"

"She fell from me into a puddle. You know the puddles that form where the sidwalk and the street met? She fell there." (brilliant!!)

bien hecho clap



MrMario
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Posted 04/11/09 - 5:54 PM:

Thanks, Lib.

Contstructive critizism, anyone?hmm
libertygrl
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Posted 04/15/09 - 4:02 PM:

hi mario,

i would recommend cleaning up the spelling & punctuation a bit; running it through a spell-checker would be a quick & easy way to fix certain words (for example "delicate"). it's a little thing but it helps the reader pay more attention to the story and not get hung up in certain places trying to guess what you meant.

the only other thing i can think of is the change of point of view when you start talking about the older brother & margot. the rest of the story seems to be in first person point of view (told from the main character's point of view), and then it seems to switch in the middle to omniscient (knowing intimate details of the older brother's relationship with margot, even his thoughts). the inconsistency right there is a little confusing.

smiling facelib
Zum
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Posted 06/20/09 - 1:19 AM:

I like a lot of things about it. The immediacy is great. By that I mean the in your face happening right now sensations and observations. The protagonist is someone for whom time can move very slowly, even when it's moving pretty fast... The protagonist seems wildly sensitive and very tough. The (enviable) evenness of the narrative tone gives him stoicism; so do the details from 42nd street, N.Y.

It struck me in the reading, what if he actually put in a line or two of e.e. cummings? If he mentions him, he knows him and likes him, though he expresses his appreciation sparingly--not so full of shit. And you know, cummings is THE over the top romantic, like your protagonist. The contrast between appearance (he is in bad shape, dripping blood) and reality is lovely. Cummings: "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond/any experience,your eyes have their silence:. . ."

This is a guy that needs sensation all the time, and really, really wants authenticity and, yes, purity. I guess purity isn't to be had in purgatorial N.Y., so the next best thing is authenticity. Blood and pain are so real.

I'd love to see the transitions made a little clearer, and, yeah, as Lib said, get a spell check
MrMario
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Posted 07/16/09 - 4:31 AM:

Thanks Lib and Zum.smiling face

Another question: Do you think any of the symbolism was overshadowd by the pulp?
I got another persons opinion and that is what they thought.
libertygrl
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Posted 07/17/09 - 11:46 AM:

hi mario,

as a dream interpreter, i tend to look for symbolism in everything. but yeah, i think for some people, their focus will be more drawn into the visceral aspects of the storytelling, which will distract from the potential to analyze any symbolism. it's like you have gut feeling on the one hand, and intellectual pursuits on the other, and if people get the sense that you're leading them in one direction, they don't usually give the other direction as much thought. not that you can't have both, it just takes a little more effort to transition the reader from one mode of thought into another.

smiling facelib
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