As it was written (541 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.81 on 17 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by orph (View user info) at 2008-02-06 10:17:50 EST
Hatred is one of the most pure emotions one ever has the opportunity to feel. It can give clarity of thought, crystallise dormant dreams, and provide the impetus for destruction.
Love, they say, is its counter - the other side of the same coin.
Yellow custard crème doesn't really have an opposite.
The story began with a number of quotes. Actually, they weren't really quotes, as the writer couldn't remember if these particular combinations of words had been spoken by anyone in that exact fashion before.
Yet, this would have made no difference - only if they had been uttered by a famous orator of years or centuries passed would they have been worthy of trapping within parentheses and presenting here. Doing so would have been a vain attempt to highlight the worthy intellect of he who had searched, found and then reconstituted the pithy turns of phrase here for us today.
An explanation followed, and became rather long-winded, and he who typed wondered to himself (as you can only do without wondering via speech to someone else), whether anyone would be bothered to sacrifice the time to read beyond custard crèmes.
Satisfied that he was now alone, he let his mind wander, safe in the knowledge that paragraphs four and five above would serve as a lock on his thoughts - droll and uninteresting, they assured that the page was now his own, and he would be the only one ever, including all future time and space, to read what was about to come.
He further surmised that if four and five fell from concentrated attack, then seven would be the portcullis so to speak, allowing the pouring of literary boiling oil down from above on the persistent and obviously deranged reader.
Then, as usually happened, once alone and adrift with only his mind as a constant, insipid companion, he found himself alone and adrift. Inspiration, adventure and sentence structure danced him by, flouting their wares and calling out the price for such qualities. His pockets were already turned out, the white fabric of the lining flapping in the breeze he'd conjured up to go with the image he was painting. Blue jeans were his trousers, as if you needed to ask.
Basically, he had no coin with which to purchase these tools of scripture creation. He slumped on the newly created wall, tears streamed down his cheeks as he realised, yet again, that to create, one must feel, and feelings were anathema to him. His emotions were grey-scaled, lacking brightness and vibrancy, leaving him a black and white rendering of a life that should have played out in Technicolor.
It was all rather pathetic, and to think that he had dragged his beloved sunshine crème desert into this sordid tale as well.
He moved on, and left footprints in the A4 that was his desolate, deserted type place. It sure was blank, and rather white - white like the crystalline surface of the great southern continent, swarming with penguins ever watchful for signs of their hated foe, the leopard seal. What the hell are you doing? Who gives a fuck about penguins?
He continued walking; closing the door on the Antarctic world he had quickly opened. Derivative. Mundane. David Attenborough really has cornered the wildlife market.
He came upon a crease, and once he had finished and pulled his pants back up, he investigated. It stretched from edge to edge, severing the page in half, forming a little gutter that ran across the horizon, slowly moving the product of his recent exertions towards the border of this pointless passage, and out into the world, or at least desktop beyond.
Of course it was all figurative, as the page was a graphical representation on a glass screen, vertical not horizontal, and he typed rather than wrote these words.
Sighing for an education wasted, he selected a large black cross, consigning all above to the void. It always ended this way - a story without a plot, a writer who didn't care, an audience that had already left.
Lunch time.
User Reviews
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-02-07 18:45:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
lovely to have you back. hope you had a good holiday.
ps i am pregnant. not that you are the daddy or anything! that's my gossip! :)
Submitted by Linus (user info) at 2008-02-07 15:07:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 Front page.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-02-07 09:34:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ConorJS (user info) at 2008-02-06 12:00:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Hate and love aren't opposites, they're both obsessive passions. Fear and love, now there's a pair of opposites for ya.
Maybe disgust and love could qualify as opposites... Note to self: less drugs.
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I'd write that the opposite of love is indifference but I really don't care.
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2008-02-06 14:12:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Linus (user info) at 2008-02-06 14:11:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by TheGoat (user info) at 2008-02-06 14:04:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
yeah.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2008-02-06 13:45:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
But of course.
Submitted by Wompom (user info) at 2008-02-06 12:09:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very good
Submitted by ConorJS (user info) at 2008-02-06 12:00:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Hate and love aren't opposites, they're both obsessive passions. Fear and love, now there's a pair of opposites for ya.
Maybe disgust and love could qualify as opposites... Note to self: less drugs.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:37:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Muscle relaxers have rendered me illiterate, So +2's all around.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:26:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
God damnit.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:25:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Shit fuck.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:25:21 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fucking hell I hate when I do that.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:25:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Well take your time. I'll just be busy fapping to images of you that I found on amIscatornot.com, kk.
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:17:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I find it more oxy-moronic.
Sico, I am still interested, yet lazy.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2008-02-06 11:01:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Great as always.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-02-06 10:31:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I think writing about having writers block is some kind of faux pas.
I'll let you off though, because you're an orphan.