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Written by AlSalehi

The Poet & The Poem

- Reading between the Lines –

…It’s the Passion,

It’s the Crime,

It’s the Rhythm,

It’s the Rhyme…

Words can speak images in volumes it’s said,

Not actualizing ‘till actually read.

Grasp onto my hands and raise us up swift,

Should I let us down, provide us a lift.

Save our poise from poison and shield me when,

I expose my soul every now and then.

Reflect my aura if I incur chagrin,

Maintain my value if they maintain a grin.

Amaze and amuse the masses before me,

Scheme up a rhyme and then have them adore me.

Multiply with me my expressions to be,

Letting energy flow from my Cells to Chi.

Help me interpret these dreamlike creations,

Parley my visions on verbal foundations.

Empower me when all eyes are upon us,

Trickle off my tongue like wine upon stardust.

Feed me when my esteem becomes meek,

Offer me hope should our Earth grow weak.

Make me believe in potential as prophet,

Prove those who believe shall always have profit.

Become the Fluid in the roots of this tree,

Quenching the yearning of my leaves if thirsty.

Should this be the end, and it’s just you and me…

Let me thank you, my poem, by writing ‘merci'!

For the more I grow, the more grounded I’ll be,

Hence humble and timeless, whilst at your mercy.

So I beg as your servant, hear my last plea,

Bestow me the words that allows them, to see.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by AlSalehi
The Poet & The Poem
- Reading between the Lines –



…It’s the Passion,
It’s the Crime,
It’s the Rhythm,
It’s the Rhyme…



Words can speak images in volumes it’s said,
Not actualizing ‘till actually read.



Grasp onto my hands and raise us up swift,
Should I let us down, provide us a lift.
Save our poise from poison and shield me when,
I expose my soul every now and then.
Reflect my aura if I incur chagrin,
Maintain my value if they maintain a grin.
Amaze and amuse the masses before me,
Scheme up a rhyme and then have them adore me.
Multiply with me my expressions to be,
Letting energy flow from my Cells to Chi.
Help me interpret these dreamlike creations,
Parley my visions on verbal foundations.
Empower me when all eyes are upon us,
Trickle off my tongue like wine upon stardust.
Feed me when my esteem becomes meek,
Offer me hope should our Earth grow weak.
Make me believe in potential as prophet,
Prove those who believe shall always have profit.
Become the Fluid in the roots of this tree,
Quenching the yearning of my leaves if thirsty.
Should this be the end, and it’s just you and me…
Let me thank you, my poem, by writing ‘merci'!
For the more I grow, the more grounded I’ll be,
Hence humble and timeless, whilst at your mercy.
So I beg as your servant, hear my last plea,
Bestow me the words that allows them, to see.


Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #challenge  #politics  #spirituality  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion  #dedication 
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by RichWithey

A Fight With Apathy

He had feared the coming of this day all his life, he was 27 and terrified for a brief moment, but then it happened, the numbness set in; one moment, distressed and tormented with the fear of what was happening and then, the void; an absence of care, an absence of feeling. He sat there for about twenty minutes staring into space like a zombie before getting to his feet and staring out into the garden, it was barely seen in the last remaining light, the bright colours had faded to grey, he stared some more before feeling something on his cheek, he lifted his hand and expected to wipe away an insect of some sort, instead his finger was wet; he was crying, he looked at his finger with indifference and then stared some more. He thought of doing something insane, taking of his clothes and running through the back gardens of his street, stealing a car and smashing it into a wall at 100mph or picking a fight with a gang of youths, those gangs who thought they were tough because they were five or six united, but were pissy little cowards on their own. He had a stirring at this but while ushering himself towards the front door, he thought it better just to go to sleep. Apathy is so tiring.

Monday came and went, he had barely moved, he didn’t get dressed, didn’t take any calls and kept the room absent of the beautiful day that was threatening the blackout curtains of his room, the curtains were not intimidated and refused to budge. He left his bedroom reluctantly at 6pm to pee and discovered on the way that he was hungry, a feeling that had not left him, the need for food, other than that he still felt numb but almost happy about it because he had felt hungry; but then he forgot about the happiness and prepared himself a cooked breakfast and a big pot of tea. He ate this while watching the mundane programs that broadcasted across his retinas from the television, if you had asked him what he had watched, he couldn’t have told you and he wouldn’t care that he couldn’t. At 10pm the insects were on his face again but they turned to water on his fingertips and he looked at them with indifference once again, and then, with heavy, deadened eyes he fell asleep and dreamt.

He dreamt of himself, but he was different somehow, he shared stories with people who seemed to have the infliction he has in his waking world, telling them with great passions of how he was going to change the world, how one man can make a difference, and how he would execute this difference in rhythm and rhyme, poem and song, how the world was unjust and if only more people would stand up for the rights and fight against the wrongs then the world we be a better place. The people he spoke to, had turned grey though, infected by an invisible disease, he wondered how they couldn’t see his plight and why they weren’t prepared to be inspired by his ideals. Instead they nodded mechanically or delivered an answer that seemed like a shortcut to thinking, “that will never happen.” Or “try if you like but it won’t get you anywhere.” This angered him but he could see that they were ‘too set in some way’, pre-occupied with the mundane, too dead to care, or even attempt to offer a valid argument to get the creative ideas rolling in one way or another, there was nothing…

He awoke Tuesday at 3am and cursed himself for messing up his body clock so badly, he remembered nothing of his dream, he felt agitated and irritated, like there was something he was meant to do but he couldn’t remember what it was or whether it was important. Instead he drank two pints of water and went to sit on the garden steps, he stared up at the overgrown bushes at the end of his garden and wondered what spectacles of nature they were hiding, in the pale moonlight he could see the grave of his dog, she had been sleeping ten years, he had seen her occasionally since then, she seemed to hang around in his shadow when times were rough, a silent clown, ready to cheer him up when things had kicked him a little too much, an ever loving companion, that touched him from beyond the grave. He felt the insects again but knew by now that they were really tears. He sat and let them run from his eyes until there nests were empty and then he lay on his back in the short grass and stared up at the vast night until the sun began to bleach its edges with purples and blues. He felt an ache where his heart should be and decided to smoke.

The rest of Tuesday went by as a blur, a simple mission was to be executed and that was to stay awake until 11pm, this was almost impossible between the hours of two and seven, however by eight o’clock he was wide awake and feeling revived, he decided to go for a walk.

The evening was serene, the air smelt sweet and the streets were quiet, he imagined a world like this, empty and quiet, he liked the idea for a moment before going against it with such ferocious rage that it burst into flames and exploded. The evening was calm enough for him to regain composure very quickly and he even chuckled at the malicious attack on such a remote thought. He had walked for about thirty minutes with his thoughts before he saw another person, a girl in a short yellow summer dress, she had long golden hair that seemed to radiate in the remaining sunlight. She was walking towards him almost whimsically, they made accidental eye contact on nearing each other, he felt a little shy but she just smiled and glided on by in slow motion, he glanced back and watched her walking for a moment before he realised she had glanced back at him, he turned away quickly and slightly embarrassed but continued his walk with the signs of a spring in his step and almost forgot the last two days of numbness. He returned home around 10.30pm and managed to sleep from 12am. He dreamt again that night of himself and a beautiful lady with golden hair sitting on a sandy beach, a beach fire, crackling as quiet as possible, almost cursing itself to be silent so it could hear the conversation between the two lovebirds, they gazed at each other and hung on each others words in between tasting the ‘dark berry fruits’ of a delicious red wine. She was an inspiration to him, a muse for a cause he had not yet known, the dream ended with a perfect embrace and a kiss that delivered the most erotic and passionate energy he had ever known.

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by RichWithey
A Fight With Apathy
He had feared the coming of this day all his life, he was 27 and terrified for a brief moment, but then it happened, the numbness set in; one moment, distressed and tormented with the fear of what was happening and then, the void; an absence of care, an absence of feeling. He sat there for about twenty minutes staring into space like a zombie before getting to his feet and staring out into the garden, it was barely seen in the last remaining light, the bright colours had faded to grey, he stared some more before feeling something on his cheek, he lifted his hand and expected to wipe away an insect of some sort, instead his finger was wet; he was crying, he looked at his finger with indifference and then stared some more. He thought of doing something insane, taking of his clothes and running through the back gardens of his street, stealing a car and smashing it into a wall at 100mph or picking a fight with a gang of youths, those gangs who thought they were tough because they were five or six united, but were pissy little cowards on their own. He had a stirring at this but while ushering himself towards the front door, he thought it better just to go to sleep. Apathy is so tiring.

Monday came and went, he had barely moved, he didn’t get dressed, didn’t take any calls and kept the room absent of the beautiful day that was threatening the blackout curtains of his room, the curtains were not intimidated and refused to budge. He left his bedroom reluctantly at 6pm to pee and discovered on the way that he was hungry, a feeling that had not left him, the need for food, other than that he still felt numb but almost happy about it because he had felt hungry; but then he forgot about the happiness and prepared himself a cooked breakfast and a big pot of tea. He ate this while watching the mundane programs that broadcasted across his retinas from the television, if you had asked him what he had watched, he couldn’t have told you and he wouldn’t care that he couldn’t. At 10pm the insects were on his face again but they turned to water on his fingertips and he looked at them with indifference once again, and then, with heavy, deadened eyes he fell asleep and dreamt.
He dreamt of himself, but he was different somehow, he shared stories with people who seemed to have the infliction he has in his waking world, telling them with great passions of how he was going to change the world, how one man can make a difference, and how he would execute this difference in rhythm and rhyme, poem and song, how the world was unjust and if only more people would stand up for the rights and fight against the wrongs then the world we be a better place. The people he spoke to, had turned grey though, infected by an invisible disease, he wondered how they couldn’t see his plight and why they weren’t prepared to be inspired by his ideals. Instead they nodded mechanically or delivered an answer that seemed like a shortcut to thinking, “that will never happen.” Or “try if you like but it won’t get you anywhere.” This angered him but he could see that they were ‘too set in some way’, pre-occupied with the mundane, too dead to care, or even attempt to offer a valid argument to get the creative ideas rolling in one way or another, there was nothing…

He awoke Tuesday at 3am and cursed himself for messing up his body clock so badly, he remembered nothing of his dream, he felt agitated and irritated, like there was something he was meant to do but he couldn’t remember what it was or whether it was important. Instead he drank two pints of water and went to sit on the garden steps, he stared up at the overgrown bushes at the end of his garden and wondered what spectacles of nature they were hiding, in the pale moonlight he could see the grave of his dog, she had been sleeping ten years, he had seen her occasionally since then, she seemed to hang around in his shadow when times were rough, a silent clown, ready to cheer him up when things had kicked him a little too much, an ever loving companion, that touched him from beyond the grave. He felt the insects again but knew by now that they were really tears. He sat and let them run from his eyes until there nests were empty and then he lay on his back in the short grass and stared up at the vast night until the sun began to bleach its edges with purples and blues. He felt an ache where his heart should be and decided to smoke.
The rest of Tuesday went by as a blur, a simple mission was to be executed and that was to stay awake until 11pm, this was almost impossible between the hours of two and seven, however by eight o’clock he was wide awake and feeling revived, he decided to go for a walk.
The evening was serene, the air smelt sweet and the streets were quiet, he imagined a world like this, empty and quiet, he liked the idea for a moment before going against it with such ferocious rage that it burst into flames and exploded. The evening was calm enough for him to regain composure very quickly and he even chuckled at the malicious attack on such a remote thought. He had walked for about thirty minutes with his thoughts before he saw another person, a girl in a short yellow summer dress, she had long golden hair that seemed to radiate in the remaining sunlight. She was walking towards him almost whimsically, they made accidental eye contact on nearing each other, he felt a little shy but she just smiled and glided on by in slow motion, he glanced back and watched her walking for a moment before he realised she had glanced back at him, he turned away quickly and slightly embarrassed but continued his walk with the signs of a spring in his step and almost forgot the last two days of numbness. He returned home around 10.30pm and managed to sleep from 12am. He dreamt again that night of himself and a beautiful lady with golden hair sitting on a sandy beach, a beach fire, crackling as quiet as possible, almost cursing itself to be silent so it could hear the conversation between the two lovebirds, they gazed at each other and hung on each others words in between tasting the ‘dark berry fruits’ of a delicious red wine. She was an inspiration to him, a muse for a cause he had not yet known, the dream ended with a perfect embrace and a kiss that delivered the most erotic and passionate energy he had ever known.


© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.
#fantasy  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure 
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Written by Andrometa

Julia - repost

March 1st 1999

The small team at NOAA who first discovered the sound gathered excitedly around the computer console. It was for these rare discoveries that the scientists worked long, thankless hours. The last sound they discovered was two years previous, when the hydrophones detected one of the loudest sounds ever recorded 3000 miles away off the southern coast of South America. The sound resembled a large bubble being blown under water, and thus it was lovingly termed ‘The Bloop’.

The sound discovered today was different.

Within fifteen minutes the Managing Director, Greg Hobbs, was in the lab and listening to the sound. He had to sit down. “Good god, this is something alive?” he said.

The red phone rang. Everybody froze. This phone had never rung before, and only one person was authorised to call it. Greg took a deep breath and answered.

“Managing Director Hobbs.”

The scientists who looked on noticed his shoulders sag and his head drop. He turned to face his colleagues, all warmth had drained from his face. “I understand,” Hobbs said. “Yes sir, Mr President”. Hobbs placed down the phone.

“Come away from the computers,” Hobbs got down on his knees, “and get down on the floor with your hands on your head. Do it now”

The group, confused stepped away from the computers and placed themselves on the floor as instructed.

Moments later, the door crashed in, and a squadron of black clad military personnel burst through.

18 Years Later. March 18th 2017

Built within the rock of ‘The Dom’, the third highest mountain in the Pennine Alps, Switzerland, was a state of the art, highly classified facility. Within thirty minutes of Air Force One landing on the runway in the mountains core, the President of the United States, Thomas Ellison, was escorted to a large boardroom, and left inside alone. This was highly irregular.

The first thing the president noticed before entering was how unnecessarily large the doors were. At least ten feet high. The second, as he entered, was that despite the facility being set deep within the rock, he could see through it. Half of the room and a portion of the roof and floor were completely see through. Ellison could see the other peaks in the distance, and the hazy mist of clouds below.

A few moments later, the large metallic doors opposite swung open, and a gentleman in an elegantly tailored grey suit and peppered grey hair strode through with a black folder in hand. The President met him half way.

The man in the grey suit extended his hand. “Mr President, thank you for meeting with me. My name is Klaus Heinrich Engel. Please sit.” Engel gestured to the nearest seats at the board table.

Engel sat and placed the folder on the table. “I don’t intend to keep you very long, Mr President. I’m aware of the constraints on your time, as I share a similar burden. Firstly, I just wish to congratulate you on your recent appointment. I understand the inauguration was one of the most viewed on record?” He spoke crisply, precisely, with only a hint of his native German accent.

“Thank you, Mr Engel, yes, over 40 million around the globe”

“An impressive feat. You must be very pleased?”

“Truthfully, I haven’t had the time to process it. I thought my life was busy before the election. I’m never left alone, now. In fact, I must admit, I’m at somewhat of a loss in relation to our meeting. It’s unusual for me to be in any situation without my security detail and a contingent of my advisors, especially out of state”

Engel smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes. I can understand the concern behind your words. The information I’m going to provide to you is Code Black classified. Very few people are granted access to this information. This facility was constructed with the knowledge that the magnitude of these secrets would be contained within, and so naturally, it is the safest place on earth. This is the only reason why your security contingent could be negotiated to wait outside the door and not in here with you, I assure you of that.”

The President crossed his legs and rested his clutched hands on his knee. “Well, alright then”

“Yes, down to business.” Engel affixed his glasses, opened the black folder and flicked through the pages. “Are you aware of The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration under the Department of Commerce?”

“NOAA? Yes, they’re environmental researchers” said Ellison.

Engel nodded. He found the page he was looking for and pushed it across the table to Ellison. It was a simple document entitled ‘Julia’ dated 2nd March 1999. It was stamped Top Secret.

“On March 1st 1999, NOAA recorded an underwater sound so loud it was heard through the entire Pacific Ocean. The sound came from Antarctica.” Engel pressed a button on a device on the table which played the recording. It was like a deep echoing groan. Ellison had never heard anything quite like it.

Engel continued, “Sounds like this have occurred before. ‘The Bloop’ you may have heard of, quite well known, was recorded in 1997, and the ‘Upsweep’ has been recorded seasonally since 1991. The official explanation is underwater volcanic activity, and in the cases of The Bloop and Julia, the sound of a large iceberg that has run aground.”

Engel worked through the folder again, and pushed over a series of photographs blown to A4 size. “The unofficial explanation, is that Julia is a creature more than double the size of the Empire State Building, roughly 800 metres in length. These are classified images taken by NASA’s Apollo 33A5.” Ellison picked up the photos one at a time. Enormous shadows could be seen in the photographs. As he flicked through them, the shadows became darker and darker until the creature surfaced. It was monstrous. Like a cross between an Eel and a Great White.

Ellison continued through the photographs and drew a quick breath. “Is that a ship?”

Engel nodded “It’s not by the petitions of Greenpeace or diplomatic government efforts that Japanese whalers have ceased activity in the Antarctic. The Japanese have been whaling on an industrial scale for almost 130 years. We’ve identified that Whales are a key food source for her. She’s intelligent, Mr President. She’s been targeting the ships. Those pictures show her eating them. Whole”

Ellison felt ill. “This ship has to be over 60 metres long?”

Engel nodded.

“What the hell is it?” Ellison said. “Who knows about this? How has it not been leaked?”

“We know its origins are of Earth. Pre-historic of course. Remnants of a time long gone. It prefers cold water, and the effects of global warming, we suspect, are why it’s becoming more active” Engel paged through the folder again and passed over another document, this one signed by a Greg Hobbs.

“In terms of who knows the truth, well, very few do. You and President Clinton are the only two U.S Presidents to be briefed about it. The staff present at NOAA during the discovery signed an NDA. A breach of the agreement would incur a minimum penalty of life imprisonment in a high security installation without parole”

Ellison placed the documents down and rubbed his eyes. This was far and away from anything he expected to be discussing. And the anxious pull in his stomach told him he was missing something. “Why am I here, Mr Engel?”

Engel gathered the photo and documents that had accumulated and began ordering them back into the folder. “It has come to our attention that you intend on following through on a campaign promise to begin oil drilling in Antarctica.”

Ellison reacted immediately. “Now, hang on a minut-“

Engel turned to face Ellison, “Mr President, you’re here today so that we may insist in person, that you cease these plans.”

Ellison wasn’t having it. “To hell with that! I won the election based on that promise. To turn back on it now will kill me politically. The Democrats will have my head. You want me to stop because of this fucking worm? I have the largest military force in the world. I’ll blow the bitch to hell!”

Engel thought on this calmly. “There are things under that ice, Mr President. Ancient things. Things classified even to you. Things that you will never recover from once you’re told. Things that we are insisting not be disturbed because we have a vested interest in not disturbing them."

“Who the hell is ‘we’?” said Ellison.

“The United Conglomerate of Earth”

“And what is that exactly?”

“The real government, Mr President”

Ellison could feel himself crumbling. He had worked too damn hard to be brought down this early in his Presidency. He’d be the laughing stock of the world for lapsing on this after how hard he pushed it. “I am the President of the United States of America! I am the most powerful man on earth. This will fuck me! You understand this right? This will fuck me up. Who the hell are you to insist anything to me?”

The corner of Engels mouth twitched into a grin. He closed the black folder. “I am the Director General of the United Conglomerate of Earth,” He removed his glasses and placed them in his inner jacket coat pocket as he stood. “Mr President, you will come to understand, in the fullness of time, that you are only a big fish in a small pond. Julia, is a much bigger fish…and I am bigger still.”

Engel pushed his chair back under the table. “Good day, Mr President. I’ll be in touch.”

Engel turned on the spot and walked back to the large door he entered through. Ellison, still in shock, clutched the arms of his chair as the door was opened for Engel by an eight foot tall humanoid with beige membranous skin. The creature and Engel exchanged words briefly, as he passed through the door and then the creature looked directly at the President. Its eyes were large, luminescent blue. They flickered a horrifying black and red, and then it closed the door.

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Written by Andrometa
Julia - repost
March 1st 1999

The small team at NOAA who first discovered the sound gathered excitedly around the computer console. It was for these rare discoveries that the scientists worked long, thankless hours. The last sound they discovered was two years previous, when the hydrophones detected one of the loudest sounds ever recorded 3000 miles away off the southern coast of South America. The sound resembled a large bubble being blown under water, and thus it was lovingly termed ‘The Bloop’.

The sound discovered today was different.

Within fifteen minutes the Managing Director, Greg Hobbs, was in the lab and listening to the sound. He had to sit down. “Good god, this is something alive?” he said.

The red phone rang. Everybody froze. This phone had never rung before, and only one person was authorised to call it. Greg took a deep breath and answered.

“Managing Director Hobbs.”

The scientists who looked on noticed his shoulders sag and his head drop. He turned to face his colleagues, all warmth had drained from his face. “I understand,” Hobbs said. “Yes sir, Mr President”. Hobbs placed down the phone.

“Come away from the computers,” Hobbs got down on his knees, “and get down on the floor with your hands on your head. Do it now”

The group, confused stepped away from the computers and placed themselves on the floor as instructed.

Moments later, the door crashed in, and a squadron of black clad military personnel burst through.

18 Years Later. March 18th 2017

Built within the rock of ‘The Dom’, the third highest mountain in the Pennine Alps, Switzerland, was a state of the art, highly classified facility. Within thirty minutes of Air Force One landing on the runway in the mountains core, the President of the United States, Thomas Ellison, was escorted to a large boardroom, and left inside alone. This was highly irregular.

The first thing the president noticed before entering was how unnecessarily large the doors were. At least ten feet high. The second, as he entered, was that despite the facility being set deep within the rock, he could see through it. Half of the room and a portion of the roof and floor were completely see through. Ellison could see the other peaks in the distance, and the hazy mist of clouds below.

A few moments later, the large metallic doors opposite swung open, and a gentleman in an elegantly tailored grey suit and peppered grey hair strode through with a black folder in hand. The President met him half way.

The man in the grey suit extended his hand. “Mr President, thank you for meeting with me. My name is Klaus Heinrich Engel. Please sit.” Engel gestured to the nearest seats at the board table.

Engel sat and placed the folder on the table. “I don’t intend to keep you very long, Mr President. I’m aware of the constraints on your time, as I share a similar burden. Firstly, I just wish to congratulate you on your recent appointment. I understand the inauguration was one of the most viewed on record?” He spoke crisply, precisely, with only a hint of his native German accent.

“Thank you, Mr Engel, yes, over 40 million around the globe”

“An impressive feat. You must be very pleased?”

“Truthfully, I haven’t had the time to process it. I thought my life was busy before the election. I’m never left alone, now. In fact, I must admit, I’m at somewhat of a loss in relation to our meeting. It’s unusual for me to be in any situation without my security detail and a contingent of my advisors, especially out of state”

Engel smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes. I can understand the concern behind your words. The information I’m going to provide to you is Code Black classified. Very few people are granted access to this information. This facility was constructed with the knowledge that the magnitude of these secrets would be contained within, and so naturally, it is the safest place on earth. This is the only reason why your security contingent could be negotiated to wait outside the door and not in here with you, I assure you of that.”

The President crossed his legs and rested his clutched hands on his knee. “Well, alright then”

“Yes, down to business.” Engel affixed his glasses, opened the black folder and flicked through the pages. “Are you aware of The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration under the Department of Commerce?”

“NOAA? Yes, they’re environmental researchers” said Ellison.

Engel nodded. He found the page he was looking for and pushed it across the table to Ellison. It was a simple document entitled ‘Julia’ dated 2nd March 1999. It was stamped Top Secret.

“On March 1st 1999, NOAA recorded an underwater sound so loud it was heard through the entire Pacific Ocean. The sound came from Antarctica.” Engel pressed a button on a device on the table which played the recording. It was like a deep echoing groan. Ellison had never heard anything quite like it.

Engel continued, “Sounds like this have occurred before. ‘The Bloop’ you may have heard of, quite well known, was recorded in 1997, and the ‘Upsweep’ has been recorded seasonally since 1991. The official explanation is underwater volcanic activity, and in the cases of The Bloop and Julia, the sound of a large iceberg that has run aground.”

Engel worked through the folder again, and pushed over a series of photographs blown to A4 size. “The unofficial explanation, is that Julia is a creature more than double the size of the Empire State Building, roughly 800 metres in length. These are classified images taken by NASA’s Apollo 33A5.” Ellison picked up the photos one at a time. Enormous shadows could be seen in the photographs. As he flicked through them, the shadows became darker and darker until the creature surfaced. It was monstrous. Like a cross between an Eel and a Great White.

Ellison continued through the photographs and drew a quick breath. “Is that a ship?”

Engel nodded “It’s not by the petitions of Greenpeace or diplomatic government efforts that Japanese whalers have ceased activity in the Antarctic. The Japanese have been whaling on an industrial scale for almost 130 years. We’ve identified that Whales are a key food source for her. She’s intelligent, Mr President. She’s been targeting the ships. Those pictures show her eating them. Whole”

Ellison felt ill. “This ship has to be over 60 metres long?”

Engel nodded.

“What the hell is it?” Ellison said. “Who knows about this? How has it not been leaked?”

“We know its origins are of Earth. Pre-historic of course. Remnants of a time long gone. It prefers cold water, and the effects of global warming, we suspect, are why it’s becoming more active” Engel paged through the folder again and passed over another document, this one signed by a Greg Hobbs.

“In terms of who knows the truth, well, very few do. You and President Clinton are the only two U.S Presidents to be briefed about it. The staff present at NOAA during the discovery signed an NDA. A breach of the agreement would incur a minimum penalty of life imprisonment in a high security installation without parole”

Ellison placed the documents down and rubbed his eyes. This was far and away from anything he expected to be discussing. And the anxious pull in his stomach told him he was missing something. “Why am I here, Mr Engel?”

Engel gathered the photo and documents that had accumulated and began ordering them back into the folder. “It has come to our attention that you intend on following through on a campaign promise to begin oil drilling in Antarctica.”

Ellison reacted immediately. “Now, hang on a minut-“

Engel turned to face Ellison, “Mr President, you’re here today so that we may insist in person, that you cease these plans.”

Ellison wasn’t having it. “To hell with that! I won the election based on that promise. To turn back on it now will kill me politically. The Democrats will have my head. You want me to stop because of this fucking worm? I have the largest military force in the world. I’ll blow the bitch to hell!”

Engel thought on this calmly. “There are things under that ice, Mr President. Ancient things. Things classified even to you. Things that you will never recover from once you’re told. Things that we are insisting not be disturbed because we have a vested interest in not disturbing them."

“Who the hell is ‘we’?” said Ellison.

“The United Conglomerate of Earth”

“And what is that exactly?”

“The real government, Mr President”

Ellison could feel himself crumbling. He had worked too damn hard to be brought down this early in his Presidency. He’d be the laughing stock of the world for lapsing on this after how hard he pushed it. “I am the President of the United States of America! I am the most powerful man on earth. This will fuck me! You understand this right? This will fuck me up. Who the hell are you to insist anything to me?”

The corner of Engels mouth twitched into a grin. He closed the black folder. “I am the Director General of the United Conglomerate of Earth,” He removed his glasses and placed them in his inner jacket coat pocket as he stood. “Mr President, you will come to understand, in the fullness of time, that you are only a big fish in a small pond. Julia, is a much bigger fish…and I am bigger still.”

Engel pushed his chair back under the table. “Good day, Mr President. I’ll be in touch.”

Engel turned on the spot and walked back to the large door he entered through. Ellison, still in shock, clutched the arms of his chair as the door was opened for Engel by an eight foot tall humanoid with beige membranous skin. The creature and Engel exchanged words briefly, as he passed through the door and then the creature looked directly at the President. Its eyes were large, luminescent blue. They flickered a horrifying black and red, and then it closed the door.
#scifi  #fiction  #horror  #mystery  #politics 
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Written by Sammielee46

Deflowering

Everyone has addictions.

Drugs. Alcohol. Pussy. Cigarettes. Food.

Fuck, some people are even addicted to the sound of their own voices.

My addiction isn't any of the above. I have an addiction to the sweetest nectar known to man. Innocence.

That majestic glint in an apple-eyed youngster, the look of sheer wonder, where retinas process the world in glorious kaleidoscopic colour; just before the eulogy of adulthood is read aloud during the funeral of life. Their leathered eyes becoming knowing, worldly, and suspicious.

My preferred age range is seven to twelve year olds. Prepubescent saplings that make me salivate at first glance. The spindle-limbed, uncoordinated, beauties make my dick harder than concrete.

Child pornography doesn't cut it. It never has. It’s not just about the visual aspect of what the world call 'minors.' It’s the three dimensional, multi-sensory experience. The feel, the smell. Fuck, the smell. The aroma of outdoors, sticky, sweet, their unique syrup. The feel of the smoothest skin, unmarred by razors, wax strips; pores still closed, unwrapped, pure. The sound of childhood. Giggles; the inhibited nature in which they let go and do not care who hears them. Carefreeness, immaturity, innocence.

It has always boiled back to innocence. Through my mothers’ own addictions I had my innocence stolen at the ripe age of four. Her vices: drugs, booze, and sex, made me flower into an adult way sooner than I should have. I’d listen to her moan and scream whilst some dirty looking old man would bend her over the counter and fuck her in the ass. I’d often walk in on her shooting up, belt around her arm, honey in a needle, burnt coloured spoon on the table, eyes glazed, body slumping. Seeing her that way would relieve me, her being drugged up was far better than fuelled with alcohol or screwing a stranger.

I had to fend for myself. Cook, wash my own clothes, pay for the gas and electric, get myself to and from school; everything a mother should do for a child but didn’t. By the time I was seven, I may as well have been twenty-seven. My mum died, overdosing on the liquid-gold lifeblood, and I was left tidy up around her. Time passed and eventually the care system took me in and tried to enforce childhood back on an already evolved flower. It didn’t work. I ran from every home they placed me in. Cat and mouse races ensued until I was finally old enough to be the man I am today.

Flowers. An analogy I have spent years cultivating. The life cycle of the human race closely mirrors that of the life of a flower, yet it never ends with a beautiful rose blossom. Bear with me here. A seed buried in the soil taking the nourishment from it’s life force, until it’s born, a little stem, green, new, fresh, poking it’s head towards the light from the darkness that consumed it, breaking free from the confines of the underworld. It flourishes, and the point at which I am interested is when it buds, the little heads at the end of the stem, the best moment, the innocence is still there, until it flowers into an adult and it turns out to be nothing more than a goddamn dandelion. Ugly, marred, and sowing its fucking seed everywhere.

I ended up teaching these little ones. I chose my career as I wanted to nurture innocence, capture their immaturity and try and keep them as childlike for as long as possible. The kinder-garden of spring, if you will.

The very last time I touched a bud was in class. She was my student. It was all but a hug; she’d fallen in the playground at recess, grazed her pigeon-knee, she was crying and was so sad. I held her, and the fire inside me ignited. I felt alive. I knew at that time that I must touch her more intimately, but it would have to be away from the school, it would take time. I would tend this garden until I got her alone to be able to prune her until she was putty in my hands.

After months of work, which included being trusted by her mother and father, convincing them that their actually intelligent child needed extra support outside of the classroom, they allowed me to home-tutor. To begin with she was off limits, her parents were always there, but as time went on they became confident with me being around. A day then came where they needed to go out and entrusted me with her care.

We’d finished our reading lesson and she showed me her bedroom, I won’t tell you her real name but I’ll call her Lily. Lily’s bedroom was beautiful, something out of the movies I had watched as a kid, something I never had. There were teddy’s everywhere, pink drapes, the softest carpet. We laid on the floor together, her smell fingering my nasal hairs. I touched her leg with my fingertips, slowly tracing up to the apex of her thighs, gooseflesh erupted across her skin and I knew at that point I had to taste her innocence.

I was gentle with my tongue, I tasted her newness, my tastebuds echoing the goose-pimples on her ivory flesh. She giggled, told me it felt funny, I told her in a reassuring voice to lay still, that funny feeling would feel nicer than candy. I swirled my tongue around her core until she began to shudder. My photosynthesis made my little bud quiver with my breath, with my touch; I breathed life into her, and she looked the most beautiful I had ever seen her.

I told her that the special time we had just shared was our little secret. Lily nodded. I wiped her with a washcloth, and we sat back at the kitchen table and coloured together, just in time for her parents’ return. I went home and took care of my iron-fisted erection.

For months this carried on until touching her and tasting her just wasn’t enough anymore, I was walking around with tight balls and a constant hard-on. I needed to connect us together.

----

There was blood everywhere, she was screaming, her tears scarring her ivy face, what had I done? She looked up at me, and at that point I knew I had to run, for my little bud had turned into a dandelion. I had stolen her innocence, I had stolen the innocence of so many children, just like my mother did.

----

This is my full, unedited, confession. I dialled 911 seconds ago. When you find this note, check my briefcase. I have listed all of the children that I have deflowered. Help them, please help them, just like I wish someone helped me.

~ Fin.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by Sammielee46
Deflowering
Everyone has addictions.

Drugs. Alcohol. Pussy. Cigarettes. Food.

Fuck, some people are even addicted to the sound of their own voices.

My addiction isn't any of the above. I have an addiction to the sweetest nectar known to man. Innocence.

That majestic glint in an apple-eyed youngster, the look of sheer wonder, where retinas process the world in glorious kaleidoscopic colour; just before the eulogy of adulthood is read aloud during the funeral of life. Their leathered eyes becoming knowing, worldly, and suspicious.

My preferred age range is seven to twelve year olds. Prepubescent saplings that make me salivate at first glance. The spindle-limbed, uncoordinated, beauties make my dick harder than concrete.

Child pornography doesn't cut it. It never has. It’s not just about the visual aspect of what the world call 'minors.' It’s the three dimensional, multi-sensory experience. The feel, the smell. Fuck, the smell. The aroma of outdoors, sticky, sweet, their unique syrup. The feel of the smoothest skin, unmarred by razors, wax strips; pores still closed, unwrapped, pure. The sound of childhood. Giggles; the inhibited nature in which they let go and do not care who hears them. Carefreeness, immaturity, innocence.

It has always boiled back to innocence. Through my mothers’ own addictions I had my innocence stolen at the ripe age of four. Her vices: drugs, booze, and sex, made me flower into an adult way sooner than I should have. I’d listen to her moan and scream whilst some dirty looking old man would bend her over the counter and fuck her in the ass. I’d often walk in on her shooting up, belt around her arm, honey in a needle, burnt coloured spoon on the table, eyes glazed, body slumping. Seeing her that way would relieve me, her being drugged up was far better than fuelled with alcohol or screwing a stranger.

I had to fend for myself. Cook, wash my own clothes, pay for the gas and electric, get myself to and from school; everything a mother should do for a child but didn’t. By the time I was seven, I may as well have been twenty-seven. My mum died, overdosing on the liquid-gold lifeblood, and I was left tidy up around her. Time passed and eventually the care system took me in and tried to enforce childhood back on an already evolved flower. It didn’t work. I ran from every home they placed me in. Cat and mouse races ensued until I was finally old enough to be the man I am today.

Flowers. An analogy I have spent years cultivating. The life cycle of the human race closely mirrors that of the life of a flower, yet it never ends with a beautiful rose blossom. Bear with me here. A seed buried in the soil taking the nourishment from it’s life force, until it’s born, a little stem, green, new, fresh, poking it’s head towards the light from the darkness that consumed it, breaking free from the confines of the underworld. It flourishes, and the point at which I am interested is when it buds, the little heads at the end of the stem, the best moment, the innocence is still there, until it flowers into an adult and it turns out to be nothing more than a goddamn dandelion. Ugly, marred, and sowing its fucking seed everywhere.

I ended up teaching these little ones. I chose my career as I wanted to nurture innocence, capture their immaturity and try and keep them as childlike for as long as possible. The kinder-garden of spring, if you will.

The very last time I touched a bud was in class. She was my student. It was all but a hug; she’d fallen in the playground at recess, grazed her pigeon-knee, she was crying and was so sad. I held her, and the fire inside me ignited. I felt alive. I knew at that time that I must touch her more intimately, but it would have to be away from the school, it would take time. I would tend this garden until I got her alone to be able to prune her until she was putty in my hands.

After months of work, which included being trusted by her mother and father, convincing them that their actually intelligent child needed extra support outside of the classroom, they allowed me to home-tutor. To begin with she was off limits, her parents were always there, but as time went on they became confident with me being around. A day then came where they needed to go out and entrusted me with her care.

We’d finished our reading lesson and she showed me her bedroom, I won’t tell you her real name but I’ll call her Lily. Lily’s bedroom was beautiful, something out of the movies I had watched as a kid, something I never had. There were teddy’s everywhere, pink drapes, the softest carpet. We laid on the floor together, her smell fingering my nasal hairs. I touched her leg with my fingertips, slowly tracing up to the apex of her thighs, gooseflesh erupted across her skin and I knew at that point I had to taste her innocence.

I was gentle with my tongue, I tasted her newness, my tastebuds echoing the goose-pimples on her ivory flesh. She giggled, told me it felt funny, I told her in a reassuring voice to lay still, that funny feeling would feel nicer than candy. I swirled my tongue around her core until she began to shudder. My photosynthesis made my little bud quiver with my breath, with my touch; I breathed life into her, and she looked the most beautiful I had ever seen her.

I told her that the special time we had just shared was our little secret. Lily nodded. I wiped her with a washcloth, and we sat back at the kitchen table and coloured together, just in time for her parents’ return. I went home and took care of my iron-fisted erection.

For months this carried on until touching her and tasting her just wasn’t enough anymore, I was walking around with tight balls and a constant hard-on. I needed to connect us together.

----

There was blood everywhere, she was screaming, her tears scarring her ivy face, what had I done? She looked up at me, and at that point I knew I had to run, for my little bud had turned into a dandelion. I had stolen her innocence, I had stolen the innocence of so many children, just like my mother did.

----

This is my full, unedited, confession. I dialled 911 seconds ago. When you find this note, check my briefcase. I have listed all of the children that I have deflowered. Help them, please help them, just like I wish someone helped me.


~ Fin.
#fiction  #shortstory  #nsfw  #Itslit  #LolitaInspired 
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Written by words-and-us

Falling for an angel

I saw her,

Draped in white.

She was Lucent in the night,

Like a firefly madding.

'A mortal in disguise', is what my mind forced me to believe.

But I knew better, the minute I spotted those feathers of pearly white that expressed more of her muliebrity.

She sat on the edge of a cliff just like a delicate creature of immortality, so lost in her conversation with the moon.

The moonlight shone brightly on her luscious skin that was now glowing with pride. She sensed my presence and quickly turned towards me.

Her eyes widened as she saw me gawking at her. The moonlight seemed to have faded a bit as darkness ascended upon us. Her angelic wings had seemed to have lost its magic. I could see her almost withering away. She kept staring at me as I moved as gently as I could towards her. I sat beside her and stared into her eyes, trying to read her. The smell of fear, pain and curiosity had filled the air between us.

"Who are you?!" She questioned me curiously.

I moved closer towards her and whispered in the most sweetest tone I could..." It is time. I've come to help you escape from this wretched world, in peace"

And that was exactly what I did even though it pained me to see my angel take her leave.

I freed her from this sinful realm of atrocity. I freed her from her pain. I allowed her soul to pass beyond the boundaries of sin and into eternity. I helped her free herself, something I couldn't even dream of doing to myself. She was an angel of purity and I was just her well-wisher and caretaker for the beginning of her journey of eternity. I fell for an imperfect, unreal, most human form of an angelic creature as there could ever be. She was an embodiment of beauty dressed in the most purest form of white. While I, was covered from head to toe with nothing but black. I was an angel sent from above to comfort the creations of the almighty and help their bodies to fade away in peace, while their soul travelled beyond the Unknown.

She was my mortal angel

But I...

I was just her Angel of death.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by words-and-us
Falling for an angel
I saw her,
Draped in white.
She was Lucent in the night,
Like a firefly madding.
'A mortal in disguise', is what my mind forced me to believe.
But I knew better, the minute I spotted those feathers of pearly white that expressed more of her muliebrity.
She sat on the edge of a cliff just like a delicate creature of immortality, so lost in her conversation with the moon.
The moonlight shone brightly on her luscious skin that was now glowing with pride. She sensed my presence and quickly turned towards me.
Her eyes widened as she saw me gawking at her. The moonlight seemed to have faded a bit as darkness ascended upon us. Her angelic wings had seemed to have lost its magic. I could see her almost withering away. She kept staring at me as I moved as gently as I could towards her. I sat beside her and stared into her eyes, trying to read her. The smell of fear, pain and curiosity had filled the air between us.
"Who are you?!" She questioned me curiously.
I moved closer towards her and whispered in the most sweetest tone I could..." It is time. I've come to help you escape from this wretched world, in peace"
And that was exactly what I did even though it pained me to see my angel take her leave.
I freed her from this sinful realm of atrocity. I freed her from her pain. I allowed her soul to pass beyond the boundaries of sin and into eternity. I helped her free herself, something I couldn't even dream of doing to myself. She was an angel of purity and I was just her well-wisher and caretaker for the beginning of her journey of eternity. I fell for an imperfect, unreal, most human form of an angelic creature as there could ever be. She was an embodiment of beauty dressed in the most purest form of white. While I, was covered from head to toe with nothing but black. I was an angel sent from above to comfort the creations of the almighty and help their bodies to fade away in peace, while their soul travelled beyond the Unknown.
She was my mortal angel
But I...
I was just her Angel of death.
#fantasy  #fiction  #romance  #spirituality 
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Written by KrissieB

When I f***ed the teacher

Running. In this heat. This summer was glorious. Full of hope.

It’s been hot, long and hot. Now the storm is edging in… taking over. It hit yesterday and that wasn’t the last of it. Fucking. Mr Cranwood.

I thought that would open up some sort of adult world for me; martinis and wearing a big man’s shirt and nothing underneath. It didn’t.

I think he went into teaching to remain in perpetual childhood. For all his muscle, his dick isn’t that big.

Bunny. She’s driving me mental. All these plans; University, winter skiing in Aspen again, next summer abroad together. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell anyone.

I can hear my mother now. That asinine voice of hers: ‘But what do you mean Gerard? What do you mean done for?!’ He didn’t even comfort her. Neither did I. She just sat there, sobs eventually waning into an exhausted tremble. She’s drifted around silently since. Sometimes she just sits there, staring into the distance. I can’t work out whether she is genuinely mute with shock, or whether this is a form of demonstration to express the extent of her suffering to my father. Either way, it’s pathetic.

I’m sweating like a pig. Mr Cranwood keeps jumping around like an idiot. He’ll be way ahead with the boys soon, muscle and testosterone fuelling them ahead. He won’t even check that the rest of us are still here. Maybe it’s a tactic to make us scared. Worried we’ll get left behind we’ll panic-run ourselves into a coronary. The strong shall inherit the earth. Well enjoy, boys, because us ‘girls’ are lagging behind and you’ll realise you have no reason to show off once you get there.

Maybe I should get a job? I’m seventeen. I could try modelling. Acting. It seems like too much hard work. I am exhausted alone by playing ‘Jackie’ for my classmates. Jesus Mr Cranwood is annoying. He put his whole hand in my mouth last night, a big grin on his face as if this was some sort of achievement. I let him. I opened my mouth and stretched it wider for his intruding fist. I don’t really know why. Fuck it. I can drive. Before they take away the cars and the jewellery, the nice clothes and the silver, I’ll shove as much as I can in the boot of the Jag and just speed off. I’ll drive to France and start my new life there. What’s stopping me?

Should have paid more attention in French class. When you’re young you think life just moves along a specific route. Predestined for you but not limited to you. It’s everyone you knows’ path, and you talk with your friends about that path, feeling like yours is unique to you as an individual, but you’re too dumb to realise you’re all talking about the same empty fantasy. You’ll be popular in school, you’ll fall in love, you’ll get married, you’ll have sex, have children and just… be happy. I never questioned that, but then, Mr Cranwood. Embezzlment.

This whole added layer of ‘the path’ as something completely random, uncertain, has started to appear in the distance. The future is massive. Twisted. Is it even there? 

What meaning does my future have? What form? We are all haunted by the monster that is money. We are trying to catch it, to grab more of it so that it doesn’t consume us first. I love money. I get a buzz from the crispness of a fresh twenty pound note. I smile inwardly  at the sturdy comfort of pound coins rubbing up against each other in my pocket. More of it means more of me. I can be big with money. I can expand and spread. I can laugh and I can drink martinis in the afternoon, and Mr Cranwood can eat my fucking hand.

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Written by KrissieB
When I f***ed the teacher
Running. In this heat. This summer was glorious. Full of hope.

It’s been hot, long and hot. Now the storm is edging in… taking over. It hit yesterday and that wasn’t the last of it. Fucking. Mr Cranwood.

I thought that would open up some sort of adult world for me; martinis and wearing a big man’s shirt and nothing underneath. It didn’t.

I think he went into teaching to remain in perpetual childhood. For all his muscle, his dick isn’t that big.

Bunny. She’s driving me mental. All these plans; University, winter skiing in Aspen again, next summer abroad together. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell anyone.

I can hear my mother now. That asinine voice of hers: ‘But what do you mean Gerard? What do you mean done for?!’ He didn’t even comfort her. Neither did I. She just sat there, sobs eventually waning into an exhausted tremble. She’s drifted around silently since. Sometimes she just sits there, staring into the distance. I can’t work out whether she is genuinely mute with shock, or whether this is a form of demonstration to express the extent of her suffering to my father. Either way, it’s pathetic.

I’m sweating like a pig. Mr Cranwood keeps jumping around like an idiot. He’ll be way ahead with the boys soon, muscle and testosterone fuelling them ahead. He won’t even check that the rest of us are still here. Maybe it’s a tactic to make us scared. Worried we’ll get left behind we’ll panic-run ourselves into a coronary. The strong shall inherit the earth. Well enjoy, boys, because us ‘girls’ are lagging behind and you’ll realise you have no reason to show off once you get there.

Maybe I should get a job? I’m seventeen. I could try modelling. Acting. It seems like too much hard work. I am exhausted alone by playing ‘Jackie’ for my classmates. Jesus Mr Cranwood is annoying. He put his whole hand in my mouth last night, a big grin on his face as if this was some sort of achievement. I let him. I opened my mouth and stretched it wider for his intruding fist. I don’t really know why. Fuck it. I can drive. Before they take away the cars and the jewellery, the nice clothes and the silver, I’ll shove as much as I can in the boot of the Jag and just speed off. I’ll drive to France and start my new life there. What’s stopping me?

Should have paid more attention in French class. When you’re young you think life just moves along a specific route. Predestined for you but not limited to you. It’s everyone you knows’ path, and you talk with your friends about that path, feeling like yours is unique to you as an individual, but you’re too dumb to realise you’re all talking about the same empty fantasy. You’ll be popular in school, you’ll fall in love, you’ll get married, you’ll have sex, have children and just… be happy. I never questioned that, but then, Mr Cranwood. Embezzlment.

This whole added layer of ‘the path’ as something completely random, uncertain, has started to appear in the distance. The future is massive. Twisted. Is it even there? 

What meaning does my future have? What form? We are all haunted by the monster that is money. We are trying to catch it, to grab more of it so that it doesn’t consume us first. I love money. I get a buzz from the crispness of a fresh twenty pound note. I smile inwardly  at the sturdy comfort of pound coins rubbing up against each other in my pocket. More of it means more of me. I can be big with money. I can expand and spread. I can laugh and I can drink martinis in the afternoon, and Mr Cranwood can eat my fucking hand.
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Written by Noveltunity

A Story Almost Told

                                                             Prologue

This is the story of a trying to make a dream of having my screenplay produced come true and how it turned into a nightmare that would haunt me for decades.

A blink of an eye that seemed to last a lifetime and touched so many lives. It was an odyssey that traversed three continents. The array of friends, politicians, stars, police, wannabes and crooks came together without being aware of their participation in it. As bizarre as it may seem later, all those named herein did knowingly or unknowingly play a role. Some were totally innocent others intentionally not.

I started innocently on a path to make a dream come true. Destiny played a series of sick tricks diverting my original path in unimaginable ways. I still don't understand how or why any of this happened.

So much was lost on the way to this day. More than a quarter of a century has passed, yet I am unsure whether this is ending a chapter in my life or creating a new highway from a winding path.

Are these words and pages cathartic or reopening deep and old wounds? Being honest, I don't know the answer to this question. Only finishing the task at hand can lead there. We'll all learn together.

Let me assure you, everything you are about to read really did happen. It happened to me and around me. As unlikely as it will seem, it is so. I wish I could be creative enough to lay out such a complex novel. This is non-fiction. I wish to hell it wasn't.

I had to decide whether to clean up the language and make this prettier than it was or is. I can't do that.

This tale was lived by the seats of my pants Buckle up, it's not for the faint of heart. Hell, there are times Stephen King would have screamed like a little girl.

Thanks for becoming part of my story.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by Noveltunity
A Story Almost Told
                                                             Prologue

This is the story of a trying to make a dream of having my screenplay produced come true and how it turned into a nightmare that would haunt me for decades.

A blink of an eye that seemed to last a lifetime and touched so many lives. It was an odyssey that traversed three continents. The array of friends, politicians, stars, police, wannabes and crooks came together without being aware of their participation in it. As bizarre as it may seem later, all those named herein did knowingly or unknowingly play a role. Some were totally innocent others intentionally not.

I started innocently on a path to make a dream come true. Destiny played a series of sick tricks diverting my original path in unimaginable ways. I still don't understand how or why any of this happened.

So much was lost on the way to this day. More than a quarter of a century has passed, yet I am unsure whether this is ending a chapter in my life or creating a new highway from a winding path.

Are these words and pages cathartic or reopening deep and old wounds? Being honest, I don't know the answer to this question. Only finishing the task at hand can lead there. We'll all learn together.

Let me assure you, everything you are about to read really did happen. It happened to me and around me. As unlikely as it will seem, it is so. I wish I could be creative enough to lay out such a complex novel. This is non-fiction. I wish to hell it wasn't.

I had to decide whether to clean up the language and make this prettier than it was or is. I can't do that.

This tale was lived by the seats of my pants Buckle up, it's not for the faint of heart. Hell, there are times Stephen King would have screamed like a little girl.

Thanks for becoming part of my story.




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Written by malloyhughes

Stranger Things

I'm not sure what made my sister-in-law want to walk down that street, but a compliment of a woman's home turned into a twenty-minute conversation and history lesson with a stranger. She leaned on her rake as she told us about the old days and how she came to buy a turreted Victorian on a shady street opposite the Minneapolis Institute of Art.

She bought the house in the early '70s when the city offered first dibs to the renters who occupied the old Victorians located across the street from the MIA. Then, like now, there's lot of artist types who live along the row.

She'd moved to Minneapolis from San Francisco with her then-husband, a sculptor of some acclaim. He's now her ex and living back in San Francisco, and when we ask about him, her current husband tells us how to find him on Google. They are all still friends and put one another up when they come into town. No hard feelings, you know?

She tells us that in the early 1970s, the MIA became a non-profit. The rents they were charging the students to live in the houses across the street were considered profits, so they had to get rid of them and ended up selling or donating them to the city. I forget which now. The city, in its infinite wisdom, was going to raze the old homes to put in parking. We gasped at this information and she nodded at our appropriate horror. The residents back then were of the same mind and raised such a fuss that the city decided to offer the houses to the current residents.

For a dollar.

We stood stunned on the sidewalk as our minds tried to wrap around that...and then immediately went to thinking what it's probably worth now.

She told us that the renovations were extensive. And expensive. New copper pipes, new electric, and a host of other cosmetic fixes had to be made. At one time, the house boasted five layers of roof shingles. And when they redid the turret, they found an old newspaper from a previous rehab that was layered in the wall and signed by the construction crew. They framed it and it hangs in the house now.

We chatted for a while about where we were all from. About the skyrocketing San Francisco real estate market and art - of which we knew nothing, but nodded along. About how her ex now owns the home of the first mayor of that city, but he's going to rent it out and move to his studio on the beach. About how San Francisco doesn't feel like home anymore now that the artists are being pushed out by the tech people. About getting older and how she doesn't want to leave her home, but what if she can't deal with the stairs anymore? She's seventy, but doesn't look a day over fifty, so we marvel at that.

As we were winding down, her husband told us we needed to visit the Guthrie (pictured above). We got directions and thanked them both for a lovely visit. She told my sister-in-law to ring the doorbell next time she was visiting the Institute.

Such a fascinating woman. I wish I knew her name.

14
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by malloyhughes
Stranger Things
I'm not sure what made my sister-in-law want to walk down that street, but a compliment of a woman's home turned into a twenty-minute conversation and history lesson with a stranger. She leaned on her rake as she told us about the old days and how she came to buy a turreted Victorian on a shady street opposite the Minneapolis Institute of Art.

She bought the house in the early '70s when the city offered first dibs to the renters who occupied the old Victorians located across the street from the MIA. Then, like now, there's lot of artist types who live along the row.

She'd moved to Minneapolis from San Francisco with her then-husband, a sculptor of some acclaim. He's now her ex and living back in San Francisco, and when we ask about him, her current husband tells us how to find him on Google. They are all still friends and put one another up when they come into town. No hard feelings, you know?

She tells us that in the early 1970s, the MIA became a non-profit. The rents they were charging the students to live in the houses across the street were considered profits, so they had to get rid of them and ended up selling or donating them to the city. I forget which now. The city, in its infinite wisdom, was going to raze the old homes to put in parking. We gasped at this information and she nodded at our appropriate horror. The residents back then were of the same mind and raised such a fuss that the city decided to offer the houses to the current residents.

For a dollar.

We stood stunned on the sidewalk as our minds tried to wrap around that...and then immediately went to thinking what it's probably worth now.

She told us that the renovations were extensive. And expensive. New copper pipes, new electric, and a host of other cosmetic fixes had to be made. At one time, the house boasted five layers of roof shingles. And when they redid the turret, they found an old newspaper from a previous rehab that was layered in the wall and signed by the construction crew. They framed it and it hangs in the house now.

We chatted for a while about where we were all from. About the skyrocketing San Francisco real estate market and art - of which we knew nothing, but nodded along. About how her ex now owns the home of the first mayor of that city, but he's going to rent it out and move to his studio on the beach. About how San Francisco doesn't feel like home anymore now that the artists are being pushed out by the tech people. About getting older and how she doesn't want to leave her home, but what if she can't deal with the stairs anymore? She's seventy, but doesn't look a day over fifty, so we marvel at that.

As we were winding down, her husband told us we needed to visit the Guthrie (pictured above). We got directions and thanked them both for a lovely visit. She told my sister-in-law to ring the doorbell next time she was visiting the Institute.

Such a fascinating woman. I wish I knew her name.
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Written by EstherFlowers1

The Death of a Hermit

A lone ant crawled over the human's cold skin. She was a scout, the first of many. I slithered over to investigate the corpse.

It was a shame about this human dying. He had rescued me once, when I had gotten myself caught in a strawberry-net. I might've starved if he hadn't found me. He had cut me out of the net and even carefully removed three pesky ticks from my scales before releasing me on the other side of the yard.

We had an unspoken pact, this old human and I. We looked out for each-other. He didn't like other humans much.

I coiled myself up underneath the old humans bushy face hair. It provided a good hiding place to sit and wait for rats.

As the sun came up a young human stomped out of the underbrush. It saw my hiding spot and started rushing forward on its two clunky legs.

Frantically the human's hands probed at the corpse.

The fingers inched closer ...

...

I struck,

sinking my venom deep into its veins.

The young human reeled back in shock, collapsing a few yards away. Through the earth I could feel the slowing vibrations of its heartbeat.

I coiled myself back under the beard of the corpse and continued my wait for vermin.

This old human would have been proud of me, I thought. He hadn't liked other humans much.

13
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by EstherFlowers1
The Death of a Hermit
A lone ant crawled over the human's cold skin. She was a scout, the first of many. I slithered over to investigate the corpse.

It was a shame about this human dying. He had rescued me once, when I had gotten myself caught in a strawberry-net. I might've starved if he hadn't found me. He had cut me out of the net and even carefully removed three pesky ticks from my scales before releasing me on the other side of the yard.

We had an unspoken pact, this old human and I. We looked out for each-other. He didn't like other humans much.

I coiled myself up underneath the old humans bushy face hair. It provided a good hiding place to sit and wait for rats.

As the sun came up a young human stomped out of the underbrush. It saw my hiding spot and started rushing forward on its two clunky legs.
Frantically the human's hands probed at the corpse.
The fingers inched closer ...
...
I struck,
sinking my venom deep into its veins.
The young human reeled back in shock, collapsing a few yards away. Through the earth I could feel the slowing vibrations of its heartbeat.

I coiled myself back under the beard of the corpse and continued my wait for vermin.
This old human would have been proud of me, I thought. He hadn't liked other humans much.
13
3
2
Juice
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by AJT

My Brother’s Funeral

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare. 

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have that same priest later take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Cómo se dice my brother is dead? Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. 

Death is not finite. 

Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. 

We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my surviving brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. 

Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. 

I give him my empty whisky nip. 

I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon. My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. 

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.

12
6
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Juice
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by AJT
My Brother’s Funeral
Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare. 

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have that same priest later take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Cómo se dice my brother is dead? Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. 

Death is not finite. 

Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. 

We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my surviving brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. 

Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. 

I give him my empty whisky nip. 

I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon. My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. 

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.
12
6
4
Juice
40 reads
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