Free Writing

[Hunter B.]

Anybody else write stuff for fun? I have been doing it lately and thought I would share a story.

Shift Ado

It is May and I am stizzled. My glassy eyes burn with ease as a distant friend presses herself against me, "I've missed you." She tilts her head back as we kiss, I smell the alcohol on her breath. It is May and I am very stizzled.

There are times when you must be honest. When I first arrived home, well, it wasn't home really; I arrived at the apartment of a women I did not know who was the aunt of someone I did not know who was the friend of someone I did not know who drove me home and I did not know what went on because all I can remember is not believing that I was going home but that I was going to die before it happened.

No, I wasn't hungry. I didn't need anything. I like the decorations, you've done well with your new change, I told her. Beaches? I love them too. There is a glass pipe in my pocket and an ounce of marijuana in my suit case. The person I don't know tells his aunt we'll be fine. She has to go to work. I laugh, work is a pain, she laughs. Goodbye somebody's aunt.

Outside on the balcony the air is cold. Sometimes you have to be honest, not all the time. The air is cold and I am unable to remember the previous six months of my life. Six months all compressed into one moment. A single moment, six months. Do I want a cigarette?

So this is Memorial? For some reason the view from the balcony is something more than the broad side of a building. The skyline is something more than early morning. Sometimes you have to be honest, but it's not so easy. Sometimes you may want to be honest, but you are not. Yes, I'll have a cigarette. It'll calm me down, my parents should be here soon.

I am alternating between the cigarette and the pipe, chamber filled with rich, green looking smoke and in a moment I am back six months ago. It was early morning. I did not pack what I needed; I wasn't ready; I'm a bad, bad boy. They give me what I need, I have nothing to bring. If I have nothing to bring, they will give me what I need. My father is angry. This was before I left, this was before I was inhaling tetrahydrocannabinol, nicotine, acetone, ammonia, carbon monoxide, and tar, and whatever else. This was before I jumped from a third story window, just to feel my skin tear against the concrete.

Somebody says we have some time before my parents get here. I relax, exhale. I'm back in Cummings dorm room now, and he is standing near the end of the room. Cummings has a Altoid tin can in his hand, there are no Altoids in the can. Anything can be paraphernalia. Cummings is standing next to an open window; I always liked Cummings. Cummings tells me he's never met anyone like me, no one like you, you are someone anyone can trust, there is something about you. I am holding the Altoid tin can with no Altoids in it. The window is open but it does not smell like the outdoors. I had never smelled this before. I had never died before.

Somebody's voice brings me back to Memorial, I decline the pipe, fluffy green clouds. Memorial, the skyline, it was early morning, and I was done for now. Almost anything is worth a desert sunrise, said Captain Yun as he ran ahead of the group of packaged cuetips. Rocks in my shoes were causing my socks to bleed, and my lungs hurt worse than they ever had before, but Yun was right when he said there is nothing like a desert sunrise. There really is nothing like a desert sunrise on a cold morning.

Sometime that morning we had run on a bridge over a highway to get to the track and I can remember not knowing anyone I was running with. It was the first morning, and I had vommited all over my clothing in the bottom drawer of my closet as some kids outside screamed and nearly kicked in my door. We were all running together and before we knew eachother we were screaming and yelling with pride as we ran over the bridge; I breathed in and out, quickly, as the cars ran under me; take me away; this is only the beginning; I cannot see the end. I am suspended over the highway, I am in the air, I am in this moment alive but soon I am back to Memorial.

The phone rings; they're outside. Somebody says goodbye. Goodbye somebody, may we never speak again, friend. I leave the pipe with somebody. But I keep what's left of the ounce. A lovely memento to keep me going, keep me calm. Before I walk outside, I am back now in Cummings room, he tells me how his mother wanted him to succeed, he is crying now, and my eyes are bloodshot red from tears and tetrahydrocannabinol. I always liked Cummings, he most often told the truth. Honesty is refreshing. I have never been capable of hate since then.

This trial had to end and it did as I walked outside to meet whatever I remember having forsaken in that single moment that was six months. I am smiling my biggest smile for them now. We are in the car; welcome back. Everyone is in the car. I am welcomed. All the fake informalities, all the fake reverie, all the fake rapport, all the fake love. How does it feel? To be back? I am smiling my biggest smile. Sometimes you have to be honest, not all the time.

I would later be told by someone that they loved me, but I would let them down. I would let them down. The whole mainframe of any fiber of structure that ever existed would come crashing down. I am back on the track and I have let myself fall; there is a difference between falling on concrete, and falling on a pebbly, wet track. Blood presents itself behind shallow cuts along my face, my body is covered in plastic that swishes and swooshes when I move like a vacuum going back and forth, back and forth.

For a minute I am leaning back in my cracked chair, in my lent filled room, listening to Francisco talk. His grandfather would always have a lenty Altoid for him, everytime he saw him. Everytime, and his grandfather would grin as he handed it to him. For a second I was in the mind of the old man, dying. I am back in the car now and we are talking. I have on my biggest smile, my biggest, fakest fiznackling smile. I feel like destroying something beautiful, I feel like breaking every bone in my body, like beating myself senseless until I can't remember a god damn thing about my past or what I haven't done.

My eyes are glassy and I sit inside my head; I am outside my head now, watching. I am a bubble inside the car. I have been expelled from my body, I cannot find another. I am observing. I think it's so much easier to conform, to believe in what you're told, because it's so much harder to think for yourself. I think there are distinctions, but it's difficult to think of what there truly is. There is black and there is white but there is also truth. I am inside the car, and everything is going on inside.

[brassmonkey]

Brilliant.

[crispy]

interesting. i enjoyed reading it, the end confused me a bit.

[Poo]

I'm writing a story, but i'm tryin to make it pretty long, still dont have a title, its a pretty cool idea.

[knox]

that is good stuff. Thanks for the food for thought. im still thinking. I love to free write, but all my stuff is hand written, and way worse than that. If i feel like typing an essay, ill put it on here.

[Hunter B.]

I've got another one written down, but it has more cursing and is a little longer. I'll post it if any of you are interested in reading something else.

[knox]

a poem i wrote a LONG time ago because i was often picked on in elementary and middle school.

The Runt

I dance
I fall on my head
I flip
Anything to get attention
But I’m ignored

Why?

Because I’m the runt
For some reason I’m treated differently.
I try to make them laugh
I try to make friends
But……
I’ll still be the butt of jokes
I’ll still be
The Runt

[knox]

A poem i wrote about wakeskating a couple of years back

Airborne

Your legs bend
Springs ready to explode
Push down
With the wake
Rise through the air
The board
Holding to you
In the air
Exhilaration
Pumping adrenaline
Into the abode
Of the airborne

[Hunter B.]

Something else you might enjoy. A little more violent and raw, but give me your thoughts on it.

EDIT: Filters and messing with it so I'll try to make it more understandable with the filters.


Vomit spilling from my mouth and all I have to do is scrape it out with my hand, raw and wet somehow, "Scrape it out you fu<k." I talk to myself. Scrape it out you fu<k, I'll say it again, scrape that vomit the f<ck out of your mouth.

And vernacular syntax has ever been so appealing - my scatology is my ontology - and I feel like taking the half-pint dumbfu<k pressing my face against the concrete and consecrating him by sending his thoughts on his own pathway to the lofty zenith which is known by some as heaven.

Heaven, toss me your roses from atop the clouds, and spin webs of grace for me because right now I am spinning strands of spit suffused with bile. "Forsaken, child, your suffering because of me is divine," and my throat brings down the fist of whoever it is, it's so divine, his suffering because of me, so divine.

"You deserve this little beach!" he, drawling like a child and he, standing over me, in corporeal superiority, not in any substantial sense, I submit, I submit, I laugh, I submit; I'll scrape this vomit out of my mouth, scrape the shizzle out, yeah, my scatology is my ontology, my velleity to laugh and glean whatever I can from this impassioned, insensate, haphazardly sentient simian.

"I'm here, only to defy you, openly deny you, stultify you," and with that I am gone, momentarily, momentarily my mind drifts and I am focused on the purposelessness all around me, delight, delight, and his plight, my delight, and I can't think for a minute, but only the rhymes or lines of some kind of song, completely irrelevent, but in a moment some things not worth mentioning are worth knowing and they are indeed worth mentioning and I could say so many things in this kind of state of mind, so many things about being in that whirling state of nothingness, perpetual anarchy of the mind, a hard blow from the fist of a boy, mad at me for something. It happens a lot. I felt like telling of it now.

"Return oh thou to your highest heights, you petty inculcated fu<k," riled first by my consciousness and then by my words, "Oh you petty trifling..." And I'm blinded.

I have a bally strainful headache, and there is a deucedly wretched stench about, vomit maybe, and I say myself a little prayer: "I pray, oh Father, heavenly Master, would Thou decideth that I may make my way, my petty, subservient way out of this, so that I may tonight go and read in the comfort of my room, my trivial human room, my sinful and horrible room, as I grovel in awe, performing all the eucharistic decorum, may I make it home tonight to read and fill my mind with all the sinful thoughts that are of man? Yes, oh please." And after I pray for myself I decide to
get up.

There are some things you do not wish to hear, some things you do not wish to know, some things that are so different from what you believed in it is not welcome, and there are too many things or too many ways and I get up, there are some things you do not wish to hear, and my agressor had to hear, "Hear me, rape me."

"Fu<king beach!" he, drawling, he standing, he knocking me down, I think - make the hate stay.

"I can see inside you fine, this pleasant disguise, make the hate stay," and I do not know what can anger, I'm just a whatever you call it, you wouldn't know it if you saw it, idyllic, motherfu<king erotic, I can't decide, here it goes, "I am my god, my body, let me anyway."

Justice gone there is force, force gone there is laughter. All my life, who am I? And he slams his fist into my face, on the ground, all around, "All my life who am I?"

"Beating, inebriated, intoxicated, infatuated with me, beat me, rape me," fulminating, fuming now, he's pissed, words could never have done so much and sometimes it is hard to explain with words, although there is a time and place for everything and right now there is nothing but the concrete, my blood on face and hands, clothing, concrete more, skin torn and ripped and lacerated on the fine granes adhering to my face, blood mixed in with detached pieces of concrete that would erode in the wind or whatever, this body, his body, sweating, beating, anger, rage, the acrimony breathing us in, steaming, seething, I need something, "I need to feel."

"You crazy fu<king son of a beach, I'll beat your little beach ass," he, standing over me.

And how did it get this way? Standing, he landing me down, and I am human for a slight, so the pain becomes real, and I ask, "Why? What the fu<k is your problem?"

More stone, more and more, I'm so alone, more and more, and there it goes, more and more, nothing, only throes, more and more, on the ground, more and more, twisted around, more and more, I am so alone you could never -
And words can't describe or explain the rage, and I guess I brought this on myself, verbally wrought, I can't explain how it gets this way sometimes, it happens sometimes, always sometimes, and I can't explain that something is something but it means anything to anyone and now it's heard.

"I told you, I warned you, punk," he had to use that word. Had to use that word. Punk. Had to use that word, not that it affected me, effected me, not that it meant anything, not that it indicated anything, he had to use that word, he had to speak that way, he had to use that word in that situation, maybe it did indicate something, and like a glove I'd stick to so many things, and I'm in love with something out there, and I can't believe everything I'm told, but for now, I say myself a little prayer and I look up to God, in the clouds I assume, that's what we're led to believe, he's always there of course, in my times of beating, with all the dead and dying, the miserable, in their times of misery and agony, and he's there delivering a sense of direction, it's all there and it's all here, and I love it how I can't transplant a feeling, and I love it how God is there always, there to help, I have to do nothing, I am however undeserving of course, born into the world without a choice, however it might have been my choice, but I'm only human, because of that I am dirty, horrible, we were not given a choice, and yes, man, horrible, intelligent benevolent Master - out loud now, "Shall we be like others? Father God, deliver us from our sins, that you have so lovingly bestowed upon us..." And I'm interrupted because the calm that came, gone away, I think - make the hate stay.

Into my face, teeth aching, and my head touches concrete in a way that is painful, blood is in my eyes and I laugh, I laugh, "I submit! Rape me, fu<k!" And something vile comes up from my stomach, through my throat into my mouth, I'll scrape it out, scrape that shizzle out of my throat, scrape it out of my stomach my body, "Don't you, don't you realize that evil lives in the mother fu<king skin?"

"Shut the fu<k up! Shut the fu<k up! You little bastard! I warned you, I told you! Shut the fu<k up!" He's screaming, wailing, reckless abandon, literal primeval. He screams and lands all force he has into me, my body, my fleshy weak body, superiority, I submit, I submit, I laugh.

He would have kept on going but his counterpart interluded. Now I walk, walking, walking, talking to myself. I love myself and everything I am. I am undeniably badass. I am my body, I am my God. No, God is my God. I'll follow the decorum. Here we go, here we go, walking, talking, hocking up vomit as I step. He hit me hard, the fiznackling lard. And there are so many things not worth mentioning, so many things that don't need to be
known.
So many things you don't want to
hear.
Yeah, I can't help but feel good right now, yeah, I am so undeniably badass.

I walk into another bar, turns out, as memory serves it to me, I had been in a bar earlier, my aggressor had been in it too. Turns out I angered him somehow. Words, and sometimes there are some you don't want to hear. Sometimes people believe in something so deeply that they can't stand to hear
otherwise.
He wanted to beat my voice into submission. I submit, I submit, but I'll laugh. I am so undeniably badass.

And it's bizarre... "Bizarre, fantastic, fu<king phantasmic, there it goes - phantasma, erotica, phenomena - you said 'Looked so good.'" I can't remember what I'm talking about anymore, and things all seem to make sense, and I'm in the bar now, drinking, drinking, talking to myself. I talk to myself. I am so undeniably badass.

Does that make you cringe? 'I am so undeniably badass'. I want to spit, I want to vomit, scrape it out of my fu<king mouth, I want to perspirate around my arms, grab the sheets and forget everything as I cringe at the thought - holy shizzle, right now, blinded by it all, perpetual streams - working on living - that's what I want, and I love it when I'm in it - in my mind - but tonight, smoke all around, the talking, oh the talking, I talk to myself though, that's self-aggrandizement, does it make you cringe? Holy shizzle, does it make you cringe?

And I'm talking to myself, that consciousness that means
nothing.
Purposeless until you hone it, get the efficacy, the meaning, search for the meaning, of course you have to take into account so many things, you have to take into account some things consciously and other things not so consciously, I guess, subconsciously, we'll call it that, I'll call it that, and there are so many other things at work.

I'm talking to myself. I have been.
I do.
And why did that boy, that man, that very angry person have to be to vile? His audacity, his atrocity, I'm his tragedy, his suffering because of me, so divine, my divinity. Suck down another drink, chug it down, all of that meant nothing, it all meant
nothing,
deliver me unto nothing, Father.

Father, hear me now, hear my calls. I'm talking to myself, I am only talking to myself. I am so undeniably -

Cringe. I want you to feel, I want you to eat, I want you to fu<k, I want to most of all prod your insides and make you cringe.

And people near, they hear me talking, it's hard to distinguish what I'm saying, it's hard to really get the
choice,
it's hard to really apply a meaning, and there can be a meaning sometimes to what is being said that can be understood and other times it's reckless abandon, take your whim, take your pick. Another drink, what's it now? The pain doesn't hurt, it didn't hurt, what's it now today?

Idioms, colloquial dialect, hypnopaedia - but not literally.

Someone is staring at me and asks if I'm okay. I reply, "Why yes, I'm just fine. Would you like to rape me?" And to me it is funny, but they don't think it's very funny. It can't be that funny to some people. I feel some vomit come into my mouth and I decide to scrape it out. I never get tired of scraping vomit from my mouth. "

[knox]

Some stuff i wrote, ill post the rest later.

Part 1

I walk in my room. Wow. Deep breath. How do I do this? How? Carrie comes in, kisses me gently on the forehead. Walks out. Says something about getting ready for work. Work? What? How can something like that exist? After last night, how can anything exist. It’s all over the news. They don’t know its me. The tv is on. I wince as Carrie screams as she watches it. She comes back in, her face full of sorrow. James, your brother is dead. I know, I know.

[knox]

Hunter B., more good stuff, keep it coming! my stuff has nothing on yours.

[-=AlexXx=-]

wow that was enjoyable. you should write a book or somthing.

[Hunter B.]

No one would want to read a book of my random, scrambled thoughts haha. I can't organize my thoughts and tend to jump around a lot. Here is what I've written about tonight, its late and I'm tired so don't judge harshly.

Riding in the car with a hypocritical poser of sorts who really just urns for lust and familiarity. Such a time to reflect. Reflection is something we all must indulge into, that phantasmal moment of self aggrandizement as we indulge into our past. We all indulge at times. I lay back and inhale the recycled heat driven air. I need nicotine. He begins conversing about music I do not enjoy and driving wildly. I wish to transcend to a peaceful memory, but all I get is other reckless nights of my youth wasted on somebody's opinion.

He attacks me with a guitar, synthesizer duel that bludgeons my ears into submission. Reflection is necessary for survival. I smoke quickly. I close my eyes as my senses are attacked with noise and chemicals, but we ride on and I burn on. I wish I could bring about a memory, any fu<king memory, erotic would even suffice but less I am drawn to reality as I'm interrogated through the bursts of atrocious noise. Noise is everywhere and in this case inescapable. I've been lured in by self pity and boredom as regret strangles my reflections. Do I like the metal?

Where are we going? I have no clue but hope it is nearby so I can quickly escape this horrid music and heat. Suddenly nostalgia blinds me as I'm in the car with an old friend, we are talking about drugs and listening to rap by people I'll never care for. I feel the cold breeze as I ash my cigarette. Deja Vu is all around as we race through the neighborhoods of people I'll never meet.

[Michael Manzer]

me gusta tambien.

lmk if you like any of this stuff; http://otc.facebook.com/profile.php?id=214600342

friend of a friend

[Ctipping]

Hunter B., you're getting a lot better. I remember the second one from wb.com a while back, but the first post is way better. You can definitely tell you've cleaned up your style a lot.

[Hunter B.]

Ctipping, Thanks bro. I am trying to cut down on the cussing and over use of complex words, but I love linguistics and certain words so much! I like to write like I was telling the story to you and if you can't tell, I ramble when I tell stories haha.

Michael Manzer, His page is private and asked my who I was when I tried to add him haha.