A challenge for this stupid creative writing contest my teacher is making
me enter, I have to write six short story type of shit. Screw it all, I'm
doing what I want, I hope I loose with shame to. Fuck the school system,
I'm not its bitch to be used for school fund making. I better get an A out
of this *Note the pissed off anger.
( A sample of 7.5's life)
It hurts. . . again.
Why does it always have to hurt so fucking much? What the fuck did I ever do to anyone goddamnit! Isn't enough that I can't feel the divine presence, nooo, they have to play it in my mind over and over and over again, it's like they WANT me to be what I am.
But they never asked me. They never asked me.
Yeah, there another one goes. That little red-hair girl. She's fucking afraid of me. Who does she think she is? God? She has no right to judge me, impudent little bitch. I hope that car gets her and her mother.
The mother, she's barley eighteen. A child compared to most. Why is she looking at me like that? Does she. . . she does, she hates me? They always hate me! Do they think I choose to look the way I do? Do they think I wanted to be put in the skin I'm in?
Now I'm acting like a fucking child complaining like this.
'You always do this in the mornings.'
Fuck you.
' Give me your body and I will'
Do you really believe I'm going to let you have my body, Nimrod?
'I already own it, I always owned you- you and that boy of yours.'
Leave him out of this.
'We have gone through this every day for, twenty years.'
Twenty-one.
'Nevertheless, I never failed to give my part of keeping your punk ass among the people, and what do you give me? NOTHING! Some changes need to be made.'
I'm not willing to negotiate. We agreed to this when we first met. As for your keeping me 'among the people', if I recall, you were the one who got me killed in the first place. " Oh, don't worry, stand there and take the blast. You will be alright" Like hell I am. Under you, I lost my face- I will not make the same mistake twice. I'm running out of body parts for you to destroy.
' So you are blaming me for your loss. If I recall, no one ever made you take my advice in the first place. As for you face, you only lost your forehead, and you have a cloth to cover that up. You regenerate, why do you care if you get the occasional gun wound or knife through the heart?'
I lost that power when I died, now I have holes the size of an oil tanker through my chest. You never made me take your advice, you're right- you forced it upon me. You lost me my eyes and much more, you lost my mind. Anytime I get injured, you control me, anytime I do something brilliant, but flawed, you do it, anytime I screw shit up worse than usual, you. If it wasn't for you and the so-called leatherface, I'd still be alive! Those knives through the heart hurt like hell to.
' Let's take a trip back in time. Stop in front of the hospital, right in front of you.'
It's a block away moron.
'Navigation would be so much easier if you used a cane.'
If you hadn't noticed, I CAN'T USE MY HANDS, YOU KNOW HOW THAT FUCKING HAPPENED ASSHOLE?
'Ah, yes, that rendezvous with Piccolo. Heh, how is your old man by the way?'
Don't call him that.
'But it is deadly true, he took you in, sheltered you, taught you, . . . '
Put a stop sign through my chest. Need I remind you how that happened?
'Stop here. I can feel the presence of sweet drug induced coma. Morphine, the essence of life.'
You said something about a time trip
'Ah yes, I would suggest leaning against a wall about now, you are going to need it before this is over.'
Just do it.
Feels like I've lost consciousness. . . cant's move anymore. It's worse than my arthritis . . .
The Pain. . . Always The Pain, it never changes with him. All his little 'trips' involve The Pain. It feels like he's skinning me live, I can almost feel the hooks digging into my legs while I hang upside-down as he ripped the flesh off my bones.
Great, here it comes.
A strike of what could best be described as a bolt of thunder shreds my nerves as it travels its journey straight through my brain, making my entire body jump-as though I took a lead pipe to the jaw.
Perfect, my body hit something during that jolt, a wall. . . no. . .. A window, broke it- either that or I'm getting stabbed in the back by something, fuck it, I don't care.
Everything is getting. . . dimmer, like its growing away from me.
What is that Goddamn noise? A siren? Alarm? Nimrod, you set this up didn't you?
Why is this taking so long? He's taking his sweet time again. Wonder what horrific thing he's digging up from my past now.
'Ready kid?'
Call me kid one more time, and I'll . . .
'Please, refrain from getting excited.'
If I could move my fingers, I'd be showing you one about now.
'I will take that as yes.'
Christmas Eve, the year AD 800.
A masterpiece of reds, oranges, pinks, purples and everything in-between painted the most beautiful false landscape imaginable as the sun drifted behind glass skyscrapers; promises of a new day shone brighter than ever right before the sun slept. The air was contaminated with industry- chlorine, sewage waste, spent motor oil- everything to desolate your lungs, rendering you in a fit of desperate coughing, gagging, spitting. The frozen ground, concrete, was blanketed with blackened snow, sludge, clung to hide boots, leaving their mark upon the forgotten paths of men. It was miserable, it was raining, trying to snow, but falling short two degrees. Mix the rain with the snow, and you create hell.
'Do you know where this is going?'
Unfortunately.
The creature bundled in a long coat twice the size of itself wandered the steel valley that is Devil's City. Ankle-length gray thorns, mocking bangs, stood stiff against the ruthless wind, wind that tattered the tails of his coat, and swayed the mammoth buildings on their foundation, refused to move more than necessary, resulting in splicing its legs, leaving a scarlet letter of blood to follow back. Its face, green, hid behind the upturned collar, but eyes black as rich soil shown through as he walked to oblivion.
It stops. Pointed ears prick up through short, real hair. It turns around. Behind it hovers the infamous being that is Piccolo, arms crossed in usual fashion; sorrowful anger leaks through the cold exterior, barely. His violet fighting gi clings to his legs, paper white cape flaps behind him like angel wings, turban bound in coarse white cloth is the only stationary thing on him besides his face.
Seemingly eons pass by in the time they stood facing each other. People finally abandon the streets when the sun sets from view, so it begins-the silent conversation. Piccolo touched down. Another eon passes. He takes steps in what seem to be slow motion to the creature. They stand face-to- face, eye-to-eye, just looking, arguing.
The sun peeks over the edge of the horizon. They still stand there. Civilians waken and start their morning routine. Faucets, showers, and coffee pot join the users in rising to life. Sound of city life surround the two.
The sun is climbing into the sky; businessmen walk past them, taking no notice of the unspoken message that would decide their fate.
Sunshine luminates the giant clock downtown. Seven o' clock exactly. The streets are flooded with workers of all races, creeds, and times, trying to survive for the good of the colony.
At long last the creature turns to leave, attempting to get lost in the crowd. A hand stops him, nearly begging him not to go. He turns back for the last look. Piccolo's eyes soften ever so slightly, stern manner dulled, he is not angry, nor maleficent, nor vengeful, but broken. It cocks it head to the side in confusion. This unnamed emotion, so new, so alien, burns and quenches at the same time.
Love.
Love from father to son. Unbreakable. Underestimated. Timeless
It slaps the hand off and staggers backward, ready to run. Another hand replaces it on the wrist. Piccolo's eyes fall to the ground, then glance back up at the creature, the son.
It can't be like this. The silent words spill out as Piccolo opens his mouth when it jerks free.
It can't be like this.
It. . .can't. . .be.
The creature bundles itself in its coat and walks off into the crowd, eventually becoming a blur in the past among the crowd. Piccolo stands there, motionless, anguish plaguing him, unable to express his emotion. Unable to save his child.
When everyone left the streets, the buildings closed, the lights fade, he turned to the west and walked into the sunset. "Merry Christmas" he whispered.
This felt like the right place to end.
Completed 9/23/03
( A sample of 7.5's life)
It hurts. . . again.
Why does it always have to hurt so fucking much? What the fuck did I ever do to anyone goddamnit! Isn't enough that I can't feel the divine presence, nooo, they have to play it in my mind over and over and over again, it's like they WANT me to be what I am.
But they never asked me. They never asked me.
Yeah, there another one goes. That little red-hair girl. She's fucking afraid of me. Who does she think she is? God? She has no right to judge me, impudent little bitch. I hope that car gets her and her mother.
The mother, she's barley eighteen. A child compared to most. Why is she looking at me like that? Does she. . . she does, she hates me? They always hate me! Do they think I choose to look the way I do? Do they think I wanted to be put in the skin I'm in?
Now I'm acting like a fucking child complaining like this.
'You always do this in the mornings.'
Fuck you.
' Give me your body and I will'
Do you really believe I'm going to let you have my body, Nimrod?
'I already own it, I always owned you- you and that boy of yours.'
Leave him out of this.
'We have gone through this every day for, twenty years.'
Twenty-one.
'Nevertheless, I never failed to give my part of keeping your punk ass among the people, and what do you give me? NOTHING! Some changes need to be made.'
I'm not willing to negotiate. We agreed to this when we first met. As for your keeping me 'among the people', if I recall, you were the one who got me killed in the first place. " Oh, don't worry, stand there and take the blast. You will be alright" Like hell I am. Under you, I lost my face- I will not make the same mistake twice. I'm running out of body parts for you to destroy.
' So you are blaming me for your loss. If I recall, no one ever made you take my advice in the first place. As for you face, you only lost your forehead, and you have a cloth to cover that up. You regenerate, why do you care if you get the occasional gun wound or knife through the heart?'
I lost that power when I died, now I have holes the size of an oil tanker through my chest. You never made me take your advice, you're right- you forced it upon me. You lost me my eyes and much more, you lost my mind. Anytime I get injured, you control me, anytime I do something brilliant, but flawed, you do it, anytime I screw shit up worse than usual, you. If it wasn't for you and the so-called leatherface, I'd still be alive! Those knives through the heart hurt like hell to.
' Let's take a trip back in time. Stop in front of the hospital, right in front of you.'
It's a block away moron.
'Navigation would be so much easier if you used a cane.'
If you hadn't noticed, I CAN'T USE MY HANDS, YOU KNOW HOW THAT FUCKING HAPPENED ASSHOLE?
'Ah, yes, that rendezvous with Piccolo. Heh, how is your old man by the way?'
Don't call him that.
'But it is deadly true, he took you in, sheltered you, taught you, . . . '
Put a stop sign through my chest. Need I remind you how that happened?
'Stop here. I can feel the presence of sweet drug induced coma. Morphine, the essence of life.'
You said something about a time trip
'Ah yes, I would suggest leaning against a wall about now, you are going to need it before this is over.'
Just do it.
Feels like I've lost consciousness. . . cant's move anymore. It's worse than my arthritis . . .
The Pain. . . Always The Pain, it never changes with him. All his little 'trips' involve The Pain. It feels like he's skinning me live, I can almost feel the hooks digging into my legs while I hang upside-down as he ripped the flesh off my bones.
Great, here it comes.
A strike of what could best be described as a bolt of thunder shreds my nerves as it travels its journey straight through my brain, making my entire body jump-as though I took a lead pipe to the jaw.
Perfect, my body hit something during that jolt, a wall. . . no. . .. A window, broke it- either that or I'm getting stabbed in the back by something, fuck it, I don't care.
Everything is getting. . . dimmer, like its growing away from me.
What is that Goddamn noise? A siren? Alarm? Nimrod, you set this up didn't you?
Why is this taking so long? He's taking his sweet time again. Wonder what horrific thing he's digging up from my past now.
'Ready kid?'
Call me kid one more time, and I'll . . .
'Please, refrain from getting excited.'
If I could move my fingers, I'd be showing you one about now.
'I will take that as yes.'
Christmas Eve, the year AD 800.
A masterpiece of reds, oranges, pinks, purples and everything in-between painted the most beautiful false landscape imaginable as the sun drifted behind glass skyscrapers; promises of a new day shone brighter than ever right before the sun slept. The air was contaminated with industry- chlorine, sewage waste, spent motor oil- everything to desolate your lungs, rendering you in a fit of desperate coughing, gagging, spitting. The frozen ground, concrete, was blanketed with blackened snow, sludge, clung to hide boots, leaving their mark upon the forgotten paths of men. It was miserable, it was raining, trying to snow, but falling short two degrees. Mix the rain with the snow, and you create hell.
'Do you know where this is going?'
Unfortunately.
The creature bundled in a long coat twice the size of itself wandered the steel valley that is Devil's City. Ankle-length gray thorns, mocking bangs, stood stiff against the ruthless wind, wind that tattered the tails of his coat, and swayed the mammoth buildings on their foundation, refused to move more than necessary, resulting in splicing its legs, leaving a scarlet letter of blood to follow back. Its face, green, hid behind the upturned collar, but eyes black as rich soil shown through as he walked to oblivion.
It stops. Pointed ears prick up through short, real hair. It turns around. Behind it hovers the infamous being that is Piccolo, arms crossed in usual fashion; sorrowful anger leaks through the cold exterior, barely. His violet fighting gi clings to his legs, paper white cape flaps behind him like angel wings, turban bound in coarse white cloth is the only stationary thing on him besides his face.
Seemingly eons pass by in the time they stood facing each other. People finally abandon the streets when the sun sets from view, so it begins-the silent conversation. Piccolo touched down. Another eon passes. He takes steps in what seem to be slow motion to the creature. They stand face-to- face, eye-to-eye, just looking, arguing.
The sun peeks over the edge of the horizon. They still stand there. Civilians waken and start their morning routine. Faucets, showers, and coffee pot join the users in rising to life. Sound of city life surround the two.
The sun is climbing into the sky; businessmen walk past them, taking no notice of the unspoken message that would decide their fate.
Sunshine luminates the giant clock downtown. Seven o' clock exactly. The streets are flooded with workers of all races, creeds, and times, trying to survive for the good of the colony.
At long last the creature turns to leave, attempting to get lost in the crowd. A hand stops him, nearly begging him not to go. He turns back for the last look. Piccolo's eyes soften ever so slightly, stern manner dulled, he is not angry, nor maleficent, nor vengeful, but broken. It cocks it head to the side in confusion. This unnamed emotion, so new, so alien, burns and quenches at the same time.
Love.
Love from father to son. Unbreakable. Underestimated. Timeless
It slaps the hand off and staggers backward, ready to run. Another hand replaces it on the wrist. Piccolo's eyes fall to the ground, then glance back up at the creature, the son.
It can't be like this. The silent words spill out as Piccolo opens his mouth when it jerks free.
It can't be like this.
It. . .can't. . .be.
The creature bundles itself in its coat and walks off into the crowd, eventually becoming a blur in the past among the crowd. Piccolo stands there, motionless, anguish plaguing him, unable to express his emotion. Unable to save his child.
When everyone left the streets, the buildings closed, the lights fade, he turned to the west and walked into the sunset. "Merry Christmas" he whispered.
This felt like the right place to end.
Completed 9/23/03