recent shit.

[Riel]

A note to anyone reading this: I wrote all of these while I was totally isolated and my grandfather was in the hospital because of a heart attack that could have killed him if he had been allowed to be stubborn, like he wanted. As such, they're raw, they're annoying, and they're MEANT to piss you off a bit.

my heart will always be the b-side to my...

The way that it's supposed to happen is, exposition, development, twist, climax, resolution. We're not going to do it that way.

He dies.

I don't know if you're going to take that as meaning that his death is the twist, development, climax, or resolution. Frankly, I don't care; I'm here to inform you, not hold your hand.

Relax.

Breathe.

Here's the setting: a run-down old apartment, with a bed that was owned and stained by god-knows how many people, a couch, and a table. There is no microwave, refrigerator, oven; if you walk through that narrow hallway and turn to the left, there isn't a washer or dryer in what simply must be a laundry room.

The walls are the kind of green that you find on sticks of gum; basically an off-white affair with specks of darker, forest green. The couch, it's a soft and deep maroon color with tiny little stripes that intersect every three inches.

Whether this means that the occupant is color-blind or simply a single male, I'm not sure. Your call.

Walk on the carpet long enough and you'll be taken to the bedroom. Inside, there are two things; the first, a bed that has got a rather large amount of blood on it. The second, her.

Shea-butter skin. Dazzling white teeth, platinum-blonde hair, aquamarine blue eyes. That kind of smile that makes you think, why else am I alive? What she's wearing, if that's important, is a sable dress that manages to cover and accentuate everything all at the same time.

By now you're thinking, what is she doing there? Who is she? Why. Should. I. Care?

If I told you that she was covered with blood, that would probably raise just as many questions. If I said that she was sitting there, in the middle of the floor, licking the blood off of her hands, you'd probably have more of a 'what in the hell did I just read?' reaction.

She was covered in blood.

Relax.

Breathe.

Switch gears.

It's a gas-station restroom, tiled floor and walls covered with a lot of something that made them a mix of cream of wheat and…mud. There's one stall and one sink. Somewhere between the two, he's sitting there with a needle in his hand and a rubber band strapped around his bicep.

Whatever's in the syringe, it's a type of gold that is typically reserved for expensive champagne and decaying leaves.

What he looks like, in case it matters, is shit. Green eyes are sunken into saggy skin, and his right arm is dotted with black specks that are either burns or old puncture wounds.

Anyway, he's sitting there on the floor with the syringe in his hand, and he injects whatever that gold something is into his veins. His head whips back and strikes the wall behind him, and you'd be able to hear a sharp crack when it does.

He gets up and walks out of the bathroom, gets in his car, and drives off. On the wall, there's a deep crimson stain where his head was cracked. At first slowly and then quickly, it eats through the wall and cracks it into a million fractures.

Relax.

Breathe.

Switch back.

What's happening is that she's bleeding from a hole in her chest and back, a nice apple-sized cutout that took her heart with it. She's lying there on the bed all beautiful and, well, dead.

That isn't important.

Far more important is the fact that there is a bed with no nightstand, no phone charger or lamp, no television set. The fact that there isn't a sheet or pillow on the bed is also incredibly interesting. The idea that she's lying there, spread eagle, bleeding out on the bed is not interesting in the slightest.

What's also important is that her skin appears to be absorbing a lot of blood. Not even the oh-look-out-out-damn-spot kind of soaking up a lot of blood; more like when-did-she-become-a-shamwow kind of soaking up blood.

So what we have here is a girl that's caught in her own little perpetual motion machine. Bleed in, bleed out.

Relax.

Breathe.

Merge gears.

He's getting out of his car. Walking along the driveway, through the main door, and up the stairs. What's interesting is that nobody is stopping him, nobody bothers to look twice at this man. What's far less interesting is the fact that he's holding a gun.

She's getting into her dress. Done with bathing, all lathered-rinsed-repeated, she smells like a mix of rose petals and coconuts. What's interesting is that she's wearing a sleeveless dress, one that allows a full view of the arms. What's far less interesting is the fact that she has the same marks on her arms that he has on his.

Anyway, what's happening is that he's knocking on the door and holding the gun at the ready. What's about to happen is that she's going to open the door, and when she does she'll smile her wonderful smile and he'll grab her by the hair, dragging her into the bedroom.

What's important is that he's bothering to do this. What's far less important is the fact that she isn't yelling or crying out, not fighting against him or anything.

Wait.

What's happening is that she's lying there on the bed, this hole in her chest, this perpetual motion machine. What's about to happen is that she's going to stand up, and that hole in her chest simply won't be there anymore. She's going to open her door and walk out, take the stairs down to her car, and drive off.

He's in the bathroom, and he's bleeding bleeding bleeding the same way that she was, except he's in the bathtub and there isn't anything left to absorb. What's important is that he's really dead-dead, not the kind of maybe-dead that she was. What's far less important is why she was able to come back.

Okay.

They're in the bedroom, and he's brandishing the gun and yelling at her, screaming right in her beautiful little face. He's attacking her, throwing her around the room and on to the bed. He's calling her names that, obviously, shouldn't be repeated here.

When he smacks her like that, it isn't important.

What he's yelling, it isn't important.

What's important is that he's yelling and screaming and gesturing.

What's important is that she's lying on the bed and she's finally saying what she's supposed to, finally whispering/pleading no-please-no-I'm-so-sorry-don't-please-no. What's happening is that he's finally scaring her, finally a viable threat. What's about to happen is that he's going to shoot shoot shoot and she's going to no-please-don't and she's going to bleed bleed bleed and and and and

Relax.

Breathe.

symbols.

You know what, fuck it.

Don't worry about reading this. It's just sentences which are just words which are just letters which are just symbols. They aren't even real symbols, either; they're symbols for sounds that are symbols and cues for actual things.

So when you read, 'there was lipstick on the mirror', what you're actually doing is saying to yourself, there was lipstick on the mirror. Symbols that beget symbols that beget symbols. When you read, 'the pink smears spelled out a phrase', what you're actually doing is thinking to yourself, there were words on the mirror.

Symbols on the mirror. Symbols on the page. Symbols in your head.

You're reading, 'the light fixture above the mirror was casting its bright yellow, almost white glow across the room' and you're thinking, okay, so it's bright and there are words on a mirror. You're wondering, why is any of this information pertinent to the story?

Symbols for light in the same way that 'the bathtub was running to overflowing, the tiled floor glossy and wet from the runover' is a symbol for, well, the bathtub is running. All of these, these are just context clues to what's actually important in the story.

Symbols that beget symbols that beget, why the hell am I still reading this?

When you read, 'the words on the mirror are: I love you, baby. Vegas Ballroom, 6:00' what you're actually doing is thinking about time we have something that might outline a bit of the story at the same time that you're thinking, okay, someone is going to Vegas.

You're reading, 'you actually aren't going to get any more to this story' and you're thinking, I don't care what.

russian roulette.

Single frame.

They're standing there-well, one of them is actually kneeling, but that's besides the point- and they've all got some kind of weapon going on. She's holding a gun to his head, and then a different she is holding a knife to her throat, and he's, well, he's got some dirt on both of them.

Reel two.

He's leaning against the side of the building, dark-brown leather jacket collecting dust from the grey concrete. There's a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Taking a drag from the cigarette so that the tip turns a burning-cherry red and flipping the phone closed, he walks down the street and turns a corner quickly.

Him, walking in those skin-tight black jeans and wearing his crisp, white graphic tee with the words 'sorry, mom-sorry, god' in large and wide black letters and that leather jacket, he turns the corner when she bursts out and holds the gun to his head.

Her, standing there, she's wearing blue jeans and a white tank-top. The gun that she's holding is a six-shot revolver, silver and shining in the late afternoon sun. Looking at her, you can tell that she still put a lot of effort into how she looks; her hair is straightened, her makeup is in place, and she's wearing a little pendant that leads the eye straight from her neck down to her cleavage.

"Come with me," she says, emphasizing the words with a shove from her oh-so-dainty hands. Her nails are that kind of color that you only find in a bottle, with the name of 'gravity's lover' or 'industrial secret'.

So obviously he listens to her. They walk down the oddly empty street and turn another corner, him leading while she steers with the gun. His phone, it keeps vibrating against his leg loud enough that she can hear it. "Don't even bother checking it," she says to him like the thought had even crossed his mind.

Anyway they walk up to a playground, their feet kicking up woodchips and their eyes looking at the tubes and slides that are pained blue and green and purple. Her standing there with the gun to his head, she tells him to kneel on the ground.

What's happening is that she's gearing herself up to confront him, giving herself tiny little pep-talks so that she'll actually have the nerve to pull the trigger. Behind her, the other girl is walking up with the knife gleaming, trying to not make a sound as she walks in. Him, he's just kneeling there and thinking, well shit.

Reel three.

That's the setting. He's kneeling on the ground, one of the girls is holding a gun to his head, and the other girl is holding a knife to the first girl's throat. For simplicity's sake, we're going to call the one with the gun 'Girl A' and the one with the knife 'Girl B'.

Girl B, she's holding the knife in a sweaty palm and is dragging it against Girl A's skin a little bit too much. Some blood drags out along the knife, and Girl A swears a little bit.

Okay, right. Girl B is wearing a navy-blue hoodie and black jeans. Her hair is up in a ponytail and she hasn't done any makeup at all.

"What are you doing, bitch? Girl A is asking, still pressing the gun to his head. "This is something that I have to do, you whore! For us!"

Girl B, she just nods her head silently and looks a bit disappointed. Keeping the knife as steady as possible, she says to Girl A:

"You don't have to do this. I told you that you don't have to do this, and you didn't listen."

"Don't tell me that I don't have to do this, bitch! You don't understand what we have to do, and as always, I'm going to take care of this shit!"

Him, he's just kneeling there and thinking, holy shit.

Reel One.

The music that's pumping through those huge speakers is, obviously, loud. Bass-heavy and featuring a mixture of clean and screaming vocals, it's less about the quality of the music and more about the sheer volume of it.

Somewhere in this large two-story house in the middle of suburbia, someone has just been proclaimed the king of the red cups. Elsewhere, there's just a bunch of people sitting in a room passing around some drug or another.

Anyway, the important place right now is in the bathroom. Not one of those, oh-look-there's-a-toilet bathrooms; no, one of those yes-that-is-a-Jacuzzi-in-the-bathroom bathrooms. Shimmering porcelain surrounded by sandy marble, the Jacuzzi is full of water and bubbles and, two girls. What they're doing is, well, kind of obvious.

And that's when he walks in.

Basically the same story as before; tight black jeans, graphic tee. The difference this time is that there's no jacket, and the two girls are wearing, well, nothing. Now him, standing there expecting to just go to the bathroom, he's presented with a unique opportunity.

Okay, backstory. Girl A, she's the head cheerleader, leads the pep rallies, copies off of everyone's homework, et cetera. Girl B, she's that kind of smart girl that is so smart that it's a little unsettling, and even though she's attractive she's also just kind of socially awkward. For those of you that are thinking, 'what's the opportunity?', go ahead and stop reading. You won't get it.

What happens next is basically extortion and blackmail, combined with a healthy dose of lipstick, latex, and French terms that basically mean, this guy took the opportunity. And then, he fucks it up. He's sitting on the edge of the tub getting exactly what he wanted, and he has the nerve to say, 'I wonder what people will think when I tell them about this'.

Girl B, she doesn't hear this. Girl A, well, you know.

Reel four.

The girls were fighting. Things got out of hand, guns were pointed and knives were pulled. The exact order of the actions doesn't matter; the bottom line is, the girls are dead. And him?

He's kneeling there and thinking, holy shit.

[Axel of Ice]

Dude i hope your grampa is alright

dude i like the relax breathe thing, adds a nice effect.
Personally i think this i pretty amazing writing... you got talent.

Ending was pretty intense... me likes

[khfreak17]

woah...................... that was cool. lots of detail. confusing, but i like confusing. it gives me something to think about

[Almagest]

Dang...you really have a talent for making people think. I like the structure you used (relax, breath, reel 1, 2, 3, etc.)--it made the jumps between events flow nicely from one to another. Your imagery was excellent and I enjoyed the bits of humor mixed in with the dark nature of the stories.

Whether this means that the occupant is color-blind or simply a single male, I'm not sure. Your call.

The fact that there isn't a sheet or pillow on the bed is also incredibly interesting. The idea that she's lying there, spread eagle, bleeding out on the bed is not interesting in the slightest.

Not one of those, oh-look-there's-a-toilet bathrooms; no, one of those yes-that-is-a-Jacuzzi-in-the-bathroom bathrooms.

Some of my personal favorites =P

[Riel]

Thanks for all of the compliments, guys.

So far as the 'confusing' nature of 'my heart...', that was intentional. We were supposed to write a 'scary' story for english that was about something in human nature that scares us. Not wanting to be cliche, I almost went out of my way to make sure that the scary thing isn't made clear in the story, or that it wasn't a total cliche HAHAHAHA TECHNOLOGY KILLED SOMEONE LOL story.

[Annoyance]

I kind of didn't like the first one. It just seemed weird. I'm unsure how to describe it. The 2nd one wasn't bad at all, though. Same with the 3rd. 3 was my favorite.

[Riel]

I think that the third definitely utilized that style better than the first did.