Journal Entries
Sick of it...
Posted Sep 21, 2001
... now stop.
If I hear any more about how rudely America has been undermined by terrorists, and how the world must shoulder-to-shoulder responsibility for vilification, I will get violent myself.
It is too much to bear and the possibilty of ensuing conflict undermines any US claim to sympathy.
Please make it stop.
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Latest reply: Sep 21, 2001
Burst
Posted May 17, 2001
See that bubble flying high, way up there? Do you see it?
Watch what happens...
"Maybe people can read your mind, but maybe you don't always get what you want."
Watch now as the harmless shot hits home...
The bubble falters, hovers, starts its descent. Witness now how far it falls, air depressing its flight. Watch as it wanders aimlessly earthbound. See it land, crumple. Can you see it now?
No. Because now it is burst and gone.
Beware those idle words.
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Latest reply: May 17, 2001
Unconscious onslaught
Posted May 16, 2001
[Last night I had a nightmare, and here's how it goes...]
Her parents were asleep upstairs and she sat with her sister in the kitchen. It was pleasant and warm, homely and comfortable as they shared wine and conversation, as so often in the past.
Her sister rose to a knock at the door, left the room. In an instant, the sound of gunshot led her to follow at a frantic, panicked pace. In the hall, she watched as her sister drew from her pocket an enormous, automatic firearm, which she lifted to aim at the strange man whose purple eye-shadow shone as he extended a crossbow from the threshold of the quiet family home.
"No!" she screamed, and again "No! No! No!" as the shots drew blood, threw guts, created carnage of the offender. An onslaught ensued. An endless stream of strangers, ever stranger, ever bigger, their features distorting, mutating. Hands enormous, red rage in their eyes, growing numbers surging forward on the attack.
Behind them, through the doorway, swelling clouds grew angry, painted psychedelic swirling dark depths and threw spirals of lightning. A vicious sea encroached, awesome waves of purple-black lapping the feet of monster-men, lending fierce passion to the force.
She was scared beyond fear, afraid beyond reason. It was an offensive of vicious proportions. She could not stop her screams, yet could not make herself heard. She fell to the ground.
A solid, boiling heat scorched her skin. Scrambling below the line of fire, she struggled up the alley of a hallway unrecognisable, which was turning to stone, cracking and spitting.
It was getting longer, growing further from the assailants so intent on the life of her timid sister, who stood now as if iron, firing shot after shot from an oversized firearm alien to her. The urgency pushed her faster. She must close the door, she must rescue her beloved elder from this awful experience. It was all down to her, but she was so far away.
She pushed and exerted and picked up her speed until soon she was flying, hovering above a ground passing swiftly beneath her. Passing her sister, the face she saw was old and hardened, aged and sad. She could not look, but pressed mightily on until she finally arrived at the red door, now engulfed in flames.
Aching, tired, bruised, and hurting, she managed with Herculean effort to push through the fire, scorching her body. She reached out, slammed shut the door.
Peace was restored.
Panting and burnt, she turned to survey the scene. Devasted. Carnage. The hallway now was restored to its unassuming interior, but everywhere was blood. Covering the walls. Spilling from vases. Dripping from the ceiling to fall on body parts below. Unlike anything. Incredible and upsetting beyond grief.
She held out her arms to her poor fragile sister, now silently immobile, the gun a toy in the palm of her hand. She took the thing, threw it, embraced the fair face of this girl so adored. Pulling her close, she nestled in the neck. Their skin was bloodied and sticky, rancid and grim.
She was scared and had only one certainty; they must leave. They must flee. They must go, could not stay to explain. She must take her sister and she knew then she would never return. For ever and as long as the future may hold, she would never again see the parents who slept now upstairs. Could not. Must not. Her presence would endanger them, upset them, anger them. Their children had murdered an army of weapon-wielding enemies who came from elsewhere. She could not expect any comprehension and her parents would be left with the vile messy remains.
She knew she must go and felt the pain of the burden of love grow large in her chest, like a cancerous clot, swelling at speed. It was too much to bear. The loss. Left bereft. The pain she could feel was destroying her; sobs engulfed all else. She let go her sister and fell, once again, to the floor, where she crumpled, drew herself in and in until she was lost. Nothing left at all but a small burning ball of pain and guilt, tears and regret.
[This is pure fiction, but makes for a neat end turning a bad dream to fine fiction...]
She opened the door and emerged from the dark of the disinfected doctor's surgery into the chill of a warm summer shower.
She was relieved. Armed, now, with a prescription ticket to a pill which would knock the evil dreams from her sleeping unconscious. Tonight her slumber would be mercifully free of unbearable images and distressing visions. With this knowledge she could face the day.
She put up her hood, turned her face for a moment upwards to the sky, letting raindrops fall refreshing on her skin. Then she started at a run for the bus stop, calculating the hours until bed and a drug-induced rest.
Discuss this Journal entry [7]
Latest reply: May 16, 2001
Unconscious onslaught
Posted May 16, 2001
Her parents were asleep upstairs and she sat with her sister in the kitchen. It was pleasant and warm, homely and comfortable, as they shared wine and conversation, as so often in the past.
Her sister rose to a knock at the door, left the room. In an instant, the sound of gunshot led her to follow at a frantic, panicked pace. In the hall she watched as her sister drew from her pocket an enormous, automatic firearm, which she lifted to aim at the strange man whose purple eye-shadow shone as he extended a crossbow from the threshold of their quiet family home.
"No!" she screamed, and again "No! No! No!" as the shots drew blood, threw guts, created carnage of the offender. An onslaught ensued. An endless stream of strangers ever stranger, ever bigger, their features distorting, mutating. Hands enormous, red rage in their eyes, growing numbers surging for attack.
Behind them through the doorway, swelling clouds grew angry, painted psychedelic dark depths and threw lightning. A vicious sea encroached, awesome waves of purple-black lapping the feet of monster-men, lending passion to the force.
She was scared beyond fear, afraid beyond reason. It was an onslaught of vicious proportions. She could not stop her screams, yet could not make herself heard. She fell to the ground, a solid, boiling heat scorching her skin. Scrambling below the line of fire, she struggled up the alley of a hallway unrecognisable, turning to stone, cracking and spitting.
It was getting longer - further away from the assailants so intent on the life of her timid sister, who stood now as if iron firing shot after shot from an oversized arm so alien to her. The urgency pushed her faster. She must close the door, she must rescue her beloved elder from this awful experience. It was all down to her, but she was so far away now.
She pushed and exerted and picked up her speed until soon she was flying, hovering above a ground passing swiftly beneath her. Passing her sister, the face she saw was old and hardened, aged and sad. She could not look, but pressed on until she finally arrived at the red door, now engulfed in flames.
Aching, tired, bruised, and hurting, she managed with Herculean effort to push through the fire, scorching her body, to reach out to slam shut the door and peace was restored.
Panting and burnt, she turned to survey the scene. Devasted. The carnage. The hallway restored to its unassuming interior, but everywhere blood. Covering the walls. Spilling from vases. Dripping from the ceiling to fall on body parts below. Unlike anything. Incredible and upsetting beyond grief.
She held out her arms to her poor fragile sister, now silently immobile, the gun a toy in the palm of her hand. She took the thing, threw it, embraced the fair face of this girl so adored. Pulling her to her she nestled in the neck and their skin was bloodied and sticky and rancid and grim.
She was scared and had only one certainty; they must leave. They must flee. They must go, could not stay to explain. She must take her sister and she knew then she would never return. For ever and as long as the future may hold she would never again see the parents who slept now upstairs. Could not. Must not. Her presence would endanger them, upset them, anger them. Their children had murdered an army of weapon-wielding enemies who came from elsewhere. She could not expect any other comprehension and her parents would be left with the vile messy remains.
She knew she must go and the pain of the burden of love she felt grew large in her chest, like a cancerous clot, swelling at speed. It was too much to bear. The loss. Left bereft. The pain she could feel was destroying her, sobs engulfed all else. She let go her sister and fell, once again, to the floor where she crumpled, drew herself in and in until she disappeared. Nothing left at all but a small burning ball of pain and guilt and tears and regret.
She opened the door to emerge from the dark of the disinfected doctor's surgery in to the chill of a warm summer shower.
She was relieved. Armed, now, with a prescription ticket to a pill which would knock the evil dreams from her sleeping unconscious. Tonight her slumber would be mercifully free of unbearable images and distressing visions. With this knowledge she could face the day.
She put up her hood, turned her face for a moment upwards to the sky letting drops fall refreshing on her skin. Then she started at a run for the bus stop, calculating the hours until bed and a drug-induced rest.
Discuss this Journal entry [1]
Latest reply: May 16, 2001
PeskieMinx
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