Prose Dump Thread

Discussion in 'The Artist's Corner' started by Misc, May 11, 2010.

  1. #1 Misc, May 11, 2010
    Last edited by a moderator: May 11, 2010
    Dump your unwanted prose here. It doesn't have to be serious; it can be batshit insane. I don't give a fuck. But it shouldn't have story elements or much of a plot, and it's even better if it's short.

    I'll start....

    This is Untitled

    \t \t \t In the tunnels, southern eyes were eloping--together, yet apart; focused, but alone. They’d relished in longing for so long. Desire unearthed happiness with time. They grew into mollusk shells, embracing the wasting days with flighty hope. After tidal waves of anguish came and washed them out to sea, starfish clang to their faces, and suckled away their skin. Bones and hollowness—lain out to dry, before the gulls and their clacking bills. Nothing was anything in the end.

    How stunning they were, to the onlookers from the beach—garish abysses of devotion, coiled in unison, glistening in the midday sun. Bury them, it was ordained.

    And so I walked down to their grave, placing roses, but the ocean washed them away. And the sand wouldn’t hold them; nothing stayed. But I suppose that’s how life is--every fragment of our humanity is stuck in unruly sway.

    This is Providence

    \t Where can be the color of my voice? The inner chords of my larynx are sprawled like carpets on satiny midnight avenues. Is purpose manifested in this unraveling? How do you follow a strand of cognizance if it’s all split ends? We only carry the weight so far; backs break, legs weaken, and night collapses on our heads. New day, different beginnings, but it’s always the same story full of digression. Gray matter wrinkles, and the skin tightens around my temple. I can’t anoint providence in the rain.

    SO yeah. Comment, post more, criticize, it's whatever man.
  2. I am in class, holding an abacus. The teacher says, "Okay, kids now what is nine times nine?" I do not know the answer; I just play with the beads and let my mind wander. It wanders to Katie, the cute blonde girl who focuses intently on her abacus, then jabs her hand into the air and answers, "81." She looks towards me and catches me staring at her. Embarrassed I quickly avert my eyes, but when I lift my gaze, she is still looking at me. I smile nervously, Katie smiles too.

    I am lying on my bed at my parent's house; I am 16, stoned on schwagg. I can hear my parents shouting downstairs. A dish is thrown, a door is slammed. A few minutes later Mom comes into my room. I can see she has been crying. She wants to talk but I make myself unavailable, pretend to be sleeping.

    We are on our first date. We are 21. Katie: "It's so great to really be able to talk to you for once Sean. I've known you since we were kids, but, you've always been... a closed book. Oh yes, I will have a bourbon and ginger ale, please."

    I am sitting in a classroom, waiting for the bell to ring and class to start. Katie walks past me, towards her seat. She is chatting with her peppy friend Jan. Katie looks tired. She is grasping a large Speedway coffee. I want to say, "Hi," but only manage awkward silence.

    "And I will have the same, thanks so much. Katie…" her eyes, the blue of heaven, turn their gaze to my eyes, we are connected, "there is something I have to tell you..."

    "I love you," Katie says cheerily, handing me a travel mug full of strong coffee. "I love you too," I return groggily. She gives me a kiss. The familiar scent of her sweet skin lingers as I walk out the door. I get in my car and head off to work.

    It is morning. Mom and Dad are sitting together silently in the kitchen when I come downstairs. "Sean, could you come here please. There is something I have to tell you," Mom says, "I have cancer." I don't know what to say. I don't know what to feel. In my heart I feel overwhelming sadness and fear, but it surfaces as teenage angst. "How long have you known? How long have you been keeping this from me?" I storm out the door, forgetting my backpack.

    Josh passes me a half burnt joint. I take it, raise it to my lips and inhale deeply. I hold my breath in until my lungs burn and my head starts to buzz. "What do you want to do?" "What is there to do?" I take another drag and cough heavily.

    "It's the reason I may have seemed so withdrawn in the past, during high school. During my freshman year my Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. In junior year my Mom found out she had breast cancer. It made me so sad, so depressed. I felt radioactive, I felt like I was causing it." I feel my eyes begin to moisten. I am on the brink of tears. I let my gaze fall, severing the connection. I take a large, slow sip of my bourbon and ginger ale.

    Mom and Dad are yelling, "Are you on drugs!?" I smile. I always smile when I am uncomfortable, and they mistake the expression for humor. "You think this is funny!? How can you put your mother through this, on top of everything else!?" I look at Mom. Her wig is slightly askew and I can see the little wisps of hair that are all that remains on her chemotherapy ravaged scalp. She self-consciously adjusts the wig.
  3. Bombs like bells ring in your ears while they call upon the masses to rise in the morning but your to scared to sleep because of what awaits you. Whats resting on a sidewalk? We keep a dry watchful eye because they come in droves like wolves foaming in there crusty diseased mouths. They talk of good intentions with a quivering lip, they sing of distance and whats around you. These are men in an office, a police car, a talking uniform, a badge a figure head who reads your name as a number of infinate numbers in a endless pile of numbers. Our People, like beasts, kill for survival. what great differences do we hold so high? The Beasts kill to protect, to live, to continue, we kill for pleasure, to satisfy with death counts. its a hunger, a dying hunger, not for nourishment but for a sense of power, entitlement, throbbing adrenaline. To squeeze the life from a neck or to destroy from a distance. we are numb to the act of killing. We fear it so much yet we are impervious to its pain. we are the Numbers, we are the Beasts
  4. really intense man, I like it, :( but, think I need to go for a jog after that. You might benefit from one, too ;)
  5. Yeah its a sad and disgusting situation--if in fact this is the pain of some of your prose implicates. Those creatures in our society that express their rage and social feelings upon others in a most beastly and unkind manner. I think these people, compassionless, need to be made to feel the truth of their own flesh in order to respect others and get more in touch with the nature of things. The path to doing this, I believe is LSD. LSD, I've always felt, could humble the vicious and dangerous and violent into getting more in touch with things and to realize their excess echoplexing into extreme and hateful planes. This includes self-appointed authority figures. Oh, that the ancient sages of India could overwhelm the wicked with psychedelic justice... oh, that the ungrateful and wicked in our society could be made to relive the horrors of the past, in an acid field trip.
  6. Wow, oh love, love love. Love has not turned out well for me in my life, oh the tenderness always, the traumatic memory of every move, the endless devotion and the little moments, too, the imaginations, but love is always there. And, there's a girl in my life of heavenly blue eyes named Katie as well, reaching into my deepest childhood memories, forms beyond forms, the optimism from the beginning of life! And, both mis padres have cancer as well. And I kind of hate their guts and they are so cruel and ignorant to me, and of course, when I'm not in danger from the cruelty of the world, when I find a moment of peace, I often devote it to them in compassion. If my father were to be dying, I would be at his bedside and be completely devoted. I have seen him in states of near death, I know what these things mean, the fundamental dignity of human life and loneliness and suffering. But, a moment later, and he's back to being the same asshole he always was, ignorant of the value of life. Ah, such is life. Also, ironically, in your case, your parents could stand or might really need cannabis as medicine for their conditions (best vaporized).
  7. ironically, i wrote this on acid

Share This Page