talsh.net

Serial Killer

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 01:57:36 +0300

He: There's an active serial killer in South Carolina.
She: Is it you?
He: Yes. It's me.

Broken

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 01:22:00 +0300

He has opinions and preferences,
wants and desires,
and these are repea-
tedly
broken
according to a schedule he
does not control.

A Dream

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 23:09:00 +0300

I remember standing on an all white roof top, nearly blinded by the sun’s reflection. I was accompanied by a female agent, recognizable by her black suit and her ID’d lapel. We were watching a man who, crouching, held a plastic see-through hose, and pumped a meaty liquid into huge boxes labeled Ferris’s Cat Food. He was stealing government rat meat and selling it as his own brand of feline cuisine.

“Is he our man?” I asked aloud. “Will he run?”

And the man suddenly got up and started running. We chased him, the female agent and I, until he jumped down into the busy streets below. I quickly took my shoes off, gave them to the female agent, then jumped down after him.

The pursuit continued. I drew my gun - a cold, heavy, black object which could have easily been a lighter - and took aim. He escaped through a hole in the wall right next to a National Bank ATM.

I never saw the female agent again. Or my shoes.

A Cloud of Words

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 00:41:00 +0300

A Cloud of Words

"In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important..."

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 19:28:00 +0300

“In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.”

- GLONG GLONG!

Chatting with a Stranger

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 18:31:00 +0300

Me: Hi!
Stranger: hi
Stranger: so wats on the agenda?
Me: Seems as though the Internet is moving backwards.
Me: We may have to resort to A/S/L type questions.
Stranger: mmmm
Stranger: asl?

Trying out omegle made me feel old.

Temporary Suspension of Self

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 14:46:00 +0200

It felt as though he was flipping a switch, but mentally, in his mind. He was actively making judgemental decisions about matters for which - at least for him - there was no fundamental debate regarding their inherent worth or lack thereof.

“I love weddings!” he tried yelling to himself, over and over. “I love and wish to meet hundreds of strange people.”

It worked to some extent, but naturally not all the way. It was and will remain a matter unselfishness, of being a good human, even when it implies a temporary suspension of Self.

Procrastination

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 03:34:54 +0200

He had grown to fear
Coming Day -
And wanted to bathe
In Night,
And in the blood
Of Time itself.

He Stands There Still

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 18:01:00 +0200

He’s been standing in front of the vegetables for about five minutes - taunted by tomatoes and laughed at by leeks - and decided he truly does hate them all. He hated the cashiers, talking amongst themselves about mundane trivialities. Hated the customers, stopping in the middle of the much-too-narrow aisles and discussing the advantages and disadvantages of this or that fabric softener. And he hated the manager with his white but stained buttoned shirt, sweating his way through the herd. It was a state of affairs entirely devoid of humor.

He hated them all and knew it was justified, and he knew that it was not. He knew they were worthless, and he knew they were priceless, beyond worth. He knew all these things. He knew he could never go back to that supermarket again. Couldn’t face the gut wrenching mediocrity of it all. They’d also run out of beef.

Following a depressing but nonetheless successful egg hunt, he made his way to a horrendous excuse for a woman who’s job was to take his painted paper in exchange for food, glorious food.

He stands there still.

Monsters

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 01:14:16 +0200

Variations on fear.

Oh, my good God Jesus… oh, God.

Speak of screams -
and taste the acidic flavor
Preceding Death.

The Kill Room

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 16:37:00 +0200

He imagines applying for a job. The man asking the question is a fat, sweaty pig of a man wearing a suit that must have cost about as much as ___ would have spent in a month. The questions seem arbitrary and random, and - in his mind - fail to capture any real significance regarding his skills or attributes. He writes the essay portion of the application over and over, changing this word or that, focusing on his “Greatest Moment”, as the directions point out. Walking with his friends, seeing the truck pull up in front of the old store-house near his apartment. Watching as they empty the truck of his first printed edition, and thanking his good fortune for the fact that his friends were there to see and share his triumph.

He rewrites the essay, again and again. The number of friends is greatly exaggerated in every new version, the quality of content improving exponentially with each iteration. And the pig of a man appears in the back seat of the truck, and ___ can see him laughing violently, his shoulders shaking, eyes watering. He points at ___, who’s bewilderment swiftly turns to a raging embarrassment. The gun, forever providing him with an oxymoronic yet comforting synergy of danger and security, starts vibrating in his pocket, alive with the burning hatred he now feels for the fat, laughing pig in the back seat. He fires six times, breaking the rear window and hitting the pig in the back of his oversized head. ___ Imagines himself back in the room, surrounded by the cold and comforting quiet he has grown so accustomed to, no longer knee deep in pig’s blood out in the unforgiving streets of the world.

Literary Theory

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 20:34:00 +0200

I don’t understand. You have to have some sort of message.
Alliteration is only interesting if it says something.
(Feces of a male cow)
For Pete’s sake, woman. Shut your gob.

Logic

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 20:34:41 +0200

We’ll perceive it as being over even though it’s really quite recursive and endless. Just the way it is. Nobody’s fault really.

Stress

Tue, 30 Dec 2008 13:03:43 +0200

She: I think it's stress.
He: Makes sense.
She: What do I have to be stressed about?
He: um... the war?
She: Ya think?
He: ...

Futility

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 00:18:00 +0200

She sleeps.

His cool, dark sanctuary is spontaneously constructed, enveloping him in comfortable silence. Here he can taste insanity in peace.

He deletes.

He sits in the dark, the smoke from his cigarette illuminated by the white page on the screen, the same page he’s been trying to fill for weeks. Prior to his arrival, he’d asked the strange multi headed Indian beast running the nearby shop what the price of milk was. He told her that something, eventually, will have to make sense. After all, life could not possibly be a series of nonsensical happenings. “There’s just no other option!” he exclaimed. He bought the milk anyway.

She sleeps.

Parts of him are dying, others are reborn.

He sleeps.

Not So Secret Window

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 23:13:00 +0300

There is a club. And they sign up and become full members of the club. And they get a membership card. It has their names on it and “Member” in big, black letters. It even has a magnetic strip. And they have many friends at this club. They all get invited to parties. And at these parties they get envelopes and in the envelopes are notes. The notes contain a single address. They show off their envelopes to their friends. They are then instructed to drive by that address at any and all hours of the day and wildly honk their horn when they reach the only window that is still lit at 4 in the morning. Because this is the “Honk Your Horn like a Crazy Idiot When I Reach His House” club, where everybody knows his name. He also gets the occasional truck driving through his bedroom. Not as bad as it sounds, but it’s pretty loud.

The Girl Who Thought Movies Are Real

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 00:39:00 +0300

He’d recieved reports regarding a Girl who’s mind could not distinguish actual reality from fictiotious films. While watching a film, she experiences it as if she was actually there with the characters. An experiment was devised to fully test and analyse the extent of the Girl’s condition.

During the head stomping scene in “American History X”, the Girl’s head snapped back in queue with the victim’s, nearly hitting the back wall. She had been crying for some time prior to that, though, later rationalising that “the main character was just so frighteningly violent.” Following the cilmactic final scene, she did not speak nor respond, and her eyes took a sort of blank stare. She then began chanting “The earth is round, and there is gravity,” over and over.

An hour’s passing and a sharp detour to “When Harry Met Sally…” don’t seem to have the desired effect. The chanting had stopped at this point, but the Girl sat through the orgasmic diner scene as if it were a chess match. Sadistically curious but not altogether unsympathetic, he decided to end the experiment. For the night.

A week later, the Girl - the salty taste of sidewalk still fresh in her mouth - gathers her strength for her next set of tests.

“Are they scary ones?” she askes. “I can’t handle anything scary.”

“Not at all,” He lies. “A selection of two lovely films.”

“Liar. What are they about?”

“One is about a little boy and his tricycle,” he says, marking something on his clipboard and inserting a DVD into the machine. “And this one is about lambs.”

Irrefutable Confidence

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 03:49:00 +0300

In the unlikely event of actually entering the room, you would find him sitting in rather large leather manager’s chair, typing away at a laptop while wearing very tight, but nonetheless quite attractive, black boxer shorts adorned in white stars, and smoking a cigarette. You would find him typing the very lines you are now reading. And as you stare at the words forming on the screen - horrified at the rate of which your thoughts are molested into long, wordy sentences - the music, a disconsolate constant you seem to just now notice, suddenly changes into a terribly jovial piece, and he winces and stops typing. A few moments later, the words “Suicide Scherzo” appear on the screen and the music continues, as violent as it had been before. And he continues typing, faster and faster, erring and repairing, hammering at the fabric of your reality.

You’ve been taught to run, but you do not. You know better. You cannot escape the inevitability of nonsense. He favors his creation with a brief glance and nod, and lights another cigarette.

“I may talk shit,” he tells you, “but I do it with irrefutable confidence.”

Rattus rattus

Sat, 10 May 2008 05:45:00 +0300

It had somehow gotten into the apartment, and lay dying on the kitchen floor. It was still breathing, and every few seconds it would attempt to twist around, to somehow get up, as its tail slapped the tiles like a miniature bullwhip.

He stood there for at least five minutes, just gaping at the ending rat on the floor, until realizing he should probably put it out of its misery.

He was surprised at how fleshy the rat’s body felt as he drove the broom handle down
like hitting a small child
and was suddenly gripped with nausea, preventing him from landing a powerful enough blow. He cried a little after the fourth swing, when the hitherto silent rat actually squealed in despair.

He held the broom above his head, panting, crying, staring at the dead rat on the floor - a small puddle of blood slowly forming around its mouth - and took comfort in knowing that he could never be a killer. Not really. He could intellectually accept killing, maybe even understand it at some level. But he will never truly feel it.

"Love consists of overestimating the differences between one woman and another."

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 15:39:00 +0300

““Love consists of overestimating the differences between one woman and another.””

- George Bernard Shaw