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Thread: Spontaneous Writing Challenge

  1. #101
    Night Sky

    It is getting late. I feel it was just moments ago that the sky was beautiful jewel like blue of the evening, but when I look to the window, its black outside, with only spots of light in the houses opposite from where I live, the warm glow in their windows and colder glare of parking lots lights. The moon looms behind my curtain. A friend once told me to get on my back with her and we watched the stars above. I admitted they looked so small. We were young but both of us also knew that stars actually are just so far away that they look like pinpricks on a black canvas, and even though planet earth is carrying us like dust specks on a dome of some ancient palace, even plannet earth would not be seen if we we're trying to find it in the sky if someone would go where those distant pin pricks are and tried to look back from there. And we dust specks would not be on that invisible planet, because our time is short, and distances from sun to sun are very long. All these thoughts made me feel very insignificant. I do not know what happened after that, maybe my approach for things grew up with me. Night sky equals limitlessness now.

  2. #102
    Member RhythmOvPain's Avatar
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    DP; Please delete.
    My favorite word in the English language is "shenanigans." My favorite thing to do is cause them.

    Smoke weed everyday.

  3. #103
    Member RhythmOvPain's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Staff Deployment View Post
    "Look, there are two ways this can go down," said Boxer. "I can shove you off the plane, or you can fly us to Washington State."

    "First off, this isn't a plane," said Dr. Bones. "Secondly, I'm a doctor, not a pilot, and you're in a mental asylum."

    "FLY US TO WASHINGTON," screamed Boxer.

    Dr. Bones sighed. His trick hadn't worked. He turned the plane around.
    Before I say anything else, I have to say that this made me laugh like a retard for a second. =P

    Kay.

    "My dog is trying to kill me!" Dave screamed, running down the steps from his apartment to the street below. Passersby stopped and gawked at the man, his hair a mess and shirt torn to shreds. His pants were ripped from the thigh down and stained with blood; his face was covered in it, and his left arm had six brightly glistening gashes.

    Before anyone could react, the door burst open and the dog came barreling down the steps. Dave ran through the alleyway directly in front of his house and looked back as the dog regrouped and locked eyes with him. Is the damned thing possessed? he wondered, right before it started charging for him.

    He raced to his pickup and grabbed the shotgun he kept behind the seat, then locked the door just in time to stop the dog from jumping in with him. He searched his pockets and the truck furiously for the keys as the dog ravenously attacked the glass, leaving trails of slime, blood, and smudges on it. When Dave finally found the keys under the seat, he put them in the ignition and pumped the gas, sending the dog flying off the tire well.

    Using every ounce of muscle in his body, he forced the truck into a tail-spin and then whopped the dog with the tailgate, then backed up over it laughing maniacally. After he felt a reassuring bump, he quickly jumped out and pumped his shotgun. He got down on all fours and looked under the truck just in time to see the damn thing fly out at him.

    In a split second Dave fired the shotgun, and took half of his face with the buckshot. The dog's head was cleanly removed by the blast, and by the time the corner had gotten there, the entire affair was deemed the effects of a concoction of promethazine and angel dust. Dave's house was subsequently raided and the bodies confiscated.

    It is believed that after the case closed, the two were buried together in the same plot in a government cemetery.

    The end.
    Last edited by RhythmOvPain; March 27th, 2015 at 12:35 AM.
    My favorite word in the English language is "shenanigans." My favorite thing to do is cause them.

    Smoke weed everyday.

  4. #104
    Paradise is subjective, to say the least. Upon the cobbled road, the gutters run thick with blood. Wails and laughter are the symphony to my dance. My axe cleaves the faithless flesh set before me. Even a god would I strike down if he would dare to block my way. My goal is survival, the most primitive of desires. Yet, to survive, I clutch the great blunderbuss in my hand. Another who failed to overcome his inner beast appears before me. He drags his own axe upon the ground. Stepping aside from his wild blow, I bring my instrument of death to cut him down. Another beast felled, another boon granted to me. In the distance, I see more. Pitchforks, sabers and rifles are arrayed against me. Step, cut, dodge, slash, burn, crush and shoot. More sacrifices to my private heaven as I await it to destroy me. I will not claim to be any better, after all, there is no more appropriate hunter of beasts, than a beast itself. I shall reap a red harvest and add more voices to the choir that follow me. May whatever mad god created such a person and place receive my thanks. For I shall endeavor to savor every instant of this wonderland I've found.
    The truthful lie and unbelievable are my wings so I walk among the skies.

    Come see a little through my eyes
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