CriedWhenBrucieLeft
Meme Only Account
Whether intentional or not that's really obvious; certainly to anyone here on MFans. (I didn't mean dreams in the my previous post. For "dreams" read "posts".)
Now Writing
- Thread starter Onhell
- Start date
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
I don't know much about screenplays, but it is a familiar premise. Whether willingly like One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest, or disoriented like Resident Evil, waking up in a hospital/mental institution is a tried and true theme for a reason. it also reminded me of Outlast, fucking creepy game.
Saapanael
Ancient Mariner
The idea came from a dream and I built on it with the parts outside the first room. The mental institution came later, it’s not my favourite setting because I think it’s been done enough but then again, it fits the circumstances. I initially wanted it to be a children’s hospital for skin diseases (hence the distorted faces) but that would’ve been harder to tie in with the man.
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
Or it adds to the confusion... I'd love to see that version. Indeed WHY is he in a children's hospital? For a while I wrote stuff with no real ending or resultion. I found it more satisfying to leave the reader with questions than to spoon feed all reasons and motivations. Why is he there? either a really twisted reason or just because or we will never know.
Diesel 11
As you scream into the web of silence...
@Number 6 and I have been listening to Poe lately and I decided to take her album Haunted and turn it into a novel. What I've come up with is... different from album yet incorporates similar elements. At any rate, here you go. I'm working on Chapter Two but Chapter One is finished.
Chapter One
The damn phone just rang and rang and rang and rang. It's not really the ringing itself that bothers me; it's that people keep trying to get a hold of me at all hours of the day, particularly the worst ones possible. God, it pisses me off. My opinion on phone calls isn't really important to this story, because I am not a character in it. I'm just the writer; but goddammit, if I've got to tell this story - and really, I don't, but I'll do it anyway - then I'm gonna do it my way, and mine is the most atrociously pedantic you'll ever see this side of Moby-Dick.
Let's get down to businesses: the man was dead. There's no need to beat around the bush. I can do that later on, because the way he died is going to play a part in this narrative. But I don't want to hide from you the Important Fact That He Was Dead. You can thank me later on; a check would be nice. Please and thank you.
God, I'm going off the rails again, aren't I? Fuck. I was hoping this time I could just tell a straight story that was worth a shit, but that's impossible. I'm really a horrid writer. This entire story is absolute cockshit hidden under an extravagant style of writing. I'm not even hiding this. I keep calling this a story, but it's really so much worse than that. I've just started writing it, so I've no idea how long this will be. Maybe novel length; maybe in another two pages I'll throw in the towel and burn this. Wanna place bets?
Alright, alright, enough shitting around. The man was dead, but she didn't know that. Who is 'she'? His estranged wife. She was so tired of her idiot husband that she packed her bags and got the hell out. "But what about the children?" Fuck the children. They'll come up later, so stop interrupting. She'd left ol' dead boy Jones about six years before this story takes place. I'll make him a writer, just like me, so that you can understand how justifiable her actions were.
So obviously, given she stopped giving a fuck about her deadbeat, not-worth-the-paper-he-wasted husband, she would not be the first person to discover his demise. As it was, however, she was the second. "How?" you ask. Well... that's where the phone call comes in. I may have taken an inane route to get here, but I swear I knew what I was doing! That's a lie, no I didn't. But just wait because there's more inanity and lies on the way. It's what you get for reading this nonsense.
But onto the phone call! It came at 2 o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Jennifer Stewart - I picked that last name from a name generator because I'm such a terrible fucking writer that I can't even come up with a good last name myself - Mrs. Jennifer Stewart (née Harmon) was trying her goddamn best just to fall asleep. Work had been shit as always, and she'd been tempted to rise up from her office and just beat the fuck out of that coworker of hers who wouldn't. fucking. stop. whistling. But, thank you for your self-control, Jennifer, you're an angel, baby. She just took it out on herself at the bar that night. Last night, actually. Now, Mrs. Stewart / Jennifer, or, as her estranged-now-late husband once called her, Guinevere - as he'd say, "the Guinevere to my King Arthur" - that was his name, Arthur Stewart - anyway, Jennifer was not an alcoholic, but she drank a lot of fucking alcohol. Surprisingly, she never got "drunk" and was always as sober as those who drank nothing. Let's call it a genetic mutation. No genetic mutation, however, could stop the migraines from coming. And good lord, if you could see her livers. Looks like something out of the rubble after the Dresden bombings. The fact that she's still alive is a miracle, but fuck it, my story, my rules. Just accept it and follow along.
The call came in, as I said, and to Jennifer, it was like a KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on her noggin. Holy shit, fuck that fucking phone!! She reached for the sledgehammer next to her bed to finally get rid of that shit for good. Oh wait, there was no sledgehammer, just as most sane people don't keep sledgehammers by their bed. So instead she just fell out of the bed. Fuck, now I - she - hurt(s) all over. Fuck that fucking phone. Fuck. That. Fucking. Phone.
With a headache^2, Jennifer moved slowly over the floor, using her hands to pull herself forward. Have you ever done that? It makes you feel pathetic. Like a dog. Absolutely sad jams. Jennifer reached up to the nightstand where her phone lay. Feeling around for that cursed object, she accidentally knocked over a vase. It came down and broke over her cranium. "Fuck!" she muttered. Glass, water, and lilacs lay on the floor. And that phone was still ringing. Is that even possible? Oh well, my story, my rules.
She picked herself up, tried her best not to step on the glass, failed, grabbed that phone, opened her door, stepped out, and promptly fell down the stairwell. It was a bloody great crash. She went head over heels to the bottom. The phone went flying. She lay there wishing for death for a full minute before she picked herself up and found that phone in pieces. The batteries were scattered. The body was dented. Parts littered the floor. And it was still ringing.
Well, nothing better to do than just answer the damned thing. She picked up the battered but resistant object and clicked the accept call button. Is there another name for that? I dunno. Anyway, she answered:
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
It took a moment for her to register whose voice it was. "Anne? What are you" - hack - "calling about so late at night / early in the morning?"
"Mom, Daddy's dead."
Aw fuck, now this shit.
"Say that again, dear?"
Daddy's dead. His body is in the living room and there are pieces of him all over the wall."
Jesus - "Well have you tried calling the police?"
"No, I - I didn't - I -"
"Look, call the authorities and I'll speak to you again in the morning."
"But Mom, I'm scared -" but Mom had already hung up.
Jennifer walked over to the bathroom to try and clear her mind. God, that man was dead. Sonuvabitch. Of all the rotten things he could do... Oh well, so much for that.
She sat on the toilet for a few minutes.
Then she threw up.
Chapter One
The damn phone just rang and rang and rang and rang. It's not really the ringing itself that bothers me; it's that people keep trying to get a hold of me at all hours of the day, particularly the worst ones possible. God, it pisses me off. My opinion on phone calls isn't really important to this story, because I am not a character in it. I'm just the writer; but goddammit, if I've got to tell this story - and really, I don't, but I'll do it anyway - then I'm gonna do it my way, and mine is the most atrociously pedantic you'll ever see this side of Moby-Dick.
Let's get down to businesses: the man was dead. There's no need to beat around the bush. I can do that later on, because the way he died is going to play a part in this narrative. But I don't want to hide from you the Important Fact That He Was Dead. You can thank me later on; a check would be nice. Please and thank you.
God, I'm going off the rails again, aren't I? Fuck. I was hoping this time I could just tell a straight story that was worth a shit, but that's impossible. I'm really a horrid writer. This entire story is absolute cockshit hidden under an extravagant style of writing. I'm not even hiding this. I keep calling this a story, but it's really so much worse than that. I've just started writing it, so I've no idea how long this will be. Maybe novel length; maybe in another two pages I'll throw in the towel and burn this. Wanna place bets?
Alright, alright, enough shitting around. The man was dead, but she didn't know that. Who is 'she'? His estranged wife. She was so tired of her idiot husband that she packed her bags and got the hell out. "But what about the children?" Fuck the children. They'll come up later, so stop interrupting. She'd left ol' dead boy Jones about six years before this story takes place. I'll make him a writer, just like me, so that you can understand how justifiable her actions were.
So obviously, given she stopped giving a fuck about her deadbeat, not-worth-the-paper-he-wasted husband, she would not be the first person to discover his demise. As it was, however, she was the second. "How?" you ask. Well... that's where the phone call comes in. I may have taken an inane route to get here, but I swear I knew what I was doing! That's a lie, no I didn't. But just wait because there's more inanity and lies on the way. It's what you get for reading this nonsense.
But onto the phone call! It came at 2 o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Jennifer Stewart - I picked that last name from a name generator because I'm such a terrible fucking writer that I can't even come up with a good last name myself - Mrs. Jennifer Stewart (née Harmon) was trying her goddamn best just to fall asleep. Work had been shit as always, and she'd been tempted to rise up from her office and just beat the fuck out of that coworker of hers who wouldn't. fucking. stop. whistling. But, thank you for your self-control, Jennifer, you're an angel, baby. She just took it out on herself at the bar that night. Last night, actually. Now, Mrs. Stewart / Jennifer, or, as her estranged-now-late husband once called her, Guinevere - as he'd say, "the Guinevere to my King Arthur" - that was his name, Arthur Stewart - anyway, Jennifer was not an alcoholic, but she drank a lot of fucking alcohol. Surprisingly, she never got "drunk" and was always as sober as those who drank nothing. Let's call it a genetic mutation. No genetic mutation, however, could stop the migraines from coming. And good lord, if you could see her livers. Looks like something out of the rubble after the Dresden bombings. The fact that she's still alive is a miracle, but fuck it, my story, my rules. Just accept it and follow along.
The call came in, as I said, and to Jennifer, it was like a KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on her noggin. Holy shit, fuck that fucking phone!! She reached for the sledgehammer next to her bed to finally get rid of that shit for good. Oh wait, there was no sledgehammer, just as most sane people don't keep sledgehammers by their bed. So instead she just fell out of the bed. Fuck, now I - she - hurt(s) all over. Fuck that fucking phone. Fuck. That. Fucking. Phone.
With a headache^2, Jennifer moved slowly over the floor, using her hands to pull herself forward. Have you ever done that? It makes you feel pathetic. Like a dog. Absolutely sad jams. Jennifer reached up to the nightstand where her phone lay. Feeling around for that cursed object, she accidentally knocked over a vase. It came down and broke over her cranium. "Fuck!" she muttered. Glass, water, and lilacs lay on the floor. And that phone was still ringing. Is that even possible? Oh well, my story, my rules.
She picked herself up, tried her best not to step on the glass, failed, grabbed that phone, opened her door, stepped out, and promptly fell down the stairwell. It was a bloody great crash. She went head over heels to the bottom. The phone went flying. She lay there wishing for death for a full minute before she picked herself up and found that phone in pieces. The batteries were scattered. The body was dented. Parts littered the floor. And it was still ringing.
Well, nothing better to do than just answer the damned thing. She picked up the battered but resistant object and clicked the accept call button. Is there another name for that? I dunno. Anyway, she answered:
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
It took a moment for her to register whose voice it was. "Anne? What are you" - hack - "calling about so late at night / early in the morning?"
"Mom, Daddy's dead."
Aw fuck, now this shit.
"Say that again, dear?"
Daddy's dead. His body is in the living room and there are pieces of him all over the wall."
Jesus - "Well have you tried calling the police?"
"No, I - I didn't - I -"
"Look, call the authorities and I'll speak to you again in the morning."
"But Mom, I'm scared -" but Mom had already hung up.
Jennifer walked over to the bathroom to try and clear her mind. God, that man was dead. Sonuvabitch. Of all the rotten things he could do... Oh well, so much for that.
She sat on the toilet for a few minutes.
Then she threw up.
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
This is a venting session, nothing more.
In the past couple of days I have engaged in some very frustrating and at times flat out infuriating conversations with people who are close to me. I have also observed some alarming hypocracy. It has led to me feeling very lost and alone.
I should explain. As many of you know I was born and raised in Mexico City, Mexico. However I attended an American school my entire academic life. From the time I was 3 to when I was 16. Then I spent the next 16.5 years in Tucson, Arizona in the U.S. I grew up bilingual, bicultural, but even though I am of two cultures and countries, I find myself being rejected by both. In Mexico they rationalize my behavior and point of view to me no REALLY being Mexican and actually being an American and in the U.S people struggled with the reality I was Mexican saying things like, "You're not REALLY Mexican, you're white," or endless variations of not looking, sounding, thinking, behaving "Mexican."
This is important to note, because when having discussions with people regarding social, political and religious issues their favorite fall back argument is, "Well, you're not even X, so you can't have an opinion about it." When I talk about Mexican issues with Mexicans they say, "Well, you haven't even been here so you can't speak to that." When I engage Americans I get, "Well you left, so why are you complaining?"
The recent frustration comes from the following three conversations I've had or witnessed. The first was with a person I consider a close friend, very close friend in fact. I would call him a "good person," because he is. However, he has racist.... let's call them tendencies. He'll assert he isn't racist, because he doesn't hold any prejudice against any group of people, which is true. HOWEVER, we've recently gotten into it because I sent him an article with the headline, "Understanding you too, are a racist (even if you're one of the good ones)." His response was, "The left doesn't get a say on what or who is racist." Followed up by, "I'm not racist because I don't agree with your definition of it." I pointed out that his comments like immigrants are the problem, saying black people just need to "get over" slavery, denying the gender wage gap or the existence of systemic sexism and racism are racist things. He said, "I don't think they are."
One thing is being insensitive/racist/sexist out of ignorance, another one is willfulying ignoring evidence and reality.
He then said I was the problem with "the left." Funny thing is, I'm NOT a "leftist." The problem with American politics is the binary system. Sanders is NOT a democrat. Trump is NOT a Republican, but to get votes and attention they have to pick one of those sides even if they don't fit that mold. Another example is the Pauls, Ron and Rand. I like them both very much and I like the father more than the son and had he gotten the Republican nomination way back when I would have voted for him. Here in Mexico I'm a CONSERVATIVE! imagine that! We have WAY more parties, like 11, though really only 4 with any chance of winning big elections like governor, senator and president.
The problem with the left is another good friend of mine who is an extreme SJW. She fights for LGBT rights and in fact would correct me that it is NOW in fact "LGBTQIA." Uses terms as "Cis gender" and corrects you for using words like "Gypsy." So she APPEARS to be openminded and welcoming and understanding, but she isn't. I recently had a conversation on FB with a Jewish friend of mine over the recent uproar over calling the Border Patrol detention centers, "Concentration Camps." He argued that some, not all, but some Jews were offended over the terminology. He stated that he was ok with people calling them that, but asked to be respectful of those who weren't happy with it and to be accomodating. This friend of mine decided it would be a good idea to fight him on that with a "history lesson." One he was well aware of. Someone who supposedly fights for minority rights, voice of the voiceless, thought it a good idea to lecture a minority on their own history and insisted it was more than appropriate to call them Concentration Camps. Such hypocricy left me speechless. This type of SJW doesn't care about justice, they just care about being right. Like feminists who complain men are not educated enough on women's issues to talk about them or to be allies, ye when they are engaged in debate instead of educating they merely say, "you're a man, you have no say in women's matters."
The last one I'll mention was with my Dad's new wife, a non-denominational Christian. She posted a meme that said, "Gays and lesbians want us to accept them, but they don't accept how god made them." I responded with, "They do, He made them gay and lesbian." She replied, "Wow, you really don't know what you're talking about," and had my dad tell me to read Romans 1:26. I told him, That's what Paul said, not God.
In short, How fucking hard is it to be a decent human being? Am I really that crazy? You're not going to agree with everyone, but good god. Like Forrest Gump, i can admit I'm not a smart man, but I know what tolerance and respect are. That opinions and knowledge can change. Venting over.
In the past couple of days I have engaged in some very frustrating and at times flat out infuriating conversations with people who are close to me. I have also observed some alarming hypocracy. It has led to me feeling very lost and alone.
I should explain. As many of you know I was born and raised in Mexico City, Mexico. However I attended an American school my entire academic life. From the time I was 3 to when I was 16. Then I spent the next 16.5 years in Tucson, Arizona in the U.S. I grew up bilingual, bicultural, but even though I am of two cultures and countries, I find myself being rejected by both. In Mexico they rationalize my behavior and point of view to me no REALLY being Mexican and actually being an American and in the U.S people struggled with the reality I was Mexican saying things like, "You're not REALLY Mexican, you're white," or endless variations of not looking, sounding, thinking, behaving "Mexican."
This is important to note, because when having discussions with people regarding social, political and religious issues their favorite fall back argument is, "Well, you're not even X, so you can't have an opinion about it." When I talk about Mexican issues with Mexicans they say, "Well, you haven't even been here so you can't speak to that." When I engage Americans I get, "Well you left, so why are you complaining?"
The recent frustration comes from the following three conversations I've had or witnessed. The first was with a person I consider a close friend, very close friend in fact. I would call him a "good person," because he is. However, he has racist.... let's call them tendencies. He'll assert he isn't racist, because he doesn't hold any prejudice against any group of people, which is true. HOWEVER, we've recently gotten into it because I sent him an article with the headline, "Understanding you too, are a racist (even if you're one of the good ones)." His response was, "The left doesn't get a say on what or who is racist." Followed up by, "I'm not racist because I don't agree with your definition of it." I pointed out that his comments like immigrants are the problem, saying black people just need to "get over" slavery, denying the gender wage gap or the existence of systemic sexism and racism are racist things. He said, "I don't think they are."
One thing is being insensitive/racist/sexist out of ignorance, another one is willfulying ignoring evidence and reality.
He then said I was the problem with "the left." Funny thing is, I'm NOT a "leftist." The problem with American politics is the binary system. Sanders is NOT a democrat. Trump is NOT a Republican, but to get votes and attention they have to pick one of those sides even if they don't fit that mold. Another example is the Pauls, Ron and Rand. I like them both very much and I like the father more than the son and had he gotten the Republican nomination way back when I would have voted for him. Here in Mexico I'm a CONSERVATIVE! imagine that! We have WAY more parties, like 11, though really only 4 with any chance of winning big elections like governor, senator and president.
The problem with the left is another good friend of mine who is an extreme SJW. She fights for LGBT rights and in fact would correct me that it is NOW in fact "LGBTQIA." Uses terms as "Cis gender" and corrects you for using words like "Gypsy." So she APPEARS to be openminded and welcoming and understanding, but she isn't. I recently had a conversation on FB with a Jewish friend of mine over the recent uproar over calling the Border Patrol detention centers, "Concentration Camps." He argued that some, not all, but some Jews were offended over the terminology. He stated that he was ok with people calling them that, but asked to be respectful of those who weren't happy with it and to be accomodating. This friend of mine decided it would be a good idea to fight him on that with a "history lesson." One he was well aware of. Someone who supposedly fights for minority rights, voice of the voiceless, thought it a good idea to lecture a minority on their own history and insisted it was more than appropriate to call them Concentration Camps. Such hypocricy left me speechless. This type of SJW doesn't care about justice, they just care about being right. Like feminists who complain men are not educated enough on women's issues to talk about them or to be allies, ye when they are engaged in debate instead of educating they merely say, "you're a man, you have no say in women's matters."
The last one I'll mention was with my Dad's new wife, a non-denominational Christian. She posted a meme that said, "Gays and lesbians want us to accept them, but they don't accept how god made them." I responded with, "They do, He made them gay and lesbian." She replied, "Wow, you really don't know what you're talking about," and had my dad tell me to read Romans 1:26. I told him, That's what Paul said, not God.
In short, How fucking hard is it to be a decent human being? Am I really that crazy? You're not going to agree with everyone, but good god. Like Forrest Gump, i can admit I'm not a smart man, but I know what tolerance and respect are. That opinions and knowledge can change. Venting over.
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
There’s a rant thread too yknow...
I figured, but I've been so out of it these past few days from what's been going on and felt it was fairly personal that I did it here without looking for the rant thread. I wanted to expand on it more, but I had to get to work. Thanks for the tip, I'll keep it in mind for the next one.
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
I have not, and I should since I'm currently not working haha. I've been busy setting up a pen paling program for my students between my old community college and the University I currently teach at. I also reached out to a friend who studied Spanish in Canada and did her student exchange in Peru. The idea is for the students to write each other in both English and Spanish and help each other with their respective L1s and hopefully form a friendship. The head of the language department told me e-mailing would be to difficult to track/contribute with students dropping/not continuing the language and suggested a blog format. So I floated the idea of Schoology, an academic blog I've used before. She's working out the logistics and running the idea by her colleagues. If it gets green lit we would pilot the program next semesters. So I'm excited about that.
I want to return to a few stories on here, expand on old ones and go back to reading what I intended to to write my crazy theories lol. I could focus on the Canturberry Tales-like book I've had in my head for a while... That's actually not a bad idea.
Magnus
Pica Serdica
Magnus
Pica Serdica
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
I haven't been writing as of late. Well.... anything in terms of fiction/personal. I'm currently writing an application to a Masters program and I have to write a 1500 word statement as to what my purpose is in studying the program. Not a daunting task in and of itself, but tedious nontheless. I simply have to extend "Cuz I wants more money, yo!" into 1500 ten dollar words lol.
Magnus
Pica Serdica
Good luck with that of course but I'd suggest you don't put it in your debut book.
Maybe at a later stage.
"some critics have been saying I could publish my laundry list and sell a million copies or so" Stephen King
Onhell
Infinite Dreamer
That's why I've been debating what to publish first. my Chaucer-esque stories on life and love, my thoughts on myths and legends and their deeper psychological/social ramifications, or a collection of my "best of" Dream Killing lol.
Diesel 11
As you scream into the web of silence...
“The reason for which I am sending to the esteemed panel an application for participation in your program, of which is referred to by people as a type of ‘Masters’ program, is for the quite simple and yet extraordinarily complex reason, that I am oft in want of more items within my change purse than I currently do — items made of specialized paper solely reserved for their printing, or special metals that at one point gave the items a value afore the world came upon the grand idea of making them meaningless without the context of governmental meaningfulness placements — items, I say, referred to collectively as ‘money’, which allow the esteemed gentleman writing this application, myself, to barter with colleagues in this race of life we call ‘humanity’, and exchange these items of questionable worth amongst our very own selves, and in doing so receive other items that we may be in want of, for no reason other than, ‘Well I surely could use a vacuum dispenser,’ or, ‘Wherever will I be in three years if it is not a die cast gold plated Panzer that I purchase,’— items that unfortunately I am unable to receive more of, to a sufficient level of my own wantingness, if I were to stay at my current level of itemreceivingness, which I hear is known colloquially as ‘employment’ (which, I must say, has a propensity for a very disappointingly high amount of physical and manual labor, of which I cannot in all honestness consider myself a large fan of) — and hence, therefore, I humbly submit to the highly regarded panel, my application for your Masters program.”
