Sunday, July 25, 2010
A Summer of MS PAINT
Its very boring at my parents house. Most of my time is spent blankly staring at my computer screen while listing to podcasts with people far more interesting than me. One day however to maintain my sanity and to keep from making dolls in the shape of my favorite podcasters I decided to start doodling in Paint. The following is the terrifying results of a summer of idleness and frustration.
Temptation
I write this now to tell of a dark horror and sin that no man should have to bear on his own. Last night I committed a deed so black and dreadful I am not certain I will have the will to finish the narrative with out succumbing to the encroaching madness that is even know scratching at the gateway of my anxious mind.
Solitude is an unholy thing to young men. And during the deep hour of midnight the consumed mind deforms needs until they become twisted desires. Where even the supple brim of a dirty hat can send a normally moral man into decadent fantasias rife with immoral acts with erotic millinery.
It was in this haunting condition I found myself nearly thirteen hours before the present. Knowing that I would soon be fraught with the fever that takes all men, I sent to task hiding any and all tantalizing objects from my view and putting out all the lights. But in the devilish moonlight the clock struck 12 and my desperate gaze fell upon the fantastic globes that set at the end of my bed.
Atop the ridged wooden posts that surrounded my bed were large wooden sphere that in my addled mind I took to be the incandescent globes of delight that are the female bosom. I walked towards them sluggishly as if in a drunken stupor. I tried to resist but the foul hour was what controlled my body then. No amount of rational thought would of saved my virtue then.
The illusion was too complete and at half past midnight all ration thought left my body as it landed upon the moonlit wooden orb
What occurs next makes me wish to abandon this shameful memoir, for truly this is the story of my life, and end it all on the hard streets below. But I shall persevere for the sake that some day the description of which will lead to a possible cure for my impending dementia.
Once the evil had left my body I saw the bed post begin to shiver. Fear began to seep into my mind as the once rigid wooden posts began to wilt and shape shift into something more terrifying than I could imagine. Faces of the past and future screamed from the spheres condemning the earth to its irrelevant fate and destruction. The shining wood began to darken and grow in size and without warning burst through the wall that my bed had rest against. Leaving a great hole that let the cold night air rush into my morose room. Chilling to me the bone as I stood there staring in shock in only my socks.
I can still feel the cold air brushing against me as I write this. Even though I had patched up the hole this morning since I have not slept since. The reality and the terror of what I saw last night is still sinking in and I fear that once it finally does my mind will be completely lost. I can only hope this writing will serve to explain why I have gone mad and perhaps my bizarre lack of headwear.
---------------
Prompt by Tekkyh: " , when the night was still, and his company sparse, it occurred to him that his bed posts looked remarkably like breasts."
Solitude is an unholy thing to young men. And during the deep hour of midnight the consumed mind deforms needs until they become twisted desires. Where even the supple brim of a dirty hat can send a normally moral man into decadent fantasias rife with immoral acts with erotic millinery.
It was in this haunting condition I found myself nearly thirteen hours before the present. Knowing that I would soon be fraught with the fever that takes all men, I sent to task hiding any and all tantalizing objects from my view and putting out all the lights. But in the devilish moonlight the clock struck 12 and my desperate gaze fell upon the fantastic globes that set at the end of my bed.
Atop the ridged wooden posts that surrounded my bed were large wooden sphere that in my addled mind I took to be the incandescent globes of delight that are the female bosom. I walked towards them sluggishly as if in a drunken stupor. I tried to resist but the foul hour was what controlled my body then. No amount of rational thought would of saved my virtue then.
The illusion was too complete and at half past midnight all ration thought left my body as it landed upon the moonlit wooden orb
What occurs next makes me wish to abandon this shameful memoir, for truly this is the story of my life, and end it all on the hard streets below. But I shall persevere for the sake that some day the description of which will lead to a possible cure for my impending dementia.
Once the evil had left my body I saw the bed post begin to shiver. Fear began to seep into my mind as the once rigid wooden posts began to wilt and shape shift into something more terrifying than I could imagine. Faces of the past and future screamed from the spheres condemning the earth to its irrelevant fate and destruction. The shining wood began to darken and grow in size and without warning burst through the wall that my bed had rest against. Leaving a great hole that let the cold night air rush into my morose room. Chilling to me the bone as I stood there staring in shock in only my socks.
I can still feel the cold air brushing against me as I write this. Even though I had patched up the hole this morning since I have not slept since. The reality and the terror of what I saw last night is still sinking in and I fear that once it finally does my mind will be completely lost. I can only hope this writing will serve to explain why I have gone mad and perhaps my bizarre lack of headwear.
---------------
Prompt by Tekkyh: " , when the night was still, and his company sparse, it occurred to him that his bed posts looked remarkably like breasts."
Sticky Fingers
Max was walking home from work and so distracted by the prize he was clutching in his hands, he didn’t notice the 3 foot tall Albanian man walking towards him.
The dwarf, falling to the ground to get out of the way, shouted out to Max.
“What fuck’s your problem?”
Max’s problem was “Borrowing things”. From little things, like the little pens at banks, to bigger things, like the expensive string of round white polished stones that he was now carefully turning over in his hands. He thought the stones must have been made of marble or some sort of other high-end stone. He wondered how much they would catch at a pawn shop but quickly dismissed the idea.
Max rarely thought about the value of the things he took. It was about the little bolt of ecstasy that ran through his whole body when ever he would surreptitiously pocketed something. But, in the end Max would always give back what he stole. The thrill, guilt, and the shame of confession, were all apart of a neurotic ritual that he had to do be satisfied. And he had been doing it for years.
Max had been trying to quit. He worked as an electrician, and whenever he got a urge he’d just touch an exposed wire. The resulting heart pounding pain would get him what he need for the day to day. But, today, while he was working on a client’s walk-in-closet light fixtures, he had found the broken, yet beautiful, necklace stuffed into a small red silk box. Max couldn’t resist. He finished with his work and left with a smile a mile wide.
**************
The following week Max became obsessed. After days of lying in bed, he began to deeply inhale the sweet and sterile aroma that surrounded the stone beads. Soon he also began to dream of the bittersweet woman who must have worn the item.
Beauty and grace as she danced while an untouched porcine neck was garnished in luxury. A fiery society girl whose constant application of perfume gave the stones a glamorous oily finish. A wild vixen that left only the broken necklace behind when she broke his heart.
For days Max lived, breathed, and even tasted his most sacred treasure. Dreams of dreams built a strange paradise where he could escape at the end of the day to bathe in the object and its mystery owners serene beauty. But the cycle had to be completed. His pent up guilt and desire would not let him cling to his wild fantasies for any longer.
Max drove his car up the long winding driveway to the rich and prolific house on a the hill. Knocked on the intricately carved and polished wooden doors and offered up to the owner, a small balding man with suspicious eyes, his lost necklace. With a rubicund face, Max apologized for stealing, and asked for forgiveness.
The suspicious man’s eyes widened and through a flustered fit of stammering choked out,
“W-w-what could you… have p-p-possibly… What! Reason would you… “ Then in a whisper, “ would you want my a-a-anal beads for?”
Max, the romantic idiot, spent the next two days in the shower. Shaking.
---------------------------
The original prompt written by ME was: "The problem with kleptomania is that by rule of averages you WILL steal something that has been in a butt"
The dwarf, falling to the ground to get out of the way, shouted out to Max.
“What fuck’s your problem?”
Max’s problem was “Borrowing things”. From little things, like the little pens at banks, to bigger things, like the expensive string of round white polished stones that he was now carefully turning over in his hands. He thought the stones must have been made of marble or some sort of other high-end stone. He wondered how much they would catch at a pawn shop but quickly dismissed the idea.
Max rarely thought about the value of the things he took. It was about the little bolt of ecstasy that ran through his whole body when ever he would surreptitiously pocketed something. But, in the end Max would always give back what he stole. The thrill, guilt, and the shame of confession, were all apart of a neurotic ritual that he had to do be satisfied. And he had been doing it for years.
Max had been trying to quit. He worked as an electrician, and whenever he got a urge he’d just touch an exposed wire. The resulting heart pounding pain would get him what he need for the day to day. But, today, while he was working on a client’s walk-in-closet light fixtures, he had found the broken, yet beautiful, necklace stuffed into a small red silk box. Max couldn’t resist. He finished with his work and left with a smile a mile wide.
**************
The following week Max became obsessed. After days of lying in bed, he began to deeply inhale the sweet and sterile aroma that surrounded the stone beads. Soon he also began to dream of the bittersweet woman who must have worn the item.
Beauty and grace as she danced while an untouched porcine neck was garnished in luxury. A fiery society girl whose constant application of perfume gave the stones a glamorous oily finish. A wild vixen that left only the broken necklace behind when she broke his heart.
For days Max lived, breathed, and even tasted his most sacred treasure. Dreams of dreams built a strange paradise where he could escape at the end of the day to bathe in the object and its mystery owners serene beauty. But the cycle had to be completed. His pent up guilt and desire would not let him cling to his wild fantasies for any longer.
Max drove his car up the long winding driveway to the rich and prolific house on a the hill. Knocked on the intricately carved and polished wooden doors and offered up to the owner, a small balding man with suspicious eyes, his lost necklace. With a rubicund face, Max apologized for stealing, and asked for forgiveness.
The suspicious man’s eyes widened and through a flustered fit of stammering choked out,
“W-w-what could you… have p-p-possibly… What! Reason would you… “ Then in a whisper, “ would you want my a-a-anal beads for?”
Max, the romantic idiot, spent the next two days in the shower. Shaking.
---------------------------
The original prompt written by ME was: "The problem with kleptomania is that by rule of averages you WILL steal something that has been in a butt"
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