NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #27

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Internet Message Format | 1992-11-18 | 13.9 KB

Path: sparky!uunet!sun-barr!cs.utexas.edu!usc!nic.csu.net!eis.CalState.EDU!sralsto Newsgroups: alt.prose Subject: 4th Street and Main Dreamscape Message-ID: <BxxvHo.3Gs@eis.calstate.edu> From: sralsto@eis.calstate.edu (Scott) Date: Thu, 19 Nov 1992 01:15:24 GMT Organization: Calif State Univ/Electronic Information Services Note: This piece is fictional. Lines: 255 -=- 4th Street and Main Dreamscape The woe originated in my foundation. It was there that my technicolor nightmare began. It was destined to occur, so I made no effort to change it. The events were already bronzed into the fabric of time--so in some perverted way, this chain of events was meant to unfold. I wonder who deemed it so. ----------------------------------------------------------------- The path twisted out ahead toward its destination. I noticed it was bordered by subservient grass. Pretty and nice, this grass was meant to be. My feet paced their cumbersome way along the path steadily--for I had an appointment. Sweat dripped methodically from my forehead, rinsing the sockets in my skull. And it burned, so I tried to wipe it away. But it came back, because at that moment my eyes were meant to sting. The trail finally reached its destination, a small glade of trees. It looked out of place, just as I felt, so it made me happy. I sighed a little at my revelation--there are some fringe benefits involved in insanity. Knowing that an appointment was willed to occur, I looked at the trees expectantly. Who would this grim stranger be? An infusion of fetish was ready to take place. I soon realized a figure crouched in the shadows. Sunken in the shade of the grove she rose to attention. I think she felt my exposed innocence; I think she knew everything about me in that unkind second that her eyes met mine. It was a nice feeling, when infinity stopped. It made me feel warm and fluid, dense like mercury, smooth like magma. Infinity stopped when her eyes touched mine. How could this vulpine beauty bear the arrow destined for my Achilles heel? It all seemed so unlikely, so I constructed a crystalline bridge of faith to divert my fears. Consoled by my blanket of naivete, I clutched concepts close, and dreamt of her electric touch accented by her gaze of blithe perfection. She saw my dreams manifest, and she smiled benevolently, fascinated by my imagination. She grinned as she saw me take her as an abstraction and then readily weave her into the fiber of my being. That was my first mistake--I let her in. And the ground became a conductor, imbedding a beautiful tumor in my foot. And so it is that I say the woe originated in my foundation. It would work its way up. ----------------------------------------------------------------- I feel cold. Purged of thought, of all that was dear to me. While once my iniquity soothed me, it now amounts to nothing. Fantasy is no longer my mentor--it has since passed me by, leaving me alone. What can I cling to now that she has been lost? She was lost from the start, yet I entrusted in disbelief. I thought that I could trap a small shard of perfection, but it slithered through my hands and escaped before I had chance to disapprove. I loved my disease; I diseased my love. Infected by false beliefs and misguided attentions it convulsed its way slowly to death. Watching my love die I went into denial, something that I learned about in Life Education in the seventh grade. It is because of that I am now able to identify it instead of continue denying it. Seventh grade meant nothing else to me. Eighth grade taught me that. ----------------------------------------------------------------- "Our contestant is losing his mind!" screams the host with zeal. This is what he lives for. The audience replies with obvious approval--this is what they live for. A tapioca-walled room houses a slew of observers, gazing upon a two stair high stage upon which a game-show host waltzes his dance of deception. "I love it when we receive contestants like this, and I'm sure our observers at home do too." One sane person in the audience notes that the host sounds like he has been drinking Crisco oil and butterflies. His words float through the microphone and rain upon the observers as they sit zanily. How can people sit zanily? Watch a game-show of this category and you too will understand. The sane observer finally reaches her apex of dissatisfaction and decides to leave. The game-show host pretends not to notice the iconoclast, thinking "Its her loss; what we do here is to provide high-quality, low-budget entertainment to a dormant nation! And this nation rebukes our embrace. How could they?" ----------------------------------------------------------------- The above figure is a line of dashes. When you see it, you will make due note that the perspective of this writing has changed. This has been a community service announcement, paid for by the likes of Ronald Reagan and George Bush. Be my valentine. ----------------------------------------------------------------- My hand is quivering as I think upon the syllables of her lovely name. The tumor has reached my hands. It doesn't have much farther to go before it reaches my brain and corrodes my consciousness. I feel like I'm in a bad alien movie and when this tumor indeed reaches my head that an alien will pop out. My legs and arms, my abdomen and thighs, the inner-workings of my body are no longer under my control. They are hers. She contorts them, she twists them, she uses them to her advantage. I'm her puppet. How long does time last? When will I not be hers? ----------------------------------------------------------------- "Ta-da!" drums roll. "He doesn't understand time" gurgles the bobbing host. He then becomes solemn, like a wolf in mourning, crooning "Time is our friend, folks. We must accept it for what it is--omnipotent and all-encumbering--alleluia!" The crowd barks their approval. The host looks especially oily as he grins out at the audience, rubbing his ornate knuckles upon the folds of his lavender suit. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Small children plague the elementary school playground. I don't pay them any attention. All of my attention is strewn about her. Although my little sister would be destined to play with Strawberry Shortcake dolls, my favorite outfit that she would wear is her Strawberry Shortcake dress. It has a white apron-like appendage in the front, complete with a strawberry pink belt. She wears navy blue shoes accented by frilled socks. I wonder what this longing is that I'm experiencing; where did it come from? I'm too young to understand. How is it that upon starting my life I am already a prisoner? Maybe she knows. Somehow I know that I'll forever struggle to escape it. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Futility. I should have known. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Her speech is an acidic cloud, hovering above my head. I didn't know that she could be evil--I learned very quickly. She is anchored to me as I sit convulsing. But she doesn't realize my suffering, and if she did realize, I'm not sure that she would care. Anchored to her iniquity, I'm bathed, and finally crushed. I never thought that something so beautiful could have pulled me down. Lovely to the sight, yet her touch is poison. ----------------------------------------------------------------- "Poor baby. Do you feel sorry for him folks?" Canned laughter is the only reply. "Ahhh! Yes! My thoughts exactly! What a beautiful comedy of errors!" Violent nodding from the crowd, their lethargic bodies framing plasticine eyes. The host's complexion then becomes sly as he coils up a little and says "This is what happens when we attempt to really understand a person. This is what happens when we pursue love, a concept which can never be realized. Myself, I don't need love. I have other things, things more solid, things more dependable." The crowd synthesizes this as an insane home-viewer thinks in reply "So I'm not the first one to have tried to forget that I'm human..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Putrid slime flows from her the sides of her mouth, bubbling and seething. Her eyes are crusted with flesh and her cheeks are peeling and moldy. Yet she bears on her face a look of ignorant joy, a look that tells me that she doesn't really know what's happening, but is happy in this realization. Her look notifies me that her consciousness is shallow, like a wading pool. She has no concept of reality, she has no concept of love. Lust on her breath and materialism framing her eyes. What she really wants is an executive gallivanting down the free-way in his expensive car, his hair slick and his smile like plastic. I think she wants someone on her same level, born of lust and imported materials. But there is some sort of fascination in the strange, in the new and different. All she wants is what she cannot have. For now, I will do. But the future holds many new dolls waiting to enter her collection and wither by her mock embrace. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Oh how I dance under her touch. She has complete control. I clog along to her will, a forced smile upon my cheeks. Inside I'm melting, but outside everything seems perfect and good. Sometimes I try to ignore her commands, though I am not often successful. I'll look into space or dodge her glances purposely, but in the end she succeeds, nudging into control and contorting my actions at will. Why can't I tell her she's hurting me? Why can't I tell her how this sickens me, or how perverted she has become in my eyes? I try to tell her by subtle indications, low whispers bearing my disenchantment. But she doesn't heed them, and continues in her 4th street and Main dreamscape... ----------------------------------------------------------------- The host can only smirk at this junction, and doesn't really have anything witty or condescending to add. However the smirk he wears connotes a thousand words, each one soggy and depraving. Slithering to the wings of the stage, he leans upon a monitor and resumes scrutinizing the contestant. ----------------------------------------------------------------- The time has come to escape her grasp. I need to start again, resume festering within myself. So I push her away, abandoning my dream and leaving a small part of me impaled upon her ring-finger. She has many ornaments on this finger, those of the many trophies she has won in pursuing her hobby. Maybe I should feel good to be named upon this finger, maybe I should feel that it's alright. It could make me feel normal... but it doesn't. It makes me feel unclean and foolish. I'm really just another number. Nothing more, nothing less--or at least it'd be a lot easier to think so. And with this I walk away, returning to what I once had: my insanity, my revelation, and my fears. I'd tried to share them, maybe dilute them a little in what I thought were kind and understanding eyes, but instead they were multiplied. I'm sorry if she misses me. I think I'll miss her, but not her specifically, more the concept of having a female companion. The concept that I could possibly have someone to fall upon, and also have someone who I could hold on to. Goodbye to you my angel Though you've since become deluded Goodbye to you my angel And all your fleeting enchantment The spell you bore was potent For it shook me to the core It maligned me and fractured me I surrender to your roar For what I thought was purity Has become a withered tree For what I thought was hope Has imploded inside of me I'll leave you to your world Your world of molded clay Where people hide from phantom truth Where dreams are turned away Land of sickness and depravity The doleful arrow that you bore 4th street and Main dreamscape Don't feel sorry for what you've done For I could never wish to hurt you Though I hope you'll be outdone ------------------------------+---------------------------------- -----------------------------+++--------------------------------- ------------------------------+---------------------------------- The sane being who was once in the studio returns, a grim look of determination on her face. The host is mumbling something about the contestant's performance being so dismal as to not even merit a parting gift. "What ever happened to the good old days when we'd have a contestant who wasn't so critical? One who was easily deceived and lured to our viewing pleasure.." he sighs, "it isn't like it used to be. He escaped relatively unscathed..." He then becomes rigid and keels over. A small stream of blood flows from the side of his mouth as he stares out at the audience in ultimate disbelief. Holstering her revolver, the sane woman turns around and strides toward a door marked "EXIT" in glowing crimson. The door swings shut behind her gracefully on well-oiled hinges. ----------------------------------------------------------------- They buried the host on Golgotha. The funeral was televised, and subsequently received very good ratings. The producers were experiencing a mixed euphoria, for they could not decide whether this event was good or bad for them and their bank accounts. The host was made up very nicely by the morticians, his smirk was very life-like and the bullet hole was plastered over. He wore a magenta suit to his grave, illuminated until the last few seconds by the reflection of a diamond imbedded in his front tooth. -=- Thank you for reading this. Comments greatly appreciated :)