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» Getting other people into trouble

A scream
The street, shiny with slippery rain, was watched over by a thousand cyclopic cameras, silently observing the wretched scenes that played out every day. The rain eroded more than the concrete facades. People shrank, horrified, at that most perverse terror of all: the destruction of the human spirit.

Night and day had little to distinguish them. The continual deluge from a sky bruised with thunderheads that never broke kept the sun out; neon signs, blinking, reflected from every surface like a disco ball in a fairground hall of mirrors. Distorted, debased, advertisements shone and re-shone, the message becoming both fainter and more pronounced with each reflection.

Shuffling like cattle, people trudged, heads down, silent. Cars drove past in a constant stream, pausing only to acknowledge red lights and allow the flow of humanity to move from one capillary to another. And still the rain came.

Rising like a belch, a single man lifted his head and lifted his fists, shaking them in fury against the flickering neon. He screamed for eight full seconds, his throat becoming raw and his breathing ragged. Somewhere, a silent alarm sounded, and men employed to protect the property of the state began to assemble.

The screamer sunk back into the crowd as the police cars arrived. With an almost imperceptible gesture, he told the gathered officers that the man standing next to him was guilty of the disturbance. A policeman placed his gloved hand on the accused, gripping tightly, making escape impossible. The crowd dispersed, their trudging slightly faster than before. Gloved hands wrought with the might of justice pulled the man away as he screamed in terror. The screams convinced the police that they had their man; a swift dig to the abdomen soon stopped his noise. The screamer was, by now, long gone. The rain continued as the police cars disappeared as quickly as they came.
(Wed 24th Oct 2012, 15:38, More)

» Stories of unsurpassed brilliance

A pretty, plump face, with a mouth wide like a frog's. Hair, spun gold, piled atop her head, straggled locks pulled loose and hanging here and there like decorative strands of gilded tinsel. A mind that wasn't quick, conventionally; a furrowed brow and protruding lower lip were the consequences of a question that taxed her brain, but when faced with something that had the slightest hint of prurience it reacted with an alacrity that surprised the lowest-minded of her male colleagues.
Her voice, musical, belied the vapidity of what she generally had to say, or perhaps confirmed it, if you were the type of mean spirited person to make assumptions. No matter. One didn't listen to her for the content, but for the beauty and cadence and tone, as one can listen to a chanteuse singing in a foreign language and be utterly enchanted despite not having a clue what she was singing.

And so it came to pass that one day I was dawdling through reception. I had plenty of tasks that required my attention; despite my best efforts, I hadn't yet been able to shift all my duties into other, more hapless wage slaves, but I wanted to let my eyes drink in this vision of flawed loveliness as she tidied the newspapers on the tables. Her rump, round and rippling, strained against the taut fabric of her dress, outlining each buttock and the heavenly crevasse between. She knew I was watching. It was harmless ogling, enjoyed by both of us, encouraged by her as she shifted her hams, causing the material to run deliciously together.

The silence was rent asunder by the loudest, longest fart I'd ever heard. She finished - shook it out, or so it appeared to me - with a slight wobble, as though she was teasing the last of the ketchup from a glass bottle, before standing up straight, turning on her stiletto heel and winking at me. For my part, I ejaculated instantly and so rapidly that it made my testes ache. I had to run to the toilet and clean myself up as best I could. It remains to this day the most powerfully erotic experience of my life. She left soon after, following a complaint from a client which involved a pubic hair floating in his cup of tea. The lucky bastard. I've have paid good money for that.
(Tue 20th Dec 2016, 21:15, More)

» Best Childhood Memories

The scent still clings, somewhere. I'm sure it's synthetic; some jarring in my olfactory bulb that confuses my brain and makes me think I can smell her. My memories are hazy and piecemeal, like a synaesthetic collage. The curve of her hair, the warm softness of her hand, enveloping mine. The rich sound of her voice, bestowing a safety and security that I've never really felt since. But mostly, the smell.

Her perfume was Yardley English Lavender. She wore it subtly, so the smell mixed with her own aromas: vanilla, cocoa butter, Imperial Leather soap. It was a smell that filled my nostrils as I hugged her, when I'd skinned my knee, when I'd broken my toy car, when I'd eaten too much jelly and ice cream and felt sick. It was a smell that I'll forever associate with comfort, with complete love and protection.

The smell lingered for a while after she'd gone. I think my father was loathe to clean too much, lest he completely washed her away. His need for it was probably as great as mine. In time, we healed, albeit with scars: invisible to the naked eye, but very real, and very tender when prodded in the right way. I kept a bottle of the perfume, and every year, on her birthday, I spray just a little bit onto my pillow, and cuddle it, pushing my tear-streaked face into the warm softness, just like I used to as a child.

Sometimes I catch the tiniest amount of it on the breeze. Perhaps someone wears something with a hint of lavender; maybe someone has a bush in their garden. For a second, I'm caught up in the swirling vortex - the curve of her hair, the warm softness of her hand, enveloping mine. The rich sound of her voice, bestowing a safety and security that I've never really felt since.

I might not remember you too well, Mum, but I miss you.
(Tue 16th May 2017, 8:33, More)

» Relief

A man, his heart close to exploding like a pulsing grenade in his chest. He runs, slowing down as lactic acid builds up in his strained muscles and then speeding up again as adrenaline takes over; his gait, unbalanced, gives the impression of a man made up of two separate and distinct halves, each with their own rhythm.

His eyes burn as salty droplets of perspiration drop into them. His pupils, dilated, suggest drug use, but their huge size is due to the endorphins his brain is pumping out to combat the pain of his exertion. His mind is a crazy tangle of neurons, firing and refiring as unanswered questions and half-formed thoughts pinball through his cranium. What if? What happens...

His breathing is ragged and uneven. He is not a runner. He barely exercises, but he knows that he has to be there right now. Every extra second is like an eternity. He barely has time or capacity to wonder where he is; instinctually he makes for his destination, feinting here, swerving there, like a homing pigeon. He will remember little of this journey in years to come.

Through his streaked vision - every street light a halo, every traffic signal a disco ball shattering colours into a million shards of light - he sees the hospital and, with one final grunt of exertion, pushes himself towards its doors.
Once inside, he gasps his purpose through a dry throat, and is ushered - too slow! too slow! - to a room, in which people mingle and complicated machinery beeps with a regularity alien to nature.

What if? What happens...

He has a son. His first. The ache in his muscles disappears. His heart slows, but he still feels as though it could burst through his chest. He breathes, deep, gulping swallows of sweet air, refilling his lungs and failing to prevent him from crying. His tears grant him tunnel vision: all he can see is his wife and his son, nestled on her breast. He weeps without shame.
(Fri 21st Dec 2012, 15:26, More)

» Shit Claims to Fame II

One day in a cafe
The man looked with weary disdain at the repast laid before him: a plate piled high with limp, glutinous food that seemed robbed of much of its colour saturation and, he assumed, suffering from a similar lack of flavour. He sighed. This kind of sub-standard fare had become a quotidian occurrence, ruining his once-healthy appetite and reducing mealtimes from a cause of celebration to an ordeal to be endured. He picked listlessly at something that may have been made of potato, or meat; there was little difference in structure, tactile sensation or even taste between the various constituents of his meal. Each part had a patina of dimpled grease sticking to its surface, congealing as the heat dissipated from the food into the ether. He gently placed down his knife and fork and stood up.

"Sir! Sir! Do you want your bill?" asked an effeminate waiter, looking with alarm as the man broke away from his daily script, ad-libbing actions that he had no ready answer for.

"I won't be paying today," replied the man, slowly and deliberately. "This food is swill."

Their conversation was interrupted by a fat, naked man leaping through the plate glass window and executing a perfect commando roll. He leapt to his feat with a speed and grace which belied his bulk, and starting twanging his stubby penis like a stringed instrument. In the confusion, the man slipped away from the restaurant, vowing never to return.

"What the hell?" asked the visibly shaken waiter.

"Search me, buddy", replied Tony Way. "I only came in to give you this."

With that, he slapped first one, then the other of his sizeable buttocks, kissed the waiter full on the mouth, and ran off as quickly as he entered.
(Tue 25th Sep 2012, 10:54, More)
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