Alice asked me to put this story in a separate thread.

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Psy
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Postby Psy » Thu Jun 16, 2016 10:39 pm

Wrote this about 5 years ago after 8-10 cans of Carling. Be warned, the structure is probably crap and full of typos.

"A crimson thorn has tasted blood", a phrase I heard once, a long time ago when the landscape was lush and green with a slight hint of fresh pine hanging in the air like a morning dew or a freshly mown lawn, those days, when people were blissful in their ignorance of the landscape ahead of them. Now, now it is a plane of dust and thunder storms ravaging the barren hillsides with nothing to stop them albeit a few broken trees and jagged rocks peaking out in the distance.

We had once dreamed of these days, for mockery and entertainment, we envisioned ourselves in a dystopian world where the water had turned poisonous and the ground fallow, but we never once thought it would become a reality. Know this, throughout our short, yet distinct existence on this planet, the human race had developed it's own method of coping with damage, either through mental barricades of denial and delusion or through constructing high walls in the forms of towns or even in their literal sense, to keep out the wild and horrific events surrounding ourselves. Throughout the 20th century as information about the true goings on around us became more public the paranoia that we had once subsided returned. With panic and fear becoming increasingly emphatic in our day to day lives, yet somehow we coped even then, just numbing ourselves by absorbing so much of the horror and destruction in our wake that we developed a tastelessness to the suffering of both our system and the ecosystem though, no longer. Tastelessness is all that remains a hollow remnant of things of past which we cling on to so dearly. Nostalgia is it's name a pain of remembering the past, even yearning for it, society accepted this as a positive that the actions we had done in our past would leave a painstaking imprint on our psyche, one that we would even remember with a sense of wellbeing and fondness.

Without any of these things in our lives now, there are no defences. No barriers of entry into the tragedy that has befallen us, but hey, I'm just one man out of many of us with this idea so you don't have to take my word for it alone.
Outside my door, if it can even be called that is an endless desert of dry plains with no colour, there is a tone, but no colour. A pale grey resembling an endless mist, not of condensation but of sand. I pine for the feeling of a raindrop on my skin again, a real raindrop fresh and elevating to the spirit. Not a globule of toxic sludge descending from the sky at an accelerated rate from the dirt and chemicals corroding its essence, I pine for the feeling of a crystal, slightly chilled droplet to crash against my cracked skin, softening the harshness of the destructive landscape arround me. Anyways I digress, outside my shambles of an entrance to my dwelling there's a constant drone, not a sound but a drone, the drone of the wind picking up the bone dry sand and whipping it up into a frenzy, sounds like those scenes from old documentaries about inhospitable places. Well here we are, I'm in one of them. For me and those around me we know what that drone signals, a storm is coming. One that will tear the flesh from your bone and leave you to be a fossil for the future, an archaelogical find for the species to surpass us, if there will ever be one. After the damage inflicted by us to this planet there isn't really a chance in hell of that happening.
The signal horn can be heard in the distance from my neighbours to get inside, the horn has a whining sound with the gears that turn it's generator being as dry as the ground that surrounds it. I would oil it and stop it from being quite as annoying alas, as with everything else oil is no longer a commodity we have. Whenever a storm is brewing in the distance those closest to the hills signal first so us closer to the valley can get protected, whilst seemingly counter intuative to those of old in this place the valley acts as a funnel, out of nowhere so much sand, grit and dust encompasses the houses and those up near the hills gain a vantage point with nothing blocking their vision for miles around, only stunted by the curvature of the earth. That horizon, that never-ending grey horizon.

My neighbour Jerry is only a couple of meters away, our community shrinking together closing in to other dwellings that remain as the storms take away the remnants of this town I see him looking even more tired as usual, at his age the only thing he has is nostalgia, but the fondness of the memories he has, have turned into a bitter taste in the back of his throat knowing that those days will never return.

"Steve, you better get inside and barricade up son, this one looks like it's going to be a bad one I think Damme and Monroe are combining their two houses into one, try and hold out a bit better." His words echoing around, with nothing to absorb his voice.
"Don't worry Jerry, I have a plan, been building myself a wall for such an occassion, there's some rocks down the stairs in that hole near my table" I would later in life find out it was the basement, after all these years though, some words just escape into the forgotten.

Let me tell you something about Jerry, or Mr. Maguire if he was trying to be the sheriff whenever wanderers come through, all of our names around here come from one place, a vast cold building about 5 days walk away, full of plastic containers with various pictures on them, turns out they were called DVD's, they all had various names on them and some of us saw ones we liked and took them. Im Steve McQueen and my neighbours are Jerry whom you sort of know and V. Damme "I never found out what the V was in all my years" and Ms. Monroe, i think she took that one because she pouts like her when people with supplies come through. Try and get a good deal or something. We've been in these shacks for a few years now, originally there were more of us when I moved here but time and hunger takes people in the blink of an eye, it's a painful existence but in small groups, we make do.
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BriarRose
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Postby BriarRose » Fri Jun 17, 2016 2:37 am

Jesus Psy....I've only read the first pp (need sleep...gah!) but holy s**t! Amazing imagery...can't wait to finish it (tomorrow crossed fingers!)
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ravenrussell
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Re: Psy Writes Beautifully

Postby ravenrussell » Tue Jan 03, 2017 11:51 am

Psy wrote:Wrote this about 5 years ago after 8-10 cans of Carling. Be warned, the structure is probably crap and full of typos.

"A crimson thorn has tasted blood", a phrase I heard once, a long time ago when the landscape was lush and green with a slight hint of fresh pine hanging in the air like a morning dew or a freshly mown lawn, those days, when people were blissful in their ignorance of the landscape ahead of them. Now, now it is a plane of dust and thunder storms ravaging the barren hillsides with nothing to stop them albeit a few broken trees and jagged rocks peaking out in the distance.

We had once dreamed of these days, for mockery and entertainment, we envisioned ourselves in a dystopian world where the water had turned poisonous and the ground fallow, but we never once thought it would become a reality. Know this, throughout our short, yet distinct existence on this planet, the human race had developed it's own method of coping with damage, either through mental barricades of denial and delusion or through constructing high walls in the forms of towns or even in their literal sense, to keep out the wild and horrific events surrounding ourselves. Throughout the 20th century as information about the true goings on around us became more public the paranoia that we had once subsided returned. With panic and fear becoming increasingly emphatic in our day to day lives, yet somehow we coped even then, just numbing ourselves by absorbing so much of the horror and destruction in our wake that we developed a tastelessness to the suffering of both our system and the ecosystem though, no longer. Tastelessness is all that remains a hollow remnant of things of past which we cling on to so dearly. Nostalgia is it's name a pain of remembering the past, even yearning for it, society accepted this as a positive that the actions we had done in our past would leave a painstaking imprint on our psyche, one that we would even remember with a sense of wellbeing and fondness.

Without any of these things in our lives now, there are no defences. No barriers of entry into the tragedy that has befallen us, but hey, I'm just one man out of many of us with this idea so you don't have to take my word for it alone.
Outside my door, if it can even be called that is an endless desert of dry plains with no colour, there is a tone, but no colour. A pale grey resembling an endless mist, not of condensation but of sand. I pine for the feeling of a raindrop on my skin again, a real raindrop fresh and elevating to the spirit. Not a globule of toxic sludge descending from the sky at an accelerated rate from the dirt and chemicals corroding its essence, I pine for the feeling of a crystal, slightly chilled droplet to crash against my cracked skin, softening the harshness of the destructive landscape arround me. Anyways I digress, outside my shambles of an entrance to my dwelling there's a constant drone, not a sound but a drone, the drone of the wind picking up the bone dry sand and whipping it up into a frenzy, sounds like those scenes from old documentaries about inhospitable places. Well here we are, I'm in one of them. For me and those around me we know what that drone signals, a storm is coming. One that will tear the flesh from your bone and leave you to be a fossil for the future, an archaelogical find for the species to surpass us, if there will ever be one. After the damage inflicted by us to this planet there isn't really a chance in hell of that happening.
The signal horn can be heard in the distance from my neighbours to get inside, the horn has a whining sound with the gears that turn it's generator being as dry as the ground that surrounds it. I would oil it and stop it from being quite as annoying alas, as with everything else oil is no longer a commodity we have. Whenever a storm is brewing in the distance those closest to the hills signal first so us closer to the valley can get protected, whilst seemingly counter intuative to those of old in this place the valley acts as a funnel, out of nowhere so much sand, grit and dust encompasses the houses and those up near the hills gain a vantage point with nothing blocking their vision for miles around, only stunted by the curvature of the earth. That horizon, that never-ending grey horizon.

My neighbour Jerry is only a couple of meters away, our community shrinking together closing in to other dwellings that remain as the storms take away the remnants of this town I see him looking even more tired as usual, at his age the only thing he has is nostalgia, but the fondness of the memories he has, have turned into a bitter taste in the back of his throat knowing that those days will never return.

"Steve, you better get inside and barricade up son, this one looks like it's going to be a bad one I think Damme and Monroe are combining their two houses into one, try and hold out a bit better." His words echoing around, with nothing to absorb his voice.
"Don't worry Jerry, I have a plan, been building myself a wall for such an occassion, there's some rocks down the stairs in that hole near my table" I would later in life find out it was the basement, after all these years though, some words just escape into the forgotten.

Let me tell you something about Jerry, or Mr. Maguire if he was trying to be the sheriff whenever wanderers come through, all of our names around here come from one place, a vast cold building about 5 days walk away, full of plastic containers with various pictures on them, turns out they were called DVD's, they all had various names on them and some of us saw ones we liked and took them. Im Steve McQueen and my neighbours are Jerry whom you sort of know and V. Damme "I never found out what the V was in all my years" and Ms. Monroe, i think she took that one because she pouts like her when people with supplies come through. Try and get a good deal or something. We've been in these shacks for a few years now, originally there were more of us when I moved here but time and hunger takes people in the blink of an eye, it's a painful existence but in small groups, we make do.


A well done piece. I felt the thriller action in it. You brought images of desperation and bleakness. They were flawless in their integrity, and rambunctious in their vigor. I enjoyed the stale taste of what reality had been in this story. I felt a whole lot of emotions reading this. I would very much like to encourage you to finish the narrative. Fill me with that desperation through a whole 5 pages. I know you've got the skills.

//the only suggestion for change, is to watch your run-on sentences.

-rjk
Peace to all.
-Raven
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