Story thread
 

As far as I know we don't have this thread, and since I know some of you write stories(instead/as well as poems/songs), at least I know Strummer(has anyone heard from him lately?) and Red do.

^I might of just killed that with parenthesis. I have the tendency to do that.

Basically, post your stories. People will either appreciate or trash them.

Here's mine:

The Blow Job Tree
(I realized I didn't know how to intent, so I went with double paragraph spacing, sorry)

He took me to the blow job tree. It was this big fir behind the cafeteria, once of those trees whose needles brush the ground. Boys would part the branches and lead giggling girls inside, pull down their jeans and wait. My friend Katie told me it was like one of those fudgsicles they sold to the big kids at lunch, only smaller and didn’t taste as good. She said you close your eyes and try not to choke. Boys don’t like it when you gag, she said. It means you don’t know what you’re doing.

I didn’t. I was sweating like crazy, dark spots beginning to blossom under my arms. I couldn’t look him in the eye. We didn’t speak. As he grabbed my wrist and pushed the branch aside, I wondered; can you die from this?
We’d watched that video in Science the week before, the STD one, with all the rashes and boils and seeping wounds. This, our teacher bluntly said, is what happens when you don’t use Protection. I wondered if she would show us how to apply Protection. She didn’t. She wrote on the chalk board in big white capitalized letters ABSTINENCE. Then told us it is the best way of Protection.

I didn’t know what ABSTINENCE meant, let alone how to say it. I had been too afraid to ask, so whatever it was, I couldn’t use it. Now I panicked. Would a rash cover all of my skin and the inside of my throat and suffocate me until I died? Or worse, would everyone find out and call me a slut? I hoped he wouldn’t tell anybody.

We were inside the tree. It was unexpectedly dark, and there were bugs. A condom hung on a twig near his head. I still couldn’t look at him. We stood there for an eternity, far too close for comfort; the blow job tree did not allow for much personal space. Finally, he sucked in a huge breath.

“Don’t tell anybody,” he blurted, and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. My eyes were open. I blinked.

“Sorry,” he said, staring at the spot where his lips had just been. His hair hard, heavily gelled in a short slightly spikey fashion and he smelled like my brother’s aftershave.

“The’s oka--” but he smothered the word, kissing me again, harder, and this time dead-on. I had not expected it to be so wet. I moved my tongue and lips like Katie had told me to, but he had not been given the same instruction. Our teeth clicked painfully and I pulled away.

“I’m not giving you a blow job,” I told him, looking him straight in the face


“Yea, I know,” he said solemnly.

This is somewhat of a ... strange story. True? O_o

um, what the fuck?

if she didnt know of any kind of "protection" then how did she recognize what a condom was

take a guess at which category this one will fall under....

I wrote my story quite a while ago and two people read it, I'll be damned if I'm writing another one for you ingrates:

http://www.musicbanter.com/rock-meta...-rhapsody.html

Bits and pieces. There is not actually a blow job tree at my school, there's a couple of places though where it's semi-common.

what's wrong?

She knew what a condom looked like, but had no idea how to put it on (I probably should have elaborated on that detail.)

The last Twig In the Stars

It was an Late March evening, It was damp, as the fog surrounded the air, chocking vision. The ground was still snow covered, on the trail, the trees blot the light, it was a hard walk, for the young boy. It was a time of revelations, being confused in the nature of the heart. He Paused by a tree, and cried, for he knew that the world was not as it had seemed, he thought about someone as he moved onwards. " I wonder what she thinks about me?" pondered he. Then looking through the wisps of hair, he noticed the light had gone. It was 7, and the woods were more welcoming than in the fall nights he had gone their, months ago. It was getting cold, and his fingers were numb, and ice with no feeling, for the symptom, was inherited through years of strain, and bad descions, on the part of he, and genetics.

The trail thinned, and he came to a clearing, he thought " maybe one day itll come together, just like the movies,a nd books, and songs tell me." Too late, the song in his head switched to soemthing from the days of vinyl, and he saw the bird that laid dead upon the trail, and it brought tears, as the swollen glands strained he knew, nothing, and nothing was ever learned through crying.

http://www.explosm.net/db/files/Comics/rgirl.jpg

jkjk

I wrote this a couple months ago.

Needle In The Hay

Jason Conner Woodin woke up shivering in the dusty evening light that shone through his window, "fuckin curtain fell again" he muttered to himself. He got up, shaking still. He needed a wake-me-up as he stumbled into the bathroom.

He threw some water over his face, had a shot from the glass he always left sitting in the bathroom and looked in the mirror, "Man I look dead" he thought as the water trickled down his chin. After washing his hands and looking some what clean he ripped a drawer out of his dresser and sat on the floor, he did look somewhat like a buddhist to be honest, with his folded legs and naked except for his boxers. He began to take his cash out of the drawer, arranging his money into various bags, not by price but by the condition they were in. He was singing to himself "the effects never as high as the mark up." He thought this was kind of pointless, arranging his money this way but his drug dealer was eccentric and pissy about this sort of thing and it did amuse part of him if he would allow himself to be honest about it.

He had a bit left, and was considering whether or not he should get a final kick before leaving, he decided he needed it. He jammed the needle into his arm and the room started start spinning like water going down the drain and he got this insane urge to yell. So he looked at the wall and screamed "Hey hey, G.W.B. how many kids did you kill today? I got myself the moon, the fuckin' moo..." and he blacked out.

He woke up on the floor at around ten thirty and mumbled something incoherently looked at the bags of money and remembered what he was going to do. He slowly put on his tattered jeans and Bob Dylan shirt, "the real american fuckin' poet" as he doused himself with axe to avoid smelling like shit, he looked like it but at least he wouldn't smell like it. "It's Christmas time and the needles on the tree a skinny Santa is bringing something to me" as he opened his door and turned around to lock it. "his speech is slurred, and I only understand every other word...", an elderly man looked at him bizarrely as he headed down the stairs.

He opened the dingy glass door with disgust. He wished he could afford a less shady apartment, but he was a broke addict that just got fired. He wasn't lazy or anything, in fact he was the only functional heroin addict I ever knew. Even though he always did everything over the top and was the worst i'd ever seen, but lately he'd been doing better after getting fired. He did it on the weekends mainly, I guess he figured he didn't want to entirely fuck up his life, or he was just trying to conserve his money, but man if he wasn't careful there would be more then just a hole in his wallet then he'd be really fucked.

He still looked like he was on his way out, despite the fact he was a genius. I'm not talking about math or anything, but he had a fucked up view of the world and it was brilliant. Today was going to be good for him he thought to himself, like fucking your mistress or something, one special day and you were good. He was brilliant, but he was also mad depressed I remember asking him about his opinion on his place in the world and he looked at me with his sad brown eyes and said "hey hey ed eds I got a joke for you". I hate it when he calls me that, "So this man goes to the doctor" he says interrupting my thoughts "says hes depressed and life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a terribly threatening world, where what lies ahead is vague and unknown. The Doc says "treatment's simple, Great clown Pennywise is in town tonight. Go and see him that should pick you up." Man bursts into tears, says "but doctor I am Pennywise". Ba-da-chu." he ends it with a poor drum imitation and two soft slaps to each of my cheeks, I also hate that.

At first I thought he was just fucking around, this was about a week before I died. I got killed in a car crash, at least thats what i've gathered from Jason. Apparently death is sort of like birth, you really don't remember it. I guess you could call me a ghost, but I am more like a cyst in his mind, hanging around and watching every memory made. I see through his eyes, you could say hes haunted but its more like hes my hotel room, plus i'm his friend and have nothing but good will towards him. I am scared to leave to be honest, I don't know what comes next so i'll wait to face it with Jason perhaps then death will seem less scary.

On his way he was singing another random line "gonna walk walk walk, four more blocks plus the one in my brain", hes been singing that ever since he started jogging when he was like twelve. He doesn't jog anymore, or exercise at all now I think he just sings it for the familiarity of the line, hes crazy sometimes I swear. He walked along the streets to meet his dealer, it was already getting dark that didn't sit well with him. Even though he'd lived in Olympia all his life he still didn't love the place, especially after dark.

It was empty, like a deserted war zone and he kept singing random snatches of songs that came to his head. He had a good voice. Dead leaves decorated the street, this always made him think. I didn't see why, but he kept talking about how the trees kept getting wheeled away. Hes always bitching about little things, but its wasn't really bitching its more a curiosity. It had rained a few nights ago the the ground seem to be laced with puddles but the street was no longer wet, he always thought it looked like the cemet was crying when it did. It was still cold as hell. He kept singing and pulled his coat closer around him.

His dealer wasn't where his dealer should be, and Jason wasn't all that shocked. Probably some rule about Tuesdays, he saw come cans of gasoline and decided to have some fun. Like I said, he was fucked up and while he was a genius he had the heart of a boy. Especially when it came to fire, he was like a ten year old boy with his first match. He also held a love for the word arson, I have no idea why but he loved it.

He came across the old Fosters building and entered through the door. The building was abandoned awhile ago, it was left up because no one bothered to tear it down. He painted the floor with gasoline, he was careful about the placement the building was old and would probably light up instantly but still no use fucking up. He stepped out of there leaving a trail of gasoline on his way, and dropped a match and watched the flames light up the building.

He loved the steady glowing red and how the building seem get consumed, he wanted to feel that heat. To kiss the flames, to feel the embrace of mother nature in all its glory. He walked faster and faster, "im a roman candle" he said smiling. Oh man was it roaring now, he started talking to himself. This was the part that really weirded me out, he never tried to justify his actions before "This place was a goddamn dump" and the red and blue lights begin to scream in the background "it needed to come down, the cops, the fireman they won't give a shit" and the breaks begin to scream "they'll look upon this disaster waiting to happen with a smile in their hearts and whats put in its place we'll be loved even more. Thats just the way it is here, no matter how much love was made somewhere once its over something better can be put in its place. With more bricks, a better foundation. A home for the homeless, or more likely for some goddamn politicans mistress. Bunch of bullshit, the old shits all it ever really was."

He stood admist the flames the smoke slowly crawling down his throat, to dance with his lungs. Standing admist the flames smiling dreaming of a fantasy island, he watches the fire come in, strung out again.

I should've seen this coming, it was obvious with the alcohol, even in the way he walked. All of us, his friends, we all knew he was going to kill himself one of these days. None of use really cared, we were almost waiting for it. We were suicide machines you could say, we wanted a car wreck, a plane crash, a bomb to go off.