A conversation with the Devil - Mischa

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“What is it, my child?”

“I’m afraid I have let you down. I am hanging up my robes.”

“What? To what end? For what purpose?”

“I fear the truth is near. I am aged now, and not fit to face the flames of fury we have helped create.”

“I admire your courage, but I despise your insolence. You were chosen, and you were chosen by me. It is I who decides your fate – not you.”

“I understand and respect that, my Lord, but you are outside of this realm. If I may be so bold as to say, you are unaware of the pressure mounting here in this world. I fear that the truth is on the verge of unravelling.”

“I control the truth. It is in my hands. And so, the power is in my hands. Your mortal soul has no right, no reason, to defy me.”

“But we are weakened now. Vulnerable. The newspapers…they know things. They are making connections. It won’t be long until the veil is lifted.”

“Silence! You think, by stepping down, you will better keep the status quo? You think that to break the mould for the first time in 600 years and step down will silence those suspicions?”

“I…”

“You are not thinking.”

“My conscience will not let me.”

“You do not have a conscience. You are a man of God, remember. Which means you are a man of nothing. You merely pretend. You are one of mine.”

“I cannot…”

“Need I remind you of our pact?”

“…”

“That you shall serve the Lord until your death, until I deem that you may rest.”

“My Lord. The world we live in has become increasingly Godless, as has that of the Vatican. I can no longer pretend to serve a benevolent Being, when there are no acts of benevolence. We are horrors by our very nature – by Your very nature. We have let the mask slip, we have proved Nietzsche right, to our own detriment. Without the allusion of God, there is no need for us. We have, if you’ll forgive me, my Lord, forgotten that. Pure evil cannot exist alone. It needs purpose. I – and the Vatican – need reason to exist. If we are being accused of evil, then we have failed, for the world shall see our evil and rebel against it. It has begun already. Surely you must see that?”

“How dare you instruct me! How dare you correct me! Ekron shall wreak its vengeance on you, for that city, which once I ruled as now I rule here. The world is mine – how dare you reject that which made it, and that which made you. Know, from the moment you abscond, you shall know the true wrath of Beelzebub. You have one last chance, so answer now with your truth – do you repent?”

“I do not, my Lord. I do not.”

Prompt 6: The re-written fairy tale

Hello there!

I'm going to try to keep this going even though we haven't had any posts in two weeks.

This prompt should be fun, I hope.

Rewrite a popular fairy tale, make it your own. Get creative, get crazy.

And, since no one, not even Mollie (ha!), posted on her prompt, if you want to, include a conversation with the devil somewhere in there.

Remember the main purpose of a fairy tale: it's a warning to the reader, there is a moral or underlying message--usually trying to make the reader, a child, conform to some societal construct. We all tend to write fucked up shit, so I would like to challenge you to write something still with a child reader in mind, but you don't have to.

Let's keep it under or around 600 words.

Due: Monday the 25th, latest.

Rant - Josh

If you’re like me, (and for the sake of this post, I hope you are) then you’re a person who draws from a fairly deep reservoir of empathy and consciously tries to give the people in the periphery of your life the benefit of the doubt, especially for those less fortunate or in a struggle.

If you are like me, though, this empathy does not extend to people who are dicks. 

The following are examples of such:

Anyone who has a phone conversation longer than 2 minutes on public transportation: If you feel the need to announce the monotonous details of your recent vacation to wherever-the-fuck, please spare the innocent patrons of the bus/streetcar/subway the mental image of your exuberant waistline in a Brazilian-style bathing suit by shutting the hell up.

People who wear headphones while talking to me: Regardless of whether or not your music is on, I will assume it is because you’ve got shit in your ears, and thus assume that whatever you’re listening to is terrible, and thus will not like you.

People who let their dogs lick them on the mouth. This is disgusting, please stop.

Those individuals who choose to rollerblade on the sidewalk and get snarky at pedestrians for being in their way. Aside from the fact that you're consciously choosing to spend precious moments of your life on rollerblades, I'm still convinced you are some of the worst people I'd ever encounter.

People in line buying $200 worth of groceries who won’t let me in front of them with my one item: Now in all honesty, based on the products that these people tend to purchase, it is clear that their lives are difficult, what with all that sodium. Now although a diet rich in sodium and high fructose corn syrup may result in heart failure, severe depression, and a deep love for daytime television, it does not affect one’s proclivity for common decency. All I have is a bottle of water, and I’m standing here like an asshole for 15 minutes while you, standing oblivious to myself or your future diabetes diagnosis, ponder which 3 starches will accompany your fried chicken on this fine evening, and it’s far from appreciated.   

Finally, people who leave excessively long voicemails: It’s true that at one time, the voicemail was a pinnacle feature of modern communication as sophisticated and glamorous as sending a fax. Alas, times have changed and the concept of the voicemail has now taken a backseat to email, SMS, and carrier pigeon. This does not, however, prevent certain troglodytes from leaving 30+ second voicemails all over town, and it needs to stop immediately. First off, if you can’t disclose the pertinent details for contacting me in a text message or email, I’m not interested. Secondly, if it takes you longer than 30 seconds to disclose your reasons for contacting me in a voicemail, again, I’m not interested. Please people, get with the fucking program. Thanks :) 

Promt 5: Conversation with The Devil

Write a dialogue between the devil and a person of your choosing, it can be yourself. You can write it in any style- novelesque, poetry or screenplay are some ideas that could be interesting. Perspective also open, first person or a witness. Length is equivalent to 3 pages of screenplay.

Rant - Mischa

Are you Andrew Bird? No. You’re not. You are anything but a musical virtuoso/genius who can whistle at the same time as playing a violin or a guitar – or a violin like a guitar (Jimi Hendrix missed a trick there). So why the fuck do you think it’s okay to whistle in public? If I wanted to hear someone do that, I’d pay to see Mr Bird live in concert. The last thing I want is to hear your dreadful approximations of a tune you like that doesn’t sound anything like the actual thing. I mean, Jesus Fucking Christ. I mean, remember that fucking tune by Peter, Bjorn and John? The actual thing was bad enough – it’s one of the most boring, bland songs in the history of pop music – but all those fucknuts who started pursing their lips together as a result made it infinitely worse. Because everyone everywhere was doing it. It was the end of days, the death of culture through ubiquity, the transmogrification of an entire generation (and then some) into a parade of sheep, all whistling gleefully while they’re willingly leading themselves to the slaughter. Get some fucking culture, you fucking clueless cunts. Maybe that’s too harsh, too angry, an unjustified outpouring of bile for something that really doesn’t warrant it. But then, when I’m sitting on a bus or in a waiting room or in a pub with some friends and some idiot starts whistling – usually badly – it pisses me off. Personal space isn’t just physical, you know. You might as well be sitting there farting, waving the particles of your flatulence towards me with your hand, because that’s just as repugnant and direct an assault on my senses. I don’t need to hear you whistle. I don’t want to hear you whistle. Neither does anyone else, you selfish motherfucker. Are you Andrew Bird? No. You’re not. So shut the fuck up and give the rest of us a break. John, Bjorn and Peter – that goes double for you. Long may you suffer. Preferably in silence.   

Rant - Alex (H8URPL8)

H8URPL8

Oh hey, I don't know about you, but sometimes I feel so intensely strong about something that I can't imagine any other way to profess it to the world than through my license plate.  What better way to ask the question "RU DOWN" or let the inquiring minds behind you know that you "LUVSELYN"?  Of course, you'll never know if we are indeed down, and us poor people stuck behind you will have to live with the hauntingly unsolvable mystery of never knowing what, in fact, you sell ?  All I can assume is that you have a nauseating spelling handicap, leaving me with the plague of wanting to help.

You may think the regulation plate holders surrounding your vehicle are dying to make sure that you are the "NBR1PIMP" or a "PLYRH8R", or that the guy in the red Ferrari now has a "FSTRCAR" than his old one, but the truth is we don't give a cat's paw.  In fact, I now think you are an idiot and don't deserve a car.
So, in an effort to not lose my mind or go mental on one of you, I've made a game of decifering your riddles. I can usually MacGyver out the message, but sometimes it seems, passion is too great to fit within the allotted spaces on the sinner's license plate, and it comes out looking like someone from Sesame Street randomly threw up the alphabet.  Is that even worth shelling out extra dough for? Were you going to die if "L2MKUVT" (aka, "Love to Make You Vomit") wasn't on the back of your car? Blarf.

Oh, and apparently, single numbers are a hot ticket! The number "5" sold for 6.8 million dollars, and the number "1" is supposed to go for 15-20 million.  Personally, I can't think of any better way to spend that money.  Nope, not a single better way. Seriously, folks, you are pillars of society.

FUK U.

Rant - Polly

...leaves doing everything for a dollar.

How is that a legacy? A stupid yearbook tradition, 1998, when ink was still printed and indelible. Do they even print yearbooks today? If they don’t, the girl in the corner who talks to not one single boy in three years except to ask about homework assignments might have the opportunity to bravely ask that her legacy to the school be changed, and not illustrate some kind of propensity toward whorishness.

Sophomore year, one conversation, one that felt like one tenth of a conversation. Andy Barr, six-foot three and empty, sat at the head of the wooden table in our fancy cafeteria. Sunlight streamed through stain glass windows on twenty foot walls, illuminating the dust falling into the institutional slop on our plates. “Your omelette smells like my dog,” is what my roommate Kristen said to me after I waited in line for forty minutes to get custom-made ham and cheese and eggs. At least she was nice enough to let me sit next to her during sunday brunch. Andy had a broken hand from a football scrimmage and was complaining that his ‘pussy finger’ was worthless for month. How could boys be so raw. Kristen laughed. I ate my omelette and tried to pretend it didn’t smell like Kristen’s dog. I stopped listening. I had already stopped listening.

“No, I wouldn’t do it! Maybe, like, a million dollars...no, no! Not even.” Kristen was laughing.

Andy shook his head. “What if the guy was hot? No one would know, you’re on a plane, you’d never see him again.”

“A dollar.” I can still remember realizing it had come out of my mouth. Shock value. Listen to me.  I stared at my omelette. The girl from the corner who doesn’t talk to boys and eats dog-scent omelettes just opened her fucking mouth, oh yeah. The girl who has never kissed a boy on the lips would fuck a guy in an aiport bathroom for a dollar, if he was hot. I didn't mean it, I just wanted to be part of the conversation, and it came out like milk. But it burned. The words burned as soon as they hit the air. Burned, but never disappeared. Two years later, when the powers that be in the class put together the page of legacies, Andy Barr reached up his ass and pulled out a tiny nugget of humiliation. Just for me. How sweet. Fuck you.

Polly Witker leaves...

Rant - Mollie

The laundry list of things that annoy me is long and filled with small details like WHY DID YOU PUT AN EMPTY ICE CUBE TRAY BACK IN THE FREEZER? Seriously. That is near fascinating to me.

Protection - Alex

You didn’t ask me to stay (how could you?). In fact, you encouraged me to leave, with a silence I misheard as the promise you would be there upon my return—whenever that may be. We would both be different, but for the better. I would slide effortlessly into your open arms, and after a little reacquainting, we would pick up where we left off. It was the kind of foolish that only the luxury of confidence and contentment can buy. 

You slipped away. Slowly at first. And then completely. I barely even noticed, distracted by self-indulgence, separated by space. Until it was too late. 

Sometimes, I wonder what we would be if I had never left. You: the sun, warm smiles, barbeques, book clubs, covered in paint, tickled with laughter. Me: full and happy enough to breed the arrogant assumption that my absence would have only but a slight effect. We are an energy magnified by memory.

Here, there is nothing—not a voice, not a street, not a picture. It’s like you are a ghost, something fictional I made up; your greatness, a rose-colored hyperbole, red-hot, iron branded onto my brain to make myself feel worse about who I am, where I am, and who I am with. Would you even recognize me now? I am a shell, walls cracking from within.

So, I protect myself. I play with him, I brunch with her, I drink. I surround myself with to-do lists, friends and tedious details to forget that you ever existed, that you are presently, constantly missed. I drink. I dream. I make jokes and laugh if others do the same. I follow suit; I am a good girl. And, I drink. 

Sometimes I catch myself laughing so hard my eyes shut out everything, and in these moments, I am able to forget you. But as soon as my eyes open and the corners of my mouth fall back down into place, I aware of your absence tenfold. I am aware of what I happily—no, eagerly—forfeited for something better, something different. 

What would we be? Whom would we know? Are we really that much better? Are we really that much worse? 

I am angry. You cripple my every move, my every advance. The memory of you belittles every victory, seems to spoil every achievement. You are a constant plaguing eclipse. However, it is far too much to pretend you did not exist. I am who I am and where I am because of you. 

I miss you. I love you. And at times I may want you back more than I can stomach. But mostly I just want to move on. 

If I could take a pill and erase every step, I think would swallow the entire bottle. I wouldn’t wait for water; my mouth dry, throat sticky. But then, I would wake up in bed with you again, staring out the window, wondering what I was missing. 

We had our time together, it was great, but it’s over. 

Now, right now, 

we can be whatever we want;

We are something new. 

And instead,

I’ll drink to that.

Protection - Mischa

There was more I could have done. There always is. It’s like the perfect comeback to that cunt on the bus or on the train or inside or outside the pub that you always think of way too late, after the incident’s over and they’re gone and you’re never going to see them again. This was the same. I should have done more. But it all happened so fast that the cliché is true – it was a blur. I don’t remember how old I was but I think I was probably in my early 20s, because you died when I was 24 and it was towards the end of your life. At least, I think it was. Maybe I was younger, in my late teens, but I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter anyway. The point remains the same. Every time we walked past this one house round the corner from mine, on Mandeville Road’s curved trajectory, these two dogs would yap crazily from behind the double-glazed window of their living room and press their noses into the glass and bare their teeth. It never bothered you but it annoyed the hell out of me. One afternoon as we walked by, the front door to that house was open. I didn’t think anything of it, until we walked closer and I heard the feral growls of these two dogs louder than usual. Before my brain realised what was happening, they’d set upon you, plunging their teeth into your stomach, because these little fuckers were smaller than you and they got underneath your legs –or one of them did, anyway. And I remember panicking as this silent fear rose up inside of me, manifesting itself in goosebumps and shivers because I was fucking scared and I didn’t know what to do. I remember shouting and yelling to scare them away, but at least one of the dogs still had its teeth plunged into you and you were squealing with pain. I don’t know how long it had been – mere seconds, probably, but everything that happened in fast-forward blur also took place in slow motion so it felt like minutes – but I heard you whimper and I saw the dog beneath you and I kicked that motherfucker. I didn’t connect properly but it did the trick and the dog – I don’t even know what type it was; I think a terrier of some sort, but looking at pictures of them on the internet now they look too cute, so maybe they were Chihuahuas, that most redundant and repugnant of breeds – yelped in semi-pain and ran back inside, followed by the other. Luckily, you had so much fur, their teeth didn’t do much damage, but as I walked past the house I was fuming. But I didn’t have the guts to confront the owner, who was just standing there. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t hear or see what happened. But I did. And I should have given him the hell he deserved. Even today, the thought of it makes me wish I’d crushed the skulls of those little cunt dogs. It makes me want to strap their owners in a chair and stomp the life out of those dogs in front of their eyes and then burn that fucking house down and hear them scream in agony and watch as their skin charcoals and their bones become powder and ash. Because you were always there for me – unwavering in your love from the moment I held you in my lap on the long drive back to Canterbury from the kennel in Norfolk – and, eight years later, I still love you and miss you like hell and I can’t help but feel that, that day, I let you down. I’m sorry.

Prompt 4 - Rant

Hi all,


Sincerest apologies for my lack of postings, I hope to contribute much more to this blog as we move along.

I'd really like to hear about one thing that really irritates you and why, in rant form.

500 words or less, be descriptive.

Cheers!

Josh

Protection - Josh

Looking back on that faithful summer night nearly a decade ago, he believed it was the way the setting sun dipped lugubriously beneath the vast skyline of palm trees that did away with the remnants of the melancholy and restlessness that often formed during the sweltering months of frivolity on ‘the island of American exceptionalism’, as he called it.

He floated silently a hundred yards east of the hard clay, ears submerged to the chaos that raged beneath and in an instant, felt with his eyes and heart the tranquility and contentment that had been foretold in his studies of Kant (and subsequently translated by his own system of checks and balances), but never actualized at any time during his then lithe, self-serving existence.

Gently ebbing amidst the cradle of rolling waves, it was as though his mind were as open and fervent as the murky chasm that lay beneath and, if only for the briefest of moments, he no longer required the approval of each and every person he knew but would cease to remember in less time than it took to think of reasons not to like them. Along with this came a sharp prod of deja vu, as though he were looking back on this moment with pensive nostalgia as he passed listlessly through dense crowds in shadowy cities where none of the signs made sense and sense itself was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He sensed that he’d experience intense joy pouring his heart into letters and finally know in his mind that ever illusive sense of connectedness he’d so longed for, and appreciate it just the same - even if it meant returning with nothing but longing, and a hazy blend of emotional dendrites that made about as much sense as sending a letter to someone - for he now knew that longing was but a construct one places on oneself and by no means a required function of one’s reality. And it was there, enveloped and stirred by the sublime rhythm of the summer sea, that this man’s future was no longer limited by fear and the status quo, and the simple act of softly steering oneself toward contentment was suddenly not as drastic a measure as an imperfect man is often lead to believe.