Bad writing contest

[seeahill]

Darth,
I couldn't bring myself to listen to much of this guy so I don't know if you copped the above lines from him. If you did, they are his best. This guy sounds like the old failed poet at the "open mike poetry night" in a college town bar frequented by drama students.

[DARTH]

No, it's just when I started to write in my sleep deprived state, that gem from my past kept coming out.

You should have giving it a full listen, it's funny, nothing serious about it. It was on an old Sub Pop Records compilation I had ( lots of great North-western bands, he was their spoken word artist.) He was a friend of William S. Burroughs, who I think was an asshole but an amusing asshole and a wild writer. No Hunter S. Thompson for sure, but no one is Dr. Gonzo. Fuck what am I saying, you knew the great man himself. Man my Mom would love you.

[DrDonkeyLove]

No, it's just when I started to write in my sleep deprived state, that gem from my past kept coming out.

You should have giving it a full listen, it's funny, nothing serious about it. It was on an old Sub Pop Records compilation I had ( lots of great North-western bands, he was their spoken word artist.) He was a friend of William S. Burroughs, who I think was an asshole but an amusing asshole and a wild writer. No Hunter S. Thompson for sure, but no one is Dr. Gonzo. Fuck what am I saying, you knew the great man himself. Man my Mom would love you.

Timmy, I sense that this may be an invitation to become Darth's step dad. Get in the car and hither thyself to wherever Momma Darth resides.
Next book: My New Step Son Threw a Propiane Tank Through The Window Of My Cabin. Kind of rolls off the tongue doesn't it? Consider it my wedding gift to you kids.

[seeahill]

I'm not touching this. A cabin fire is bad enough without someone tossing a propain tank through the window.

[syaigh]

Propaigne? Clearly, cannot speak proper English.

Are you all terrorists? Maybe that cabin needs to burn after all.

[seeahill]

Propain, Darf's genius spelling.

[syaigh]

Pro-pain. Maybe the cabin is more diabolical than we thought.

[DARTH]

I'm not touching this. A cabin fire is bad enough without someone tossing a propain tank through the window.

Especially when it's followed up with gunfire and stabbing.




Not an invitation, just an observation. My mother is a HUGE Thompson fan. Showed me " Where The Buffalo Roam" at 11 and I read " Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" that week. So an individualistic guy a few years her senior who takes care of himself physically and could tell her Hunter Thompson stories would be up her alley.

And no man who marries her after 1986 could ever be called my Step Father, Mom's Ol Man but not my Step Father. There is only one of those for me.

And I like you too much to introduce you to her, I could not do that to you. If I was to raid your cabin over her, it would be to save you from her.

[Gene]

“Gene the Goat Fucker”
A short story by B.U. Ckethead

Chapter 1

The sky was the color of a bruised vagina after too much doggy style. The wind swept over the fields of grass as Gene the goat fucker finished another unsuccessful persistence hunt.

“What to do now?”, thought Gene-TGF. “I’m satiated with tallow, I missed getting an antelope, and I’m hornier than Mickey”.

Just then, off in the distance, came the siren’s song - “baa”. Gene-TGF knew exactly what would happen next.

Not a damn thing....


I had a degenerate story written up. Fuck it.

[Gene]

Write one to three paragraphs. The story can be terrible or the writing atrocious. Or both. Misinformed, factually inaccurate material will enhance your effort. Just be bad. Be really bad. You can do it. I've seen your stuff.

I smelled the ruins of the cabin long before I saw it. Burned wood, charred wood, the residues of plastic and household appliances. I would be challenged to make these out from the acres and acres of fire scarred wilderness that surrounded it. I'd survived house fires, industrial fires, explosions but seeing the residue of a forest fire has a special hurt to it. Mostly the silence, as many animals shun burned ground.

I'd driven three thousand miles to see for myself. Past images passed through my mind, cliches of narrow escapes, misses and close calls. Years of dramatic bulletins online, then finally a poignant "It's gone" and a photo. Almost anticlimactic and yet heartfelt and thus worthy of attention.

Tim seemed different in person than his online persona suggested. He was more personable and polite than his IGx persona showed, yet he had an edge that probably allowed him to survive encounters with ducks, badgers and serial killers. I had expected a judgmental Progressive Social Justice Warrior who despised anyone who strayed from the True Faith, or barring that a condescension that oozed between the words and gestures at someone who simply hadn't been "enlightened". Who I saw instead was a man rooted in the present, who took people as they came at him and who seemed willing to give anyone a chance. Even the man about whom he once expressed "morbid curiosity".

In this light I was pleased that Tim, albeit blunted with loss and a sense of grief, still was willing to shake my hand and invite me to see the remnants of the cabin. That fucking cabin. Out of respect for his feelings, and because beginnings are always such fragile times, I refrained from making any comments save heartfelt pleasantries. I intended to see for myself, to bear witness and perhaps in my oddly intellectual and stilted way, to lend Tim some support as he bore this loss, and the accompanying life experiences that it represented, gone now with the wind, flame and time.

A simple act of kindness, not given in a sense of brittle exchange, but giving from one person to another. Hell, I needed a vacation anyhow, and why not? I'd never been to Montana, if I could do some good while I was there, all the better.

The cabin? Not so easily ignored. The forest fire was devastating in its scope of action. Yet the ruins of the cabin lent a human touch, something made of the hands of men and women, a poignant note in a symphony of devastation, loss and disaster. Out of place and yet akin, all ruined by fire.

Tim stood, his mind as much on what was as what was before him. I kept silent for a few moments, to allow him to come back to the present a little more. Grief is like torture, though necessary, to adjust the mind to things as they are rather than what we wish them to be.

I suspected that Tim did not just grieve for his cabin but for the memories that it represented, persons lost or grown up, experiences gone too. Things have that role in our lives.

I drank in the silence, that alien silence. The wind was so still I could not even feel a breeze. The place felt..... dead.

[seeahill]

I like it, Gene. It's just that it's not badly written. Frankly, it's pretty much OK and this character you introduce seems brilliant, personable and resilient. Any reader would forge out to find out more about this stud.

[seeahill]

Darth,
OK, for your mom: an HST story.
He was in San Francisco, staying at the Seal Rock Inn, all the way out on Geary. He liked to write there where he could hear the harbor seal barking on the rocks.
Anyway, I was supposed to pick him up for dinner at a fairly posh restaurant. When I got to his room, he was in the middle of a project.
Hunter wanted to find out if coke was was soluble in water. His plan was to dissolve a lot of coke in water, then put it into a nasal inhaler, the kind of thing you use to clear your nose when you have a cold. If his plan worked, he could snort coke in public and no one would ever know.
The thing was: we were late for dinner at a fairly fancy joint. Hunter gathered up his leather duffle, which had his notes and manuscript pages all shoved in around bottles of booze and vials of drugs.
So we get to the restaurant, but Hunter was on a mission. He asked the waiter for a large flat platter and a big glass of water. Thus equipped, he opened his duffle and spread the coke out on the platter. He filled the inhaler with water and shoveled the coke into it with a butter knife. He screwed the top back on to the inhaler and held it up, as if contemplating a fine glass of wine.
I said, "Hunter, you think maybe preparing that thing in public sorta defeats the purpose?"
He stared at me. "The purpose?"
"You know, surreptitious consumption."
"Not at all." He raised the inhaler up to his nose and took several big hits "Did we order drinks yet?"

[DARTH]

Now that's a Dr. Gonzo tale!

Thanks, Tim!