lediablerouge's New Writeups

church spire (idea)

2012-07-08T21:33:54Z

The pages are slightly stiff and yellowed by acid. There are no dog-ears or notes that suggest anyone has read this before you. It is a sad-looking publication.

---

Thunder rolls affectionately in the warm summer rain. The church is empty and its bell is silent. The boys have long since gone home. The spire juts upward.

Lovers roll off each other, sweaty and happy, their worries alleviated. They hold each other close and never feel alone. Rain patters audibly on the glass.

A wild cat sulks outside.

---

The man in the crater is about to be drowned in mud. The rain falls all around him and has long since extinguished the small brushfires ignited by his landing. The walls of his crater are sliding inward, weighted down with moisture. A small pond has already begun to grow inside the caldera, still low enough to reveal the man's face but little else and if he does not move soon, he will surely die.

He feels this might be a good thing.

---…

Beautiful Blue Sky (idea)

2012-06-29T05:37:52Z

There was a beautiful blue sky.

"What is that?" said the first child.

"What is what?" asked the second child.

"That thing hurtling down through the beautiful blue sky."

A gentle breeze ruffled the first boy's sun-warmed brown hair. It was a Sunday.

"I don't know." he answered. "But it's almost gone now."

"Over the horizon." agreed the second boy.

The fields were empty and green. Short sprouts rose just above the boys' faces if they laid themselves horizontally. An insect buzzed faintly, somewhere.

------

The impact was a composition of tiny kinetic incidents over a mile-long streak of rainforest, terminating in one final collision with the earth itself. In the resulting crater was a man, covered with soot. He was wearing a suit, skin tight and black, even under the soot. Around his major articulation points there were round crimson bands that glowed faintly, like dim neon. His physique was nearly perfect.

------

…

The Dramatic Conclusion and Resolution of Austin Q. Simpson's "Good Ol' City Boys" (fiction)

2012-06-26T16:33:50Z

(As re-told many years later in the tobacco-black southern rumble of the former Reverend Jeremiah P. Wilkerson)

They landed safely.

Later, a handful of the officers stationed at the roadblock would swear that, between the deafening thrust of the homemade jumpjets and the frantic gunshots, they could hear the distinct notes of Dixie blasted through an off-key airhorn. Though most of their fellows dismissed this curious detail as pure embellishment they would inevitably re-count this version of the "Flying Pickup" story in crusty police bars for years to come, sometimes adding that the suspects draped a Confederate flag out the window as they flew past and that it caught the sun in a perfectly romantic kind of way that almost made them feel less of themselves for being over-educated Yankee sonsofbitches.

That last part, of course, is almost certainly apocrypha.

All we know for certain is that Bobby and Richard escaped…

peejays (fiction)

2012-06-18T21:25:05Z

Before he went to sleep, the boyâs father told him stories, sometimes from a book, sometimes from his head. The stories from the books were full of fantastic things with magic and warriors and all the best parts of a monomythic toybox distilled into the perfect intoxicating mix for young boys. They had great big plots that swung in big simple practiced arcs designed to thrill and comfort in equal measure. He loved them dearly, but not as much as he loved the stories his father told, chaotic gesticulations composed of whatever emerged from the paternal murk. They were often a mix of inequal parts from disparate origins; recycled television plots, hearsay, work experience, memories of childhood, sometimes even original material. If he was lucky he could coax out three chimeric tales that would wander through the tangential roadways of the adult mind. But tonight there was nothing; his sister was ill and there was no time for stories. The boy had to lay restless, a loose body caught in a mass…

June 18, 2012 (log)

2012-06-18T21:06:58Z

I want to tell you a story today but I can't because I have this feeling that I get when I'm coming down, like little balloons expanding in my head or a growing hematoma pushing my brain matter outward. It's not painful, it's just coming down. When it's over, you feel like you've been thrown through a house somehow and your whole body goes into a sort of energy conserving state that for whatever reason won't let you sleep.

Gosh.

I feel a lot better having typed that. Almost good enough to tell you that story. But I forgot it.

I'll write a better log tomorrow. This was really just for me.

June 11, 2012 (log)

2012-06-11T20:17:06Z

Sorry, I missed a week. I was busy.

Today I pooped. While pooping, I saw a bit of graffiti (this was in a college library) that said "Racism stops the progression of time". I thought this was pretty funny and would make a great slogan for a set of racist skincare products. I imagined a whole variety of creams and lotions made from the tears of Ku Klux Klan members as they were forced to read post-modern feminist African-American literature about "roots" and vaginas and affirmative action in specially constructed harvesting stables. And pretty soon the same sort of people who wrote all those things would logically form PETR (pronounced "Peter"), or People for the Ethical Treatment of Racists and they would come out against racist factory farms and pretty soon people would be buying free-range and organic racist products ("raised free in the hills of Appalachia!" "unexposed to the S.C.U.M. manifesto!"). Somebody would make hand-crafted, artisanal, holistic racist products in their…