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Simple Writing
Cold Coffee
Tuesday, 14 August 2007
Untitled -- Entry 1
Mood:  hug me

"So, Marty, what is today's story?"

The man slowly walked up on the stage. His face glanced at the audience showing fear of striking out and on his first day. Quickly looking forward, he sat down on the old commercial bench that was bolted to the water-wood stage. Middle-aged and at a risk of a heart attack. Show business was better left to the kids, in his opinion, but needing the money bad, it was his only choice. The reason why they chose a man with nothing but his hopeless dreams and bad reputation raised his curiosity.

"Marty?"

A young man looked at him. He then decided next to sit next to the man, waiting to hear what the so called, "Marty" had to say. The young man, in the older mans eyes, looked like a bright young man. Didn't he have any uncertainty like he did himself? Maybe the young people of the 21st century were just more brave then they were back then. Where they got it, though, was a mystery to him just like everything about this time.

"There was once this, this small town. Didn't have much goin' for it, that was of coarse till /he/ came along."

The younger man's eyes stayed content as he pretended to take a sip from the empty coffee mug, his yes rolling. How rude, indeed.

"Oh, is that so..." 

It was as though he had no interest in anything. Even though he was rather confused, he kept the bank expression plastered on his face as he was very good at.

"Now, this man wasn't like any other. No, he is what you would call a false prophet. Soon enough, the towns people were found out that they were in the presence of a man with special 'heavenly powers' and were amazed by what he could do. Called himself Hubert the great, if I remember right."

The young man interrupted him.

"Hubert? All that power and he didn't bother changing his name?"

A soft sigh escaped the old man's soft lips as he kept looking above him, once arm placed on the arm rest and the other in his lap. It seemed even harder to play himself with this idiot brushing off his ever comment and the audience seeming less enthused as the young man.

"Of coarse, the towns people made him something along the lines of their leader. You need to understand that they thought--no, knew that he was like a Messiah. They all thought that he was supposed to deliver him from their suffering."

"And then they lived happily ever after with their so called 'God', right? God, Marty.. I was pretty damn sure you were gonna come up with something better than this."

Again, it seemed as though the character yet again brushed it off and continued. The blank expression disappeared as his eyes shut and a smile appeared on his lips.

"Actually, no. That's not what happened. In fact, a curious child learned his plans and found a clever way to give his plans out. To tell the truth, it was the man, Hubert, himself who ended up foiling his own plans of having a full army, how he was prepared to lie to them saying their God was going to let them in to heavan. Something along those lines. He kept bragging about how rich that would make him, how much power. All that cheasy stuff . Funny, huh?"





 


This is posted by Corie at 5:16 PM CDT
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Saturday, 4 August 2007
Cold Coffe -- Entry #0
Mood:  spacey
Now Playing: random notes meshed toghter to create a magical tune with the strength of words
Topic: Simple Writing

PLEASE REMEMBER TO BE CRITCAL, HARSH, AND MAYBE INSERT SOME THINGS THAT COULD NEED TO BE CENCORED!

  Not a big deal. Kids his age, and even younger perhaps, have done it, too. Maybe not for the same reason and maybe others had actually enjoyed such things. But then again, not every kid was excentric, smart-ass,  and sometimes cocky Andrew Monty. Just simple Monty. Disgusted at the name Andrew by the age of ten, for the next five years of his life, he grew to love and respect the name Monty more than anything else. To be called anything else, not including "hey you there kid" and "idiot", was simply a crime and resulted in the horifying silent treatment.

The blank expression on his pale face grew more satisfied as he raised his left palm up to his brown eyes, the same brown eyes that were described as though someone threw mud in his eyes intentionally and left a brown scar for life. The same was said for his once long mud brown hair; that was of coarse, until he colored it a bright blond and styled it into what now is referred to as the ever popular, "Emo Style". The former friend of now blond Monty was well thanked by Mrs. Monty for his help and support as she threw the former friend out the front door. What a priceless moment that was to Monty, but not as precious as the day Mr. Monty packed his two suit cases by the door and left his clueless so called family for Miss. True, Monty's very own English teacher from the fifth grade. Guess it paid to at least go once to your son's parent teacher meeting. Still, it was a  bit ironic how she was named Miss True, yet she never seemed to tell the truth about most things, including the fact about Mr.Monty's rendezvous with her.

Small drops of blood escaped from his purposely-wounded gash in the middle of his left hand and onto the blue and white floor tile. Why he chose the bathroom was a mystery to him. Words alone could not cover how this so called room was described. The lighting was very dull, the wallpaper with tiny lighthouses going every which way started to come apart at the edges, and the tiolet paper was an off shade of pink. Pink wasn't the best color of tiolet paper in his book. To add more disgust, there was hair in the sink. Not facial hair, but actual hair that one could easily find at the top of their head. Nothing discussed him more than that and the particularly girly smell that surrounded the place. Who the hell decided a bathroom, of all things, needed to smell of sent, "Sweat Pea"? Wasn't it bad enough it had a smell in the first place? Maybe it was just cover up the moldly stench like it was sweat on the body. But wasn't that was AXE and Old Spice was for? The small window was always half way showing people that might have went into it that perfume filled the air. As if they needed a simple window opening for them to tell. At times though, he pictured some sad man escaping from the window to hide from his mother and no one ever noticed how he left the window open. Then again, the guys that Mrs. Monty wasted her time with were not all that too bright to use the window.

Slowly, Monty's blood started to run along his forearm as he noticed that he was spewing out blood by the minute.
"Crap, crap, crap!" his loud toned voice said in whispers, as he started to sound frantic. What was he going to do if Mrs. Monty decided to come into the bathroom for an early shower to wipe away all the sweat and guilt of yet another date that led to a man "sleeping over". The cycle always continued with his mother. Spot an interesting guy, try to get in his pants and then label it booty call never bothering to speak to him again. Sad, right? Not really to his mother and not to Monty.  Mrs. Monty had her rights as a newly free woman to what she wanted and obviously that was not another train wreck called marriage.
Bambi quickly got up out of the floor and reached over to the cracked and wet icky counter, grabbing a towel as though it was the last one in stock. He placed it under his hand and rapped it around with a sigh.
"Bandages." he whispered as his eyes wandered around in search mode. Right now, he needed to concentrate on getting a bandage or cloth of some kind to wrap around his hand. Luckily for him, his mother was a nurse, and not just the pleasurable fantasy sort, either. Monty searched the cabinets as though it was a natural disaster, which it was, to Monty at least. Carefully, he sat back down in his spot Indian style and started ripping apart the long white bandage. As soon as he could, he replace the itchy towel and in it's place, a white bandage that hugged the most of his hand tightly.
As much as he hated to say it, this battle over curiosity was not over.

A sigh of relief escaped as he leaned back onto the floor, closing his eyes. His eyes were still tired getting up around five in the morning. Such a smart and brilliant plan that was, indeed. “My god, George” his mother would say. “Why the hell did you have to end up with your fathers brain?” Remembering how  idiotic and foolish his father acted, and talked in general, he took it as an insult. Never were he and his parents on good terms. All he would say to his father was a simple hi or bye which he would respond by saying nothing but just giving off a small nod. As for Mrs. Monty and Monty...well,  Monty and Mrs. Monty, as he always referred to, were not mortal enemies but just people that seemed to push each other's wrong buttons. It might have sounded simple to fix, but in all honesty, it was as though there was more to the story of why they were tempted to  push the buttons than they were both letting on. Whatever it was, though, it didn't seem important enough to share. Either that or it was a clear sign that  none of them wished to talk about it, let alone fix anything.

Monty started to clean the blood, his own blood, off of the blue and white cheaply tiled floor as well as the pair of rather sharp and long silver scissors. Now he understood why suicidal people always chose the bathroom. This way, people could clean up their bodies and messes hassle free. Okay, so  that was something that seemed harsh to say at a funeral for any person in general who had taken the most valuable thing but maybe he was right. There was no need for Monty to worry about the blood soaked towel. Like his mother knew how to do laundry. For some reason, he started to think about what she said to a few of her friends that went something along the lines of, “Kids these days. They have no common sense what so ever, killing themselves slowly." Of coarse, they were talking about what Ms. Tammy Kindle found in her youngest sons pocket, a pack of cigarettes. Quietly, Monty chuckled, as he over heard this conversation a few months back,  at the thought of where, or who, that young thirteen-year-old must have gotten those cancer sticks from. Parents these days were so damn hypocritical. Take for example, Monty's Mrs.Monty. How many times had Mrs. Monty tarnished her hair to impress some lowlife guy that would be later referred to as the booty call? Now, how many times had poor Monty died his hair? Once. Just that one time. That's all it took. As frustrated as he was at that moment when he saw the look on Mrs. Summer’s cosmetic covered face, he assumed it was better that he never understand what made her the way she was.
Monty''s shadow was painted on the blue and white tiles as the sun rose and broke threw from the window. It was seven thirty, or said his Hello Kitty watch that hugged his right wrist and was currently out of harms way. Hello Kitty, you ask? Yes, Hello Kitty. It had never so far lied to him, was waterproof and had been with him through the years from when he had to pay money to get things like cloths from his own allowance. In fact, it was the very first thing he bought with that money and he was still quite proud of himself. Plus, he rather liked Hello Kitty growing up. Power Rangers didn't stand a chance in Monty's heart as long as Hello kitty was there. Which of coarse explained the short-sleeved blue shirt that had a faded picture of Hello Kitty that he chose to weartoday, of all days. On the other hand, the jeans that hugged his waste line with the knees ripped explained themselves. In his mind, they were cool, not to mention, comfy. Sure, people had looked at Bambi differently in that shirt, but there was nothing for him to explain in the first place.
Leaving the bathroom a little cleaner than it was when he entered, he shut the quietly door trying not to wake his mother up. When he walked out, the first he noticed how cold the wooden floor was. Even made his feet shiver a little but not as bad as the time he ran his head into the brick wall. Boy was he stupid when he was ten. Living here in this tiny apartment all his life, though, he had to express how much he hated the walls and that was the best way to do it. Sure, a few brain cells may have been lost in that battle, but not as much when his mother put on "Celebrity Eye Candy" and was forced to watch it. To this day, he had nightmare of how he was a mirror and Paris Hilton was staring at him fixing her hair and giving him good looks. Then again, would you call it a nightmare if a drop-dead gorges woman at least looked at you? It was mostly the fact he was a mirror that scared him.
Savoring a moment of pure silence, he inhaled the air around him. Ah yes. That was the sweet smell of being the only one up. Soon, her "booty call" would be out of the house, she would be on the couch watching reruns of "Sxx and the city" and the cycle would continue in a few days or so when she would be off from work again. The joy of being up on a Saturday morning. Trying hard not to ruin the moment, he quickly put on his black, worn out, doodle on, number magnet converse. And what a magnet it was. Phone numbers and doodles everywhere. Some called it a billboard; some even dared call it apiece of trash. To Monty, though, it was his legacy, something for his children and his children's children to look upon and say, "Hey! This belonged to our old man" with pride in their hearts and then laugh nervously replying with, "...and that's also how we got here." Okay, so that's just what he told his mom when she thertend to throw them out the door. At least it worked, right?

Monty reached over to the dark blue sweat jacket that once laid upon the rather new looking lack leather sofa and put it rather quickly then walked over into the kitchen, which of coarse only took seconds. The brick apartment had no division between the small yet very nicely furnished living room and small kitchen. The place had the smell of coffee that seemed to be coming from the pot of coffee that sat on the counter. After grabbed a small white plastic mug with a smiley face sticker on the front from the wooden cabinets, he slammed the mug down onto the small grantee topped island and then reached over for the coffee pot. Next he found himself pouring multiple substances into the cold cup of coffee; a lot of Equal sugar,  and some cream packets like the ones you would usually find at your local diner. It really made you wonder why anyone would steal them when there were really a million reasons, indeed. His hand moved slowly back and forth as he stirred all the ingredients into the coffee. If only he was up to adding a little witch laugh like he always did when he stirred things, then maybe he would seem a little less depressed. But what was he honestly supposed to do with his own brain? Kill himself to relive the pain? No, no. That wouldn’t help one bit and he knew it although he was pretty sure his mother wouldn’t mind. Maybe he should go to a therapist and get drugs. No, that would mean having money, which he had none of and certainly his mother wouldn’t lend him any, either. Maybe he should just empty his mind, like the Jedi do. Sure, it would look a little off at first but if that was what it took, then so be it.
Yet another sigh escaped his lips as he grabbed the cup of coffee away from the counter. Holding onto the cup with his injured hand, he ignored the pain and opened the door with his good hand; shutting it back once he was out. Chills ran down his spine as he felt the cold January air around him. Whatever happened to rumors of global warming, he never knew. Maybe they just ran away into the sunset along with the odd heat. To be quite honest, he never cared about global warming in the first place. It all was a lie about how the world was going to end, anyway, at least to Monty. “The world will end when it ends, damnit! Leave it God and the goverment!” he once barked to his mother once and the worrywart friends with a bit of frustration and anger combined. Yes, it seemed harsh for him to be saying something as cruel as that, but they had it coming. So, instead of feeling guilty about saying it so harshly, he considered it payback. Yes, what a lovely cover up indeed. Monty slowly walked down the steps, switching the coffee into the other hand, at least realesing some of the pain.

-So Far-


 

 Yell


 

 


This is posted by Corie at 6:38 AM CDT
Updated: Tuesday, 14 August 2007 5:16 PM CDT
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