Passion Fruit...

You will find passion in transit.

Before you stop running he will trip you.

~Anonymous

Passion Fruit

And I was on the bus minding my own business. I let everyone know that I was minding my own business because my headphones were set to the loudest volume. The bus is always more interesting when peoples voices are muted. I tend to place my own conversation in their mouths. I was watching a young woman explain to her best friend the joys of sexuality manipulation, I think. She was very animate about this topic, she was probably saying “Never pay for drinks. Always look for the most desperate man in the club and give him some attention. Show some skin too” I looked down in disgust at these shallow words I put in her mouth. I feel bad about how I feel sometimes. I feel bad that I don't li
sten to peoples conversations. I don't give them a chance to defend themselves. I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Countless people have told me to turn my music down, I was sure this was another annoyed patron. I readied my fake smile and sappy apology. The same one I've used countless times. I turn to the source of the tap and looked right into the face of Passion. I've never been face to face with the physical personification of anything before but here I was starring Passion right in the face. He mouthed a couple of words I couldn't hear. I lowered my headphones.

What Was Seen...

Hi again,

Persephone is a psychic who can really see into the future. The problem is, she doesn't tell them what she sees...she uses that information for her own good, and skews it for her patrons.

Are you going to keep these anonymous? That'd be great. I really don't like this one but I feel like I want to write something. I'm getting there. :(

~Anonymous

What Was Seen

A couple of miles outside of town and next to a small wooded area there is a house. It's not a very remarkable house, small, falling apart, quirky. On the unkempt lawn there were many gnomes in various states of disrepair. The gnomes closest to the house were in the best shape out of all of them. Most of their paint was still intact and the chips in their body were very minimal. The ones near the end of the property were another story. Most were damaged beyond repair, with paint almost completely gone and whole faces worn down by the weather. Most of these gnomes looked like ancient statues tormented by age and time, and neglect. If you were to pass by this house you'd think to yourself does someone live here? Then you'd see the sign in the window “Madame Persephone's Fortune Chapel.” and you'd know that someone lives there. But you would never want to know this person.

Samson of Zettabyte...

Samson is a man who never lies. He hates lying. The problem is, no one ever believes him. He is unjustly found guilty to a crime he doesnt commit and is sent to jail for 25 years....DUN DUN DUNNN

~Lorthos :)

Samson of Zettabyte.

Samson wandered the city trying not to look anyone in the eyes. It was raining so no one really wanted to look up anyways but Samson made extra careful not to make eye contact. The ground was black and shiny something Samson appreciated, he only wished that the damn city lights weren't so bright. Every neon light was on tonight, it was like the city was screaming out to heaven. Challenging it. The city of Zettabyte loved it's lights just as much as it loved its cyborgs. One trip, like Samson's down the boardwalk, you could probably see, talk to, flip off, flirt with, or laugh with at least one cyborg. They were everywhere and Zettabyte kept pumping them out.

In Zettabyte there were no funerals, just auctions. When someone died the best part of them were sold to the highest bidder for use in a cyborg. Usually scientists brains were bought and their bodies burned, athletics were specifically sought after because as advanced as cyborg technology was they still had an uneasy way of moving about the word. As if they were about to fall every step they took. Vagina's were also highly sought after as well, because everyone is sick some of the time. The dead writers and poets were burned whole, nothing of theirs was useful. Samson told his family to burn him whole as well. He couldn't stand the idea of being dead without all of his body parts. Wasn't natural he thought.

The first...

Welcome reader,

I am a writer... like the rest of you. My goal is to write and write well. I want to play with you and discover things that are hidden underneath the folds of our communal mind. I am not here to challenge you in any way possible but to work with you in the mines of creativity (the minds mine?) I envision a day where we are both working dear reader, you and me and you turn to me and say "this mine is dark and scary." I'll look up at you on this day and smile in the dark, "yeah, isn't it great?" You'll nod and we'll both laugh and continue to work in our creative mine. At the end of the day we'll both emerge in the sunlight and go our separate ways both content in the knowledge we have just ripped from the cold mines.

What I purpose in this web log is a writing challenge. You dear reader will send me suggestions on what to write, and I will write it. The suggestions can be anything you want, a word, a sentence, a picture or video, a giant paragraph... any fucking thing you want. I will then write something based on your suggestion, I reserve the right to choose format and final content though. If you tell me to write a dialogue don't expect to get a dialogue. That being said something will defiantly be written however. I plan to update the web log every week with new stories. I'd appreciate comments on the stories be it critics, general responses, your own sequel to my story, whatever. Send you suggestions to writethatout@gmail.com and please leave a name you wish to be credited under.

Hopefully this experiment will force me to write on a regular basis and allow everyone involved to discover what they will in a playful fashion. I wrote this in a writers statement once. Read my work not like an old man white with age, but as a child white with age.