Post by Xplayadam on Jul 13, 2009 22:23:02 GMT -5
The following short story is based partially on a dream I had, partially on something my ex-girlfriend told me and a Dylan lyric or two. Called "Acceptable" because I found it acceptable enough to post.
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Allison shaked her red hair after waking up in a meadow. She turned to the nearest house that was 50 feet in height and 4 feet in length and entered it (this happened to be the only house built of that size). Inside was a pumpkin with a cigarette dangling from it’s lips. “Eh, you’re not from here, are you?”. Allison pulled out her cellphone to see that Bob Dylan had updated his Twitter to announce “The sun’s not yellow, it’s chicken”. She quickly emptied out her inbox and looked back at the pumpkin. It was waddling itself further into the house, she followed it till it got pitch black. “This all bores me” Mr. Figure announced. When the lights came on, Allison found herself in a hall of paintings. Standing on the ungodly long carpet was Mr. Figure, naked and pale as could be with his beard hanging to the floor. Beside him appears to be the Fonzie. “Ehhhh...” chanted the Fonz. “I appreciate your tastes in Manson’s art but to be honest... I am not amused”. The Fonz, releasing he has disappointed his master, bursts into flames. “What happened to the Fonz?”, Allison asked. “He gave up” Mr. Figure answered. Figure walked over to Allison while scratching his buttocks and felt her chest through her blue sweater. “You make love just like a women” he predicted, then he placed his finger on her forehead. “But you ache, like a little girl”. Allison put her hands in her blue jean pockets. She tilted her head back and spit in his face. “EXECUTION, I DEMAND!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Within seconds, Allison found herself with a noose around her neck, hanging from a cliff with the stars below her. The pumpkin was hang beside her. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Mr. Figure creates what he wants. He wanted this and thus he created this”. “Why?”, “He watches far too much television, gets bored easily and makes up glibble glabble”. “As opposed to glabble glibble?”, “Preciously”. The stars eventually run out and Allison found herself in her bed, with the TV on as Jimi Hendrix lit his guitar on fire. She checked her texts to see one from “Consensus”. It said “It didn’t make sense, the linear plot was odd and messy, characters were too quirky for words”. “Cool” Allison though aloud.
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Allison shaked her red hair after waking up in a meadow. She turned to the nearest house that was 50 feet in height and 4 feet in length and entered it (this happened to be the only house built of that size). Inside was a pumpkin with a cigarette dangling from it’s lips. “Eh, you’re not from here, are you?”. Allison pulled out her cellphone to see that Bob Dylan had updated his Twitter to announce “The sun’s not yellow, it’s chicken”. She quickly emptied out her inbox and looked back at the pumpkin. It was waddling itself further into the house, she followed it till it got pitch black. “This all bores me” Mr. Figure announced. When the lights came on, Allison found herself in a hall of paintings. Standing on the ungodly long carpet was Mr. Figure, naked and pale as could be with his beard hanging to the floor. Beside him appears to be the Fonzie. “Ehhhh...” chanted the Fonz. “I appreciate your tastes in Manson’s art but to be honest... I am not amused”. The Fonz, releasing he has disappointed his master, bursts into flames. “What happened to the Fonz?”, Allison asked. “He gave up” Mr. Figure answered. Figure walked over to Allison while scratching his buttocks and felt her chest through her blue sweater. “You make love just like a women” he predicted, then he placed his finger on her forehead. “But you ache, like a little girl”. Allison put her hands in her blue jean pockets. She tilted her head back and spit in his face. “EXECUTION, I DEMAND!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Within seconds, Allison found herself with a noose around her neck, hanging from a cliff with the stars below her. The pumpkin was hang beside her. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Mr. Figure creates what he wants. He wanted this and thus he created this”. “Why?”, “He watches far too much television, gets bored easily and makes up glibble glabble”. “As opposed to glabble glibble?”, “Preciously”. The stars eventually run out and Allison found herself in her bed, with the TV on as Jimi Hendrix lit his guitar on fire. She checked her texts to see one from “Consensus”. It said “It didn’t make sense, the linear plot was odd and messy, characters were too quirky for words”. “Cool” Allison though aloud.
