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so yeah. I've started writing again., it's been a long time guys

May 10 2008, 03:54 AM (Post #1)
Origin's Photographer.
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Posts: 1,549
Cash: 126,717 / 475,510
Group: Nobility
Joined: 7/16/05 10:43 PM
Hallooo Here you go. Enjoy, give me feedback, you f*cking b*tches.

I live for the time when the night grows quiet. When it's finally out of the ordinary to be outside. The sweaty dark sinkhole that I rent was stifling. The three AM silence was only marred by the ghostly sound of truck breaks grating on my conscience. Like the rasp of my old man's lungs, the wind whistled through the pine trees, bowing in the breeze. Their needles rained down to the earth, tiny taps, miniscule like our presence on this earth. The room breathed with me, expanding and contracting as my lungs inhaled and expelled the putrid air that clung to my belongings and life. I chose to live this way, I tell myself. I chose this. But if I had to go back, I might.
It was long days passed that I last smelled sweet air. The permeating scent of roses stole my heart away on summers past. Spinning in tall grasses, swirling, skirts dancing loves. It was past history, ancient and wondrous, like the Great Pyramids, or the Babylonian gardens. I could no longer connect with it. As if in a dream, i remember those days, filled with the perfume of many flowers, but people are missing, and the days don't make sense.
Crawling out of the bed that I salvaged from a vacant neighboring apartment, I made my way over to the window. I moved slow, in my old age, joints and bones acheing with untold problems. The view was dark, the window dingier than I remembered. I breathed on it, and rubbed it with the already bedraggled sleeve of my sweater, hoping to clear alittle of the grim away, but it didn't. Everything in my life was dirty. Caked with a layer of grime and battle dust, from traveling with distant armies, wind blasted with sand from my time in Giza. But now, everything gathered the disgusting pollution and fumes that hung over this once great city. Home to the beautiful, the rich and famous; now it's a war torn, hungry hovel. Full of criminals, and people just as dirty as I.
In my youth I was impoverished, just as it seems I will die now. Born to a pauper and a whore, I soon learned I had to make my own way, or I had no way. I was rash, ran in the streets with my cronies, stealing and duping the common man out of all their cash. I made my own way, somehow traveling on the meager amounts that I managed to filch from the populations' pockets. When I was of age I left the land of my birth, and voyaged to spice filled lands on gargantuan freighters. With wit, charm, and skills I posess from working for the crooks who ran the cities, I worked my way up the social ladder. Lady's were my concubines and concubines were my loves. I felt for the lesser mortal, but used the rich as my pawns. Playing the game of courtly behavior landed me at the feet of many important persons and personas. I thought I was clearly unstoppable and meant for world take over. Nothing could impede my path, and there were no bounds to my grand mischief. I was the king, and I ruled everywhere I stepped.
I had fun plucking the strings on all my puppets, but I enjoyed the women the most. Rich- skinned harlots in India, and authentic french whores in La Mans pined for the day I would return to their loins, and I bathed in the disgusting egomania of it. It was a grand adventure to find the hoitiest club I could on the grand strip of what ever major metro I happened to be in , and bed the most rich, decked out woman I could find in the place. The few aquaintences I had picked up over the years sometimes would place a wager, on whether I would get the blonde, who drank endless champagne, or the Brunette, who was tripping over her stillhettos before we even finished our first martini's. It was never hard to accomplish my goal, they always knew the best room to go to, and they usually liked to do most of the work. I just took the ride.
As you have probably guessed, the illusion of grandieur is never a lasting one.On an expensive weekend in Brussels, I came upon a sight so sad it's still burned in my eyes. I had been on my way back from a night of what most would call binge drinking, and i decided to cut back to my hotel through an alley way. I could have taken a cab, but as I wasn't very responsible with my monies, I had spent most of my onhand-funds on booze and cheap women. The rest of my money was in a British bank, stored away behind the thick rimmed glasses of my accountant. As I slipped down this particular alley, a small sound crept into my ears, and tickled the wall of my skull. Distant like the skitter of a mouse you can't find, was a wimper. A small, dying wimper. I picked up my pace, and not, I am ashamed to say, out of concern. I pondered and considered a dying person might have a purse. A purse which contained my cab fair. So, i stumbled farther into the slick, refuse filled alley way until I discerned legs. Shapely legs, calves fair, milky, white. Sensible, flat shoes, scuffed. Looked like they had seen better days. Being the man I was, i let my eyes linger on the curve of her thigh, and tried to slip my gaze under the edge of her knee length skirt, that had been pushed up, by the rough ground this girl lay on. Tweed, grey if the light wasn't fooling me, but near the top it was darker; Black I thought.
I stepped over her clad feet, and squatted in front of her, to take in the rest of this victim. And then i saw it. My eyes widened, and I fell backward, crawling away from the horrible crime infront of me. For the black wasn't black, it was blood. And the girl wasn't just a girl, but a pregnant one. Who's fetus had been partially ripped out, and left to die, gasping, wriggling like a trout out of the river. The mother opened her eyes and moaned a discernable word in my direction, but I couldn't rip my eyes from the child, the organ's I could make out in the dark, and the destroyed human lives in front of me. How had it happened, who wanted to do this to a small woman, one who appeared to young to be sensibly having a child, a daughter, I thought as I dared to look closer. I inched closer to the woman's face, the first tears starting to fall from my eyes, as I responded uncharacteristically to this tragedy worthy of shakespeare's pen. I placed two fingers on her cheek, and rubbed the dirt away from her eye, tried to think of a single comforting word to say to this dying lass, but nothing came out of my slack-jawed mouth. In my unexpected pain for this woman, I remember taking off my jacket, covering her waist and lying in the dirt and sludge with her. I placed an arm around her gently, and held her in her last living moments. It was the first time in my life that I can remember feeling anything like I felt then. Total dispair for someone other than my wretched self. It was a moment of self-sickening failure for me. My heart crushed and broke as the trembling stopped and slowly her flesh went cold and hard. I'm not sure how long I lay there before leaving. I never checked the new mother for money, and I didn't retrieve my jacket.
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