Saturday, June 18, 2005

Girls Walking in the Night

Mushroom's Story
It was a fantabulous night for a moondance, and Gloria was in the groove. The wet sandy sidewalk was like dancing on the beach, if one used their imagination, so she sashayed and shimmied to her heart's content. Selma tried to retrieve her before she got hit by a car or netted by the guys in the white coats, but Gloria was an unstoppable force. And once the next song started, Gloria shrugged her shoulders and gave into the dance herself.

Monster Spank's Story
where's my slippers? WHERE'S MY GODDAMNED SLIPPERS!!!!! will somebody tell me where the fuck my slippers are! they just cant walk away by themselves could they, so w-h-e-r-e t-h-e h-e-l-l a-r-e m-y s-l-i-p-p-e-r-s !!!!!!!!!! will somebody TELL ME WHERE the fuck THEY ARE!!!! WHERE THE HELL ARE MY SLIPPERS!

their in my ass, knucklehead girl.

Alix's Story
thousands of people world wide were in need. and these college kids, full of the verve and impulsivity inherent in young scholars out to change the world, were going to make a difference.

volunteers aplenty manned the registration area, taking down the necessary information and assigning each contributor a number and an ID bracelet. the day ground down to night, but still, the kids kept coming. they were making a difference!

pallets of disinfectant and medical supplies sat outside the surgical suites, and nurses, anesthetists and doctors rotated short shifts to stay fresh. you could smell the jubilance and sterility in the air.

candy, full of the giving spirit, walked up to the banner flapping in the night's breeze: "lend a hand, it's only fingers!" a released donor stepped up to candy, who looked a little queasy. "don't worry, you've still got thumbs. it won't make a difference."

she wasn't quite sure what he meant.

My Story
The girls threw off their shoes and became barefoot zombies. Each footfall drew them further into the perpetual hypnosis of their self-sustaining gait, and they marched, one after the other, a single direction, a single purpose, a single soul. In a dislocated room, mind's eye focused on the phenomenon, sat an aged conjurer in the center of the force, summoning the bodies to him. He uttered the syllables scribbled onto the parchmented scroll, little knowing that he was as much a marionette as the girls had been made so by his repetition of the eternal desirous chant. "Tat-chin-tan-am," he repeated in the ancient Sanskrit syllables, "I want you, that which I have lost." On the scroll was the sketch of a feminine form, rendered erotic by its vagueness. The suggestive lines were to his fertile imagination the seminal source of any and every girl in her years of sexual awakening. He took those lines and wove them into visions of baseness, wrapped them around his ravenous yearnings. Their youth became his youth. When the girls arrived, they did not like how he had ravished them in his waking trance. Without a thought or word, they lined up to slap his face.


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