I just updated these tales of fiction onto my myspace page:
Moans and groans filled the air of my new apartment at night. Faint sounds barely heard above the sound of silence in my adobe. Spooks and kooks, hobgoblins and other dead unnatural things that should sleep in peace and leave me alone. And then I was thrilled to be the inhabitant of a haunted manor, as I thought of my quaint place which I had just moved into over a week ago. Every night I would listen and wonder what tortures my poor souls, mines because I owned the place, endured during their short sad existence when they lived in the world. It was a mark of pride and horror. Some nights the groans were so loud and frightening I would have to leave. I could hear them echoing down the halls, chasing me until I would run out into the safety of the night with its prowlers and midnight stranglers to sleep in my car until the dawn. And after a particularly frightening episode I decided to find out a way to put these souls to rest. So I scoured around. In pride I boasted to friends and coworkers about my search to help put these souls to rest. When I started questioning my neighbors, many of whom I was meeting for the first time, they all stared at me with an odd, sometimes mocking look. Undeterred I would not let their judgment of my experience in the paranormal deter me ... that is until I met my insatiable for each other next door neighbors. Shortly afterwards I moved out.
Wretched things filmed in black and white. The director was mad. She, in her heavy layers of black and gauze and powder, was utterly mad. Like an ancient thing, we couldn't believe she was still alive, living and breathing and fouling up our air. A wave of a wrinkled arthritic finger and her bandaged-masked assistant would go bounding away into the darkness behind the set bringing up things she felt was needed for our role. He was badly burned, she would growl out of loose jowls, slurring her words with an edge of sophistication and a drag of a cigarette brown with age of a brand that had not been for sale for over fifty years, to answer the questions which haunted our minds. Again the haggard mummy would slur, dusting puffing out of her mouth, a jilted lover threw acid on him. And after that we never asked anymore. The studio had sent her, sent us to her in her ruined studio in a rundown part of the city. And she filmed us with her small ancient camera and showed us the rotten fruits of our labor - wretched things filmed in black and white. We were sure we were damned for what we did. Weeks after it was over in the back of a local newspaper in a small passing blurb read - old woman found dead in an alley.
The TV Sat in my destroyed living room. We threw a rock through it to create a hole through so to watch the world burning in the guise of our favorite past time of being couch potatoes. We filed and polished the rock roughed sides down until a perfect square shaped hole was formed, and set it down in the living room, exposed to the exterior via crumbling walls blasted loose after the car crashed through it (thrown through our wall by the freak storm cause in turned by the accursed bomb which in turn was dropped during the devastating war which was caused by the terror attack which killed million, which was retaliation ...) Holes ... holes ... holes. And through the hole in the tv we looked through the hole in the wall into the chaos of the hell hole this world has become. We sat and watched because this was the only channel and nothing else was on that was better. And our minds were once again lulled as the horror of our existence seemed so real as to not be real, when on tv, and we were able to forget until hunger pains drew back out into the world and we all slowly died one by one on the coach in front of the non-functioning highly functional tv.
Cursed! How can this be. Every page turned blankness would peer up at me. Now now, my doctor would say, these pages are not blank. See here, can you see the words? I would nod my head for the words would be there and I could read them. Alone in my hands the words would fade and only blank pages would remain. My job let me go. How could I work if documents turned into crisp white sheets in my hand? I traveled the 3000 mile journey on foot and alone to the place where the monks dwell and begged them to tell me why I was cursed. among the throngs of filthy peasants and religious pilgrims I was nothing special and so like a mote in the eye of a god I was ignored. In my sorrow I sparked a campaign to burn all books and abolish the written word. Ignorants of the world bowed at my feet during the day and at night I cursed the sky as books burned, their pages turning black. A blind woman approached me one day, slapped me across the face and spat - pages are blank to me too you fool, it's called braille. I learned how to read braille and that was that.
My left hand is a superhero but not in the Muslim world were left hands are considered dirty. It would try to rescue hijabbed women in distress, dark skinned men who needed aid, only to be met with a look of disgust and the word "we know what your owner does with you!" In the West my left hand became a teacher, a profession filled with many left handers. It was a superhero who saved the lives of children and adolescents from the evils of ignorance and a minimum wage job through the powers of education. My left hand fought hard, winning and losing many battles. When it retired it was given a plaque by all its successful former students. My left hand came back to me one day to relate its strange tales and adventures. I listened with a bowed head and quiet interest. When it finished I complimented it on its prowess and skill and great heroic feats, and then with my right hand pop my two long overdo antipsychotic pills into my mouth.