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Fictional Writings of Elleander Grey


  • I stared and stared at the words above my bed as if I had never seen them before. If it had been written in grey I would have killed myself by now. But it was in pink, as it should have been. The plastic tie was still clenched tight around my hands and neck though. The color was very close to grey. When I looked out the window I saw a head with an eye poke back at me. The eye had eyelashes and swiveled angrily. The pigeons wings fluttered again and the eye was gone. Focus… I try too hard sometimes. But my effort only causes a discomfort for feeling. A feeling that makes me feel like I don’t try hard at all. A feeling that makes me feel? So unclear, I can hardly bear it. Just so you understand this now, directly, however indirectly. The words in my brains are like the saliva that drivels down my lips and chin. Drivel. Please stop reading if you have a clear thought process. Maybe I would say this to myself a hundred times as I read my own thoughts. You see, if you do it well enough, it’s like looking in a mirror, it’s a fantastic voyage through the underworld with evil and good and green shrubbery things in between. Moving on. I met blonde for lunch late one day. The diner was a usual for cops and burglars. The cops came for coffee and the burglars came for coffee. The diner was a coffee shop. I came for coffee. I am not a burglar, much less a cop. I sat down at a table by myself and ordered. Outside my window were drunken shapeless figures merging in and out of darkness. I tried to watch the clouds, but the faceless demons outside distracted me. Blonde sat down across from me in a booth draped in red. She wasn’t alone, red was there. Almost frightened by my own blatant staring I started to sweat. I knew she wasn’t here to see me. She wouldn’t ever really see me. Not like this. If only the hope that cursed my thoughts would forever leave me. But it didn’t, so I continued to sweat. I was nervous. I was nervous because time was still passing, and I wasn’t acting. I wasn’t acting the play that I had so thought over in my mind countless times. It was supposed to be this way, but in my mind things were different. In my mind she was there, and she was there for me. But she didn’t know this yet. I stared out the window again. The buildings were draped with beggars and concierges. In this part of town you couldn’t tell the difference between the two. They all smoked, and they all wanted money. Some were successful in their endeavors while most were not. Of course, addressing success in a town full of vagabond philosophers could prove painful. Let’s address this pain. Sleep had overtaken most of the good people. Apathy the others, so nothing worth any quality was ever produced anymore. Old ways had become the new ways, and the process of “thinking” followed this trend as well. Success had not changed, thinking had not changed, and thus the people had not changed. So the accursed city, cursed since its development of non-development, had ceased to develop. History lessons now suggested to students that revolution was only fiction, and the word was no longer contained in dictionaries. Artists had simply died. Their death was not a simple one however. Their battle lasted for centuries upon centuries re-inventing their methods to save what need be saved. Struggling to grasp what remained, they were rejoiced only in indifference by the new wave of artists. These new wave artists called themselves politicians and pastors. Everything was moving slower now. I believed Mother Nature itself was throwing a wrench in the clockwork of time as a last means to save itself and perhaps humanity as a final resort. Humanity was not offering any worth so the wrench was soon to be removed. This would prove to be the last strike of the bell for earth, and a new wave of creatures would inhabit our bodies. Death as it was called then, would then inhabit every living creature. This is how it would have to be done. Done.
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