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- Ben & Sebastian
She hopped about in her little wooden clogs, avoiding the ladders
falling in her direction. Her feet hurt just a tad, and would sometimes
slip her foot out to rub it do to the ache. Then carefully slid it back
in the shoe. Rhonda had been walking all day in her shoes, and was
becoming very tired. She arrived at home, and went to her bedroom to let
the girls out.
The girls have been locked inside the room of stiff cloth all morning and afternoon, and therefore she figured they needed some air. She then popped open a book to read, but could not stay awake long enough to finish it. Instead she drifted into a long slumber where she dreamed of airships and female sky captains that greeted her. With her upper cloth on of course, for the dream world alway put a shirt on, and in a way it didn't matter whether it was hot or cold in the real world, as it would always be a pleasant temperature that particular night.
The thing about the nature of dream girls sleeping, they show up in our world to exist in the real world. They show up as avatars of their masters fantasies, although some have lost them and they wander in the world searching for new girlfriends. Every now and then some would be totally lost without their masters, and would do something highly illegal that gets their necks locked in a stock, and a sharpened angled blade coming down to slice through their necks. Their locks falling into a basket, the blade sprayed with dark crimson color. Luckily dream girls are unable to die, so beheading is like serving a day in prison for them. Rhonda on the other hand always feared she could die by beheading in the dream world, and kept her nose clean when she could help it. Because she was not a dream girl, for she showed up in the dream world when she slept. And people that were not dream girls do not have infinite lives indeed.
There was once two dream girls that were named after two different species of daffodil, and they were once beheaded multiple times. And so their heads flew into the sky at the tune of nursery rhymes. And other tunes of classical musical, and they would sing to these if only they had vocal chords at the time. Such is the life of darling beautiful dream girls.
The dream world and the waking world were two side of the same reality. The only difference is where women that liked to have fun with their girlfriends on cold winter nights, where they would allow their lovers to pet the girl. They have a special friend they would pat and rub on the head that growled in purring motion whenever you petted her. Rhonda would sometimes meet some of these girls, that would always cause a full body vibration with their purr, and then her whole body would dampen in the rain of the dream world.
Rhonda found one she liked, and stomped her wooden clog on the girl. And that's how she met Lina. So came to be the team who would be known as Rhonda and Lina. Or so my new origin stories for my heroes go.
As soon as I finished the story I wrote, I finished up the night with a good masturbation session to dutch girls dangling from a rope. And then got out my pipe and smoked some dope.
I always had trouble writing children's fiction, even though I preferred it over writing adult fiction. But I would always make my protagonist way to old, among other obvious issues. I would sometimes have to revise it several times just to get it right. But tonight I was ready for a break, and on nights when I wasn't constantly called by the secret agent, I would actually at times get actual rest. Rest for me was something hard to come by. I would often only get five hours of sleep at most, so most of the time I could use the extra bit of rest.
Yet tonight would be at my behest.
I was called by the secret agent again. Always be civil of course, it prevents lawsuits in the long run, and lawsuits are never a good thing.
Not a thing indeed.
The thing about writing fiction, is it changes you. Sometimes that change is for the best, certainly it provides new ways of looking at the world around you. And yet at other times it makes you wish you were never born. It many ways it has made life far to complicated to deal with. For starters, let's go back to when I had first started to write fiction. Mainly for myself.
For the longest time I had weird ideas about fiction for youth. I spent my entire day in my thoughts longing for my lost youth. I always had trouble finding romance, and on some level I never believed finding a date would be possible. It wasn't a matter of not being romantic, to the contrary I am romantic to a fault. In my early twenties I spent my hours when home alone writing poetry while consume wine. I was unsure of what to do with my life, as up to that point I had lied to myself even about my own gender issues. Combined with the fact that I felt I could love to much, my fear had always been that they would feel it was happening to fast.
I withdrew into the fantasy world of my flesh. I consumed porn, many kinds one may thing about among people my age. And yet part of me felt it was some sort of accommodation for not finding love in high school. I started developing an addiction to head ache powders. I need some way to withdraw from my life, and live someone else's life instead. I had previously way to emotionally involved in a video game. It was a science fantasy video game, among many in the series. While my family would always encourage me to turn away from the draw of the game, I found on some level I could withdraw into the lives of treasure hunters and dreamers. Where pretty boys always got the girl, even if the girl died in the process. On some level I found myself romanticizing the idea of the scenario.
And yet it was a time when I went through constant night terrors nightly, and would constantly be effected nightly. I withdrew into fantasy worlds of my own creation, at first trying to make them into video games. If not a pink bow in the hair, I could give her delightful brown hair.
Yet over time my desire to make games was becoming thinner and thinner over time, my own desires to go to poetry and rhyme. I started out as a kind of poet, who longed for the tendency for no love and the tendency to be alone. As I felt that ignoring my own desires could make me feel whole again. I felt that I could maintain some image in my mind of what I found nostalgic, the only hope in my life for entertainment. I lost my interest in watching television, and soon after my desire to play video games. I began to drink two beers a night, double the amount of head ache powder. I wanted to transcend my own body.
I wanted a prosthetic leg. I wanted to be bionic.
I wanted to my mother mind of my own destruction.
At first when I began to write, it was stories about serial killers in space. Then I began to watch stories of alien abductions, having tears on my face. I began to project myself into the lives of characters on the screen. Something that I constantly had trouble with even in real life, except for my own selfishness. I fantasized about the image of the wine class, while taking my G.E.D. class. I found motivation in trying to improve myself, simply for the fact I could finally be out of there I have time to write.
So to the old world I said goodnight.
Yet now here I was living the life of laziness and gluttony, consuming cheap porn and and badly rashing after shave. I began to personify my own destruction.
My own downfall. I still have yet to climb back up.
The thing about the nature of imprinted realities with greater abilities than you, often you'll be in a situation where you can't exactly ask them to stop what they are doing at the moment. Lenora knew that my and hers is life trying to steer a star cruiser away from the sun, most of the crew are men who are sexist, and they find out the last minute the only competent driver is a woman. You exactly take her outside and beheaded like in periods of ancient history, and somehow I doubt even though history actually played out exactly like the movies.
And considered the situation, I was just happy to see Lenora out and about doing her own thing in the world. After all as my brain child I feel it's my responsibility to let her live her life how she wishes to. I had to say child, cause let's be honest, every now and then Lenora would kneel on the floor and give me head. I don't know about you, but I'd rather avoiding thinking about my offspring giving me blowjobs. So Lenora explained to me how she decided to become a secret agent. This may make plans to become a cult investigator all the more precarious.
See you guys later. I hop about, and shout to the world because finally found I went off the social wagon again. Hey, that's how life is you know.
It comes with the territory, as I scout for more adventures.
Adventure in Splinter Cult space.
There is a kind of social stigma, for the men of great enigma. The widow plays her deck of cards, dropping down its giant shard to do more than choke the chickens.
For a homeless person, death row with the widow at the end is merely shelter with a slightly accelerated life expectancy. If there was really was such as social stigma, for the headsmen of great enigma, one wonders why they don't strike fear in the urban dislocated. For indeed, the indentured to life often longs for no life at all. And the great long drop to meet the lady is to long to stay unmarried. For the Lenora, the lady who was once a widow, and found her love at last. At yet if Lenora meets the lady, then what else. Perhaps eternal life of misery and solitude.
This is what I wonder when I meet Lenora, who without my assistance, is attempted to break open the secret of The Widow cult. The cult of lost women, often LGBT, find that together only death shall they achieve true happiness in the night. Lenora felt a slight trickle down her day blouse of baby blue, her bare feet sweating in her Jesus sandals. And she felt a kind of vibration all o'er her body. Lenora wanted to find personal safety and trust in me. Lenora did not want to die all alone. And despite the knowledge that the death of death cancels itself out and she is reborn into a new her, I find myself allowing her to sob tenderly and openly on my shoulder.
"Would you touch me, or are to do scared to touch death?" Lenora asked, taunting me with her sweet smile, hiding the tears of loneliness.
"Where would like to me to be touched?" I asked.
"All o'er my body, down below my belly button. Gradually ripping open my blouse of middle grade fantasy. I want to be somebody besides death, I have found you. You reminded me of what it means to be humans."
And yet I touched death, and lived to tell the tale.
Lenora is no burden to the living, she travels abroad to earn her Shillings and tuppence. She is now boundless, who once came from my own reality. She tap dances to the edge of the Earth.
Lenora can now be Lenora.
Lenora the lamb.
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