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9/27/2005 2:36:06 AM
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The Unbearable Lightness of Lifelessness

The first bit of a story I'm writing. Despite what you all are inclined to believe, it does not relect my actual opinions, emotions, or state of room. [b]The Unbearable Lightness of Lifelessness[/b] The Unbearable Lightness of Lifelessness Chapter One “Crypt wants his stuff back.” It was Hank. It was always Hank. No one ever wanted near Michael. But Hank. “Tell him to shove it” Michael despairingly muttered. Crypt was an ass, and there was no way simple around it. He, Hank, and Michael used to have a garage band, but Crypt’s attitude got in the way. Something was always in the way, even when there was nothing there. “Alright, but he won’t be happy.” Hank again. Hank was a nice friend, and a good person, but he rarely knew when to just be quiet and nod. “Look, I’ll tell him myself.” said Michael, pulling himself up with a grunt and a sigh. He’d been lounging in the crowded garage in one of their dusty, neon-green bean-bag chairs, surrounded by the amps, cords, and other necessary items for putting on a halfway decent show. “Wait, where is he?” asked Michael, walking through the house, as though he truly cared where Crypt was. “On the phone’ said Hank, pointing in the general vicinity of the kitchen. Michael walked into his kitchen-it was like something out of the fifties-and picked up the phone. Instantly he had to hold the phone away from his ear, as Crypt’s voice came over the phone, loud and annoying. It was as though a caffeine laden fly was as going through puberty. “What a freakin’ weird analogy” Michael thought to himself. Then Crypt’s voice brought him back again. “ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING??” he heard the fly shout after a spell of unintelligible shouts, possibly commands or threats. Then Michael just hung up the phone. “Wa…wha…WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” Hank exclaimed, exasperated. Michael just shrugged. “Buh..buh…He’ll be back! He might hurt you!”. Again, Michael just shrugged. He figured he’d deal with the problem when the problem arose. Besides, Crypt barely knew the meaning of physical contact. In any case, Micheal had things to do. Michael interrupted Hank’s shrieks of disbelieve. He told Hank that he needed to work on some stuff, and to come back later. Hank, still uttering cries of protest, reluctantly left. Michael pushed open his door, an achievement in itself, due to the amount of clothes, books, and various video and computer game wrappings that littered the navy blue carpet that was his floor. He picked his way across the junk, and found his computer desk on the other side of his bookshelf, which, for some reason, was overflowing with clothes as well. Michael, with a sigh, slunk down into the computer chair. Actually, it was just his wooden desk chair. His parents thought a computer chair would be redundant. But he didn’t care. A long as it was the height of his computer, he was content. Michael pushed the gray button that was the monitor switch into itself and waited as his desktop faded into view from within the blackness. He never had to wait very long to access his computer, since it was always on. The monitor was always off when not in use in order to conserve power. His parents had made sure of that. When the screen was back to its full color, Michael opened up his web browser. He didn’t have to wait long for that either, since he parents paid for high-speed. He was quite thankful for that, whish is why he let her tell him to turn the monitor off when he was through with the computer. After checking his email and various sites, Michael logged on to Bungie. After checking his groups, Micheal went to the Flood and looked for decent threads. After repling to a few decent ones, he opened up his word processing program. He began to type. “Grunthaven ran to ChiChi and LedKasmir yelling about how” the words flared into his head, and seconds later, were displayed in Times New Roman before his very eyes. When had written about another quarter page, he saved it. He logged off Bungie, got up, and, of course, turned off the monitor. “Another productive writing period” he thought to himself as he struggled to open his door and emerged into the cool hallway. Just then, he heard his mom’s voice. “Mikey, there’s someone at the door! It’s for you! I think it’s that girl you like!” “Beth” Michael thought with a flash of joy. Then a flash of frustration “Goddamit” he half-thought, half-muttered. “Why does mom have to do that to every girl who comes by?” the thought as he hopped down the steps, two at a time. When he reached the bottom, he stumbled on the freshly cleaned tan carpet of the stairs and practically fell down the last two steps, into the view of the door. And, he realized, Beth’s view. “Oh, hey” he said trying to be nonchalant, but coming out more nervous than he ever would have thought he could have allowed. He gave his mom a dirty look, hoping he wouldn’t have to pay for it later, and left the house with Beth, closing their inner door behind him. “Let’s walk and t-“ he started before he was cut off by a sudden thought. He re-opened his inner door and yelled into the house “I’m goin’ for a walk! I’ll be back in a bit”. As he was finishing “bit” he shut the door and started down the walk to where Beth. “Let’s walk and talk” he said and they started down the walk. Michael tried to hold Beth’s hand, but she refused. The two of them had been a sort of couple for a month now, a new record for him, and she had always let him hold her hand. Sure, their relationship had been “on the rocks” from the beginning, but something was dreadfully wrong. Keeping her head down, looking at the monkey grass that lined Michael’s tan-stone walk, she launched into her clearly-rehearsed speech. Michael caught a bit of it “too much time online” was one thing. “We never go out” was another. She closed up her little speech with the classic “we should just be friends”. They were only at the end of Michael’s drive. She turned to him, faked a kiss, and, instead, hugged him. He moved his arms to hug her too, but she had already turned and was walking down the street. Michael turned and walked back up to his house, hands in pockets. Beth wasn’t the first. In fact, she was the eighteenth.
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  • [quote][b]Posted by:[/b] pistolsnipe16 Still is nifty. I like how you take a different approach to the forum fiction. You aren't basing the story inside of the forum as many others have done but you are following a forum user in his daily struggles. Quite enthralling.[/quote] Oh, thanks. Technically, yeah, I am follwoing a b-net user as he goes about the day, but it wasn't intended to be that way. I kinda threw the forum part in so it wouldn't be too irrelevant when I posted it. However, I did actually do a story about an obsessive b-net user. [b][url=http://bungie.net/Forums/posts.aspx?postID=3757656] Too Much Bungie [/url][/b]
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  • I really liked that. Enough to read it twice. I can't wait for more.
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  • aaaaahhhhhhhh words!!!! so this is what the spam filter is like.....i dont perticullarly like it
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  • Still is nifty. I like how you take a different approach to the forum fiction. You aren't basing the story inside of the forum as many others have done but you are following a forum user in his daily struggles. Quite enthralling. [Edited on 9/26/2005]
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  • (cont.) (darn-anti spam filter!!!) Chapter Two Michael Vallson was a “good person” and “would one day find a girl who appreciated that”. At least, that’s what his mom told him. She told it to him, about 5 times a month- basically, whenever one of his girlfriends finally gave up. In reality, it wasn’t their faults. Wait. It was all their faults. THEY were the ones who “went steady” with them in the first place. THEY were the ones who couldn’t take his “hours of operation”. And THEY were the ones who were furious with themselves the next morning for feeling sorry for Michael. But Michael didn’t care. Another one would come into his life shortly, drawn in solely by his boyish good looks and his way with subtleties of Java. Soon after Beth left him, or “walked home” as far as he was concerned, Michael’s thoughts drifted to more pressing matters. As he traveled back up the walk to his home, thoughts shifted through his head like a broken candy machine set too high to begin with. “I wonder who’ll be in my next story?” was the first thought Michael truly became aware of. Soon after: “What’ll it be about?” and “Maybe I should make a thread about this -blam!-”. Suddenly, a two lone thoughts entered his head, murdered all the others, and made themselves known. “The Septagon” was one. And the other, the leader, happened to be “Star Wars”. Now the thoughts were coming so fast, Michael failed to notice the noise of his mom’s vacuuming in the den as he raced up the steps. Again he pushed open his door, flipped, rather, pushed, the monitor on, and about fell into his chair. Michael turned on some trance music and all other manner of things in existence ceased to do so. It was almost as though he was in a tunnel and the monitor was the beautiful light at the end of it. Again, words flared into his head, and, again, Michael transferred them to Times New Roman. One paragraph, then two, then three. The keyboard was like and extension of his mind. It was all coming together in black and white before his eyes. This is what would make him popular on those forums. This was his ticket to moddom. Finally, with a sigh, Michael let his arms flop to his sides. He sank down in his chair, and with such an assurance that it startled even him, Michael said, “This is the sh1t” --------------------------------------------------------- “21 posts? 21 posts?! What the -blam!-? What the -blam!- do those asswholes know anyway?!” Michael was swearing viciously and violently kicking vacant piles of clothes around. His “ticket to moddom” had only gotten 21 replies on the forum, and most were taken up by a conversation between two other members. “Probably a lot” Michael said despairingly, continuing his furious remark form moments ago. Having no real friends, other than Hank, Michael idolized most of the forum goers. And, to have them not acknowledge his stories broke his heart. He sadly and slowly turned off his computer and sat down his bed, head in hands. All the thoughts had been driven from his head and it was just a dark, squishy, lonely place. Soon, Michael turned from a sitting to a laying position. He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep. He got no more than five minutes before his mom’s voice penetrated the air. “MICHAEL! YOU GOT ANOTHER VISITOR! SAYS HIS NAME IS CRYPT AND YOU GOT SUMTHIN” OF HIS!” Chapter Three Crypt was the epitome of “the most pimped out mo-fo evah”, as Michael so eloquently put it once, toward the beginning of his relationship with Crypt. This was, mind you, before he realized that Crypt was an adolescent jerk with a wicked taste for hustling the local kids out of their lunch money at Tetris.
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  • Nifty.
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