Writing

The screams of the women - they haunted him.  Dozens, even baker's dozens, of those from his past who just... couldn't... take it. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the echoing shouts, wails and screeches reverberating inside his scull. These screams, these vivid spectres of the past, they were not screams of pain, or sorrow. They were screams of pleasure. Moans, cries and howls of pleasure. For it was his gift, and yet his most unfortunate talent, that every time he made physical contact with someone, they would orgasm. Hard.

High fives lead to disaster. Handshakes required an immediate cold shower, and handshakes -  forget about it. Even his moment of birth had been so physically rewarding to his mother, that she actually tried putting him back in.

His first kiss, his first hand-hold, his first sly brush on the shoulder - all these women had been instantly and embarassingly incapacitated the moment he laid hands. This, of course, meant that he could never make meaningful contact with them, or anyone. To prolong contact meant only to prolong the climax - too much for many to bare. And so he was alone in the world. Alone with the greatest gift, and the most unfortunate talent.

What follows may have actually happened, or it may have been a response to a writing exercise. Believe what you will....

As I stepped out of the corner store, my eyes caught it. Double breasted, broad lapels, horn buttons, slit cuffs. None of that mattered. I pressed myself back into the entranceway, steadying myself. Looking at it made my stomach churn. It was an impossibility, too thick. I remembered the thickest wool I'd seen, a 32 oz. felted winter blanket. I looked again. This was maybe eight times thicker, or maybe eighty. Tension, then pain. The thought couldn't fit in my head. Distorting with every loop, a mic too close to the amp. My mind was being overdriven.

Yes, too thick. They don't make needles that big. You can't wear something that can't be made. Was it even being worn? It smudged my thoughts. Surely everyone else on the street had missed it, or they'd have done something. Right? I'd been watching for half a minute now. I couldn't believe it'd gotten away with it for this long. Any second I expected a shopkeeper to hurdle through their display window and throw it to the ground and stomp it into nothing. They'd be a hero. Like someone diving on a grenade. I watched as its woolen dissonance started to catch on the brick storefronts, tearing off in wads, dampening all reason. It was getting harder to hear myself talk. I'd be the hero. I was right. And I knew it.

Are you in a comfortable position? Good, good. First, lean back and settle into your chair. Breathe deeply and as you exhale, close your eyes and begin to feel yourself relaxing. That's it, you're doing fine. Let your thoughts flow outward from within, until your mind is clear. Good, good. Clear your thoughts, let them flow.

Picture yourself in a large white room with plaid and aquamarine polka-dotted paisley floor. Feel the floor breathing, morphing, flowing.  Good, good, you're doing fine. Now you watch as the walls are slowly dissolving. Dissolving like a sugar cube in a cup of soup - grain by grain, floating into the space around you. You walk. You walk, and on all sides are daffodills. 8-foot-tall, fanged daffodills. Oh very good, you're doing fine. The daffodills are softly singing to you, words which you hear but can't quite understand, words which lead you to walk forward, upward. You walk upward until you reach the edge, the edge of the end of the world. Good, good, very good.You now look out over the sea of nothingness, the void of existence, the emptiness of --

You've got a boner now, right?

                       Sweet.

            (Lady-boners count too).

6:00pm  Meeting is supposed to begin

6:11pm  Everyone finally shows up a little late

6:13pm  Meeting is sidetracked by Gary's ketchup stain on his breast pocket

6:16pm  Gary really doesn't know where the stain came from

6:18pm  Consensus drawn: yes, it is probably ketchup

6:20pm  Previous meeting notes would have been read if they hadn't been rendered illegible after being sent through the wash in Linda's pants

6:23pm  Projector setup attempted

Baggy, Short Jean Shorts: While acceptable in certain occasions, they should never cut off before the knee and be as loose as parachute pants.

Has anyone ever seen someone play a harmonica and smoke a cigarette at the same time? I'm not talking "note, note, puff, puff, note," I'm talking simultaneous notepuffin'. Like, the smoke is creating the reverberations, you know?

How about a flute? Same principal, right? Wait, no... that's exhaling only, as far as I'm aware. I guess you could stick a cigarette in your nose while playing the flute, then smoke would blast out of each valve as you hit the notes. I wonder if that's how the earth feels when volcanoes are smoldering, like it's got a gargantuan cigarette up its nose...

You know, cigarettes are just too damn small. Forget cigars, too. I want to buy a whole pack of cigarettes, get them wet, and press-form them into a big 'ol rectangular prism, about the size of the pack itself. You could do octagonal prisms, too. Maybe a nice truncated cone?

Seems like a lot of work though. When are they going to make smoking easier? Smokers always have to buy new packs, new lighters, go outside, smoke one at a time, etc. Seems like by now there'd be some kind of implant that circulates smoke-filled air through your lungs at all times; maybe a filter in your throat that makes your exhales clear and clean as a mountain stream but still gives you that classic smoke feeling on the inside.

As an unrelated pursuit, I want to start drinking all liquids through my eyes.

 

 

That One Time I Went to See Avatar
by Rubin Quarcoopome

Pt. 1: Avatar

Over Christmas Break, I went to see Avatar, James Cameron's stupid, loud, blue adaptation of Pocahantas. I didn't really like it, and about halfway through I couldn't help but think, "Damn, shoulda seen Sherlock Holmes instead." When the credits rolled, several people clapped, something that utterly baffled me. They liked it that much? Really? On the drive home, I went through several post-Avatar phases: mild respect for how pretty it was, slight arousal, annoyance, irritance, itchy testicles, upset stomach, and general diarrheic anger.

"Fuck James Cameron," I muttered. "He owes me my ten dollars! If I can't rewind time, I'll certainly get money instead!"

I turned the car around sharply and began driving west, to Hollywood.

The following piece was contributed by Lia Wolok, PhD student, friend of the Gargoyle, and all-around wonderful person.


Chad checked himself over in the mirror; his $70, ultra-fitted flannel shirt looked appropriately tousled.

The setup was perfect: his West Quad roommate would be gone all weekend getting his wisdom teeth pulled. While Paul was home secretly watching a Princess Diaries double feature (over and over again due to his Vicodin-induced stupor), the trite Pink Floyd posters in this very room would bear witness to the realization of a new level of intimacy in Chad's relationship. Honesty, love, union-- His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Amanda sauntered in, the very vision of his deepest desires. Underneath her marshmallow-shaped Northface jacket, she wore leggings (gold) as if they were pants and an ill-fitting, low-cut shirt (purple) from American Apparel. Chad was intoxicated by her heady scent and all-too-aware of the tender heart beating beneath her fully-displayed bosom. The two clung to each other for a moment, and then stepped apart. Chad watched as blood flushed her fair cheeks.

"I want to talk to you about something," Chad explained nervously.

Another story from the inestimable Peter Eldred:

When Mark returned home from work, his eight year old daughter Vanessa was nowhere to be found.  The phone rang.

"We have your daughter.  Deliver $100,000 to us by tomorrow at noon if you ever want to see her again." A deep voice said.

Mark considered this briefly.  "What if I don't?"

"Do you really want to play games with little Vanessa's life, Mr. Huxtable?"

"No, no," he said firmly, "I mean what if I don't want to see her again? I don't know if you've noticed, but she's kind of a little bitch."

"Steady now, Ensign, that speeding car isn't necessarily going to try to ram the wooden gate," the Security Chief said blandly, "No, it's likely going to turn wildly... yes... and drive clear through the--" the bright orange 77' Chevelle plowed through the wooden security station, losing only a fraction of its impressive velocity, and leaving the remains of a very shaken-up security crew the task of extracting itself from the wreckage, "...security post," finished the Security Chief, before losing consciousness for what would be the last time.