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 Now online (1)Tony Danza ...and 88 guests Last 5 registered Oplandisks nothingstar N_loop yipe foxtrotromeo Browse members... |
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Members 8025Messages 2608769 Today 2 Topics 127225 |
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The Captive In Junin or Tapalquén, they tell the story. A young boy disappeared in an Indian raid; people said the Indians had kidnapped him. His parents searched for him without success. Many years went by, and a soldier coming into town from the interior told them about an Indian with sky blue eyes who might well be their son. They finally managed to find this Indian (the story has lost many of its details, and I don't want to invent what I don't know) and thought they recognized him. Shaped by the wilderness and his barbaric life, the man could no longer understand the words of his mother tongue, but he allowed himself to be led—indifferently, docilely—back to the house. There, he stopped (perhaps because the others stopped). He looked at the door, almost uncomprehendingly. Then suddenly he bowed his head, gave an odd cry, rushed down the entryway and through the two long patios, and ran into the kitchen. He thrust his arm unhesitatingly up into the blackened chimney of the stove and took out the little horn-handled knife he had hidden there when he was a boy. His eyes gleamed with happiness and his parents wept, because they had found their son. That memory may have been followed by others, but the Indian could not live a life that was hemmed about by walls, and one day he went off in search of his wilderness. I would like to know what he felt in that moment of vertigo when past and present intermingled; I would like to know whether the lost son was reborn and died in that ecstatic moment, and whether he ever managed to recognize, even as little as a baby or a dog might, his parents and the house. Jorge Luis Borges, Collected Fictions. |
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nice story |
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i would like to know if that could happen the other way, a man grown between four walls becomes captive for a while and lives ecstatic moments, but returns to a dignified comfort despite the terrible path that waits for him. i guess the indian arrived to a point where he had no other choice, you can tell mr. borges. |
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wild |
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Brilliant, |
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i just found labyrinths in a thirft store havent got 2 it yet tho. ive only read 7 nights (essays) and the gold of the tigers (poetry) this prose poem from the gold of the tigers is 1 of my favs The Palace The Palace is not infinite. The walls, the ramparts, the gardens, the labyrinths, the staircases, the terraces, the parapets, the doors, the galleries, the circular or rectangular patios, the cloisters, the intersections, the cisterns, the anterooms, the chambers, the alcoves, the libraries, the attics, the dungeons, the sealed cells and the vaults, are not less in quantity than the grains of sand in the Ganges, but their number has a limit. From the roofs, toward sunset, many people can make out the forges, the workshops, the stables, the boatyards and the huts of the slaves. It is granted to no one to traverse more than an infinitesimal part of the place. Some now only the cellars. We can take in some faces, some voices, some words, but what we perceive is of the feeblest. Feeble and precious at the same time. The date which the chisel engraves in the tablet, and which is recorded in the parochial registers, is later than our own death; we are already dead when nothing touches us, neither a word nor a yearning for a memory. I know that I am not dead. |
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While replacing carpet, Howard finds a trap door. Carved into it are the words, “DO NOT OPEN.” So he doesn’t. The new carpet is great, but he knows the door is there. He can't stop thinking about it. He moves; that makes it worse. Now the door is inside him. It’ll never be shut. |
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The scene was like something from a Cecil B. DeMille film produced by Roger Corman. Hundreds of men were gathered. Men with big beards and wearing robes that may have been designed millennia ago, or equally could have come from space in the 1970s. These impassioned, zealous men (for it was men, as women were entirely absent) milled around, raising their hands toward the air and heatedly arguing over theological issues. There was pushing, shoving, shouting and grabbing. And much cursing. Curses that, in the main, followed a bestial theme. Malnourished, stricken animals limped and shat amongst the throng. Black mud, rubbish and effluent ebbed and swelled between the bare and sandaled feet. The air was damp and chilly, rain began to fall, the evening sky quickly darkening. But these weren't biblical times. This was 2016, and if anything, it was Koranic. Koranical times. Away from this gathering of hotheads a small group of younger men were hunched down, sat around a tiny, pitiful fire, beneath a mired plastic sheet. "In The Jungle camp", Takir gurgled excitedly to the assembled youths, "there's more bush than meat!" And with that he reeled away, almost immediately disappearing in the dusk amongst the tents and tarpaulin. Fleetingly one could see that his filthy jeans, generally worn slung far too low, were now round his ankles. As the others carried on talking, Ali thought he'd try his luck. He looked around. There were three tents within a Turk's cock's reach - would one hold a prize, peeled open like a pearl in a kumquat? Maybe all of them would? Settling upon a small, green umbrella tent, he approached stealthily and put his ear to the nylon. Not a sound. No light shone inside. He crept to the front of the tent and saw that the entrance wasn't secured. The zip rose quietly and easily. Peering inside he saw a young woman, her eyes wide with fear, clasping to her bosom what could have been a blanket or a swaddled infant. Not a sound. She didn't breathe. |
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Ali's own breath was arrested in his chest, his temples throbbed, his vision lost focus and became tinged with red. "What are you doing out on your own, sister?" Ali asked, his voice thick with loathing, lust and idiocy, the words dropping like the sloppy stools he suffered, when he was younger, after one of the routine bummings by his "uncles". "Out!" the woman managed to gasp, terrified and incredulous. "You left your flaps unlocked, you're practically inviting men in" accused Ali. "And now I... accept your invitation." "Out!" demanded the woman, anger getting the better part of her fear. "Out? Is that all you can say? Well here's something that's coming out!" hissed Ali, as he fished inside his black tracksuit bottoms and withdrew his semi-erect, Ottoman knob. The woman shrieked, and as she did so, reached behind her and grabbed the pepper spray she'd been given by one of the camp's volunteers. Ali, in the gloom, couldn't make out what it was that she had in her hand. "Fuck.... Out!" she cried, and gave Ali a liberal spray in the face and balls. One of Ali's hands shot to his scalded eyes, the other to his blisteringly hot bell-end. The woman kicked savagely, sending him out of the tent and sprawling into the muck and mud outside, howling about his balls. At that point the woman's husband returned from the food tent. Instinctively assessing the situation, he powerfully kicked Ali up the arse, and sent him on his way. Ali blindly floundered in the mire, stuffing his penis, now the size of a small portion of humus but the colour of a scotch bonnet, back into his torn pants. Painfully he managed to get himself to his feet, and through streaming, red-raw eyes he discerned a dim light. The roar he heard, which he'd previously attributed to his mind in turmoil, now appeared to be from an external source. A tumult was approaching him, but his agonised eyes, ears, arse and balls were disorientating him, as he lurched this way and that without getting anywhere. |
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Suddenly the sounds were all around him; voices, shouts, yells and growls. Bodies rushed passed him, pushing and pulling him. He groaned deeply as he recognised what this was; a religiously agitated stampede. Caught up now in the flow of bodies, Ali felt his fear rise, after he'd thought it'd already gone as far as it could into the red. Yet he also felt excited. Men pressed against him; the smell, the beards. But so did women; the smell, the breasts. Men were grunting. Women were groaning, moaning and making "uh" noises. Other people's sweat mixed with his own. His eyes, though still on fire, had eased up just enough so he could make out a mosaic of clothing, hair and flesh. The men's robes were torn and bloody. Women's hijibs were coming apart, being pulled off, and their skimpy black negligee, which all of them wore, without fail, was revealed. Ali saw a nipple, housed in a lacy bra, inches from his face. Pressed by those around him he was unable to move or raise his hands to touch, as instinct told him to do. So he pushed his tongue out as far as he could, until his jaw felt like it was going to snap, and managed to lick the lady's boob on the side. *Stampede party gets broken up by police. Beatings ensue* Much later, Ali has decided to try another tent, and has found another woman. Fully expecting to receive a curse spat out in Arabic, Ali prepared for another pepper spray attack or worse. Instead he heard a contented mewing emanating from the woman as she got up on on all fours, shuffled round to face away from him, then pulled at her hijib to reveal her exposed hind parts. As she wriggled backwards toward him, Ali parted her cheeks and contemplated the black rose that eyed him inscrutably, making him think of an eclipse bathing the desert. |
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He was now rigid as a souvenir-sized obelisk, ready to do the deed; to poison the well, to feed the goat, to issue his fatwa. As he began to position himself he detected movement from further back in the tent. He marvelled as, either side of the kneeling woman, shuffled two more similar visions; one arse darker and a bit bigger, the other lighter and slightly narrower. Ali near swooned as they grouped together and, as one, spread their buttocks. 3 pitiless eyes now stared at him. And as one slowly winked, Ali felt his balls contract and hot fluid jolted out of his penis. |
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imagine being this happy |
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You can't stop there! I want to read about the clean up. |
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reads a bit like garth marenghi |
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K2 of text |
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u know when george michael sings the lyrics are as if he’s singing about his lust for a woman? this is what it’s like except hateful and against will |
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sorry i didn’t read it though just skimmed maybe i’m wrong |
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ill get back to you this weekend Dan |
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Very nice, my troglodyte friends! |
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I didn’t mean Troglodytes in today’s sense, and more in the brilliant way Montesquieu spoke of them. |
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my mum used to call me and my sister troglodytes |
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He he! |
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There is no longer a God even for drunkards. Kersilie, of Saint-Germain, who had mistaken the window for the door, is dead. |
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rip |
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