Even though I've already submitted, I could still use some critiquing/comments. thanks. good luck everyone!
And once I'm dead, I don't think I'll have to care anymore. I guess that's what happens to all skinheads.
Not knowing whether shielding his crying eyes or determinedly making eye contact made him the better man, Gordon opened his eyes as if reawakening. He immediately realized that something was off about the man in front of him. Before he had time to wonder though, the man who had killed his friend, the man who had threatened to kill Gordon and then had tied him up, who had driven like a coward away from his house, leaving his wife unprotected; this negro who in reality had done none of those things, fell dead into the full circle of light at Gordon's feet, a wound still dribbling blood from the crown of his head.
Funny, most people would care.
"Does it really matter who tied me up?" Gordon gasped hoarsely to no one in particular, his throat feeling like it hadn't been used in years. He watched as the light glared off the presence of the shiny bald head now moving into, as they say, broad daylight. As always, Kyle didn't look the least bit crazy or unhinged. He was, of course, not smiling. He spoke in his typical careful tone,
"The Fat Thumbs kicked me out a year ago. Said I was too aggressive. But look where they are. Hiding, passing out those idiotic pamphlets. Look where we are brother, down two n*ggers and soon a race-traitor."
I couldn't stop believing those eyes.
Gordon realized what inside Kyle had attracted him so much in the first. It was his caution with the world, his refusal to answer questions, the lies he had to concoct to make his other lies work. Did Gordon really know anything about this guy?
Three months out of 23 years and I called him brother.
Gordon was again filled with a choking sadness. He felt like he had gone crazy. He realized then, that was what Kyle did to people like Gordon; he made them go crazy when they couldn't stand how sound of a mind he seemed to possess. And yet...
Kyle is crazy.
For some reason this calmed him significantly. He stopped crying and as if Mother Nature had been waiting just for that cue, the dark clouds parted outside and the sun shown in through a small window in the basement Gordon hadn't realized was there, it had been so dark. Gordon could see the empty playground. Then there was a faint sound. Kyle seemed to hear it too for he turned towards the window.
Laughing. There are dark-skinned girls and brown boys coming out to play. Running around outside, laughing.
"You ever play on the tire swing Kyle?" Gordon asked suddenly. Kyle looked at him and said nothing. "You remind of this kid I knew growing up. Older than me. He went to the playground everyday and all he did was swing on a tire swing. He loved that tire swing. Never let anyone else near it if he could help it. It became a problem as he got older. He stayed at the playground much longer than he was supposed to. He became a hazard since he was older and stronger, more dangerous on the tire swing. Sometimes kids would get too close and he would whack them with his flailing limbs. He never apologized as he thought it was their fault in the first place. Finally one day, a kid got his nose broke by the kid on the tire swing. A little girl witnessed this and ran to tell her mother. The kid chased after her and caught her before she could reach her mother who was not watching carefully. He carried her with his hand over her little mouth back behind a building and beat her up within an inch of her life."
Birds began chirping loudly outside and the sun was now shining with such intensity through the window that the room might as well have been outside.
"The police caught him, of course. Needless to say, his time in detention then foreshadowed a lot of the results that came from his later decisions." Kyle turned towards him, staring. He shook his head in curious confusion. "You still don't get it? Kyle... my brother, you've outgrown your tire swing, and now what are you? Where are you? You're nothing, and you are still on your tire swing. You have nowhere to go now, you've ended your life here. What's going to happen, Kyle, when you come out of hiding and step back into the world? Kyle, you dumb shit!"
With that, Gordon threw his head back, laughing wildly, nearly toppling his chair over. As he did the laughing of the children and the chirping of the birds outside grew exponentially in Gordon's mind, so loud that when he looked back at Kyle, who was now pointing his gun at him, he could only make out his words by the shape of his lips.
"The fuck?" Finally, even Kyle thought he was crazy.
My mind hasn't been this clear in years.
Gordon stopped laughing. He began to close his eyes just as Kyle pulled the trigger, and it was perhaps by some measure of forgiving karma that in the race between Gordon's eyelids and Kyle's bullet, Gordon won. It allowed Gordon one last moment of solitude in the dark. Shutting his eyes and opening his ears, the choir of swooping sparrows and contented children filled him with calm. They were making the most of their time between storms, using the golden sun as their guide.
The nightmare was past. Oh, the sweet taste of Dying Memories.
~End
"Ready for the mission?" He asked, though he did not wait for Gordon to respond. "That guy you saw me talking to, besides being your typical, lazy, unemployed negro, is in deep with a loan shark at West Front. The shark is a very good friend of a high-ranking Thumb. This guy isn't going to pay up. He spent all he burrowed on this house in this nice neighborhood. Thankfully, I expect he's got a few nice possessions in there that we can nab to return the payment. It's not stealing, we're taking back what's owed." He said all this very fast, betraying his nerves.
Gordon decided to go along with it once Kyle convinced him no one would get hurt as a result. Kyle once again surprised Gordon by picking the front door lock skillfully, making it look easy. Kyle froze with the door halfway open as he heard loud barking. But it was coming from the left side of the house. Gordon from the porch and saw an immense dog, barking viciously at him from behind a fence. Gordon let go of a deep breath and told Kyle it was safe.
"Okay you take anything you find in the kitchen," whispered Kyle, "I'll take a look in the den." But he had barely taken a few paces before they both heard a high-pitched scream and watched as a black woman, whose hair curls looked like lengths of telephone wire, darted from the kitchen into the den and leapt behind a couch and into the corner of the room. Gordon rushed forward to tell her to calm down, that there was nothing to worry about as long as she cooperated. But he was tripped up as Kyle pushed him aside and drew out a 9mm from the inside of his parka. Pointing it at the crouched woman, he advanced and snarled, "Up! The wall, bitch!" He grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled up. Crying and shouting incoherently, she rose with his hand. Kyle laughed, though it sounded more like retching gag reflex. "Where the fuck is your loser husband now, huh? Got kids honey?" He seethed, putting his face very close to hers before turning and shoving it against the rain-beaten window. The gun point never left the center of her chest. Gordon was paralyzed in his shock.
Then several things happened very quickly. A huge carpet of lightning illuminated the den for a moment. Gordon saw something creeping into his peripheral just in time to see the enormous white and grey hound bound in from some dark, narrow hallway, aiming for Kyle's turned back.
"Kyle! Behind you!" He heard himself shout. Kyle immediately turned and saw the dog, raised his gun and pulled the trigger just as the canine leapt in attack. The shot rang through the den as the bullet slay the wolf through the bottom of its mouth and exited through the top of its head. The dog's dead weight hit Kyle in the chest and toppled him over. The woman shrieked and jumped away from the corner, rushing past Gordon to make for the door. Gordon could not process what to do. The front door opened with a loud bang! Gordon turned to see the tall black man, wild-eyed from fear at the sight of his wife running towards him with blood smattered against the wall behind her. Gordon thought she was going to make her escape, but Kyle had already recovered. He climbed over the couch and pulled the trigger of his 9mm again as the husband screamed,
"No!"
It was an odd, out of body feeling for Gordon. He watched as if viewing the scene of a very old and degraded film. Kyle shouted at the husband distantly to stop trying to save his wife, who was bleeding profusely out of the hole in her back. Somehow, this barely legal kid was able to push this large, 30-something year old man onto the couch as his wife laid at his denim knee, dying or perhaps already dead. Kyle poked Gordon sharply with the handle of the gun. Gordon looked at him as Kyle held the gun out expectantly. For some reason he seemed extremely calm.
"Take it. I have to go check and see if we attracted attention." Gordon took it robotically and stared at the weapon, then back at Kyle, and pointed it at the man on the couch. Kyle smiled, "Crazy day, huh?" With that he climbed out a side window. Gordon watched him as he stole through the rain before lowering the gun and staring at the black man, who was still transfixed by the form of his dead wife. Gordon started to turn away, but stopped when the man spoke in a whisper so sorrowful and quiet, it did not even sound like a threat.
"I'll kill you both. I know people who want to see you racist bastards dead in your beds too." Gordon turned back, overwhelmed by what he was hearing.
Where am I?
He slowly backed into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair, letting the gun slip from his grasp. The past ten minutes flooded him in a storm even stronger than the one outside. He could not bear this weight, not at all. He could not comprehend when this evil day started. He finally began to tremble. He gripped the sides of his chair in order to stop himself. Tears began streaming over his eyelids as he shook and he tried to control himself by closing his eyes. He did not want to become audible to anyone in this house. He opened his eyes and his gaze caught the kitchen phone.
Call someone.
Gordon did not know who to call. His building? The Police? His... family? No. Gordon brought the phone to his ear, and still weeping, called the first number that came to his mind, calling one of the few numbers that had ever helped him. The phone crackled and rang, and as it did Gordon's breathing shallowed, as though his lungs were filling with rocks. Finally a woman picked up,
"Fight the Gamble: Casino Addiction Hotline, Jewel speaking, how can we be of service?"
"I... I have troubles."
That was all Gordon managed to say through his tears. He did not hear the footsteps quietly moving from the den into the kitchen, didn't care enough to realize the weeping had ceased in the other room, and so did not even register the whoosh and crack of something heavy and blunt crashing into the back of his head. Had his memory not been so merciful, Gordon would have been able to describe what it felt like to be struck by lightning.
read on...
THIS IS MY OFFICIAL SUBMISSION!!!
I am posting a slightly censored version on here since NG won't let me post certain bad words.
Enjoy.
Dying Memories
Written By Ekublai
Words: 3405
Inspired by the song "Nightmares of Past" composed by DayDreamingFox
Click to listen.
You know where you are. Keep telling yourself that.
Gordon reopened his right eye, a difficult feat as both lids had swollen hideously while he had been unconscious. As numb as his face was, he could still feel the blood trickle down from the gash in his cheek to the corner of his mouth. His hands were tied through and behind the rungs of a heavy metal chair. Gordon's neck strained so he could glimpse his surroundings, though there was not much to see except the single hanging light-bulb that illuminated his position in the small, seemingly underground room. Dust floated thinly in front of the ink-blot background, shimmering slightly as Gordon's labored breathing took hold of it.
So this is what happens to skinheads.
Gordon knew there was no point in regret, no point in trying to plea his way out of this situation.
He heard heavy steps above his head on an unseen ground floor, as well as an odd scraping sound that might have been someone moving a piece of furniture. A door opened, up and in front of Gordon, letting light flood onto a narrow staircase from the landing that was blocked from view by the ceiling. He heard someone stumble and the scraping sound became more erratic, yet more pronounced. The door was shut abruptly, once again casting the room in a velvety blackness. Even though Gordon already knew who was walking down, he realized that the scraping steps were coming from another pair of shoes being held dragged by the other set of steps. Gordon squinted through his cracked glasses into the dark, but tears were already blurring his vision.
"Kyle?"
Gordon was not sure whether he had merely thought of his friend or had actually uttered the question to the menace approaching.
The steps stopped right before they encountered the ambiance of the light-bulb. Then a long, brown face loomed ahead into the penumbra, his ugly wide nose flared upward like a hog, eyes half-closed and staring at the crumbling Gordon. Gordon turned away from the black man, his neck creaking from the degree of his strain. He did not fear the man in front of him, but he feared for who this man was obviously dragging towards him.
Feral Filth. tears and sweat. Won't give him the honor of my eyes. the lies we tell ourselves. Take a stand in the face of all adversity. like the pride in courage. I can't believe I pitied you. forgotten causes to be forsaken. Your she-bitch had it coming, that's right. like the remorse of an impasse. You got your "ma' n*ggas" waiting upstairs I bet, waiting for you to finish me. I had a real brother, you... the sweet taste of Dying Memories.
You can't trust any of 'em.
Gordon had only found out about Kyle's involvement in the Fat Thumb, the local skinhead gang that stuck like glue to the East Quarter, after six months of referring to him by username on a health discussion forum. They soon established that they were both from the same city, nearly in the same neighborhood. Gordon asked Kyle if they could meet up sometime. Friendless and estranged from his parents at 23, he needed to sort his life out, needed something new to invigorate him. A hunch told him that meeting this online comrade would do just that.
Gordon didn't pay much mind to his rapidly changing views of the world. He was comforted by the fact that things were starting to make sense to him in ways they never had before. Memories of repulsion at Kyle's "inter-racial marriage breeds health troubles" forum topics gradually vanished as he spent more time with Kyle. Kyle was self-assured, funny, and wise even to the older and more contemplative Gordon. He was also honest and up-front about his gang life. Within a week Gordon requested to meet and possibly join Fat Thumb. Shaking his head, Kyle said seriously,
"They're not like me. They don't easily trust outsiders." Sensing Gordon's disappointment, he added with a smile, "It's the hair. They don't like people with hair. But I can vouch for you to do some menial missions and we'll see what happens. Okay?"
These menial tasks comprised mostly of handing out White Nationalist pamphlets to people crossing the streets on the North Side. It wasn't rewarding, but Kyle never left Gordon's side. After two months-
he was more of a brother than I ever had in the dying tree that was my family-
Gordon realized he had never asked him what his last name was and so one rainy evening as they came back from a mission, Gordon did ask.
"Why do you want to know?" An answer and question Kyle often posed to Gordon in response to any question he threw at him. Trying to stay as serious as possible, Gordon replied,
"Because I want it. Fuck my surname and everyone else who's got it, you're the only family I got. You're my brother." Kyle didn't smile, but his eyes betrayed both his uncertainty and his humble embarrassment. He looked at Gordon as if for the first time.
"Taylor," he said heavily. The previously distant thunder closed in on them and the rain intensified. They started jogging and got back to Gordon's apartment as a downpour began. As Gordon was about to close the door, Kyle asked if he would like to join him on a special mission the next day, explaining it would probably convince the higher ranking Thumbs that he could be trusted. As Gordon nodded, Kyle put on the dripping, wide smile that he had restrained earlier. He seemed to fade into the drowning night as he walked away.
The storm had not retreated a bit the next morning when Gordon awoke. Biking the way to Kyle's the next morning, Gordon was cutting through a residential neighborhood when he heard intense shouting and arguing ahead. He saw a young man shouting at someone in a car that was halfway backed out of a driveway in front of light blue house that sat abruptly against the fence of an empty playground. As he approached, he recognized Kyle. He was shouting at a tall, black man who was crammed into a small car the same color as the house. Sensing trouble, he called to Kyle, but he didn't hear him. Gordon picked up speed and could now hear their words more clearly.
"The fuck you call me, son?" Shouted the black man.
"N*gger you dumb shit. N*gga'," replied Kyle mockingly, "That's right, you don't like it when I say it, do ya? Nah, thought not. You almost ran me down you son of a bitch. My brother's coming down here, and when he gets here we're gonna kick your motherfuckin' ass."
"Oh yeah? Get off my property before I call the cops!" The black man kicked the door open just as Gordon called out again. This time Kyle heard him and looked up. The black man looked as well, halfway through his eruption out of the car. The man looked at Kyle, who leered at him maliciously, and quickly decided to get going. He threw one last dirty at Kyle before backing into the street. Kyle spit in his direction but he had already gone.
Gordon didn't ask Kyle about what had happened. Kyle looked in no mood to answer questions. They both ate lunch at a local diner as the dark clouds overhead covered the streets in shadow. Gordon could see that Kyle was thinking very carefully about something. The moment he finished his sandwich, Kyle told Gordon to follow him quickly. It took Gordon a moment to realize that Kyle was taking him back to the blue house of the black man. It was a fairly short walk, but they were both soaked by the time they got there.
read on...
And once I'm dead, I don't think I'll have to care anymore. I guess that's what happens to all skinheads.
Not knowing whether shielding his crying eyes or determinedly making eye contact made him the better man, Gordon opened his eyes as if reawakening. He immediately realized that something was off about the man in front of him. Before he had time to wonder though, the man who had killed his friend, the man who had threatened to kill Gordon and then had tied him up, who had driven like a coward away from his house, leaving his wife unprotected; this negro who in reality had done none of those things, fell dead into the full circle of light at Gordon's feet, a wound still dribbling blood from the crown of his head.
Funny, most people would care.
"Does it really matter who tied me up?" Gordon gasped hoarsely to no one in particular, his throat feeling like it hadn't been used in years. He watched as the light glared off the presence of the shiny bald head now moving into, as they say, broad daylight. As always, Kyle didn't look the least bit crazy or unhinged. He was, of course, not smiling. He spoke in his typical careful tone,
"The Fat Thumbs kicked me out a year ago. Said I was too aggressive. But look where they are. Hiding, passing out those idiotic pamphlets. Look where we are brother, down two n*ggers and soon a race-traitor."
I couldn't stop believing those eyes.
Gordon realized what inside Kyle had attracted him so much in the first. It was his caution with the world, his refusal to answer questions, the lies he had to concoct to make his other lies work. Did Gordon really know anything about this guy?
Three months out of 23 years and I called him brother.
Gordon was again filled with a choking sadness. He felt like he had gone crazy. He realized then, that was what Kyle did to people like Gordon; he made them go crazy when they couldn't stand how sound of a mind he seemed to possess. And yet...
Kyle is crazy.
For some reason this calmed him significantly. He stopped crying and as if Mother Nature had been waiting just for that cue, the dark clouds parted outside and the sun shown in through a small window in the basement Gordon hadn't realized was there, it had been so dark. Gordon could see the empty playground. Then there was a faint sound. Kyle seemed to hear it too for he turned towards the window.
Laughing. There are dark-skinned girls and brown boys coming out to play. Running around outside, laughing.
"You ever play on the tire swing Kyle?" Gordon asked suddenly. Kyle looked at him and said nothing. "You remind of this kid I knew growing up. Older than me. He went to the playground everyday and all he did was swing on a tire swing. He loved that tire swing. Never let anyone else near it if he could help it. It became a problem as he got older. He stayed at the playground much longer than he was supposed to. He became a hazard since he was older and stronger, more dangerous on the tire swing. Sometimes kids would get too close and he would whack them with his flailing limbs. He never apologized as he thought it was their fault in the first place. Finally one day, a kid got his nose broke by the kid on the tire swing. A little girl witnessed this and ran to tell her mother. The kid chased after her and caught her before she could reach her mother who was not watching carefully. He carried her with his hand over her little mouth back behind a building and beat her up within an inch of her life."
Birds began chirping loudly outside and the sun was now shining with such intensity through the window that the room might as well have been outside.
"The police caught him, of course. Needless to say, his time in detention then foreshadowed a lot of the results that came from his later decisions." Kyle turned towards him, staring. He shook his head in curious confusion. "You still don't get it? Kyle... my brother, you've outgrown your tire swing, and now what are you? Where are you? You're nothing, and you are still on your tire swing. You have nowhere to go now, you've ended your life here. What's going to happen, Kyle, when you come out of hiding and step back into the world? Kyle, you dumb shit!"
With that, Gordon threw his head back, laughing wildly, nearly toppling his chair over. As he did the laughing of the children and the chirping of the birds outside grew exponentially in Gordon's mind, so loud that when he looked back at Kyle, who was now pointing his gun at him, he could only make out his words by the shape of his lips.
"The fuck?" Finally, even Kyle thought he was crazy.
My mind hasn't been this clear in years.
Gordon stopped laughing. He began to close his eyes just as Kyle pulled the trigger, and it was perhaps by some measure of forgiving karma that in the race between Gordon's eyelids and Kyle's bullet, Gordon won. It allowed Gordon one last moment of solitude in the dark. Shutting his eyes and opening his ears, the choir of swooping sparrows and contented children filled him with calm. They were making the most of their time between storms, using the golden sun as their guide.
The nightmare was past. Oh, the sweet taste of Dying Memories.
"Ready for the mission?" He asked, though he did not wait for Gordon to respond. "That guy you saw me talking to, besides being your typical, lazy, unemployed negro, is in deep with a loan shark at West Front. The shark is a very good friend of a high-ranking Thumb. This guy isn't going to pay up. He spent all he burrowed on this house in this nice neighborhood. Thankfully, I expect he's got a few nice possessions in there that we can nab to return the payment. It's not stealing, we're taking back what's owed." He said all this very fast, betraying his nerves.
Gordon decided to go along with it once Kyle convinced him no one would get hurt as a result. Kyle once again surprised Gordon by picking the front door lock skillfully, making it look easy. Kyle froze with the door halfway open as he heard loud barking. But it was coming from the left side of the house. Gordon from the porch and saw an immense dog, barking viciously at him from behind a fence. Gordon let go of a deep breath and told Kyle it was safe.
"Okay you take anything you find in the kitchen," whispered Kyle, "I'll take a look in the den." But he had barely taken a few paces before they both heard a high-pitched scream and watched as a black woman, whose hair curls looked like lengths of telephone wire, darted from the kitchen into the den and leapt behind a couch and into the corner of the room. Gordon rushed forward to tell her to calm down, that there was nothing to worry about as long as she cooperated. But he was tripped up as Kyle pushed him aside and drew out a 9mm from the inside of his parka. Pointing it at the crouched woman, he advanced and snarled, "Up! The wall, bitch!" He grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled up. Crying and shouting incoherently, she rose with his hand. Kyle laughed, though it sounded more like retching gag reflex. "Where the fuck is your loser husband now, huh? Got kids honey?" He seethed, putting his face very close to hers before turning and shoving it against the rain-beaten window. The gun point never left the center of her chest. Gordon was paralyzed in his shock.
Then several things happened very quickly. A huge carpet of lightning illuminated the den for a moment. Gordon saw something creeping into his peripheral just in time to see the enormous white and grey hound bound in from some dark, narrow hallway, aiming for Kyle's turned back.
"Kyle! Behind you!" He heard himself shout. Kyle immediately turned and saw the dog, raised his gun and pulled the trigger just as the canine leapt in attack. The shot rang through the den as the bullet slay the wolf through the bottom of its mouth and exited through the top of its head. The dog's dead weight hit Kyle in the chest and toppled him over. The woman shrieked and jumped away from the corner, rushing past Gordon to make for the door. Gordon could not process what to do. The front door opened with a loud bang! Gordon turned to see the tall black man, wild-eyed from fear at the sight of his wife running towards him with blood smattered against the wall behind her. Gordon thought she was going to make her escape, but Kyle had already recovered. He climbed over the couch and pulled the trigger of his 9mm again as the husband screamed,
"No!"
It was an odd, out of body feeling for Gordon. He watched as if viewing the scene of a very old and degraded film. Kyle shouted at the husband distantly to stop trying to save his wife, who was bleeding profusely out of the hole in her back. Somehow, this barely legal kid was able to push this large, 30-something year old man onto the couch as his wife laid at his denim knee, dying or perhaps already dead. Kyle poked Gordon sharply with the handle of the gun. Gordon looked at him as Kyle held the gun out expectantly. For some reason he seemed extremely calm.
"Take it. I have to go check and see if we attracted attention." Gordon took it robotically and stared at the weapon, then back at Kyle, and pointed it at the man on the couch. Kyle smiled, "Crazy day, huh?" With that he climbed out a side window. Gordon watched him as he stole through the rain before lowering the gun and staring at the black man, who was still transfixed by the form of his dead wife. Gordon started to turn away, but stopped when the man spoke in a whisper so sorrowful and quiet, it did not even sound like a threat.
"I'll kill you both. I know people who want to see you racist bastards dead in your beds too." Gordon turned back, overwhelmed by what he was hearing.
Where am I?
He slowly backed into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair, letting the gun slip from his grasp. The past ten minutes flooded him in a storm even stronger than the one outside. He could not bear this weight, not at all. He could not comprehend when this evil day started. He finally began to tremble. He gripped the sides of his chair in order to stop himself. Tears began streaming over his eyelids as he shook and he tried to control himself by closing his eyes. He did not want to become audible to anyone in this house. He opened his eyes and his gaze caught the kitchen phone.
Call someone.
Gordon did not know who to call. His building? The Police? His... family? No. Gordon brought the phone to his ear, and still weeping, called the first number that came to his mind, calling one of the few numbers that had ever helped him. The phone crackled and rang, and as it did Gordon's breathing shallowed, as though his lungs were filling with rocks. Finally a woman picked up,
"Fight the Gamble: Casino Addiction Hotline, Jewel speaking, how can we be of service?"
"I... I have troubles."
That was all Gordon managed to say through his tears. He did not hear the footsteps quietly moving from the den into the kitchen, didn't care enough to realize the weeping had ceased in the other room, and so did not even register the whoosh and crack of something heavy and blunt crashing into the back of his head. Had his memory not been so merciful, Gordon would have been able to describe what it felt like to be struck by lightning.
read on...
testing the formatting of this, and I have to take out some bad words.
Dying Memories
Written By Ekublai
Inspired by the song "Nightmares of Past" composed by DayDreamingFox
Words: 3405 (not including "words", or this explanation, or this one, or this one)
You know where you are. Keep telling yourself that.
Gordon reopened his right eye, a difficult feat as both lids had swollen hideously while he had been unconscious. As numb as his face was, he could still feel the blood trickle down from the gash in his cheek to the corner of his mouth. His hands were tied through and behind the rungs of a heavy metal chair. Gordon's neck strained so he could glimpse his surroundings, though there was not much to see except the single hanging light-bulb that illuminated his position in the small, seemingly underground room. Dust floated thinly in front of the ink-blot background, shimmering slightly as Gordon's labored breathing took hold of it.
So this is what happens to skinheads.
Gordon knew there was no point in regret, no point in trying to plea his way out of this situation.
He heard heavy steps above his head on an unseen ground floor, as well as an odd scraping sound that might have been someone moving a piece of furniture. A door opened, up and in front of Gordon, letting light flood onto a narrow staircase from the landing that was blocked from view by the ceiling. He heard someone stumble and the scraping sound became more erratic, yet more pronounced. The door was shut abruptly, once again casting the room in a velvety blackness. Even though Gordon already knew who was walking down, he realized that the scraping steps were coming from another pair of shoes being held dragged by the other set of steps. Gordon squinted through his cracked glasses into the dark, but tears were already blurring his vision.
"Kyle?"
Gordon was not sure whether he had merely thought of his friend or had actually uttered the question to the menace approaching.
The steps stopped right before they encountered the ambiance of the light-bulb. Then a long, brown face loomed ahead into the penumbra, his ugly wide nose flared upward like a hog, eyes half-closed and staring at the crumbling Gordon. Gordon turned away from the black man, his neck creaking from the degree of his strain. He did not fear the man in front of him, but he feared for who this man was obviously dragging towards him.
Feral Filth. tears and sweat. Won't give him the honor of my eyes. the lies we tell ourselves. Take a stand in the face of all adversity. like the pride in courage. I can't believe I pitied you. forgotten causes to be forsaken. Your she-bitch had it coming, that's right. like the remorse of an impasse. You got your "ma' n*ggas" waiting upstairs I bet, waiting for you to finish me. I had a real brother, you... the sweet taste of Dying Memories.
You can't trust any of 'em.
Gordon had only found out about Kyle's involvement in the Fat Thumb, the local skinhead gang that stuck like glue to the East Quarter, after six months of referring to him by username on a health discussion forum. They soon established that they were both from the same city, nearly in the same neighborhood. Gordon asked Kyle if they could meet up sometime. Friendless and estranged from his parents at 23, he needed to sort his life out, needed something new to invigorate him. A hunch told him that meeting this online comrade would do just that.
Gordon didn't pay much mind to his rapidly changing views of the world. He was comforted by the fact that things were starting to make sense to him in ways they never had before. Memories of repulsion at Kyle's "inter-racial marriage breeds health troubles" forum topics gradually vanished as he spent more time with Kyle. Kyle was self-assured, funny, and wise even to the older and more contemplative Gordon. He was also honest and up-front about his gang life. Within a week Gordon requested to meet and possibly join Fat Thumb. Shaking his head, Kyle said seriously,
"They're not like me. They don't easily trust outsiders." Sensing Gordon's disappointment, he added with a smile, "It's the hair. They don't like people with hair. But I can vouch for you to do some menial missions and we'll see what happens. Okay?"
These menial tasks comprised mostly of handing out White Nationalist pamphlets to people crossing the streets on the North Side. It wasn't rewarding, but Kyle never left Gordon's side. After two months-
he was more of a brother than I ever had in the dying tree that was my family-
Gordon realized he had never asked him what his last name was and so one rainy evening as they came back from a mission, Gordon did ask.
"Why do you want to know?" An answer and question Kyle often posed to Gordon in response to any question he threw at him. Trying to stay as serious as possible, Gordon replied,
"Because I want it. Fuck my surname and everyone else who's got it, you're the only family I got. You're my brother." Kyle didn't smile, but his eyes betrayed both his uncertainty and his humble embarrassment. He looked at Gordon as if for the first time.
"Taylor," he said heavily. The previously distant thunder closed in on them and the rain intensified. They started jogging and got back to Gordon's apartment as a downpour began. As Gordon was about to close the door, Kyle asked if he would like to join him on a special mission the next day, explaining it would probably convince the higher ranking Thumbs that he could be trusted. As Gordon nodded, Kyle put on the dripping, wide smile that he had restrained earlier. He seemed to fade into the drowning night as he walked away.
The storm had not retreated a bit the next morning when Gordon awoke. Biking the way to Kyle's the next morning, Gordon was cutting through a residential neighborhood when he heard intense shouting and arguing ahead. He saw a young man shouting at someone in a car that was halfway backed out of a driveway in front of light blue house that sat abruptly against the fence of an empty playground. As he approached, he recognized Kyle. He was shouting at a tall, black man who was crammed into a small car the same color as the house. Sensing trouble, he called to Kyle, but he didn't hear him. Gordon picked up speed and could now hear their words more clearly.
"The fuck you call me, son?" Shouted the black man.
"N*gger you dumb shit. N*gga'," replied Kyle mockingly, "That's right, you don't like it when I say it, do ya? Nah, thought not. You almost ran me down you son of a bitch. My brother's coming down here, and when he gets here we're gonna kick your motherfuckin' ass."
"Oh yeah? Get off my property before I call the cops!" The black man kicked the door open just as Gordon called out again. This time Kyle heard him and looked up. The black man looked as well, halfway through his eruption out of the car. The man looked at Kyle, who leered at him maliciously, and quickly decided to get going. He threw one last dirty at Kyle before backing into the street. Kyle spit in his direction but he had already gone.
Gordon didn't ask Kyle about what had happened. Kyle looked in no mood to answer questions. They both ate lunch at a local diner as the dark clouds overhead covered the streets in shadow. Gordon could see that Kyle was thinking very carefully about something. The moment he finished his sandwich, Kyle told Gordon to follow him quickly. It took Gordon a moment to realize that Kyle was taking him back to the blue house of the black man. It was a fairly short walk, but they were both soaked by the time they got there.
read on...
At 7/19/09 11:32 PM, gt44coder wrote: We were watching Bruno, and my girlfriend said, "this movie is fucking disgusting," and walked out of the movie. I didn't follow with her, and now she's not talking to me. She left when the red-neck woman was slapping the shit out of Bruno with a belt, forcing him to have sex with her. Is it wrong that I wanted to see this movie, and not follow her out like a gentlemen?
yea okay, so far I'm seeing typical ng responses. The types of movies that they want to tolerate does not reflect their personality. The truth is that you probably didn't tell her enough about the movie before you went. This happened to me twice this summer, except once it was just with a friend. He walked out of Drag Me To Hell and I felt like an asshole for not telling about the kind of movie we were getting into. The other time I went with this girl i like to Public Enemies, and even though I was perfectly comfortable with the experience, she was slightly overwhelmed by the violence. Now if I really want her to like me, I'm not going to act as though I don't care about what her boundaries are. Some girls like having their boundaries pushed, others don't. I wouldn't push'em unless you're sure.
And if you don't want to ruin the movie for yourself, just make an educated guess that every scene will be as controversial as the worst scene in previous films by the filmaker or in the prequel (Naked scene in Borat).
I'm sure you know your girlfriend better than I do, so we'll just call this a boneheaded move on your part (unless your gf gave the impression she was willing to stick with the movie now matter hwo bad it got before you went to the theater.)
At 7/19/09 02:24 AM, HandsomePete wrote: Yea, I fail to see how the Fallen=Those who've gone on to be successful.
True they've gone on to bigger and better things, but it because of this that they have become mere memories in the minds of newgrounders.
Knox: the King of Klay World was always big on Newgrounds, and he still intends on submitting to newgrounds, but like other fellows, he's found a way to make a living with it and is moving on to feature films. I can still feel the tickle I received the day I first saw "Glass of Water"
I was just thinking about what made Newgrounds that tremendously original site all those years ago. I realized it was the artists, working their asses off to create the most original flashes they could. Nowadays we don't get that. Oh we still get quality flashes, but it a strange thing now that what we anticipate most on this site is the release of the next JohnnyUtah flash or of the like.
It's time to remember the Fallen.
LegendaryFrog: I've always thought the day that One Ring To Rule Them All 2 dropped from #1 marked the end of an era at Newgrounds.
Neil Cicierga: we loved potter pupper pals to death, but Neil chose to move one to bigger and better things.
Mike and Andy Parker: Very few of us can say that they were on Newgrounds back in its early days and didn't at least acknowledge College University as a (perhaps the) token flash series on Newgrounds.
Anyone else care to contribute eulogies?
I blame the rise in popularity in flash production actually in combination with the loss of very talented flash artists tha had huge following in newgrounds early days.
Firstly, about 150 flashes are submitted a day, and more than half of those make it in. That was not the case 5 years. Back then it was slightly less per day but only about a quarter made it through the portal. This trend came from it getting it easier to make flashes that look better so even beginners look good and from spam voting, that's also let absolute garbage. I remember when even looking at the turd of the week was worth a look at because the stupidity of flashes like Dragonball N and the IsOnFire series was hilarious.
Secondly, we've lost... Legendaryfrog, knox, James Farr, Neil Cicierga, Sambakza is done with There She Is, Adam Phillips is starting his Bitey movie, David Firth, and countless others.
http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/3403 97
Apparently this asshole thinks killing/torturing bugs is just about the most fun you could have on a Thursday afternoon.
I'll recreate backgrounds for $25
this would make a great sidescroller
Yeah also free will is not governed by any agreeable law of physics. Also radioactive decay is random.
At 7/3/09 01:51 AM, Starberry wrote: i'm sorry but no one else is allowed in this thread
??? what the... never mind I'll find out if it's important.
I especially enjoy doing this during heavier songs cause the penis seems to deliver more of a crunchier bass riff that goes perfectly with with fast drums. It also works well when doing scruggs style banjo I find. I wish someone had told me about the effects of strumming tho, ouch.
shit he's gonna ask why i never called him back!
At 6/24/09 09:43 PM, jonnyrules935 wrote: Today, June 24th, is the Saint-Jean Baptiste, which is kind of like the 4th of July for Americans. We québécois celebrate our cultural particularity throughout the province. Every year I re-realize how proud we actually are to be so different, and it always brings me the following questions : Why aren't we a country yet ? Why shouldn't we be a country ? What does the Canadian unity bring to Québec that couldn't be gained otherwise ?
So today I ask all the Canadians what they really think Canada as a unity brings to their province.
For god's sake man, we have a crisis in the middle-east, the whole continent of africa is *****ing itself in teh ass, the world economy is in the sh*tter, dead polar bears are washing up on the Jersey Shore, North Korea won't give its people food, China won't give its people internets, the mexican drug cartel lost my shipment last week, and Toronto still has a baseball team!
And you guys think it would be okay to just waltz away with a little independence like it's the 4th of ****ing July!?!? Not in my book sir, not in my book.
Good for you, though it was stupid of him to poke you in the stomach with that. It you didn't know that then you woulda been a dumbass for retaliating.
My classmate has gotten mugged 4 times over the past year cause he buys in bulk and then sells in parts. Now that's a dumbass.
Yeah this series made bruce campbell (and vice versa). If you haven't seen My Name Is Bruce, you really should as it just parodies the evil dead series.
WHO'S LAUGHING NOW!? WHO'S LAUGHING NOW!!!?!?!?!?! HAHAHAH AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!
At 6/30/09 03:38 PM, Phobotech wrote:
What do you guys think?
A very interesting proposal actually. But in the end I don't think it's a benefit. Newgrounds has always let flash speak for itself and that it what has attracted its audience, not its ability to put its face in the public intentionally (unintentionally, it gets the limelight almost as much as white supramacist stormfront site does, usually in similar contexts)
What's the likelihood that this would get done,
Newgrounds is a very ethically relativistic site and that doesn't sit well with the big businesses (notice wal-mart never shows the people who make their merchendise in their commericals) Same thing applies to newgrounds.
Either way, like I said before. Let the flash speak for itself. Flash is already getting more popular on television and in films (ever seen Waltz with Bashir, first flash to be nominated for an academy award?)
I just realized a common thread that comes with almost every well publicized tragedy of a teenager taking his or her own life. THEY ALL HAVE DIARIES! Think about it. You're watching the news and a story about a suicide comes up. The first evidence pointed at is that something written in their diaries suggested they wanted to commit suicide. Parents, listen up. If your child owns a "secret" diary, do not fool yourself into ignorance. Diaries are an early warning sign of SUICIDAL TEENAGERS!!!!!
But it's not enough to just rip out that certain page of the diary (it could be rewritten the next day) but you have to burn the whole diary, and then sit your child down and EXPLAIN why he has so much to live for, he is risking his life by writing in that diary. Don't let the ink that drips on the page turn to blood!!!!
So I've only gotten one person giving feedback so far, I could use a few more perspectives. thanks just post here or pm me so I can send you the link. By the way, this is a flash movie not a game, and by the end it will have about a 6 minute running time.
PM me if you're interested, I need the project to be kept underwraps so don't tell anyone what you saw (under penalty of sex). I need you to provide some insightful critiques so I would prefer it be someone experienced in flash.
Without a giant cock somewhere in the picture?
Just curious, since I can't seem to remember a single instance where a phallus hasn't been prominently stuck somewhere. They must start as the base of all his drawings.
Then again, I'm reluctant to report an scouted artist because it seems like TimFrommeyer scouted all of them. And you know what happened the last time that happened...
mommy... I miss Daddy....
Oh yea Are we supposed to report stolen, photo, etc. art is it's unscouted because... like half of them are?
At 6/19/09 04:45 PM, Zyphonee wrote: I think I know what you guys mean, yeah, I hope they do the same thing with art as it happens with flash and audio.
Agreed. I'm actually a little ticked off that they didn't give art portal options at the same time. I guess it would be stupid not beta it first, but still it seems very piece-meal so far. Seriously, what if I need an ego booster and want to see who has me as a favorite artist seriously.
oh yea thanks for scouting me
At 6/18/09 05:28 PM, Super-Mannequin wrote:At 6/18/09 05:25 PM, thesmallbigone wrote:UH, THANK YOU! UH, THANK YOU VERY MUSH!At 6/18/09 04:55 PM, Super-Mannequin wrote: thesmallbigone's pic!LOL. xD
Boom!
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