libernaut
05-12-2011, 03:17 AM
Nihil ex nihil
A fly was buzzing in the form of a pentagram over the dead grass in the summer.
The two of them, T. and S., were sitting on a dry hilltop in the blistering heat beyond private property, trespassing in the summer to hike and smoke herb.
T. stared at the fly as he rolled the joint.
He looked like a sort of fallen scarecrow with rigid limbs sitting cross. Arms stiff as his hands rolled the weed into the paper.
S. sitting next to him was fiddling with his key chains and his back pack. He was ridiculously dressed with two sweat shirts on in the absurd heat. He was starting to sweat. He looked at the fly and it started to bother him, he hated bugs, especially flies. T. on the other hand appreciated them, he was all into entomology, the study of insects. S. didn’t really trust him because of this. S. tried to wave off the fly but it just went back to the circular pentagram pattern every time he did, with T. staring at it.
T. finished the joint and there was something sinister in his eyes as he passed it to S. to spark up, he may have cast a spell on the herb or something, S. thought as he looked at T., who was deep in over his head in black magic.
S. sparked the doobie and instantly: fly through ****ing skull! Swiftly in one ear out the other, in a straight line, extremely fast and painful, through S.’s empty flesh covered skull, within it there was left residual black insectoid pain.
T. did it, and S. knew it, he’s a bastard black magician, S. thought, as he passed the joint to T. in a coughing fit then not saying anything but sitting in a sort of shock.
T. put the joint to his lips in satisfaction. “I did it…” he thought. “I sacked his ***... fly through ****ing skull… the spell had worked… sweet evil,” he thought.
He took another puff, exhaled, and passed the herb back to S., who held his head down in his hands in anguish.
They finished the weed and then stood up.
The silver sun’s harsh rays turned a malevolent bright orange red tint, shining down in both their eyes.
They could hear the loud sound of an unseen helicopter droning above.
They both started pacing back and forth, paranoid.
Then T. started walking instinctively, into the nothingness of a dried up brook towards a giant dying oak.
Automatically at the thought of following a dooming feeling took hold in S.’s stomach.
“Hold on, let’s go this way” S. suggested.
T. paused and gave S, a look of dread, eyes sunken in his dead face as if he now were feeling the terror settling that S. had felt a moment earlier, or perhaps it was malicious disappointment, that because they wouldn’t go his way he would not be able to pursue further black magic.
Each one figured the other his own antichrist of sorts.
There was a lingering brotherly loathing and mild hatred for one another as they started to head in S.’s suggested direction towards a pathway.
While hiking through the wilderness, the dread lingered.
They could still hear the deep and loud droning of a helicopter circling above and occasionally looked up, but they never actually caught sight of it through the foliage on the path.
There was a thick and uneasy tension in the air.
S. stopped for a moment and took off his sweat shirts and put them into his back pack.
T. started to get ahead quite a ways from S. and seemed to be intentionally trying to either ditch him or just run from himself in some urgent and irrational fear.
S. could see him getting further and further away.
“Wait up.” he cried out.
T. kept walking.
They finally met, exhausted, at a park bench along the path.
They sat down and S. took a deep breath.
“Do you have any water man?” S. asked.
T. just sat there in a nihilistic slouch and shrugged, saying nothing with his eyes staring into eternal void.
S. looked through his back pack for water and found none.
After a minute, they got up and continued walking.
S. could feel the summer on his back and carrying the bag, now visibly awkward with the two sweatshirts filling it.
The sun’s rays shone down in their eyes peaking through the leaves of the trees in flashes of light.
A woman wearing sunglasses suddenly approached them and as she did so she touched her sunglasses and a flash of light went off, clearly a camera.
Holy ****!
Is she CIA or something? They both thought in synchronicity.
She just took a picture of us…!
She passed and said nothing with a grimace and dutiful mouth full of hatred.
T. started to speed up again and S. fell behind.
“Wait up.” he cried out.
They ended up at the same bench again, doing the same thing, as if caught up in instant captivity of de-je-vu.
“Do you have any water man?”
T. shrugged nihilistically and stared into an endless void.
A sick pathetic sort of a feeling of helpless and inescapable determinism of dooming hell.
Again.
They walked with T. in haste ahead of S., as the invisible helicopter continued its deep agonizing drone from above, the sun in the sky, all blistering silver with red orange beams of light as hot as flames shining through the foliage.
T. stared intently into nothingness with an indifferent slouch while S. panicked through his back pack as they were stuck at the bench again.
“Do you have any water man?” S asked.
T. shrugged in infinite nihilism.
A fly was buzzing in the form of a pentagram over the dead grass in the summer.
The two of them, T. and S., were sitting on a dry hilltop in the blistering heat beyond private property, trespassing in the summer to hike and smoke herb.
T. stared at the fly as he rolled the joint.
He looked like a sort of fallen scarecrow with rigid limbs sitting cross. Arms stiff as his hands rolled the weed into the paper.
S. sitting next to him was fiddling with his key chains and his back pack. He was ridiculously dressed with two sweat shirts on in the absurd heat. He was starting to sweat. He looked at the fly and it started to bother him, he hated bugs, especially flies. T. on the other hand appreciated them, he was all into entomology, the study of insects. S. didn’t really trust him because of this. S. tried to wave off the fly but it just went back to the circular pentagram pattern every time he did, with T. staring at it.
T. finished the joint and there was something sinister in his eyes as he passed it to S. to spark up, he may have cast a spell on the herb or something, S. thought as he looked at T., who was deep in over his head in black magic.
S. sparked the doobie and instantly: fly through ****ing skull! Swiftly in one ear out the other, in a straight line, extremely fast and painful, through S.’s empty flesh covered skull, within it there was left residual black insectoid pain.
T. did it, and S. knew it, he’s a bastard black magician, S. thought, as he passed the joint to T. in a coughing fit then not saying anything but sitting in a sort of shock.
T. put the joint to his lips in satisfaction. “I did it…” he thought. “I sacked his ***... fly through ****ing skull… the spell had worked… sweet evil,” he thought.
He took another puff, exhaled, and passed the herb back to S., who held his head down in his hands in anguish.
They finished the weed and then stood up.
The silver sun’s harsh rays turned a malevolent bright orange red tint, shining down in both their eyes.
They could hear the loud sound of an unseen helicopter droning above.
They both started pacing back and forth, paranoid.
Then T. started walking instinctively, into the nothingness of a dried up brook towards a giant dying oak.
Automatically at the thought of following a dooming feeling took hold in S.’s stomach.
“Hold on, let’s go this way” S. suggested.
T. paused and gave S, a look of dread, eyes sunken in his dead face as if he now were feeling the terror settling that S. had felt a moment earlier, or perhaps it was malicious disappointment, that because they wouldn’t go his way he would not be able to pursue further black magic.
Each one figured the other his own antichrist of sorts.
There was a lingering brotherly loathing and mild hatred for one another as they started to head in S.’s suggested direction towards a pathway.
While hiking through the wilderness, the dread lingered.
They could still hear the deep and loud droning of a helicopter circling above and occasionally looked up, but they never actually caught sight of it through the foliage on the path.
There was a thick and uneasy tension in the air.
S. stopped for a moment and took off his sweat shirts and put them into his back pack.
T. started to get ahead quite a ways from S. and seemed to be intentionally trying to either ditch him or just run from himself in some urgent and irrational fear.
S. could see him getting further and further away.
“Wait up.” he cried out.
T. kept walking.
They finally met, exhausted, at a park bench along the path.
They sat down and S. took a deep breath.
“Do you have any water man?” S. asked.
T. just sat there in a nihilistic slouch and shrugged, saying nothing with his eyes staring into eternal void.
S. looked through his back pack for water and found none.
After a minute, they got up and continued walking.
S. could feel the summer on his back and carrying the bag, now visibly awkward with the two sweatshirts filling it.
The sun’s rays shone down in their eyes peaking through the leaves of the trees in flashes of light.
A woman wearing sunglasses suddenly approached them and as she did so she touched her sunglasses and a flash of light went off, clearly a camera.
Holy ****!
Is she CIA or something? They both thought in synchronicity.
She just took a picture of us…!
She passed and said nothing with a grimace and dutiful mouth full of hatred.
T. started to speed up again and S. fell behind.
“Wait up.” he cried out.
They ended up at the same bench again, doing the same thing, as if caught up in instant captivity of de-je-vu.
“Do you have any water man?”
T. shrugged nihilistically and stared into an endless void.
A sick pathetic sort of a feeling of helpless and inescapable determinism of dooming hell.
Again.
They walked with T. in haste ahead of S., as the invisible helicopter continued its deep agonizing drone from above, the sun in the sky, all blistering silver with red orange beams of light as hot as flames shining through the foliage.
T. stared intently into nothingness with an indifferent slouch while S. panicked through his back pack as they were stuck at the bench again.
“Do you have any water man?” S asked.
T. shrugged in infinite nihilism.