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The Erasers have been here.
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Mystique wrote:
> Spandex wearing midgets fighting to the death for the love of the
> Donkey Princess?
Sounds about right, lol
> Spandex wearing midgets fighting to the death for the love of the
> Donkey Princess?
Sounds about right, lol
Black Glove wrote:
> Ah, I see what you mean, a counter view that puts a 'human face' on
> the victim, and somebody WAS watching after all! Excellent.
> Thanks for that.
Although I read your story from his point of view I was watching the scene unfold as if from another prospective so your final line struck a chord and I felt 'hey - I was watching
> You know, the reason I originally erased this story was because it
> suddenly occurred to me that maybe it goes too far and is too
> perverve [for a family forum]. The subject of perservity in fiction
> interests me though. How far is too far? When is sick really
> sick?
Not really too perverse for this forum as all intimate details are withheld. Far worse material is thrown at people all the time who browse the internet or watch TV and you do not need to use your imagination for those pictures. I think this is a family forum more in the way that it doesn't allow you to swear every other word which is very refreshing.
When is sick really sick? Nothing and everything is sick depending on the reader. I noticed in another thread people were suggesting books that made them physically sick. I've never read a book like that yet.
> Ah, I see what you mean, a counter view that puts a 'human face' on
> the victim, and somebody WAS watching after all! Excellent.
> Thanks for that.
Although I read your story from his point of view I was watching the scene unfold as if from another prospective so your final line struck a chord and I felt 'hey - I was watching
> You know, the reason I originally erased this story was because it
> suddenly occurred to me that maybe it goes too far and is too
> perverve [for a family forum]. The subject of perservity in fiction
> interests me though. How far is too far? When is sick really
> sick?
Not really too perverse for this forum as all intimate details are withheld. Far worse material is thrown at people all the time who browse the internet or watch TV and you do not need to use your imagination for those pictures. I think this is a family forum more in the way that it doesn't allow you to swear every other word which is very refreshing.
When is sick really sick? Nothing and everything is sick depending on the reader. I noticed in another thread people were suggesting books that made them physically sick. I've never read a book like that yet.
Ah, I see what you mean, a counter view that puts a 'human face' on the victim, and somebody WAS watching after all! Excellent. Thanks for that.
You know, the reason I originally erased this story was because it suddenly occurred to me that maybe it goes too far and is too perverve [for a family forum]. The subject of perservity in fiction interests me though. How far is too far? When is sick really sick?
You know, the reason I originally erased this story was because it suddenly occurred to me that maybe it goes too far and is too perverve [for a family forum]. The subject of perservity in fiction interests me though. How far is too far? When is sick really sick?
> By 'the best kind' I was trying to capture the lunatic's distorted
> attitude towards women.
I worked for me although I don't know if it struck the same note for male readers. This is what I was imagining as I came to the end of the story:
I lay down in the darkness of the small warehouse that offered shelter and sanctuary to Mary and myself, to drowse while I awaited her return. We were both prostitutes, dragged down into the depravity of this life by circumstances beyond our control. We were working to rise above that, scrimping to save as much as we could from our meagre earnings, and get ourselves out of the gutter.
A scream, terrible and shrill, had me sitting bolt upright with tendrils of fear winding cold fingers about my throat. A faint squealing could be heard coming from the alley and with pounding heart I crawled to the window and glanced out. At first, as I strained to see into the alley, nothing was visible but then there, at the end I witnessed a rape. In my line of work it was nothing new and although abhorrent could be endured. Then, without really knowing how, I realised the victim was Mary.
Hatred spring from deep inside me and I was all set to race to her aid when a freak clearing in the rain sodden clouds showed me her rapist and kept me rooted to the spot. His face was white; his eyes dark but there was no expression on that white face. Nothing. No hatred, no glee, no lust, no power and he made no sound. He thrust and pumped at her unseeing, one gloved hand covering her face. I knew true fear then and it kept me where I was, probably saving my life for worse was yet to come.
It appeared that he was finished as he stood up but he walked to her head and kicked her viciously. Over and over he kicked her in the head and even though she must have been dead he jumped on her, a two footed stomp, so that even from my hiding place I heard the skull break and bone snap. My fisted hands were curled to my mouth in an effort to stop any sounds escaping as I watched him walk calmly from the alley. I knew that if I were to venture out to Mary I would be able to see the bloody boot prints of his leaving.
I was dry retching as I stared out of the grimy window. What sick twisted arrogance drives one human being to inflict such pain on another? Mary wasn’t a threat to anyone for despite her profession she was an innocent.
What had he been thinking as he left the alley, that no one was watching and she was a wh*re? He was wrong. She was my friend and I had been watching.
> attitude towards women.
I worked for me although I don't know if it struck the same note for male readers. This is what I was imagining as I came to the end of the story:
I lay down in the darkness of the small warehouse that offered shelter and sanctuary to Mary and myself, to drowse while I awaited her return. We were both prostitutes, dragged down into the depravity of this life by circumstances beyond our control. We were working to rise above that, scrimping to save as much as we could from our meagre earnings, and get ourselves out of the gutter.
A scream, terrible and shrill, had me sitting bolt upright with tendrils of fear winding cold fingers about my throat. A faint squealing could be heard coming from the alley and with pounding heart I crawled to the window and glanced out. At first, as I strained to see into the alley, nothing was visible but then there, at the end I witnessed a rape. In my line of work it was nothing new and although abhorrent could be endured. Then, without really knowing how, I realised the victim was Mary.
Hatred spring from deep inside me and I was all set to race to her aid when a freak clearing in the rain sodden clouds showed me her rapist and kept me rooted to the spot. His face was white; his eyes dark but there was no expression on that white face. Nothing. No hatred, no glee, no lust, no power and he made no sound. He thrust and pumped at her unseeing, one gloved hand covering her face. I knew true fear then and it kept me where I was, probably saving my life for worse was yet to come.
It appeared that he was finished as he stood up but he walked to her head and kicked her viciously. Over and over he kicked her in the head and even though she must have been dead he jumped on her, a two footed stomp, so that even from my hiding place I heard the skull break and bone snap. My fisted hands were curled to my mouth in an effort to stop any sounds escaping as I watched him walk calmly from the alley. I knew that if I were to venture out to Mary I would be able to see the bloody boot prints of his leaving.
I was dry retching as I stared out of the grimy window. What sick twisted arrogance drives one human being to inflict such pain on another? Mary wasn’t a threat to anyone for despite her profession she was an innocent.
What had he been thinking as he left the alley, that no one was watching and she was a wh*re? He was wrong. She was my friend and I had been watching.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> "She was probably a prostitute, one of the cheap and dirty ones,
> driven by drugs, the best kind."
>
> The best kind? I actually found that description quite disturbing.
> Observer and perpetrater at the same time. Can I do a counter view
> on the same story?
>
> Saying no wouldn't cause offence but I'd like to steal it.
I'm not sure what you mean specifically by counter view, but yes. Steal away.
By 'the best kind' I was trying to capture the lunatic's distorted attitude towards women.
> "She was probably a prostitute, one of the cheap and dirty ones,
> driven by drugs, the best kind."
>
> The best kind? I actually found that description quite disturbing.
> Observer and perpetrater at the same time. Can I do a counter view
> on the same story?
>
> Saying no wouldn't cause offence but I'd like to steal it.
I'm not sure what you mean specifically by counter view, but yes. Steal away.
By 'the best kind' I was trying to capture the lunatic's distorted attitude towards women.
"She was probably a prostitute, one of the cheap and dirty ones, driven by drugs, the best kind."
The best kind? I actually found that description quite disturbing. Observer and perpetrater at the same time. Can I do a counter view on the same story?
Saying no wouldn't cause offence but I'd like to steal it.
The best kind? I actually found that description quite disturbing. Observer and perpetrater at the same time. Can I do a counter view on the same story?
Saying no wouldn't cause offence but I'd like to steal it.
Ta for the comments, Paradox. You can put it in the black castle if you think it's good enough.
Very rippery, which I adored, but it really could have been longer.
The 'Black Gloved' killer was also used in your other ripper style story too, a continuation which I enjoyed. Your style is very unique, repulsive and yet addictive.
------------------
As said in your other thread about opium influencing a warped style of writing, the chief detective in the Jack the Ripper case also did opium to focus. Just a bit of linking work for you there... yeah/.
The 'Black Gloved' killer was also used in your other ripper style story too, a continuation which I enjoyed. Your style is very unique, repulsive and yet addictive.
------------------
As said in your other thread about opium influencing a warped style of writing, the chief detective in the Jack the Ripper case also did opium to focus. Just a bit of linking work for you there... yeah/.
Okay chippy-chaps, here is the 'erased' story. Read it and weep.
Black Spider
God-in-Hell.
What my eyes have seen this night will haunt me forever. Right now, as I sit at my desk staring at these trembling hands, it feels like the redeeming light of dawn will never come. Who was he, that daunting brute, with his savage-will and demonic malice? How can a man, a seemingly ‘normal’ man, devolve into such depravity? What I witnessed this night has left my mind scarred, almost broken. Black Spider, who are you?
I heard a scream, terrible and shrill, issue from the far shadows of that dead-end alley. It froze me. My blood ran cold. I turned an ear and homed in to where it had emanated from, but the incessant pitter-patter of rain falling from the high drains was all I could hear. I remember scanning the foggy darkness unable to distinguish anything but the dim flicker of a faultering street lamp. I wanted to flee, ignore what I'd heard, block it out, return to the warmth of my living-room and the embers of solace, but my feet wouldn't budge; I was rooted, ensnared by danger and the thrill of hidden menace.
Then came a different noise: a faint squealing, high-pitched yet muffled, consistent in its ebb-and-flow. Suddenly my feet were on the move, yet not away from its fell source, but towards it. With eyes wide I ventured into the alleyway's grimy gloom - slowly, unwillingly, curiously - my heartbeat thumping six times to every one step I took. The muffled squeals became louder, and closer. Little by little I approached. The sheeting rain blurred my vision, yet my eyes had to see, my mind needed to know. Closer, and closer, and closer -
until
I saw him. The unblinking stare, the gritted teeth, the hag-ridden grimace, the svelte body, pumping and thrusting his pelvis into the groin of - she, the doomed one: her legs either side of him bobbing as if on strings, torn fishnet stockings, a stiletto shoe balancing on her curled toes, his gloved hand spread over her face like a black spider. She was probably a prostitute, one of the cheap and dirty ones, driven by drugs, the best kind. From the pitch darkness beneath the stairwell I peered through the gaps in the steps: horror-stricken, captivated, disgusted, terrified, aroused, spellbound by intoxicating risk. But then, in the brief silence that followed his grotesque climax came the real violence, the likes of which I never imagined a human being was capable of.
He slung her semi-conscious body to the ground like a rag doll, and with the relish of a world-historic monster proceeded to target her head with his heavy boots. Over and over, on and on, kick after kick, harder and harder, intermittently launching into a two-footed stomp, letting go a vile wheeze as he landed. I nearly choked with revulsion when I heard the skull crack. Over and over, on and on, until, until that wretched woman's head was naught but a pulp of mangled sludge.
Black Spider, fiend of the Big Smoke, who in God's name are you?
And so I look down at my white bony fingers typing this. I wriggle my toes in my slippers. I observe the besmirched boots in the corner of the room – still wet.
Is this believable, this yarn I spin, this sticky web? Has my ruse conjured red-stained visions? It's just that I crave to capture and relive my infernal antics from a different perspective, from the viewpoint of an innocent ‘other’. It helps me to revel in and give meaning to what I do.
Black Spider.
Satan’s dark delight.
Kill'er.
Stygian beast.
World-historic monster.
The Kicker.
I am beyond compare.
No one was watching and she was a wh*re!
O Jack of old London town, I want your sable crown.
Black Spider
God-in-Hell.
What my eyes have seen this night will haunt me forever. Right now, as I sit at my desk staring at these trembling hands, it feels like the redeeming light of dawn will never come. Who was he, that daunting brute, with his savage-will and demonic malice? How can a man, a seemingly ‘normal’ man, devolve into such depravity? What I witnessed this night has left my mind scarred, almost broken. Black Spider, who are you?
I heard a scream, terrible and shrill, issue from the far shadows of that dead-end alley. It froze me. My blood ran cold. I turned an ear and homed in to where it had emanated from, but the incessant pitter-patter of rain falling from the high drains was all I could hear. I remember scanning the foggy darkness unable to distinguish anything but the dim flicker of a faultering street lamp. I wanted to flee, ignore what I'd heard, block it out, return to the warmth of my living-room and the embers of solace, but my feet wouldn't budge; I was rooted, ensnared by danger and the thrill of hidden menace.
Then came a different noise: a faint squealing, high-pitched yet muffled, consistent in its ebb-and-flow. Suddenly my feet were on the move, yet not away from its fell source, but towards it. With eyes wide I ventured into the alleyway's grimy gloom - slowly, unwillingly, curiously - my heartbeat thumping six times to every one step I took. The muffled squeals became louder, and closer. Little by little I approached. The sheeting rain blurred my vision, yet my eyes had to see, my mind needed to know. Closer, and closer, and closer -
until
I saw him. The unblinking stare, the gritted teeth, the hag-ridden grimace, the svelte body, pumping and thrusting his pelvis into the groin of - she, the doomed one: her legs either side of him bobbing as if on strings, torn fishnet stockings, a stiletto shoe balancing on her curled toes, his gloved hand spread over her face like a black spider. She was probably a prostitute, one of the cheap and dirty ones, driven by drugs, the best kind. From the pitch darkness beneath the stairwell I peered through the gaps in the steps: horror-stricken, captivated, disgusted, terrified, aroused, spellbound by intoxicating risk. But then, in the brief silence that followed his grotesque climax came the real violence, the likes of which I never imagined a human being was capable of.
He slung her semi-conscious body to the ground like a rag doll, and with the relish of a world-historic monster proceeded to target her head with his heavy boots. Over and over, on and on, kick after kick, harder and harder, intermittently launching into a two-footed stomp, letting go a vile wheeze as he landed. I nearly choked with revulsion when I heard the skull crack. Over and over, on and on, until, until that wretched woman's head was naught but a pulp of mangled sludge.
Black Spider, fiend of the Big Smoke, who in God's name are you?
And so I look down at my white bony fingers typing this. I wriggle my toes in my slippers. I observe the besmirched boots in the corner of the room – still wet.
Is this believable, this yarn I spin, this sticky web? Has my ruse conjured red-stained visions? It's just that I crave to capture and relive my infernal antics from a different perspective, from the viewpoint of an innocent ‘other’. It helps me to revel in and give meaning to what I do.
Black Spider.
Satan’s dark delight.
Kill'er.
Stygian beast.
World-historic monster.
The Kicker.
I am beyond compare.
No one was watching and she was a wh*re!
O Jack of old London town, I want your sable crown.
Erased why?
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