Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in taydus' LiveJournal:

Thursday, November 10th, 2005
11:56 pm	This is right after come from prize giving. new story... hope you all like it... .................................................. Senior Prize Giving ------------------------------------ Many thoughts run through the minds of the students sitting silently in the painfully uncomfortable seats during their end of school prize giving. Listening to old fools babble on about how they made something of themselves. Watching as the smarter students go up and receive an award for being best in some school subject that no real person would ever need or bother about. Waiting for the moment to rise from your seats and leave this prison of tyrannical boredom for 2 months then once again becoming a hapless pawn in the game of which student is better. Many thoughts fill our minds in these dark endlessly mind-numbing times. Many indeed. The smart kids think of their next years work and how they will one day become a leader in our world, or fall to nothingness and work minimum wage letting that degree in nuclear physics root away under a pile of old newspapers. The stupid kids thinks of how they will fail their pending exams and also end up working an minimum wage worker or become one of the next presidents of America. The class clowns think about how in the middle of the principle speech, a man who looks uncannily like the KFC Kernel, they will stand up and moon the parents. The quiet kids sit and listen to every word, every boring speech, every tip on how to live life, and think about how unless they try to work they will fail and end up working minimum wage like the rest of the world. The kids with delusions of grandeur sit and think about the car they will have, the house they will live in, or how they will be so rich they will spend days just counting money. While near the back the only one of them with a chance in hell of getting what the others think about does the ultimate “FUCK YOU” to the school by putting on his overly expensive headphones and watching a movie on his newly acquired Ipod video. The sporty kids think about that match point they scored or that race they won, and the surfer boy, who by some string of luck holds the country’s surfing title, sits thinking what he will buy next from his contest earnings. The computer kids think about that cool game and the current status of their character in it, and the expansion to it that is foretold to be released next Christmas, each of them hoping that one day they will get to create a game as good. But then in the dark back corner sits the boy with shadows under his eyes. He thinks of blood, of murder, of death, of what his next victim will be, of what poor creature he will destroy and litter the ground with it’s guts. He thinks of things most would not. His mind moves too fast to be understood. His thoughts erratic and cruel, each envisioning a prefect crime, a prefect murder, a prefect death. He likes death, and he himself had been near it many times, both self inflicted and otherwise. He thinks of pretty girl he would love to ties up and take pieces out of with a rusty craving knife from his kitchen bench. He thinks of the animals he tortured when he was a younger child, his parents still think the dog ran away. But lastly he thinks of how in one year’s time he will be unleashed into the world. He thinks of how he will become just on more of those insane killers that this world is already full of. He likes it. The last speaker finishes his few million words of advice and the students are told that they may leave after collecting their reports. The pain is lifting as feeling returns to the asses of hundreds of students and adults alike. Now they exams that will be over the following 3-4 weeks, and then 2 months of freedom from which they will once again be untimely ripped and forced back into a world of endless pointless rules where they will be for one more school year before their next prize giving. (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 13th, 2005
12:32 am	new story and poem!!! A Funny Thought --------------------- One happy happy day in the lovely month of May I sat down in the park just before it became dark A funny thought flew into my head. I wanted to see someone dead. Who it be I don’t care, as long as they have long hair. I want to hear them scream. I want them to think it a dream. But why do I think so bad, maybe because I’m completely mad. Let me hear you cry. For very soon you will die. Come to me. Come to be. My victim. ___________________________________ ___________________________________ Visions Of The Addict ----------------------------- The black spot on the ceiling. The one and only blemish on a seemingly spotless white ceiling. The spot grows, expands, slowly encasing the whole room. Darkness. The addict blinks. The room is again clear, empty, desolate. He sits up onto the side of the bed and glances around. A small apartment of one room, a small kitchen and a bathroom to make even a gnome feel cramped. From the bathroom walks forth a beauty clothed in a silken white robe. The robe ripples as she walks toward the bed. She leans forward and to kiss the addict. Softly placing her gentle hands to his chin. “Kiss me, kiss death.” Her face rots and a piece of skin falls. The flesh of her body leaving her. The addict jumps back, his head hits the wall and he becomes faint. She leans over him. “Love me like you have always loved me. Do not leave me now.” The addict blacks out. Darkness. He wakes. Alone, at last. His tormentor left him. He stands and heads for the bathroom. He leans over the sink and looks in the mirror. The mirror surface ripples to his breath. Curiosity takes a hold of him and he touches the mirror. His hand slips into the shimmering liquid panel. Quickly he pulls it out. Dazed and unwilling to ponder the mystery of the mirror he walks back to his bed. The walls are breathing. Moving softly like a white lung. The addict ignores this. He walks to his bed and falls onto it face first. There is no bed. He falls through the bed and into a sea of white. He is lost. The path is hidden as hi swims through an unknown substance. He reaches out. Jumping from his bed he bolts for the door. It is locked. His own doing. He can’t get out. He screams, bites, scratches at the door. It won’t open. He disgorges his now decimated lunch onto the floor and watches it sink into the carpet. He falls asleep. Darkness. He awakes face first deep in his own spew. He stands and again bangs at the door. No one hears him, no one cares. He can’t take it. He needs his hit. That hit that makes a man want to die for. That hit of a thousand orgasms, all in one near fatal injection. He jumps from the window. He couldn’t take it. He died. “Kiss death” Current Mood: creative (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, September 23rd, 2005
12:07 am	The Touch of Satin The touch of satin. Soft smooth satin. Like her skin on a cool midwinter night. Oh how she was beautiful. Bathed in the blood of our victims. Their screams aroused us, they invigorated us. My malevolent woman. My angel of death. My satin skinned dame. Oh how I loved her. Oh how she loved me. Endless, boundless, immoral love. A secret and vile love. A love only Mephistopheles would smile upon. We were villains together, hunters together. Murderers and sinners together. She gave me life in the most sadistic of ways. She tore me from a mindlessly pointless world. She made me. I was her slave, and she was my mistress. We lived in delirium. A state of mind that made us unyielding from our perverted goals. “Scream as I cut you open and watch your blood flow freely from your delicate body!” My devotion to her was absolute. I worshipped her as the wretched goddess that she was. My satin skinned goddess. My depraved soul cried. She abandoned me. Cast me off. Gone in the night. Forsaken to my malodorous life, alone. Exiled by my goddess from our heaven. A heaven of rusty meat hooks and sweet innocent fools for us to ravage. I felt decrepit. Having to wash the dolour from me with innocent blood. My oath for revenge. She would die. For showing me heaven and pilfering it from my very fingers. I would find her. Or so I thought. She found me. Better yet she found herself. She showed herself to me as the fatal illusion that she was. Or as in the words of poor deluded Macbeth…. “Art thou fatal vision, sensible, to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?” Oh poor Macbeth. He too lost his fiend like queen. But my satin girl, she was a part of me. A stunning figment of my needy mind. Oh my sweet satin skinned dame. I killed you. I killed our love. I killed our heaven. I killed myself. Oh the touch of satin. My obsession dragged me too far. I became submerged in my own delusions. Such wonderful delusions, which spanned the many networks of my neurotic mind. I had to thank her for what she had done. My dim-witted brain spawned her to save me from endlessly traversing life by schedule and rules. She made me a god. A god unwilling to forgive. A god fuelled by rage. Such soft smooth satin. I feel it in my hands. My mind wanders and the satin dissipates in my very hands… There is no satin. I am dead. Current Mood: weird (5 Comments |Comment on this)