Sunday 15 February 2015

Cut Up - Open



 I will sit by the fire and write this record

Soon I will be on the Ashen Path.

Soon I will be properly anointed.

Until then, this is to be my record.

I do not want to make one, it does not make sense but Dante has told me that I must. Dante has taught me the ways of the fist and the bludgeon and the edge. Because he sees the urge. I know what to do with urges. Maybe Dante is making me do this because I will be initiated sooner than anticipated. Because I owe so much to Dante, and because Dante and the others are my family. But I will obey, because that is what I do. I do not know for sure, but I've listened when he's made calls to the others.

I do not understand why I need a record.

Cut Up - That's Messed Up



Now that is some messed up
For those of you too lazy to check, shit right there. Up. Virginian Pilot. A teenage girl washed up on the beach, so check this article from the dead. The body was covered in bruises. I'm sorry, but that's just sick, and a lot of her bones were broken. The working theory is that she was beaten to death and dumped in the ocean.
What the hell is wrong with people that they'd do something like that
In other news, I have to go get ready for school. Seeya.

 basically they found,. But she wasn't drowned.

Nobody and The Man In Grey - Cut Up



He’s standing in my room now, it is 6:59. I know what happens next.
That it was a pocket watch attached to a chain running from the pocket of his waistcoat. At a certain point he seemed satisfied and put the timepiece away. He looked at me again, still smirking. His eyes flicked towards the wing that extended beyond my window. A finger scratched his brow. Then, as though on cue, I felt a strong compulsion to look back at my wing along with him, like there was something important that I couldn’t miss out on; a morbid curiosity of sorts. Stopwatch. His hand reached up to scratch his brow. Smirking while staring at his ‘identical stranger’. Bob first saw him on the subway, on his way home from work.

People kept telling him things he had done, but he never remembered doing them. His wife thanked him for sending the flowers, saying that it was so unlike him to remember their anniversary. A bolt of lightening hit just outside my window. One of the engines erupted into a ball of orange flame, consuming a sizeable portion of the wing. The tongues of flame licked towards me, a helpless feast. Everyone panicked and screamed, descending at an exponentially increasing speed, I didn’t go to work. One day, he didn’t feel the crash. I awoke on the ground, every inch of my body screaming in agony. Text scrolled across the bottom of the screen, informing viewers that there is a severe thunderstorm warning and a tornado watch until 7 p.m. Much attention. Just now that annoying alert erupted loudly from the speakers. I wandered around the city.

“What report?” Bob asked. He had never done any report or received any request. His boss laughed it off, as if it was a joke.
He just                                                 wandering what was happening.

His boss never called. After a while he called his wife, but something strange happened. His own voice came on the line. “Hello,” Bob said. “Hello,” His voice echoed.
He heard his wife’s voice in the background saying, “Bob, who’s on the phone?”
“Nobody, dear,” the echo said. “Just a sales call.” He hung up the phone. Debris surrounded me. I.

Bob rushed home, but on the subway there, he caught his reflection in the glass. He looked gaunt and tired. In fact, he didn’t look himself at all. At his house, he looked inside a caught a glimpse of the stranger. The stranger looked more like him that he did.
Suddenly, a crushing realisation hit him. Was he actually Bob? Perhaps he was the stranger. Perhaps he had got it all wrong and this house didn’t belong the him at all. It almost seemed like drowning the middle of the ocean.

Was sitting in the corner of a bar that Bob frequented; at the restaurant Bob took his wife to; even at his office. Bob thought he caught a glimpse of the stranger.
“Great job on that report,” his boss told him one morning.

Flames and my vision was a bit blurry. I began to sweat.

As he looked into the window, the man outside looked out. They could have been mirror images a week before, twins. Now the stranger who was Bob looked out the window at smiled at the man who was nobody. I was on a flight to LA, and could see the dark clouds in the distance. I was about to doze off when I noticed him. He was two rows ahead of me and across the aisle. He was staring at me, smirking. I’m afraid of flying, and he knew it. I could tell by the way he was looking at me, taunting me with that smile. Then I noticed his odd clothing; a gray jacket hanging open, exposing his black waistcoat that partially obscured his white dress shirt. And he had a hat, gray like his jacket and pants, which looked like the kind of hat reporters in the ‘30’s or ‘40’s might have worn. Or Dick Tracy.
He continued to stare into my eyes, unblinking
                                    

He was looking out of the window, not at anything particular, when his reflection turned his head and looked at him. Then he realized, quite relieved, that it wasn’t his reflection but someone standing behind him and he turned. I turned. Managed to turn my head to the side a little and I saw his silhouette standing over me. I blacked out again. I’ve been in the hospital for weeks now. The doctors tell me that I shouldn’t be alive. They also say that this mysterious man is just some kind of hallucination brought on by the trauma I’ve experienced, and that the mind can fabricate false memories. I know better. This evening I’ve done nothing but watch television. Some reality show or other – I’m not really paying away, looking again out of the window. From where I sat I could see the wing of the plane, which was some kind of blessing. As it somewhat blocked the view of the far away ground. Absentmindedly, I glanced back towards the irritating and unnerving man. To my endless relief, his head was turned in front of him. He was looking down at something. He moved a bit closer and I could see.

And stopped. Bob’s eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at this person – they looked like him. Almost exactly. They had a slightly different suit on, a different colour tie, little lighter hair colour, but other that that they could have been twins.

Bob had heard of the concept of an                      before but he never believed it until now. He got up to talk the stranger, but the man left he subway before he could.
Over the next few weeks Bob kept seeing his double in various places, out of the corner of his eye. He…





                                                                      

Saturday 7 February 2015

Cut Up - I Do Not Recall Posting This



Oh, it’s just one of those things, I woke up yesterday and I am twenty one years old. Science will answer it one day. I was sitting on a chair with my laptop open and I found this blog, titled Assignment Report, with the caption of ‘MONARCH Proxy’. I have very little writing talent, I’m not a touch typist, I could be the next J. K. Rowling.  I think I will keep my laptop on at all times after all. All my English teachers used to put me to the bottom of the class, just because I was originally French and had problems with English.
It sounds like a very interesting little story, and I’m not sure how I could have written it., Those days are behind me now. If I am sleepwriting, or otherwise writing in my sleep. Who knows, while asleep They probably have already. I was curious, because Jacob Saunders can read, write and speak English almost as fluently. I, as a native while still retaining my mothertongue French refer to it as French now. My name is Français? I really have been over in this cold, rainy island for too long.  I didn’t remember writing anything. I had a look.
Wait.. How could I have typed while asleep?