There once was a website named FictionThis. A place where people could share creativity and explore eachother's minds and ideas. At a very young age it became obvious to this public tribunal that even anonymously, the world was too cut-throat to keep precious and innocent it's many entries and artists. As the website grew it became tainted with the desease of impaired plaigerism and one-uppedness. It's skies darkened as breathing space narrowed with members holding clandestine e-mail accounts. These demons of subterfuge logging in only to shred the stories of the pure hearted fictionists and overrate their own. I will forever hold dear the moments I have spent with you, you defenseless child of Guiness but I must turn away. Call me Dastardly, Inapt, and Foolish...errant, if you will. FictionThis, you were both friend and forum yet never again shall I bear your brainchild to these bastard sons of soliloquy, for I fear my permanence in your presence may only lead to conflict and ruin.
by Dinsky | (5) comment"Just look at yourself, sitting there in your Herman Miller office chair, your pressed suit and whitened teeth, your flushed cheeks from the mid-day stair climb. Or has your twenty-something secretary gone and worn you out again?"
"What the hell are they fixing that damn elevator for anyway? It was working fine this morning."
"You should have taken your overcoat off you fat, sweaty, bastard! Pit stains, though all the rage in Paris, have never done and American jacket justice, my friend."
"You want lunch or not, asshole?"
C.J. Grouber and Andy Vick, friends since high-school, have always had the utmost respect for one another. Grouber works for Heckel, Overton, Washburn & Katz, a prestige law firm in New York, NY and is perpetually one case away from making partner. Andy frugally lives off of his father's money, boycots petrol, and walks to his rallies where he publicly preaches anti-war sentiments and political awareness. After the information Vick had most recently come across...
by Dinsky | (2) commentOh, Anthony! Look what you've done to me. The sleepless nights, those restless hours I've spent contemplating this very moment and replaying it in my head. I am elated beyond your comprehension that my plans have gone so accordingly. The look upon your face is driving me up the wall with your suggestive smile and unaffected eyes. One drop falls. One drop I wipe from your cool cheek. You saw this coming from miles away, didn't you? You knew I wouldn't wait forever. That's why you're speechless now. That's why you left the chain off the door.
My body is overwhelmed by this sensation you've helped create. I want to share it with you, Tony. I want you to feel what I'm feeling. I whisper in your ear. Your Love will last forever. Now that you've nowhere else to go, immobilized by my erotic proposal; "Lay another hand on her and see what happens..."
by Dinsky | (2) commentHe pulls into the large strip mall parking lot. They have set up a carnival in the south-west lot, probably a deperate attempt to attract patrons. He carefully parks his 1989 Oldsmobile, Supreme in a half empty row. He opens his door to check the position of the vehicle against the painted white lines, backs out, and perfects the angle of the aged but well cared for car. He leaves the keys in the ignition.
Rodger Maverly has never really left Emporia. Never did he have a reason. Seems, though, that everyone he knows has found their way out. He can smell the stench of funnel cakes and corn dogs. He can hear the wavering tunes playing as children scream with joy. Mike Huckins and his family walk by. "Hey Rodge!". With beads of sweat covering his forhead inside his stagnant automobile, Rodger lifts an arm and cracks a smile. He watches as they venture into the sea of balloons. With out letting his waving arm drop, he raises his right hand and presses the cool barrel deep into his temple
by Dinsky | (8) comment