"[People] cannot endure [their] own littleness unless [they] can translate it into meaningfulness on the largest possible level."
~ Ernest Becker, 1973, The Denial of Death
"The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits."
~ Albert Camus, 1948, The Plague
"One must not let oneself be misled: they say 'Judge not!' but they send to Hell everything that stands in their way."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, 1894/1990, The Anti-Christ
The bus was warm, the night was cool, and each star reflected her inner isolation. Life is so, pointless, she thought to herself. The seats are torn, cushioning pouring out like a disemboweled angel. The lights are cold, manufactured, casting a glow of monotonous warmth.
They are located on the ceiling, flickering furiously, not comforting as one would expect, only personifying her many frailties. Stupid, stupid, stupid light, make me feel something, anything, even pain. The moon was full and clear, God's light bulb, he didn't want to keep us in the dark after all. Her eyelashes flickered; the mascara she wore covered the perimeter of her eyes, two delicate pools of blue liquid.
She wore knee- high brown leather boots, high- heeled, and a black skirt. She had on a black coat, and a white button down shirt underneath, a pink scarf, her favorite, adorned her pale neck. The driver stopped, It was then she noticed an old woman, pale and full of affection sitting directly across from her. How had she not noticed her before? The woman was adorned in a checkered blouse, and she was knitting, knitting a bright blue sweater. The only other individual on the bus was sitting in the back, he wore black kaki pants a white shirt, black tie, and perfectly polished Armani business shoes. The bus came to a halt (creeeeak) and the front door swung open, it was her stop. No, that wasn't it, stopping implied that you had some sort of destination in mind, your life had a purpose, a goal to it, the universe and all of its intricate workings made perfect sense. She had no ultimate goal; her life had no meaning to it. The light from the bus cascaded onto the dark sidewalk, bending the confines of the darkness, twisting it into light, she wondered if some sort of struggle ensued, if the dark fought against the warm radiations, a battle of sorts, but she couldn't be sure, could she. One, two, three, four steps onto the sidewalk, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten steps toward brownstone house, and she was plunged into the fruitless escapade known as her life.
Flies: An ode to a depressed, middle- aged house wife
The door opened, he still hadn't fixed it, even though he promised to, on her birthday even, but that was six months ago. One, two her shoes and coat were off and she stepped into their small living room, seeing it once again affirmed her belief in the utter absurdity of the universe, children starved, men butchered one another, women died in child birth, and every single frailty the universe had to offer was reflected in her living room. Her loving (lie, he beat her frequently, teach you some respect, make me dinner on time, punctuality, a life
lesson) was asleep on his favorite chair, the slippers she had so painstakingly knitted for him, adorned his feet, he looked remotely adorable, in his white undershirt, fat gut extending down to his crotch, and his feet peppered with the multitude of hearts that she had sewn (key word) onto his slippers. The couch located directly next to his chair was adorned with a quilt that said " We love our happy family!" Once again, she had knitted that herself and, once again, he had responded with a beating. The television casts a pale glow over the vicinity of the living room, it didn't so much as substitute darkness with light as replace the blackness of the room with a cold, mechanical fuzz. Pornography, his favooorite, graced the television screen. Big breasted, unbearably stupid women ferociously licked one another, forcing themselves to take pleasure in the depraved act, for the camera of course, always for the camera. Isn't that what its always about, smile, pose for the camera, seventeen, Cosmo (she hated
Cosmo) get the paycheck and pay for the plastic! Forget personalities, star in some cheap porno and you'll provide easy company for some fat, disgusting men late at night. It was then her husband rolled his fleshy neck towards her and he smiled, he smiled! Pig, she thought to herself.
Come over here baby he said
Screw you, she shot back. She was not going to be dragged into one of his sick games tonight, she had had it with being beaten and abused by her lowlife husband.
Come on baby, it was then the billows of fat mass that made up his face parted, in the same way Moses split the Red Sea. He smiled again, and stood (somehow) he was gradually approaching her. She cringed and stepped back, he looked hungry, she ran.
Running through halls echoing nothingness, she ran, through a bedroom where the love was replaced with the passionless throngs of an unhappy marriage. Approaching the closet, she smiled, opening it and reaching for the rifle she smiled, and while loading it she was absolutely ecstatic.
She heard his voice, bellowing, carried by waves of useless desire, and a control that he could no longer exert over her. She went down the stairs (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten) and approached him, rifle raised hesitantly.
What the hell, what you doing with that girl?
Shut up she said (so empowering)
It was then she noticed the flies, buzzing, lightly tapping against the lamp above their heads. Trapped much like she was, in a situation that demanded immediate escape.
She wondered, do they laugh, cry or love? Did they enter one another with more passion and mutual respect then in her situation?
She began to cry, small gleaming pearls traversing their way down her pale cheeks.
You've always been a cry baby he mocked
Don't you have anything to say for yourself, anything? Are you sorry, even a little bit?
Put the gun down, his manner suddenly stoic, he approached her, now stop all this talking, you need some discipline.
Get away! She shrieked, and fired
He opened up to her, finally (at least his face did.)
His being coated the walls in a thick, sticky paste, a shining scarlet, a sanguine lilac. He was magnificent, more beautiful than he had ever been in life.
She laughed a long heartfelt noise. The flies were still buzzing, trying desperately to find a way out, trapped, like she used to be.
She used the butt of the rifle to break open the overhanging light which had served as their confinement for so long. They hurriedly flew away, and she opened a window for them, they were free of their chains. She too, has to leave now, she packed her bags quickly and methodically and approached the front door.
She took one more glance at her now defunct husband, and the room covered in a macabre assortment of roses,
Thank you, she said, and stepped outside into the cold evening air.
He hated the bus, too many people. Even though there were only three (counting himself) an old hag and some young, fleshy brunet, easy on the eyes, at least. Couldn't wait to get off, just get off this small, cramped contraption. Holding his briefcase tight, he stroked it, like one would try to soothe a dying man, it'll be ok, we'll be home soon, he whispered to his briefcase, and his tools. So shiny, gleaming, gleaming, gleaming they are! He needed to get home now (!!!!!) and use them! The voices, incessant, use them, use me they cried into his psyche. No one would suspect him would they, not if he wore a suit, and nice shoes, and a nice house with a convertible. Not if he attended church every Sunday, ate all those awful (!!!!!) cookies at those school bake sales his kids dragged him to. Not if he had a beautiful (albeit plastic) wife whose brain was the size of a trampled grape. No, he was fine, never better actually. He kept his kids satiated with cartoons and copious amounts of high calorie snack food.
Anyways, this generation never turned their IPod’s off long enough to notice which season it is. It's funny, he thought, how a society so intertwined with technology knows absolutely nothing. That’s why they were so easy to find, men and women dying to be beautiful, he would grant them their wish, most definitely. The bus halted to a stop, the brunet walked off, it was his next. He opened his briefcase, and checked his instruments, it would be waiting for him when he arrived home.
Beauty Pageant: An ode to Perfection
Off the bus, and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten steps to his front door, he opened it slowly and went inside. The house was dimly lit, the only light permeated from the kitchen. He preferred it to be dark, he stepped into the living room and both of his children were sitting on the couch, side by side, staring intently at the blank television screen. They didn't even greet him when he entered,
TV off, his son said
Turn TV on, his daughter said
He proceeded to grab the remote and promptly clicked the red button labeled power. a cartoon featuring a fat hippo graced the screen.
Here he said, and threw a piece of chocolate at the two children, they fought furiously over it, tearing at the others hair, biting, and scratching, the two were beginning to bleed and he left the room. It wasn't that he didn't love his kids, he did, but keeping then distracted like this allowed him to complete his work in relative peace. He went to his bedroom and noticed his beloved spouse, laying in bed, blanket wrapped tightly around her like a white funeral shroud.
Hi, she said, copious amounts of tissues littered the room, scattered in heaps along the edge of the bed, he hated when she did this.
Paris Hilton killed herself, his wife managed to say through a torrent of tears, they say that it was a result of a deep depression she entered after bruising her face in a purging accident! Who will the kids look up to now!
It'll be ok, he said, and laid a comforting hand onto her trembling shoulder, now take this dangerously high dosage of xanax I bought for you and sleep.
She acquiesced to his request, and within a few minutes she was asleep, tears still streaked across her face. He left the room and took one final glance into the den, apparently, his son had lost the struggle, for his throat was torn opened, a large, gaping hole, a bloody maw. A thin jet of blood squirted out of the wound, staining the carpet, his daughter was now savoring each bite of the succulent chocolate. He told her to clean up the mess, and he left.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, and he was at the top of the stairs, directly above their bedroom. What stood before him, an ebony door appearing in striking contrast with the sharp white of the surrounding wallpaper. It was locked at all times, but he had the key (oh yes he did!) The door opened, and it was still there, thank God, his package was still alive!
She was sitting on a black chair, hands chained behind her back, white
rag crammed into her mouth. She shook back and forth when she saw
him, brown hair shaking violently with each drastic movement. He approached her, removed his jacket, as well as his shirt, exposing his chiseled torso to her. She began to sweat, and he removed the rag from her mouth.
Please! she said, I've been waiting for such a long time!
I know, I know, he said, and gently stroked her dark, wavy hair.
It was then he opened his briefcase, the one he always carried with him, and she saw them, rows of surgical instrument, thin knives, some stitches, hooks, and two of the pale globs typically used for breast enlargement.
Please, make me beautiful, and she began to cry, I'm so ugly she screeched, fix me!
He placed his hand over her mouth to quiet her, she obeyed his request.
Now, dear, he said, lifting one of the knives, this may hurt a bit but in the end, it will be worth it, you will be famous. Like all of them!
He opened the velvet curtains she had been facing, pulling on a yellow rope than dangled from the brown ceiling.
Several men and women, five to be exact, adorned the white walls. Long dead, skin resembling that of a porcelain doll, a collection of perfect eternal companions to this man. The beauty astounded her, their faces were so pure, blemish less, and divine. She yearned to reach that level of perfection, even in nudity every orifice was shaped in the perfect manner.
Now he said, your breasts are not large enough, lets make them bigger
Oh, of course, she said
He removed her shirt and lowered the blade into her flesh; the skin welcomed it, and gladly opened itself. He smiled, and with broad strokes he neatly fixed the globs inside, he then ever so carefully stitched them back up. Staring at her breasts, the skin a swollen red, and the stitching apparent, she immediately realized how close she was to reaching perfection.
Keep going she said
Now your lips, he said, who would ever want those upon them?
Absolutely, you're right she said
He used his silver instrument of purity to open them and he inserted what resembled stuffing, making them that much more pleasurable to glance upon and suckle one's lips.
Almost done, now look at yourself, he held up a silver mirror and she now realized that she was in such a state that warranted herself being added to his collection. Blood smeared her lips and beyond like lipstick, her eyes bloodshot but beautiful, it was in this state he would adore her.
Please, she said, i want to be with you forever, and the tears began to caress her cheeks.
Oh my dear, and he kissed her passionately, you will; and it was then he used the same exquisite blade to slit her throat, one swift continuous motion, and the cycle of rebirth was once again completed.
She seemed to mutter the words thank you before she passed, and he was ever so welcomed to please her.
In the end, he thought, she was his favorite so far, the rest of them protested futilely, but she, she knew that this was transcendence and he was an artist, she was merely the canvas. Da Vinci, Michelangelo, they used oils and he, flesh. He held up her head, and stared into her eyes, dark as two coals, absolutely magnificent. He would have to bleach her soon, in order to turn the skin that porcelain white she so envied in her last few moments. He was glad she understood, it was then he lifted the mirror, stained in some places with her scarlet fluid, he looked, well, flabby, he would have to hit the gym soon, so many prospects begging for the perfection they witnessed in magazines.
Satisfied with his work for today, he went downstairs and had a filling meal, it tasted particularly good tonight.
Lights, so many of them, darted by like comet trails; it was as if each speckle of blossoming warmth contained within it a universe all its own. She sat, tasting the cool night air, like a thin coating of frost on her tongue, feeling it caress the white strands of her hair, the aging face. Thumbs, her hands, ring finger, and index finger, all were busy knitting; it was her favorite hobby, sweaters, vests, even socks occasionally. The bus was almost devoid of anyone, except a petite young girl and some troubled young man holding a briefcase, which for some reason seemed odd to her. Her musing was interrupted, the bus came to a stop, lights blinking, the young girl stood up her appearance harkened back to the images of frightened rabbits she had read about in the picture books of her youth. The girls ebony hair shimmered, lulled in the wind when she stepped outside, like the mane of some magnificent horse. The glow from a nearby street lamp danced across the girls face and at that moment the world seemed so perfect and beautiful and the act that was inside of her head seemed to have a small amount of justification behind it. God willed it didn't he, the heathens of this eroded society needed to be purged, but that young girl with her radiant visage and those eyes with their shimmering symmetry gave her some semblance of hope. She smiled her lips
(cracking) appeared scarlet in the dying embers of the light as her face was reflected in the window she was sitting next to. Shadows dance across her face and in that moment everything was beautiful.
Glory: Or the reclaiming of The City of God
The bus stopped and the light was slanting through the dusty windows, she got up out of her seat and walked to the front, clickclackclickclack her feet went on the floor. High-heeled shoes and stockings, she left entering out into the dark evening street. It was cold outside, bitterly cold to be exact, and she was glad she had dressed accordingly. She was ready for the task that needed completion, the task that the Lord God commanded her to do, she must purge the world of filth and that which would offend Christ. She knew where he was, as she was walking she reminisced about her childhood, so many memories scattered in fragments across a dusty floor. She remembered pain and the Lord's absolution of said pain, when He had entered her life everything had changed for the better. That was precisely why she must punish those who do not adhere to Him, they have voluntarily walked to the light and thus they should face consequences for avoiding the rays of the Lord. As that thought passed through her head, she realized she had reached her intended destination, a dilapidated, dust colored building lay before her eyes, and the man she desired would be waiting inside for her, waiting to experience the true love God has for him, even insignificant beings receive mercy from the all mighty.
The inside of the rust colored building was almost alive with the smell, the feel of perversion. It radiated of the beaten down doorways, and musty furniture in the run down apartment complex. High above her, she could hear water dripping down from the partially collapsed roof in a rhythmic series of noises, and little light penetrated the interior of the dull building. She heard him first, a faint noise traveling across the landscape of time and entering her ears, it sounded like (singing?) perhaps, or was it laughing? She followed the thin thread of the echoing sound gradually to its source.
He was squatting in a green shirt, frayed around the edges and caked with dirt, he was wearing ripped jeans and sneakers that were the color of decay, the same decay that seemed to permeate his entire being. He was rocking back and forth, arms clutching his fragile frame in a manner resembling a twisted embrace.
My dear she said, and she approached him and held his arm up to hers, a series of pinpricks the size of dimes littered his pale flesh, she glanced about and found a rusty needle lying beside him.
Mama is that you? he said, eyes red and mad in an apparent hallucination.
Yes dearie, you've been a naughty boy, what would Jesus think of what you are doing?
I don't know mama he'd be pretty upset with me, and I'm sorry but I wet the bed last night, I couldn't help it! PLease mama, I'm so sorry
Oh dearie she said, come here, and she embraced him and before she knew it he was kissing her softly on the lips, mama he said.
And for a moment, possessed by the devil or some mad physical desire, she slid her tongue into his waiting mouth.
The needle slid in quickly (for he was certainly used to their bitter
sting) and he collapsed into her arms without a struggle.
He was dreaming, dreaming of a large multicolored ball, bouncing to and fro like a mad animal. He extended his arms, but he just couldn't reach it. It seemed to morph, change shape before his very eyes, change into something horrible with a litany of screaming faces and sharp, gleaming teeth. Their breath seemed to ignite the world around him into a conflagration of miniature stars, each one pulsating with some sort of perverse reality about to be exposed to him.
It was then he awoke, a quick sharp movement broken by a miniature gasp, deep within his throat. There were quick glimpses first, a single naked light bulb, flies, and a cement ceiling. He tried to move his hand but couldn't, his legs were immobilized as well. He would have screamed if his mouth could have undertaken the necessary motions to do so.
She preferred it this way, enjoyed it in fact, for it states, "For many deceivers are entered into the world, who confess not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh. This is a deceiver and an antichrist."
Does this man not personify those qualities, she thought to herself.
His hedonistic lifestyle led him away from the true light of Christ, and thus it was her duty, as his spiritual guardian, to show him the true grace of God.
She approached him swiftly, now, she said, are you ready to accept Christ as your eternal savior?
What, fuck you he spat
Well, that just won't do she said, and she slapped him, hard.
I'll ask you again, heathen, are you ready to accept Christ as your eternal savior?
No, he bellowed, what has your God ever done for me
Everything, she hissed, are you blind?
No he said, no, no, no, I believe in myself and that’s all I need
Wrong, you ignorant fool, Christ saved you from the fires of hell, and he did so for your sins, and mine, he loves you, don't you see?
If your God's idea of love is to have men butcher one another for no apparent reason, than he shows his compassion for humanity every day
It took several crucial seconds for this thought to reach her brain; she just did not believe anyone in their right minds could say such a thing. She took him in, all of him, his fragile form bound to the rusty chair, his defiant eyes, and she took out a knife she had been concealing (God's divine hand acting through her, a second Judith) and removed the top of his pinky finger. It was a quick motion; he didn't even realize it was gone at first, not until his eyes grew in terrible realization.
You bitch, he snarled and his face contorted into a mask of rage, and he began to shake violently, rocking the chair back and forth and moving his head furiously at the same time.
You bitch, you bitch, you bitch, he kept repeating and eventually his words became choked sobs. my fucking finger he wailed, you bitch, you bitch
You see, that is what happens when you reject the Lord our God, you must be punished for your transgressions, now she said, would you like me to get the pliers?
No, he squealed, I'll believe anything you say, just tell me.
She then began to educate about the one true God, and his son and equal Jesus. Who came to earth, preached love and forgiveness, and was crucified by angry men that did not understand, or were skeptical of his message. She told him how one must live in the true light of Christ by spreading his message, forcefully if necessary. In the end, he must live the life Christ intended him to.
As she began to release him from his chair, slowly cutting the straps, he said, I sort of understand what you said, but parts of it still don't make perfect sense to me.
Dearie, she exclaimed warmly, it doesn't have to make sense, you just have to believe it.
"[People] cannot endure [their] own littleness unless [they] can translate it into meaningfulness on the largest possible level."
The Fringe is open to submissions of poetry, flash fiction and short stories of any genre. Stories accepted will be published online in our Ezine and also in the monthly pdf magazine.
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Here at The Fringe Magazine we publish Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Poetry in all genres and reviews of books, roleplay games, music and movies.
Our variety seems to be hiting the mark with over 100,000 views of our Online Magazine with a good spread across all articles.
Our variety seems to be hiting the mark with over 100,000 views of our Online Magazine with a good spread across all articles.?xml:namespace>From surveys we've conducted, our readers are like most people and enjoy reading all kinds of books, both fiction and non-fiction.
With over 350 readers visiting our site each day, we listen to the voice of the masses and try and procure books in all genres to review. To date, we have reviewed over 600 books, including; non-fiction reference, music, art, photography, gardening, cooking, Self Help, architecture, design, biographies and roleplay games.
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