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Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of ChristmasNietzsche eyed the gaudy Christmas decorations. The pressure of providing all the people he knew with gifts weighed heavily and he once more wondered what the point of it all was.Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of Christmas by Vocable
Around him were people like him, shopping for Christmas gifts to show the people they knew they cared about them. But unlike him, they were constantly in motion, shoving against each other, searching and purchasing. The shopping mall was filled and Nietzsche felt he was the only one not caught in the fervor of Christmas.
He stepped outside to the parking lot to properly monologue.
"What is the point?" Nietzsche wondered to himself out loud. "What is the meaning of all this? Surely, Christmas is more than about its presents?"
"You're right," a voice behind Nietzsche said.
Nietzsche whirled around in surprise. "Jesus Christ!"
"That's right," Jesus Christ said, wearing a resplendent white robe. "Christmas is more than presents. Look at the word 'Christmas'. It has 'Christ' in it. Christmas is about me."
Thus Spake NietzscheWhen Nietzsche was fifty-five years old, he died and went into the afterlife where he was filed into the Literary Realm. There he enjoyed his contemplations and spent time outside of time in the profound ecstasy of his own mind. But at last, someone stumbled upon him in his thoughts, and he went before the stranger, knew him despite not knowing him, and spoke to him thus:Thus Spake Nietzsche by Vocable
You, Hunter S. Thompson! You have wrapped truth with your gaudy own! You make it new for yourself. Would you have wearied of truth if not for the loud finery you veil it in.
Behold. One must have tasted iron to take solace in the outrageous, but one must be hard to take solace in iron. You can be made harder still!
Much of your words remain but pale imitations, a shallow mask of Truth's profound spirit! Cast off your fear! Loudness is dangerous when one becomes incapable of saying subtle things.
What is truth? Truth — that is: continually peeling away that which covers up the barest essence; Truth — that i
Slaughter SaloonThe saloon doors opened and the new sheriff walked through. Nobody quieted down because nobody was there. Nobody except Tony.Slaughter Saloon by Vocable
"We're closed, sheriff," Tony said, swiping a dirty rag over a table. "We always close at sundown. Unless you've got business with me, we've got no business at all."
"Yeah, I got business with you," Sheriff Sam said. The doors swung closed behind him, blocking the light of the setting sun. "Need your help. Three guys came here earlier today. Remember 'em?"
"I dunno, sheriff. Lots of people come here. Can't expect me to remember them all."
"Yeah, well, you'll remember these guys. Real mean types. Troublemakers. New in town so you wouldn't have seen them before."
Tony remembered them, real cocky upstarts who were itching for a fight. It was rare for someone to make trouble in Tony's saloon, with it being so close to the sheriff's office. They tested his patience, made his hands itch for the guns he kept hidden beneath the counter.
"Yeah, I remember them. What abou
Machine of Death Volume 2: Open Submissions!Machine of Death is an anthology of short stories with a shared premise: the idea of a machine that uses a blood test that can tell you how you're going to die. It may be vague, but it's never wrong.Machine of Death Volume 2: Open Submissions! by Vocable
From May 1st to July 15th 2011, submissions will be open for all writers and artists. Click the link-slash-title up top for the guidelines!
This poem has been removed.[This poem has been removed as it lacks the emotional and verbal depth to be a real poem.This poem has been removed. by Elle-Oh-Elle
When submitting please remember that a real poet is an outcast and eccentric, with real emotional trauma, and lacking these qualities nothing the submitter writes can ever be considered a poem.
If you wish to re-submit your work, please follow these guidelines:
-o- Please remove all instances of self-depreciation and any words that clearly allude to pain. These are "emo" and therefore not real poetry.
-o- Please do not write about love if under the age of twenty-one, as an adolescent obviously knows nothing about such an adult emotion.
-o- Please do not use common place words, nor anything too obscure. A real poet will know which words are permeable.
-o- Please do not write poetry about the fictional media- it is not real enough to provoke deep emotion.
-o- Please do not write poetry
Post-Apocalyptic ComedyWe roasted the dog, but I think most of the jokes went over his head. He doesn't speak much English anyway, just "sit," "stay," and "Hey, hey stop that!" We only roasted him because we'd already done everyone else-even the cat. The cat got more of the jokes than the dog.Post-Apocalyptic Comedy by NoxLamiarum
Anyway, the first person to get the idea to do a comedic roast was Sam. She'd never seen one, (none of us had) but we'd all fallen victim to the repetitive commercials on Comedy Central advertising them while watching Scrubs, South Park, and Futurama reruns at random hours of the morning in my dimly-lit living room. The basic idea was clear-spend a couple hours poking fun at someone, laugh for a while, then it was over. There are five of us human-beings, so we decided to do it once a month, space it out a bit.
They all wanted to roast me first. Somehow I became the leader, or something. I think it's because I'm the tallest. Or maybe because I've read so many random books. It made me uncomfortab