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A piece of creative writing by me.

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By (semi) popular demand, here is a piece of mine.

After the whole WH Smith fiasco, I think it rings true.

Feel free to critique and laugh at it:

                       Paradise

I remember:

Sunshine.

Cloudless skies.

Clean parks.

Clean beaches.

Wholesome family fun.

But it never truly existed.

Memories from childhood are perceived through these filters. Consequently, you have a hard time reminiscing without any of these factors.

The reason you remember them is because you knew that these pleasures were temporary. Someday you’d have to be wearing a uniform to work. Taking orders. Feeling frustration. Opening a beer after work, and trying to recapture these memories. The time before the cracks appeared.

I remember saying I wanted to be a footballer. It’s because I was scared.

I didn’t want to have a job.

I wanted to do something I loved. I’d be safe.

I’d be famous. Everything would work itself out in the end.

Everything would be all right.

It never happened.

I hate everything.

This is the beach where I’d go as a kid.

Paradise. To me.

Sunshine.

Cloudless skies.

Clean parks.

Clean beaches.

Wholesome family fun.

I used to feel free on a beach.

I used to feel safe.

That’s gone.

Looking about…There’s nothing magical about it anymore.

Pollution. Condoms. Litter.

Cynicism has eaten away all optimism.

I’m going. There’s nothing here for me anymore.

I’ll never feel free.

I’ll never be safe.

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I agree and can relate to most of that ,yeah

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I wrote the piece based on someone saying that my dreams were unrealistic. So I tried to imagine myself in an office job or something like that, and it depressed me.

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10/10 if you need a scale.from this-pased too much opinion.

:Eureka!: you have a most beautiful freedom. of the mind.

an excellent, smooth working mind, with the power of expression. huge difference than too many. shut up JW. pick up rugby?

sounds hokey but Nelson Mandela can out of prison and say that he still dreams. maybe not with intact tear ducts & that hurts. but he dreams. sea water and fresh air and any horizon beyond. even if its just out the window.

                          keep up the great work.
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JW wrote: 10/10 if you need a scale.from this-pased too much opinion.

:Eureka!: you have a most beautiful freedom. of the mind.

an excellent, smooth working mind, with the power of expression. huge difference than too many. shut up JW. pick up rugby?

sounds hokey but Nelson Mandela can out of prison and say that he still dreams. maybe not with intact tear ducts & that hurts. but he dreams. sea water and fresh air and any horizon beyond. even if its just out the window.

                          keep up the great work.

Cheers:thumb:

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"Your body is at work but your mind can be anywhere it wants"

That's not always so easy though

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Christopher Owens wrote: By (semi) popular demand, here is a piece of mine.

After the whole WH Smith fiasco, I think it rings true.

Feel free to critique and laugh at it:

Cynicism. free. safe.

no laughing at all. unless it'd be your pie-in-the-face-it ain't funny laugh.

right, big brave words can be totally hollow with the body and/or mind being trashed and part of the the mind happily out off in the pasture. so nothing is a certain. and everybody can have a meltdown. see that my spelling sucked and that the bright-eyed smilie didn't work out. :computer2: but you're thinking and that's 1/2 the surviving battle, hey?

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Christopher Owens wrote: I wrote the piece based on someone saying that my dreams were unrealistic.

I wonder what people said about Buckethead's dreams?

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The Buckethead Story

Narrated by Ronald L. Witherspoon Bucketheadland Historian

Well every once in a while people ask me about Buckethead. Why does he wear a mask and bucket. What happened to his parents. Is he part robot, will he hurt us, is he really Colonel Sanders son, on and on and on. Well I can't tell you everything about Bucket but I can tell you something.

First of all you gotta understand Buckethead grew up real lonely on that farm. He figured no one understood him. The only thing they understood about him was how to treat him bad. To this very day, believe it or not, Buckethead does not like to be shocked with a cattle prod.

It wasn't all bad, though, on the farm. As soon as he moved into the chicken coop he started to make new friends. The chickens took real good care of him, and they liked him so much they scratched his face off. Now he could wear a mask every day, just like Halloween! He was the luckiest boy he knew. He didn't know many other boys though, except those kids who lit him on fire that time.

One good way to forget the smell of burning cartilage was watching movies. Down the hill from the coop, and through a knothole in the fence, was the drive-in theater. Every night at dusk the boy could watch great movies like GIANT ROBOT or THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE. The speakers wouldn't reach to the coop though so he didn't even know what the movies sounded like. All he heard was chickens when Leatherface would slam the big metal door shut.

So when he got to be about THIS tall Buckethead started playing his little guitar. He would sit and watch the movies and his fingers couldn't stop moving and now all the sudden there was music. And Giant Robot would shoot rockets out of his fingers and who knows what would happen.

Buckethead practiced so much he started to get real good. But the people on the farm still made fun of him and smashed his family's eggs. One night, after he got to be this tall, somebody threw a bucket of fried chicken into the coop. Try as he might, Buckethead couldn't put the chicken back together again. So he put the bucket on his head, picked up his guitar and ran to the cemetery.

Buckethead was real sad but it seemed like he played guitar better than ever. All the grey people and angels in the cemetery listened to the music and it was so beautiful they just stood still and speechless. He figured the spirits of all the fried chickens he ever knew were channeling into him through the bucket, and he played until he collapsed.

Well it prob'ly won't surprise you to hear that eventually the sun came up and the rooster crowed. And some folks say Buckethead had chicken grease and barbecue sauce smeared around the mouth hole on his mask. Whatever happened that night, the bucket stayed on his head, and in the morning it was filled full of chicken bones.

When they found him curled up in a grave like that the people on the farm felt real bad, so they tried to be kinda nice to him for a while. They brought him water in the morning and let him have their scraps. For Christmas he even got an old shovel so he could look for more friends in the cemetery. But the best thing of all was when the farmhand showed him how to sneak into Disneyland disguised as a Pirate of the Carribean or a Haunted Mansion ghost.

For the first time in his life, Buckethead knew what he had to do. Disneyland was the greatest city he'd ever been to. Everybody was nice, they talked to him and sang songs, and they moved more realistically than his friends in the cemetery. So he burned down his coop and headed for Main Street where he started playing his guitar for E-Tickets. He learned all the songs and movements but every time he tried to get a job as an animatronic, they pulled him through a trapdoor.

Well if he couldn't live in Disneyland he had to live somewhere. He knew that if he built a park like Mr. Disney did, people all around the world would come visit him. Or even if they didn't, the park would be full of his audio-animatronic friends. He'd allow chickens inside, and he'd build a huge cemetery in the middle with the statues and tombstones specially lined up to create the best acoustics.

When Bucketheadland opened quietly in 1989 most people couldn't even tell it was a park. Its humble rides were made mostly out of rusty tractor parts and a bunch of sticks and animal bones tied together with spider silk. Buckethead knew he had to start working for money if he wanted to maintain the park, and they didn't make E-Tickets anymore anyway. He started cutting meat in a delicatessen, where he met Maximum Bob and formed his first band, Deli Creeps.

For the next 13 years, Buckethead travelled around the world playing guitar, recording records, making friends, and learning the secrets of embalming, theme park engineering and martial arts. He recorded many albums with himself or his friends or in bands like Praxis, Giant Robot, Giant Robot 2, El Stew, Thanatopsis, and Cobrastrike. He felt bad that he didn't have time to play music for the drive-in, so he recorded some film scores with Michael Kamen, George S. Clinton and John Carpenter. All of these adventures strengthened Buckethead's imagination and helped the Bucketheadland park grow into the world of dreams and nightmares that we all love.

Nowa days you can still see Buckethead wandering around the park at night, or peeking through a crack on the other side of a wall you don't remember being there before. Don't be afraid, he's a nice kid, and he wants to be your friend. In Bucketheadland he never gets lonely.

But if you see him on stage somewhere or playing with his dolls, for crying out loud don't make fun of the boy. He's had a tough life and he's worked hard getting where he is. So what if he looks confused up there. You would too if you'd been through all that. He just wants us to accept him. Don't stare at him or overcompensate and be too nice. Come on people lets use some common sense here, we don't want to set him off. Thanks.

Ronald L. Witherspoon lives in Colma, California with five dogs and a snake. His writings have appeared in Amusement Journal, Carnival Scholar Quarterly and Atlantic Dark Ride Monitor. He has been a leading expert on Bucketheadland since 1992.

NOTE: Few details of Buckethead's life are known. Some individuals may have been composited and events may have been altered chronologically. Stories may be apocryphal, hypothetical, metaphorical or completely made up. Bucketheadland attempts to keep this attraction as close to current scientific consensus as possible, within or without reason.

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beautiful

tugs at the heart strings dunnit

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Good writing Chris, i didn't read the title and for a minute i thought it was a suicide note! Very good. I'll give you a Distinction!

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Missy Jem wrote: Good writing Chris, i didn't read the title and for a minute i thought it was a suicide note! Very good. I'll give you a Distinction!

fuck...so did i at first glance. guuuuuhhhhhh!!!!!

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Very moving

But I tell you what you need to do Owens..... Get yer ass up to cave Hill or the Giant's Ring ( SHUT UP at the back there) an hour before dawn some spring morning. Paradise is still out there mate.

EDIT: about the filters......LOL...I bet you remember the Lagan as a winding azure serpent meandering through green fields. I remember the Lagan from when I was a kid as an open sewer full of burned out mkII escorts and Manta's and Capri's that you could smell from sydenham ;)

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Oi Cunty.

I work in a fucking office :laugh:

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shit...where izee?

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If I may tack on my own thing, which I did just now rather than work on a paper for my Critical Writing about Literature class :shrug:

A MESSAGE FROM DECEASED SENATORIAL CANDIDATE GREGORY KEYES, REPUBLICAN, WASHINGTON STATE

Hello and thanks to all my supporters over the past year, you have contributed so much to my campaign over the past year that it will be an honor to represent you when I am successful in this year's congressional elections. The people of Spokane have spoken in record numbers, and they support my strong stance on the war in Iraq, lower taxes for the middle class, and a firm support of the efforts to curb access to abortions.

Unfortunately, if you are receiving this message, it means that I am already dead. You see, friends, late last year the plane carrying myself and my campaign manager Ken Berry-Thomas, as well as my lovely wife Tanya and our teenage son Fred, Paula and Regina (the twins), and our puppy Scott, suffered a malfunction while over Puget Sound on the way to a rally in liberal Olympia, and none of us survived. This is truly a tragedy for our nation, and for the great people of Washington State.

But I will not be defeated by a minor setback such as my own demise in a flaming aeronautical disaster. Sure, my remains may be unretrivable from the depths of the water, but my campaign is just as vibrant as ever.

My opponent, Theo Stephens, has said that my death "presents a major problem" in that the GOP has not chosen a suitable candidate to replace me on the ballot. That's just what he would like, to see me removed from the ballet all because I am no longer among the living. I suppose he would argue that just because several of our sons and daughters have lost their lives in the pursuit of freedom for every Iraqi whether they want it or not, these fine and noble young people should not be counted on the voting records.

For shame, this is typical liberal "group-think". To dishonor the sacrifices our soldiers have made just because they have suffered a fate similar to mine is just disgusting.

Mr. Stephens would also have you believe that, if elected, I would be unable to perform the duties required of me as a Senator simply because I have crossed over to the other side. This is not true. While technically I might have some trouble showing up for votes (as I am a spirit now, and not composed of corporal flesh like my collegues), I believe this could be overcome by whispering my yeas or nays into the ear of my fellow Washington representative, Ned Wasserman.

Of course, I would have to speak into his left ear, as he is deaf in the right. Or is it the other way around?

If elected, I will continue to serve the people of Washington State to the best of my abilities, as I have ever since entering the political realm some tweleve years ago. And while I may no longer belong to the physical realm, I can make myself heard in the chambers of Congress through other means. I have been learning how to move objects at will (something that I admit has eluded me during these first few months of being "non-alive") from a lovely man who rides the subways of Seattle, and I feel fully confident that given enough practice, I can be as firm a defender of the President and his policies as any living Senator.

Also, I can drive Ted Kennedy to drinking more by haunting his domicile at night (a gift that would have been unavailable to me in my previous incarnation).

So this November, don't forget about Gregory Keyes. I stand for the values we all share, in this life and the next. And I think, working together, we can make Washington State a better place to live, for the living and the living dead alike.

And if that doesn't work, let me leave you with this thought: wouldn't you rather have me represent you than Theo Stephens? If he died, he would simply become a flesh-eating zombie.

I, on the other hand, am a friendly ghost. A friendly ghost committed to lower taxes and protecting our way of life from terrorists. Dead *and* alive, we can do it together!

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