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About Kapranosinium

  • Rank
    Bread = DEATH
  • Birthday 09/19/1988

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  • Location
    the 8th dimension. Seriously. I'm not joking.
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  1. "Something changed that night; a ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach made itself known and raged on as if it couldn’t escape. The air felt thicker and smelt of lies and deceit. This haunting premonition danced around my mind in a never-ending circle, and then I realized that nothing in my life would be simple anymore. The ticking of the clock echoed in my ears like the sound of an old man’s walking stick in an empty hallway. The constant sounds reverberated off of the dingy walls of my one room apartment as I waited. I sat in a stoic trance upon the wooden chair that had been placed in front of the window." I understood that he feels sad and hopeless in the first sentence...then you just give examples of it...which I suppose is okay, but ...je ne sais pas. Do you understand, sort of?
  2. I like it; I like the words you use...they meld together well, and it also reminds me a bit of Dostoevsky. But in the first part I feel like you're just repeating yourself.
  3. Then he is looking for an intelligent woman? I find this odd because he seems past the point of wanting a woman for her "intellectual stimulation." Unless he is so far gone that he feels the need to murder?...Would he kill a woman if she presented him with his ideal? And yes, this is very much like American Psycho.
  4. Thanks. At least you can get about 50 pages. I get about two and then I'm like, "Eh, I don't like this." It's rather annoying, actually.
  5. A poem I wrote when I was 16. Desired Constellation Remember when we were angels We played ice hockey in heaven We touched the stars and sat on the moon And one time, we ate fish with five forks Yesterday I picked flowers for you While you studied runes Sleeping on the sun, we didn't even burn Traveled to Pluto, never to return. I really like writing "poetry" (I guess it's poetry, I only write prose-like things in my journal. I don't think I've written a proper journal entry in four years), but I don't think I'm that great at it. Sometimes I don't even understand what my own words mean.
  6. Mhmm. I see no point in telling the reader everything, for then very little thinking would be involved.
  7. You're welcome. Oh, another thing: I don't like that it's in present tense. I have always found it ridiculously annoying to read a story that's not in past tense. Einstein, obviously, was a genius. That is why you like to quote him. Here's something I started, but I have NO IDEA where I'm going with it. I recently finished reading A Beautiful Mind, so I was a bit inspired by that. I find that whatever I'm reading, I usually end up writing something similar to it - or at least the same idea, which is a really bad thing! Like with that story up there ^^, I had just finished Crime and Punishment, so I wanted to write about murder. He looked up at the dark, clear sky, his heart feeling heavy as the night pressed in all around him. The reality of his situation was slowly seeping in, like sweat oozes through pores. His mind, jumbled with thoughts flowing this way and that way, was on overload. He didn’t know what to do, what he could do. So he sat. The damp grass quickly soaked his jeans, but he didn’t care. He was completely drained – he didn’t think he could move if he tried. Leaning his head against a large, rotting stump, he thought of how he had become like this. He was running away from something that he couldn’t exactly place; it was like something strange and vague haunting him, sprinting at him full speed, but still not catching up to take the punch. All he wanted was to be alone. But people kept pestering him; his mother would call or Adeline would stop by, always asking sincerely, but with apprehension, “Noah, how are you?” “I’m fine, Adeline,” he said, brushing her off each time she asked. He knew that she saw through his act, but she never said anything. He supposed she didn’t sincerely want the truth; she just wanted to fool herself into thinking that she cared. He was sure that she thought she really did care, but he was sure that she was only in denial. Oh well. What did it matter? He was fine. Sitting at his thick, mahogany desk, he studied laboriously over his papers, shuffling them all around in a frantic search for his thesis. He heard a knock at the door. He groaned. “Come in,” he said, going through his papers for a moment more before giving up and throwing his hands through his already disheveled hair. He heard the door squeak open and an exasperated voice say, “Well, it’s about time I find you when you’re actually in your office.” Laughing slightly, Noah offered him a chair. “Yes, I know. There’s something about this office that doesn’t sit well with me…bad atmosphere,” he finished with a wave of his hand. “You ought to fix it up, then,” his visitor said. “It does look pretty damn awful.” “Yes, I should, but we both know I never will.” “Too true. It doesn’t bother you enough.” Taking off his thick rimmed, black glasses, Noah suddenly leaned forward. “What did you really come here for; surely not to talk about this blasted atmosphere!(?)” “No, I came here to see how you ‘re doing,” he replied gently, leaning forward a bit in his chair. Noah rolled his eyes and sighed, the recurrence of this question wearing him thin. “For the millionth time I’m fine.” The visitor’s eyebrows went up in disbelief. “No need to get frustrated………..”
  8. I like that sentence quite a lot. It's decent enough. You've got a lot of punctuation errors, mostly commas (as in you need to put them in). If you want I can fix them and send it back to you. However, I thought it was kind of boring. Reading the whole story might make it more entertaining, though. P.S. I like your sig.
  9. Thanks. In my head, Julia and Mrs. Meade had no connection, save through Daniel....that's a good question...I don't really know why she killed Daniel, except for "people get what they deserve," which if this is true, something bad will happen to Julia, and something bad will happen to the person/thing that happenes to her, etc. etc.
  10. I liked it, but how is the prisoner going to become everything? I understand that he is nothing, but going to be everything? Here's the rest of mine. He knew it was safe to go into the living room when he heard the door slam. “Why did I get so worked up? She was only being a good friend,” he thought, rather annoyed with himself. “Because there is something wrong, and you have no intention of telling anyone,” the voice in his head answered. He slowly blew out his breath, trying to calm down his rapidly beating heart. He gently sat down on the couch and stared at the phone. “Just do it, you coward,” he told himself for the millionth time. He stood up and walked over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed. “Hello,” he heard a cool voice say, “This is Mrs. Meade’s office.” “Hi, could I speak to Mrs. Meade, please?” He prayed that she wasn’t in. “She’s sick today, so she’s not here,” the secretary said.. “Okay, thank you.” He let out a deep sigh as he hung up the phone. He grabbed his coat, checking the pockets to see if everything he needed was there. Hoping not to meet anyone on the way out, he left his penthouse, and inconspicuously got on the elevator. He became a bit overconfident when he left the building completely unnoticed. “This might be easier than I thought,” he said, smiling to himself. He didn’t worry about being noticed on the street, either. Millions of people walked these streets, and if he was completely honest with himself, he knew no one would glance twice at him. He put his hands in his pockets, checking to make sure nothing had fallen out. “Everything will be fine,” he told himself, looking straight ahead. “Don’t be so anxious!” “Don’t be so anxious?” the voice in his head scoffed. “I’d think most people would be before doing something like this.” Frustrated with himself, he thought about just going home. He could sit on the couch and stare at the phone some more. He laughed at that thought; he had stared at the phone for too long. Yet he still paused for a moment, completely indecisive. He turned around, facing home. “No. Do this. You’ve already come this far.” He turned back around and continued walking. He passed an outside market selling flowers, the fresh smell overpowering his senses. He thought he might as well buy a bouquet; they might be useful. He handed the vender fifteen dollars and headed off. Before he knew it, he was inside the building, his legs already climbing the steps. He was just rounding a corner when he banged into, of all people, Julia. Suddenly, he was on the ground, with Julia underneath him. “Oh,” he said, grimacing, “Sorry about that.” He quickly stood up and offered a hand to pull her up. “What do you have in your pocket? It jammed me in the ribs!” she winced, gently rubbing her side. “Oh, sorry, I just went to the supply store to buy a hammer,” he lied. “I’ve got some pictures I want to hang up.” “You’re decorating?” she asked, already doubtful of his motives. “Since when have you been interested in decorating? You always get someone else to do it.” “I figured I’ve learned enough to do it myself now, after watching the decorators. They make it look so easy, you know,” he said smoothly, thinking he had her fooled. She studied him a moment, trying to read his vague expression, then continued with her accusations, “What are you doing here, anyway?” “My, are we suspicious today?” he asked, a contemptuous smile growing on his face. Julia cringed, seeing his face contort into something she had grown accustomed to in the last month. “I’m not doing anything that concerns you, so you’ve no need to worry,” he said, starting to walk away from her, signaling that the conversation was over. Julia knew that was what he wanted, and she decided she wasn’t going to allow him to have that pleasure. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Tell me what is going on,” she commanded. Daniel started to laugh, first silently, then wildly. “You think you can actually tell me what to do?” he asked, still laughing. “Julia, you have a lot to learn.” He knew she was going to slap him, and as she whipped her hand towards his face, he grabbed her wrist before she could make contact. She cried out and tried to pull her wrist out of his grip, but his hold was too strong. “Daniel, let go!” “Not until you listen to me,” he growled, bringing his face dangerously close to hers, “you need to stay away from me. I don’t ever want to see you again.” He let go of her wrist and immediately left her. He grabbed the bouquet of flowers from the ground, and headed toward Mrs. Meade’s door. He rang the doorbell and was about to ring again when she finally answered, “Oh, hi Daniel, what do you need?” she asked, wiping her nose with a tissue. He brought the flowers out from behind his back. “I was just stopping by to give you these. I knew you weren’t feeling well.” “Oh, Daniel, thank you!” she said, taking the flowers. “Come on in.” “Okay, but I can only stay for a minute.” Mrs. Meade led him into the living room, and then excused herself to make some tea. “This is the perfect chance,” he thought. “Do it now.” He pulled the gun from his coat pocket, wiped it off with his handkerchief, and tiptoed to the kitchen. He watched her put the kettle on the stove as he hid himself behind a wall. He felt like a herd of elephants was stampeding throughout his body; he was sure Mrs. Meade could feel his rapidly thumping heart. He was so nervous that he about dropped the gun. His hands were sweaty and clammy, and he felt like the room was closing in on him. “Just get it over with!” He saw Mrs. Meade pour the tea into two cups. He came around from the wall, and pointed his gun directly at her. “I hope you like green tea, Daniel!” she said enthusiastically, not noticing him in the room. “I do,” he casually said. She jerked her head up and screamed, seeing the gun in his hand. She started shaking uncontrollably. Daniel felt like he was watching everything in slow motion: her blonde curls bobbed up and down, up and down, and her body shook so slowly, like a gentle earthquake. “What are you doing, Daniel? What do you want?” she pleaded, mascara running down her face from the tears that leaked from her eyes. “Does it really matter?” The shot echoed throughout the room, making Daniel become even more aware of his crime. He checked to make sure her heart had stopped beating and tensely walked back to the sitting room to get his coat. He had barely finished putting on his coat when he heard someone say his name. He apprehensively turned around. He saw Julia, tears streaming down her face, pointing a gun at him. “What you have done is incredibly wrong,” she said, “and now you must pay.” Before he knew what was happening, he heard the familiar sound of a bullet piercing a body. He fell to the floor, stunned. “Everyone gets what they deserve,” he heard Julia spat as she walked out of the room. An immense amount of guilt and resentment filled him as he lay there on the cold, hard floor. He knew he was dying; he could feel his heart beating slower each second. “What have I done?” he inaudibly cried. As everything went black, it started to rain.
  11. My name's Erin. Disclaimer: everything is mine. Pardon the Interruption He was leaning against the window, his shoulder blades jutting into the cold, hard glass. He brought his hands to his face and sighed. Did he really want to do this? He peered through his fingers, his roaming eyes hesitantly stopping on the telephone. “I’ll do it,” he told himself with force, starting towards the phone. He picked it up, but quickly set it back down, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. His shaking hands reached for the phone again, this time bringing it to his ear, while his right hand started to dial. Just as he heard it ring on the other end, he heard a knock at the door. He set down the phone, and slowly walked to the door. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or frustrated at the interruption. To his surprise, as he opened the door, he saw his longtime friend, soaking wet. “Julia, what happened?” He stepped aside to let her in. “Rain,” she simply said. “Rain happened.” “Why didn’t you get a taxi?” he asked, leading her to the couch. “Oh,” she sighed. “I didn’t feel like it.” She started to sit down, but quickly stood back up. “Were you in the middle of a conversation?” she said, noticing that the phone was off the hook. He was taken aback. “Oh. That. No, I wasn’t.” He quickly hung up the phone and nervously busied himself with straightening the magazines on the coffee table. “Would you like something to drink?” “Water, please. I’m so thirsty!” she said, taking off her coat and throwing it on the couch before sitting down. As he walked into the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and turned on the faucet. Julia came in a few minutes later and leaned against the doorframe, watching him intently stare at the wall as her glass of water overflowed. “Daniel, are you okay?” she asked, hoping to wake him from his reverie. “What?” Daniel snapped his head around. “I’m fine.” He hastily turned off the faucet, wiped the glass off, and handed it to Julia. She studied his thin, handsome face for a moment. He looked worn and anxious. “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m just tired.” He leaned against the counter. “Are you sure you are okay? You’re the one who walked ten blocks in the rain,” he said, smirking. She laughed, “I don’t know what it was, why I walked that much in the rain.” She took a large drink of water. “Rain has always made me feel…” she stopped, searching for the right word, “clean.” “Do you want to go out for dinner? Have you eaten?” he asked, ignoring her comment, not exactly knowing how to reply. “No, but I’m not hungry.” She set down the now empty glass with a thud that reverberated throughout the room. “I was only stopping by to see how you were.” He didn’t want to go through this again. “Julia, I’m fine, for the last time.” She moved closer to him, peering at his eyes, trying to catch his lie. “You know I don’t believe that. You’ve been acting odd for about a month now. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she pleaded. “There’s nothing to tell you because there’s nothing wrong.” He turned away from her and roughly pulled open the refrigerator, showing his anger. He slammed it shut. “See what I mean!” she said indignantly. “Listen,” he started, turning towards her, his gray eyes piercing hers, “you can just leave if you’re going to bother me with pointless questions!” “What?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Why are you so upset?” He saw the confusion on her face, and he knew he was wrong to get so angry, but he felt it was too late to apologize. “Just leave. I have things to do,” he said, suddenly deadpanned. He lowered his head, staring at his fingers. He didn’t see the hurt on her face or the livid look she gave him as she stormed out of the room. But he heard her mutter under her breath, saying something about how much he’d changed. ......that's up through page three edit: I don't know why the style is messed up. It looked fine when I copied and pasted it, but now it's screwy.
  12. The insignificance of who I am weighs down on me - I feel like all the atoms and subunits that make up everything are bumping and burning and smacking into me - a calculating tension that confines me. Cold, lurid air stifles any capacity for pure, rational thought. How do I mean anything? There was a 19 year old girl similar to me 500 years ago, and there will be one 500 years in the future. The intangibility of what life means makes me go mad - it's like trying to catch pig who is covered in slippery, slimy oil; you touch the pig, just briefly, only for her to slip away before you can grasp that you almost caught her. I wrote a short story about a murder last year. It's fairly decent. It's ten pages long. If anyone has any interest at all in reading it, I'll post it. I've got two sort-of plot lines going right now. But I have no idea where they're ending up.
  13. "That chick has a great voice. It's a guy? Whoah, there goes my erection. I apologise to the singer - I guess I'll not be asking him out on a date now but he sounds real good. When I listen to his voice I feel like someone is tickling my penis with a feather." I forget who said it, but some guy who writes for some rock magazine...I think.
  14. To Matt: Which song (on an album), that you've written, do you hate the most? To Matt: Do you think you're weird? To all: What will you do when Muse is over?
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