This is my first Word Pack - just like the other ones, it features a compilation of 3 thematic flash fiction pieces. This Word Pack's theme is: "Metropolis".
![[http://www.vampireforums.net/uploads/post-92-1126205447.gif]](http://www.vampireforums.net/uploads/post-92-1126205447.gif "http://www.vampireforums.net/uploads/post-92-1126205447.gif")
DrKoobie’s Word Pack #1 | Installment #1.
Original Title: “250 rads” (2003)
The writer is sitting in his basement, a glowing screen of a laptop before his eyes. Blank pages going into infinity of possibilities, a lit cigarette in his mouth. Every molecule which surrounds him falls into a logical pattern within his mind, a consciousness twisted by psychedelic devices.
For once, everything makes sense.
The man folds his laptop, putting it in a little strapped bag. A step outside, the computer hanging at his hip.
He witnesses the neon lights licking concrete, the city sinking in green tint of acceptance.
This night he is the votary of violence, the culmination of "bad" pumped with drugs.
This night he is the antagonist of balance.
A random turn, and a set of steps lead the writer down, the street props slowly morphing into a metro station. Rare people wondering on the platform, waiting for their turn to become passengers of an unknown train.
All so green.
The hall is silent, begging for an echo of a gunshot, the laptop starving for colorful details.
Tonight, the drugs speak roses.
DrKoobie’s Word Pack #1 | Installment #2.
Original Title: “Welcome to J. Population: 1” (2004)
Everything is tinted gray. The black bird hovers above the piles of broken metal, stone, garbage, and human remains. It flies past an abandoned church, its cross torn off by the most brutal storms of all – time, flies through a shattered window into a little flat, glides past a broken TV set, a colorless sofa, and emerges on the other side of the multistory house from yet another glassless window.
This is a park. Seesaws and swings, gently pushed by the cold wind currents of the desolate city. The bird sits on a seesaw’s tip, black eye reflecting a man, sitting on a bench, his head almost as low as his knees, palms covering the face. A lit cigarette between the fingers of his right hand.
Jeremiah wanted to be rich, preferably famous. Wanted a car, a wife and a beauty lover, wanted what most other people did. But most of all, he wanted to be a SUCCESS. He wanted nature’s experiment in giving him life to be worth more than a sum of bills and funeral expenses, he wanted his existence to mean something. Mean something to others and mean something to himself.
The man lifts his head up and looks at the bird. His eyes are carrying no emotion, his skin is pale, black unwashed hair falling on his shoulders. In this city of shattered dreams, he is no survivor. He is but another victim of himself.
Yes, he wanted this, he wanted that, he wanted one thing too many. With no particular talents, no direction, with only his desire to be something MORE, Jeremiah was quickly crushed by the day-to-day realities of the modern world. Just another man in the sea of millions who never made it. Some days, after extensive drinking, he’d find himself lying in the middle of his flat, trash all around him, reach for his pack of smokes, and be genuinely happy about the three cigarettes still left.
He picks up a pebble and throws it at the bird, making it take off. Just another man in the sea of millions who never made it, all alone. Alone, just as they are. Misdirected by false promises he made to himself into a city engineered by the blueprints of his life, a theatre of death staging a one-man show for an audience that doesn’t exist.
There’s a feather lying under the seesaw. It’s black, unnaturally beautiful, and, if someone would be here to touch it, it would feel smoother than the best of silk. A feather of the raven called Hope.
DrKoobie’s Word Pack #1 | Installment #3.
Original Title: “Unchained” (2005)
She hates it here.
The disturbing colors of smell, the world shaping in and out of focus. She’s walking down the road, the night city towering above her, boots against concrete, a cigarette between her lips. Her perfect lips, lips that almost never smile.
The road makes a turn, becomes a street, a street becomes a city. A biomechanical structure nursing the filth of the night, stone and metal fused into a being that lives but does not think, a murderous being that sculptures itself after the shattered souls of its victim. Prostitutes, beggars, junkies, the beating, bleeding heart of a beast we all helped create – our very essence, the essence of destruction.
She walks on.
She lights a smoke.
In her mind, her beautiful mind, snowflakes dance and she’s dancing with them, naked in the snow, the cold bringing life to her hips, her motion burning through the setting sun. In her mind, we all deserve the orgasmic sensation of simple beauty, in her mind, the demon-possessed city of filth does not exist, it’s out of focus, a bad dream, a hallucination, something we’ll laugh about when we’re dancing in the snow, our fingertips gently pressed against each others. In her mind, her beautiful mind, we’re all smiling.
She hates it here.
![[http://www.vampireforums.net/uploads/post-92-1126206213.gif]](http://www.vampireforums.net/uploads/post-92-1126206213.gif "http://www.vampireforums.net/uploads/post-92-1126206213.gif")
DrKoobie’s Word Pack #1 | Installment #1.
Original Title: “250 rads” (2003)
The writer is sitting in his basement, a glowing screen of a laptop before his eyes. Blank pages going into infinity of possibilities, a lit cigarette in his mouth. Every molecule which surrounds him falls into a logical pattern within his mind, a consciousness twisted by psychedelic devices.
For once, everything makes sense.
The man folds his laptop, putting it in a little strapped bag. A step outside, the computer hanging at his hip.
He witnesses the neon lights licking concrete, the city sinking in green tint of acceptance.
This night he is the votary of violence, the culmination of "bad" pumped with drugs.
This night he is the antagonist of balance.
A random turn, and a set of steps lead the writer down, the street props slowly morphing into a metro station. Rare people wondering on the platform, waiting for their turn to become passengers of an unknown train.
All so green.
The hall is silent, begging for an echo of a gunshot, the laptop starving for colorful details.
Tonight, the drugs speak roses.
DrKoobie’s Word Pack #1 | Installment #2.
Original Title: “Welcome to J. Population: 1” (2004)
Everything is tinted gray. The black bird hovers above the piles of broken metal, stone, garbage, and human remains. It flies past an abandoned church, its cross torn off by the most brutal storms of all – time, flies through a shattered window into a little flat, glides past a broken TV set, a colorless sofa, and emerges on the other side of the multistory house from yet another glassless window.
This is a park. Seesaws and swings, gently pushed by the cold wind currents of the desolate city. The bird sits on a seesaw’s tip, black eye reflecting a man, sitting on a bench, his head almost as low as his knees, palms covering the face. A lit cigarette between the fingers of his right hand.
Jeremiah wanted to be rich, preferably famous. Wanted a car, a wife and a beauty lover, wanted what most other people did. But most of all, he wanted to be a SUCCESS. He wanted nature’s experiment in giving him life to be worth more than a sum of bills and funeral expenses, he wanted his existence to mean something. Mean something to others and mean something to himself.
The man lifts his head up and looks at the bird. His eyes are carrying no emotion, his skin is pale, black unwashed hair falling on his shoulders. In this city of shattered dreams, he is no survivor. He is but another victim of himself.
Yes, he wanted this, he wanted that, he wanted one thing too many. With no particular talents, no direction, with only his desire to be something MORE, Jeremiah was quickly crushed by the day-to-day realities of the modern world. Just another man in the sea of millions who never made it. Some days, after extensive drinking, he’d find himself lying in the middle of his flat, trash all around him, reach for his pack of smokes, and be genuinely happy about the three cigarettes still left.
He picks up a pebble and throws it at the bird, making it take off. Just another man in the sea of millions who never made it, all alone. Alone, just as they are. Misdirected by false promises he made to himself into a city engineered by the blueprints of his life, a theatre of death staging a one-man show for an audience that doesn’t exist.
There’s a feather lying under the seesaw. It’s black, unnaturally beautiful, and, if someone would be here to touch it, it would feel smoother than the best of silk. A feather of the raven called Hope.
DrKoobie’s Word Pack #1 | Installment #3.
Original Title: “Unchained” (2005)
She hates it here.
The disturbing colors of smell, the world shaping in and out of focus. She’s walking down the road, the night city towering above her, boots against concrete, a cigarette between her lips. Her perfect lips, lips that almost never smile.
The road makes a turn, becomes a street, a street becomes a city. A biomechanical structure nursing the filth of the night, stone and metal fused into a being that lives but does not think, a murderous being that sculptures itself after the shattered souls of its victim. Prostitutes, beggars, junkies, the beating, bleeding heart of a beast we all helped create – our very essence, the essence of destruction.
She walks on.
She lights a smoke.
In her mind, her beautiful mind, snowflakes dance and she’s dancing with them, naked in the snow, the cold bringing life to her hips, her motion burning through the setting sun. In her mind, we all deserve the orgasmic sensation of simple beauty, in her mind, the demon-possessed city of filth does not exist, it’s out of focus, a bad dream, a hallucination, something we’ll laugh about when we’re dancing in the snow, our fingertips gently pressed against each others. In her mind, her beautiful mind, we’re all smiling.
She hates it here.
幻術