What do you think? Is Profanity acceptable in blogging? For me, it depends on the article. If I write a post about SEO or depression, cursing would be a huge turn off and my readers would take offense to it. Sometimes, I take the approach that I’m talking to my readers as a friend, so I may slip in something as I would in everyday life – naturally, not forced or put there to offend.
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Posts Tagged transgressional fiction
Cliché and Bubbles
Dec 8
Marianna took a sip of her chamomile tea–a slight tinge of anger purposefully posed to hide her inner pain–she stopped typing, clearing her throat, “Hmm . . . but I want a strong female protagonist–not just wise from epiphany, but one who changes because of years of realization, overcoming her hatred of men. I freaking hate epiphany in a story . . . it’s such a cliché. And like Mrs. Talbot said in class, if you want to transcend common plot themes, formulaic structure and all the other common vehicles in all of fiction, the cure is to have characters you care about–characters who change.” She took another sip of tea and started biting her middle finger nail, “Give me another line.”
I plopped a thick chunk of iridescent cocaine onto the marble counter top, stretched a five dollar bill across it cupping the edges with my fingers and smashed the coke with a Bic lighter. I started chopping it into smaller pieces with Marianna’s eyes fixated, mesmerized in anticipation. I said, “Deconstruction.”
“Deconstruction?”
“Yes, I am deconstructing this chunk of Bolivian flake. It’s so funny–you do realize that everything, every theory, every literary concept including deconstruction is a cliché–life itself is a fucking cliché. Cliché and bubbles.”
She rolled up the five dollar bill to form a makeshift straw as I prepared her a fat line, “You said cliché and bubbles?”–leaning in, snorting her line, “Cliché and bubbles . . . explain what the hell that’s supposed to mean.”
I snorted an equally thick line, leaning my head back and plugging my left nostril with my pinky while tears trickled from my left eye. I took a sip of tea, “This happens every time I snort a line. I used to only use my right nostril until it started hurting every time I did, so I finally switched to my left–just like a protagonist who gets tired of boring sex with his wife and has to switch to a secret mistress every time he switches snorting cocaine to his left nostril. See, that could be a story right there but I digress.”
She giggled, “You’re married and snorting through your left nostril–and I suppose I could be thought of as your whore . . . hmm.”
“Don’t change the subject or I will psychologically destroy you and write a New York Times best seller about your demise. Cliché and bubbles. Think about it, all the frivolous bullshit Mrs. Talbot says is all cliché. Even her own book, The Inner Lotus, is so ridiculously contrived, I almost committed suicide after reading it. Another boring love story where the characters change–all the action and story is revealed through conversation and several lives are intertwined against the backdrop of world war two. It’s much like your story, where you try to employ these same devices. After reading your entire manuscript, your attempt in revealing the character’s traits through pure conversation with hardly any description is quite pathetic.”
“What? Pathetic? I’m looking for positive criticism,” she says becoming noticeably agitated, her eyes looking glazed over from fifty hours of no sleep, “I’ve worked so hard on this . . . my first book . . . my dream.”
“Calm down girl, I’m not done. Bubbles. Think about how everything in life is a bubble–a bubble which eventually pops, after which both destruction and despair ensue–often followed by rejuvenation and fresh conditions of growth and change. Like the American economy . . . a credit bubble. Politicians, banks and corporate greed are working hard to patch that bubble so it can re-inflate only to burst again–maybe for the last time, allowing a new society to emerge from the ashes. Life is a bubble, we keep our friends in one, we live and move through many bubbles . . . pop!” I violently clapped my hands together–Marianna’s heart almost exploded, the sound of beating muscle muffled within her frail chest.
“You scared the shit out of me Bobby . . . you jerk off. My heart is beating like a jackhammer, but I’m not tired at all–even after being awake almost a week. So how does all this help my story?”
“Marianna . . . why does your main character hate men? I’ve noticed all your main characters in every story you write hate men. You’re not married, you don’t have or want a real boyfriend–as you always say . . . hmm. Something is going on with this entire motivic movement throughout all your stories. I’m your classmate, study partner and boy toy…your male whore. You will never love me, and it’s simply because I’m a man. I think you really do hate men in real life. Women who were molested as children by their fathers are often promiscuous and have sex only relationships–much like the relationship we have now. Who knows, maybe you hate me, maybe you’re plotting to murder me.”
She’s too high to understand, but I’ve stirred up something disturbing in her psyche, some deeply buried pain in her past–I can almost hear the gears of repressed memories churning in her subconscious. She carefully plans her words in a feeble attempt to mask her inner turmoil, “My protagonist, Danielle, well . . . her father didn’t love her. He didn’t love her mother. I cover it somewhat, but wanted to leave the dark moments to the imagination of my readers. I think it best to not reveal everything.”
I wickedly smirk, “You need to delve into this darkness. It is the missing ingredient.”
She seems transfixed on my words, “Really? You really think so?”
“Yes indeed. Add some twisted concepts of transgressional fiction in the story. How about this: Danielle is seeing a hypnotherapist, who has her in seriously deep regressive therapy, unlocking horrifying events in her past. She remembers her mother being raped by her father while she was a little girl. Her father locks her head in a vice so she is forced to watch–her eyes taped open–hour after hour of sickening rape and terror. Later on in the story, amidst marrying her dream man and supposedly cured from her torment, she has repeated dreams that when she was born, her mother was at home and had no medical help–the nearest hospital too far away for her to ever reach. Her mother needs a cesarean section, but cannot get one. The baby Danielle, who as an adult known for her strong will–the strong will you wanted her to have as a character trait–is actually born with adult teeth, a rare trait only one in two-thousand babies are born with–eats her way out of her mother’s womb with her freakish adult teeth, devouring her uterus and organs. The doctor finds baby Danielle cradled in her mother’s blood sodden, hollowed out cavity–pop goes the bubble. She wakes up–a repeating dream from which she cannot escape, but tells no one. The repetitive nightmare is a reflection of her own will to fight . . . to live and escape from her pain–to escape from her bubble . . . her prison of misery.”
Marianna is in tears, unable to speak, her hands trembling while she takes a sip of chamomile tea to calm her nerves. Seemingly almost in shock, she says, “Bobby . . . my real mother died when I was born, from a c-section. She bled to death on the operating table.” More tears gush forth.
“I’m not done Marianna. Draw some parallels, powerful parallels between her own desire to not hate men and deconstructing her own past, discovering why she’s so fucked up. The whole story can end with a reverse deconstruction, that ties the entire plot together–she puts the pieces together, constructing her life in an amalgamation of psychotic insanity and quest for hope and love. Her final dream of eating her way out, like a lizard from an egg shell–a second birth if you will, a birth to escape from her torture–is the most intense episode ever. She remembers how her mother’s flesh and blood tasted. She is unsure what is real: did she actually kill her own mother to save herself–a testament to her own will–did her father really rape her mother? Did your father rape you Marianna? Back to your story–maybe Danielle is so confused, her father actually raped her, not her mother–and the psychological scars are so deep, reality is a grisly pipe dream. They find her in the end after cannibalizing her husband the first night of her honeymoon, screaming I’m sorry mother over and over. She finally constructs her past and loses her sanity. Write a final paragraph about how she is shrouded in a straitjacket in an insane asylum. Weave all this transgressive violence into the framework of a standard, formulaic love story plot. That would be fucking awesome.”
Marianna suddenly stands up, tears streaming down her face, ridden with tortuous anguish, “Leave Bobby . . . leave and never come back . . . get the fuck out!” She throws her tea cup at me and collapses on the floor . . . sobbing. Jeez, I guess I stirred up some old feelings–well cry me a freaking river.
The following week in Mrs. Talbot’s creative writing class, Marianna wasn’t there. She announced that Marianna had committed suicide–she slit her own belly open with a straight razor while in the bathtub. The coroner said it was the most gruesome suicide he’s ever seen in his entire life. She had so much cocaine in her system, she almost gave herself a complete hysterectomy before she died. Since cocaine thickens blood, her rate of blood loss was slowed, allowing her to almost complete her self-operation. Marianna was such a cool chick – maybe I’ll write a story about her one day.
*This story is purely fictional. I wanted a short story based on transgressional fiction and conversation about people talking about writing a story based on conversation and transgressional fiction–my favorite type of fiction. I do realize it is not truly transgressional because the escape from societal norms is not complete, but does contain many elements of that peculiar genre. In a story this short, there’s not much room for character development – but it’s the best I could do with this situation. Because there is something wrong with me, I wrote myself into the story like I usually do in my blog fiction. In many ways, my character is a murderer, though easily gets away with it. Through psychological awareness, I keenly unlock Marianna’s pain, and she commits suicide–taking advantage of a mentally damaged woman while in a cocaine stupor – sickening indeed. If a real person did that for real, they would deserve to die. May your day be filled with joyful happiness!
Warning, this is extremely graphic, sadistically psychotic horror fiction. Come on read it…you know you want to.
Sleepwalking at a blistering pace – a mind of concrete, a body of clay – metallic sparks shattered from my feet like grinding wheels on iron. Or was I really there? I had been awake seventeen days on a heart throttling meth bender. The onyx sky devoid of light – no stars, no moon, no anything. The night felt dead. I thought I was being followed by some back alley thug, meth addict or caffeine amped street whore. Ahead in the distance, the luminescent nimbus of emerald green – a twenty-four hour Starbucks, just what the doctor ordered.
Starbucks
As I drew near my destination – in the corner of my periphery – I saw a girl’s dead body behind an industrial dumpster. I approached with extreme caution. I leaned in and was stricken by her beauty, the most scorching hot Asian goddess I had ever seen – a Starbuck’s waitress in a tiny green plaid mini-skirt. Blinded by sickening perversion, I placed my hand on her calf to see if she was alive. Oh my, what delicately silken epidermis.
“You scared the shit out of me girl!” I jumped out of skin in shock – she sat up and touched my face with her tender hand.
In exotic far east vociferation, she said, “Hello cowboy…trying to feel up a dead girl? You must be my three o’ clock. It’s 3:30 am, you’re late. What’s your name?”
“What?” I asked in perplexity.
She replied, “My boy Darnell sent you? Come inside the coffee shop until my 5:30 am break, I’ll be in need of your services – my itch will be perniciously vicious.”
“I thought you were dead…at first.”
She smiled, “Hehe…you perverted sicko American man! I’m not dead. I snort big line of killer meth and pass out…have big head rush.”
She held my hand as we walked in Starbucks – I had already fallen in love with her. She stopped short as our bodies grazed closely. Her lips plumped blood red, her eyes crystalline umber as she warmly whispered, almost kissing me, “What is your name?”
“I am Bobby.”
She retorted, “I am Noklek Kamchana Katsongrits, from Bangkok. Noklek mean little bird…gonna fly away…hehe. Just call me Nok. Your gun is poking me.”
I confidently boasted, “That’s not a gun.”
MMO Blogfest
Two uber-geek bloggers sat in the booth across from mine – wired on espresso – frenetically typing on their Mac laptops. One was this skinny black guy wearing a sky blue Twitter t-shirt, a skyscraper high triangular carved afro and neon purple tennis shoes with glow-in-the-dark orange laces. The other was a corpulent fat body with grotesque yellow teeth, a jet black mohawk, blond goatee, pale skin and sporting a shirt with “Master MMO Blogger” scripted on the front. He looked like he had been raised in a sunless dungeon of blogging hell. He looked at me and said, “Looking at something Ponchy? See this?” he pointed at the insignia on his shirt, “Master MMO blogger…that’s make money online my friend.”
I shot a wicked stare of nuclear despisement through his skull and said, “Who gives a fuck.”
He said, “That’s a negative attitude you have there. If you want to get rich blogging, you need positivity and keyword mastery! I have 107 blogs…saturating my niche. I fucking own my keywords dude. If you google money…my blog pops up first. I practically invented SEO. I make $150,000.00 per hour through Adsense. I am God. Name’s Newton “Niche” Nelson, my friend is Tyrell “Twitdawg” Wallace.”
I said, “I’m Bobby. Hey Twitdawg, any relation to Marsellus Wallace?”
He furrowed his thickened brow, “Never heard of him. Could you sit somewhere else? We’re like…blogging dude. People like you don’t even know what a blog is. Burn! Hahaha…eat our Internet dust you out of touch loser….go crawl in a hole and die from mediocrity. Where’s that Chinese waitress…I need an espresso,” he snapped his fingers, “Hündin!”
The gorgeous Nok gracefully sailed across the floor, her swaggering hips hypnotic, her perfection scintillating. She said, “Hündin means bitch.”
Twitdawg rudely blasted, “I know bitch…now get us an espresso…hahaha. Make sure you use an Italian grind…and make damn sure the top layer of creamy froth is dark beige. I didn’t like the shade of our last batch, it was more of a roasted sienna. I want it beige…and creamy, I like it creamy.”
The Lab-Kitchen
The words come with me gently rolled from Nok’s raspberry lips – I was mystified in drunken stupefaction. Her aroma was of iced jasmine as she held her body against mine – long cherry fingernails danced beneath my shirt as we kissed – long, slow and moist. She said, “This is our lab-kitchen, where the secret ingredients are prepared.”
I was mortified by what I saw – a putrified chemical factory stinking of ammonia and acid – a low tech meth lab encrusted in sickening filth.
Coffee Shop Meth Lab
The Meth Cook Dr. Dizzle
She said, “Bobby meet Dr. Dizzle, our cook.”
A repugnantly sore infested meth addict with ghastly blisters – partially dissolved teeth ornamented by decay and stench said, “I’m Dizzle, master cook foshizzle,” and held his unclean, trembling hand out to shake mine.
I twitched, almost retching, “Forgive me if I don’t shake hands. I’m Bobby.”
The Meth Cook Dr. Dizzle
Nok prepared two espressos on the inelegant counter, mixing in several clandestine substances – sweetly smiling at me while stirring. The meth cook held a razor sharp Gransfors Scandinavian Forest axe in his hands and said, “If those MMO bloggers give you any hassle…just holler,” and tossed me a huge bag of crystal, “that’s the shizznitt.”
Pandemonium in Starbucks
I sat back down in my booth and dumped the huge bag of pearlescent methamphetamine on the charcoal-black table top. I scooped it into my palms as the MMO master bloogers stared in disbelief. Newton asked, “Oh my God…what is that?
Handful of Meth
I dunked my face into the gargantuan pile, snorting like a Hoover vacuum. Soul scorching pain torched my nostrils – an inferno of tortuous agony riving chunks of tissue from my tender nasal fossae – spalling epithelial cells – a geyser of purplish blood squirted like rain across the chemical snow. Blood tears painfully secreted from my lachrymal ducts as I cried in anguish.
Nok screamed, “No Bobby…don’t snort too much, you could die from that. That’s 100% pure pink champagne aka pink ice. That ain’t no crackerjack bullshit.” She turned to the perplexed bloggers and said, “Here’s your espressos…I hope the frothy cream is beige enough for you…hehe.”
They smacked their espresso cups together and said, “Here’s to making money online,” and downed their triple shots of dizzle doused java. Twitdawg said, “Yeech…that was bitter…ewww. Beige creamy espresso, let’s research that key phrase and start a new niche phenomenon.”
I said, “I have a blog…Revellian dot com”
They both fulminated in laughter. Newton said, “Revellian Dot Com? Bwahhahaha! I’ve seen that crap…I actually blocked you on Twitter because you suck so bad. Look, a real blogger makes greenage…rakes in the cash. You gotta get your keywords, your anchor text, reduce the size of your home page below 100 kb, tweak your title tags, get some fucking strategy buddy! Get some branding going on! You’re not a blogger, you’re a disgrace.”
Nok stripped down to her tiny bra and panties and began rubbing moisturizing lotion on her tender thighs. She crawled on top of me and began nibbling on my ear lobe. She looked at the bloggers and said, “I put five grams of meth in each of your espressos. You’ll probably die in a few minutes…you stupid punks. Hey Dr. Dizzle..bring your axe out here!”
Twitdawg ran to the bathroom screaming in bloodcurdling fear. Newton hopped up, “Dude, my heart is beating like a jackhammer,” and began sobbing in a conniption fit, “why did you poison us you vulgar skank?”
Nok tenderly folded her icy tongue into my mouth swirling it around my lips – my heart stomping my ribcage – the potent stimulant slithering through my aorta – her soft hands kneading lust from my pores. she sensually groaned, “Don’t let him talk to me like that my lover.”
I was catatonic with insanity while the meth cook stormed forward – razors of fire riveting my skull as the humongous axe sliced though the air chopping Newton’s cranium in halves – his brain plopped onto the cold floor and spattered into what looked like blood sodden shrimp – cerebral blood noodles. The speed wired Dr. Drizzle eviscerated, chopped, diced, sliced and annhialted Newton into neatly formed sections – meth laced blood slobbered the walls – fine crimson mist vaporized the room in gaseous hemoglobin.
Nok violently gnawed my tender ear lobe, tearing a serrated cleft in my head – she ground a handful of meth into my eyes and viciously screamed, “Die you piece of shit!”
I lifted her above my head and slammed her frail body head first onto the stony floor. She crumpled like a weakened baby deer. As Dr. Drizzle charged me with his axe, I pulled out my Desert Eagle .50 caliber hand cannon. I squeezed off one round into his abdomen. His upper torso fell from his still running hips and legs like a Pez dispenser. His legless upper body miraculously landed upright – his arms flailing in frenzy – his legs drunkenly running like a decapitated chicken into the wall. He said, “Give me one more line of meth before I die…please.”
Nok opened her eyes – her twisted head sat crookedly on her severely broken neck, “I thought you didn’t have a gun.”
I smiled and said, “I lied,” and blew her skull into one thousand bone slivers. The entire room was painted in blood – my masterpiece of psychoses – my Rembrandt of hatred. I jacked my knee high, clipping my own collar bone and savagely stomp kicked the doctor in the face – his pre-dissolved skull splattered apart. My kick was ferocious, but it was the years of meth abuse that had digested his facial bones. It was like stomping into a huge bowl of Fruity Pebbles – chunks of brain matter and torn flesh had shot in my mouth.
Twitdawg stood before me – his eyes opened in miles almost popping from their sockets. I asked, “Does my blog suck?” with the gun barrel pointed at his head.
“No Bobby…you have the best blog I’ve ever seen and I promise to read it every day. Please don’t kill me. I’ll add you as a friend on Twitter and Facebook too.”
“Chill out Twitdawg,” I said while chewing fleshy pieces of Nok – my human fig newton, “I hate that freaking name…I’ll call you Tyrell. Now help me burn this place to the ground.”
We walked into the darkness as a violent firestorm of hellish flame exploded across the horizon. I stayed wide awake for an additional 19 days and nights – or so my therapist tells me.
- All I could think while writing this was if I went too far for a blog horror story. Did I?
- This story is absolutely fallacious, made up, untrue, perfidious, recreant and treacherously sadistic psycho-horror fiction written by Bobby Revell.
- All names and places are falsified fiction.
- I’ve never even been in a Starbucks and after writing this, probably never will.
- Meth is a horrible drug and I do not condone its use nor recommend anyone try it as it will destroy your life.
- Tyrell “Twitdawg” Wallace currently resides in an insane asylum where he lives as a vegetable and refuses to drink coffee.
