oh how I hate editing posts, so let's do it together

His father had only four words for him during the first ten years of his life, which were, "Get out of the road." The road, in this case, was a long, lonely stretch of carpet that spanned the distance between him and his television.

He neither backed nor opposed the bully. He did, however, oppose Storch, and because of that, never shared his knowledge of life with him. Storch's biggest regret concerning his father was having never thanked him for keeping his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself.

 

("...it's something more to do with genetics..." ventured the goblin, adding "...and having a bladder that can last the night, yet these days it's no big deal and least it's better understood now...", but the goblin didn't want to interrupt the flow of the text so he fell silent letting storch continue what was getting there, reading the next bit now)

repost from elsewhere

"...it's funny, it wasn't till I saw this thread here today that I remembered something that I had completely forgotten had happened to me some years back...", and with that the goblin explained "...you see, there was this woman, who had bought a computer in our shop quite normally, only to return next morning with the computer in an array of detached bits all in a large cardboard box, wanting it repaired, where, on being refused, she went crazy and grabbed a scanner in her tantrum placing it into her big bag and walked out..." and that should have been the end of it, but no it wasn't, the goblin continued, "...no, she actually returned that same afternoon, minus the scanner of course...", the goblin remembered the standard ploy here, "...well, the trick now was to stall her till police showed up, but she went into another tantrum as she realised she had been locked in, and reached for her big bag in her panic and grabbed something in her hand, but the boss's reaction was quicker in noticing that she was now holding a large spanner heading for the shop windows, the boss caught her outstretched arm restraining her and shouted to me open the door again allowing her quick escape down the street, straight into the arms of the police who had just arrived on the scene...", the memories of which drifted back into the goblin's mind with a shudder again, but he sipped his coffee again, returning to the story here "...well having closed the shop for the day we turned up at the police station to give our statements, where the interviewing officer calmly confided to us that she was obviously deranged and would need holding for observation...", voiced the goblin as if ending his recollection at this point, almost amazed that all this could have happened and that he had simply forgotten about it, but it was very clear now, even the policeman's parting remark and his casual look when he added "...oh by the way, did you know about the hand gun in her bag..."


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Storch guessed that if it weren't for past traumas having to do with instances of ego-damage and image-crashes at the hands and the words of the more fortunate in life, he wouldn't feel the need to assure readers that he no longer wets the bed. And though he would be the first to tell you that it means nothing about a person, he didn't like the idea of people imagining him going to his computer every morning AFTER throwing his night clothes and bedding into the washing machine. But as much as he wanted to clear that up, he was also painfully aware of the fact that he had already exposed himself as one who would sell his little sister down the river on bogus charges just to save face. Sincerity and credibility would be a problem.

 

("...I like your style..." replied the goblin, adding "...where you certainly have the knack to keep me reading...")

repost from elsewhere,

"...the point my friend..." the shark's voiced seem cool, sardonic even, "...is that we just need some fall guy here, nothing more, you know, someone who leaves all their details out there on the forum for others to see, their photo in the avatar for example, so we do the rounds, join in the fun so to speak, gain their trust now, and sting when we want, so that when the police, or any of those other authorities, come looking for us they'll find our fall guy instead, where we'll be miles away by then while he'll have a lot of explaining to do, it's that simple, goblin this internet is murky waters and if they want to swim with us sharks drawing attention to their true life selves like that, that's their lookout, think of it, we could be leaking secrets, we could slander someone, commit fraud, blackmail too, honestly there's no end of things you and I could get up when you think about it goblin, it's that easy now...", yet the goblin didn't reply, though the idea of identity theft quickly sank in, where the ease of it's perpetration seemed almost sinister in its temptation now, so the goblin let the shark continue his sales pitch for a while sort of blessing his own anonymity here, though the goblin also knew that he'd have to warn the others before it became too late for them


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repost from elsewhere, an american "last post" thread

the goblin let others win here in their own way, and what they posted was, in fact, what they won of themselves, concluded the goblin, saying "...I suppose sites too, are there to make members feel good about themselves, something I'm all for then...", so the goblin then humbly thanked america for its people, its democracy, its liberty, and its dashing president, etc., but actually the goblin liked america far more for its peanut butter, putting his hand on his chest and boldly saying "...god bless america and all your chunky peanut butter..."


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repost from elsewhere

perhaps the goblin was just showing his commitment by posting on as ever, for the goblin knew too, that he needed some quiet forums to write on, just as he needed those busy forums to interact with, so he was happy with either type then, for it was in a sense rather like his being in the bistro now, where at times he was looking across at the others around him for inspiration, while at other times, he was miles away within himself with whatever he was writing out, saying "...anyway, this space between my ears just seems to wax and wane like the phases of the moon, where at times forumland can't catch up with the muse within me, while at other times I need those posts of others to feed upon and fuel me, so neither forum type nor size matters as one adapts to anything, no, all that matters is one's one tally/benchmark here, one commitment then, and not the size of the forum nor the number of members now, though company is nice..."


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repost from a writer's site "last post" thread

and with the goblin had noted that someone had spoken out to him, "...there slot, that's a start isn't it...", said the goblin now wanting to help that person in his way, "...but goblin, how can you help her, I mean, you don't know what she wants to write, nor how she wants to write it...", outside, the night seemed to look on in an almost unbroken silence, save for the humming of an odd street car on a distant road, audible through a lone open French window here, where the moon with its smile looked down as if it knew too, what the goblin was going to say next, perhaps it did, the goblin continued, simply breaking this pleasant silence then, he started "...you see, in writing, the narrator is like a harlequin to the actors who talk, the actors can't see the harlequin, no, the harlequin is only visible to the audience's imagination here, but the harlequine is there to relieve the actors of the burden of filling in the blanks of time, place, sentiment, and many other adjectives and settings that can simply be left to the harlequin, so that the actors can be more natural in their conversations to one another...", suddenly the goblin went across to the bookshelf to make sure, his hunch was that none of the novels there resembled the plain conversations written like the ones the goblin had seen around him on threads, but then he stopped, returned to his desk, sipped the coffee, and waited for the next bit, "...goblin..." yes the slot often talked to him like this, continuing "...suppose that it's true and that that bookworld was fast giving way to our forumland here, then what would today's writers have to master now I wonder...", but the goblin just smiled like that knowing moon tonight, replying "...perhaps, they'd need to know how to feed you my little slot with posts that are short and sweet...", as the harlequin gracefully saluted with its closing gesture to the audience leaving the night to take over once more


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repost from elsewhere

somehow the xxxxx forum, with those trolls and their writing style had flashed back in the goblin's mind his school days, simply the goblin remembered the time when he had turned up at some bible reading session at the bequest of his then girlfriend, who, like all girlfriends of the time, probably saw their boyfriend as some cross between ones shopping accessory and one's very own pet man friday, not that the goblin minded nor understood any of that, he was after all, besotted, desperate, or both, only that the moment the bible itself was ceremoniously passed to him to read in his turn he realized that he couldn't see the actual words for something he had smoked the night before, so out came those improvised words "sorry, I am a dyslexic but this is a cross that he hath given me to bear here everyone hallelujah" as the goblin then passed the bible to the next person in the now somewhat jaw dropped line of bible readers, and perhaps those dilated pupils too probably gave the game away, so it was little wonder that she, there and then, dumped the heartbroken goblin to make her conquests elsewhere, just that the goblin, for his part, had never smoked after that, pity


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repost from elsewhere

the goblin showed, "...yes this thread remains both interesting and rewarding to me, these type threads are, but only if they get one to produce more posts towards one's tally/benchmark, well that's if one agrees that what remains is an air/edit/backup of self by the process of posting..." mentioned the goblin who wasn't on forumland as some abstract amusement, not after he had realized that one's effort could be channeled into creating something by one's pen thus seeing oneself by it, so the goblin explained "...in fact, I'm lucky, as by now I have a large stock of stored posts with an on-line readership that rivals if not surpasses most ebook authors out there, direct feedback too, and much anonymous recognition, yet more importantly, I've got some idea of what makes me tick...", which was all true, but the other truth was that none of this external actually mattered, for the forums would simple come and go, where readers were unknown personas to him, and where one would still die unknown as planned, death being the end of it, but no, what mattered here was simply winning the unwinnable while one still could, where whatever landed on the page, well, the slot in this case, was merely a byproduct of one's defiance


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As highly unlikely as it is that something so beloved and down-right american as chunky peanut butter would ever stir up feeling of anger in a person, that's exactly what happened after Storch heard the goblin asking god to bless the stuff. He was reluctant to explain the circumstances by which crunchy peanut butter had come to serve as the conduit through which yet another bad memory could be birthed, spanked, and allowed to crawl around on the floor of his mind, diaperless, leaving the area in need of a janitor perhaps, but a professional or specialist of some kind more probably. His reluctance to explain the circumstances stemmed from his fear of being forced to not only recall the incident in question, but to find forgiveness in his heart for the guilty as well . . . again.

The circumstances: It did happen that after Storch had received an authoritative speech on the subject of manifestation, with the focus being on what keeps one from manifesting one's true desires, he was instructed to stop acting from a place of lack, and to instead purchase what he wanted in the way of quality food instead of settling for less in the name of saving a few dollars. Made sense to Storch, and lucky for him, the deliverer of that speech was also in charge of grocery detail at his house. It was a fact that Storch, as well as the getter of groceries, had an unspoken agreement that only smooth peanut butter would be brought into the house. But when it came time to make a peanut butter sandwich, Storch found chunky peanut butter in the cupboard instead. When he asked GOG (getter-of-groceries) her reasoning for the chunky stuff, she said she bought it because it was on sale. Storch said nothing. Didn't have to. Her understanding of the moment was written all over her face; a face made all the more easy to read due to her inability to make eye contact for any of the several long moments of silence that followed.

The missing part of the story: It was also a fact that Storch's preference for smooth peanut butter was heavily influenced by the sad and sorry state of his bottom-front teeth. Three were loose. When it came to eating anything with pieces of anything in it, his tongue was quietly assigned the extra duty of keeping the loose teeth safe from . . . calamity. And what did the tongue get in return for becoming adept at the nearly impossible and serving the self so . . . tonguelessly? Not much, really. It was spared being part of the blinding pain that would surely result from not taking its new responsibility serious enough. Plus it would be right there at ground zero, too, in the event of a calamity!!

Whether it was because of the tongue's feelings of being the only one unfairly called upon to compensate for Storch's fear of dentists, or because it was genuinely distracted by the great taste of the peanut butter, one medium-sized chunk got past it and did cause quite a calamity. After an hour or so of recovery, during which time GOG knew better than to enter the bedroom and ask Storch how he was doing, she finally drew the courage to ask him how bad it was. It was the equivalent of her kissing his boo-boo. But Storch, realizing the limitation of words, understood that so much would be lost in translation that any attempt to describe the pain would be an insult to the pain. "Pretty bad," was all he said. She apologized and confessed that it was a mistake to buy the chunky kind. Storch said, "No! A mistake is when you misspell a word, or you get a speeding ticket, or you leave the milk set out all night. What you did was cause a calamity." Then he suggested to her that she go look up the word "calamity" in the dictionary to really get a feel for what she had done.

 

("...you're really good, it reads like I was there with you..." ventured the goblin trusting storch more, confiding "...my role is simply to draw you into this, how you do it though is your challenge, yes there are other livewriters on the net, their readership marks them out where no doubt yours will do too, there's no money in this yet that might even be be a plus because then one can write freely and quite anonymously too, moreover, what you acquire by this habit is yours for life...")

 

repost from elsewhere

the goblin apologized for the pause in posting here, he had been fighting the trolls in their forum again, something that had sharpened him on the one hand, but it was the kind of sharpness that cut both ways, since his goal was also to produce content too, not just being quick to foil barbs with one's wit here, explaining "...no, trolls can be very good for sharpening one's wit, so their forum's "last post" thread is a must and a real fun fray, testing one's readiness...", and yet, the goblin had to keep it varied by being across all kinds of "last post" threads, if only because sharpness alone resulted in stunted posts, explaining "...well, livewriting is live, and what with no publisher to protect one, nor measurable distance between oneself and one's reader neither, one has to know the ways of trolls to protect oneself better, yet without actually becoming one of them them by that knowledge..."


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repost from elsewhere, a british "last post" thread

the goblin thanked admin for her comment, saying"...well, I know I am going to amaze you now, besides, I think britain is ready for it too, you see, here in europe we have a metal water troff we call a "bath tab" which one can fill with hot or cold water depending on what temperature one likes, and then, when one feels it's just the right temperature one's takes off one's garments, which I imagine would be those animals skins and war clubs in the uk now, where one then gets into the water..." mentioned the goblin not really knowing how to continue with the concept then but then continuing "....now the next bit is harder to explain but do you remember that stuff that pours out of most poster's ears, well it's not exactly earwax as far as I know, but it looks like it anyway, it's called "soap" and it melts one's body grease and grime in the water..." at which point the goblin wondered if admin hadn't somehow collapsed on the floor in utter shock here, so the goblin thought it best to wait and see before he would continue in his next post, "...perhaps she has then, just where are moddy's socks when you need them..." went the goblin hoping he hadn't gone too quickly in his explanation here


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Mike walked through the door and stepped into the bar. He was immediately met with stares. He hated people who stared. He stood for a few seconds, scanning the room, looking everyone in the eye as he did so. "What in the hell are you looking at?" he barked. "You all came in through the same door."

Everyone broke eye contact with him and went back to the business of having a good time. Mike walked to a table where he calculated he could keep an eye on everyone in the bar without looking like he was doing so. The table looked as if no one had sat at it since the place had opened. There was a thick layer of dust on the table and all four chairs, plus a spattering of long-ago dried drops of yellow liquid. Probably beer, but . . .

Mike didn't mind. As he looked around at the regulars, he quickly decided that the safest table, in terms of communicable diseases, would be one at which none of these people had ever sat. Even so, before sitting, he had to figure out what in hell must be wrong with this particular table that even these people would avoid it like the plague. It was as if someone had died at that very table just months before, and the owner decided to let it stand as some kind of a tribute to the poor fellow minus a name-plaque. The answer was obvious to Mike. The table sat under the only window in the place. It seemed that none of these people wanted to be caught in the sun, or even close to a window. They knew damn well how they looked in unfiltered sunlight toward the end of a long winter . . . or any time really; it was worse than how they looked under the flourescent light over the mirror in the restroom.

Though the window-table posed absolutely no threat to anyone's appearance after sunset, it had nonetheless remained vacant 24/7. Perhaps sitting at it during night time hours would remind them of why they didn't sit at it during daylight hours and they didn't like being reminded of that. At any rate, Mike was pleased enough with the table.

 

Two guys at the far end of the bar were preparing to arm-wrestle as others looked on. The lights at that end of the bar had burned out a year before. Storch, co-owner and operater of the Hip-Shot Bar and Grill, had discovered that a culture of people existing approximately one level below the orthodox sub-culture types just happened to prefer the darker and colder extremities of almost everything in life, but especially bars. And they often took up semi-permanent residence in the darkest corners of the darkest ones they could find.

So, not only did Storch save on the cost of the bulbs and the electricity it would have taken to keep them lit for the past year, but he also created an environment that fulfilled the social requirements of a particular crowd that preferred their dose of dark and cold with a cheap whiskey on a rather hyper-routine basis. The darkness made even the most ravaged souls among them look . . . not too bad. Well, not too bad in the eyes of a moderate-to-heavy drinker in action anyway.

The only real problem Storch had with that situation was his concern that one of them, judging by her belly, might just give birth right there in his establishment within the next few days, if not sooner. And one thing Storch didn't need was the miracle of birth rearing its ugly head in his bar. He decided that, should he witness any signs of such an unwelcome event beginning to present themselves in his bar, he would treat it like a fight, and politely tell the woman to "take it outside."

Storch was standing behind the bar, drying some beer glasses and discussing the pitfalls of capitalism with a guy named Bob when a leather clad, heavy-booted big bastard walked into the Hip-Shot. He swung the door open almost hard enough to break it and then sat down at a table.

The waitress, Blossom, took the guy's order. A double Jack Daniels. She also took a slap on her ass as she walked away. "Hey!" Storch said in a firm though non-threatening tone from behind the bar. "We're all here to have a good time, but ya gotta show some respect."

 

The guy turned toward Storch and smiled, but said nothing. He was a monster of a man who looked like Lyrch from the Adams Family. His ghoulishly white face, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, gap tooth grin, and the scars on his face and hands all betrayed years of a nocturnal lifestyle lived out in places not conducive to the cultivation of health or good manners. He looked to be on his way down, and there was no way he couldn't have known it. The most dangerous kind of man. And he wanted a double shot of Jack Daniels!

"Here you go," Blossom said, keeping it as short and sweet as possible as she set his drink on the table. She saw there was no money on the table. "That's two fifty," she said, curtly.

"Well sure sister," he said, reaching for his wallet. "You sure that's all you need?" Then he handed her three dollars and told her to keep the change. A minute after being served his drink, he bellowed, "Hey! Where's my change?"

Blossom stopped what she was doing and looked at Storch. Storch had had enough. After setting his drink down, he came out from behind the bar and casually strolled over to the man's table to tell him that he'd have to leave. "Ya know, it's pretty hard for anybody to have a good time when nobody's sure what you're going to do next or who you're going to do it to. So, what's it gonna be, buddy? Huh? You gonna let everybody relax or are you gonna take your business elsewhere?"

There were twelve or thirteen regulars quietly watching as events unfolded. And as far as they were concerned, they didn't mind sacrificing a little relaxation for the privilege of having front-row seats to the spectacle of belligerence confronted; a small price to pay, indeed.

By now, Storch had crossed the bar and was slowly burning up the last five feet of distance between them. "Little man," the guy said, followed by a chuckle, "I've been down the road and back, and one thing I've learned is to not let little shits like you get close enough to sucker-punch me."

By then, Storch was standing on the opposite side of the guy's table, his hands grasping the back of the empty chair as he leaned in toward the center of the table. "Looks like you learned that the hard way, " Storch said, deliberately making a show of studying the man's scarred and pocked face. "And by the looks of things, you must be the slowest fucking learner in forty counties. So, I'll leave it up to you, dude. You gonna let everybody relax, or are you going take your business elsewhere?"

 

The guy had been through this song and dance before, and experience had taught him that everybody backs down. So he started in on Storch. "I'm not going to let anyone relax, and I'm not going to take my business elsewhere. So, I guess my answer is fuck you."

 

("...it reads well, best thing I've read on this forum to date, where the good thing about something one reads in posts is that one never knows the limits, it doesn't have any, simply it is of itself then, without length nor direction nor genre, that the fun then...")

 

Storch was recalling a television commercial from the past in which a guy is walking down a sidewalk eating a chololate bar, and he appears to be lost in the moment to the extent that he is oblivious to all else. Coming from the other direction is a guy carrying an open jar of peanut butter and a spoon, and he, too, appears to be lost in the moment as he savors a spoonful of his peanut butter. They crash into one another and fall to the ground, after which one says to the other, "You got chocolate in my peanut butter." The other says, "Yeah well you got peanut butter on my chocolate." Then they both simultaneously take a bite of the combination, and they have very, very satisfied looks on their faces.

This commercial came to Storch's mind after reading fleamailman's first couple of posts. That certain type of flair that fleamailman had with words was something that Storch realized he lacked. And despite the seemingly sound philosophy of not allowing economic factors to cause one to settle for less than what one desired, it simply didn't apply to this situation. There are some things that money just can't buy, quality being at the top of the list.

It was for that reason that Storch could not help but see himself as the chocolate bar, and fleamailman as the jar of peanut butter. The best of both worlds forming a united front against the scourge of booklessness. But then Storch settled back in his chair and wondered if he had ever really given up on his fantasies. But then he thought, life is but a dream, so what's wrong with a little fantasy?

 

(the goblin felt that Storch was right then, adding "...so a victorian journal between us then, where these personas get to post their works here much like dickens did in the pickwick papers, yes it's funny to see how, what with the advent of forumland here, things have now evolved backwards as if to the heyday of journalistic writing itself, the victorian age...")

repost from elsewhere

to the goblin, his just sleeping through dailylife days were behind him now, quite to the contrary then, he actually felt so very much awake at this point, as he turned his mind back to what he had thought upon this morning, feeling it best to repeat it here, blurting out "...ah no, I won't compromise anymore with this dailylife, I accept my growing old as we must, the possibility of becoming unemployed, devoiced, ill, handicapped, alone and ostracized too, much as I have accepted the deaths of near and dear one's today, in fact just whatever then, simply I accept anything or everything that this dailylife might choose to throw towards me now, but know this too, that this mind if anything is all sharpened by all this, that this pen is focused by it, and that this imagination can escape right through and beyond the external whenever it wants, for yes we are all prisoners of circumstance are we not, true, yet am I chained on my inside by all this external..". in fact the goblin knew that this dailylife could hurt or please as it wished then, but that none of that changed the simply fact that to live on is to win on where to post on was to prove to oneself that one was one's pen regardless


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