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The Annihilation Fountain Issue 11
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THE ANNIHILATION FOUNTAIN
A JOURNAL OF CULTURE ON THE EDGE...
TEXT ONLY - ISSUE #11 FEATURING MS. LILI I. WARING
the millennial mother
a whore and a saint
a poet
a lover
a deamon in disguise
welcome to the real lilith fair....
Ms. Lilian I. Waring
The Annihilation Fountain & TAF Copyright c 1997-2000 Neil MacKay
ISSN 1480-9206
http://www.capnasty.org/taf/
the_annihilation_fountain@iname.com
"I'm into inciting people to think, to accept, to evolve, to remember,
to respect, to love, to fuck, to sit back, to get up and do
something.... to think without propaganda or limitations..."
-Lili I Waring
CONTENTS:
---------
*SAFE SEX IS ALL IN THE MIND
*A MEMORY AND DREAM SUPPRESSED TO MAINTAIN FREEDOM
*BREAK NUMBER SEVEN
*FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS
*THE BLACK ROSE
*VIRTUAL TORTURE
*IN HER OWN WORDS...
***********************************************************************
SAFE SEX IS ALL IN THE MIND
BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING
***********************************************************************
Detroit 1992
Lucinda wanted to be a model, just like in the fashion magazines.
In the little bit of time that I knew her, I watched her - every
free moment - flip through the glossy pages. She'd sit cross
legged on the floor of her room, spending every moment not
working, dreaming of runways and spotlights and international
allure. When she'd see a black woman dressed as a modern day
queen, she'd carefully tear out the picture, placing it, with
absolute care, into her scrap book of dreams. Once the page was
carefully in place, she'd run to the bathroom with all of her
cosmetics and transform herself into the image she had seen.
On the third day of work, I walked in while she was highlighting
her hair; crisp wisps of blonde tinging the edges in the mirror.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" She asked my reflection.
"Of course you are." I answered with a smile. You could not be
working here as a where, if you weren't."
She smiled. Other people can not say things like that, but when
you re working together you can, sometimes... "Do you think I can
be a model?" She was looking me in the eyes.
I did not know what to say, so I pretended not to really hear her.
"Do you want some tea?" I asked her.
"I want to be a model." She said with an embarrassed smile. "I
want to make real money."
Looking to my barefoot I said I didn't know anyone.
"You'll take one anyway. You may meet someone. You are artsy, I
bet you do know those people."
I left the room to make my tea. I had a date (trick to turn) in an
hour, and I could not deal with her delusions. My own problems
were bad enough.
---------------------------------
Next morning Lucinda was crying by my bed. Her man had taken off,
left the kids all alone, and had taken off with her cash which was
hidden in a can in the kitchen. Strange that people still do that.
I brought my hand to her face, and it was like soft wax, but real
damp. Too much crack cocaine with her clients. She got paid to
stay for a week with rich white men who liked to get high and fuck
black women.
"Lucinda! God Damn You! Get the fuck off of the floor. Get ready
for your date. If you are late it will cost you half the session/.
Get the fuck up, now! Stop bothering the other workers." Louise
was in the doorway, her large frame taking up the whole space. I
hated it all, but just had to be amiable to whatever was thrown my
way. I hated the way that Louise yelled, and screamed, and the way
that she threatened us ... No wonder Lucy got high with her tricks
like she did.
I was going to get up, but I fell back asleep. Tall, statuesque
black women with blonde tipped hair and skeletal limbs modeled an
American trend: Death and delusion accessorized by faux gold
earrings and stems. "Look how lovely!" An automatic voice echoed,
"The dark side of the American Dream..."
The fashion ended when one women walked off of the runway into a
powder pink bordello room. Behind the heavy satin curtains, burnt
out buildings and urban decay were hidden from view.
A white man about 50 in a very expensive suit sat on a velvet
chair of burnt rose, and in his hand was corporate American
Express; in the other hand was a little black sack with his stem
and his crack.
"Oh!" he purred, "you are so exotic! Has anyone ever told you that
you should be a model? Like in a magazine? " he smiled with his
lie, and his dick hard with anticipation. "Black women are so
exotic. You should ............."
"........take my picture back to new York with you." Lucinda said
sternly, "If you meet someone you can show it to them!" O looked
to a snapshot of a thirty something year old women with two
children in Detroit. "I've got to leave early. My ma's with my
kids."
Her client was just leaving, hours later; hot, empty stem.
All Rights Reserved 1993-99 Safe Sex is All In the Mind
Lilian I Waring - Thank you, have a nice day!
***********************************************************************
A MEMORY AND DREAM SUPPRESSED TO MAINTAIN FREEDOM
BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING
***********************************************************************
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
rated X due to political expression. This piece is for consenting
adults only. (note: this piece has not been spell checked due to
the fact that operation censorship states that it is an illegal
operation to continue. please excuse at your own risk, and excuse
any typos. This is an edited and condensed version of a manuscript
unavailable to the american public. It is based on an actual
situation.)
Warning! The following piece contains graphic content which is not
suitable for children. It is a mature piece. It is based upon a
real situation. It is neither fiction nor non.fiction. The body of
work is formatted in the style of Vietnam-era "anti" propaganda.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Freedom of expression
became her favored weapon
and even if you could not understand her words
her eyes told you
that she saw the Devil come to slay
and then he did veil her pain
instead of blood
flowing down her scared face
an explosion tore her sole to shreds
releasing her
from all but the instinctual calm
and swift kill
which was all before morals and rhetoric
replaced
respect
the only kind who could appease the jagged edge
of soul debris
on soft organs and gentile flesh
were those of wars who could not tell
yet beneath their carefully stated words
in silent breath
whispered the eternal voice of death
who it seems does not always appear thr reaper
so cold and cruel
sometimes death appears and folds
a ripple like a tear
Not so sad when you do accept the embrace
with a child's himble grace
that some force beyond what human's know
may walk amongst the flesh clad fools
in search of those
who pose
as militia and chamber masters
directors and editors
lovers
bonded
not by mating
but by love of passion
like assassins
perfection
called a sin.
Like the assassin who dares to touch the very essence of the
infinite question: Where does life and death begin?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Where does life and death begin?
Someone wanted to take my
LIFE
that is how this story came to be
Someone wanted for my life to end
brutally and explicitally
so that no one would dare question it
a monster masked as a normal man
like those we meet everyday
who would notice
who would care
THE DEVIL
he did
or whatever the name of the thing is. Instead of a bullet, the
Devil shattered my soul, and broke through to stand in front of the
monster thing like a man, but different than any of the men - good
or bad - who I know. Even the men I know who kill do not do so
without a reason or
a
YOUNG WOMAN
stood before a camera, tape rolling, microphones on, lighting
bright white in her eyes; she was naked.
In most films about the devil there is this moral fight between
right and wrong, and it does not really apply here, not as we know
it, for to most people both the monster man and the young woman
were both wrong, and there fore not a reality to be dealt with, but
the
DEVIL, well, he tohught different.
It reminded him of a brief bit in time when there was no right nor
wrong and the laws of the jungle became much more hardcore.
A YOUNG WOMAN with no good or bad intention stood naked during an
interview which would determine her life or death, she had thought
she'd be asked her name and her entertainment history, instead she
was asked,
"Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in a snuff
movie? Would you like to be in one?"
It was at that point that her soul was penetrated, leaving
something feeling like shards of glass deep within her, which isnot
so bad, as it all just psychological and figurative, and it is -
after all - better than being raped and tortured and shot in the
forehead.
For the rest of her life, she will feel a bit odd, like there are
little pieces of glass ingraving the new outline which casts her
shadow, and illuminates a new light from her soul. And the Devil
will always feel the dull throb of a broken heart, which is what
was left behind from the shock which registered in her mind .....
-----------------------------------------------------------
It may seem strange, but the Devil's heart was tortured over the
fact that for no reason someone would want to torture a woman so
slowly, and that even worse, no one would care, and all of a sudden
all time just stops
while the monster like a man who stood on the other side of the
white light in her eyes gets a bit high on
the rot in his spinal column, it fills his cranium, slowly his
synapse like a toxic shock
similar to the toxic shock from his mother's dirty pussy so many
decades ago ......
-----------------------------------------------------------
He, the monster man, not the Devil, hated all women though he did
not know why, and if you asked him, he'd tell you he loved them
all, but he really hated them - thuogh he did not know why; a
slight retardation with a taint like a shock which compells him to
kill what he feels is not appealing; like a whore to remind of how
worthless was his mother
He liked to have them cornered play a long game of cat mouse and
hen would not one would ever suspect him he would show up to make
them realize that the only thing he really loved was
the taste of the blood of a whore totured and murdered for sins
against
jesus
just like the baby
the monster was sure
he too had been
pure
loved
deep
within
the womb
blessed
the virgin
the mother
"I think that is what he may have wanted." Said the man in uniform,
"to cut out the womb. Throw it away while she lay dying. His cock
in the cut flesh with a gun to her head, cocked..."
"No motive." said another, shaking his head in disgust.
But it really did not matter. Would not have had it happened as it
was suppossed to have happened. Call girls do not have rights like
other citizens.
"As far as can be determined, there was no motive. No reason to
investigate this any further. She came here on her own volition. No
need to further this investigation."
In the city hospitals, where dead whroes are
brought
they are labeled Jane Doe, cut up, left to rot.
In a pine box they aer sent to Potter's Field.
The dream she was trapped in felt a bit too real.
"I see no need to further this investigation. She was, after all, a
reputed sex worker. Mark it Jane, call it a bad dream."
-----------------------------------------------------------
Instead of waking up I have this weird spasm like convulsion. Three
dimensional beads containing moving images not all visible, but
connected; they pass before me out of sync and mechanized time. I
try to recreate a dream scape to allow my rem in, but instead the
devil whisperes to me that it is all alright, and that - for now -
the rights to my memories belong to him.
"Because they hurt your sense of cognition." He said. "So you just
relax, and I will hold onto this unpleasant memory system. Don't
worry. I'll get him." He smiled like a bounty hunter with a new set
of secrets to head after, "Consider yourself an honour, like a
vietnam veteran hero never revealed with a purple ehart medal." He
laughs, and I can not tell, but I do not think it is at me -
finally I think someone laughs for me.
And I start to cry, but I do not know why. Tears just flow until he
snaps his fingers, and they dry!
"Come on now, do not make me uncomfortable. I mean, it is good to
cry to get it all out, but ...." He said I was not being punished
or anything, that I was just an unexpected guest. "It may be Hell,
but well, most existence is! You are now in Paradise, just so that
you know that, but if any wayward souls pass through on their way
down, ask - tell them that you are hostage, my dear, that way no
one knows that we are ..."
Awake asleep it did not really matter it was better than the white
light in my face, and that voice of the fucking asshole, "Are we
friends?" I finally ask him.
He shakes his head viciously, "No. No. No. Absolutely not!"
But I think he may have lied about that, because the rest of the
film was not ever shot.
-----------------------------------------------------------
He sat at a big desk with a view of the Metropolitan.From the high
rise you could tell just how rigid was the isle of Manhattan. A
cinemascope beyond
dimension and human capacity. There is still a bubble of attempt at
comprehension. He takes a syring, and injects me with it - no
malice or ignorant exploration. The bubble of the past disappears,
and I concentrate on the view. Suddenly very relaxed, my heart not
out of sync, my breathing very calm; "A shot from the Garden of
Eden." He quietly opened a mahogany drawer, and smiles at me -
"maybe we can give him an injection of hydrochloric acid. I hear
they still do that in some states."He closes the drawer quietly, so
quietly, respecting that sudden noises make me too alert, and
tense. "Such is about as bitter as your tears of late have been."
He's gone.
I'm alone in my apartment, an electronic ticket reserved in my name
via another's phone.
Like a black hole is my expression, a trait left by the situation.
Like a black hole I've been told, and it is bothersome because it
is a bit what death is suppossed to look like, and that is
part of why he is attracted to me, it is - because I saw death, and
though shaken, I'm still standing.
That is why some people do not like staring into me, because I
stood up to death, and it is often mirrored in my eyes - at least
when I am sober.
-----------------------------------------------------------
A little while later all is better. Time stopped, it is no more,
except that
the Devil says just remember, "Day to next day after night from
dark it is light and sometimes it is loud but it will again be
quiet." Suddenly I am on an airplane flying from home, on an
airplane landing so far away until I can figure out what to do, or
until it is done for me.
I concentrate on that, and the bubble visions disappear, and I
don't think about why anyone would want to hurt or to kill me,
especially not in THAT way. I don't think about anything really.
Crystal clear vision. The only thing which I think about is that
each day turns to night from dark it is light and sometimes it is
loud and sometimes it is quiet, for a long while my whispering such
is the only sound
besides the strange and irregular beating of my once steady heart.
For a while, noise gave me such a headache. Any noise. Talking.
Television. The radio with all of it's obnoxious dj's and frequency
fluctuations. I still do not like to be crowded. Still wince when
white light is thrust into my face. I almost always feel a bit
detached. My temper is a bit shorter now. Especially when anyone
attempts to upset the pleasantry I've created around me like a
halo, or an arena.
If you have a problem with that, well then fuck yourself wide, and
hard - man. Maybe i'll even make a movie of you like made of me
maybe you won't think it an issue after you know what it feels like
to stand naked and blind and be told you are about to be in a snuff
movie!
This ethereal essence I call the Devil returned when it became
apaprent that I still could not stand on my own. A chasm, a
labyrinth lay where once was simply soul. Everytime that I tried to
think about the next day, I wondered if I'd wind up in a room naked
like yesterday, except that in the next round, there'd be no one
else around, I'd never leave, maybe never be found. And paralyzed I
was with a fear which choked my heart, and made me feel like I was
buried alive while everyone around moved so happily about; not
really noticing I suppose - who cares really?
Apparently some ghostly essence did, a cold embraced me, and felt
warm with understanding. An ivisible blanket of compassion. I was
having a nervous breakdown, and it was the only thing which kept me
together. A cold echo of solice who's name I do not know. The Devil
from the original Garden, before Satanism was about rebels and
morals.
"Like a porcelein doll very fragile," he said, "porcelien dolls can
not be cuddled for they may hurt or they may break, yet they seem
to outlive all of the one's made of plastic. A body so soft, yet an
expression which is not. Too old for, and too beautiful for a child
of a man, to sensuous and experienced for a young man - too painful
are the reflections from eyes into which old man like to gaze when
feeling youthful ..."
So the Devil stayed for awhile. He usually comes and goes, and lets
chaoes explode, but this time - he sat in order to stop it.
I'd say we are friends, but we are not, you know - that would be
mental, and stupid, and rather juvenile. See - now
He is my guardian. An assassin. Or he was, I do not know. We never
talk about my years as a nationally circuited prostitute, never
talk of his private business or the Vietnam War;
which is why he understands torture and the sort. It does not
matter, though, what matters is that he prefers me
as a Dominatrix, and he has
trained me to take care of myself just in case he has to go away or
fades
away or was never there to begin with ...
-----------------------------------------------------------
For only those chosen and challenged
may kill
in the name of god or country
with the passion
of souls
unfilled
into
the mouth
of
his brother
the devil
like during war turned to raw wasteland
prism
paradise lost
and regained
by murder
(Or the attempt to do so.)
Sometimes I do not want to go to sleep. If I do it all goes back to
a white light and the sound of rolling tape and the voice with a
resonance too deep and filled with disgust as I stand to what I
thought was a challenge, but it was not, it was something much
different
STOP!
CENSORED!
STOP!
CENSORED!
RED ALERT!
WE ARE ON RED ALERT!
Someone find that fucking footage.
Seal it.
Confidential confidential confidential confidential confidential
WE ARE ON RED ALERT!
(LADIES and) GENTLEMEN!
confidential.
now maybe let's say between 69 and 72
far away
eurasia maybe
STOP! RED ALERT! SEIZE THAT FUCKING FOOTAGE! SEAL IT CONFIDENTIAL!
But not in time to prevent
a woman like any other woman
on a day which would be
discarded from all universities, law libraries, black market
agencies
the most hardcore around the world
screaming in horror
and compassion unrivaled
somewhere
it happened
maybe at the crossroads in Vietnam
maybe Cambodia
Maybe in Burma down the river
from defiant yet determined
young American Freedom Fighters
a woman is gang raped while her fingers are sliced off one by one
as a warning that all not in favor ofcommunism would be slaughtered
she screamed in pain as a cock in her ass pierced forth towards the
gun in her mouth until image once solar goddess is a raw beast
spouting blood as the dick of a man with an unseen face comes hard
for the camera and the lower rank men must all kiss his gun
much prettier are the women in the black market shops in brothels,
and she was not like that - she had been a school teacher; an
educated woman who believed in something other than what they
filming the scene believed in. She maybe had believed in freedom.
The politics of business and warfare are so much different now
a life support mass brainwashing system
to corrupt and alter
pay back
proove a point
and I never got to ask,
"Are you mafia
militia
military
broke wiseguys with no one else to sport?"
it is kind of similar, but she was teacher, and I'm just a student
classified more as a hooker to prove it my own disease, and not
society's, and if I die, I'm going out with more than a mother
fucking whimper, I am, and I'll make sure other people feel the
pain of every minute - whether anyone films it or just witnesses
it.
All women are without purity.
Except for their womb, an extension of their pussy.
"Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in one?
Have you ever heard of a snuff movie? Have you ever thought about
what it would be like to be in one? Have you ever heard of a snuff
movie? Have you ever thought abuot what it would be like to be in
one? Have you ever heard of"
It's echoed enough now that it does not matter. The question rolled
all of the way down to thebottom of the abyss once my soul, and it
rolled back up with a new and distinct resilience to such a
comment,
and it is better each day light to each Light dark and after a
while it is noisy and then later it is quiet each day passes
another one just is, and I do not even know if I would feel it if
someone was to murder me.
A strange and etheral essence embraces me, and I do not let it go,
for it is the only thing which reminds me ....; That cold feeling
which chills my heart keeps it from dissolving and stopping in a
sweat laden false ego. It is alright. Each day light passes to each
day now night and sometimes it is quiet and sometimes it is loud
and tomorrow is around the corner not a monster man - he's not
allowed.
For now. I suppose. For now. And I begin to feel the warm flush of
fear, and I embrace even more tightly my strange cloak of cold.
"Why should there not be a patient condifence in the ultimate
justice of the people? Is there any better or equal hope in the
world?"
Abraham Lincoln, Inaugral address, 1861.
this piece has been revised, and condensed. The original is
available by contacting the author.A Memory and a Dream Suppressed
to Maintain Freedom is based upon an actual situation which is
still pending legal attention. Please notify the below listed
e-mail if you would like to utizlize any part of this piece in your
format.
LILII7@aol.com
***********************************************************************
BREAK NUMBER SEVEN
BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING
***********************************************************************
(chapter insert)
Please
lay beside me
for I am weary
I've journeyed far and long
my body aches
as does my soul
and I must know
that when I wake
I do not wake
so all alone
Please,
lay beside me
do keep my body warm...
(Inspired by "To Lay Me Down" by the Grateful Dead, and memories of The
Sandman.)
From: Dahlia: a Tale of the Erotic and Perverse
(c)1992 All Rights Reserved © 96-99
Anthology of Treasured American Poetry
***********************************************************************
FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS
***********************************************************************
Warning! This material is rated X Modern Contemporary Literature Pop
Sub Culture! Warning!
FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS
1999 LILIAN I. WARING in affiliation with M. DANTE' ASSOCIATES
This is a piece in progress. If you're interested in understanding
more about this piece, please contact Lili. Due to the graphic
nature of the content, requests for more information and or copy
must be accompanied by intent of purpose.
FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS
LOVE.
FEAR.
LOVE.
WHAT IS LOVE?
"A COMMERCIALIZED AND CREATED CONCEPT." SHE WHISPERED TO
HERSELF. "LIKE FUN."
SHE IS GOOD AT HAVING FUN. COMMERCIALIZED AND CREATED TO HOWEVER
YOU MAY DEFINE IT. IT SCARES PEOPLE. IT ALSO SCARES PEOPLE THAT
SHE HAS LIVED FOR SO LONG WITHOUT EITHER LOVE NOR FUN AS MOST
PEOPLE NEED IT. WITHOUT LOVE, AND WITHOUT ANY FUN. WHO WOULD WANT
TO LIVE AT ALL? IT MADE THEM FEEL FEAR.
MOST FEMININE STATES HAVE BEEN SO EXPLORED AND/OR EXPLOITED, ALL
WOMEN CAN BE EASILY CATEGORIZED, CAN'T THEY? SHE CAN'T. SHE DOES
NOT FIT INTO ANY 13F THOSE PREFABRICATED BOXES OF RITUALIZED
EXPLANATION AND FEIGNED CONFUSION. SHE IS LIKE THAT SONG ON THE
PATTY SMITH ALBUM, DANCING BAREFOOT.
IT MADE THEM ALL FALL IN LOVE WITH HER.
-------------------------
LOVE IS VERY RARE. TRUE LOVE. GENUINE LOVE.
SHE LOVES HERSELF. SHE'S HAD TO LEARN TO BECAUSE THERE WAS TOO
MUCH HATRED ALL AROUND HER. TOO MUCH HATRED GENERATED TOWARDS HER.
A LOT OF PEOPLE THINK THAT MAKES HER A WHORE. THAT 1S NOT WHAT
MAKES HER A WHORE. THE FACT THAT SHE IS ONE IS MERELY A
COINCIDENCE.
A WHORE IN THE TRUE: SENSE OF THE WORD. A HOOKER. A CALL GIRL. A
PROSTITUTE. LIKE THEY HAVE IN LONDON. OR WHAT WE BELIEVE THEY HAVE
IN LONDON. THOUGH NOT REALLY IN AMERICA, BECAUSE AMERICA DOES NOT
BELIEVE IN THAT TYPE OF BEHAVIOR. A DOMINATRIX. A REAL ONE. SHE
DOES NOT TELL THEM WHAT TO D0, SHE SEDUCES THEM INTO HAVING TO DO
IT.
IT IS NOT HER FAULT. ASK ANYONE SHE KNOWS. THEY ALL KNOW, TOO. AND
THEY WILL ALL TELL YOU THAT IT IS NOT HER FAULT IT 'S NOT ANYONE'S
FAULT. IT JUST IS. SHE STARTED AT IN A DIFFERENT PLACE, AT A
DIFFERENT TIME ? AND SHE WAS VERY YOUNG ? SHE DID NOT KNOW WHAT IT
ALL MEANT OR WOULD COME TO MEAN. SHE WAS JUST A FEW MONTHS INTO
SIXTEEN.
NOW SHE IS OLDER. SHE: IS VERY .... I WANT TO SAY THAT SHE IS
MEAN, BUT AFTER YOU KNOW HER THERE IS NO MORE NICE OR MEAN: YOU
UNDERSTAND THAT IT IS ALL RELEVANT.
SHE IS A LOVELY GIRL.
I HATE THE WAY SHE IS REFERRED TO AS A GIRL. WORKING GIRL. FOREVER
THESE FLICKED LITTLE GIRLS WITHOUT MORALS. SHE IS A YOUNG WOMAN. A
LADY. SHE IS ...
TOO PRETTY.
TOO MANY UNFORGETTABLE DAYS AND NIGHTS.
SOMETIMES SHE HAS CONVULSIONS IN HER SLEEP FROM THE NIGHTMARES.
SOMETIMES SHE SEEMS TO WAKE UP, BUT IT IS NOT BEING AWAKE. IT IS
LIKE WHEN VIETNAM VETERANS AWAKE, AND ARE BY THE FRONT LINES OR
SOMETHING. IT IS ALRIGHT, THOUGH. SHE DOES NOT EVEN REALIZE IT,
UNLESS IT 19 REALLY SAO. AND LUCKILY ... SHE KNOWS A LOT OF
PEOPLE. SHE JUST MEDICATES IF IT GETS REALLY BAD. SHE KNOWS A LOT
OF PEOPLE, AND THEY MAKE SURE THAT IF SHE NEEDS SOMETHING, SHE CAN
GET IT REALLY CHEAP! AND WITHOUT ANYONE EVEN KNOWING. IT IS A
SHAME. SHE SHOULD HAVE: SOMEONE TO KEEP AWAY THE DREAMS WHILE SHE
SLEEPS. SHE DOES, I SUPPOSE. SHE HAS HERSELF. "FUCK THE FUCK OFF!"
COCAINE. TEQUILA. THESE THINGS ARE HER LOVE. THINGS THAT PEOPLE
FEAR, AND FEARS BUY PEOPLE LIKE HER WHAT EVER THEY WANT AT A VERY
GOOD PRICE. ''OH my LORD! PROTECT ME, PLEASE. DON'T LET THEM GET
ME. DON'T LET THEM HURT ME." SHE IS STILL ASLEEP WHEN SHE ASKS FOR
THAT. SHE IS NOT EVEN AWAKE. SHE IS STILL ASLEEP, AND SHE IS
TALKING TO HER LORD. WHENEVER SHE IS SOBER, THAT IS WHAT HAPPENS.
WHEN SHE GETS HIGH, IT IS NOT LIKE WHEN MOST PEOPLE GET HIGH. SHE
FEELS SO MUCH PAIN THAT IT ALL JUST KIND OF ABSORBS INTO A PART OF
HER S0 DEEP INSIDE THAT SHE JUST FUNCTIONS LIKE SHE IS FINE.
BECAUSE WHEN SHE IS LIKE THAT SHE IS. SHE FEELS IT A SHIELD,
BESIDES. IF THEY WERE TO TRY TO GET HER, SHE'D BE S0 NUMB FROM
GRAM AFTER GRAM AFTER GRAM OF PURE GRADE COCAINE AND KETAMINE
SHE'D DIE WITH A SINISTER SMILE OF SATISFACTION ON HER FACE. YOU
KNOW IF THEY ACTUALLY TRIED TO
TO WHAT?
IT SCARES ME TO THINK ABOUT IT.
AND IF YOU DON'T KNOW, I CAN NOT TELL YOU.
IT IS CONTAGIOUS.
AND A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF HER NOW.
SHE DOES NOT CARE, THOUGH. SHE LOVES HERSELF. AND HOW MANY PEOPLE
CAN SAY THAT? WITHOUT ARROGANCE. WITHOUT FALSE PRIDE. WITHOUT
LYING?
-------------------------
BRYN MAWR. WYNWOOD. BALA. CYNWOOD. SIN.
"YEA ? IT IS A SIN, BUT SO WHAT ?" IT COULD BE WORSE AFTER ALL. ON
THE SOUTHWEST SIDE SOME GUY HAD A WORKING GIRL IN HIS CLOSET WITH
A CAN OF URINE, INSTEAD OF PEPSI, DIGESTED. HER EAR WAS CUT OFF.
"AND THAT IS TRULY A SIN, NOW ISN'T IT?" SHE COULD NOT BE TOO
CONCERNED. SHE WAS OUT OF MONEY. EVERYTHING WAS PAID. EVERYTHING.
BUT WHAT IS LIFE IF WHEN YOU PAY YOUR BILLS YOU DO NOT HAVE A
WALLET FULL OF CASH AFTERWARDS"
-------------------------
SOMETIMES SHE WAKES UP PRAYING. SHE GETS EMBARRASSED, BUT IS KIND
OF BEAUTIFUL. SHE WAKES UP PRAYING THAT NOBODY KILLS HER. LIKE
THEY WANTED TO DO, AND MAYBE STILL WILL AT SOME POINT. SOMEONE
WANTED TO TORTURE HER, AND RAPE HER, AND MAKE A MOVIE OF IT, BUT
NOT THE KIND THAT NICOLAS CAGE OR GEORGE C. SCOTT MADE SOMEONE
WANTED TO REALLY MAKE ONE OF HER. AND SHE LIKES THE MOVIE VIDEO
DRONE. AND SHE LIKES THE MOVIE LOST HIGHWAY. AND SHE LIKED GEORGE
C. SCOTT IN HARDCORE, BUT SHE COULD ONLY WATCH IT BECAUSE SHE WAS
IN BED WITH A NEW FRIEND WHO EARNED EXTRA MONEY BY BREAKING
PEOPLE'S LEGS FOR A LIVING. SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN AFRAID IF SHE WAS
ALL ALONE. INSTEAD OF WAKING UP PRAYING, SHE MAY HAVE WOKEN UP
INSTEAD WITH CONVULSIONS, AND NO ONE TO CARE OR TO HELP HER. I
THINK IT IS BEAUTIFUL WHEN SHE WAKES LIP PRAYING. THAT WAY THERE
IS A HAND FOR HER TO HOLD AS SHE PASSES FROM ONE DIMENSION TO
ANOTHER. ANGELS MIGHT HEAR HER, FOR I KNOW SHE IS TALKING TO
SOMEONE.
I HOPE THAT IT IS NOT TO THE PEOPLE WHO WANTED TO KILL HER. I HOPE
IT IS TO AN ANGEL WHO GUARDS OVER, AND PROTECTS HER. I HOPE THAT
SHE DOES NOT HAVE TO BEG HIM. BECAUSE SOMETIMES IT SEEMS THAT SHE
IS BEGGING. AND I DO NOT THINK IT BECOMES HER.
I THINK IT IS MORE ATTRACTIVE WHEN SHE SIMPLY STATES SOMETHING. I
WONDER WHAT THEY DID TO HER TO MAKE HER S0 AFRAID. SHE WASN'T
ALWAYS. SHE WASN'T AFRAID AT ALL. IF SHE WAS. NO ONE EVER KNEW,
NOW THOUGH, I DON'T WHAT SHE FEELS ? IT TRANSCENDS WHAT WE WERE
TAUGHT PEOPLE FEEL IN SCHOOL . I WANT TO UNDERSTAND, BUT I DON'T
WANT TO FEEL THAT WAY, SO I SYMPATHIZE WITH HER, AND WORSHIP HER
FOR NOT CAVING IN TO WHATEVER IT IS OR MAY HAVE BEEN...
SHE BELIEVES SHE IS WORTHY ENOUGH FOR GOD OR THE GODDESS OR
WHOEVER SHE IS PRAYING BEFORE TO HEAR HER, AND LOVE HER ENOUGH TO
LET HER NOT BE A VICTIM.
IT MAKES ME AFRAID, BECAUSE IF SHE: GIVES UP THAT BELIEF, I
BELIEVE THAT SOMETHING BAD WILL HAPPEN.
ON THE SW SIDE OF PHILADELPHIA A WOMAN WAS LOCKED IN THE CLOSET
WITH HER EAR CUT OFF, AND A CAN OF URINE MARKED PEPSI HAD BEEN
FORCEFULLY DIGESTED, AND A MAN ACROSS THE HALL WAS WHAT THE
ONLOOKERS WERE TOLD THERE WAS, AND HE WOULD CUT OUT THEIR ORGANS,
EVISCERATE THEM, IF THEY SAID ANYTHING OR TOLD ANYONE. I HAVE A
COPY OF THE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE. HE WENT TO JAIL. SHE WAS THERE A
WEEK BEFORE HE WENT TO JAIL, BUT WAS NOT HAPPY THERE FOR SOME
REASON, AND SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. HE DROVE HER BACK TO THE
BROTHEL SHE'D BEEN AT BEFORE. THE BROTHEL THAT SENT HER TO HIM. HE
WAS NICE TO HER, BUT HE COULD HAVE KILLED HER INSTEAD.
SOME PEOPLE MAY THINK HER PRAYERS ARE FOOLISH. I THINK IT IS
BEAUTIFUL, BUT AT TIMES IT MAKES ME CRY.
SOMETIMES SHE WAKES UP CRYING, BUT DOES NOT KNOW THAT SHE HAS BEEN
CRYING.
I WONDER WHY LIFE IS LIKE THIS? IS THERE A REASON OR ARE WE JUST
CAUGHT UP IN A SOCIETAL ACCIDENT? A TRANSFORMATION PROCESS LIKE
WHEN THE INDUSTRIAL AGE BEGAN. ONLY NOW IT IS ENDING, AND
EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT THAN IT WAS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO - EXCEPT
FOR THE LIMITED MENTALITY OF A LOT OF PEOPLE'S EGO. AND CAPITALISM
IS A GLOBAL DREAM. EVERYTHING IS FOR SALE. I HOPE THAT HER PRAYERS
GO TO A BUYER THAT CARES IF THE ETHEREAL IS LIKE HERE. I HOPE THAT
THE OWNER OF HER PRAYERS DOESN'T ENJOY ABUSING HIS PRIVELEGES.
-------------------------
"I'M GOING TO HOLLAND TO SELL MYSELF IN A WINDOW." HER CLIENT
LOOKED AT HER AS THOUGH SHE WAS OUT OF HER MIND. AS THOUGH SHE HAD
PULLED OUT SOME PCP OR ASKED HIM TO TAKE A BIG, BLACK ONE RIGHT UP
HIS BEHIND.
"THAT IS DANGEROUS, AND STUPID." HE STATED WITH CONFIRMATION.
-------------------------
ON THE SW SIDE OF PHILADELPHIA THERE WAS WORKING GIRL IN A CLOSET
WITH HER EAR CUT OFF, AND A CAN OF PEPSI FILLED WITH URINE THRUST
DOWN HER THROAT. BEFORE THEY PUT HER IN THE CLOSET, THEY WORKED
HER FOR 50% OF HER MONEY. BY THE TIME SHE PAID OF ALL HER FEES,
SHE EARNED ABOUT 25%. SHE MAY NOT EVEN HAVE HAD ANY EXTRA MONEY TO
BUY A CAN OF PISS TO CHOKE UPON...
-------------------------
IT IS STRANGE HOW WE KEEP THINGS THAT ARE SCARY HIDDEN IN THE
CLOSET. DEEP WITHIN THE FIGURATIVE CLOSET WHICH ACTS AS A BARRIER
BETWEEN THAT WHICH IS REAL, AND THAT WHICH IS FABRICATED TO BE
REAL, THERE ARE VICTIMIZED MARTYRS OF CONTAINMENT INTO SOCIETAL
EXPLANATION. SOME THINGS SIMPLY ARE. WE CAN NOT ASK WHY, FOR THERE
IS NO REASON. T HERE MAY NEVER BE ANY ANSWER. IT SIMPLY IS THE WAY
THAT IT IS. HOW FRUSTRATING. NO ONE IS TAUGHT IN SCHOOL THAT THERE
ARE NO ANSWERS. THERE ARE ANSWERS FOR EVERYTHING. THERE SIMPLY ARE
?THERE MUST BE .... THERE MUST BE SOME KIND OF REASON.
"MONEY", SHE THOUGHT. HER STATEMENT COMES AT THE PERFECT MOMENT TO
ANSWER A QUESTION SHE WOULD NEVER BE ASKED. SHE IS GOOD AT THAT.
THOUGH. SHE IS S0 USED TO THE HALF HOUR AND HOUR INCREMENTS OF
TIME, THAT SHE ALWAYS KNOWS JUST WHEN TO COME AND JUST WHEN TO GO.
SEE THEM OFF. TELL THEM OFF. GETS THEM OFF. SHE ALWAYS GETS OFF.
ALWAYS WILL. NEVER ASK WHY, BECAUSE SHE CAN N0T TELL YOU, BUT
SHE'LL ALWAYS GET OFF. JUST LIKE THE DEVIL.
DON'T ASK WHY. OR YOU'D SAY IT WAS ALL JUST A WICKED. WICKED.
WICKED. LIE.
SHE'D LIE ABOUT IT ANYWAY. SHE'S ALLOWED TO DO WHATEVER SHE WANTS
TO NOW. WHATEVER SHE HAS T0 DO. REGARDLESS OF ANY CONSEQUENCE.
-------------------------
SHE COULD DIE IN A CLOSET ALL ALONE. OR WHILE PEOPLE STAND OUTSIDE
THE DOOR LAUGHING. EVERYDAY IS A GAME OF RUSSIAN ROULETTE.
EVERYDAY IS JUST ANOTHER GAME. IT IS SAD THAT IT HAS BECOME THAT
WAY. THAT IS WHY THERE IS SO MUCH LOVE
BECAUSE OF ALL OF THE FEAR.
AFTER THAT GIRL GOT TAKEN OUT OF THE CLOSET - FOR SOME REASON
EVERYONE FELL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL I'M WRITING ABOUT HERE.
BECAUSE OF ALL OF THE FEAR.
IT COULD HAVE BEEN HER, BUT SHE IS SO CONCENTRATED ON WHAT SHE HAS
TO DO EACH DAY. SHE NEVER REALLY STOPPED TO CARE THAT IT COULD
HAVE BEEN HER WITH BRUISES ACROSS HER FACE, AND HER EAR ON THE
FLOOR, AND HER SOBS NOT HEARD BY ANYBODY WHO WOULD EVER CARE.
SHE LOOKED INSIDE OF HER WALLET TO SEE HOW MUCH MONEY SHE HAD
LEFT. IT WAS NEAR EMPTY, AND SHE BEGAN CRYING HEAVILY.
***********************************************************************
THE BLACK ROSE
BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING
***********************************************************************
My lover appeared the other evening in a dream, asking me, "Why are
you choosing to leave when all is going so well?"
"I don't know." I responded candidly, then I lied, "Maybe I am
just bored."
He breathed in heavily to hide his laugh. He knew when I was lying
and when I was telling the truth. No matter how seriously I took
myself or my responses, he could always see right through them. He
mentioned casually that suicide was fascinating, then vivid as
though he were sitting right beside me added, "You may want to
consider such since you have left." He laughed, and lovingly he
handed me a black rose. From the dream I awoke, and in a memory I
laid. The black rose of silk in the lapel of my black leather coat,
a beat up hipster coat from the late 1960's which I got a used
clothing store. Sometimes I forget my dreams, but the rose is proof
of so abstract a truth as the time in San Francisco when I lived
with a Left Handed Black Hat, or more easily understood, a
practicing and very genuine Satanic Occultist.
The day after the morning of my dream, he called me on the phone.
Three thousand miles were between us practically; that, and too
many memories. "Are you coming home now that you no longer mourn
your own fears?"
It was my turn to speak., like a verbal game of chess. It matters
how each piece of language is projected. "If it won't bother your
wife." It hit him like a knife, right in the chest. He was known
for not feeling too emotional about anything, yet I was able to
find a soft spot. I always could, since the night we first met. It
was an act of coincidence that we became associated at all, and
very much on purpose that we had moved apart - it would be better
if we never saw each other again at all, really, and that reality
hit me very hard in the heart. I was about to say more when an
image transcended all words; the image of chaos and contradiction
which bloomed during our affair - and I, again, felt alive. It was
hard for me to feel that way, life simply was not the same since
dying. He was going to say something witty, when instead he
screamed me a Bitch, A Woman Child like a Witch, A Woman of
Instinct, less the confines I've been told society teaches He
felt my pleasure I guess, for he resumed his stoic grace. Emotions,
though a vital necessity, certainly do have their place.
He then told me that he thought it was absurd that I had tried to
blame him for my death. He feels that it would be incorrect. I have
to acknowledge that we both are to blame, as we both have this sick
fascination with cause and effect. So no one can be blamed. It
would be too difficult to find new mates with which we might play -
If ever we were to again. I think I was too young when we started,
really. I did not even know the name of the game. I look to the
Black Rose, and am lost in another memory. The phone rings again.
I'd hung up on him before. Instead of answering it, I walk back
into the room of the memory which the rose offered to comfort me:
"The name of the game is three dimensional chess." He stood
smiling, as I walked into the room where, throughout the night, he
would paint. "With a rotating board, of course!" he smiled, and
asked me I I asked him or told him. I said nothing, so he lit
another cigarette off of the one he had lit, and he spoke quietly
and condescendingly, "The name of the game is three dimensional
chess. The board is different than you normally see. You have to
envision it within your mind until it is a stable as reality! Now,
the colors are all primary, and nothing is stationary - except your
understanding of when and where and how it is that you are
playing." He sat down on the couch, and pulled out a mirror of
fresh Shard. "Now sometimes you are white." He passed me the mirror
and a rolled up fifty dollar bill. "and sometimes you black." He
motioned to do what was there, and put away the shiny reflection
between us. "The board may spin out of control as you play, and
then unexpectedly the other's moves you must claim. What do you
think?" It could have been a question about the game or the drugs.
It didn't matter, for everything was loaded , and my expression
usually defied my respectful reaction. "You seem to be puzzled. Too
complex a game? Why not think about it for a while, dear." He
handed me a small bottle of metallic gray paint. "Go paint a dagger
for your ethereal altar." I was dismissed.
And now so was the memory as the dagger I envisioned became so
sharp it drew black, which turned into the rose on the lapel of my
jacket.
The phone still ringing is the only thing that brought me forth the
black mirror. I answered it, and he asked if I yet had use of my
hand.. Black turned to gray forcing my attention back to the rose.
It turned plum then mauve then blazing red before my gaze froze. He
did not really care about my hand at all, he simply was bored
without me around, and was trying to make me feel in need and
sentimental. The girl that I had been would have, as she was a bit
of a hopeless romantic. Not a bad quality unless is taken
advantage... When I had laid in fluid death I entered into a
dimension not accessible in stagnant life, and now I was not so
easily played or swayed. "Are you sorry that you are the one that
had purchased the knife?" He laughed because he had taught me how
to not merely answer a question, how not to be the conversation's
victim.
As I stared at the rose I remembered blood covering the bed in
which we had fucked, and starting to cry unexpectedly I asked him,
"Was it seductive or Vile."
Like I said, "Suicide is fascinating," then he added, "And many
murderers never make it to trial." Then he repeated my question out
loud, "Was it seductive or was it vile?" He finally let his anger
dominate him, as it was too difficult to answer. "You know, dear,
though the truth may be beautiful, the beautiful is not always
true." The line went dead, and I felt a bit more a live again. It
made me sad that I had to this, but like he said: Suicide is
fascinating, murderers never make it to trial. This was now a game
of life or death, absolute survival. The board was spinning as was
my head. The rose was black again in the lapel of my leather coat.
My hand on fire, I fell asleep instantly, holding onto myself as
though I was a child.
"What are you painting?" I asked him as I walked into the room
where he painted throughout the night. I wanted to get high, have
him come to bed, fuck for a while. His wife was sound asleep, and I
was tired of laying by her side. He said he was going to paint me,
but could not find the talent to paint such a crystallized prism of
brazen desire. Trapped in the memory like a dream until morning, I
awoke crying, my hand throbbing and swollen.
Slow beading tears which he'd never see. He's have called me
melodramatic, then painted them in when he missed me. Slow beading
tears like the rain on the window the day that I left. It was good,
it was, all of that rain. We had stood outside the apartment
awaiting a cab to take me to San Francisco Airport.. In remember he
looked at me so serious, then said, "If I was a pedophile, I could
have hired a gum snapping whore." He looked down to me as though I
was a child. It was the first time I realized how old he actually
was - 36 and I was 23 My looking up to him made him
uncomfortable. "you still have your rose!" He changed the subject
when he saw it bound into my lapel. He gave it to me the night that
we met. The cab pulled up before another word could be said. The
rain coming down, the lingering mist whispering, "It was seductive,
it was, though even he can not admit it" Though such may seem
vile, it truly was all worth while.
As the cab sped to the airport, I remembered the attendants taking
me away. It had to be a dream, I kept thinking, it simply had to be
a dream. Except that a short while later I was dead on the hospital
table. I remember a sad looking Asian man dressed all in white,
asking me my name, "What is your name, please. I know that you can
hear me! Please..." but it did not matter anymore. The game was
over. I'd bled right through.
"I love you." I mouthed as I was walked down a bloody trail.
My lover stared back with icy un.care. "Bitch!" A cigarette
dangling from his lip, way too many drugs inside for the amount of
police now on the doorstep. The ambulance lights so bright.
"What is your name?" My lover asked me at the bar the night we met.
He smelled enticing, like the processing of fine grade crystal
meth.
He already knew, so I sarcastically asked if he loved me." I do."
He said, then pondered, "But what is love, anyway..............."
As I lay dying on a table my lover painfully screamed, "You Cunt! I
do love you!" See, that is what was not supposed to have happened.
We were not suppose to fall in love, it ruined the logical cause
and effect of our actions and nature of the liaison.
Once at the airport, I stepped out into the rain. I was crying
beneath the veil offered by the weather. I looked to my hand, and
wondered what the fuck we had done. I was in so many states of
confi9ned and unpleasant pain in every aspect of my being, that I
wondered why I could not have just stayed on that damn table.
Instead though, I stood ready to board and jet plane to far away. I
was on my way to a small town a few hours from Miami. Far, far
away.
I dreamt as the airplane carried me away. I remember the attendant
asking me if I was okay. I'd forgotten to cover my hand when I was
seated, and even with the bandages my fingers stuck out swollen and
extremely discolored. Saying I was fine, I passed out in a lucid
dream - the Bay completely gone, the desert far behind, the sun
rising proudly revealing an angel in the phosphorescent glow. It
was as pained as me when it woke to the roar of the engines so loud
reverberating within the depths of the clouds - the angel was me! A
little girl with a narcissus flower and wings reflecting an image
of what I was once, then suddenly I awoke as the woman I'd soon be.
The face stared at me without emotion. "Are you going to write me?"
My lover asked, "Explain how you got be as you are. A 23 year old
woman child who believes in games so odd!"
"But you taught me to play!" the dagger no longer an ethereal
painting, but a real ceremonial piece.
"If you are lonely or simply alone, why not share with me" He
paused and he breathed as he did when he'd come down my throat,
"Why not share with me a bit of your aura, illuminate me, enlighten
me! I'll take no offense. We'll learn from each other without the
confines of false age nor innocence."
We'll never speak again. We revealed too much. We always got along
better when we stopped talking, and simply got high and fucked.
Maybe we knew each other long, long ago when the ways that men and
women communicated were a bit different than in this modern world.
The telephone ringing, I fell asleep dreaming of the death of a
single black rose, and a man who I had once known.
***********************************************************************
VIRTUAL TORTURE
BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING
***********************************************************************
This story was first created 08 September 1993. It is now 07
November 1999.
Paul tried to make his fear subside by silently cracking jokes. In
an exaggerated voice with a detective slang tone he thought of all
of the dime store paperback openings he had read as a kid: 'He
awoke in a white room... Dazed! Confused! "Where am I ....?" the
man asked himself.... Or, 'He awoke from the dream with a howl of
absolute mortal terror, shocked to find his wife alive and well
sleeping beside him - except for a transmitter now attached to her
temple which led to one attached to his.' The only problem was
that he WAS in a white room, and he was beginning to feel a bit
dazed and confused. After realizing how distant the voice in his
mind was becoming, he forced himself to acknowledge that he was
scared near to death. He had been left waiting for over half and
hour, the only sign that anyone knew he was still there was the
"nurse" who had come in to take his temperature and pulse. Her
chubby face purposely expressing nothing, but her interest in his
statistics. Despite his efforts to lighten the weight of he air
which hung heavily in his chest, she robotically did her job
before leaving him again, alone.
Though he needed the money, he was beginning to wonder if he had
made a grave mistake. This was, after all, the government - and
the government, he knew, was the enemy. When he had initially seen
the advertisement in the free press he thought getting money from
the enemy was ideal. He could buy another block of thermo paper,
get some infra paints and maybe, if he could sit thru two
sessions, even get the listings from the Black Net. He was almost
out of cigarettes and DMT, neither of which was acceptable. The
thought of real butts and real drugs relaxed him enough to place
his paranoia aside and regain the persona he knew and loved well.
He was Paul Li - revolutionary cyber artist - master of the free
visuals, and nothing - especially not that which he placed himself
within - would dominate his fear centers unless he so chose.
"Besides" he said aloud, "It IS the cosmic orgasm. What could
there really be to fear?" He laughed to himself, then, "They
better fear me when I shoot for the stars!"
Paul Li was in for the fuck of his life.
"Is everything in order?"
The pretty lady in the white latex nurses uniform looked to her
supervisor with absolute adoration, "yes, Ma'am!"
"Good! Please let Mr. Li know that I will be in to see him in
about five minutes. If he wants any water he is to have some now.
Let him know that once we begin there will be no interruptions or
breaks allowed. He may speak now, or ... " The supervisor paused
to feel a smile play across her lips, "or forever maintain his
peace." She laughed alloud as the nurse leaned forward and kissed
her, gently, on the lips. Then apologizing, she reached into her
pocked pulled out a seal bag of CB-2 and modified Shard."No need
to apologize, not at all." The nurse nodded in an eerily robotic
manner, her eyes aware yet devoid of true depth; the aquatic green
reflecting no response except for that which was her love, and
that which was her duty. She would have been quite pretty,
probably was before she acquired that expression which must have
been acquired at the beginning of the Millennial depression. Now
though her body was very thin, while her cheeks were a bit swollen
from food substitute pills - ever since the surplus markets had
shut down, the Black Net began trading food substitutes, most of
which were filled with imitation protein meal. The effects were
more damaging to the aesthetic than the essence. "Rana?"
"Yes?" She smiled with adoration at her Supervisor.
"Be sure to bring a catheter and internal pulse unit, tho keep
both in their packaging. I don't want for, ah ..." The Supervisor
paused to review the statistics once again. So many people had
responded to her ad that it had become impossible for the staff to
keep up with the roster, really. Three pages of names with five
columns on each rolled down before the module clicked onto Paul's
information, and the moniter went on showing her, secretly, into
his room. "He we are! Mr Li!. Mr. Paul Li. We do not want for Mr.
Li to become intimidated. Keep all aparatus fully covered and the
priorites boxed. Do you have any questions?"
"No."
"Dismissed. Oh. Wait, wait ...." The Supervisor quickly added,
"Rona, don't forget to take tyour supplements, you are going to be
working late, and add multi energy to htat."
The nurse thanked her Supervisor, concern lining her face as she
reached into her apron pocket without feeling her pills and
powder. Once safely within the reach of her fingers, she resumed
her placid grace, and silently the latex nurse left the room.
Taking a deep breath to acknowledge a moment of solitude, the
Supervisor asked the system to give full background on the
subject. Paul Li's file appeared within a milisecond. In the
moniter her reflexion revealed how truly handsome of a woman she
was, especially inthe combination of leather and latex she donned
in her attire - chosen especially for when she did these sessions
by her mentor - one of an elite few doctors who had trained her
for her specialized modification panels.
NAME: Paul Li
D.O.B. 29 May 53
S.S. AMERca2288417
Assoc. Scouts of the New Nation, Neurozines, ThermoKools,
Artists Freedom Group.
The computer asked her if any other information was necessary
after his statistics were upgraded by Rona's entry of a few
minutes earlier. "Negative. Ready to begin with the next hour
span." She stood up, stretched and left the office to begin her
session with Mr. Li. She laughed out loud how much he truly would
be riding the free visuals, only the Master was entirely her.
End chapter 01/ 07 November 1999
***********************************************************************
IN HER OWN WORDS...
***********************************************************************
MDA/LILII is the brainchild of a 30 year old female writer from the
United States of America. The author Lilian I. Waring is a facet of
the MDA/LILII identity. The truth behind such?
Well, Lili has been on her since 16 - the same year that she was
first in editorial print and invited to politcal forum for her
disbelief that schools were going to make it mandatory for students
to pray, but found it unnecessary to maintain their sex education
curriculum.
Stuck in the South where her mother and step father had relocated
from the North for entreperneurial work - at 18 she sold everything
and moved to New York City. By 22 she was spending much time also
in San Francisco where she was welcomed by the local Underground
due to her poetic abilities. "Though I had regular jobs and all, I
was part of circuit and was booked for Adult Venues across the
country secretly. That is how I got to Frisco. Luckily some angelic
spirit led me to a stage other than just for cash transgressions.
Without San Francisco - I'd have no carreer as a writer, really,
just a dream."
In Manhattan her work had begun appearing in fanzines such as the
Temple of Lilith's: Tongue of the Serpent. Interestingly enough her
newly presented short story, The Black Rose appeared in the early
90's as prose in T.O.S. Other than that though, she had only basic
Waterfront readings in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn and at
the SPY Building until California opened some new doors for her.
Invited to the Valencia Street open mikes (Jane 69, Bucky) and Bay
Area coffee shops (Dick Ranger, Howard Vives) in 1994 proved
continuously successful for her. From the open mikes she was
invited to Los Angeles for a sponsored reading through the
Cacophany Society Los Angeles Chapter, and she appeared on High
Defiance Television - first with erotic art associate Morrie
Cramer, and then on her own for the Strong Words section of Frank
Czjaka's show. Shortly thereafter, she began appearing in FAD
International's BAD headquarted out of San Francisco, and such led
to her being welcomed to read more lucratively in New York. First
as the showcased new female poet at an Anne Sexton Memorium (my Mum
was even there!) , and then in some group efforts including
performances which included DCTV Gallery in SoHo with Andrew
Hampses.
LILII's work has infiltrated the Underground, but has also
maintained allegiance to classic literary venue, as she won
honourable mention in the Sparrow Grass Poetry Forum, and then
placed twice in Hardcover Anthologies of Traditional American
Poetry.
Her literary and technical skills have allowed her associate on
projects with Grove Press, ICON Thoughtstyle Manahttan, The
Shooting Gallery, EMK Films/ Mad Dog Productions, Sick and Wrong
Television, but
At this point she is contemplating where to re.locate (Holland,
Honk Kong, Luxembourg, London?) as she wants to be somewhere where
there is less genuine censorhip and more money for dynamic
intelligent sensual and strong women. "Yea - having been a homeless
girl when younger and earned my way through this society as a Whore
and Domimatrix, I understand America from a broader perspective,
and Madison Avenue does not find my experiences as cute Tama
Jamawitz' or as laughable as Prozak Nation. You know if you are not
co-dependent on something or someone trendy you are really fucked,
and I am just so bored with the same old same old."
Tired of small venues, LILII is ready to dedicate her full
attention to her creative endeavors, is now looking for the
location where such can be a reality, and the people with whom to
bring such to life! She had thought it would be Frisco, but feels
that SF like NYC is becoming a gentrified and stifled once oasis
now a rim in Dante's Hell - Over seas seems to be where she is
striving to re.located by the end of the first year of the new
Millenium,
"I'm in a contest now which would allow for me transfer an extended
prose to any cinematic medium I desire. It would run for a year as
part of the festival, and after that I would own everything. It has
inspired me to realize that having my work in full International
print and also as films appeals to me greatly. I'm ready to
concentrate on new writing and directing, but don't want to do so
here. I want a more mature environment than Disney or the Simpson's
America has to offer. Somewhere where I can be myself, and my work
can be uncensored and profitable and fun for me, as opposed to a
political debate, yea!"
A moment to thank: Eli Kabillio of EMK Manhattan, Frank Cjzaka and
Cameron Seven of High Defiance Television, Dean Seven of FAD/BAD
International for their support of MDA/LILII - for that is a large
part of why I now stand before this Annhilated Fountain - Equisite!
Thanks, Neil! And Good Nite.
***********************************************************************
As always, Thanks Gary 03/09/96 RIP
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The Annihilation Fountain & TAF Copyright 1997-2000 Neil MacKay
http://www.capnasty.org/taf/
the_annihilation_fountain@iname.com
