Bordem deserves satisfaction. So... I decided to post yet another portion of my current writing project, "Crying Whispers: Echoes Beyond Tears". Alot of people don't understand the title. You ever cried so long and hard that all you could do was whisper...? You couldn't even talk... all you could do was mutter short lines between sobs and hiccups? Well, it's a draw to that. Crying Whispers: Echoes Beyond Tears. Deep? Maybe. But... who knows? Maybe after it gets finished and published, hits the best seller list, and I get blacklisted by every political and religious group known to mankind for it's content, I'll get an interview on SG? That'd be cool. FREE PUBLICITY FOR SG! lol OK... enough of that. Who should I throw down here this time?
How hard is it for a man who's homosexual to keep that inside when he's surrounded by those who would hate him if they knew? How difficult is it for a man to keep his feelings bottled up as he holds onto the beautiful women he's not attracted to? What are the thoughts that flow through the mind of a man who can't be honest with himself... and even more... how much of a personality shock will he go through once his "secret" is out in the open?
He's angry, cruel, overassertive, violent and short tempered... yet one of the kindest, most gentle people you'll ever meet. He's Marke.
Hmm... I hate doing it but I must. Remember that "Crying Whispers: Echoes Beyond Tears", DMHS, and all the character's therein are the brainchild of Chayse D. Angelus S. ( DarkNyghtzDream@netzero.com ), and the actual text of Crying Whispers are all copyrights of the author ( Chayse D. Angelus S. ). Thanks!
From "Crying Whispers: Echoes Beyond Tears"
Marke: Too Gay to be Happy
" A thrust of estacy... continued grunts and moans... the silent sound of skin slapping against skin. "Mmm... Kevin..." The young man moans gently... "Deeper! MMm Harder!" BRRRIIIIIINNNNGGG! His alarm goes off and the young man sits up quickly. He's in a cold sweat. He shudders to himself... "It was just a dream... doesn't mean your gay... You're not a fuckin queer..." He nods in aggreement with himself and goes about his morning work. HIs morning work concisted of his hand, his mind, and toilet tissue. He was a rather pathetic pile of mischief and supressed feelings, balled up into a tight muscled package, wrapped in anger and tied in hate. Hope was his whore. And it wasn't even a good whore. It was a cheap whore, who often left him wondering what that was on her - Hmm... The world finished him. The world started him. The world hated him. And he knew, in it all he was doomed to be diffrent. He was doomed to be more then what everyone saw but less then what everyone thought.
A baggy pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt, DarkMyst high basketball jersey ( number 24 ), white and red sneakers... he was dressed to kill... litterally. A switchblade rested between belt and skin, held close to him. The bus pulled up as always and he boarded it, taking his normal seat in the very back. One man in a 3 seater on the rather packed bus, his seat was always empty for him. The last freshman to make that mistake ended up laying, a bloody mess, in the nurses office as the daunted young man looked on, his arms pulling apart angrily at the metal "bracelets" that dawned his gold covered wrists.
The bus pulled up to the house that Lucifer built, and leaned to let the weird kid with the gimp out. Littered sidewalks felt the thud of Timberland boot and Sketchers sneaker alike as the bus' occupants filed out. Looking around, the young man notes all the pretty girls... he would talk to them... but talk was all he did. He kicked a pretty good game... but game was all he kicked. There was no heart behind his words... no want in his thoughts. Sex was good... but he'd often find himself imagining the girl was someone else.
Driven by the thoughts that would haunt his soul, and wrack his mind with the terror of a thousand stormy nights... he constantanly dealed with the feelings of longing in his heart as he would hang out with his friends. In the locker room, his sexuality would never been challenged due to the fact that he would never look at the other guys while he changed. Everyone thought it was because he was disqusted by the thought of naked men near him... but in fact... he was turned on by that thought. The sweat pouring down the massive pecks and abs of some running back... or the water from the shower trickling over the firm buttocks of some cute young basketball player would - No... must not think about that! That would be wrong! That's sick! I'm no fucking queer! I'm no FUCKING QUEER! He would constantly yell at himself in his head over these things.
Seeing his... friend(?)... as he walks down the hall... he notes the young man's gaze. Trailing it to one Cat Winters... he smirks rather vicously, and walks towards her. "Hey bitch! Give me a fuckin hug..." He would smirk again as she waves to him and moves into his arms, hugging him tightly. He, to keep up appearances, would rub her ass and try and grab her breast through her shirt, to which she would protest and squeel. And so continued the reality is the fiction of DarkMyst High School.
Down the halls of critizism... those twisted hallows of metal and stone that lead to dens of iniquity where perverted instructors gave lesson and wisdom to the not-so-innocent minds of hormonal fortitude locked within the bondage of inadiqute skin and bone... walked the young man, book in hand. To see the young man actually headed to a class was rare enough... but to actually carry a book? The horror... or not quite so. A hand raises to wave to select members of the student body in passing... and then lifts to push a door open. Stepping in, the young man's eyes are greeted by the sight of a young male teacher, about 27 or 28 by looks, with blonde hair, and gray eyes. He smiles to the teacher and the teacher waves and goes back to his papers. The young man frowns, feeling a bit rejected and takes a seat. "
How hard is it for a man who's homosexual to keep that inside when he's surrounded by those who would hate him if they knew? How difficult is it for a man to keep his feelings bottled up as he holds onto the beautiful women he's not attracted to? What are the thoughts that flow through the mind of a man who can't be honest with himself... and even more... how much of a personality shock will he go through once his "secret" is out in the open?
He's angry, cruel, overassertive, violent and short tempered... yet one of the kindest, most gentle people you'll ever meet. He's Marke.
Hmm... I hate doing it but I must. Remember that "Crying Whispers: Echoes Beyond Tears", DMHS, and all the character's therein are the brainchild of Chayse D. Angelus S. ( DarkNyghtzDream@netzero.com ), and the actual text of Crying Whispers are all copyrights of the author ( Chayse D. Angelus S. ). Thanks!
From "Crying Whispers: Echoes Beyond Tears"
Marke: Too Gay to be Happy
" A thrust of estacy... continued grunts and moans... the silent sound of skin slapping against skin. "Mmm... Kevin..." The young man moans gently... "Deeper! MMm Harder!" BRRRIIIIIINNNNGGG! His alarm goes off and the young man sits up quickly. He's in a cold sweat. He shudders to himself... "It was just a dream... doesn't mean your gay... You're not a fuckin queer..." He nods in aggreement with himself and goes about his morning work. HIs morning work concisted of his hand, his mind, and toilet tissue. He was a rather pathetic pile of mischief and supressed feelings, balled up into a tight muscled package, wrapped in anger and tied in hate. Hope was his whore. And it wasn't even a good whore. It was a cheap whore, who often left him wondering what that was on her - Hmm... The world finished him. The world started him. The world hated him. And he knew, in it all he was doomed to be diffrent. He was doomed to be more then what everyone saw but less then what everyone thought.
A baggy pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt, DarkMyst high basketball jersey ( number 24 ), white and red sneakers... he was dressed to kill... litterally. A switchblade rested between belt and skin, held close to him. The bus pulled up as always and he boarded it, taking his normal seat in the very back. One man in a 3 seater on the rather packed bus, his seat was always empty for him. The last freshman to make that mistake ended up laying, a bloody mess, in the nurses office as the daunted young man looked on, his arms pulling apart angrily at the metal "bracelets" that dawned his gold covered wrists.
The bus pulled up to the house that Lucifer built, and leaned to let the weird kid with the gimp out. Littered sidewalks felt the thud of Timberland boot and Sketchers sneaker alike as the bus' occupants filed out. Looking around, the young man notes all the pretty girls... he would talk to them... but talk was all he did. He kicked a pretty good game... but game was all he kicked. There was no heart behind his words... no want in his thoughts. Sex was good... but he'd often find himself imagining the girl was someone else.
Driven by the thoughts that would haunt his soul, and wrack his mind with the terror of a thousand stormy nights... he constantanly dealed with the feelings of longing in his heart as he would hang out with his friends. In the locker room, his sexuality would never been challenged due to the fact that he would never look at the other guys while he changed. Everyone thought it was because he was disqusted by the thought of naked men near him... but in fact... he was turned on by that thought. The sweat pouring down the massive pecks and abs of some running back... or the water from the shower trickling over the firm buttocks of some cute young basketball player would - No... must not think about that! That would be wrong! That's sick! I'm no fucking queer! I'm no FUCKING QUEER! He would constantly yell at himself in his head over these things.
Seeing his... friend(?)... as he walks down the hall... he notes the young man's gaze. Trailing it to one Cat Winters... he smirks rather vicously, and walks towards her. "Hey bitch! Give me a fuckin hug..." He would smirk again as she waves to him and moves into his arms, hugging him tightly. He, to keep up appearances, would rub her ass and try and grab her breast through her shirt, to which she would protest and squeel. And so continued the reality is the fiction of DarkMyst High School.
Down the halls of critizism... those twisted hallows of metal and stone that lead to dens of iniquity where perverted instructors gave lesson and wisdom to the not-so-innocent minds of hormonal fortitude locked within the bondage of inadiqute skin and bone... walked the young man, book in hand. To see the young man actually headed to a class was rare enough... but to actually carry a book? The horror... or not quite so. A hand raises to wave to select members of the student body in passing... and then lifts to push a door open. Stepping in, the young man's eyes are greeted by the sight of a young male teacher, about 27 or 28 by looks, with blonde hair, and gray eyes. He smiles to the teacher and the teacher waves and goes back to his papers. The young man frowns, feeling a bit rejected and takes a seat. "
adoreartemis:
yummy...intriguing...i love it...must.read.again! 