[lastexodus] Fwd: It Begins...

From: "Brandon Perkins" <perkinsbrandon@xxxxxxxxxxx>
To: lastexodus@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Date: Tue, 16 Apr 2002 02:29:35 -0500


>From: Brandon Perkins <malckuss@xxxxxxxxx>
>Subject: Fwd: [lastexodus] It Begins...
>Here is the PBEM's first post; let me know what you think
>
>   Note: forwarded message attached.
>
>
>



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Date: Sat, 06 Apr 2002 22:16:45 -0000
Subject: [lastexodus] It Begins...
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You've all seen them. You see them so offten, and in so many places
that after a while, you stop paying attention to them; just another
facet of life in this hellish soul-prison called Earth. What am I
speaking of? It could literaly be one of any one-thousand things
wrong with this dying rock, from the homeless to drug dealers to
lawyers to trashy whores to trashy televangilists(who are one in the
same). But the thing I speak of are "missing" posters. Not the kind
with lost items or pets; people. Missing dreams. Missing hopes.
Missing love. And most of the time the missing are children. Young.
Innocennt, as far as anything in this rotting and corrupt, over-ripe,
splitting at the seems corpse of reality can be. You walk past them
on the street, pour milk from them in your homes, and shop past them
at grocery stores and Wal-Marts, their missing eyes staring at you
accusingly, begging for surecees, as more often than not their bodies
return to the dust they were made of in some unmarked, forgotten
patch of land miles from anywhere. Forsaken. Alone. And then the
people of this world wonder when the phantoms of these torchered
souls crop up, why are they so angry at the living?
And so starts the lattest chapter of your life. Walking past the
missing, the dead. It is eerie, the flutter of paper in the wind
around the bustling noises of the places you live, as everyone
collectively ignores the plight of the hapeless, the helpless, and
the unwanted. You walk about your business, oblivious as everyone
else; You have a war to wage, you are the next Coming, you have
places to go and things to do. But on this particular day, you are
drawn again and again to look at some of the faces on the walls. You
turn away only to have another lost soul leap up and grab your
attention, if only for a moment, before you turn away, and pull back
into yourself. It increases throughout the day, and you cant't shake
the feeling that the cacophony of paper people is calling out your
name,crying out to you for help. Frantic, running from your
conscience, you dart into a little dinner, seeking refuge from the
voices. You order a cup of liquid warmth, to shake the sudden chill
from your bones. The bells tied to the door chime an arrival, and a
weary, windbeaten man entters into the cold pastel room, his breath
still misty. What strikes you is his eyes; so lost,so alone. He walks
over to the counter and plunks down a massive stack of flyers, orders
a cup of coffee. He steres around the place, looking for somethimg he
knows he isn't going to find, but looking none the less. As the
waitress pours his coffee, he spills into a diatribe, now very well
practiced, as he asks if she has seen his daughter;he doesn't notice
that she isn't really listening as tears pour down his face, his
pleas assailing deaf ears. He leaves a small stack of the flyers pays
generously for his coffee in hopes the money may suddenly jog a
memory,and walks back out into the cold. His eyes meet yours as he
turns down the street, and the despair and pain nearly overwhelms
you. Soon after, you depart as well, returning to your home. Sirens
wail, hornes honk, curses are hurled;oblivious you walk, deep in
thought.A piece of paper gets stuck to your feet; another flyer. A
young man; a father, a husband, a loving son, reward offered.
You toss it away, only to have another plaster itself to your face; a
grandmother,missing since Cristmas. The cacophany grows,you turn and
everywhere you look,as far as the eye can see there are flyers waivig
in the wind; here a doctor, there a young mother, there an infant. It
strikes you suddenly the only sound you hear is is the deafening
flutter of paper. No horns. No sirens. No shuffling feet. No traffic.
only the fluttering of paper wings. Another flyer rolls by; you pick
it up on impulse. It's you. In abject horror you stare up at the sky
as the imagined voices of the day actually vocalize, calling out to
you, as white feathers rain down on the streets, tinged with blood.
You wake up screaming.


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<html><body>


<tt>
You've all seen them. You see them so offten, and in so many places <BR>
that after a while, you stop paying attention to them; just another <BR>
facet of life in this hellish soul-prison called Earth. What am I <BR>
speaking of? It could literaly be one of any one-thousand things <BR>
wrong with this dying rock, from the homeless to drug dealers to <BR>
lawyers to trashy whores to trashy televangilists(who are one in the <BR>
same). But the thing I speak of are &quot;missing&quot; posters. Not the kind 
<BR>
with lost items or pets; people. Missing dreams. Missing hopes. <BR>
Missing love. And most of the time the missing are children. Young. <BR>
Innocennt, as far as anything in this rotting and corrupt, over-ripe, <BR>
splitting at the seems corpse of reality can be. You walk past them <BR>
on the street, pour milk from them in your homes, and shop past them <BR>
at grocery stores and Wal-Marts, their missing eyes staring at you <BR>
accusingly, begging for surecees, as more often than not their bodies <BR>
return to the dust they were made of in some unmarked, forgotten <BR>
patch of land miles from anywhere. Forsaken. Alone. And then the <BR>
people of this world wonder when the phantoms of these torchered <BR>
souls crop up, why are they so angry at the living?<BR>
And so starts the lattest chapter of your life. Walking past the <BR>
missing, the dead. It is eerie, the flutter of paper in the wind <BR>
around the bustling noises of the places you live, as everyone <BR>
collectively ignores the plight of the hapeless, the helpless, and <BR>
the unwanted. You walk about your business, oblivious as everyone <BR>
else; You have a war to wage, you are the next Coming, you have <BR>
places to go and things to do. But on this particular day, you are <BR>
drawn again and again to look at some of the faces on the walls. You <BR>
turn away only to have another lost soul leap up and grab your <BR>
attention, if only for a moment, before you turn away, and pull back <BR>
into yourself. It increases throughout the day, and you cant't shake <BR>
the feeling that the cacophony of paper people is calling out your <BR>
name,crying out to you for help. Frantic, running from your <BR>
conscience, you dart into a little dinner, seeking refuge from the <BR>
voices. You order a cup of liquid warmth, to shake the sudden chill <BR>
from your bones. The bells tied to the door chime an arrival, and a <BR>
weary, windbeaten man entters into the cold pastel room, his breath <BR>
still misty. What strikes you is his eyes; so lost,so alone. He walks <BR>
over to the counter and plunks down a massive stack of flyers, orders <BR>
a cup of coffee. He steres around the place, looking for somethimg he <BR>
knows he isn't going to find, but looking none the less. As the <BR>
waitress pours his coffee, he spills into a diatribe, now very well <BR>
practiced, as he asks if she has seen his daughter;he doesn't notice <BR>
that she isn't really listening as tears pour down his face, his <BR>
pleas assailing deaf ears. He leaves a small stack of the flyers pays <BR>
generously for his coffee in hopes the money may suddenly jog a <BR>
memory,and walks back out into the cold. His eyes meet yours as he <BR>
turns down the street, and the despair and pain nearly overwhelms <BR>
you. Soon after, you depart as well, returning to your home. Sirens <BR>
wail, hornes honk, curses are hurled;oblivious you walk, deep in <BR>
thought.A piece of paper gets stuck to your feet; another flyer. A <BR>
young man; a father, a husband, a loving son, reward offered.<BR>
You toss it away, only to have another plaster itself to your face; a <BR>
grandmother,missing since Cristmas. The cacophany grows,you turn and <BR>
everywhere you look,as far as the eye can see there are flyers waivig <BR>
in the wind; here a doctor, there a young mother, there an infant. It <BR>
strikes you suddenly the only sound you hear is is the deafening <BR>
flutter of paper. No horns. No sirens. No shuffling feet. No traffic. <BR>
only the fluttering of paper wings. Another flyer rolls by; you pick <BR>
it up on impulse. It's you. In abject horror you stare up at the sky <BR>
as the imagined voices of the day actually vocalize, calling out to <BR>
you, as white feathers rain down on the streets, tinged with blood. <BR>
You wake up screaming. <BR>
<BR>
</tt>

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[lastexodus] Fwd: It Begins...

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