the last person to post here wins

"...see, I've already won..." said the goblin

And now you fail as first

"...the first shall be the last..." replied the goblin

Or so it may be second to last! For the future is untold

*walks in dazed*

"What was stated of a prize????" asked Sage in a garble slur of speech.

*falls over*

"I'll just wait here until the competition is over."

<freezes in time>


XP

IMMA WIN, inly he spoke with a triumphet attitude.

("...this is never over, this is your mega thread..." foretold the goblin)

the poster had won, as had the goblin many times to date too but there was always only one "last post" and only the one "now" to post it in, "...it is like picking up a handful of sand and letting the grains slip gently through ones fingers..." mused the goblin "...there are so many things yet to post and so many things that I have posted but just like the sand they are somehow less attractive than the falling grains of the present situation..." the goblin was simply trying to say that winning the game was less of a prize than the adventure than sifting through the sand of what one could post here

"There is a prize?" The ghost the spirit in human form whispered with a laugh "what prize could be? I see no reason for prize for why should our fun ever end?"

oh dear.....


*falls through floor*


ALCOHOL IS BAD CHILDREN!!!! he screamed as he fell three stories.....my dear....

"Hark! Haha he looses in death of poor choice!" gliding around the spirit laughs a the sight.

Quote :

"What was stated of a prize????

"...one wins a sudden realization of "sadness" I suppose, in the knowledge that there would be no more posts from then on..." replied the goblin welcoming sage, though continuing "...for me, I cannot think of anything that really equates to being able to post in life, or for what I would wish to exchange this ability with, I try to win, yes, ah but I hope I never actually win outright here..."

("...display your stuff mortals, ask yourself "what in my life is worth postings" and go with it, for here is our journal then.." suggested the goblin)

repost from elsewhere, the "what are you doing" thread

the goblin was doing "nothing" in style, well that is, when he should have been doing "whatever" then, saying "...for who owns this existence, if one can't do "nothing" in it...", and yet that fear of not meeting his obligations always lurked ever in the shadows of his mind now, at which point a gypsy was passing a small paper cup in an unwashed hand around the bistro tables to the usual "...si vous plait monsieur, si vous plait..." with a voice without much expectation, where the goblin just typed on before finally signaling a clear "no" with those upraised flayed fingers of his two hands as if pushing it all away from him, "...gypsy, you are what I am not, in a freedom that I fear to follow, just I hate you for reminding me of that at this point...", sighed the goblin as the clock, once more, set the goblin's pace for his next "whatever" in a life that all seemed so "Arbeit macht frei" at this point for that constant command which it held one under

Quote :

In order to win one must first be willing to enter the competition, but as Rhett Butler once said... "Frankly my dear, I can't be arsed", though I may be paraphrasing there slightly.

"...the only win here is the won against oneself, besides don't you want to know who you by what you post..." replied the goblin who simply understood that it wasn't what one wrote, so much as not giving up, that mattered here, adding "...people who can't be arsed often wind up obese pushed around on an electric wheelchair, or in some old age home regretting that they hadn't tried to write from years back now...", in fact, the goblin was always selfish, not really caring who else did, or didn't post, only that he knew too that if he didn't at least try to get it right to himself, he was simply living his "dailylife" at surface level again, adding "...it's all too easy to become the donkey in pinocchio then, but one can't then blame life for ones own indifference here, for these days will just pass all the same..."


72

the goblin returned some hours later to find the there were still few posts "...alas, poor humans, I knew them well..." said the goblin borrowing words from Hamlet while downing his coffee in the bistro where so called "dailylife" continued a pace around him till his eyes fell on a child being taught ABC by her parent and could understand the child's resentment at flexing the brain on the weekend, and just like his school days too, the goblin wants to whisper the answer behind the teacher's back something like "...hush, you have to take the last post place from the goblin..." without getting caught by a the prof who normally was the "read up Marx, write down marks" type, at which the goblin caught those school memories before they could fully crawl out of the soil again and the quickly reburied them


2

meanwhile, back at CIA headquarters agent Joe is carefully monitoring Al Qaida's secret website at his desk, he thinks "...where's mac with my coffee then..." as he starts reading through the new posts for subliminal messages, reads: "infidel, may a thousand scorpions sit on your bum, your goblin days are numbered, this is my "last post" thread, it is written", then agent Joe looks up at agent McCoy who has come with his coffee, says "...you take over mac, I'm beat, I need a break..." turning to the second screen with showing the CIA site, he sips his coffee, feels better, clicks "new posts" and writes: "listen goblin, there's no way this thread is yours buddy", somehow the goblin is always supportive, he just likes sending people up he felt

Sage hopped above the goblin, from thin air. He yelled silently....yay.....
far from the vision is his left eye stood a brick, he could sense the brick......nvm

i posted last...for now!!!

("...that's the spirit, just jump in like a dance then..." said the goblin, adding "...all that matters is being imaginative and never giving up...")

"...this image is surreal, its details unknown...." notes the goblin as he cycles pass a group of people gathered around some car/pedestrian accident, and although the goblin can see nothing for the crowd, the attending ambulance lights seem to twirl through the dark in unison with a lone church bell that calmly calls from somewhere above, the goblin had moved away, but the image still followed him now, things like this do

it's this time of year and the goblin has been thinking about Christmas again and how in this modern age it just didn't politically correct anymore, where non-Christians think it is too Christian, and where Christians thought it is too pagan now, no what the goblin wanted to offer here something else, something new in fact, "...well folks, it's time for the all new "politically correct" name-change then..." ventured the goblin "...so what we need is something historical to celebrate in its place that is both secular and well known..." the goblin continued "...well how about celebrating the discovery on the new world by Christopher Columbus in 1492...", in fact, the goblin had only suggested this, imagining that there were probably some people in America who were aware of it, "...simple, we take the his name and shorten it, "Chis" of Christopher and "bus" of Columbus...", and with that the felt he had done his good deed of the day and now only wanted to be the first to say on this thread "...Merry Chrisbus everybody..."

fleamailman wrote:

"...well how about celebrating the discovery on the new world by Christopher Columbus in 1492..."

"Hark! A new world indeed!" whispered the spirit as she appeared again in a hissing smoke that lingered under the hinges of a near by, and mockingly closed, door. The door, so studded in gems, was rusted and old, the gems themselves tarnished by age. "He did none but destroy lives and so many lives! Every death in this land is upon his found! Aye he is a cause of great suffering." the spirit ends in a whisper as her thoughts go to death once more, whom she look to see and knows not what she'll find.

("...capital, if I may use such a term here..." replied the goblin, continuing "...win this game in style, and post against me if you wish, but, at some point, evolve beyond that to post against oneself, remember "writers don't need a reason to write, they just do, whereas people don't need a reason to write, just just don't"...")

"...everyones who posts on a "last post" thread is a winner for a while..." thought the goblin, "...it's just that life continues so one has keep on winning not so much against the others here..." though the goblin admitted that that was fun at times too "...no, the real win is against the part of oneself that just wants to live life from day to day without looking, without forming an opinion, without whatever..." the goblin blurted out at himself since somehow he now believed that growing older had something to do with gaining depth at the expense of letting life's distractions go, yet the other question narked him too when he asked himself "...so, should I be living life for my old age then..."


1

back in the village for the weekend to visit of his mother again, the goblin looks out the window and notices that old women who was now watching from the safe distance of the church path behind the house the funeral in the graveyard of someone who apparently had, some 35 years before then, refused her daughter something, and it was as if that ancient phrase "Captain, I have holed our boat and together we will drown now" was just written into the old lady's silent face as the goblin watched her in his turn too


1

"Ridicule is a pertatious word is it not" mused the spirit now floating upon mist whose thickness was darker than her trasparancy and who marked her invisable against it. "and life is a word to ridicule. or is it a thing to ridicule. No it is a word, always a word. After all, can one say that life is but a word? as you live, do you really know if you are living? Death is but a word also. yet we all wish to see him as a being and some, many a manic mind such as I, see and convers with him. but it is a vulgar ideal to do so."

She looks around for a window, for a light and sees nothing as darkness creeps in upon her. her eyes close and she is thrown back to her life years before. men covered bedizenly, their clothing cut with befeathered statments, and cavalcades of simillar beings so very banal in their appearances that it is as if clones roamed the world. and she, the lonely and seemingly vagabond who craved the knowledge of aesthetic ways and sights. "life life life, none of it none. I am dead, yet i live. I am dead yet i see and hear. Inside me I am nothing, outside me is all things. around me is forever, and for me is no more. so what then is there?"

("...o how I am feed well here with your posts mortals..." mused the goblin, where somewhere within him was this urge to comment, or to advise, or least to correct, but no, he knew that the reader ruins the writer by turning him or her into their own expectations in doing so, where the writer is then trapped, and the reader disappointed, somehow that quote "at times the gods punish with what we want" sprang to mind here but the still wanted more now, but all that mattered now was that it was forming)

the goblin had now understood that almost all computer problems find their origin seated between a keyboard and a chair so he turned his thoughts and eyes elsewhere in this cybercafe(a bistro with some computer screens against the far wall) where the goblin looks up and sees the muted television screen showing some obese girl being reduced to the size she wants, the same channel that show cars pimped to something fabulous, and rock stars who live in palaces "...get behind me television..." simply retorts the goblin as he moves himself to the other side of the table now


2

next day, Sunday and the goblin works on the surface while somewhat preoccupied with American economics, the decline of an empire perhaps, or at least its moment of soul searching, meanwhile the television news reports too little too late of what matters to the goblin "...who will pay the debt and how far will it take us backwards..." asked the goblin to himself since the television coverage was ducking the issue once more

"...smokers may now smoke in the cemetery..." advises the goblin, that is, as Geneva too, has decided to ban smoking in bistros, though to be honest sitting out his typing day with a cake for lunch drinking coffee, didn't exactly strike the goblin as "healthy living" either, but at times he needed to remind himself of something saying "...longevity is not the point of life..."