the last person to post here wins

"I miss the graveyard" shouted suddenly the spirit who now seemed to have become the mist herself. and as the mist herself she became spralled against a wall and tried simply to life herself from the wall and all human vulnerablilities. "With the equisid carvings of death. Oh what beauty comes in death! The study of aesthetic is the study of death!" she shouted and in such shouting laughed brilantly at some unknown joke. "Oh why am I here, here of all places. I am dead! Yet i shall haunt the eve of life. Again, what is life. Is there no answer for me? Is there no brilance in this place where living mortals -and hark i say living beings of all kinds- play games with so many meanins until they themselves know nothing of what they say. Again, though I may know nothing myself, is anything known? can anything be truly known i wonder.

"For how can something be 'known' when all things were not real? Numbers were created by man. Names, words, music, science, all created not known. nothing is known. I could take your language and change it completely and what then would come of it? what would you do against it? Nothing. why? Because it is something knew and most fear it. Because it is something you don't know yet and need to learn. Something other deem need be known. Such things are sick little twists in the world that I can not see as unknown." In her rant she headed back toward the door.

"I shall not stay and haunt upon this place. I shall go and find new hauntings in the world where cobble stones meet marble and small carvings enrich polished grey matter. and in such I shall be home, one and the same, a home of death in the warmth of a grave."

The Chameleon walks in, and pauses briefly, letting his body darken to blend in with the background, feeling that tingling sensation occurring once again, before beginning "Indeed Flea, there are writers here, not shackled by talent or imagination I see, though I will let you loosen the bonds a little, before bringing in some Random Stuff, perhaps, so lets see, as we did with the Music Industry, if another new band can break through, release the shackles, shake things up a bit....and then, we will see who wins"

Spreading her smoke past the beings that appeared, the spirit watched them tenderly. Truthfully she could not leave yet. she could not return to the place she so adored in life, the grave. and so she stayed and watched and waiting with deep anticapation of what might happen.

"a new commer" whispers the spirit. she hums to herself, trying her hardest to not focus on anything as when focusing her form takes solid might and at this moment her dead identity is unknown and she wishes so harshly to keep it. Watching them as a sniper watches the target, she took in all details. "How lovely"

Outside a cry of the bird of dark feathers and curses rings and the spirit looks toward it. "Oh look, something is to happen soon, very soon. How strange it is and how endering."

The lonely young woman walks in, taking in everything around her...
"I see this site is getting famous... So I wonder how far one has to come before they reach the stars... I find no meaning in my words rather than in the poetic dances of sound..."

(and with that another great had turned up, "...welcome JATS the chameleon, see, I said they were friendly here and have talent..." said the goblin who had not been so lucky with any of the other new venues of late, adding "...on with the show then let us continue...", as he posted something more in silent midnight's vein of interest he believed, a bit of the goblin's blog about his mother's decline, but only a little now, saying "...welcome silent_goodbyekiss too...")

35) the goblin had walked the church path to an auction in the village hall and somehow the noise of a frantically flapping flag had contrasted well with the stillness of the bodies below his feet, somehow the feeling was not spooky but it was old as if everything in Dungford clings back to the past, "...we become our own ghosts..." he voiced out to the graveyard but they would already know that he then guessed as his mother now lived more and more with her ghosts then, she would ask after them by name, set places at table for them, etc., and any refutal by her goblin son was soon drowned under her feelings she had towards them, so the goblin had learned to let her ghosts be

just a question....where do you obtain these pictures???

Gliding her way past any beings she could seem to notice, the spirit stopped at a book case. taking the books from it one by one she stacked them into towers based of nothing but the will of her non-existent hand. "Books are wonderful things. If i could choose again I would, though it would never be done for me, be burried with my books. I wish so much so to read forever, every page turning in swift secsession. one after another after another. a melody. a beat. each book having its own. the heart of the book pulsing in your hands. oh to feel that again!" she let off a lusty sigh and staired at the book now in her hands. its title; Tartuffe. with a slight laugh she placed the book down and turned to the new female, making her no longer alone. gliding to her she pressed her transparent hand on the girls warm skin and quoted Tartuffe: "My dear, we are beginning to be known; see, high society is finding its way to our door.

i really like these pictures

XD

Sage wrote:

i really like these pictures

XD

"...me too, may have said it to you before, but if one starts illustrating ones texts, which is what this is then, many things happen..." mentioned the goblin, continuing "...first of all, pictures in general seem to change from that simplistic "like/dislike" subjective view to a wider "like/dislike, and what is it saying too, can I use it now" objective view..." but there was more, always more with the goblin it seemed, adding "...then again, the texts too, change here in that one is asking oneself "what picture will go with this text then, what is its image exactly", and lastly there is the physical preparation here, the hunt for the picture then which, keeping a beedy eye out, has to be found somewhere or the post won't be posted..." the goblin rarely posted without illustrating now, where some post took months and many changes to be exactly the right fit here

"I would rather, at times, see what others see in my words. I want to know what they make people feel and see. " mused the spirit as she laid over the arms of a rotted rocking chair near the books where she had once again sunken back to. she laughed again at some joke she thought of from long ago as she took another book and looked at it's title. Thoreau was what it was called and again she laughed. "'This is the house that i built; this is the man that lives in the house that i built. These are the folks that worry the man that lives in the house that I built'" she looked at the ceiling, concentrating on it until the mist started to form back into a body. "what is civil disobedience. Is it defying the law, or the norm. is it creating new or destroying old. Is it following wrongs, or mastering the right."

another ghost, the goblin remembered the true story in newspaper about a super powerful motorcycle that had killed two of three brothers in turn, of course the point of the story was what would the third brother do, "ride it" or "sell it", but for the goblin, at that time without anyone who depended on him, it was the wonderful image, of staking ones life in the race with death, which haunted him "...besides, death, could say "call" at any time so what does one stake here..." asked the goblin aloud as if knowing somehow that death would simply reply "...up to you, how fast do you want to go..."


2

the goblin could feel the night dragging down his senses, "...just one more post for the road..." he said knowing that it wasn't the post itself so much as the long moments trying to choose the right lines which made that post worth it for him, "...it's just like shopping..." mentioned the goblin continuing "...cheap things are everywhere, and easy to buy too, but finding "value", now that's another matter..."


2

"Death!" whispered a frantic spirit. Not the female spirit any longer for she was absorbed in her readings now, no this was a younger spirit still of a young boy who still had a solid shape. "Death death bring me home bring me home! I do not belong here bring me home to mother to mother!" the child whined. Death would never answer him but the female ghost looked over her book at him, which by now was another book. "You shall travel, as if your the great hero of the odyssey, only better for you are to young to do as the great Odysseus had done in his travels. but he shall never answer you, do you know why?" the child, who had come to sit in front of her though her face was not hidden behind the book again, shook his head. "no, what, why, when can I go home?" the girl laughed coldly. long since her death had she had any feeling of pity for the dead. "never." "what?!" "Never! never again, never more! haunt them all you wish you shall never be flesh again! you are dead, now and forever! forever forever!" she mused as she read on, showing no emotion but in her words.

A Haiku

Deep tissue is torn
Abbreviate my silence
and in darkness rise

The spirit claps her hands and returns to her books, ignoring all else once again and musing to herself; "Who was better, Poe or Shakespeare . Moliere or Homer. Can one great author surpass all others? can one great inspiration be the cause of it? if so why? why do they deserve this? Poe was a drunken mess, Shakespeare was, by slight reasonings, a thief of other works. though he changed them he did steal them. Homer wrote of a man whoring himself to goddesses only for him to worry of his wife sleeping with another, Moliere wrote women down a peg. But all these things also come with the times they lived. they wrote. and do we all, whom write, or draw, or sing, or dance, or play music, or make music, not have some trouble within us? Some slight, or not so slight, problem? I know I did, do, did, no i still do."

("...are we not well fed here..." repeated the goblin, who loved the haiku and was following the line of thought, without comment for the moment, about authors, saying "...I fear that I will change you where you must evolve in your own way now, remember "the reader must be listened to, but not followed, the captain of your work is you alone here"...")

dawn, after last night's posting party, finds the goblin sweeping away the previous posts with the words like "...I was someone else then..." while outside somewhere, in the looming now, the city awakes to a clear cold sun that pitilessly shines over the arena of exploitation and profitmaking, as the goblin, his weapons ready, shouts to the mass of ever eager onlookers "...all hail to the moneygod, we who are about to work salute you..."

life's angels were not there to be nice but to help one find oneself, and the goblin had fought them often enough, but still this snow like slot, at the bottom of the thread here, was his "journey to self" the goblin felt, not theirs then, so his steps compacted the snow once more, and then more snow would just cover his footsteps again, but that's life he knew, though as long as he trod onwards, on this thread that is, he was still winning the "unwinable", in writing what else mattered then, what else could matter now

"Disappear" the spirit murmered. "Disappear and forever know that you can do nothing without appearing hence forth." she flipped the pages of her newest book, reading line after line while speaking of unimportant things. "It's dawn, the sun hath rison, but where is the sun? Where is the light? Did it too disappear? I remember, oh I remember what the light was like. It was painful." her mind dwandles back to her living-hood where she would roam the morns until dawn, where the sun would rise and smite her as it graced her skin with its glow. it would stab her as every fiber of her being would shudder out in screams of pain.

"I like the moon" She whispered to herself as she looked around the windowless room. It looked as if the world they were in was a void of wall and floor with little to nothing else existant. "It is so powerful, so beautiful, that is so taken for granted that none knows its truth. I do. or do i. No even i can not know the truth. The moon, who casts the sun away for a time, and brings out the stars of the heavens. The moon who controls the tides and the emotions of a bainful woman. Is this one and the same a moon. a deity. If such things as gods and goddesses existed, I think the Moon would be the most powerful and secretive."

("...well done, I like it..." continued the goblin once more, adding "...at some point one must decide if it is for a book or for the internet but don't think about that now that adaptation comes later...")

repost from elsewhere, the goblin was passed master at "swot the bot" on "last post" threads

the goblin daydreams and lands in church, "...dearly beloved we are gathered here to join the goblin to this xxxxx, if anyone knows why these two shouldn't marry speak now or forever hold your tongue...", a voice from the back of the crowd breaks the silents "...excuse me but where's the restroom..." the goblin thinks "... oh please just for once ask for something else, oh please, instead just tell them the I took vows of computer science, I'm mad, a frigging fairy, anything but not this fate...", dead silence then "...sorry I really need the restroom please, when does this bus get to chamonix..." waving her hand in front of the goblin's face who steps out of his daydream "...well yes madam, your restroom is at my command..." the goblin replies as he somehow throws both arms around the driver's seat saying "...oh my bus oh my baby, ah it was all a bad dream then..." as the driver drives on, he doesn't care, he knows guides have strange imaginings

the goblin still refusing to admit to himself that looking back his love had been based on faults, but that was it was, she had to be vain, capricious, stubborn, unreliable, unbearable, unreasonable and passionate for the goblin to fall headlong in love with her, anything less was never really feminine enough for him to succumb to her charms


3

"I remember once i had written and written in my muse and boredom -perhaps still more boredom than muse. Or is boredom the greatest muse?- for hours upon ours until i found my nails chipped and my fingers raw and ruby studded." the spirit arched her back on the rocking chairs arms and sighed longly. "oh how I loved to do that. the pain showed that reality existed, that my fantasys that i wrote, and as always shall conitnue to write, were not real no matter how i wished it. And how i wished it! this reality, this world. I do not believe in it. I would rather lavious away in the fantasy that is my nightmares than live here upon the soil of false realities. at times, I think reality is more fictional than fiction."

(the goblin could relate he promised, saying "...you are a go-between then, all writers live the vision of something, and then have to explain it to the blind reader here...", somehow the goblin often to talked about the muse's pact, which any writer knew straight off as "honesty, a thick skin and a shared life", saying "...you are what you write even before it hits the screen...")

the angel's aim was perfect, touching a nerve within, the goblin could now re'see his fingers burning with cold as he frantically cupped the snow into a ball as he closed in on his girlfriend, in fact he loved her but dammed if that mattered at that point, first came revenge


3

the goblin remembered coming across the very toy in the flea-market, that he had always wanted in his childhood, and in that way at least the flea-market to him seemed very like a sea that washed things up from his past, the goblin picked up the toy, took a long look at it, and then finally put it back, as if to let it drift away till next time, "... I suppose my growing old is like that then..." he venture,


3

The spirit sat up in a rush, her bum falling to the chairs seat and her legs still swung over the chair's arms. "I want to loose!" she proclaimed as she swung her legs over and pulled them toward her, the chair rocking from her invisable force. "I do not wish to win this place of posts, this game, if it can ever be a game! I want and wish to sit here and chat over and over and never be the end! Each time i speak i write i note a sadness takes over me for the thought goes through me and I hauntingly wonder; 'What if this is the last?' It breaks my broken heart and then some posts again! and my broken heart gains a new stich and I laugh and smile and wonder, oh how i wonder."

(the goblin couldn't promise to be here forever, any more than the site promised to be here either, saying "...life is but a mere assumption of certainty is it not, members come and go, sites fold, and all is beautiful for its brevity, so post while you can now, know yourself by what you post too, this is your stage then...")

morning, and the goblin slides out of bed in his pre-coffee state, where hitting the bathroom, he will shave off his face, weigh himself against some long lost goal, and return to the bedroom to dress, before switching on those props of the electric kettle and the laptop, where his coffee made, a few gulps has him just roused from within, as if, landing on a "last post" thread has him fully awake yet motionless, till the goblin starts typing up some thought, or phrase, he had kept for this moment, or more often the goblin would just type a reflection of what he was thinking at the moment, or give up without disappointment, but either way, all this had long passed from the point, where the goblin had to explain to himself why he actually did it, "it", like his "getting up in the morning" was simply habit, "...and who needs any reason for habit..." he asked himself now


3