Tomic Riter

Tag: story

  • Back to misery land.

    Got home. Unlocked the door. Stepped inside. It was fucking dirty. Why wouldn’t it be. I had been away for quite long. The virus had fucked me up. But now, I am fine. Almost fine, I would say. Cleaned my bedroom and that’s all I could manage to clean. It was all so fucking dirty, I felt like changing my home again. There was no electricity. GREAT! And no drinking water. BRAVO! And certainly nothing much to eat. Got naked. Put a bucket of water to heat. It was freezing cold. Soon, it started raining. I realized that I had left open all the windows. By the time I reached the main hall, water was gushing inside through the window. Cold, pure rainwater straight from the grey dark hell above. I ran to the window, shut it, and moved back. There was soil all over my skin. A thick layer of it. It proved to be a long journey and somewhat tiring.

    I was looking for a chair to sit down when I remembered that I had left both the chairs on the roof. I forgot to bring them inside before I had left home. I ran upstairs, opened the iron door to the roof, found the chairs upside down, blown away several times by the winds, washed dirty by the rainwater. Their arms had turned black from dirt. Their color had gone away back to the sunlight. I brought one chair downstairs with me, took it to the bathroom, washed it with water, then kept it outside to dry. I also noticed that the electricity was back. In ten minutes the chair was looking clean and fresh, only without color. It looked as if the meat had left its bone, but the bone was shining and looking good enough, and one could think about sitting on it. In ten more minutes, the water had heated sufficiently. I lifted the bucket, took it back to the bathroom, mixed some cold water, had a quick bath using minimum soap and a drop of face wash gel, came out wearing a towel, sprayed a lot of deodorant on my skin everywhere, and waited for my skin to dry.

    Outside, it had stopped raining, the cool winds were swaying the leaves and tress in my garden. I noticed that a few trees had broken down. I had no energy to look further into the matter. The trees laid down on the floor like brown skeletons. I started feeling sleepy. I wore a fresh pair of underwear, and then I walked to my chair, sat in it, turned on my laptop. I desired a hot cup of black coffee as I began munching chocolate cookies. I straightened my backbone and began typing.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Right under the electric line.

    Gurgling stomach. Sweat on my forehead and on my chest. Sitting inside this sealed box where glasses are windows shut and tightly screwed, where air vents are air vents but there’s no air coming out, where the engine starts but stops more often and it keeps failing again and again because it hasn’t run in a long time. At one time, it was a horse running miles every second day but now it’s just a snail and I am lying on my stomach in the liver of this snail. I haven’t had my tea or even my water since this morning. I am not a big fan of tea. I am not a big fan of anything. I am just traveling to somewhere miles from here. It’s all red white red white red white in my eyes. All red white and poisoned under my ribcage. I am typing trash while a fly drinks from my well and devours my sandwich. I am typing trash because this time, nothing else can kill time. I am typing trash again because I just woke up from a poor, uncomfortable sleep. I have got to spit out something. Life’s not the same without spitting out from time to time. When you spit out, you might feel kind of lighter. Yeah, right there. I said it. ‘Why is the train taking so long?’ I ask a man running up and down the little space in the compartment. ‘Power failure,’ comes the answer. Ofcourse. A power failure. Let’s take another nap and let’s hope the bats come flying soon and eat us all.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Me against myself.

    Something is stopping me from writing today. No, it’s not the ‘writer’s block’ as many like to call it. It’s something else and it’s buzzing everywhere inside my head. Actually, it’s not letting me do anything. Everything is fuzzy. Heavy. Barbaric. But it’s not a headache. It’s something else. It’s beating me down, making me sad for some reason. Maybe it’s not making me sad. Maybe I am just anxious about something. I am stuck with this story since long. I need to finish it soon and begin another. I need to get down to doing it. I am coughing. My eyes are burning, or maybe I would like them to burn. Such is my mind. It thinks bogus, exhausts me for no damn reason. Such is my mind, giving in again and again to the itches of life. I haven’t dreamt lately. By dreaming, I am dreaming while in sleep. But I never really dreamt. Never. I had only nightmares. I had so many, I got tired of having them. Sometimes, they were so terrible, so cruel, so killing, I would open my eyes and I would find myself sitting without breath. Sometimes, I would find myself on the floor and my knees would be hurting because I fell on them.. I never remembered when I rolled down there. None of that has happened lately. I guess it’s because nothing is happening is happening lately. The coming week will bring me something. A lot of it won’t be quite pleasant but all will be mine to have. Maybe I will even start drinking again.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Miller night

    Late last night, I had this sudden urge to read Henry Miller. His book Tropic Of Capricorn had, once, grabbed me by the neck and lifted me up way above the ionosphere. I couldn’t escape earth. My ass is no rocket. It is a poor ass at best. Last night, I started reading his journals on writing. I read a few paragraphs and they were something. Miller was one of the wise ones. He talked about spirituality in a way that is digestible. He was somewhere between a saint and a cruel pimp. He was more of a pimp. Usually, people who talk about spirituality make it a God-subject. That is nonsense. Utter nonsense. One can be religious and not be spiritual. I have found that men who are actually spiritual are rarely religious. At least they aren’t religious in the manner of bowing before some high-end God out of fear or incompetence or plain suffering. They rarely believe in a higher entity, a universal supervisor, a force that is above humans and that cannot be harnessed by humans. The case is different with the religious ones. For them, they are here and their God is up there. They believe in that light years long distance between here and there, between them and their God. If you walk to them and try telling them otherwise, they might abuse you or even get you killed. It has happened throughout the human history. No doubt in that.

    I will quote some lines here. But wait wait wait. Why should I? To hell with those lines. Who am I to quote anybody? But those were good lines. Really good lines. You would have loved them. Really? Would you have loved them? I doubt it. I seriously doubt it. Miller was good but I doubt anyways. Playing with a kitten might be equally good. No doubt in that. No doubt. Rarely, something good is read, and it’s all old, very old. New art, new writing, new music – all seems dead and fake to me. That is not to say that all that is really dead and fake. It’s just that I feel that way. I am talking horseshit, I know.

    Saw three intellectuals talking to each other while I was taking a walk this evening. I blew my nose and walked on. I find intellectuals repulsive. Yuck! I better finish my coffee and go back to staring at the wall. Outside, crickets are chirping but all they want to do is fuck all night and die of exhaustion. I am not much different. I am going. Watch me go.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Jazz and other things.

    I just feel so lazy, so out of blood. Listening to some late night jazz. I want your arms and legs around me. I want you so close. Only that can keep me warm and alive. Only that. Jazz is just a distraction. It cannot fill your absence. When it rains there, I want it rains here as well. I would smell and and I would smell the rain and I would poison myself. I fold my hands, stare at the bedsheet. It is never tidy. It is like me. I roll on it all day and it hasn’t complained.

    This is just another movie where man’s machines go hostile. RUN RUN RUN they scream as the space around them explodes. Boring science-fiction bullshit. They make it worse by adding century old bad jokes. I mute the television. Now the movie make some sense. HA HA HA HA HA. I turn off the television. Now the movie makes complete sense. HA HA HA HA HA. I put on my earphones, play some more jazz.The Astounding Eyes of Rita. I am the last man on earth listening to jazz. Jazz is dead, its listeners asleep in their graves. It’s not my intention to keep jazz alive by listening to it. I love listening to it sometimes.

    People shit on you for no reason. This isn’t a game of hearts. This is just about wiping each other’s ass, keeping each other stupid. It’s no use showing a heart. Keep it hidden. Stab it and throw away and walk quietly to your dinner table and have a warm dinner alone. Life is about that and nothing more. My blood hasn’t returned yet to my blood. I spilled it somewhere early in the morning – where, I do not remember. My bad days are coming. But soon, maybe in ten days, it will feel alright, like things were bad all along.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • It started with something else.

    I really haven’t given much thought to my vision. I feel drained, as if all the water in me has vaporized. It hurts to even piss. But I am still alive. It’s a little hazy before my eyes but I can still figure out the outlines of things and people. As time passes, a mouse grows into a dinosaur, a mountain crumbles to mud, a peacock eats a car, a bus chases a fly, you breathe in my neck, I open your legs and feel you with my fingers and we are in heaven again and all that unwanted hell falls behind. I smell my own skin, imagining your mouth, your hands, your whole body. My throat is dry again. My legs are lifeless. Now is the time. And now it’s too late. Too late. I turn my head towards a dull pale sunset. Somewhere not far away, they keep drilling holes into the wall for nothing. It’s all too loud. I think about walking out of here. I walk out.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All right reserved.

  • I am talking.

    Why is my tongue flapping in want of you. The clouds have gathered after a long time. It will rain. Oh look at the roads. They are already wet. It has already rained. We could have fucked all morning before you went to work and I went back to hell. But you aren’t here and neither am I. I am talking to the stained walls, to the damaged television. I am talking to my bottle of hot water, to the night lamps that never burn. I am talking to the clouds because all the rainwater has dried in their fat grey bellies. I am talking to the fuming exhaust of these loaded trucks – enter my lungs and make me faint. I am talking and talking and doing nothing much. I am doing all this when I could have drank your cum and begun my day.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • All with one sour eye.

    Woke up again with a goddamn headache. My left eye is still sour and watering through the noon. Is this another infection? Am I going blind? What if I go blind? What is left to see, after all? I tile my head to right and think. I close my eyes and squeeze them under the lids. Let them run dry. Let them turn to stone. You are asleep or you are dying on your table or you are touching yourself and thinking about me or you are working and thinking about me or you are just thinking about me. I pull my hairs as I think. I squeeze my balls as I think. I think as I slowly go blind in one eye.

    Woke up again. Thought about you. Thought about my cock between your legs, about your nipple in my mouth, about your clitoris rubbing my thighs. My left eye is vomiting again. I wash it with acid water. I wash it thrice but nothing. I walk back to my chair, pop a vitamin pill. I thank god because Mother’s Day is over. Another stupid day if you ask me. Why is everybody so insane and so fake all the time every year. Ironically, they are the same people who talk about liberty and equality and all that stupid shit. We all deserve a decent death, and until that comes, a fine living. But those fuckers will ruin it for every single one of us. I close my left eyes and squeeze it under the lid. It’s a joyful irritation. Yes, I am mad but there’s no other way. Yes, I am mad and my tongue is licking you everywhere. Yes, I am mad and there’s nothing an electric shock can do to me. Yes, I am mad and I am filling you with my cum for the rest of your life and my life. Yes, I am mad and I am mad and you are going away again. I lock away my eye in a drawer and walk to the toilet.

    Evening birds are dying in the white careless air. They are quiet now. Everything is quiet now, everything except this head of mine. Everything is quiet except this stomach that wants some more. I take a walk, sit down on the grass. I do that and nothing else and my arms wait for your arms and my lips wait for your lips and my cock is asleep for some time now. The pleasant winds appear magically and enter my shorts and they crawl up my sweaty chest and jump out of my neck. How long before I get up and walk again. What am I waiting here? It’s nothing. I wonder if you are drunk. You are never drunk and I haven’t drank in a long time, except from your lips and your breasts. You are never drunk and I wait for you to open that bottle. You are never drunk and you will drink and you stomach will scream all night like mine.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • We are making love again.

    The buzzing electric saw caught my senses. I was sitting by the window, as usual. The curtains were closed. Nothing much outside to look at during the day. Also, it was just too hot. So hot, the sunlight would roast your skin immediately. I pushed aside the curtain to look outside. Who is that motherfucker running an electric saw at this hour? Hasn’t he got anything else to do? Why is he carrying out his bullshit here? Who is he? Let’s look out of the window and try to find out. Where is that motherfucker? Let’s look a little further. The fucker is nowhere to be seen. Why am I having an erection right now? Oh it’s you. It’s you, spreading your legs in my thoughts, kissing my tongue, kissing my cock, driving me mad. It’s you and I am growing for you. I forgot about the electric saw.

    I took a shower and then we made love again. The electric saw was gone. Now, there was a hammer falling on a nail and it kept falling as we kissed and I climbed on top of you and licked your neck and ate your lips and we ate each other and at one time, the hammering outside stopped – at what time I couldn’t tell.

    It’s evening and I am walking with a bulge in my shorts. We are making love again and my cock is leaking under your panties. Your ass in my lap, my hands inside your dress, your mouth inside mine and my tongue touching yours and we are kissing and kissing and hugging and kissing and hugging and hugging and kissing and kissing and there’s no end and I am wet and full of you.

    It’s night. You are back to reading Orwell. I am thinking about you, about all the kissing and all the hugging. I am thinking about everything. You read a little and then we are kissing again.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Ramblings on my vision Part one.

    I might share a little more tonight, or I might not. Who really gives a damn? It’s time I start working towards my vision. My vision. What is it? I have never written it down. I only have a vague idea. It’s there in my mind since long, suspended like a thick haze, dead but there like a virus, standing tall like a wall. I could never break through that wall, otherwise I would have seen the other side and I would have accomplished writing down something about what hung there. It’s time I break that wall and look beyond. I think it’s time. It’s time I concentrate on that wall until it melts down. It’s time I blow that wall with dynamite. It’s time I take a step forward. I have a vision and it’s mine and it’s not going to die. I will not let it die. But why am I writing all this? Maybe I want someone to read all this one day and feel a connection to my idea. But really, what is that idea? Maybe I will arrive at its more concrete form soon. I think I will, and when I do, I will write it in bold golden letters and I will read it out loud every day and I will make it come alive. I will make it come alive. And then one day, I will die.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.