A Warm Place

A lifetime of fucking so many things up,
A lifetime living in this filthy fucking flesh.
A new story will be told, and every problem has a solution,
This is mine-

Click

You wouldn't believe how simple it really was,
I just put the gun in my mouth
Tasted the metallic residue on the tip of the barrel,
Closed my eyes, bit my teeth, pulled the trigger-

Bang.


All my insecurities came spilling out
In the darkest shade
A crimson, clumpy puddle
Of all that I ever was.

Mmm finally,
A warm  place.
Somewhere far away
From all of you.

I Want to Quit

Introduction

I'm not really sure if this will be a good post or not (grammatically and quality wise), but frankly, I don't care, I have a few things to get off of my chest and some writing that needs done. No, the website I am using for this post does not support any fancier looking formats and I can't afford a thirty dollar/month blog program for writing something that nobody will read.

It is now 12:30 a.m. as I am writing this post, and if you're reading this, welcome, if not, well, no surprise there. I can't seem to get people to read my work even if it's free, perhaps I'm cursed (being a bastard and all).

As you probably notice from my past blog posts, I had a few free write/flash fiction stories I shared on here and I couldn't even bother the people in my life to click the link to the posts I shared on a multitude of places. Before I forget what I am going to say, I'm going to get right into our next topic.

I'm at the end of my rope, people. Constantly working a physically/mentally draining job that I hate with every fiber of me being, is starting to take a toll on me. I have no energy for writing, no time for family, no time for relaxation, it's just a constant haze of stress and depression from here. To catch you up to speed, I am a twenty-one year old horror "author" who just can't seem to catch a break. I moved out when I was nineteen due to arguments with my mother becoming exaggerated by people in a hurry (confusing? Good. I'm not going to pin point on that one.). Even now, I have hardly any time to write this blog because my trash apartment and needy wife are yelling at me right now to get to bed, so forgive me if this seems a little rushed (great, now she's going to see my post and all Hell is going to break loose because so many people in my life can't keep their mouths shut. For the record, I think I love her she's just very, very needy at the moment).

Anyway, we're getting off topic (if there is one in the first place).

I am walking this thin, dental-floss rope with my view on writing, or art in general for that matter; on one side I fall and wind up in a boiling pot of raging despair, alcoholism, a miserable dead-end "9-5" job, and borderline suicidal, working and chasing after a dream until I'm gripped by cancer, a cardiac arrest, or a stroke.... on the other side, I fall and wind up quitting everything I've ever worked so hard for to get to this point, and go to college, work a job I could care less for, retire, and die as another product in a materialistic society (for those of you who do/did go to college, if you are happy doing what you're doing, redact my previous statement. For those of you who hate their job, is the money really worth it?).

Yes, yes, I have heard it a hundred times before, "We all have to work jobs we hate, Kyle." To which I always reply, "Because you settled for it."

Onto the next topic, the bullshit hand I've been dealt while pursuing my dreams.

Financial Problems

In 2014, I graduated from my bullshit high school, got a bullshit job, and finished a book I had been writing for three years: Never Forgive Me, Never Forget Me if you look at a lot of my social media accounts, I talk about this book a lot; that's because it is the most personal thing I have ever made before, everything has a symbol about the emotions and anxieties I felt for those three years. I published the book in February of 2016, (had to save up money for an editor, formatting, and cover art while trying to save up for a car, a place of my own, and college on my $8.15/hr job at 26 hours a week) and instantly spent a hundred dollars alone on marketing with Facebook, after writing the most genius sales pitch I ever mustered (dumb mistake), sold four books. Around this time, I had moved out and got a better job at a whopping $9/hr. People (authors from whom I asked for advice) told me my book was too expensive, so I lowered the Kindle price to $0.99 and the print price to $6.99 and spent another fifty on marketing with Facebook and Twitter, sold fifteen books, so I spent another HUNDRED on marketing and sold only six books, but had over a hundred likes on my Facebook page.

Let's pause and tally that up really quick:

Professional editor: $122
Formatting: $25
Cover art: $15 (which I later lost the rights to)
Marketing: $250

Total so far:
$412.00

Okay, back to the story.

By this time, I had three five-star reviews "Cool" I thought. So I started spending $20/month on marketing with different social media accounts, until August when my second book A Stray Child was released. By this time, after having run a free promotion I was at a total of fifty-seven books for Never Forgive Me, Never Forget Me and now four five-star reviews. I hardly marketed A Stray Child, I think I spent a total of fifty bucks on marketing this book. Next, my first short-story collection was published and I did absolutely nothing for this release, no marketing except for a few posts on my Facebook page (I was caught up in a lot of stuff in my personal life, and had started this blog as a hope for another means of marketing).

I have now sold at this moment:

Never Forgive Me, Never Forget Me: 104 books (most being free) 5-star average on Amazon
A Stray Child: 121 books (some being free) 3.5-star average on Amazon (3 five-stars and 1 one-star)
203: A Short-Story Collection: 8 books 5-star average on Amazon (only one review)

..........

$1,046.74

That's how much I've spent on my four books I have self-published. I have made $40 on my books.



I make, roughly, $1,200/month and all of my bills are split between me and my wife.

Rent: $305
Electric: $25
Car stuff: $250
Gas: $20
Food: $100
Phone: $40
Credit card: $25
Cable: $40
Dog/Cat food: $30

$815.00 roughly, fluctuates often.

Then I have Savings, the occasional need for new socks or milk, and if I ever want to pay my 25% APR card off? Well, I need to pay a lump sum right? And my bank finds it funny to charge a monthly fee to have an account with them if you don't have a "credible" balance.. that fee is $25 and is a monthly payment, because I never have the $500 minimum they require and there are NO OTHER BANKS AROUND ME!

I usually find myself with a hundred bucks at the end of the month if I'm lucky.

Now why this massive chart of the shit I pay for? Well that's the first reason why I don't think I can continue with this endeavor. I can't afford to pour all of my resources into these books if they just aren't getting picked up. Cruel isn't it? That's not all though. NEXT SECTION!!!!

Lack of Support

Usually, you'll see a family being supportive of one's dreams no matter how bad they are at it right? Not in my family. They either don't take me seriously and brush me off, criticize me for pursuing my dream and not going to college, tell me there is no work in my writing, or just in general not being supportive. I had to lie to a few of them and say I got a movie deal just so I would feel like somebody is pushing me in my endeavors. My wife doesn't, my mom doesn't, my grandmas don't, my uncles, aunts, cousins, friends..... nobody. I am completely on my own and it often times makes me wonder if I am just trash as a writer, despite a handful of strangers telling me how great my work is and I'm sick and tired of being the only one proud of myself.

Competition

The first successful self-published author I asked for guidance from told me that we are a community and we need to work together, he also told me not to expect to be the next J. K. Rowling or Stephen King, which I don't, I just want to pay my bills even if it means scraping by on occasion. This author was somebody I looked up to for a very long time, only recently has he found success and gotten full-blown movie deals and such.... which made him drop me like a hot potato and never reply to any of my e-mails or messages again.

There is two new authors in particular who I am going to speak about, and I bring them up because they have put a massive strain on the joy I use to feel when writing my stories.

The first one: He more or less insulted me for giving honest feedback to help him, then proceeded to ignore me and try to push his book on others.

The Second One: I capitalize his name for a reason, he is my main purpose of this paragraph. So you know all that wrote earlier? Well, flip that completely and you'll have this guy. He has every single advantage one could ask for. He's got a good job, lives at home with mom and dad (who pay all of his bills, mind you), and was a shining star in high school. Petty? You bet, but it makes my blood boil thinking about him. The only thing he pays for is the gas in his car and his one book which he has spent a small fortune on. He paid a little over what I paid for my books grand total on marketing alone, $1,050 on MARKETING. You know why? Because he doesn't have to worry about jack-shit. Shit, his editor does editing and formatting work for free (I tried to get in touch with her but she ignored me, considering the conflicts we had in the past during school), he does his own cover art (which is a bad photo shop job if you ask me), and only worries about marketing. Within two months of creating his page, he had just over a thousand followers, was selling quite a few books at $2.99 a POP! Yet, MINE were too expensive, the shit I dumped my heart and soul into? The worst thing about this? He started writing as a HOBBY because it was EASY! Now he's quit his great job and pursues writing full-time ON ONE BOOK. I have absolutely never seen or read anything like it before. Maybe I'm upset because he paid his way to the top? Not likely, I think I am upset because this individual use to harass the holy-shit out of me in high school and now he's living my dream? Petty? Like I said, yes it fucking is but I don't care.

The "Self-Published" Title

Despite what many articles say online, the "Self-published" title is the bottom line for all writers in our "community". I pursued this route to have full control on my work, but now it seems I'm labeled mediocre without the "professionals" even giving my work a once-over, simply because I am self-published. I suppose we live in a society where doing anything for yourself is strictly forbidden, as if the "pursuit" of happiness is now more of an escalator furthering your descent into the mundane, miserable existence of our modern world.

Conclusion

I am once again alone and forgotten, back to square one, as if I am releasing a book again for the first time, except this time might be my last. I didn't just title my upcoming book on a whim, I put more thought into that title than I have for any other book. "Born Again" is going to be my new, much more brutal approach to the horror genre and this is not just the title of my new book, it is the title for the new chapter in my life as an artist, and perhaps my last. I will make a book that establishes myself as the villain I was destined to be. The only fear I have is this: when I am born again, I might very-well be a still-birth.

I have to go to bed now, but I don't think I'll be able to sleep. I'm on the end of my rope with this market. It's caused more pain, debt, and rage in my life than anything ever before. It seems to become a place-- no an ocean-- overflowing with privilege, beauty, and toxicity (like the rest of the art world seems to be succumbing to). Just like this blog post will probably get a lot of shit (if ever seen) because authors aren't suppose to speak their minds anymore, apparently.

An Analysis of Cult Films: Begotten

An Artistic and Unsettling Cult Film

In 1991, director Elias Merhige released his movie Begotten, a new view point on the book of Genesis (yes, the bible). This film serves as a unique reminder that not all movies need to be cut from the same cloth, in fact, this one spun its own and forged itself from the frayed knots.

A daring motion picture, birthed by an inspired artist might chew up tradition and flunk expectations. 

A bizarre, incredibly gory piece about life and death. Begotten expresses itself entirely in grainy black-and-white and told without dialogue.

A Truly Possessed Film?

As the film begins, a God-like being kills itself, giving birth to "Mother-Earth" from his entrails, who, shortly after, brings the corpse to arousal and manages to absorb its seed. After a strange, and brief period of time, "Mother-Earth" gives birth to a human-seeming son named the "Son of Earth", who, including his mother, is then dragged away and abused in every possible way by strange natives from a nearby community. The “Son of Earth” creates life and food for them in a kind of enforced fertility, and the villagers then proceed to kill Mother Earth (after raping her for some time) and her son. Life springs anew from their grave, and the cycle of life and death repeats itself.

At a cost of $33,000.00, Begotten never explains its narrative, and fails even to comment on its setting. It is the medium of film reduced to building blocks: virtually silent, with images of light and darkness that we must interpret for ourselves. An opening card gives us a sole clue: “Language bearers, Photographers, and Diary makers you with your memory are dead, frozen lost in a present that never stops passing. Here lives the incantation of matter. A language forever.”

The imagery is grainy, dirty, obscuring, and the result is that the movie, as it commences, instills a deep sense of dread and discomfort. Because we have never seen anything like this before, anything seems possible. And in those possibilities, that unpredictability, horror blooms like a rotting orchid (or Son of Earth, if that fits well?).

What one does successfully register within, throughout the duration of Begotten,seems wholly concerned with suffering and brutality. The film thus resembles a nightmare of Earth herself.

The director, Merhige, even spoke about the film in an interview as a sort of "shamanistic" ritual during its filming.

So, could the film itself be possessed as the director so strongly infers?

The Central Debate About Begotten Remains This: is Merhige's 1991 Film a Poetic Work of Art, or a Work of an Enormous Ego?

The answer is complicated. The film is unarguably fascinating in presentation, and I’m surprised, as well as relieved, more aspiring filmmakers have not adopted this dynamic visual approach, utilizing black-and-white, frame-by-frame re-photography (a lengthy process which took ten hours for each minute of running time).

Yet beyond the one-of-a-kind appearance of Begotten -- there is one problem that is rather massive for some. Scenes go on and on, lingering past the initial point of the film and grows rather repetitive quickly, and the overall effects of the camera angles tends to generate a strong sense of distance. What interests us and frightens us at first, seems to push us away by the film's midpoint. The film hammers us with so much information, so hard, we take cover inside of ourselves multiple times during the film.

If Merhige's brain baby wanted to challenge film conventions (as a medium of expression) and exploit audience comforts such as dialogue, clarity, sound, plus a regular narrative and characterization, then there is no reason for his movie to last as long as it did. Begotten could be the same film at a half-hour length. Merhige removes so many comforts of traditional narratives in Begotten, yet keeps one convention... a full feature length film. I don’t know if this flaw is a choice I just haven't understood yet, or just a misinformed director trying too hard to make something so incredibly different from the status quo.

However, considering this film is experimental, I can look past the running times and take this film for what it is. A work of art. So, as a moving work of art, an experience, Begotten is certainly revolutionary, unsettling, and interesting in its entirety. As a film, its running time and sense of confusion it left us with, fell a little flat; but the chills and discomfort was in fact very strong and left an impression on us for sure.

Sheer, Vivid, Morbid, Beauty Presented in Black and White

Begotten appears as though it has been remastered from the dawn of time itself, or at least the 1920's (Again, released in 1991). Of course, cinematography is an art form established long after the fruition of man, but if cinematography was around during the dawn of time, Begotten is exactly what we would see. The images are powerful, painful and poetic, yet simple in the most beautiful way. 

Lacking narrative and visual certainties, Begotten leaves much to the imagination and pounds the questions from the unknown of our origins into its viewers minds.

Begotten seems very painful. Watching this vision of suffering, our minds jump to the idea of man painfully re-shaping Earth to suit our needs; to bring life and greed from unforgiving torment of our planet. 

After some interval of suffering, water falls upon on the tortured ground in the form of rain (and we hear water bubbling on the soundtrack, which otherwise mostly consists of crickets and inhuman moaning).

Conclusion

Begotten is a one-of-a-kind cinematic experience, even if it outstays its welcome more often than not. The characters, the settings, even the film quality are symbols, and they suffer -- God how they suffer (such is the bitter reality of life)-- yet we still wish to understand more. Within the usual agenda of film we seek comfort, familiarity and yes, innovation, and that's why this movie is so fantastic, because it breaks that mold and pushes the boundaries and uses our imagination against us while also being innovative. Hats off to you, Merhige, for making a film of such a remarkable visual approach and symbolism, even while finding the overall film a bit too long for some to really embrace. I was impressed with Begotten, and a strange part of me really enjoyed it and its disturbing imagery.

Begotten is totally original, totally intriguing. I recommend it for the visuals seeking something new in the horror scene, considering this is more of an experience than an actual movie. As a general movie goer, this certainly wouldn't be your cup of tea (my wife hated it, while I loved it. I'm a bit of a prissy movie watcher, analyzing every fine detail I can find, where she is more oriented on dialogue, obvious plot devices, and familiar conventions, which isn't a bad thing at all, not everyone needs to over analyze a movie, but instead unwind and just enjoy a good film and there is nothing wrong with that).

Death in the Family

Grandpa died, or so I thought.

Turns out, he just ate some bad puffer fish and suffered its side effects. They buried him and everything, until security on the grounds heard screaming and thrashing from his grave. When they finally got him out, well-- looks like grandpa's dead now.

Wedding Ring

There once was a woman who smelled awfully bad. The kids all avoided her from blocks away, even her neighbors vacated their houses for fear of every time she stepped outside.
Margaret wasn't a bad person, she struggled a great deal in her life. Once she was pregnant by her husband, but her husband was shot dead while on the force. The stress was too much for her. Being two.months along, she had a miscarriage. When the procedure came that she needed to get her child out of her body, she asked the doctor to keep it for her and the doctor ubderstood, as odd of a request as that was. So he put the fetus into a small plastic vial and sent it and its mother home after a full recovery on her part.
Well, many years passed and Margaret passed away from a stroke. When the mortician noticed that her left ringfinger had been horribly discolored and reeked of rot, he decided to investigate. Forced to cut the ring off of the finger, he noticed that it had a bit of flesh leaking out of it. He obtained the necessary tools and broke open the ring. He discovers, inside, the rotting remains of Margaret's fetus. Smashed into the tight chambers of the ring. All these years she had found some way to keep the meat moist, but failed at keeping it fresh.

"Oh my God!" Said the coroner.

Then he spewed his lunch all over the tile floor,

SNEAK PREVIEW OF A ROUGH DRAFT STORY IN "203"

Innocent Moon ROUGH PREVIEW

I've lost track of the days since I was put here. I only know that I was taken when I was only eight years old. I am now twenty-five, I think, and have spent my life in this lonely, tiny hardwood room.

I miss my parents and my brother.

Somehow, I've managed to hold onto my sanity all these years by scribbling down my thoughts and a few notes to myself, on parchments provided to me by my kidnappers.

I'm not treated poorly here, in fact, I'm treated rather well aside from not being allowed to leave this room without anyone by me. I have only seen three people since I was put it in here and that bothers me, I had many friends as a girl and now the only face that I see is the elder's, a girl who brushes my hair, and the man that has stood outside my door for almost two decades.

Aside from that, twice a week the girl comes and gently brushes my hair and tells me how pretty it is and how soft my skin is, she showers me with compliments in fact. I'm given fresh kimonos daily, I have a very soft bed and many, many beautiful dolls, I'm fed as much as I want anytime of the day.

I'm examining one of the dolls now, my newest one, she looked a lot like me in fact. She had lock black hair, a white kimono with a red sash and she had very majestic make-up painted on her little, gently smiling face. I usually pretend the dolls are my daughters, but not this time, this time all I was doing was looking at her growing more and more angry by the second-- I was suppose to have a husband by now and a family, but my isolation has kept me from that! I just want to go home! I don't care about any of this! I want my life and my family back!

I threw the doll across the room from my bed, as hard as I could and I watched her face explode against the wall, leaving a small crack on the surface.

My face fell to my knees and I sobbed. Why me of all people? I was a good girl and a great daughter!

Moments after, the door unlocked and was pulled open; Elder Misurugi stepped in, looked at the doll and frowned as he looked at me. He approached me and knelt beside me on the bed and said,

“What's the matter, Tachiba? Are you growing bored with your dolls? Getting too old perhaps?”

The Elder's heavily wrinkled face held a look of false concern. I looked him in his deathly gray eye and said,

“No, I've grown upset by this room. I want out now! I want to go home!”

The Elder's frown reversed and he laughed as he spoke,

“Don't worry, Tachiba,” he said, “Your wish will be granted later this day,”

They were finally going to let me go free? That easily? After nearly twenty years they might just let me go free? I can see my family again! I will make up for the years I've lost to this wooden box and these glass faces.

“Why later?” I asked, “Why not now?”

“It is not yet time,” the Elder replied.

“When sunset comes, the followers and I will come to collect you and lead you to the shrine--”

“The shrine?” I interrupted, my heart leaping up into my throat, “Why?”

“Your calling, child. You will be elevated and deliver this world into glory,”

Were they going to sacrifice me? Fear gripped my tongue and I could not speak.

“Rest now, Tachiba,” the Elder leaned close to me and place his aged, yet powerful, hand on the top of my head and raised his lips just before my forehead, “You will need all of your strength for tonight,”

Then I felt his lips press against my forehead. They were slimy, warm, and-- rough. After about twenty seconds, the Elder backed away from me, looked me in my eyes and smiled.

Misurugi stood up, turned around and left from the room and the door closed and locked behind him.

The air that rushed in hinted to me that it was early morning.

I will not let them take me! I search the floor for the fragments of the doll's face but found nothing, while the elder spoke with me, the guards came in and swept up the fragments.

Damn them! Damn Misurugi and his 'Followers'!

The door swung open again and two younger men walked in, grinning at me.

“It's an honor to meet you, lady Tachiba,” the younger of the two said.

The younger one was handsome, and built. A tan hakama hung off of his powerful frame. Upon looking him in his eyes, I felt my cheeks grow slightly warm. He was not much older than me either. No, think straight, they are planning to sacrifice me. This is all part of their plan, I imagine, attempting to keep me distracted until it was time.

“My name is Hamada and I am Elder Misurugi's grandson,” the handsome one said, bowing,

“It is my honor as well, Tachiba. I am Hori. I was the guard that sat outside your door since you came to us all those years ago,” the shorter, older, balding one added, also bowing.

I said nothing.

The two lifted their heads and the three of us sat in silence until Hori broke with,

“We've been asked to come and collect you to prepare you for the ceremony.”

And so, without another word, I started forward for the door. Hamada stepped around me, however, and held up one of his powerful hands.

“But first,” he said, “You are required to wear this,”

Hamada lifted the other hand up and within his grip, he held a blindfold.

“Why?” I asked.

“The Elder has requested it.”

I nod and Hamada stepped close to me shortly after. He smelt so clean, and young. He had been the first man I've seen in years except for Elder Misurugi.

I felt a tickling in my lower belly, little lotus began bouncing around my insides and formed a warmth that had begun to sprout between my thighs. I have never felt this before and for a moment, I had felt like a woman instead of a captive girl.

Darkness enveloped me and left me with my fantasies of the young and strong Hamada lifting me in the air with his powerful arms and bouncing me on his-- no. He was just as insane as the rest of them.

–

By the time Hamada had ordered me to stop, my cheeks were burning and the warmth that had blossomed earlier, trailed up my spine.

Hamada released my arm and removed the blindfold.

“Are you feelng well, Tachiba? You're burning up,” he said.

“I'm fine,” I said, “Just nervous,”

“Don't be!” he replied, “Just think of the paradise that awaits you beyond this place as well as the paradise you will bring to all of us!”

Misurugi's grandson stepped aside and exposed a beautiful bathhouse. Indoors, of course, but very well decorated with scrolls and well kept wood. Each picture or word I saw described or depicted some holy scene of a God named-- Giyago. I had never heard of that name before, even with all of the books the Elder allowed me to have.

It was very warm here, warmer than I've felt in a very long time. Despite being so comfortable, I couldn't help but think of the loneliness that I still feel. I miss my family and I want to go back to them soon. Feeling this reminded me of a poem I once read,

The cry of the stag

Is so loud in the empty

Mountains that an echo

Answers him as though

It were a doe.

The only difference between me and that stag was that the stag had the ability to chase after what it wanted where I was trapped by wild dogs who simply muffled my cry.

I hadn't noticed where I was standing and because I was so caught up in remembering that poem, I stumbled forward and was caught by Hamada, His body had been warmer than the bathhouse, and despite my best efforts not to fall victim to his false embrace, I had anyway.

“Careful, lady Tachiba,” Hamada said, smiling charmingly,

It took me a moment but I collected myself from his chest.

He's evil! Just like the rest of this damned cult! I had to remember that. I needed to remain focus on my main objective, escape.

“I will be right outside the door,” Hamada said, “Call out to me if you need anything.”

So he left and I was alone to think of a way out. It hadn't taken me long to realize that there was, in fact, no way out except for the front door. I foolishly decided to accept the bath, thinking it would clear my head.

The family had given me a fresh white kimono to put on after the bath, a basket of apples and an apple slicer. Nothing else. Not a crack, a crawl space, no windows-- nothing. I wasn't strong enough to break through the wood in time either.

My body was already lightly glazed with sweat and moisture and the kimono was growing damp. I undid the ribbon in the back and let the kimono fall about my feet.

My body felt free for the first time in many years, it also felt awry at the same time. Some strange insane part of me had wished that Hamada would enter and see my body.

I digress. I stepped over the kimono and hadn't hesitated dipping my foot into the warm water, sending a welcoming chill up my cheeks. I eased the rest of my body in and laid back into the water. I look about the room again only to remind myself that there was no where to go. Instead, my sight fell onto the basket of apples, all freshly picked just for me. The steam had begun forming itself on the skin of the apple, defining its crisp skin. My mouth had begun to water and I couldn't help myself, so I snatched one from the basket and sunk my teeth into it.

At that moment, I felt chained to the pool. I released a trembling breath as I sunk my neck into the water. As my body had become use to the heat, I took the biggest bite of the apple I could manage-- careful to contain the rich juices within. Instantly, as the apple chunk slid down my throat, a wave of nostalgia washed over me; visions of my father's orchard on a hot summer's day coarsed itself through my being. I had a cup of tea in my hand, I watched my father bark orders at my brothers as they all slaved and-- played in the unrelenting sun. Mother was beside me, writing her haiku's that I never had the chance to read. Times were so simple as a girl, in fact, time didn't seem to exist at all. Now, all I can think about is how quick time can leave us, like a blossom falling from a tree. Oh, how I miss them. I can't wait to see them again-- but wait, I won't-- I'm stuck here unless I can-- escape!

My head shot out of the water and I stood up, stumblng the rest of my body out of the pool. I must have fallen asleep! How much time have I lost? No time to figure that out now.

I had to cover myself and find some way out if it wasn't too late.

I ran for the white kimono, kicking over the basket of fruits. I snatch the kimono of of its line and wrap myself tightly inside of it, the cloth seemed to cling perfectly to me and define my frame exactly as it should be. My next instinct decided to call out to Hamada. A little more panicked than I should have sounded. Instantly, he barged in, asking me if I was okay.

What now? What could I use? The apple slicer! It's in the pool! Why hadn't I thought of that first?

Hori had entered with Hamada. I had to fight my way out if I planned to escape.

“What is it, Tachiba?” Hori asked,

“Could I have lunch?” I said.

“It's near dinner and it should be ready shortly!” Hamada said, “In fact, why don't we take you to the dining hall now?”

“I'm sorry, but I need a little more time to prepare,”
“I'm afraid it's too late for that. You've been in here for four hours, lady Tachiba. We have servants who will fix you up properly.”

Hori approached me with the blindfold again and I immediately dove into the pool and retrieved the apple slicer.

“Tachiba what are you doing?” Hamada said.

Hori bent down to help me, but I seized the moment to drive the knife into the side of his neck. The blood pulsed out of his neck in rhythm with his rapidly slowing heartbeat and continued to do so until he ceased to moved in a puddle of his own blood. Hamada stood frozen, unable to act as I leaped out of the pool and out the door. I found myself in a long narrow hall and I decided to take a left, then a right, then another right, when I finally heard Hamada call,

“She's running away! Grab her!”

Within a Hayfield

"Fuck, baby, I love you so much!" She screamed.
"Does my throbbing cock feel good?" I replied.

No wonder she's so popular with all the other boys at school! She's tight as fuck and she knows just what to say!

"Bend me over, Ben. I want you in my ass."
"Fuck yeah-- okay--"

Kinky as fuck being out in a hayfield too.  I've never been with a girl as freaky as her. She'll take it any way I want to give it to her!

"First-- hey, baby, look at me-- first I want to suck your fucking hard dick-- get you all wet so you can slide inside."
"Holy fuck--" is all I could manage.

As I leaned back, she spared no time wrapping her fingers around my red, swollen penis and guiding it down her throat.

"My pussy tastes so good on you--" she said.
"Doesn't it?"

A low rattling began to sound out from some farther reach.

"Oh! Oh! Fuuuuuuck!" I cried as my cock exploded in her mouth.

I brush the rattling off as just some blood draining from my ears as I climaxed. She kept sucking and sucking and sucking-- moaning as my semen began to spill out of the sides of her mouth. As she pulled me out of her mouth, the rattling grew louder and seemed to be coming from behind her. Again, I brush it off as my senses returning as the stars explode.

"Your semen is really sweet," she whispered.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the coming head ache.  I've never had an orgasm that literally blew my mind.

Next thing I know, she starts screaming and the rattling is deafening.  I watch her as she begins to be sucked into some giant, bladed, rotating device. Aliens? No! Then I see the blood begin to spew out and practically cover me in a few seconds. I fell back and felt the roller ride over my legs before they come to a stop.

I was in shock.

"A-- harvester?" I mumble
"Oh gawd! Oh gawd!" I heard the farmer say as he stepped out of the cab.

He kept repeating himself and I started to scream finally, I couldn't feel my legs anymore and pain was absent, thankfully; I'm more so afraid of the fact that I just nearly got grinded by a harvester. I'm staring at my mangled, disembodied legs, bent in a way they should never have been bent, oozing and the toes are still-- somehow-- twitching.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Stupid fucking kids!" The farmer said again.

Next thing I know, the farmer climbs back into the cab and starts the engine. Instead of backing up he started the grinder then he-- started moving forward. The last thing I felt was one of the blades coming down on my dick then onto my waste-- then up-- up-- up.