Brandon 2
KitaBloodRats
July 10th 2007 09:56
He had warned her about the book. At first, six, maybe seven months ago, uploading it to the Internet alone in his room, he’d presumed there’d be no need for him to ever admit to writing it.
He’d used the pseudonym Lentil from a book his cousin lent him. However somehow, the impossible had happened. It had become wildly popular, circulated through MSN, P2P, websites and God knows what else. There was even a page on Wikipedia about it.
He’d warned her, because he knew however bad it would be to admit to writing it, if she actually read the damn thing, she’d entirely disintegrate. He thought this way he could prevent his mother, who still refused Stanley Kubrick and Tarentino films entrance to her house on moral grounds, from actually reading it, even if she did hear rumors. Seemed a good idea, in theory.
The problem was, he realised, wiping the tears off his burning face, as he stuffed his clothing into the battered excuse for a bag he’d used in grade twelve, is it all became too much too fast. The book was a self replicating monster, feeding on the communal loneliness and social hatred of the masses of lost kids who scoured the Internet. It became larger, more intricate, more fragile and delicate until the chance of the whole thing imploding into itself had become an inevitability.
He grabs the notebook that lies on his desk. The last thing his mother had given him before she had found his story through Wikipedia. He hadn’t even noticed the change on the article – not until he’d turned his head slowly from his mother, screaming and crying, curled up in the corner, pounding her fist on the ground, yelling “Get out of my house! Get out!” and faced the glowering computer screen.
Bloodrats.
-From Wikipedia the free encyclopedia anyone can edit.
Bloodrats is a story by Lentil, which gained mass popularity through it’s Internet release. It gained attention from censorship groups due to it’s depictions of sex, drug use, sexual violence, murder and suicide.
And just below, was the new edit, barely days old;
The identity of Lentil is currently believed to be Nathaniel Joyce – an unpublished writer from Australia.
Nathaniel zips up his bag, and leans over to his computer keyboard, and logs into his Livejournal online diary, under Lentil, and begins to write a quick entry.
Dear Reader. Due to my mother reading my story…
He pauses. No. What the hell is he thinking? He is Lentil; he is sex drugs and violence. He is dirtiness, filth and grime, freedom and rebellion. He is the hero of the Internet. He is the fucking revolution. And now he’s asking for help because he’s having troubles with Mumsy? Not bloody likely.
Dear Reader. Due to unfortunate circumstances, I am in dire need of a premise at which to stay. If you may assist me, and are at near Brisbane City (Australia), please contact me.
Under this he adds his mobile number. He’ll have to change it now, he realises, but hopefully he’ll be able to get a place to stay out of it first.
He walks through the house, opening the fridge and grabbing out an apple that he wolfs down quickly, and a tub of yogurt. His stomach feels ill from gulping it down, but he has no way of knowing when he’ll be able to find his next meal.
He walks to his mothers door and knocks gently.
“Go away,” his mother yells, gasping between sobs, “Get out of here you sicko!”
“I love you mum,” he says.
He opens the front door and steps outside, walking away. He doesn’t know where to. It doesn’t really matter.
When he gets to the bottom of the driveway, his mobile rings.
It is hours before Peta can bring herself to look at the computer again, picking herself up off the cold, clammy tiles. She climbs into the chair, and closes the window which holds her son’s story, ignoring the foul depiction of sweaty white flesh and vibrant red blood.
Maybe, she thinks hopefully, the attribution of this particular story to her son was wrong. She clicks the link from Wikipedia to ‘Lentil’s Official Myspace Profile’.
When the page loads she recognises the photo of him immediately, and her last hopes fade back into a black puree at the pit of her stomach. Her son, face hidden by the cheap mask she bought him for his twelfth birthday, and the plastic hat he’d bought from the two dollar shop. She almost laughs bitterly at the simplicity of it all. A cheap hat and mask and fifty thousand words of smut and nobody had any idea who this person was.
Least of all, herself.
PROMPT - Write a piece of Fiction starting with the sentence "He'd warned her about the book."
He’d used the pseudonym Lentil from a book his cousin lent him. However somehow, the impossible had happened. It had become wildly popular, circulated through MSN, P2P, websites and God knows what else. There was even a page on Wikipedia about it.
He’d warned her, because he knew however bad it would be to admit to writing it, if she actually read the damn thing, she’d entirely disintegrate. He thought this way he could prevent his mother, who still refused Stanley Kubrick and Tarentino films entrance to her house on moral grounds, from actually reading it, even if she did hear rumors. Seemed a good idea, in theory.
The problem was, he realised, wiping the tears off his burning face, as he stuffed his clothing into the battered excuse for a bag he’d used in grade twelve, is it all became too much too fast. The book was a self replicating monster, feeding on the communal loneliness and social hatred of the masses of lost kids who scoured the Internet. It became larger, more intricate, more fragile and delicate until the chance of the whole thing imploding into itself had become an inevitability.
He grabs the notebook that lies on his desk. The last thing his mother had given him before she had found his story through Wikipedia. He hadn’t even noticed the change on the article – not until he’d turned his head slowly from his mother, screaming and crying, curled up in the corner, pounding her fist on the ground, yelling “Get out of my house! Get out!” and faced the glowering computer screen.
Bloodrats.
-From Wikipedia the free encyclopedia anyone can edit.
Bloodrats is a story by Lentil, which gained mass popularity through it’s Internet release. It gained attention from censorship groups due to it’s depictions of sex, drug use, sexual violence, murder and suicide.
And just below, was the new edit, barely days old;
The identity of Lentil is currently believed to be Nathaniel Joyce – an unpublished writer from Australia.
Nathaniel zips up his bag, and leans over to his computer keyboard, and logs into his Livejournal online diary, under Lentil, and begins to write a quick entry.
Dear Reader. Due to my mother reading my story…
He pauses. No. What the hell is he thinking? He is Lentil; he is sex drugs and violence. He is dirtiness, filth and grime, freedom and rebellion. He is the hero of the Internet. He is the fucking revolution. And now he’s asking for help because he’s having troubles with Mumsy? Not bloody likely.
Dear Reader. Due to unfortunate circumstances, I am in dire need of a premise at which to stay. If you may assist me, and are at near Brisbane City (Australia), please contact me.
Under this he adds his mobile number. He’ll have to change it now, he realises, but hopefully he’ll be able to get a place to stay out of it first.
He walks through the house, opening the fridge and grabbing out an apple that he wolfs down quickly, and a tub of yogurt. His stomach feels ill from gulping it down, but he has no way of knowing when he’ll be able to find his next meal.
He walks to his mothers door and knocks gently.
“Go away,” his mother yells, gasping between sobs, “Get out of here you sicko!”
“I love you mum,” he says.
He opens the front door and steps outside, walking away. He doesn’t know where to. It doesn’t really matter.
When he gets to the bottom of the driveway, his mobile rings.
It is hours before Peta can bring herself to look at the computer again, picking herself up off the cold, clammy tiles. She climbs into the chair, and closes the window which holds her son’s story, ignoring the foul depiction of sweaty white flesh and vibrant red blood.
Maybe, she thinks hopefully, the attribution of this particular story to her son was wrong. She clicks the link from Wikipedia to ‘Lentil’s Official Myspace Profile’.
When the page loads she recognises the photo of him immediately, and her last hopes fade back into a black puree at the pit of her stomach. Her son, face hidden by the cheap mask she bought him for his twelfth birthday, and the plastic hat he’d bought from the two dollar shop. She almost laughs bitterly at the simplicity of it all. A cheap hat and mask and fifty thousand words of smut and nobody had any idea who this person was.
Least of all, herself.
PROMPT - Write a piece of Fiction starting with the sentence "He'd warned her about the book."
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