The Peaches that Fell

Chapter 2

The Story The Authors

As Russel sat holding the onion, he thought to himself Why? Why do I have to be insane? It doesn't run in the family that I know of. There was uncle Larry, he was always kind of weird. But not insane, never insane. What do I do now? He looked at the doc helplessly. The doc looked back at him with sad eyes." Why the onion Russel?" She asked again. He simply shook his head and looked away. Tears in his eyes he handed the onion over. "What can I do doc? I don't want to be crazy. Why do I keep having these thoughts? Dr. Seus? A king who wears a brown coat? What's going on with me?" He lowered his eyes to the floor and sighed. Looking back up he saw his therapist looking at him with eyes full of pity. He couldn't voice what was on his mind. He didn't have to, his eyes said it all. As he stared she lowered herself to the floor beside him. SAFIRE

russel closed his eyes and dreamed that he was in the beck video where beck is walking in the street and he wants to be beck and get hit by a car. russel is depressed and he starts to dig his therapist. story girl

Russel moaned; he could not escape it. Yawps and rhymings, the occasional hallucinatory perversion, the comings and goings, of his sane and insane selves, all tearing at the fabric of his reality; the noncontiguous life, the awareness of self fading in and out. It was unfair; why did *he*, the epitome of normalcy, have to be insane? All he ever strove to be in life was normal; where others dreamed of stardom, or of being permanently at the center of attention, or of saving the carrots, or of falling desperately in like, his only driving ambition was to be normal. And at that, he sometimes succeeded. If he could maintain his awareness, through the yawp tic and the rhyming Dr. Seuss voices, it might not be so bad, he could persevere through it (he had, in fact, done so in the past) but now -- now he was definitely blacking out during these episodes, and his life no longer seemed its own. He would come to in a closet with a peeled onion in his pants. He would find himself standing on a balcony off his building, smoking a ciggy and wondering whether the dream he'd had for breakfast was real, or whether the breakfast itself was the dream. Without continuity of awareness, was he even alive? What was even the point? Phaedro Fetura

The point...The Point de la Rue was where he met her. She was as beautiful as the full moon on a black summer night. Then dawn...and she was gone. Another dream, or was it his own twisted reality existing in his mind. Victor

Russel head in hands began to cry, bawl. He hadn't cried since he was 10 and his best firend had got hit by a train. But he cried now. Cried for his loss of sanity, for all he had thought he'd known and didn't, and he cried for her. Always for her. none

The girl who's hair streamed down her back to her waste, dark as midnight and soft as a pillow. The girl with the green eyes like an emerald caught in sunlight. The girl who had broken his heart. Yes it was her that he cried for now. Perhaps his sanity was nothing without her. He paused, his crying halted. Her name. He'd forgotten her name. He could see her delicate bone structure in detail, but her name elluded him. He jumped up and hurried to the shelf where her picyure was kept. Yes exactly as he'd remembered, every detail, but still when he tried to say her name his mind drew a blank. "NO!!" he cried in anguish. His sanity and now his memory too. It was too much he couldn't take this anymore. SAFIRE

Spagetti? Corn chips, a buffet? Please tell me I'm just hungry he pleaded with himself. Please, not another hallucination, I can't take it none

"Oh shit." He said to himself. Now what was he talking about? He didn't want to be crazy, but right about now he was ready to drive himself to the loony bin personally. shit shit shit he murmured none

The man he had just killed stood up before him with a new look on his face. Hatred. Even worse yet, the gun he had placed in the dead man's hand to make the death look like a suicide was pointed directly at his head. "This isn't really happening," he thought to himself. Suddenly the newly resserected man pulled the trigger. "Fuck me!!!," he thought as it all went black. Autumn K

The Story	The Authors
As Russel sat holding the onion, he thought to himself Why? Why do I have to be insane? It doesn't run in the family that I know of. There was uncle Larry, he was always kind of weird. But not insane, never insane. What do I do now? He looked at the doc helplessly. The doc looked back at him with sad eyes." Why the onion Russel?" She asked again. He simply shook his head and looked away. Tears in his eyes he handed the onion over. "What can I do doc? I don't want to be crazy. Why do I keep having these thoughts? Dr. Seus? A king who wears a brown coat? What's going on with me?" He lowered his eyes to the floor and sighed. Looking back up he saw his therapist looking at him with eyes full of pity. He couldn't voice what was on his mind. He didn't have to, his eyes said it all. As he stared she lowered herself to the floor beside him.	SAFIRE
russel closed his eyes and dreamed that he was in the beck video where beck is walking in the street and he wants to be beck and get hit by a car. russel is depressed and he starts to dig his therapist.	story girl
Russel moaned; he could not escape it. Yawps and rhymings, the occasional hallucinatory perversion, the comings and goings, of his sane and insane selves, all tearing at the fabric of his reality; the noncontiguous life, the awareness of self fading in and out. It was unfair; why did he, the epitome of normalcy, have to be insane? All he ever strove to be in life was normal; where others dreamed of stardom, or of being permanently at the center of attention, or of saving the carrots, or of falling desperately in like, his only driving ambition was to be normal. And at that, he sometimes succeeded. If he could maintain his awareness, through the yawp tic and the rhyming Dr. Seuss voices, it might not be so bad, he could persevere through it (he had, in fact, done so in the past) but now -- now he was definitely blacking out during these episodes, and his life no longer seemed its own. He would come to in a closet with a peeled onion in his pants. He would find himself standing on a balcony off his building, smoking a ciggy and wondering whether the dream he'd had for breakfast was real, or whether the breakfast itself was the dream. Without continuity of awareness, was he even alive? What was even the point?	Phaedro Fetura
The point...The Point de la Rue was where he met her. She was as beautiful as the full moon on a black summer night. Then dawn...and she was gone. Another dream, or was it his own twisted reality existing in his mind.	Victor
Russel head in hands began to cry, bawl. He hadn't cried since he was 10 and his best firend had got hit by a train. But he cried now. Cried for his loss of sanity, for all he had thought he'd known and didn't, and he cried for her. Always for her.	none
The girl who's hair streamed down her back to her waste, dark as midnight and soft as a pillow. The girl with the green eyes like an emerald caught in sunlight. The girl who had broken his heart. Yes it was her that he cried for now. Perhaps his sanity was nothing without her. He paused, his crying halted. Her name. He'd forgotten her name. He could see her delicate bone structure in detail, but her name elluded him. He jumped up and hurried to the shelf where her picyure was kept. Yes exactly as he'd remembered, every detail, but still when he tried to say her name his mind drew a blank. "NO!!" he cried in anguish. His sanity and now his memory too. It was too much he couldn't take this anymore.	SAFIRE
Spagetti? Corn chips, a buffet? Please tell me I'm just hungry he pleaded with himself. Please, not another hallucination, I can't take it	none
"Oh shit." He said to himself. Now what was he talking about? He didn't want to be crazy, but right about now he was ready to drive himself to the loony bin personally. shit shit shit he murmured	none
The man he had just killed stood up before him with a new look on his face. Hatred. Even worse yet, the gun he had placed in the dead man's hand to make the death look like a suicide was pointed directly at his head. "This isn't really happening," he thought to himself. Suddenly the newly resserected man pulled the trigger. "Fuck me!!!," he thought as it all went black.	Autumn K

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