Message-ID: <26423asstr$969448203@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Imaginary Death/ Liana II Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 07:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw, IceAltar Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00) http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00) http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 9/14/00) TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. Journal of Henry Ezra Whitman This is the land of Used to be Alive: Weather Reports 0917XImaginaryDeath0498xd.htm Imaginary Death of Liana Fasciano AUTOPSY REPORT: Drug OD No, autopsy reports necessary. She did not die. Nothing else can be seen. It is all blank. She had become the cardboard back on mass produced paintings by Keane. "What is the origin? Where does it start? Let me know the names of all the victims before creating their anguish." - Laurie Fallon Henry Whitman, a not so ordinary cab driver returned to the Fort Lee taxi stand with a beautiful but practically dead woman, Liana Juliana Fasciano, at rest, hands clasped as in prayer, in the back seat of Hudson Street Taxi #4. Henry thought she was sleeping. In street view she feigned sleep as her head leaned back to one side, eyes half closed; hidden ash white pupil, purple iris. Liana's usually animated hands were now quietly drawn together in her lap, expectant. Today. Liana on her drug run had moved from Fort Lee to Washington Heights as if she were a black and white surrealist movie; each frame more and more translucent until the invisible woman, escaped, dragged down and beaten senseless by a lonely man, with unknown eyes. He is not Henry. What can Liana do? How can she live again? Tune in next time, perhaps, and we could know something more of the plot. Nothing is certain. You'll have to take your chances with life and death and oblivion. After all. Who cares for you, if not your Saint Faith your favorite soap opera Queen brought to you by the best of all the dirty movie spots found in any 42nd Street arcade. I get it. You want to know why I saved her. You say I had the power, the opportunity, why did I give her a second chance. Do you think life is so wonderful? Admit it, I may be correct or I could be a tease, keeping the game in place, when really it was done long ago. Henry was not the murderer. Liana didn't kill herself except as all drug addicts embrace or not wish death and starvation. Why let Henry be blamed. I love him as only a spirit can. I do take a human form now and then. He's OK in my book. "It's called the absence of love." "Now, who said that," Chrissy glared out of the blond space of her dark eyes and grabbed that lonely voice who would not be identified. How dare she interrupt my s ance, Chrissy thought? Whatever it was. Henry was not responsible. In fact, the dead woman, a delusion, had no physical fact except in Henry's mind and hers. Liana was the archetype. Invisible specter. Ghost, perhaps. One actual woman driven into her own mind died without any connections. We all need to feel the boundary. We need to watch the eyes of lovers embrace and then as a third party, a stranger we dance on the inside of it all. We find the way and carefully blend it into a drifting first and new storm. She did die, and while her body decomposed along the underside of a darker hospital, outside its fringe, in the garbage pits, where the silent drugs took death down one step below the worst possible conditions. She lived beyond putrefaction. She was no substance, no flesh, and then you, she stepped off the edge of the page of Taxi Murders, or any book, and what was terrible. She was not beyond your extinction (as we all die), and the rules of man's law (forget Gods) and human accord were moot, impossible, stripped of all moral rights and revelations. No Moses, Henry. No Abraham, and forget Jesus, she was a woman, named nothing. Yes, she, Liana, was a figment of Henry's imagination diverted into flesh and bone briefly. Look into my eyes. See me now. I am with Liana as she peels the skin from pubic pears and suckles cunt and cock at will. I watch her suck slippery cooze and delight finds its own repair after all pain our pain is finished too in that linger aftertaste of tired pee and sex. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+