114 lines
5.4 KiB
Plaintext
114 lines
5.4 KiB
Plaintext
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### ### ##### ### ###
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########## ### ### ##########
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### ###
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### ###
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Underground eXperts United
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Presents...
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####### ## ## ####### # # ####### ####### #######
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## ## ## ## ##### ## ## ## ##
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#### ## ## #### # # ####### ####### #######
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## ## ####### ####### # # ####### ####### #######
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[ Stigma ] [ By The GNN ]
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____________________________________________________________________
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____________________________________________________________________
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"STIGMA"
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by THE GNN/DualCrew-Shining/uXu
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Listen carefully, I am a successful novelist. I have written many books
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and I have made so much money that I have lost count. When I was twelve
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years old I wrote a short poem. I called it 'Stigma'.
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stigma
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by Eric Kane
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in another world
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no time will be
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to see what we have done
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no eyes to feed
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no pardon to beg for
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because words are no more
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I had of course written many others before this one. But when I sat
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there, alone in my room by my little desk, looking at the words I had
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written, I suddenly felt very special. My dream was to become a writer, a
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good writer. This poem was, in my eyes, the best thing I had ever done.
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I went down to the kitchen. It was in the evening and my mother was busy
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preparing supper. I handed the paper with my poem over to her. She said
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it was the best poem she had ever read. It came as no surprise. Then she
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told me to show it to my father.
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House of Kane was at that time the biggest publishing company in the
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country. My father owned it. He often came home very late, irritated and
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angry. This evening was no exception. The door opened and slammed shut with
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a bang. Dad was home. I gave him the poem, but he paid no attention to it.
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Instead, he placed the paper in his pocket and began talking about greedy
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writers and people without talent who dared to disturb him. My mother said
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nothing. She just listened and nodded.
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We sat down to eat. I watched my father. He kept on complaining on
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various things during the whole supper. When he was finished with the meal,
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he fished up a cigar from his pocket and leaned back in the chair, muttering.
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When he fumbled for his matches he found the paper in his pocket. He brought
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it up and examined it. My heart began to beat faster.
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He read the poem. Then he turned to me and asked if I had written it. I
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glanced at my mother and could see her smile. I said yes. My dad chuckled,
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then he tore the paper to pieces while saying that it was the worst piece
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of junk he had ever read.
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When I went to bed that night I felt very empty. Downstairs, I could
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hear my parents fight. My mother said that my father had ruined my life.
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He claimed that he read enough garbage at work and did not have to stand
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more at home.
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Even though my father had said that he hated my poem, I continued to
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write. I wrote poetry for a few more years, but after a while I got bored
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and began to explore prose instead. Three days after my twenty-seventh
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birthday, three years after my father had died, I finally got a letter from
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a publisher who wanted to buy my manuscript. It became a national best-seller
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and I made enough money to be able to work on my second book, which also
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sold very good.
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I thank my mother and my father for my success. Without them, I would
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still be writing poems like 'Stigma'. They taught me that writing is not
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about art or self-expression. It is about giving people what they want to
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read. When I wrote that poem I still thought that you should write things
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for your own pleasure, not caring about what other people thought. Now, I
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know that I was mistaken. Writing is about giving the audience what they
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want to read.
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I am now working on my fifth book. It will contain everything the masses
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want it to contain. I spend two hours every day with it. I hate those two
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hours. I do not understand why, because I have always dreamed of becoming
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a good writer. That dream is about to turn into a nightmare. I feel a
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burning pain every second I sit in front of the typewriter. Someone once
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told me that it was because of a deep stigma. God knows what he meant by
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that. But then, he was just a simple fool. I am a successful novelist, I
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ought to be able to find out the real truth some day.
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/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
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Z.MAG@ZINE IS DEAD AND GONE! AND WE LOVE IT! HA HA HA!
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We don't care about your opinion. Beat this: THE STASH +46-13-ETC
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What about the figures, what about the facts?
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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uXu #286 Underground eXperts United 1995 uXu #286
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Call THE TRUTH SAYER'S DOMAIN -> +1-210-493-9975
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