This is the result of Melissa having too much time.
Here is a rather long, dull, text-booky story that i wrote. I doubt you want to read it. Yet, it is here for those of you that are bored enough to but it is my story just the same, so form your care. Don't tell me it could never work...i know that...its just a story - my story...kind of blah, opinions, hate me, love me. Read, don't read.
The Rise and Fall of Friends that Lose their Way and Accidentally Become Heroic Cult Leaders
In one powerful moment, everything can be ruined - a house is struck by lightening, an entire city is blown to pieces, trust is killed, and a man is lost. This is the story about that man - about his successes and his breaking points, his rise to power, and his mother. His name was Hubert Henbane, and out of all the men that ever lived, it is he that is most influential to the way you live today.
On February 4, 1776 a sword was unsheathed, and stabbed into the dry, cold flesh of a corpse that had been without ghost for at least a week and a day. Ninety-six hours later on February 8, 1776 a rifle was brought to the very same place, and its bullets were shot into that very body that once possessed the great mind of a great man that went by the name of Hubert Henbane. A week after this, fire was finally set unto the house that surrounded his body, and he was none but ashes and dust.
This brutal end that our hero met mirrored the type of luck he tended to have throughout his life. He was born at an inn and a bar, a bastard, to a woman who would learn to make a living by selling her body to patrons of that inn. She had begun life a good catholic girl - disgused as a blessing to her two parents that loved her more the day she was born than any other day she would ever live. This defiant child was named Rachel Kate Wells by the priest that baptized her on that dreary winter day she came into the world. Rachel grew up, going to church every Sunday, and finishing school every Thursday. The other days of the week, she’d help out her father, Thomas in the shop that he owned as well as keep after the house for her mother. A very unwilling child, she knew there was much else to the world than being a god-fearing citizen of England who sipped her tea correctly, and gossiped with the neighbors after Church on Sunday. So, after struggling with her life and her parents, she departed from her home at the ripe age of fifteen.
Young Rachel was full of hope upon leaving her home in the country, and hitchiked her way to London. Most of her journey was made on a carrige traveling in that same direction; the kind passenger of this carriage happened to be a very ambitous entrepenur that went by the name of Steven Westchestham. This information, however, he never divulged to our young traveller, as he wanted to keep his identity very ambiguous. For, while he was a proper gentlemen in public, he followed the ______the day and led a rather ranchy nightlife. Every night, when the carriage would stop, the two of them would embark upon derranged sexual journeys, the nature of which none of us can fathom. So it can be seen how, if at the time of their rendez-vous, Rachel would have known his true identity, she could have sold his secrets, and caused a scandal that would ruin his future in the london stock exchange.
Once they had reached London, Steven had grown bored of the girl half his age, whom he’d empregnated, so he dropped her off at a bar, hoping never to hear from her again. He then went on to new avenues of pleasure, and this time his desire was not women, but money. His only passion would become gambling. So, seventeen years after going out to start his own empire, he found himself lying in the streets of london, attracting maggots, his brain dying of excess alcohol intake because he lost all of his money in one fatefull horse race, and no longer had the mind to devise a plan to earn more.
It was here that he was found by young nun who pitied his soul and took him into her care. This nun was called Margret after her grandmother on her Mother’s side. She was from an ancient, well-resepcted family who had lost most of their gold in an economy crash. She had been sent off to a convent so that she could have a decent education and warm food to eat. She had been raped as a child, and for this reason, she could not see the light in God, and hence hated her time in the Convent. In all reality, Margret had only taken in Steven the drunk in hopes that she might be expelled from the convent so that she could go back home. She had no such luck, and after a week with the pompous, horny man we have known as Steven, she ran away from the convent.
Margret took solace in an unusual place. She roomed (rather ironically) with a young man, a little more than sixteen years of age - not a whole lot younger than herslelf. This man had been through many traumatic events, but had since coped with them and became a hopeful, loving person. His youth was spent in a trashy inn at the edges of london where he lay awake during the long nights, trying to ignore the sounds of his mother’s fake orgasms through the thin plaster walls. He grew to resent his mother, and women in general, so he left the inn where they lived, and went on a journey. He ended up in Paris where he discovered a Bohemia, and himself. While he remained a Bohemian for a short amount of time, he learned many valuable lessons from his artist friends, and had the greatest time he would ever have in his entire life. He only left when a close writer friend of his died, leaving him a private apartment and quite a bit of money. Such was the place he was at in his life when he met Margret at an outdoor market. He was quick to take her in as a friend, as he remebered all to well when he first arrived in Paris, alone and without direction. Margret would, in time become his best friend, and together they would do more with their lives than either of them had ever dreamed possible. This man’s name was Hubert Henbane.
Within months of their meeting, Hubert and Margret decided that as much as they loved Paris, it was not for them…they needed to go to the country of their birth. So, the pair took off for London. On the way, they met the third member of the trio they were destined to form; his name was William, and he would go on to become the love of Hubert’s life, though neither of them knew it at the time. Wiliam was the least mentally distraught of the group - he would be the one that leveled them out and brought sense into the world they’d grow to create.
By the time they reached London, the trio was infamous. They had ravaged the countryside for “People in Need,” or at least people-in-need in the rather one-sided perspective of the rather vindictive Margret. She was known for finding teenagers in the streets of small towns and bribeing them with money so that they’d come with her. I’ve heard one report from a town right outsided of bayswater that goes as follows, “They came into town, demanding that the opressed be freed, and the wrongs be killed, or something to the effect. They wanted those who were unhappy, but they didn’t care who really wanted to join them or not, they just wanted bodies, lots and lots of bodies to follow them and worship them…they wanted power…” There were, in fact, many reports of cases like this althroughout the area. Yet, the members of the group seemed genuinely happy about the fact that they were indeed members; anyone I’ve come across that knew of a member said that the most fun they ever had was with William, Hubert and Margret.
Once in London, the trio bought a house that they painted chartruce and named, rather apropriately, “Mantua.” Yet, at the very foundation of Matua, there was trouble, as the initial purpouse of its existace was to provide accepting support of humanity. No one got along and Matua was in absolute chaos until Hubert decided to take things to the next level before he got his friends as well as himself into too much trouble. They had raised a mini-militia, so now they had no choice but to control it. So, Hubert created a set of rules known as “Lovers’ Words” in hopes of making it sound incredibly romanitic, and not at all controlling. In essesnce, the set of codes he created made Matua the first sex cult of England, which would later go to inspire the trancendetalists, as well as the formation of Oneida.
For several years, everyone got along quite well in Matua, but then, everything got too settled, as everything always gets too settled, and the leaders needed to do something to control them again. It became Margret’s job to implement new policies this time, and she decided to proclaim herself “Fantasia” or in other words, Godess. The Matuans had become gullible, so they believed her and every word she said, and became, more or less her personal slaves; the power went to her head. This is when William tried to step in and save what was once the beloved utopia of him and his lover and their very best friend. He tried to reform the group into something that resembled in the slightest way what they had set out to create…it did not end in success. The Matuans rebelled, creating one of the biggest massacres that has ever been known to the world. Almost all of the members were killed as was William. Willam’s death devastated Hubert so much that he snuck off into the night leaving Margret behind to deal with all of the after-mess of what happened. She was arrested immediately, but then reprieved by the Queen of England, who had admired Margert’s strenth from afar. As far as I know, Margret is still alive and well today, but Hubert is another story.
After the end of William, he began wondering aimlessly about london, as his father had shortly before his death. He regressed to a child-like state, and in this, returned to the inn in which he was born to his mother, the prostitute. She had been long dead, and the inn had been closed. He sat in this building in fetal position for days on end, until he was visited by his friend Margret, who could not persuade him to leave. He died there of dehydration, and when the public of England found out where he was, they set out to get their revenge, though revenge is quite pointless on a dead body.
This man was one of great genius. He set out into the world, and became something. He created history, and started the first cult the world would ever know. Yet, this man is not and has not been admired, he has been all but forgotten in the wake of his mistakes, but such is the way of humankind; they believe, they forget, they tell truth, they lie. What is the difference really? Would this story have been any better had it been true…if people had lost their lives in reality, would you have been happier? Maybe that’s what’s wrong, but maybe there is no difference. Lies are the same as truths, and deaths are the same as lives; the tangible is not believeable at all, and the world is still the same, I still breathe.
The Rise and Fall of Friends that Lose their Way and Accidentally Become Heroic Cult Leaders
In one powerful moment, everything can be ruined - a house is struck by lightening, an entire city is blown to pieces, trust is killed, and a man is lost. This is the story about that man - about his successes and his breaking points, his rise to power, and his mother. His name was Hubert Henbane, and out of all the men that ever lived, it is he that is most influential to the way you live today.
On February 4, 1776 a sword was unsheathed, and stabbed into the dry, cold flesh of a corpse that had been without ghost for at least a week and a day. Ninety-six hours later on February 8, 1776 a rifle was brought to the very same place, and its bullets were shot into that very body that once possessed the great mind of a great man that went by the name of Hubert Henbane. A week after this, fire was finally set unto the house that surrounded his body, and he was none but ashes and dust.
This brutal end that our hero met mirrored the type of luck he tended to have throughout his life. He was born at an inn and a bar, a bastard, to a woman who would learn to make a living by selling her body to patrons of that inn. She had begun life a good catholic girl - disgused as a blessing to her two parents that loved her more the day she was born than any other day she would ever live. This defiant child was named Rachel Kate Wells by the priest that baptized her on that dreary winter day she came into the world. Rachel grew up, going to church every Sunday, and finishing school every Thursday. The other days of the week, she’d help out her father, Thomas in the shop that he owned as well as keep after the house for her mother. A very unwilling child, she knew there was much else to the world than being a god-fearing citizen of England who sipped her tea correctly, and gossiped with the neighbors after Church on Sunday. So, after struggling with her life and her parents, she departed from her home at the ripe age of fifteen.
Young Rachel was full of hope upon leaving her home in the country, and hitchiked her way to London. Most of her journey was made on a carrige traveling in that same direction; the kind passenger of this carriage happened to be a very ambitous entrepenur that went by the name of Steven Westchestham. This information, however, he never divulged to our young traveller, as he wanted to keep his identity very ambiguous. For, while he was a proper gentlemen in public, he followed the ______the day and led a rather ranchy nightlife. Every night, when the carriage would stop, the two of them would embark upon derranged sexual journeys, the nature of which none of us can fathom. So it can be seen how, if at the time of their rendez-vous, Rachel would have known his true identity, she could have sold his secrets, and caused a scandal that would ruin his future in the london stock exchange.
Once they had reached London, Steven had grown bored of the girl half his age, whom he’d empregnated, so he dropped her off at a bar, hoping never to hear from her again. He then went on to new avenues of pleasure, and this time his desire was not women, but money. His only passion would become gambling. So, seventeen years after going out to start his own empire, he found himself lying in the streets of london, attracting maggots, his brain dying of excess alcohol intake because he lost all of his money in one fatefull horse race, and no longer had the mind to devise a plan to earn more.
It was here that he was found by young nun who pitied his soul and took him into her care. This nun was called Margret after her grandmother on her Mother’s side. She was from an ancient, well-resepcted family who had lost most of their gold in an economy crash. She had been sent off to a convent so that she could have a decent education and warm food to eat. She had been raped as a child, and for this reason, she could not see the light in God, and hence hated her time in the Convent. In all reality, Margret had only taken in Steven the drunk in hopes that she might be expelled from the convent so that she could go back home. She had no such luck, and after a week with the pompous, horny man we have known as Steven, she ran away from the convent.
Margret took solace in an unusual place. She roomed (rather ironically) with a young man, a little more than sixteen years of age - not a whole lot younger than herslelf. This man had been through many traumatic events, but had since coped with them and became a hopeful, loving person. His youth was spent in a trashy inn at the edges of london where he lay awake during the long nights, trying to ignore the sounds of his mother’s fake orgasms through the thin plaster walls. He grew to resent his mother, and women in general, so he left the inn where they lived, and went on a journey. He ended up in Paris where he discovered a Bohemia, and himself. While he remained a Bohemian for a short amount of time, he learned many valuable lessons from his artist friends, and had the greatest time he would ever have in his entire life. He only left when a close writer friend of his died, leaving him a private apartment and quite a bit of money. Such was the place he was at in his life when he met Margret at an outdoor market. He was quick to take her in as a friend, as he remebered all to well when he first arrived in Paris, alone and without direction. Margret would, in time become his best friend, and together they would do more with their lives than either of them had ever dreamed possible. This man’s name was Hubert Henbane.
Within months of their meeting, Hubert and Margret decided that as much as they loved Paris, it was not for them…they needed to go to the country of their birth. So, the pair took off for London. On the way, they met the third member of the trio they were destined to form; his name was William, and he would go on to become the love of Hubert’s life, though neither of them knew it at the time. Wiliam was the least mentally distraught of the group - he would be the one that leveled them out and brought sense into the world they’d grow to create.
By the time they reached London, the trio was infamous. They had ravaged the countryside for “People in Need,” or at least people-in-need in the rather one-sided perspective of the rather vindictive Margret. She was known for finding teenagers in the streets of small towns and bribeing them with money so that they’d come with her. I’ve heard one report from a town right outsided of bayswater that goes as follows, “They came into town, demanding that the opressed be freed, and the wrongs be killed, or something to the effect. They wanted those who were unhappy, but they didn’t care who really wanted to join them or not, they just wanted bodies, lots and lots of bodies to follow them and worship them…they wanted power…” There were, in fact, many reports of cases like this althroughout the area. Yet, the members of the group seemed genuinely happy about the fact that they were indeed members; anyone I’ve come across that knew of a member said that the most fun they ever had was with William, Hubert and Margret.
Once in London, the trio bought a house that they painted chartruce and named, rather apropriately, “Mantua.” Yet, at the very foundation of Matua, there was trouble, as the initial purpouse of its existace was to provide accepting support of humanity. No one got along and Matua was in absolute chaos until Hubert decided to take things to the next level before he got his friends as well as himself into too much trouble. They had raised a mini-militia, so now they had no choice but to control it. So, Hubert created a set of rules known as “Lovers’ Words” in hopes of making it sound incredibly romanitic, and not at all controlling. In essesnce, the set of codes he created made Matua the first sex cult of England, which would later go to inspire the trancendetalists, as well as the formation of Oneida.
For several years, everyone got along quite well in Matua, but then, everything got too settled, as everything always gets too settled, and the leaders needed to do something to control them again. It became Margret’s job to implement new policies this time, and she decided to proclaim herself “Fantasia” or in other words, Godess. The Matuans had become gullible, so they believed her and every word she said, and became, more or less her personal slaves; the power went to her head. This is when William tried to step in and save what was once the beloved utopia of him and his lover and their very best friend. He tried to reform the group into something that resembled in the slightest way what they had set out to create…it did not end in success. The Matuans rebelled, creating one of the biggest massacres that has ever been known to the world. Almost all of the members were killed as was William. Willam’s death devastated Hubert so much that he snuck off into the night leaving Margret behind to deal with all of the after-mess of what happened. She was arrested immediately, but then reprieved by the Queen of England, who had admired Margert’s strenth from afar. As far as I know, Margret is still alive and well today, but Hubert is another story.
After the end of William, he began wondering aimlessly about london, as his father had shortly before his death. He regressed to a child-like state, and in this, returned to the inn in which he was born to his mother, the prostitute. She had been long dead, and the inn had been closed. He sat in this building in fetal position for days on end, until he was visited by his friend Margret, who could not persuade him to leave. He died there of dehydration, and when the public of England found out where he was, they set out to get their revenge, though revenge is quite pointless on a dead body.
This man was one of great genius. He set out into the world, and became something. He created history, and started the first cult the world would ever know. Yet, this man is not and has not been admired, he has been all but forgotten in the wake of his mistakes, but such is the way of humankind; they believe, they forget, they tell truth, they lie. What is the difference really? Would this story have been any better had it been true…if people had lost their lives in reality, would you have been happier? Maybe that’s what’s wrong, but maybe there is no difference. Lies are the same as truths, and deaths are the same as lives; the tangible is not believeable at all, and the world is still the same, I still breathe.