Non-TR Writing Thread
Moderators: Haplo, Lead Developers
Non-TR Writing Thread
Just as a way of expanding diction, story-telling capabilities, and the desire to write in general, I'm creating this thread as a place where you can post stories and poetry for the entertainment of others or for criticism and such. Anyone can feel free to post comments and thoughts or whatever they feel the need to say. Anyway, I'm hoping that this will carry forth creative ideas we can use in writing books for BoT.
Last edited by Jacurutu on Sat Feb 19, 2005 4:21 am, edited 1 time in total.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
These are a couple of pieces I wrote recently, and they are most definitely still drafts, particularly the second one. Feel free to give feedback and commentary.
The Crimea
The perfume of sun-dried tomatoes
and strong spices – cinnamon, peppers
now robbed of their water and with a scent burning the air –
cut the kitchen air
like the odor of cannon-sulphur and singed thistle
on the Crimean. Our house overlooked
the frothing sea then, – a sea which
couldn't purge the slaughter brought
by soldiers with pictures of their sweethearts
and packs of imported American tobacco
carried crinkled among the clothes stuffed
in brown body-sized bags –
and the cold waves and sea breeze
battled their way through our kitchen's heat,
the boiling potatoes clashing with the smell
of fresh fish and hanging poultry
by the shore at the cliff's base
which crumbled under the weight of grapeshot
and artillery. In that new crevasse,
one now littered with moss and algae,
dust and splatter covered the edges
of those jagged, sandy rock-blades,
and hundreds of sunflowers bloom today
in that bloody place.
Thousands of tawny little crabs
skirted wrathfully along the beach,
picking up the bloody scraps of skin
and retreating quickly to the splash of waves
out of formation
with their prizes, and seagulls
with red beaks and red feet
scavenged what they could from the carnage.
And now one stood stalwartly –
like some mighty cossack in full garb –
on the sun-bleached skull of a Russian officer
and leaned over to peak at
a bit of rotten seaweed in his socket
as we sat down together at the pine-table
set on our tile portico, its seaside
edge having slid down the sheer rock face
like smeared whore's make-up.
Anastasia, the last of our servants,
brought the appetizers on our good china –
the only china we'd hidden –
and with her sandy hair
glistening crimson beneath the setting sun
opened the veranda's groaning portal,
stepped into the dark shroud,
and vanished into the Sepulcher.
We ate in elegy,
silent over the Black Sea,
our sea of a thousand graves.
The Upstairs Bedroom
The soft exchange of silence for survival
coming from the upstairs bedroom,
the tap of the auctioneers gavel
against a plywood soapbox,
the burlap bed, the wakeful eye
streaked with the light of the moon,
and a long bullwhip freshly circled
‘round an iron spike in the plywood toolshed.
He'd look at the three mulatto children
slumped over in his cotton fields,
hands raw like a skinned bull
and Avery's back no better,
and he would wrap his thick arms
around his wife's slender shoulders.
His arms ached,
his arms and back ached,
and the scars hadn't yet formed
over his spine stretched in the southern sun.
With opal eyes drenched in sparkle and light,
he'd watch at night his mother slip out,
suck in a few sharp breaths
and savor the moment grinding away
his teeth into dust.
His face against the rough of the bed,
feeling the hard dirt floor beneath,
he listened to her feet tramp away,
a count of three
before fading into nothing until
that soft hit of the farmhouse door.
Avery didn't hear too well anymore, she thought,
the boy wouldn't do as he was told,
as his life meant of him.
It was for freedom that she acted.
It was a silent conflict she made each night,
and she'd told him, but he didn't listen.
Morals were not an option anymore.
The Crimea
The perfume of sun-dried tomatoes
and strong spices – cinnamon, peppers
now robbed of their water and with a scent burning the air –
cut the kitchen air
like the odor of cannon-sulphur and singed thistle
on the Crimean. Our house overlooked
the frothing sea then, – a sea which
couldn't purge the slaughter brought
by soldiers with pictures of their sweethearts
and packs of imported American tobacco
carried crinkled among the clothes stuffed
in brown body-sized bags –
and the cold waves and sea breeze
battled their way through our kitchen's heat,
the boiling potatoes clashing with the smell
of fresh fish and hanging poultry
by the shore at the cliff's base
which crumbled under the weight of grapeshot
and artillery. In that new crevasse,
one now littered with moss and algae,
dust and splatter covered the edges
of those jagged, sandy rock-blades,
and hundreds of sunflowers bloom today
in that bloody place.
Thousands of tawny little crabs
skirted wrathfully along the beach,
picking up the bloody scraps of skin
and retreating quickly to the splash of waves
out of formation
with their prizes, and seagulls
with red beaks and red feet
scavenged what they could from the carnage.
And now one stood stalwartly –
like some mighty cossack in full garb –
on the sun-bleached skull of a Russian officer
and leaned over to peak at
a bit of rotten seaweed in his socket
as we sat down together at the pine-table
set on our tile portico, its seaside
edge having slid down the sheer rock face
like smeared whore's make-up.
Anastasia, the last of our servants,
brought the appetizers on our good china –
the only china we'd hidden –
and with her sandy hair
glistening crimson beneath the setting sun
opened the veranda's groaning portal,
stepped into the dark shroud,
and vanished into the Sepulcher.
We ate in elegy,
silent over the Black Sea,
our sea of a thousand graves.
The Upstairs Bedroom
The soft exchange of silence for survival
coming from the upstairs bedroom,
the tap of the auctioneers gavel
against a plywood soapbox,
the burlap bed, the wakeful eye
streaked with the light of the moon,
and a long bullwhip freshly circled
‘round an iron spike in the plywood toolshed.
He'd look at the three mulatto children
slumped over in his cotton fields,
hands raw like a skinned bull
and Avery's back no better,
and he would wrap his thick arms
around his wife's slender shoulders.
His arms ached,
his arms and back ached,
and the scars hadn't yet formed
over his spine stretched in the southern sun.
With opal eyes drenched in sparkle and light,
he'd watch at night his mother slip out,
suck in a few sharp breaths
and savor the moment grinding away
his teeth into dust.
His face against the rough of the bed,
feeling the hard dirt floor beneath,
he listened to her feet tramp away,
a count of three
before fading into nothing until
that soft hit of the farmhouse door.
Avery didn't hear too well anymore, she thought,
the boy wouldn't do as he was told,
as his life meant of him.
It was for freedom that she acted.
It was a silent conflict she made each night,
and she'd told him, but he didn't listen.
Morals were not an option anymore.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
And here's a short story I wrote a little while ago. Same deal: make comments or whatever if you want to.
Un-Titled
A tall, gangly-limbed man sat in a deep brown easy chair, his long-fingered hands limp over the arms of his seat. The television blared obnoxiously in front of him; he had recently taken to watching the news at a deafening volume.
Matthew Law, a twenty-three-year-old graduate student attending school at the University of Chicago, was recently reported missing by Illinois State Police, the television sounded. Investigations are under way, but police currently have no leads.
"What do you suppose happened to him?" the sitting man asked quietly, keeping his hazel eyes transfixed to the light-skinned face on the television. To the right of the face was a picture of the university, the last place Matthew had been seen.
"I dunno, maybe they'll find him," a heavy, balding man in his mid-fifties said anxiously from behind the chair, his voice rising a little by the end of his response. The news switched over to another story, something about creating the perfect cake from scratch.
The heavy man picked up the television remote and tapped the power button before dropping it back to the couch.
Walking down through the streets covered by a gray sky, Bill always thought that the buildings appeared dead. The cracks and chips from the wear of life were emboldened, the shadows they cast longer. Each traveling figure lost some of its individuality in such a thick fog. The windows overhead bore white curtains hanging from cast-iron rails, faces lost behind each.
"Bill!" a voice shouted from a monochromed shop. "Bill! Hey, man! Where've you been? We've missed you!" The heavy man turned and looked towards the man who had called him, a store-owner named Gregory who lived alone in a small apartment not far from his shop. He had overly large teeth, a thin but long nose which had been crooked before his surgery, and thick, old dreadlocks which fell to his thin shoulders. He wore a red flannel button-down shirt with frayed cuffs and a baggy pair of jeans.
Bill feigned happiness at having been accosted during his daily walk. Gregory drew him back into the drab store, obviously taking him with the intention of making a sale; the shop was in a part of town which had slowly lost residents to new industrial complexes. "Your store hasn't changed a bit since the last time I was here," Bill said, looking from aisle to aisle.
"Ain't no lie," Gregory chuckled, and he was right. There were goods which literally appeared to have been lying around since the mid-80s. Dust gathered heavily on the tops of the shelves, and none of the fruits or vegetables even looked edible. Bill picked up one of the tomatoes, feeling the rot moving just under the skin of the ancient produce.
The television, which sat above the cash-register next to the door, was tuned to a news broadcast; the show didn't fit Gregory's character. "Did you hear about the student who disappeared recently?" Gregory asked suddenly. Bill dropped the tomato he was still holding; it splattered on the shop's grimy floor. The pieces scattered like roaches, escaping the scene of the tomato's death.
"Ah . . . shit. Sorry . . ." Bill stammered quickly, leaning forward to pick up the broken red remains from the surface of the floor. "It just slipped out of my hand."
Gregory forgave him, customarily saying that it was no big deal. Of course, Bill had to buy a few things to make it up: an apple riddled with black spots, a can of chicken soup, a box of oatmeal, and a large bottle of coke which he opened in the store as he headed for the store's exit.
"See ya later, man," Gregory said as Bill left the food store. He grunted a muffled goodbye as he left, stepping once more into the day's fog, goods clutched in the bag swinging at his side.
As he opened the brown wooden door to his apartment, Bill noticed a small white envelope plop onto the threshold as it lost its support. Bill knelt and studied the handwriting, the familiar scrawling across its front, looping curves and sharp slants in black. As he kneeled to pick it up, four white fingers wrapped around frame of the door, each one falling slowly and deliberately into place. Bill was startled as he looked up and saw the face of the younger man with his head slumped forward to read the words written on the front of the envelope. "Fuck her," he said, leaning back into the apartment. "You shouldn't even read it." His hand slid away.
The heavy man rose with the envelope in hand, turning it over as he walked past the other, whose head shook back and forth as he watched. "You've got something on your face," Bill said as he entered the kitchen. He picked up the washcloth and tossed it to the other man, who gingerly wiped the left side of his face.
Placing the cloth back on the edge of the sink, the younger man turned towards Bill. "She is not meant for you," he said quietly. "You already know what that letter will say. You don't even need to open it, it's already written across your face." As he spoke, his left hand gripped the kitchen door's frame more tightly.
Bill knew he was right, but he opened the envelope anyway. Three words were written in the same print as that of the envelope: How could you? He stared at the letter for a moment, reading the words over and over. Then, the color draining from his face, he crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the trash.
Flashes of light from the television pulsed in the living room.
Bill began to dream uneasily, mostly of the past. He dreamed of his childhood, the town-city Providence, his home. He dreamed of his father, a strong man who had won Bill's mother through that very strength – too bad it had been the physical kind. He had a certain way of dealing with his rival suitors; once or twice the trunk of his car sank lower as he drove to the surrounding forests.
He dreamed also of Margaret, the woman he loved, a professor of the university who courses in clinical and cognitive psychology. She was an undeniably attractive combination of both intellect and beauty, a youthful woman with medium-length curly brown hair and a love for teaching which spurred her quick ascent to the status of full-professor at one of the most prestigious universities of the country. Each day, bill spied on her as she sat on her customary bench, deeply engrossed in whatever she brought to read. That might have been what he found so attractive in her – he'd never been able to set his mind to one thing. Any time he sat down to read, his mind wandered to the television.
He watched – from a distance – the relationships she and her students carried on, how close each one was to her. Each was dear to her, each loved her. She would keep her distance from them, maintaining the accepted relationship. However, she began to go to her bench less and less as the year passed.
At first, Bill thought that perhaps it was the cold – the Chicago autumns turned quickly to winter. However, he soon caught her with that bastard graduate student he came to hate. He watched the student and teacher steal away from time to time for coffee, sailing, dinner . . . and other things. Each time he saw them left together, a ferocious rage boiled in his temple. One day, he lost himself and acted.
Bill trudged through the early morning, performing the necessary motions to maintain an ordinary life. He chatted with those he ran into on the streets, wandered through the neighborhood stores idly looking at some of the objects before placing them back on the shelves.
Once more, Gregory caught sight of Bill as he ambled through the city and called him over to his shop. He approached to greet Bill with a hug, but as he came within range, opted instead to offer a handshake.
"Hey . . . you look like shit, man. Were you out to late or something last night?" Gregory asked with concern.
"Nah, I've just been a bit busy lately – not a lot of time to sleep," Bill responded, pulling his heavy jacket tightly around his shoulders and covering his thick neck. Gregory surveyed Bill for a moment before turning back to his shop.
"C'mon, we should get you something warm to drink," he said, pulling Bill by the arm. Inside, under the low lighting of the naked bulb in the back of the store, Gregory poured warm coffee into a light blue mug inscribed with a Hallmark poem about summer. Bill counted the threads in the arm of his gray chair and peered into the depths of his coffee. He looked around at the cement floor and metal rafters, spotting a spider web nestled in the northwestern corner of the room, silently watching its prey, a fly struggling near the center of the stretched trap. How that thing screamed in the web! – how it's little legs twitched as the spider moved to kill it. The spider came forward with a large metal pipe, and the fly begged for its life, threw itself forth pitiably. No, please! Why? I don't even know who you are! "She is not yours." What? I don't know what you're talking about! Tears, tears, dilating tears. He pissed himself. "She is mine."
"What's the matter, Bill?"
The television was on again, always on, always information-programs: the Discovery Channel, PBS, the news, and so forth. The thin man spent more and more time simply watching. He rarely slept, almost never ate or drank, listlessly moved about the dark living room reorganizing the same things again and again. Yet, he seemed to be gaining weight. The flesh around his stomach stretched saran-wrap over his vitals. His face began to sag as though his cheeks were too tired to continue holding the weight of his lips and chin.
Simultaneously, the heavy man was losing weight. His arms weren't quite as thick as once they were. His fingers thinned, his eyes weren't quite as shrouded by the layers of skin. He was, however, getting more and more unhealthy. He didn't move as much, he slept almost constantly during the day.
Police have recently reported that Matthew Law, the graduate student declared missing several days ago, was likely murdered, the television proclaimed loudly. Authorities say that they have a suspect, but they refuse to release any other information. More on this story as it is updated.
"Did you hear that?" the perpetual watcher shouted through the apartment.
"How the fuck couldn't I?! Turn the volume down!" the other said from his bedroom adjacent to the living room.
"Or what?" the voice from the living room replied. "There's nothing you can do to me anymore. I am already pregnant with your sin."
The thinning man slammed closed his door, and the other smiled widely, his loosening teeth twinkling from the blaze in front of him.
Bill closed the door of his apartment behind him softly. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep; his dreams had been sporadic and intense, even real. The vein in the left temple throbbed furiously as he took each step, but he needed to get out of that damned apartment. The whole place seemed to be turning red.
He picked at a scab which had developed of its own volition, but once the residue was gone – he didn't bleed at all.
Passing a mirror, he happened to catch a glimpse of his own reflection. For the first time in - what, weeks?- he saw himself. Bill paused, looking at his complexion up and down. He pushed his hand into the side of his face, watching as his skin reformed slowly, slowly. Several seconds passed before it returned to its original place.
Shaken, he stepped out into the street. The light pierced his eyes, and he stumbled backwards in surprise; the screeching cars flew past in sound-blurry entropy, cutting through his cords of his ears. The asynchronous passing of each automobile seemed to dictate the beat of his heart, and placing his right hand over his chest, he tried to protect himself.
"What's he . . . mommy?" the voice of a little girl flicked in and out of his mind. As the mother hushed the girl, Bill could only make out a bit of their appearance: the mother wore a long purple jacket with a matching hat, the daughter a white dress. It was hard to say where each face began or ended, the mother crouching next to her daughter as she scolded her rudeness. The woman quickly directed her daughter away.
Reaching backwards, Bill floundered for the door handle. Eyes and ears ablaze, he tried desperately to take hold of the doorknob, finally catching it in a flailing swing. Heaving his body against the door, he pushed his way in, crawling on his back into the safety of his apartment building. The door closed, and he felt safe again.
Bill pulled open the door to his own apartment with only the greatest effort. It creaked loudly on its dying hinges. He staggered into the living room to see the other man merely sitting there staring at him, his hand upon his pregnant stomach. His hand moved slightly, feeling the rot hidden beneath.
"You've been doing this. You've been doing this, haven't you, Matthew?"
He smiled. "I am Bill."
"What are you talking about? You are Matthew! You have been dead for a very long time! I fucking killed you! How have you been doing this?"
A sharp shot of pain surged through the left side of his head, and the wound reopened. Blood poured out of his temple onto the carpet, thick and coagulated.
"I have done nothing."
His distended stomach burst open, the hardened, thick flesh like leather dried for weeks in the light.
"She was not meant for me and I killed me."
We collapsed upon the carpet, minds and guts reeling in the shock. We plucked the lead specks from our skulls. We died in our arms.
Un-Titled
A tall, gangly-limbed man sat in a deep brown easy chair, his long-fingered hands limp over the arms of his seat. The television blared obnoxiously in front of him; he had recently taken to watching the news at a deafening volume.
Matthew Law, a twenty-three-year-old graduate student attending school at the University of Chicago, was recently reported missing by Illinois State Police, the television sounded. Investigations are under way, but police currently have no leads.
"What do you suppose happened to him?" the sitting man asked quietly, keeping his hazel eyes transfixed to the light-skinned face on the television. To the right of the face was a picture of the university, the last place Matthew had been seen.
"I dunno, maybe they'll find him," a heavy, balding man in his mid-fifties said anxiously from behind the chair, his voice rising a little by the end of his response. The news switched over to another story, something about creating the perfect cake from scratch.
The heavy man picked up the television remote and tapped the power button before dropping it back to the couch.
Walking down through the streets covered by a gray sky, Bill always thought that the buildings appeared dead. The cracks and chips from the wear of life were emboldened, the shadows they cast longer. Each traveling figure lost some of its individuality in such a thick fog. The windows overhead bore white curtains hanging from cast-iron rails, faces lost behind each.
"Bill!" a voice shouted from a monochromed shop. "Bill! Hey, man! Where've you been? We've missed you!" The heavy man turned and looked towards the man who had called him, a store-owner named Gregory who lived alone in a small apartment not far from his shop. He had overly large teeth, a thin but long nose which had been crooked before his surgery, and thick, old dreadlocks which fell to his thin shoulders. He wore a red flannel button-down shirt with frayed cuffs and a baggy pair of jeans.
Bill feigned happiness at having been accosted during his daily walk. Gregory drew him back into the drab store, obviously taking him with the intention of making a sale; the shop was in a part of town which had slowly lost residents to new industrial complexes. "Your store hasn't changed a bit since the last time I was here," Bill said, looking from aisle to aisle.
"Ain't no lie," Gregory chuckled, and he was right. There were goods which literally appeared to have been lying around since the mid-80s. Dust gathered heavily on the tops of the shelves, and none of the fruits or vegetables even looked edible. Bill picked up one of the tomatoes, feeling the rot moving just under the skin of the ancient produce.
The television, which sat above the cash-register next to the door, was tuned to a news broadcast; the show didn't fit Gregory's character. "Did you hear about the student who disappeared recently?" Gregory asked suddenly. Bill dropped the tomato he was still holding; it splattered on the shop's grimy floor. The pieces scattered like roaches, escaping the scene of the tomato's death.
"Ah . . . shit. Sorry . . ." Bill stammered quickly, leaning forward to pick up the broken red remains from the surface of the floor. "It just slipped out of my hand."
Gregory forgave him, customarily saying that it was no big deal. Of course, Bill had to buy a few things to make it up: an apple riddled with black spots, a can of chicken soup, a box of oatmeal, and a large bottle of coke which he opened in the store as he headed for the store's exit.
"See ya later, man," Gregory said as Bill left the food store. He grunted a muffled goodbye as he left, stepping once more into the day's fog, goods clutched in the bag swinging at his side.
As he opened the brown wooden door to his apartment, Bill noticed a small white envelope plop onto the threshold as it lost its support. Bill knelt and studied the handwriting, the familiar scrawling across its front, looping curves and sharp slants in black. As he kneeled to pick it up, four white fingers wrapped around frame of the door, each one falling slowly and deliberately into place. Bill was startled as he looked up and saw the face of the younger man with his head slumped forward to read the words written on the front of the envelope. "Fuck her," he said, leaning back into the apartment. "You shouldn't even read it." His hand slid away.
The heavy man rose with the envelope in hand, turning it over as he walked past the other, whose head shook back and forth as he watched. "You've got something on your face," Bill said as he entered the kitchen. He picked up the washcloth and tossed it to the other man, who gingerly wiped the left side of his face.
Placing the cloth back on the edge of the sink, the younger man turned towards Bill. "She is not meant for you," he said quietly. "You already know what that letter will say. You don't even need to open it, it's already written across your face." As he spoke, his left hand gripped the kitchen door's frame more tightly.
Bill knew he was right, but he opened the envelope anyway. Three words were written in the same print as that of the envelope: How could you? He stared at the letter for a moment, reading the words over and over. Then, the color draining from his face, he crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the trash.
Flashes of light from the television pulsed in the living room.
Bill began to dream uneasily, mostly of the past. He dreamed of his childhood, the town-city Providence, his home. He dreamed of his father, a strong man who had won Bill's mother through that very strength – too bad it had been the physical kind. He had a certain way of dealing with his rival suitors; once or twice the trunk of his car sank lower as he drove to the surrounding forests.
He dreamed also of Margaret, the woman he loved, a professor of the university who courses in clinical and cognitive psychology. She was an undeniably attractive combination of both intellect and beauty, a youthful woman with medium-length curly brown hair and a love for teaching which spurred her quick ascent to the status of full-professor at one of the most prestigious universities of the country. Each day, bill spied on her as she sat on her customary bench, deeply engrossed in whatever she brought to read. That might have been what he found so attractive in her – he'd never been able to set his mind to one thing. Any time he sat down to read, his mind wandered to the television.
He watched – from a distance – the relationships she and her students carried on, how close each one was to her. Each was dear to her, each loved her. She would keep her distance from them, maintaining the accepted relationship. However, she began to go to her bench less and less as the year passed.
At first, Bill thought that perhaps it was the cold – the Chicago autumns turned quickly to winter. However, he soon caught her with that bastard graduate student he came to hate. He watched the student and teacher steal away from time to time for coffee, sailing, dinner . . . and other things. Each time he saw them left together, a ferocious rage boiled in his temple. One day, he lost himself and acted.
Bill trudged through the early morning, performing the necessary motions to maintain an ordinary life. He chatted with those he ran into on the streets, wandered through the neighborhood stores idly looking at some of the objects before placing them back on the shelves.
Once more, Gregory caught sight of Bill as he ambled through the city and called him over to his shop. He approached to greet Bill with a hug, but as he came within range, opted instead to offer a handshake.
"Hey . . . you look like shit, man. Were you out to late or something last night?" Gregory asked with concern.
"Nah, I've just been a bit busy lately – not a lot of time to sleep," Bill responded, pulling his heavy jacket tightly around his shoulders and covering his thick neck. Gregory surveyed Bill for a moment before turning back to his shop.
"C'mon, we should get you something warm to drink," he said, pulling Bill by the arm. Inside, under the low lighting of the naked bulb in the back of the store, Gregory poured warm coffee into a light blue mug inscribed with a Hallmark poem about summer. Bill counted the threads in the arm of his gray chair and peered into the depths of his coffee. He looked around at the cement floor and metal rafters, spotting a spider web nestled in the northwestern corner of the room, silently watching its prey, a fly struggling near the center of the stretched trap. How that thing screamed in the web! – how it's little legs twitched as the spider moved to kill it. The spider came forward with a large metal pipe, and the fly begged for its life, threw itself forth pitiably. No, please! Why? I don't even know who you are! "She is not yours." What? I don't know what you're talking about! Tears, tears, dilating tears. He pissed himself. "She is mine."
"What's the matter, Bill?"
The television was on again, always on, always information-programs: the Discovery Channel, PBS, the news, and so forth. The thin man spent more and more time simply watching. He rarely slept, almost never ate or drank, listlessly moved about the dark living room reorganizing the same things again and again. Yet, he seemed to be gaining weight. The flesh around his stomach stretched saran-wrap over his vitals. His face began to sag as though his cheeks were too tired to continue holding the weight of his lips and chin.
Simultaneously, the heavy man was losing weight. His arms weren't quite as thick as once they were. His fingers thinned, his eyes weren't quite as shrouded by the layers of skin. He was, however, getting more and more unhealthy. He didn't move as much, he slept almost constantly during the day.
Police have recently reported that Matthew Law, the graduate student declared missing several days ago, was likely murdered, the television proclaimed loudly. Authorities say that they have a suspect, but they refuse to release any other information. More on this story as it is updated.
"Did you hear that?" the perpetual watcher shouted through the apartment.
"How the fuck couldn't I?! Turn the volume down!" the other said from his bedroom adjacent to the living room.
"Or what?" the voice from the living room replied. "There's nothing you can do to me anymore. I am already pregnant with your sin."
The thinning man slammed closed his door, and the other smiled widely, his loosening teeth twinkling from the blaze in front of him.
Bill closed the door of his apartment behind him softly. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep; his dreams had been sporadic and intense, even real. The vein in the left temple throbbed furiously as he took each step, but he needed to get out of that damned apartment. The whole place seemed to be turning red.
He picked at a scab which had developed of its own volition, but once the residue was gone – he didn't bleed at all.
Passing a mirror, he happened to catch a glimpse of his own reflection. For the first time in - what, weeks?- he saw himself. Bill paused, looking at his complexion up and down. He pushed his hand into the side of his face, watching as his skin reformed slowly, slowly. Several seconds passed before it returned to its original place.
Shaken, he stepped out into the street. The light pierced his eyes, and he stumbled backwards in surprise; the screeching cars flew past in sound-blurry entropy, cutting through his cords of his ears. The asynchronous passing of each automobile seemed to dictate the beat of his heart, and placing his right hand over his chest, he tried to protect himself.
"What's he . . . mommy?" the voice of a little girl flicked in and out of his mind. As the mother hushed the girl, Bill could only make out a bit of their appearance: the mother wore a long purple jacket with a matching hat, the daughter a white dress. It was hard to say where each face began or ended, the mother crouching next to her daughter as she scolded her rudeness. The woman quickly directed her daughter away.
Reaching backwards, Bill floundered for the door handle. Eyes and ears ablaze, he tried desperately to take hold of the doorknob, finally catching it in a flailing swing. Heaving his body against the door, he pushed his way in, crawling on his back into the safety of his apartment building. The door closed, and he felt safe again.
Bill pulled open the door to his own apartment with only the greatest effort. It creaked loudly on its dying hinges. He staggered into the living room to see the other man merely sitting there staring at him, his hand upon his pregnant stomach. His hand moved slightly, feeling the rot hidden beneath.
"You've been doing this. You've been doing this, haven't you, Matthew?"
He smiled. "I am Bill."
"What are you talking about? You are Matthew! You have been dead for a very long time! I fucking killed you! How have you been doing this?"
A sharp shot of pain surged through the left side of his head, and the wound reopened. Blood poured out of his temple onto the carpet, thick and coagulated.
"I have done nothing."
His distended stomach burst open, the hardened, thick flesh like leather dried for weeks in the light.
"She was not meant for me and I killed me."
We collapsed upon the carpet, minds and guts reeling in the shock. We plucked the lead specks from our skulls. We died in our arms.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
Opening of Fire
One of my stories not even close to being finished. Also remeber I took the name from the kingdom in this book for my TR name.
In the world there are many things that can happen, many choices that can lead to different endings and the smallest thing that you do can change your life forever. That of course leads to the possibility of what were to happen if history it self were to change and the things that we now to be history never happened. The world would be much different. It could even be something like this world or maybe it really is and were is all just dreaming.
In the city of Arcadea in the kingdom of the same name a boy livid with his parents. They were on the verge of poverty really his mother working in the local pub and his father out and about on adventures fighting who knows what and never coming home. This troubled the boy and for this very reason is why he had gotten in with the wrong crowed in town. He hanged out at the snakes head a tavern in port town a shadier part of the capital city. Many unsavory people and ruffians liked to calle it home and this tavern had many thieves and even murders about. The boy was average height for being only 15 with brown straight hair and black eyes. He wore a small tunic and pants with a small dagger haning from his belt. The clothes had patches and the dagger was rusty but they were all he and his mother could afford.
The boy who is known by the name Zidan was sitting at a table with other people the first was another boy same age with black hair and blue eyes his clothes were also run down. His belt though carried an assortment of throwing daggers and he also had some lock picks. He and the boy had been friends for years and they helped eacther out from time to time.
The next was a man age unound but he looked to be in his 30’s. He wore a cloak of red saten and had it pulled around his body. His name was Aver Kodore a noble of the land.
The last at the table was wearing all black and kept his face hidden. He was going by the name Katoth but the boys didn’t think that it was his real name.
Katoth looked at the boys.
“So will you boys do the job?†Asked Katoth
“All you need us to do is steal a ring for you out of the tomb of the ancients?†asked Zidan
“Yes. That ring is very special to me. I lost it some time ago but let’s not muddle on the circumstance to how I lost it.†Said Katoth
“will do it. How will we now how to contact you once we have it?†Asked Zidan
“I will come to you. Now we must be off.†Answered Katoth
In the world there are many things that can happen, many choices that can lead to different endings and the smallest thing that you do can change your life forever. That of course leads to the possibility of what were to happen if history it self were to change and the things that we now to be history never happened. The world would be much different. It could even be something like this world or maybe it really is and were is all just dreaming.
In the city of Arcadea in the kingdom of the same name a boy livid with his parents. They were on the verge of poverty really his mother working in the local pub and his father out and about on adventures fighting who knows what and never coming home. This troubled the boy and for this very reason is why he had gotten in with the wrong crowed in town. He hanged out at the snakes head a tavern in port town a shadier part of the capital city. Many unsavory people and ruffians liked to calle it home and this tavern had many thieves and even murders about. The boy was average height for being only 15 with brown straight hair and black eyes. He wore a small tunic and pants with a small dagger haning from his belt. The clothes had patches and the dagger was rusty but they were all he and his mother could afford.
The boy who is known by the name Zidan was sitting at a table with other people the first was another boy same age with black hair and blue eyes his clothes were also run down. His belt though carried an assortment of throwing daggers and he also had some lock picks. He and the boy had been friends for years and they helped eacther out from time to time.
The next was a man age unound but he looked to be in his 30’s. He wore a cloak of red saten and had it pulled around his body. His name was Aver Kodore a noble of the land.
The last at the table was wearing all black and kept his face hidden. He was going by the name Katoth but the boys didn’t think that it was his real name.
Katoth looked at the boys.
“So will you boys do the job?†Asked Katoth
“All you need us to do is steal a ring for you out of the tomb of the ancients?†asked Zidan
“Yes. That ring is very special to me. I lost it some time ago but let’s not muddle on the circumstance to how I lost it.†Said Katoth
“will do it. How will we now how to contact you once we have it?†Asked Zidan
“I will come to you. Now we must be off.†Answered Katoth
I said I would return and I may have been right. The past must stay in the past as agreed. If the core needs me or has a job for me just ask for now I watch and write.
Former Moderator of the Core.
Was once called the Sotha Sil of the core.
Former Moderator of the Core.
Was once called the Sotha Sil of the core.
-
The_Writing_Wraith
- Member
- Posts: 89
- Joined: Sat Aug 07, 2004 11:40 pm
- Location: The Nebraska Wastes
Here's a short story I wrote back in September/October for a Halloween Short Story Contest. Needless to say it didn't win. The title is/was "The Long Twilight Road"...
Rain drops fell upon the dirt track. Small and numerous, the tiny flecks of water pocked the dry ground. A low rumble sounded in the distance carrying the empty promise of a true rainstorm. Bits of paper danced in the breeze, waiting for the rain drops to bring them to rest as watery pulp. An empty bottle rolled listlessly down the track, hit a small stone and stopped with a sharp crack.
An old crow watched the elemental ballet from the shelter of an ancient Ford, left abandoned and rusting its journey ended generations before. A small mouse skittered beneath the tall weeds that grew up around the abandoned Ford. Under the cover of a small, desiccated wild rose a toad eyed its dusty surroundings passively, slowly nodding its head as it breathed as if satisfied with what it saw. A cricket called out to find a mate from its hidden bowers within the tall grass at the edge of the dirt track. Others soon joined its slow song.
A man lay prone upon the dusty track, his chest rising and falling imperceptivity. Rain pooled within the folds of his clothes, its seeping cold slowly finding its way into his flesh. He shivered slightly. The pools of rainwater danced upon his body.
In the timeless hold of the rain the man drifted in and out of consciousness. Perhaps he lay there upon the road for an hour. Perhaps he lay there for only a minute. Perhaps he lay there for a day. It made no difference how long he lay there, all that mattered was that the rain washed away the dust from his face and the small trail of blood from his nose and cheek while the cold numbed the aching of his nose.
The rain stopped. Rays of late afternoon sunlight played across the now muddy road. With a rasping cough, the old crow shook itself. The mouse scampered out from under its rusting shelter to drink from the pools of rainwater. The toad continued to survey the road with approval. The crickets continued their tuneless melodies. The man opened his eyes.
His mouth moved soundlessly as he tried to clear the taste of dust from his pallet. He could not. His eyes blinked swiftly trying to remove the stinging dust. The stinging dust remained. He coughed, cleared his throat, but could not swallow. He felt cold, cold inside and cold outside. His head ached terribly. He tried to remember who he was and how he had come to be on the muddy track. He failed.
The man slowly rose to his knees. Beneath its rusting the shelter the mouse froze at this unexpected movement. The crow eyed the figure kneeling on the road uneasily. From their shelters of yellowing grass, the crickets and toad ignored the man.
A few moments later the man moved gingerly to a pool of rainwater at the edge of the road. He regarded himself in its mirrored surface. He was an average looking man: face not too thick, not too thin; hair and eyes both a dark shade of brown; a day’s growth of stubble decorating his face and neck. Had it not been for his swollen and purpling nose, his face would be quite forgettable.
He splashed a bit of the rainwater onto his face. The cold droplets stung at his nose, but he didn’t mind. The sensation made him feel alive.
The old crow cawed loudly and beat its wings off to the man’s left. Something had disturbed its rest. A moment later the bird’s shadow fell across the man as he rested his aching head by the rainwater pool.
A cough interrupted the man’s misery. He looked up. An old women clothed in a fading floral pattern dress stood leaning against the rusting Ford, her grey-white hair partially hidden by a faded yellow cowl. She regarded him quizzically with her ice-blue eyes.
“Another one, so soon?†She mumbled to herself before addressing the man. “You lost?â€Â
“I… I don’t know,†the man slowly croaked. He wondered why it was so difficult to remember how to speak. Then again, his throbbing head made it difficult to remember anything.
“Come on then. Follow me. Get quite a few like you out here,†the old woman said.
The man rose slowly to his feet, his head kept him from moving too quickly. He began to walk towards the old woman, staggering a bit at first. The old woman shook her head at this, disapproving of something the man could not guess.
“I’m Catharine, if you care to know. You got a name?†The old woman asked.
“Milo Sterling,†he answered, the old woman’s question slowly drawing the words from his memory.
Catharine nodded at this as she regarded him once more. His type always seemed to wind up out here, she thought. He was lucky it wasn’t any later in the year. Had he been out later in the year… she well knew what would have happened.
They walked in silence. Milo watched the dampened grass slip past him, idly wondering how he had come to this road. He suspected he had been drunk last night. That would at least explain his headache; it didn’t explain his throbbing nose though.
After a few minutes, the pair came upon an aging single story farm house. Its paint had worn away long ago and the exposed wooden siding had weathered to a light grey color. It had settled over the years and leaned slightly to the northwest. On the front steps a carved pumpkin sat, leering at all who would approach.
“It’s not much, but it’s warm and the roof doesn’t leak. Or at least the roof doesn’t leak when it’s not raining,†Catharine said, smiling slightly, as they walked up the steps. “You can stay here for a bit Mr. Sterling, warm up a little. Then we’ll see about getting you to wherever you are going.â€Â
“I don’t think I remember where I was going. I think I might have been a little drunk when I came out here,†Milo explained.
The old woman smiled slightly at this. Typical, she thought to herself, his kind always seem to lose their way out here.
Once inside Catharine lead Milo through a small den and into her kitchen. Aside from the stove, sink and cabinet counters, the kitchen was furnished with only a formica topped table, a pair of worn wooden chairs, and an aging radiator. Contrasting the tidy cabinet counters and sink, the table lay strewn with old post cards, curios, and shoeboxes.
“Sorting out old memories,†Catharine explained, noticing Milo glancing strangely at the table.
“Why don’t you sit over by the radiator and dry out a little bit. I’m sure your cold,†Catharine motioned Milo towards one of the chairs. “Going to make some coffee, care for some?â€Â
Milo nodded and took one of the chairs to the radiator. As he sat enjoying the warmth slowly seep into his cold body, he tried to recall how he had ended up out on the dirt track. There had been a party, he thought, but beyond that he could recall little else. It was an improvement at least, earlier he hadn’t been able to even remember that much. Now if only his nose would stop throbbing.
The old woman removed her cowl and walked towards the sink. Once there she rang the wet cloth out and laid it on the counter top to dry. She searched through one of the cabinets for two bags of coffee.
“Hope you like your coffee black, don’t have any cream or sugar,†Catharine commented as she filled her kettle.
“That’s fine,†Milo said, eyes closed and leaning back in his chair, “I’d want it that way anyway.â€Â
Catharine placed the kettle on the stove and found a pair of coffee cups. She cleared away two spaces on the table, carefully placing her mementos into their shoeboxes. Once done, she took the kettle of boiling water from the stove and filled the two coffee cups.
“Coffee’s ready,†She said placing one of the cups of coffee on the edge of the table closest to Milo before settling into the chair on the other side.
Milo opened his eyes and reluctantly moved the chair back to the table. He inhaled the rich scent of the coffee and winced as his nose reprimanded him for it. He stared at his distorted reflection in the coffee’s steaming surface.
Gingerly he probed at his nose with his index finger. It was probably broken, he knew, and broken recently. Perhaps at the party, he thought.
He sipped at the coffee. It tasted muddy and weak. He tried to strengthen its taste by toying with the bag of coffee in his cup, but no matter how much he tried it still tasted the same. He contented himself by focusing on the warmth it brought as it ran down his throat.
After a time, Milo began to look curiously at the objects on the table before him. Most seemed to be old photographs and assorted knickknacks, but one stood out in particular. It was a fading pencil drawing of the dirt road he had found himself on earlier.
“My daughter’s,†Catharine explained noticing Milo looking at the drawing. “She’s quite an artist really. Doesn’t come back her very often, too many shadows of her past, too many ghosts.â€Â
“You must get fairly lonely out here then,†Milo said. “I wouldn’t think many people would come out here.â€Â
“It’s not too lonely out here. Used to have James out here too keep me company… And there’s always people like you this time of year. Besides, if I get too lonely I can always go into town,†Catharine replied. “Remember anything about how you got out here yet?â€Â
“No, might help if I knew where here was.†Milo answered.
“Well, if you follow the road northeast for a few miles you’ll
come to Bridgeton. If you go southwest a ways you’ll come out on the highway twenty-six,†Catharine explained. “That might not help you much, but that’s where that dirt road out there leads.â€Â
“Ever hear of Grafton? That’s where I’m from, so it shouldn’t be to far from here.†Milo asked.
“No, sorry,†the old woman answered.
“Well, maybe you could drive me to Bridgeton and I can call some friends,†Milo suggested.
“We’ll see,†Catharine replied.
Milo got up and refilled his coffee cup. Despite the taste, he enjoyed the warmth of the coffee. Catharine began to sort through her mementos once more, placing them into their proper shoeboxes. When his headache would not stop, Milo at last asked for aspirin. Catharine found some for him, though she said she doubted it would help. The two then passed a half hour in silence.
Milo leaned back into his chair and tried to remember once more how he had come to the dirt track. There had been a party, he knew that now with certainty, and during the party he and another man had gotten into an argument. Their tempers inflamed by alcohol, the argument had quickly turned into a fist fight. Sometime during that fight, Milo couldn’t remember exactly when, his nose had been slammed into the floor. When that had happened, Milo remembered hearing a sickening crack and feeling a sharp pain in his nose. After that he could only recall what had happened since he found himself on the road.
He touched his nose once more. Catharine noticed and looked at him quizzically for a moment before asking him a question.
“So, now do you remember how it was you died?†she asked.
Milo looked strangely at the old woman, “What do you mean remember how I died? Can’t you tell I’m not dead?â€Â
The old woman shook her head and sighed. “You’re quite dead Mr. Sterling, check your pulse.â€Â
Milo did so. He felt nothing. He tried again and once more found nothing. He looked at the old woman once more.
“Nothing there?†Catharine asked.
“No,†Milo replied. “That proves nothing.â€Â
“No? Still thirsty? Mouth dry? How about hunger? You’ve been out there since at least early this morning and you haven’t felt even slightly hungry, have you?†The old woman smiled slightly at Milo.
Milo realized that he hadn’t eaten at all, and despite that he wasn’t hungry. He had had two cups of coffee and his mouth remained dry and tasted of dust.
“Get a lot like you out here. That road out there leads somewhere other than just to highway twenty-six. Don’t know where for certain, but every year late in the fall one or two like you end up out there on it not knowing where to go.
“Me and James didn’t know they were dead at first. No, we just thought they were lost. We were right, in a way, but we went about helping them in the wrong way. We’d take them into Bridgeton, give them a few dollars to get home, and leave them. Don’t know what happened to them, don’t really want to know, but one day we met one that we knew couldn’t have been alive. Car accident, we figured. After that we just sort of learned that they needed follow the road southwest.
“They get lost this time of year you see, wander around amongst the living. Suppose it’s how all those traditions got started, Halloween, Day of the Dead down south, that sort of thing. Never seen one from more than a week or two ago, so I figure the ones that die this time of year are the only ones that can get lost. I’d guess you died last night, judging by how you look.†Catharine said calmly sorting through the objects on the table.
“How did you know…?†Milo asked after a few minutes.
“That you were dead? Simple enough, there’s something about the dead. They don’t quite look right, don’t quite act right. A little too… faded, I guess.†She answered. Then, looking at his nose, she added “That nose of yours helped too. If I were to guess, I’d say you had it broke somehow and then had it pushed back into your brain.â€Â
Milo nodded.
“Quick way to go. Been told it’s fairly painless. Sure doesn’t help you know your dead though. A little too quick and sudden, I’d guess,†Catharine said as she looked over her possessions.
Time passed in silence. Catharine continued to sort through her possessions, placing them in different shoe boxes. Milo watched her numbly.
At last he asked, “Why am I still breathing?â€Â
“Strange isn’t it? You’re dead and you know it, but you’re still breathing. They’re all like that. Guess it’s just habit. Done it all their lives, so they just don’t realize they can and should stop.†Catharine looked out through a window, “Sun’s setting. You should be going soon. Night will help you figure out where to go, just follow the stars. You should probably wait a little while yet.â€Â
They sat in silence for a time. Milo tried to swallow again, he could not. He knew somehow that the old woman was right, he had died. Catharine placed the last of her mementos into a shoe box and closed the lid. She sighed contentedly and watched Milo for a moment.
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Sterling?†The old woman asked.
“Not particularly,†Milo replied honestly.
“Ah, well. Can’t particularly blame you for that, not much miraculous left in the world. But you’ve got to wonder, don’t you? You’re still here even though you’re dead. You’ve got to wonder what comes next,†Catharine replied.
“It’s a little late now for me to wonder, old woman. Never really had time to think about it when I was alive, I didn’t think I’d have to for a long time. I’m not even sure if it’s worth think about for the living. So many claim to know, but how can you tell who’s right?†Milo said as he swirled what little coffee remained at the bottom of his cup.
“All the same Mr. Sterling, I pray for each one of those who get lost on this road. Not to anyone in particular, just a little prayer that they reach wherever it is they are going. What harm can it do?†Catharine responded quickly.
The old woman glanced once more out the window. She regarded the clear night for a moment, observing the stars with her brilliant blue eyes. She glanced at her watch, a quarter to twelve it read, and rose slowly from her chair.
“Time you move on, Mr. Sterling. I’ll lead you back to the road. Just follow it and then follow the stars, this time of the night you’ll do fine,†she said as she took a box of matches and a flashlight from one of her cabinets.
Milo stood, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the radiator behind, then followed Catharine as she walked out into the cold October night.
The old woman lit a small candle and placed it into the carved pumpkin on her steps. She noticed Milo’s look of confusion, “It helps sometimes. They see the light and come to it, just in case another comes while we’re out.â€Â
Milo nodded and followed Catharine once more through the wet grass. Around them the song of crickets filled the night air. As they walked, Milo slowly grew cold, the cool night air and dampened grass leaching away the heat he had gained while in the farmhouse.
The ancient Ford loomed out of the darkness before them. Nothing stirred around it, the old crow had not returned to its sheltered roost and the mouse had slipped off into the night. The pair stopped.
The old woman turned off her flashlight and set it on the hood of the rusting Ford, then turned to figure behind her.
“Follow the road, Mr. Sterling, follow it southward and then follow the stars. Safe journey Mr. Sterling, I’ll pray for you,†the old woman said to the figure.
For a moment the figure considered asking her not to, but then thought better of it. Instead he walked off into the night. He walked a few steps down the road, then stopped. He turned back and faced his benefactor.
“Thank you,†he said quietly. He turned back and began his journey once more. Above him the ribbon of stars that mirrored the road’s path glowed softly. Around him the desperate songs of crickets played out in their tuneless melodies and the gentle wind blew through the wet grass. Behind him, another figure walked slowly back through the grass to the soft glow of the farmhouse. In front of him lay his path into the uncertain darkness.
Catharine sat on the steps of her farmhouse looking up at the ribbon of stars that shone high above the winding dirt road. She waited there for an hour, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a hot cup of coffee in her hands. A single streak of light flickered across the sky following the ribbon of stars northward.
She smiled as it disappeared over the horizon, and then she spoke, “Goodbye, Mr. Sterling. I’ll pray for you.â€Â
<edit: Yes, yes I know there are a lot of typos, but I'm not sure which edit this version comes from so try to overlook this.>
Rain drops fell upon the dirt track. Small and numerous, the tiny flecks of water pocked the dry ground. A low rumble sounded in the distance carrying the empty promise of a true rainstorm. Bits of paper danced in the breeze, waiting for the rain drops to bring them to rest as watery pulp. An empty bottle rolled listlessly down the track, hit a small stone and stopped with a sharp crack.
An old crow watched the elemental ballet from the shelter of an ancient Ford, left abandoned and rusting its journey ended generations before. A small mouse skittered beneath the tall weeds that grew up around the abandoned Ford. Under the cover of a small, desiccated wild rose a toad eyed its dusty surroundings passively, slowly nodding its head as it breathed as if satisfied with what it saw. A cricket called out to find a mate from its hidden bowers within the tall grass at the edge of the dirt track. Others soon joined its slow song.
A man lay prone upon the dusty track, his chest rising and falling imperceptivity. Rain pooled within the folds of his clothes, its seeping cold slowly finding its way into his flesh. He shivered slightly. The pools of rainwater danced upon his body.
In the timeless hold of the rain the man drifted in and out of consciousness. Perhaps he lay there upon the road for an hour. Perhaps he lay there for only a minute. Perhaps he lay there for a day. It made no difference how long he lay there, all that mattered was that the rain washed away the dust from his face and the small trail of blood from his nose and cheek while the cold numbed the aching of his nose.
The rain stopped. Rays of late afternoon sunlight played across the now muddy road. With a rasping cough, the old crow shook itself. The mouse scampered out from under its rusting shelter to drink from the pools of rainwater. The toad continued to survey the road with approval. The crickets continued their tuneless melodies. The man opened his eyes.
His mouth moved soundlessly as he tried to clear the taste of dust from his pallet. He could not. His eyes blinked swiftly trying to remove the stinging dust. The stinging dust remained. He coughed, cleared his throat, but could not swallow. He felt cold, cold inside and cold outside. His head ached terribly. He tried to remember who he was and how he had come to be on the muddy track. He failed.
The man slowly rose to his knees. Beneath its rusting the shelter the mouse froze at this unexpected movement. The crow eyed the figure kneeling on the road uneasily. From their shelters of yellowing grass, the crickets and toad ignored the man.
A few moments later the man moved gingerly to a pool of rainwater at the edge of the road. He regarded himself in its mirrored surface. He was an average looking man: face not too thick, not too thin; hair and eyes both a dark shade of brown; a day’s growth of stubble decorating his face and neck. Had it not been for his swollen and purpling nose, his face would be quite forgettable.
He splashed a bit of the rainwater onto his face. The cold droplets stung at his nose, but he didn’t mind. The sensation made him feel alive.
The old crow cawed loudly and beat its wings off to the man’s left. Something had disturbed its rest. A moment later the bird’s shadow fell across the man as he rested his aching head by the rainwater pool.
A cough interrupted the man’s misery. He looked up. An old women clothed in a fading floral pattern dress stood leaning against the rusting Ford, her grey-white hair partially hidden by a faded yellow cowl. She regarded him quizzically with her ice-blue eyes.
“Another one, so soon?†She mumbled to herself before addressing the man. “You lost?â€Â
“I… I don’t know,†the man slowly croaked. He wondered why it was so difficult to remember how to speak. Then again, his throbbing head made it difficult to remember anything.
“Come on then. Follow me. Get quite a few like you out here,†the old woman said.
The man rose slowly to his feet, his head kept him from moving too quickly. He began to walk towards the old woman, staggering a bit at first. The old woman shook her head at this, disapproving of something the man could not guess.
“I’m Catharine, if you care to know. You got a name?†The old woman asked.
“Milo Sterling,†he answered, the old woman’s question slowly drawing the words from his memory.
Catharine nodded at this as she regarded him once more. His type always seemed to wind up out here, she thought. He was lucky it wasn’t any later in the year. Had he been out later in the year… she well knew what would have happened.
They walked in silence. Milo watched the dampened grass slip past him, idly wondering how he had come to this road. He suspected he had been drunk last night. That would at least explain his headache; it didn’t explain his throbbing nose though.
After a few minutes, the pair came upon an aging single story farm house. Its paint had worn away long ago and the exposed wooden siding had weathered to a light grey color. It had settled over the years and leaned slightly to the northwest. On the front steps a carved pumpkin sat, leering at all who would approach.
“It’s not much, but it’s warm and the roof doesn’t leak. Or at least the roof doesn’t leak when it’s not raining,†Catharine said, smiling slightly, as they walked up the steps. “You can stay here for a bit Mr. Sterling, warm up a little. Then we’ll see about getting you to wherever you are going.â€Â
“I don’t think I remember where I was going. I think I might have been a little drunk when I came out here,†Milo explained.
The old woman smiled slightly at this. Typical, she thought to herself, his kind always seem to lose their way out here.
Once inside Catharine lead Milo through a small den and into her kitchen. Aside from the stove, sink and cabinet counters, the kitchen was furnished with only a formica topped table, a pair of worn wooden chairs, and an aging radiator. Contrasting the tidy cabinet counters and sink, the table lay strewn with old post cards, curios, and shoeboxes.
“Sorting out old memories,†Catharine explained, noticing Milo glancing strangely at the table.
“Why don’t you sit over by the radiator and dry out a little bit. I’m sure your cold,†Catharine motioned Milo towards one of the chairs. “Going to make some coffee, care for some?â€Â
Milo nodded and took one of the chairs to the radiator. As he sat enjoying the warmth slowly seep into his cold body, he tried to recall how he had ended up out on the dirt track. There had been a party, he thought, but beyond that he could recall little else. It was an improvement at least, earlier he hadn’t been able to even remember that much. Now if only his nose would stop throbbing.
The old woman removed her cowl and walked towards the sink. Once there she rang the wet cloth out and laid it on the counter top to dry. She searched through one of the cabinets for two bags of coffee.
“Hope you like your coffee black, don’t have any cream or sugar,†Catharine commented as she filled her kettle.
“That’s fine,†Milo said, eyes closed and leaning back in his chair, “I’d want it that way anyway.â€Â
Catharine placed the kettle on the stove and found a pair of coffee cups. She cleared away two spaces on the table, carefully placing her mementos into their shoeboxes. Once done, she took the kettle of boiling water from the stove and filled the two coffee cups.
“Coffee’s ready,†She said placing one of the cups of coffee on the edge of the table closest to Milo before settling into the chair on the other side.
Milo opened his eyes and reluctantly moved the chair back to the table. He inhaled the rich scent of the coffee and winced as his nose reprimanded him for it. He stared at his distorted reflection in the coffee’s steaming surface.
Gingerly he probed at his nose with his index finger. It was probably broken, he knew, and broken recently. Perhaps at the party, he thought.
He sipped at the coffee. It tasted muddy and weak. He tried to strengthen its taste by toying with the bag of coffee in his cup, but no matter how much he tried it still tasted the same. He contented himself by focusing on the warmth it brought as it ran down his throat.
After a time, Milo began to look curiously at the objects on the table before him. Most seemed to be old photographs and assorted knickknacks, but one stood out in particular. It was a fading pencil drawing of the dirt road he had found himself on earlier.
“My daughter’s,†Catharine explained noticing Milo looking at the drawing. “She’s quite an artist really. Doesn’t come back her very often, too many shadows of her past, too many ghosts.â€Â
“You must get fairly lonely out here then,†Milo said. “I wouldn’t think many people would come out here.â€Â
“It’s not too lonely out here. Used to have James out here too keep me company… And there’s always people like you this time of year. Besides, if I get too lonely I can always go into town,†Catharine replied. “Remember anything about how you got out here yet?â€Â
“No, might help if I knew where here was.†Milo answered.
“Well, if you follow the road northeast for a few miles you’ll
come to Bridgeton. If you go southwest a ways you’ll come out on the highway twenty-six,†Catharine explained. “That might not help you much, but that’s where that dirt road out there leads.â€Â
“Ever hear of Grafton? That’s where I’m from, so it shouldn’t be to far from here.†Milo asked.
“No, sorry,†the old woman answered.
“Well, maybe you could drive me to Bridgeton and I can call some friends,†Milo suggested.
“We’ll see,†Catharine replied.
Milo got up and refilled his coffee cup. Despite the taste, he enjoyed the warmth of the coffee. Catharine began to sort through her mementos once more, placing them into their proper shoeboxes. When his headache would not stop, Milo at last asked for aspirin. Catharine found some for him, though she said she doubted it would help. The two then passed a half hour in silence.
Milo leaned back into his chair and tried to remember once more how he had come to the dirt track. There had been a party, he knew that now with certainty, and during the party he and another man had gotten into an argument. Their tempers inflamed by alcohol, the argument had quickly turned into a fist fight. Sometime during that fight, Milo couldn’t remember exactly when, his nose had been slammed into the floor. When that had happened, Milo remembered hearing a sickening crack and feeling a sharp pain in his nose. After that he could only recall what had happened since he found himself on the road.
He touched his nose once more. Catharine noticed and looked at him quizzically for a moment before asking him a question.
“So, now do you remember how it was you died?†she asked.
Milo looked strangely at the old woman, “What do you mean remember how I died? Can’t you tell I’m not dead?â€Â
The old woman shook her head and sighed. “You’re quite dead Mr. Sterling, check your pulse.â€Â
Milo did so. He felt nothing. He tried again and once more found nothing. He looked at the old woman once more.
“Nothing there?†Catharine asked.
“No,†Milo replied. “That proves nothing.â€Â
“No? Still thirsty? Mouth dry? How about hunger? You’ve been out there since at least early this morning and you haven’t felt even slightly hungry, have you?†The old woman smiled slightly at Milo.
Milo realized that he hadn’t eaten at all, and despite that he wasn’t hungry. He had had two cups of coffee and his mouth remained dry and tasted of dust.
“Get a lot like you out here. That road out there leads somewhere other than just to highway twenty-six. Don’t know where for certain, but every year late in the fall one or two like you end up out there on it not knowing where to go.
“Me and James didn’t know they were dead at first. No, we just thought they were lost. We were right, in a way, but we went about helping them in the wrong way. We’d take them into Bridgeton, give them a few dollars to get home, and leave them. Don’t know what happened to them, don’t really want to know, but one day we met one that we knew couldn’t have been alive. Car accident, we figured. After that we just sort of learned that they needed follow the road southwest.
“They get lost this time of year you see, wander around amongst the living. Suppose it’s how all those traditions got started, Halloween, Day of the Dead down south, that sort of thing. Never seen one from more than a week or two ago, so I figure the ones that die this time of year are the only ones that can get lost. I’d guess you died last night, judging by how you look.†Catharine said calmly sorting through the objects on the table.
“How did you know…?†Milo asked after a few minutes.
“That you were dead? Simple enough, there’s something about the dead. They don’t quite look right, don’t quite act right. A little too… faded, I guess.†She answered. Then, looking at his nose, she added “That nose of yours helped too. If I were to guess, I’d say you had it broke somehow and then had it pushed back into your brain.â€Â
Milo nodded.
“Quick way to go. Been told it’s fairly painless. Sure doesn’t help you know your dead though. A little too quick and sudden, I’d guess,†Catharine said as she looked over her possessions.
Time passed in silence. Catharine continued to sort through her possessions, placing them in different shoe boxes. Milo watched her numbly.
At last he asked, “Why am I still breathing?â€Â
“Strange isn’t it? You’re dead and you know it, but you’re still breathing. They’re all like that. Guess it’s just habit. Done it all their lives, so they just don’t realize they can and should stop.†Catharine looked out through a window, “Sun’s setting. You should be going soon. Night will help you figure out where to go, just follow the stars. You should probably wait a little while yet.â€Â
They sat in silence for a time. Milo tried to swallow again, he could not. He knew somehow that the old woman was right, he had died. Catharine placed the last of her mementos into a shoe box and closed the lid. She sighed contentedly and watched Milo for a moment.
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Sterling?†The old woman asked.
“Not particularly,†Milo replied honestly.
“Ah, well. Can’t particularly blame you for that, not much miraculous left in the world. But you’ve got to wonder, don’t you? You’re still here even though you’re dead. You’ve got to wonder what comes next,†Catharine replied.
“It’s a little late now for me to wonder, old woman. Never really had time to think about it when I was alive, I didn’t think I’d have to for a long time. I’m not even sure if it’s worth think about for the living. So many claim to know, but how can you tell who’s right?†Milo said as he swirled what little coffee remained at the bottom of his cup.
“All the same Mr. Sterling, I pray for each one of those who get lost on this road. Not to anyone in particular, just a little prayer that they reach wherever it is they are going. What harm can it do?†Catharine responded quickly.
The old woman glanced once more out the window. She regarded the clear night for a moment, observing the stars with her brilliant blue eyes. She glanced at her watch, a quarter to twelve it read, and rose slowly from her chair.
“Time you move on, Mr. Sterling. I’ll lead you back to the road. Just follow it and then follow the stars, this time of the night you’ll do fine,†she said as she took a box of matches and a flashlight from one of her cabinets.
Milo stood, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the radiator behind, then followed Catharine as she walked out into the cold October night.
The old woman lit a small candle and placed it into the carved pumpkin on her steps. She noticed Milo’s look of confusion, “It helps sometimes. They see the light and come to it, just in case another comes while we’re out.â€Â
Milo nodded and followed Catharine once more through the wet grass. Around them the song of crickets filled the night air. As they walked, Milo slowly grew cold, the cool night air and dampened grass leaching away the heat he had gained while in the farmhouse.
The ancient Ford loomed out of the darkness before them. Nothing stirred around it, the old crow had not returned to its sheltered roost and the mouse had slipped off into the night. The pair stopped.
The old woman turned off her flashlight and set it on the hood of the rusting Ford, then turned to figure behind her.
“Follow the road, Mr. Sterling, follow it southward and then follow the stars. Safe journey Mr. Sterling, I’ll pray for you,†the old woman said to the figure.
For a moment the figure considered asking her not to, but then thought better of it. Instead he walked off into the night. He walked a few steps down the road, then stopped. He turned back and faced his benefactor.
“Thank you,†he said quietly. He turned back and began his journey once more. Above him the ribbon of stars that mirrored the road’s path glowed softly. Around him the desperate songs of crickets played out in their tuneless melodies and the gentle wind blew through the wet grass. Behind him, another figure walked slowly back through the grass to the soft glow of the farmhouse. In front of him lay his path into the uncertain darkness.
Catharine sat on the steps of her farmhouse looking up at the ribbon of stars that shone high above the winding dirt road. She waited there for an hour, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a hot cup of coffee in her hands. A single streak of light flickered across the sky following the ribbon of stars northward.
She smiled as it disappeared over the horizon, and then she spoke, “Goodbye, Mr. Sterling. I’ll pray for you.â€Â
<edit: Yes, yes I know there are a lot of typos, but I'm not sure which edit this version comes from so try to overlook this.>
In the 550's Byzantine Generals Narses and Liberius were winning battles into their 80's. Retirement programs, though no longer including raping and pillaging, have clearly improved since.
-
Silvone Elestahr
- Developer
- Posts: 183
- Joined: Mon Oct 06, 2003 11:10 pm
- Location: Pelagiad
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[I wrote this late at night, after 11:00, probably so that I wouldn't have to do my homework that I waited to do until then. I don't know what possessed me to write it, but I haven't written anything "real life" since before I actually knew how to write properly. I usually stick with fantasy, and so far just the boring detailing stuff. As I said, I wrote this late at night, and haven't had time to go through and fix it up any, so its just a bunch of raw thoughts. Its based on the movie 28 days later. If you buy the soundtrack, there is a little comic book strip thingy inside. That is what my story follows. Also, please note that it is not finished.]
Untitled
I could only stand there, in a terrible grip of fear. I could only watch as the woman fought for her very breath. A crowd had gathered after the sound of groceries falling to the ground attracted their attention. I was walking right past her as it happened, in a crowded square, and I now stood beside her as she sat on her hands and knees coughing up blood that was almost black in color. While puking her insides out onto the cement, she was violently screaming and shaking. She dug her nails into the cement, cracking them and tearing them. Her face was turning pale, bright colored veins pulsing noticeably. We could only stare.
None of us noticed the truck come to a screeching halt nearby. Our minds were taken by the screams and unintelligeble pleas of the lady on display. A team of men in biohazard suits broke their way through the crowd and reached for the woman on her knees. The lady suddenly stood up, swaying slightly. The men reached for her arm, but she lunged forward, attacking the men in the full-body suits. I had the unfortunate oppurtunity to gaze into her eyes, her empty, yet pain filled eyes. They were animal eyes, wide and full of rage. The men grappled with her, and the crowd backed away a few steps as the blood began to fly. The lady was not so much screaming as she was raging, howling and fighting violently. The lady disappeared into the back of the truck nonetheless. Yet the crowd did not disperse. We still could not move, or think. Were it not for the police coming in to clear up the area, we might have remained there, staring at the bloody remnants of that poor lady, for eternity.
How does one sleep with such a sight permanently burned into their mind? Such a violent, painful death she recieved, if that is waht she recieved at all. Yet sleep I did, a fitfull sleep, full of pain and screaming. I woke up sweating, unable to breath. My wife finally managed to calm me down.
I stared at my wife as she prepared breakfeast. She was a beautiful woman, and I'd had a habit of staring at her since I had first met her in highschool. She moved gracefully through the kitchen, the product of years of experience. She'd been making breakfeast for our children before school for four years now. But even such experience can prove unavailing. The family cat jumped down from the counter in between her legs, nearly tripping her. She managed to keep her balance, but she dropped the dish she was carrying. The clatter the dish made as it hit the floor sent my heart racing. I stood up, and watched as my wife bent down, getting on her hands and knees to reach under the table for the pieces to the dish. I wanted to scream out, to warn her, to tell her to get up. But I could not move. I could not plead for her safety. My head was rushing with blood, and my heart was aching. I was read to faint. The memory shot through my mind, paralyzing me with fear. I was watching the lady in the square again, crying and screaming, suffereing from agonizing, unbelievable pain. The lady slowly stood up, and turned to look at me. I stared into her eyes, those angry eyes. She stepped toward me. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. The lady reached her hand out, taking a few steps more. The bloody hand gripped my shoulder, shaking it. "Honey! Honey! Are you alright?" I blinked my eyes, and the vision cleared away, and standing before me was my beautiful wife. My heart settled down, and I fell back into my chair. "I'm fine."
How can you explain to someone you love what happened that day? How can you pass such a burden on to someone so important to you? I did not know if she'd heard about it in the news. If so, she had said nothing about it. I could not tell her what was wrong with me. I could not hurt her in the same way I was hurting. So I said nothing, and I sent her away worried.
I sat at the desk in my office, pouring over the article in the newspaper, trying to figure our what was haunting me. "An unexplained virus," it said. "A tragic event." Tragic. It was more than tragic. It was devastating. Not only to the woman who experienced it, but to all those who saw it.
"Sir? Your wifes on line 5." "Thank you," I told the secretary. I picked up the phone. "Hello..."
"Hi, honey. I'm picking up the kids from school. They have an appointment with Doctor Springs. I should be home around 5:00." "That's fine," I said. There was silence for a moment, then she continued: "Are you sure you're o.k.?"
At 3:30 I picked up the paper again, and tried to finish the article. "Witnesses provide details..." They were the lucky ones. They didn't have to worry about ruining other people's lives just by sharing their memory. They obviously had no one to keep it secret from. "Related to the deaths..." Related deaths? A laboratory mysteriously shut down, a hospital reports similar victims, reports of savage violence in nearby neighborhoods, the neighborhoods near my children's school!
"Sir? Theres a man on line 3 wanting to speak with you."
I rushed into the gymnasium, and I nearly collapsed. Surrounding me were hundreds of body bags, child-sized body bags, with a few for adults. Men and women walked through the gymnaisium with clipboards and solemn faces. A large man in a dark suit walked toward me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and tried to look into my eyes. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. I fell to my knees. I searched the body bags from that spot, hunting for the ones that might hold my family. The white bags were stained with blood, covered with identification tags that I was too far away to read. And I did not want to read them. I could not read them. I could not accept that my family was now gone, due to a virus no one knew about, one that caused the most agonizing death we might ever know. I looked at the other faces in the room. Husbands and wives held onto each other, crying, squeezing each others hands for support. Older children, from highschool, accompanied some families. These children hugged their parents, hoping to hide their sadness, their fear. And their parents soothed them, or tried to. I had no one to sooth, and no one who could sooth me. I was alone.
I stood in front of the hospital. A line stretched out into the streets, if you could call it a line. It looked more like a mob. Policemen surrounded a crowd of terrified families, hoping for a cure, something that might save them, or their loved ones. Small children clung to their parents legs, crying. Family members exchanged goodbye's, fearing that soon the end would arrive. The crowd was trying to force their way inside the already crowded hospital, but they were held back. The mob became more violent, and the police were forced to intervene. The crowds attention was diverted to a lone child near the street, screaming and shaking and crying, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. The police opened fire, causing panic among the crowd. Another ran into the crowd from behind, spewing blood from his mouth onto any who were close enough. Even more began to charge out of the hospital. The police could not tell where they would pop up next, so they tried to shoot everyone. The screaming of the victims nearly overpowered the sound of the gunfire. I heard a single voice cry out: "Infected! Run!" Perhaps this freed the fear-struck minds of the crowd, because they surged forward, trying to escape to their homes. I was caught in the midst of the crowd, and was forced to run with them . Any people in the front of the paniced mob who were not faster than those behind were trampled and left to die. I made it into a small store that had not been locked up when the owner left. Papers and food were strewn all about. I pulled down the metal gate and shut the door. I stood there, trying to catch my breath, hoping that no one outside would hear my breathing. I leaned back against the door. The support felt so good that I let myself slide down to the ground. After a few moments I reached for a newspaper that was lying next to me. One of the main, though now quite brief, articles read: "Despite all our plans and contingencies, the virus has spread." I chuckled slightly. Almost as fast as the fear of it.
Untitled
I could only stand there, in a terrible grip of fear. I could only watch as the woman fought for her very breath. A crowd had gathered after the sound of groceries falling to the ground attracted their attention. I was walking right past her as it happened, in a crowded square, and I now stood beside her as she sat on her hands and knees coughing up blood that was almost black in color. While puking her insides out onto the cement, she was violently screaming and shaking. She dug her nails into the cement, cracking them and tearing them. Her face was turning pale, bright colored veins pulsing noticeably. We could only stare.
None of us noticed the truck come to a screeching halt nearby. Our minds were taken by the screams and unintelligeble pleas of the lady on display. A team of men in biohazard suits broke their way through the crowd and reached for the woman on her knees. The lady suddenly stood up, swaying slightly. The men reached for her arm, but she lunged forward, attacking the men in the full-body suits. I had the unfortunate oppurtunity to gaze into her eyes, her empty, yet pain filled eyes. They were animal eyes, wide and full of rage. The men grappled with her, and the crowd backed away a few steps as the blood began to fly. The lady was not so much screaming as she was raging, howling and fighting violently. The lady disappeared into the back of the truck nonetheless. Yet the crowd did not disperse. We still could not move, or think. Were it not for the police coming in to clear up the area, we might have remained there, staring at the bloody remnants of that poor lady, for eternity.
How does one sleep with such a sight permanently burned into their mind? Such a violent, painful death she recieved, if that is waht she recieved at all. Yet sleep I did, a fitfull sleep, full of pain and screaming. I woke up sweating, unable to breath. My wife finally managed to calm me down.
I stared at my wife as she prepared breakfeast. She was a beautiful woman, and I'd had a habit of staring at her since I had first met her in highschool. She moved gracefully through the kitchen, the product of years of experience. She'd been making breakfeast for our children before school for four years now. But even such experience can prove unavailing. The family cat jumped down from the counter in between her legs, nearly tripping her. She managed to keep her balance, but she dropped the dish she was carrying. The clatter the dish made as it hit the floor sent my heart racing. I stood up, and watched as my wife bent down, getting on her hands and knees to reach under the table for the pieces to the dish. I wanted to scream out, to warn her, to tell her to get up. But I could not move. I could not plead for her safety. My head was rushing with blood, and my heart was aching. I was read to faint. The memory shot through my mind, paralyzing me with fear. I was watching the lady in the square again, crying and screaming, suffereing from agonizing, unbelievable pain. The lady slowly stood up, and turned to look at me. I stared into her eyes, those angry eyes. She stepped toward me. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. The lady reached her hand out, taking a few steps more. The bloody hand gripped my shoulder, shaking it. "Honey! Honey! Are you alright?" I blinked my eyes, and the vision cleared away, and standing before me was my beautiful wife. My heart settled down, and I fell back into my chair. "I'm fine."
How can you explain to someone you love what happened that day? How can you pass such a burden on to someone so important to you? I did not know if she'd heard about it in the news. If so, she had said nothing about it. I could not tell her what was wrong with me. I could not hurt her in the same way I was hurting. So I said nothing, and I sent her away worried.
I sat at the desk in my office, pouring over the article in the newspaper, trying to figure our what was haunting me. "An unexplained virus," it said. "A tragic event." Tragic. It was more than tragic. It was devastating. Not only to the woman who experienced it, but to all those who saw it.
"Sir? Your wifes on line 5." "Thank you," I told the secretary. I picked up the phone. "Hello..."
"Hi, honey. I'm picking up the kids from school. They have an appointment with Doctor Springs. I should be home around 5:00." "That's fine," I said. There was silence for a moment, then she continued: "Are you sure you're o.k.?"
At 3:30 I picked up the paper again, and tried to finish the article. "Witnesses provide details..." They were the lucky ones. They didn't have to worry about ruining other people's lives just by sharing their memory. They obviously had no one to keep it secret from. "Related to the deaths..." Related deaths? A laboratory mysteriously shut down, a hospital reports similar victims, reports of savage violence in nearby neighborhoods, the neighborhoods near my children's school!
"Sir? Theres a man on line 3 wanting to speak with you."
I rushed into the gymnasium, and I nearly collapsed. Surrounding me were hundreds of body bags, child-sized body bags, with a few for adults. Men and women walked through the gymnaisium with clipboards and solemn faces. A large man in a dark suit walked toward me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and tried to look into my eyes. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. I fell to my knees. I searched the body bags from that spot, hunting for the ones that might hold my family. The white bags were stained with blood, covered with identification tags that I was too far away to read. And I did not want to read them. I could not read them. I could not accept that my family was now gone, due to a virus no one knew about, one that caused the most agonizing death we might ever know. I looked at the other faces in the room. Husbands and wives held onto each other, crying, squeezing each others hands for support. Older children, from highschool, accompanied some families. These children hugged their parents, hoping to hide their sadness, their fear. And their parents soothed them, or tried to. I had no one to sooth, and no one who could sooth me. I was alone.
I stood in front of the hospital. A line stretched out into the streets, if you could call it a line. It looked more like a mob. Policemen surrounded a crowd of terrified families, hoping for a cure, something that might save them, or their loved ones. Small children clung to their parents legs, crying. Family members exchanged goodbye's, fearing that soon the end would arrive. The crowd was trying to force their way inside the already crowded hospital, but they were held back. The mob became more violent, and the police were forced to intervene. The crowds attention was diverted to a lone child near the street, screaming and shaking and crying, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. The police opened fire, causing panic among the crowd. Another ran into the crowd from behind, spewing blood from his mouth onto any who were close enough. Even more began to charge out of the hospital. The police could not tell where they would pop up next, so they tried to shoot everyone. The screaming of the victims nearly overpowered the sound of the gunfire. I heard a single voice cry out: "Infected! Run!" Perhaps this freed the fear-struck minds of the crowd, because they surged forward, trying to escape to their homes. I was caught in the midst of the crowd, and was forced to run with them . Any people in the front of the paniced mob who were not faster than those behind were trampled and left to die. I made it into a small store that had not been locked up when the owner left. Papers and food were strewn all about. I pulled down the metal gate and shut the door. I stood there, trying to catch my breath, hoping that no one outside would hear my breathing. I leaned back against the door. The support felt so good that I let myself slide down to the ground. After a few moments I reached for a newspaper that was lying next to me. One of the main, though now quite brief, articles read: "Despite all our plans and contingencies, the virus has spread." I chuckled slightly. Almost as fast as the fear of it.
37: Rejoice as TeeAr rebuilds these lands that have been ravaged by war and famine. May those who STand in his way be smited by his many hands in an unrelenting torment.
-Noirgrim
-Noirgrim
New poem . . .
For Stephanie
It starts so simply,
the touch of two hands,
a furtive glance accompanied
by a slight smile and down-turned eyes,
but two shoulders brush
and two hands move closer
when she slides into the curve of his arm
so perfect for the lithe arch of her back.
An acceleration, ever so gentle
in the tempo of their breathing,
a soft glint in her honeysuckle eyes.
And finally their lips
touched, softly once and quickly,
then again,
and he relishes the taste of her tongue,
something utterly indescribable,
something unlike but better than any sweetness,
something that could born only of the difference
in biology, in thought,
only in their individuality.
For Stephanie
It starts so simply,
the touch of two hands,
a furtive glance accompanied
by a slight smile and down-turned eyes,
but two shoulders brush
and two hands move closer
when she slides into the curve of his arm
so perfect for the lithe arch of her back.
An acceleration, ever so gentle
in the tempo of their breathing,
a soft glint in her honeysuckle eyes.
And finally their lips
touched, softly once and quickly,
then again,
and he relishes the taste of her tongue,
something utterly indescribable,
something unlike but better than any sweetness,
something that could born only of the difference
in biology, in thought,
only in their individuality.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
This is a new one I wrote literally just now. I got the idea listening to an incredible poetry reading tonight (Laura Kiechle was the author, check out her work if you see it around). It may still be rough, but I'd like some feedback for it.
Mannequin
the light of two halos
cut dark lines across her sculpted
v-line chin and smooth line
of her crafted rosy lips
did the artist use ivory or wood?
a circle of illumination surrounds her
brighter than her halos, and it makes
it difficult to see where her edges
and the walls differentiate
her hand rests on the smooth inside
of her thigh, frozen for a moment
as her breathing chest ceases to rise,
for an instant. the shadow over her collarbone
flickers in her glow
you can still see the scar
just under the elbow of her neck.
her lobotomy
did not follow the usual route
and her tongue doesn't quite work
two white cables run
from beneath her black blouse
into the electrical socket in the wall.
the whitewashed wall hums
a cacophony of white noise
and its sound overruns her surgical breathing
Mannequin
the light of two halos
cut dark lines across her sculpted
v-line chin and smooth line
of her crafted rosy lips
did the artist use ivory or wood?
a circle of illumination surrounds her
brighter than her halos, and it makes
it difficult to see where her edges
and the walls differentiate
her hand rests on the smooth inside
of her thigh, frozen for a moment
as her breathing chest ceases to rise,
for an instant. the shadow over her collarbone
flickers in her glow
you can still see the scar
just under the elbow of her neck.
her lobotomy
did not follow the usual route
and her tongue doesn't quite work
two white cables run
from beneath her black blouse
into the electrical socket in the wall.
the whitewashed wall hums
a cacophony of white noise
and its sound overruns her surgical breathing
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
At the door
And how to begin
But that I’d know
I would have, should have
Done so, so long ago
Now here I stand
Cast out with no key
Where at last I am least
And least where I would be
It’s cold and it’s dark
With night drawing near
I beg only a light
To find welcome here
Will a knock bring 'round
Courting comfort or pain
Or a bump in the night
And nothing more will you feign
Have the embers gone out
Are the tumblers all set
Am I memory or ghost
Or bad dream to forget
Shall I lay down my plea
And retreat to the frost
To drown in the shadow
With regret in what’s lost
My heart from its shell
My soul on its cross
Left to your morn
For the measure of loss
And how to begin
But that I’d know
I would have, should have
Done so, so long ago
Now here I stand
Cast out with no key
Where at last I am least
And least where I would be
It’s cold and it’s dark
With night drawing near
I beg only a light
To find welcome here
Will a knock bring 'round
Courting comfort or pain
Or a bump in the night
And nothing more will you feign
Have the embers gone out
Are the tumblers all set
Am I memory or ghost
Or bad dream to forget
Shall I lay down my plea
And retreat to the frost
To drown in the shadow
With regret in what’s lost
My heart from its shell
My soul on its cross
Left to your morn
For the measure of loss
I have decided to change my name to Art, that way everything I do will be a work of Art!
The Official 'Howitzer Wielding Jazz Musician' of the Tamriel Rebuilt Forums (est. 3/19/05)
The Artist Formerly Known As Uldar Gerzae
The Official 'Howitzer Wielding Jazz Musician' of the Tamriel Rebuilt Forums (est. 3/19/05)
The Artist Formerly Known As Uldar Gerzae
This is an old one (written about 8 years ago). I pretty much just sat down and wrote it out in one sitting, with no idea of what I was going to write before hand. It gets a little weak towards the end as I was trying to bring it to some sort of conclussion, but hopefully it will still provide some entertainment for you. It is simply entitled...
The Test
Mounting the summit, his eyes beheld the deep azure blue arc of the sky broken only by the fine crystalline mist cast up by the wafting breeze. No peak rose higher than this, no cloud would brave its heights. Even the air seemed to think ill of the mountain, deciding rather to pool down close to the ground at its feet. The bitter cold was the wanderers only company. A friend he tried to keep at bay with the heavy furs he wore.
Clearing a patch in the snow, Lioratk, initiate of the Sevoric Order, began setting up the rudiments of his camp. No tent, no wood, no tinder, just a fur blanket, a flask of sweet wine, and the dry cakes he carried in his pack. This was to be a test of his faith, a test of his strength in the ways of Sevoric, the god of magic. A test that many fail to survive.
For the survivors however, the task was merely an inconvenience compared to the trials that would follow. A simple struggle with nature’s whims is nothing compared to attempting to control the fury of demon or elemental summoned against his will. This test was only to determine if an initiate was able to ignore the beliefs in what he perceives as reality, and to temper the ability of creating and controlling an adverse reality.
Breaking his staff in four equal pieces, Lioratk placed one at each corner of the bedroll. Then stripping off the fur cloaks and ceremonial gowns, he tightly stowed them in his pack. Using the pack as a pillow he lay down with arms wide inviting the full fury of the mountain air. At first he was cringing from the pain but quickly he began the chants that would remove him form this world and take him where he would.
Slowly the chill lifted and a warm sun beat down upon him as he lay in a meadow. Off in the distance a stream could be heard singing its endless song, beckoning him to come bask in its comforts. But for now he was more content to lay and listen to the serenade of the wind as it danced among the grasses. The powder blue sky was bejeweled with billowy white clouds, which drifted by at a leisurely pace.
Lioratk whiled away the hours envisioning every delight in the clouds overhead, all the while the sun rose higher in the sky. Its warm glow quickly grew and he found himself slipping into a dream like lassitude as the sweltering heat consumed him. Feeling the need to cool himself in the shade he staggered to his feet and began a listless amble towards the trees about the stream.
Gently deposited on a moss-covered bed beneath a mighty oak, he drew forth from his pack one of his cakes. Quietly munching away he watched as the soft shadows and amber light dance about on the ripples in the stream. The air was filled with a heavy odor of sweet flowers and the warm buzz of their harvesters.
Mesmerized by the rhythmic undulation of the bedazzled stream, he quickly started to succumb to the hypnotic spell woven in the air. Knowing that to fall asleep would pull him from this reality he got up and went to wash the sleep from him in the stream.
Stooping over the riverbed he cupped a handful of water to his face. The water was cool and refreshing and quickly washed away his exhaustion. Drawing another handful he took a long draught and found the water tasted of sweet nectars. After drinking his fill he decided it would be better to wander about the stream than to loiter on the edges of sleep.
Heading up stream he strolled about for hours it seemed when he came to a pool. The water came down a small fall and sent up a fine mist that filled the vale. All about fine green ferns and mosses grew in the sunlight that filtered down through the trees.
Tired and sore from his journey, Lioratk sat down on a rock by the water’s edge and soaked his feet.
Staring down into the pool he was confounded by the absence of a bottom. It appeared that the water descended into a murky nothingness. Lioratk’s inquisitive nature quickly began eating away at his fatigue. Rising to his feet, he then dove into the pool.
As Lioratk swam deeper he noticed that the water got cooler. Deeper and deeper he swam and the water got colder and colder, until ice crystals were forming on the stone walls of the pool. Suddenly an icy current from the depths of the pool rushed up and Lioratk was forced back up. Turning to swim to the top Lioratk found he was just a few feet below it. As he reached the surface his head struck hard. Back reeling he looked up and saw that the water was covered by a sheet of ice.
With all his force Lioratk made for the surface once more, arms poised overhead to break the ice. As his hands struck they became embedded in the ice. Bringing his legs up to brace himself as he tried to pull free, the ice soon had his feet in its grasp. The numbing chill slowly moved up his arms and legs. He struggled desperately to break free but he was held too tightly. The ice was well past his elbows and knees and making for the rest of his body.
Lioratk passed out.
The abysmal depths took him and within he was delivered back to his body. He awoke with a gasp and quickly rolled the fur blanket about him. He sat shivering for a while, dwelling on the realization of how close to death he had come. Then he pulled his robes and furs from his pack, redressed and headed down the mountain.
The Test
Mounting the summit, his eyes beheld the deep azure blue arc of the sky broken only by the fine crystalline mist cast up by the wafting breeze. No peak rose higher than this, no cloud would brave its heights. Even the air seemed to think ill of the mountain, deciding rather to pool down close to the ground at its feet. The bitter cold was the wanderers only company. A friend he tried to keep at bay with the heavy furs he wore.
Clearing a patch in the snow, Lioratk, initiate of the Sevoric Order, began setting up the rudiments of his camp. No tent, no wood, no tinder, just a fur blanket, a flask of sweet wine, and the dry cakes he carried in his pack. This was to be a test of his faith, a test of his strength in the ways of Sevoric, the god of magic. A test that many fail to survive.
For the survivors however, the task was merely an inconvenience compared to the trials that would follow. A simple struggle with nature’s whims is nothing compared to attempting to control the fury of demon or elemental summoned against his will. This test was only to determine if an initiate was able to ignore the beliefs in what he perceives as reality, and to temper the ability of creating and controlling an adverse reality.
Breaking his staff in four equal pieces, Lioratk placed one at each corner of the bedroll. Then stripping off the fur cloaks and ceremonial gowns, he tightly stowed them in his pack. Using the pack as a pillow he lay down with arms wide inviting the full fury of the mountain air. At first he was cringing from the pain but quickly he began the chants that would remove him form this world and take him where he would.
Slowly the chill lifted and a warm sun beat down upon him as he lay in a meadow. Off in the distance a stream could be heard singing its endless song, beckoning him to come bask in its comforts. But for now he was more content to lay and listen to the serenade of the wind as it danced among the grasses. The powder blue sky was bejeweled with billowy white clouds, which drifted by at a leisurely pace.
Lioratk whiled away the hours envisioning every delight in the clouds overhead, all the while the sun rose higher in the sky. Its warm glow quickly grew and he found himself slipping into a dream like lassitude as the sweltering heat consumed him. Feeling the need to cool himself in the shade he staggered to his feet and began a listless amble towards the trees about the stream.
Gently deposited on a moss-covered bed beneath a mighty oak, he drew forth from his pack one of his cakes. Quietly munching away he watched as the soft shadows and amber light dance about on the ripples in the stream. The air was filled with a heavy odor of sweet flowers and the warm buzz of their harvesters.
Mesmerized by the rhythmic undulation of the bedazzled stream, he quickly started to succumb to the hypnotic spell woven in the air. Knowing that to fall asleep would pull him from this reality he got up and went to wash the sleep from him in the stream.
Stooping over the riverbed he cupped a handful of water to his face. The water was cool and refreshing and quickly washed away his exhaustion. Drawing another handful he took a long draught and found the water tasted of sweet nectars. After drinking his fill he decided it would be better to wander about the stream than to loiter on the edges of sleep.
Heading up stream he strolled about for hours it seemed when he came to a pool. The water came down a small fall and sent up a fine mist that filled the vale. All about fine green ferns and mosses grew in the sunlight that filtered down through the trees.
Tired and sore from his journey, Lioratk sat down on a rock by the water’s edge and soaked his feet.
Staring down into the pool he was confounded by the absence of a bottom. It appeared that the water descended into a murky nothingness. Lioratk’s inquisitive nature quickly began eating away at his fatigue. Rising to his feet, he then dove into the pool.
As Lioratk swam deeper he noticed that the water got cooler. Deeper and deeper he swam and the water got colder and colder, until ice crystals were forming on the stone walls of the pool. Suddenly an icy current from the depths of the pool rushed up and Lioratk was forced back up. Turning to swim to the top Lioratk found he was just a few feet below it. As he reached the surface his head struck hard. Back reeling he looked up and saw that the water was covered by a sheet of ice.
With all his force Lioratk made for the surface once more, arms poised overhead to break the ice. As his hands struck they became embedded in the ice. Bringing his legs up to brace himself as he tried to pull free, the ice soon had his feet in its grasp. The numbing chill slowly moved up his arms and legs. He struggled desperately to break free but he was held too tightly. The ice was well past his elbows and knees and making for the rest of his body.
Lioratk passed out.
The abysmal depths took him and within he was delivered back to his body. He awoke with a gasp and quickly rolled the fur blanket about him. He sat shivering for a while, dwelling on the realization of how close to death he had come. Then he pulled his robes and furs from his pack, redressed and headed down the mountain.
I have decided to change my name to Art, that way everything I do will be a work of Art!
The Official 'Howitzer Wielding Jazz Musician' of the Tamriel Rebuilt Forums (est. 3/19/05)
The Artist Formerly Known As Uldar Gerzae
The Official 'Howitzer Wielding Jazz Musician' of the Tamriel Rebuilt Forums (est. 3/19/05)
The Artist Formerly Known As Uldar Gerzae
Polyphemus
a gaunt jaw – the wine stains
still show around his teeth –
swings from his skull, the oafish
hands incapable of nursing
anything but a sickly sheep
he brings a hand to his face,
gingerly searching the edges of his cheekbones
to where his pain begins
his attendants have gone,
his flocks scattered,
and only Ulysses' shade
laughing at the threshold
remains. stomped berry detritus
litters the cavern, and their lovely decay
permeates his home
Father, on watery horses of Hesperia,
hid vengeance on the seas.
but did He come to me,
his son in need of care, not wrath,
extend the powers of his trident landward?
the deathbringer knows not love
No blood,
no vengeance
can soothe his scarred face -
they are the waters of Tartarus,
mere fire in a thirsting throat
a gaunt jaw – the wine stains
still show around his teeth –
swings from his skull, the oafish
hands incapable of nursing
anything but a sickly sheep
he brings a hand to his face,
gingerly searching the edges of his cheekbones
to where his pain begins
his attendants have gone,
his flocks scattered,
and only Ulysses' shade
laughing at the threshold
remains. stomped berry detritus
litters the cavern, and their lovely decay
permeates his home
Father, on watery horses of Hesperia,
hid vengeance on the seas.
but did He come to me,
his son in need of care, not wrath,
extend the powers of his trident landward?
the deathbringer knows not love
No blood,
no vengeance
can soothe his scarred face -
they are the waters of Tartarus,
mere fire in a thirsting throat
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
A Little List
"Later I added smiling to the list of things I could do,
first in sleep, then awake.
Trapped in this malarial body,
I have little to do but recount my limits.
Each finger marks one, and I can count them all.
My hands are unable to write the words I am,
and as my tongue issues a few gutturals,
the nurse scrawls new symbols of my sutured form.
I haven't yet developed the courage to ask
her to make the list of my prior form's merits,
all lost, trapped in this gauze wrapped carcass
left to stare over the Appalachian paradise,
my bittersweet Nadir.
The sweet scents of medication
and the medicated envelop me,
the morse song of my heart-monitor
and others
nothing glorious.
It is rare that I smile when I sleep.
There are always nightmares
of wraiths descending in napalm,
wings ablaze
and scrap-metal ballistae,
the festering of mind and body,
the disease unswayed by our folly camouflage.
It tore through our crippled ranks.
As our bodies fell away
so fell the villages and cities
by our own hands.
To say it does not mean comprehension.
I muttered for the nurse to turn off my light.
Later, I removed smiling from the list of things I could do,
first in sleep, then awake."
"Later I added smiling to the list of things I could do,
first in sleep, then awake.
Trapped in this malarial body,
I have little to do but recount my limits.
Each finger marks one, and I can count them all.
My hands are unable to write the words I am,
and as my tongue issues a few gutturals,
the nurse scrawls new symbols of my sutured form.
I haven't yet developed the courage to ask
her to make the list of my prior form's merits,
all lost, trapped in this gauze wrapped carcass
left to stare over the Appalachian paradise,
my bittersweet Nadir.
The sweet scents of medication
and the medicated envelop me,
the morse song of my heart-monitor
and others
nothing glorious.
It is rare that I smile when I sleep.
There are always nightmares
of wraiths descending in napalm,
wings ablaze
and scrap-metal ballistae,
the festering of mind and body,
the disease unswayed by our folly camouflage.
It tore through our crippled ranks.
As our bodies fell away
so fell the villages and cities
by our own hands.
To say it does not mean comprehension.
I muttered for the nurse to turn off my light.
Later, I removed smiling from the list of things I could do,
first in sleep, then awake."
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
Before a Manhattan Dawn
She was the undulating bridge across this world,
her auburn and verdant hair like nature itself,
blooming raspberries, lemons, blueberries,
all falling as rubble to her pristine shoulders.
Naturally, her scent was of blueberries as well,
but the sweet fruit tasted instead of blue-jay whistles,
a hymn to Sara Jezabelle in misty Manhattan's dirty embankment,
car horns howling their contempt on the passing road above.
She sat sipping tea in a parlor several blocks away,
waiting for her own corpse
to find her and moan its misery.
Her lust for tea, however, was not satiated by the shit they served,
and she spat it in the waiter's face.
Her skin crawled as she said goodbye to no one in particular.
Inevitably, her words would lead to her denouement,
the accompaniment of her other self caked with mud in a ditch.
"It's cold tonight."
Her clicking shoes echoed through the slouching buildings.
The soft hum of quietus was unborn children in these words,
the piece of string in the woman's hand rough like poured concrete,
melting away and seeping through the pores of her palms.
She burst into flame and chuckled at my surprise,
alight with the memory of our last meeting in an empty foyer.
They never understood her pyrotechnic disposition,
her fascination with her own fires,
the way pieces flittered into nothingness.
Regardless, she will never escape
the sorry trappings of her own infertile body.
Rancid flowers bloomed in the ditch around her corpse
and she will rise to the occasion with flickering grace.
"Eas alda'hiran lakujil rouada sehrmihn aarken ouakir en gena'id."
[She will dance to drift into rain revealing wounds silent and stubborn.]
They were resolute, each sealing its awkward keloidal lips,
none telling of how she sprawled next to her corpse as it sipped tea.
She was the undulating bridge across this world,
her auburn and verdant hair like nature itself,
blooming raspberries, lemons, blueberries,
all falling as rubble to her pristine shoulders.
Naturally, her scent was of blueberries as well,
but the sweet fruit tasted instead of blue-jay whistles,
a hymn to Sara Jezabelle in misty Manhattan's dirty embankment,
car horns howling their contempt on the passing road above.
She sat sipping tea in a parlor several blocks away,
waiting for her own corpse
to find her and moan its misery.
Her lust for tea, however, was not satiated by the shit they served,
and she spat it in the waiter's face.
Her skin crawled as she said goodbye to no one in particular.
Inevitably, her words would lead to her denouement,
the accompaniment of her other self caked with mud in a ditch.
"It's cold tonight."
Her clicking shoes echoed through the slouching buildings.
The soft hum of quietus was unborn children in these words,
the piece of string in the woman's hand rough like poured concrete,
melting away and seeping through the pores of her palms.
She burst into flame and chuckled at my surprise,
alight with the memory of our last meeting in an empty foyer.
They never understood her pyrotechnic disposition,
her fascination with her own fires,
the way pieces flittered into nothingness.
Regardless, she will never escape
the sorry trappings of her own infertile body.
Rancid flowers bloomed in the ditch around her corpse
and she will rise to the occasion with flickering grace.
"Eas alda'hiran lakujil rouada sehrmihn aarken ouakir en gena'id."
[She will dance to drift into rain revealing wounds silent and stubborn.]
They were resolute, each sealing its awkward keloidal lips,
none telling of how she sprawled next to her corpse as it sipped tea.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
-
Cjad the Nord
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Fri Jun 25, 2004 3:29 am
- Location: Dem Bones!
- Contact:
This is a story I've been writing, that I actually plan on turning into a book eventually. It's a bit sporadic at first, but picks up into a seamless tale whose point of view changes between the varied characters. It's really, really long, around 30 pages, so I'm just going to link to the forum thread it's in:
http://forum.erronis-infinitus.dk/viewtopic.php?t=8
This is all 100% my work.
EDIT: P.S. For those who saw my Concept Art thread in the Concept Art forum, well, this is the story I was talking about. Written in Stone: Rite of Passage. A few of the drawn characters there haven't been introduced yet, and the majority aren't even in it. I think I commented in that thread who was and who wasn't.
EDIT 2: Yeah, I wasn't lying, 30 pages. So don't start reading unless you have a good hour to finish.
http://forum.erronis-infinitus.dk/viewtopic.php?t=8
This is all 100% my work.
EDIT: P.S. For those who saw my Concept Art thread in the Concept Art forum, well, this is the story I was talking about. Written in Stone: Rite of Passage. A few of the drawn characters there haven't been introduced yet, and the majority aren't even in it. I think I commented in that thread who was and who wasn't.
EDIT 2: Yeah, I wasn't lying, 30 pages. So don't start reading unless you have a good hour to finish.
Pwn: "The term has become so ubiquitous in Internet circles that it is often used outside of gaming contexts; for example, "he just got pwned in that debate" or "the hunters pwned that bear."
Mannequin II
he's bringing back a mannequin
an Italian opera singer
in fiery Florentine garb,
she has small feet and small hands
and eternally red lips
he's bringing back a mannequin
a classical Californian girl
with perfectly wavy blonde hair
and seashell ornamentation about her body
he's bringing back a mannequin
a model - made in China -
with porcelain-white teeth
and arms so delicate as to make butterflies
seem awkward and clumsy
and with these mannequins,
these creations he holds in deep arms,
he gouges out some pleasure
before casting out the husk
his teeth shine with their tears
each one the same,
just an altered iteration
of one mold
he's bringing back a mannequin
an Italian opera singer
in fiery Florentine garb,
she has small feet and small hands
and eternally red lips
he's bringing back a mannequin
a classical Californian girl
with perfectly wavy blonde hair
and seashell ornamentation about her body
he's bringing back a mannequin
a model - made in China -
with porcelain-white teeth
and arms so delicate as to make butterflies
seem awkward and clumsy
and with these mannequins,
these creations he holds in deep arms,
he gouges out some pleasure
before casting out the husk
his teeth shine with their tears
each one the same,
just an altered iteration
of one mold
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
-
Guest
*Still not done reading through the stories.
[Actually just started.]
I thought I'd post something of my own ...
The Result of Entertaining Temptation
Deep inside an incased shell...
A frozen sea of Sadness.
As deep as some forgotten Labyrinths go,
there is much down here,
so little and so old.
Weaving now is a web of mystery.
A softening development,
the advancement of love and lust,
the incomprehensible torment,
of, what if?
Lost beneath an open Sea,
covered in white snow.
Seemingly lost in solitude.
Somehow availed to many in great dismay,
that it seeks for fortune at this worlds great play.
Many see a mask,
many see a face.
All i see is a phony,
desolate, lecherized vice,
seeping out various life; A leech.
The utter Calefaction; an endless arousal.
A seemingly endless Vogue,
Now the outcast's rival.
So trivial and demanding.
A twirling, whirling guise of downwardness.
From this Sea so frozen,
to open plains of snow.
There is a willing shut out,
an encased tomb of solid walls.
The inert one,
a Frozen Soul.
Lurking in this hidden lair,
a disturbance in this unnatural place...
A rupturing vault!
hidden chambers,
they now shine with light,
So bright and so blinding!
But one would wonder...
What would happen if in or toward the end...
That ice should melt,
and tectonic plates should implode!
The Fury of an ice reign end,
ending with the Symphony of Flame.
In a vivacious twirl of self-righteousness,
There begins a tale of no more Haunting lies,
No longer a world of Plastic and deceit.
A new and happy retirement,
debuting in new roads that lay ahead.
The bonds of Bondage fall,
the sounds of trumpets roaring,
a spinning, whirling absurdity,
only explicable of one thing.
The realization of but one thing...
The expectancy of a Child.
{The Child is me.}
*It's personal.
[Actually just started.]
I thought I'd post something of my own ...
The Result of Entertaining Temptation
Deep inside an incased shell...
A frozen sea of Sadness.
As deep as some forgotten Labyrinths go,
there is much down here,
so little and so old.
Weaving now is a web of mystery.
A softening development,
the advancement of love and lust,
the incomprehensible torment,
of, what if?
Lost beneath an open Sea,
covered in white snow.
Seemingly lost in solitude.
Somehow availed to many in great dismay,
that it seeks for fortune at this worlds great play.
Many see a mask,
many see a face.
All i see is a phony,
desolate, lecherized vice,
seeping out various life; A leech.
The utter Calefaction; an endless arousal.
A seemingly endless Vogue,
Now the outcast's rival.
So trivial and demanding.
A twirling, whirling guise of downwardness.
From this Sea so frozen,
to open plains of snow.
There is a willing shut out,
an encased tomb of solid walls.
The inert one,
a Frozen Soul.
Lurking in this hidden lair,
a disturbance in this unnatural place...
A rupturing vault!
hidden chambers,
they now shine with light,
So bright and so blinding!
But one would wonder...
What would happen if in or toward the end...
That ice should melt,
and tectonic plates should implode!
The Fury of an ice reign end,
ending with the Symphony of Flame.
In a vivacious twirl of self-righteousness,
There begins a tale of no more Haunting lies,
No longer a world of Plastic and deceit.
A new and happy retirement,
debuting in new roads that lay ahead.
The bonds of Bondage fall,
the sounds of trumpets roaring,
a spinning, whirling absurdity,
only explicable of one thing.
The realization of but one thing...
The expectancy of a Child.
{The Child is me.}
*It's personal.
-
Guest
Jacurutu I am really impressed.
Bravo ... I feel like I should go do something else now, haha!
Very well done. Out of everything I really like[d] Mannequin I & II. They are both short and both have a real sound feel of creation in them. Obviously the ventriloquist made these mannequins and they come from the same base idea or mold. But then he adds hair, a florentine garb, a specific curve of the chin, the blouse, and cord...
It's almost a bit saddening when you think about it. He's there on the stage performing with these items of his own being. I would like to think that seeing he created them, that they represent a piece of him he either longed for or regretted.
Hence: -- ' his teeth shine with their tears '
Really very wonderful pieces. I also appreciated "A little list" -- It is such a solemn, seemingly lost, sort of piece from the battered veteran. When purpose, in life, has been set up, or put on a hold, by such boundaries as accidents, war, pain, tragedy, illness, I find it so comforting to look at others and they're situation. I have my own ailments yeah -- but It just makes me reflect. And thanks for that!
I'll be re-reading them throughout the week. I have a jillion free periods now. I'll comment some more on the Untitled 'resident evil' story you wrote. I'm just not in the mood to give a good 2cent or exposition right now!
Thanks.
Bravo ... I feel like I should go do something else now, haha!
Very well done. Out of everything I really like[d] Mannequin I & II. They are both short and both have a real sound feel of creation in them. Obviously the ventriloquist made these mannequins and they come from the same base idea or mold. But then he adds hair, a florentine garb, a specific curve of the chin, the blouse, and cord...
It's almost a bit saddening when you think about it. He's there on the stage performing with these items of his own being. I would like to think that seeing he created them, that they represent a piece of him he either longed for or regretted.
Hence: -- ' his teeth shine with their tears '
Really very wonderful pieces. I also appreciated "A little list" -- It is such a solemn, seemingly lost, sort of piece from the battered veteran. When purpose, in life, has been set up, or put on a hold, by such boundaries as accidents, war, pain, tragedy, illness, I find it so comforting to look at others and they're situation. I have my own ailments yeah -- but It just makes me reflect. And thanks for that!
I'll be re-reading them throughout the week. I have a jillion free periods now. I'll comment some more on the Untitled 'resident evil' story you wrote. I'm just not in the mood to give a good 2cent or exposition right now!
Thanks.
Thank you for all the kind words, Krete. They are truly appreciated. 
I've found that some of the greatest power and resonance you find in writing is that which is unsaid, something which merely touches the surface and remains mostly hidden. That's part of what I'm working on doing these days.
And now I've just gotta post the edits of them . . . which are mostly done now.
I've found that some of the greatest power and resonance you find in writing is that which is unsaid, something which merely touches the surface and remains mostly hidden. That's part of what I'm working on doing these days.And now I've just gotta post the edits of them . . . which are mostly done now.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
heres one that i a person of feeling wrote one lonely night
Fruits
the train stopped, and there you were, love.
You grabed me and held me tight, friendship.
After that we talked awile, assurance.
You let me know what it was all about, peace.
I cracked a joke and then we laughed, joy.
You said that things would get much better, healing.
But you left me in the loft that night, sadness.
When you returned i started to yell, anger.
For my yells turned to glass, you started to weep, sorrow.
The circle was now complete, i said i was sorry, compassion.
People don't see this thing inside me, fear.
If life is so good to others, happiness.
Then i too must find, FORGIVENESS.
Fruits
the train stopped, and there you were, love.
You grabed me and held me tight, friendship.
After that we talked awile, assurance.
You let me know what it was all about, peace.
I cracked a joke and then we laughed, joy.
You said that things would get much better, healing.
But you left me in the loft that night, sadness.
When you returned i started to yell, anger.
For my yells turned to glass, you started to weep, sorrow.
The circle was now complete, i said i was sorry, compassion.
People don't see this thing inside me, fear.
If life is so good to others, happiness.
Then i too must find, FORGIVENESS.
This one is not very happy . . . this is only the first version, and maybe I'll post another after a revision.
Bondage Mask
Blindness
her old and sunken face
bore the harsh craters
of generations. where once eyes hid
beneath two flaps of flesh
remains only two slits.
pull them back
you'll find only a void
Mute
he picks up his pen
and reaches for a slab of paper
but doesn't know why
her voice wavers
on the other side of the connection –
is it only static
or something caught
in her larynx?
"i have something to tell you,"
she says, and when she's finished,
his tongue is gone.
there are no words.
Leather Straps
"still sense her presence so divine
lithe arms about my throat
like pining swans entwined
footfalls at nightfall close to mine
i snatch her whisper like the wind through cedars
see her face in every natural feature
midst the mist and sleepy hollows of fever"
such glee, such glee
in silent straightjacket reverie,
i arched my spine to lashes
cheek to a pillowcase
there was no belt
across my back to welt
but they were there all the same
Embrace
the catatonic
schizophrenic sat,
face focused to nothing
no intrigue
no curiosity
no feeling
arms left as they were placed
and bedsores from his sleep
visible at his collar's edge
the attendant's back was turned
when quietly he rose
this bear, rousing from slumber,
wrapped his fingers ‘round
the man's face. hand and head
snapped back to his chest,
and his kiss caressed
before they fled to the window
and out, together
Bondage Mask
Blindness
her old and sunken face
bore the harsh craters
of generations. where once eyes hid
beneath two flaps of flesh
remains only two slits.
pull them back
you'll find only a void
Mute
he picks up his pen
and reaches for a slab of paper
but doesn't know why
her voice wavers
on the other side of the connection –
is it only static
or something caught
in her larynx?
"i have something to tell you,"
she says, and when she's finished,
his tongue is gone.
there are no words.
Leather Straps
"still sense her presence so divine
lithe arms about my throat
like pining swans entwined
footfalls at nightfall close to mine
i snatch her whisper like the wind through cedars
see her face in every natural feature
midst the mist and sleepy hollows of fever"
such glee, such glee
in silent straightjacket reverie,
i arched my spine to lashes
cheek to a pillowcase
there was no belt
across my back to welt
but they were there all the same
Embrace
the catatonic
schizophrenic sat,
face focused to nothing
no intrigue
no curiosity
no feeling
arms left as they were placed
and bedsores from his sleep
visible at his collar's edge
the attendant's back was turned
when quietly he rose
this bear, rousing from slumber,
wrapped his fingers ‘round
the man's face. hand and head
snapped back to his chest,
and his kiss caressed
before they fled to the window
and out, together
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
I'll confess this bit is very poorly written and the point is blurred. The message is love and marriage are no longer sacred. Now we live in a day where we rush to fulfill our sexual desires and this rush is turning women and girls into-sluts. Not all of them, but the fact is a majority of teenage girls and young women are wandering around in less clothes than a whore in Amsterdam. They fail to realize that the first thought to come into guy's head (not all guys) is not 'Wow! She's beautiful'-instead the thought is 'She's hot-I'd like to bang her'. This new dress and sexual freedom is widely accepted and pushed down our throats by Hollywood. The worst is that I see pre-teen girls running around listening to sex-filled songs like "Candy Shop" and imitating girls on MTV without realizing the image that they're conveying and the message their sending. This little 'poem-rap-whatever' is a wake-up call to those girls. They need to know that they are becoming like Babylon (allusion to the mother of prostitutes-see the book of Revelations in the New Testament of the Christian Bible).
*Warning* The following text contains use of crude language and allusion to sex acts. Do not read on if that offends you.
"Babylon(s)"
Sparkling high heels,
approach and grope-now I feel,
there is no reason for you to kneel,
must you still bow your head?
the moment is dead,
now get off of my bed,
you come and go,
and we all know,
you're now no more then a fucking ho,
put your clothes back on,
slip your jeans back over your thong,
it's time for you to be gone,
don't give me that look-understand,
your choices are fucking over this land,
you're a Babylon and you're fucking damned.
Awake and face the light,
there is no grey only black and white,
you can't justify your actions last night,
your charms have been tasted,
so now they're wasted,
this is reality-face it,
your sex sells is selling your soul,
now it's nothing but empty hole,
hungering once again to be full,
of love-but all you exhume is lust,
compliments to that curvy ass and lovely bust,
puriy has died and so has all that is just,
as Babylons make Babylons and all believe the lie,
never realizing why,
man after man leaves you-'til you don't even cry.
*Warning* The following text contains use of crude language and allusion to sex acts. Do not read on if that offends you.
"Babylon(s)"
Sparkling high heels,
approach and grope-now I feel,
there is no reason for you to kneel,
must you still bow your head?
the moment is dead,
now get off of my bed,
you come and go,
and we all know,
you're now no more then a fucking ho,
put your clothes back on,
slip your jeans back over your thong,
it's time for you to be gone,
don't give me that look-understand,
your choices are fucking over this land,
you're a Babylon and you're fucking damned.
Awake and face the light,
there is no grey only black and white,
you can't justify your actions last night,
your charms have been tasted,
so now they're wasted,
this is reality-face it,
your sex sells is selling your soul,
now it's nothing but empty hole,
hungering once again to be full,
of love-but all you exhume is lust,
compliments to that curvy ass and lovely bust,
puriy has died and so has all that is just,
as Babylons make Babylons and all believe the lie,
never realizing why,
man after man leaves you-'til you don't even cry.
-
Silvone Elestahr
- Developer
- Posts: 183
- Joined: Mon Oct 06, 2003 11:10 pm
- Location: Pelagiad
- Contact:
The Final Battle ire Tendurin
{Something I am writing on the side, nothing to do with my main books. Though I am having fun writing it! I am trying to make a poem out of this first part, all the way to the line. Whats in blue has been done by R.E.E. (wishes to be unknown...). Let me know what you think of it.}
Prologue
The Final Battle
The sky was blue and deadly still;
The sun was casting shadows east.
Though still the sky, the ground had quaked
with the pounding of two hundred
thousand, and a half hundred thousand
more.
Behind them lay the dwarven homes,
ahead, four hundred thousand orcs.
Aside them lay the salty seas,
And all around was hate and fear.
At this field, there would be no
retreat.
Screams of glory and victory
rang all around the battle field
the soldiers quivered in their boots
anxious for the fight to begin.
Induced by their hope-filled hearts, they
charged.
steel clashed steel and ranks were broken
The dwarven formation was lost.
Red and purple blood spilled upon
the battle field of gold and gray
The armies slowed as midpoint was
reached.
R.E.E.
The sun was over the field, in the middle of its path and beginning its long descent into darkness. There were no clouds in the sky, nor was there any wind in the air. The air was completely still except for the slow descent of the sun. But the ground was swarming with movement.
The entire dwarven army was in the field, standing straight in the face of 400,000 orcs. The dwarven army consisted of 250,000 soldiers. It was just barely enough. The two armies stood in the middle of the field, shouting distance apart. The mountains to the north held the orc's home. To the south were the dwarven cities. East and west lay the only two oceans on the world. Each army was protecting its home, and fighting for the enemies’. This would be the last battle. There would be no retreat; they would fight to the death. The armies continued to stare, waiting for the other to make the first move. When nothing happened, they decided to attack. They rushed forward at the same moment, and in seconds they clashed steel. The dwarves cut through the first ranks of the orcs, but the orcs soon regained their composure. They rushed through the dwarven ranks and fought to create large gaps in their formations. But the dwarves pushed on. Soon the field was a huge mass of gold and grey armor, silver and black weapons, red and purple blood.
The dwarves had reached the middle of the orc army and the orcs had reached the same point in the dwarven army. Bodies blocked the path of the living warriors who fought to reach their opponents before they killed their companions. The movement slowed down.
Soon there were two separate masses: one on the east side of the field and one on the west. The two interlocked armies had split down the center and moved away from each other. The fighting slowed down as the ground began to rumble. They all looked to the north. Dust began to rise in the air. The dwarves could see the looming shapes of the orcs war animals, the kiver. Within seconds the kiver had reached the battle. The dwarves looked back to the south in hope.
The ending looked gloom for the dwarves, but there was still hope. The ground began to burst open, and golden shapes came up from the holes. The dwarven reinforcements had come. From the air came two stalvans, with the dwarven king on one and his warlord on the other. They swept through the air, wiping out any large groups of isolated orcs with the stalvans magma spit. Soon, though, there wasn't enough for the stalvans to spit at without damaging the dwarves. The stalvans landed and let their riders down. The war continued.
The stalvans fought the kiver and their riders, the dwarves fought the orcs. In the end the dwarven king had died, his sword impaling the orc king in his torso, but with the orc kings sword digging into his own heart. They died, and remained, in a standing position, and no one dared to knock them over. The dwarven warlord had gotten back on to his stalvan and was finishing off the last of the kiver and orcs. The dwarves were fiercely fighting the remaining orcs. It was down to a few hundred dwarves to a few hundred orcs.
The sun reached the horizon. The dwarven warlord jumped off of his stalvan and walked up to the two dead figures. The sun was in between the two swords, one in the orcs stomach, the other in the dwarve’s chest. They stood there in the suns last light, gleaming in their blood stained armor. The warlord dropped his sword. He looked around at the feet of the two kings. Behind the orc king were his loyal guards who fought to protect him from the oncoming dwarves. The same thing could be seen behind the dwarven king. He looked at the remaining dwarves. There were 212 dwarves, a stalvan, and a warlord. They marched towards the mountains.
____________________________________________________________________
Tendurin is old. Its foundations were placed in the last light of our dying star. Tendst’s light is forever gone, but for some reason its warmth still lingers. Some believe that the warmth comes from the two statues in the center of the city. They are the remains of the last kings to ever walk in the light of Tendst; their life ended in Tendst’s last moments. The dwarven and orc king died locked together, each with their sword in the torso of the other. They died standing, and they remained standing through all these long years. A mage had cast a spell that turned the two locked figures to stone. The main cause for the belief that they are the source of the last heat on the planet is the two stone figures seem warm to the touch, and the area surrounding them is never as cold as the rest of the giant city. It is almost as if Tendst still lives inside of the stone kings. But even that warmth is fading.
Iethil, the last Elder, kneels before the statues. The other two Elders died of hunger or from the harsh conditions of living in this cursed city. He has somehow survived, although he won’t talk or eat, and he never leaves his spot at the foot of the statues. Since the only thing on Iethil’s mind is praying for warmth, the military has been forced to take control of the city, that which needs it anyway. Most of the city is now empty, except for the very center, inside and close by the temple. The temple was erected over the two kings, and is now the only place with any warmth. We measure the fading of the warmth by how much closer Iethil seems to be to the statues every day. The temple is filled with the last of the city’s inhabitants. The military has been staying in the surrounding buildings, always as close as they can get. Not even the body warmth of trapped dwarves inside of a crowded temple could be felt.
Tendurin was built immediately after the last war. Tendst would not rise, and Teidul, the elder of the Tribunal of moons, knew that it would not return. The Elders agreed on the construction of Tendurin. The insulating, boxing walls of the city were completed in a year. During the end of construction, and even for a few months after, the only way the dwarves could stay warm was to work. It had reached winter, and a winter without a sun is cold indeed. After the walls, the dwarves started building houses for the population. Life went on from there. The dwarves built what they needed. After nearly a decade the city was filled from wall to wall. There were farms for food production and the raising of livestock. There were markets at each corner of the city, and smaller stores spread throughout. The dwarven population had reached its prime; there were no longer any orcs to worry about, no natural disasters so far (other than the disappearance of Tendst), and no internal strife. But this Golden Age did not last long. After a few thousand years the animals died off from a strange disease. It had appeared without warning. Soon after that the ground refused to grow more crops. Famine was widespread, even among the rich. The population had slowly dwindled down to what it is now: only a few families, and of those, no surviving children.
[Piece missing here. I will add it later, when I have access to it.]
Chapter 1:
Stones of Tendurin
[note: this is not exactly how the story will begin, I don’t think. This is basically just a rough draft, a starting point.]
“How is he doing?†I walked up the steps of the temple to stand by Seithil, the commander of the remnants of our military. He looked at me, but only shook his head. I sighed. “I found a group of frozen dwarves outside the walls of the Temple compound. They looked as if they were trying to make their way here.†Seithil did not respond, but I could see the pained look in his eyes. “There was a trail of their dead,†I pressed on, “but I was not properly clothed to make the journey, nor do I have the supplies to sustain myself. It is possible that at its source could be a pocket of survivors.†Seithil looked at me. “I will not risk the lives of more soldiers, nor will I sacrifice the supplies for you to go yourself. Chances are they are already dead. Perhaps there were no supplies left, and that why they left†said Seithil. I turned away, anger building up inside of me. Though I could not argue with him. We could not afford such an expedition. I was about to walk away when Seithil spoke again.
“I will lend you a portion of my own supplies,†he said quietly. “You have done a lot to help the survivors, certainly more than my own military has. I trust you will find something to help us.†Before I could object to his sacrifice, Seithil walked off. I stood there for a few moments in astonishment. Seithel had never shown any recognition toward my efforts to locate supplies outside of the Temple compound. No one ever had. This unexpected support strengthened my resolve, and the excitement helped to warm my body.
* * *
I walked up to the doors of the temple, carved in memory of great events in ages past, though those memories remained now only in the doors. I stared at the giant doors, wondering what ancient story they hinted at. There were carvings of kings and wars and representations of the God’s themselves, all arranged in segments, as if the doors themselves were a giant book of the past, readable by anyone who was learned in ancient lore; cryptic to those who were ignorant of the great stories. One could study the doors and conjure their own version of the story, but they would likely never be accurate to the real account. At least, if they were they would never know. The doors swung open effortlessly as I pushed against the enclave in the center. Inside was a grand hall, lit by large candles and chandeliers, filled with beautiful statues and fountains dedicated to those now forgotten by the dwarves. The Gods were all forgotten, or ignored, save one: the last dwarven king of Stadis, the only figure who brought hope to the surviving dwarves. Yet that hope was quickly fading.
The hall was filled with huddled dwarves, covered in blankets and warm clothes. There were large tables nearby, filled with empty dishes, dry and broken. The dwarves no longer used the tables to eat their food, not wanting to lose their spots near the statue, the petrified figure of their king. Bedrolls covered the floor, surrounded by trash and other loose items. I searched the room for Seithil, but it seemed he was off gathering supplies. I walked further into the damp room, looking for a spot to sit and wait. I never seemed to be quite as cold as everyone else, so I had long ago given up my blankets and heavier clothes. I found a spot near the cold edge of the wall, though it gave me a clear view of our elder, Iethil, kneeling before the petrified kings. The elder looked as if he was praying to the kings, praying for warmth and a future. For some reason, that sight felt wrong. I had an urge to grab the elder and pull him away and scold him. I unknowingly grabbed the fire-stone amulet around my neck. It was warm to the touch.
Prologue
The Final Battle
The sky was blue and deadly still;
The sun was casting shadows east.
Though still the sky, the ground had quaked
with the pounding of two hundred
thousand, and a half hundred thousand
more.
Behind them lay the dwarven homes,
ahead, four hundred thousand orcs.
Aside them lay the salty seas,
And all around was hate and fear.
At this field, there would be no
retreat.
Screams of glory and victory
rang all around the battle field
the soldiers quivered in their boots
anxious for the fight to begin.
Induced by their hope-filled hearts, they
charged.
steel clashed steel and ranks were broken
The dwarven formation was lost.
Red and purple blood spilled upon
the battle field of gold and gray
The armies slowed as midpoint was
reached.
R.E.E.
The sun was over the field, in the middle of its path and beginning its long descent into darkness. There were no clouds in the sky, nor was there any wind in the air. The air was completely still except for the slow descent of the sun. But the ground was swarming with movement.
The entire dwarven army was in the field, standing straight in the face of 400,000 orcs. The dwarven army consisted of 250,000 soldiers. It was just barely enough. The two armies stood in the middle of the field, shouting distance apart. The mountains to the north held the orc's home. To the south were the dwarven cities. East and west lay the only two oceans on the world. Each army was protecting its home, and fighting for the enemies’. This would be the last battle. There would be no retreat; they would fight to the death. The armies continued to stare, waiting for the other to make the first move. When nothing happened, they decided to attack. They rushed forward at the same moment, and in seconds they clashed steel. The dwarves cut through the first ranks of the orcs, but the orcs soon regained their composure. They rushed through the dwarven ranks and fought to create large gaps in their formations. But the dwarves pushed on. Soon the field was a huge mass of gold and grey armor, silver and black weapons, red and purple blood.
The dwarves had reached the middle of the orc army and the orcs had reached the same point in the dwarven army. Bodies blocked the path of the living warriors who fought to reach their opponents before they killed their companions. The movement slowed down.
Soon there were two separate masses: one on the east side of the field and one on the west. The two interlocked armies had split down the center and moved away from each other. The fighting slowed down as the ground began to rumble. They all looked to the north. Dust began to rise in the air. The dwarves could see the looming shapes of the orcs war animals, the kiver. Within seconds the kiver had reached the battle. The dwarves looked back to the south in hope.
The ending looked gloom for the dwarves, but there was still hope. The ground began to burst open, and golden shapes came up from the holes. The dwarven reinforcements had come. From the air came two stalvans, with the dwarven king on one and his warlord on the other. They swept through the air, wiping out any large groups of isolated orcs with the stalvans magma spit. Soon, though, there wasn't enough for the stalvans to spit at without damaging the dwarves. The stalvans landed and let their riders down. The war continued.
The stalvans fought the kiver and their riders, the dwarves fought the orcs. In the end the dwarven king had died, his sword impaling the orc king in his torso, but with the orc kings sword digging into his own heart. They died, and remained, in a standing position, and no one dared to knock them over. The dwarven warlord had gotten back on to his stalvan and was finishing off the last of the kiver and orcs. The dwarves were fiercely fighting the remaining orcs. It was down to a few hundred dwarves to a few hundred orcs.
The sun reached the horizon. The dwarven warlord jumped off of his stalvan and walked up to the two dead figures. The sun was in between the two swords, one in the orcs stomach, the other in the dwarve’s chest. They stood there in the suns last light, gleaming in their blood stained armor. The warlord dropped his sword. He looked around at the feet of the two kings. Behind the orc king were his loyal guards who fought to protect him from the oncoming dwarves. The same thing could be seen behind the dwarven king. He looked at the remaining dwarves. There were 212 dwarves, a stalvan, and a warlord. They marched towards the mountains.
____________________________________________________________________
Tendurin is old. Its foundations were placed in the last light of our dying star. Tendst’s light is forever gone, but for some reason its warmth still lingers. Some believe that the warmth comes from the two statues in the center of the city. They are the remains of the last kings to ever walk in the light of Tendst; their life ended in Tendst’s last moments. The dwarven and orc king died locked together, each with their sword in the torso of the other. They died standing, and they remained standing through all these long years. A mage had cast a spell that turned the two locked figures to stone. The main cause for the belief that they are the source of the last heat on the planet is the two stone figures seem warm to the touch, and the area surrounding them is never as cold as the rest of the giant city. It is almost as if Tendst still lives inside of the stone kings. But even that warmth is fading.
Iethil, the last Elder, kneels before the statues. The other two Elders died of hunger or from the harsh conditions of living in this cursed city. He has somehow survived, although he won’t talk or eat, and he never leaves his spot at the foot of the statues. Since the only thing on Iethil’s mind is praying for warmth, the military has been forced to take control of the city, that which needs it anyway. Most of the city is now empty, except for the very center, inside and close by the temple. The temple was erected over the two kings, and is now the only place with any warmth. We measure the fading of the warmth by how much closer Iethil seems to be to the statues every day. The temple is filled with the last of the city’s inhabitants. The military has been staying in the surrounding buildings, always as close as they can get. Not even the body warmth of trapped dwarves inside of a crowded temple could be felt.
Tendurin was built immediately after the last war. Tendst would not rise, and Teidul, the elder of the Tribunal of moons, knew that it would not return. The Elders agreed on the construction of Tendurin. The insulating, boxing walls of the city were completed in a year. During the end of construction, and even for a few months after, the only way the dwarves could stay warm was to work. It had reached winter, and a winter without a sun is cold indeed. After the walls, the dwarves started building houses for the population. Life went on from there. The dwarves built what they needed. After nearly a decade the city was filled from wall to wall. There were farms for food production and the raising of livestock. There were markets at each corner of the city, and smaller stores spread throughout. The dwarven population had reached its prime; there were no longer any orcs to worry about, no natural disasters so far (other than the disappearance of Tendst), and no internal strife. But this Golden Age did not last long. After a few thousand years the animals died off from a strange disease. It had appeared without warning. Soon after that the ground refused to grow more crops. Famine was widespread, even among the rich. The population had slowly dwindled down to what it is now: only a few families, and of those, no surviving children.
[Piece missing here. I will add it later, when I have access to it.]
Chapter 1:
Stones of Tendurin
[note: this is not exactly how the story will begin, I don’t think. This is basically just a rough draft, a starting point.]
“How is he doing?†I walked up the steps of the temple to stand by Seithil, the commander of the remnants of our military. He looked at me, but only shook his head. I sighed. “I found a group of frozen dwarves outside the walls of the Temple compound. They looked as if they were trying to make their way here.†Seithil did not respond, but I could see the pained look in his eyes. “There was a trail of their dead,†I pressed on, “but I was not properly clothed to make the journey, nor do I have the supplies to sustain myself. It is possible that at its source could be a pocket of survivors.†Seithil looked at me. “I will not risk the lives of more soldiers, nor will I sacrifice the supplies for you to go yourself. Chances are they are already dead. Perhaps there were no supplies left, and that why they left†said Seithil. I turned away, anger building up inside of me. Though I could not argue with him. We could not afford such an expedition. I was about to walk away when Seithil spoke again.
“I will lend you a portion of my own supplies,†he said quietly. “You have done a lot to help the survivors, certainly more than my own military has. I trust you will find something to help us.†Before I could object to his sacrifice, Seithil walked off. I stood there for a few moments in astonishment. Seithel had never shown any recognition toward my efforts to locate supplies outside of the Temple compound. No one ever had. This unexpected support strengthened my resolve, and the excitement helped to warm my body.
* * *
I walked up to the doors of the temple, carved in memory of great events in ages past, though those memories remained now only in the doors. I stared at the giant doors, wondering what ancient story they hinted at. There were carvings of kings and wars and representations of the God’s themselves, all arranged in segments, as if the doors themselves were a giant book of the past, readable by anyone who was learned in ancient lore; cryptic to those who were ignorant of the great stories. One could study the doors and conjure their own version of the story, but they would likely never be accurate to the real account. At least, if they were they would never know. The doors swung open effortlessly as I pushed against the enclave in the center. Inside was a grand hall, lit by large candles and chandeliers, filled with beautiful statues and fountains dedicated to those now forgotten by the dwarves. The Gods were all forgotten, or ignored, save one: the last dwarven king of Stadis, the only figure who brought hope to the surviving dwarves. Yet that hope was quickly fading.
The hall was filled with huddled dwarves, covered in blankets and warm clothes. There were large tables nearby, filled with empty dishes, dry and broken. The dwarves no longer used the tables to eat their food, not wanting to lose their spots near the statue, the petrified figure of their king. Bedrolls covered the floor, surrounded by trash and other loose items. I searched the room for Seithil, but it seemed he was off gathering supplies. I walked further into the damp room, looking for a spot to sit and wait. I never seemed to be quite as cold as everyone else, so I had long ago given up my blankets and heavier clothes. I found a spot near the cold edge of the wall, though it gave me a clear view of our elder, Iethil, kneeling before the petrified kings. The elder looked as if he was praying to the kings, praying for warmth and a future. For some reason, that sight felt wrong. I had an urge to grab the elder and pull him away and scold him. I unknowingly grabbed the fire-stone amulet around my neck. It was warm to the touch.
37: Rejoice as TeeAr rebuilds these lands that have been ravaged by war and famine. May those who STand in his way be smited by his many hands in an unrelenting torment.
-Noirgrim
-Noirgrim
-
Anonymous
you heard of Halo2? This is a fan fiction I made
Grunty was a Gunner Grunt, he ran the gun on a Shadow. His Shadow was caring right now- two Hunters, four Elites, six Jackals and a handful of Grunts, of course there was the normal crew of him and an Elite driver. An Elite voice came on over the Radio; it was the Elite driver "Hey Grunt you ready? Were entering a danger zone, it is rumored the demon is hear, so be careful with that gun".
Grunty pressed a button which normally turn on a screen so he could see outside but the screen filled with static "Oh no!" Thought Grunty "the screen is broken and I can't see!" Grunty then hear gunshots and the Shadow came to a stop, Grunty heard a hiss which meant the doors were opening to let the passengers out, Grunty heard some plasma shots and a Grunt scream "Demon" Grunty the heard human gunshots followed by a tink, tink, tink, noise "A human grenade" thought Grunty, then came the Blast, Grunty hear screams of Grunts and Elites, His Control screen blinked and went dead.
Grunty then heard the Elite driver "Grunt you there? Hello? Grunt?" Grunty started to say something when he hear a door open on the Radio and the driver say something about demon, then Grunty heard gunshots and a fall, then he hear something in a human tongue "There is still a Grunt Gunner to take care of on the Shadow" After a moment translating Grunty learned the demon was after him. Grunty looked around for an escape when he hear a hiss at the door "the demon" he thought. Grunty jumped under a control panel, when the Demon came in, the Demons metal feet reminded Grunty of Hunters "If this thing can kill Hunters it can kill me" Thought Grunty.
The Demon walked around the room a bit and left, Grunty waited till he heard the Demon leave the ship before Grunty came out. As fast as he could Grunty ran for the control room, there he saw the Elite Driver, it was alive but knocked out and bleeding. Grunty jumped into the control seat and started the ship the screens had just come on and Grunty saw the Demon in front of the ship, the demon jumped back and throw 3 of Grunty own grenades at the ship, they stuck and Exploded, destroying the ship, Grunty survived though, he checked the Elite and found the Elite was also alive, Grunty dragged the elite through the destroyed ship to the door where Grunty found a med Kit which he used on the Elite, Grunty also found a Ghost which he boarded and brought the Elite....
After some driveling in the Ghost the Grunt came upon a human flying Ship, "a Penguin or something" said Grunty. Grunty went on the ship and found it in working order, the reason for the crash was plasma wounds in the pilots heads, Grunty throw the human bodies out of the ship and got into the ships pilots seat, he put the Elite in the Co-pilots seat, the Elite stirs a little. Grunty starts push buttons when after pushing up on a lever the whole ship moves up and forward, Grunty tries to slow the ship down because the speed is way to fast, Grunty slams down on a big red button and the left wing explodes! The Ship starts to spin. The Elite wakes up and screams "What in the name of the Rings, is happening!" Grunty screams "I am trying to land, help me press buttons!" The Elite and Grunty press buttons when the Elite presses a green button the ship goes straight up, for the prophet of Regrets Ship! Grunty flips a bunch of switches and the whole ship moves faster and rams the bottom head on, breaking through the shield, through the hull and through three levels ending up in the Prophets room itself, luckily no one is there, The two climb out when a dozen Hunters, Brutes and Elites burst through the door....
After a long talk the two are aloud to see the Prophet, as they enter the Prophet comes toward and says "I know your story, you must return to battle but as reward you may fight at the Grav lift"
After walking to the Grav lift the two go down to fight on the alien world (Earth). Grunty just got into a gunner seat when the grav lift shuts down and the ship starts to move "Wait!" screamed Grunty "You forgot me!" Then the ship started to jump "Oh no!" though Grunty "EVERTBODY TAKE COVER!!!" Grunty screamed and Grunty hit the ground, he looked up and saw a human ship go through the hole in space, and the hole closed. Grunty closed his eyes as the explosion ran over his body.
Grunty was a Gunner Grunt, he ran the gun on a Shadow. His Shadow was caring right now- two Hunters, four Elites, six Jackals and a handful of Grunts, of course there was the normal crew of him and an Elite driver. An Elite voice came on over the Radio; it was the Elite driver "Hey Grunt you ready? Were entering a danger zone, it is rumored the demon is hear, so be careful with that gun".
Grunty pressed a button which normally turn on a screen so he could see outside but the screen filled with static "Oh no!" Thought Grunty "the screen is broken and I can't see!" Grunty then hear gunshots and the Shadow came to a stop, Grunty heard a hiss which meant the doors were opening to let the passengers out, Grunty heard some plasma shots and a Grunt scream "Demon" Grunty the heard human gunshots followed by a tink, tink, tink, noise "A human grenade" thought Grunty, then came the Blast, Grunty hear screams of Grunts and Elites, His Control screen blinked and went dead.
Grunty then heard the Elite driver "Grunt you there? Hello? Grunt?" Grunty started to say something when he hear a door open on the Radio and the driver say something about demon, then Grunty heard gunshots and a fall, then he hear something in a human tongue "There is still a Grunt Gunner to take care of on the Shadow" After a moment translating Grunty learned the demon was after him. Grunty looked around for an escape when he hear a hiss at the door "the demon" he thought. Grunty jumped under a control panel, when the Demon came in, the Demons metal feet reminded Grunty of Hunters "If this thing can kill Hunters it can kill me" Thought Grunty.
The Demon walked around the room a bit and left, Grunty waited till he heard the Demon leave the ship before Grunty came out. As fast as he could Grunty ran for the control room, there he saw the Elite Driver, it was alive but knocked out and bleeding. Grunty jumped into the control seat and started the ship the screens had just come on and Grunty saw the Demon in front of the ship, the demon jumped back and throw 3 of Grunty own grenades at the ship, they stuck and Exploded, destroying the ship, Grunty survived though, he checked the Elite and found the Elite was also alive, Grunty dragged the elite through the destroyed ship to the door where Grunty found a med Kit which he used on the Elite, Grunty also found a Ghost which he boarded and brought the Elite....
After some driveling in the Ghost the Grunt came upon a human flying Ship, "a Penguin or something" said Grunty. Grunty went on the ship and found it in working order, the reason for the crash was plasma wounds in the pilots heads, Grunty throw the human bodies out of the ship and got into the ships pilots seat, he put the Elite in the Co-pilots seat, the Elite stirs a little. Grunty starts push buttons when after pushing up on a lever the whole ship moves up and forward, Grunty tries to slow the ship down because the speed is way to fast, Grunty slams down on a big red button and the left wing explodes! The Ship starts to spin. The Elite wakes up and screams "What in the name of the Rings, is happening!" Grunty screams "I am trying to land, help me press buttons!" The Elite and Grunty press buttons when the Elite presses a green button the ship goes straight up, for the prophet of Regrets Ship! Grunty flips a bunch of switches and the whole ship moves faster and rams the bottom head on, breaking through the shield, through the hull and through three levels ending up in the Prophets room itself, luckily no one is there, The two climb out when a dozen Hunters, Brutes and Elites burst through the door....
After a long talk the two are aloud to see the Prophet, as they enter the Prophet comes toward and says "I know your story, you must return to battle but as reward you may fight at the Grav lift"
After walking to the Grav lift the two go down to fight on the alien world (Earth). Grunty just got into a gunner seat when the grav lift shuts down and the ship starts to move "Wait!" screamed Grunty "You forgot me!" Then the ship started to jump "Oh no!" though Grunty "EVERTBODY TAKE COVER!!!" Grunty screamed and Grunty hit the ground, he looked up and saw a human ship go through the hole in space, and the hole closed. Grunty closed his eyes as the explosion ran over his body.
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Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
this story i made days ago it is up to you the reader to interpret as you will
His wandering soul was like a void swallowing all those around him in his grief. it was at this time he consumed a small orb of light. then the light broke fourth from him. the light consumed itself around him. the light released all those trapped inside but it also tore the grief that was him. his true nature shown fourth one of laughter and tears. exhausted by this she, the light, fell to the ground dying. he bent down over her and said, "Thhe end of life is the begining of truth, it is not time for you to know." then he reached out his hand and pulled her up. she was instantly revived in his grasp. they hugged and she replied, "Long hav i waited for the one to help me but I had to help him to help me." with that they clasped hands an entered an open door that misteriously had appeared behind them. as they entered the truth was revealed...
That door is still open to this day somewere in this world.
His wandering soul was like a void swallowing all those around him in his grief. it was at this time he consumed a small orb of light. then the light broke fourth from him. the light consumed itself around him. the light released all those trapped inside but it also tore the grief that was him. his true nature shown fourth one of laughter and tears. exhausted by this she, the light, fell to the ground dying. he bent down over her and said, "Thhe end of life is the begining of truth, it is not time for you to know." then he reached out his hand and pulled her up. she was instantly revived in his grasp. they hugged and she replied, "Long hav i waited for the one to help me but I had to help him to help me." with that they clasped hands an entered an open door that misteriously had appeared behind them. as they entered the truth was revealed...
That door is still open to this day somewere in this world.
Time to bump this thread -- with a poem!
Music
Barely a carnival,
we played our harmonicas roadside
like the rising tide, pulled moon-ward –
blue bottles of Bombay Sapphire inspire
wilder musical gymnastics, fingers
possessed by Devil or Divine.
We stole violins and contrabassoons
in illicit midnight music shop raids,
we gave saxophones to empty-mouthed beggars
and cymbals to lost boys wandering nighttime canals.
Their notes unfastened the stitches from street-signs,
and they unraveled into yarns on the sidewalk –
traffic lights blazed helplessly, their green and red
shards floating to the paved ground as confetti.
Slowly, we gathered in an asylum's cemetery;
flutists perched on holy church parapets,
percussionists settled around white marble obelisks,
and trumpeters promised hallowed graves
with melodies of midwinter from beneath indolent willow branches.
The bark was curled and cringed.
The Architects of old hadn't foreseen this makeshift circus,
not here. Those gothic towers tottered
and foundations bellied like upset stomachs;
they loosed themselves and their dead.
As the chapel stood for the first time
in many years – its catacombs rising
through crumbling dirt and bodies – the creatures it attended rose
cautiously, checking their knees for cracks
before sitting to listen.
Some listened with mouths drawn back in dying horror,
some with necks agape, the rusty brown
worn like a talisman, and some with peaceful eyelids
rotted away. Their heartbeats
did not quicken with staccato
or ease with legato, their alabaster eyes
refused to wet, even for melancholy movements,
and they hardly knew when it was appropriate to clap.
Music
Barely a carnival,
we played our harmonicas roadside
like the rising tide, pulled moon-ward –
blue bottles of Bombay Sapphire inspire
wilder musical gymnastics, fingers
possessed by Devil or Divine.
We stole violins and contrabassoons
in illicit midnight music shop raids,
we gave saxophones to empty-mouthed beggars
and cymbals to lost boys wandering nighttime canals.
Their notes unfastened the stitches from street-signs,
and they unraveled into yarns on the sidewalk –
traffic lights blazed helplessly, their green and red
shards floating to the paved ground as confetti.
Slowly, we gathered in an asylum's cemetery;
flutists perched on holy church parapets,
percussionists settled around white marble obelisks,
and trumpeters promised hallowed graves
with melodies of midwinter from beneath indolent willow branches.
The bark was curled and cringed.
The Architects of old hadn't foreseen this makeshift circus,
not here. Those gothic towers tottered
and foundations bellied like upset stomachs;
they loosed themselves and their dead.
As the chapel stood for the first time
in many years – its catacombs rising
through crumbling dirt and bodies – the creatures it attended rose
cautiously, checking their knees for cracks
before sitting to listen.
Some listened with mouths drawn back in dying horror,
some with necks agape, the rusty brown
worn like a talisman, and some with peaceful eyelids
rotted away. Their heartbeats
did not quicken with staccato
or ease with legato, their alabaster eyes
refused to wet, even for melancholy movements,
and they hardly knew when it was appropriate to clap.
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
Menagerie
a dug-up field of seeds
lines the road, toes up,
lost amid the dirt and grime and filth
shoveled aside.
they were looking for landmines
nothing unique about this
clockwork and blissful menagerie
with measured orchards and
smokey funeral pyres
which stretched like charcoal mascara
veins towards the heavens
it could have been Ilium
or the Potomac's banks of 1812
that served as source
for an autumnal red sky
breath like a rasp from feverish lungs
or wind long lost in misty hollows,
a parting voice receives no reply.
we've seen it all before, but of course
we've prayed the same white lies again.
cookie-cutter graveyards neighbor
equally disturbing and bleached suburbs,
and men sculpt their lawns
while women sculpt their breasts –
it's easier that way
necrophageous war, spawn of the dawn
of man and unwedded mother (human) nature,
promised peace and absolution –
that slick perverted creature –
but wrought only disillusion.
now raw lips mouth a word: "begone"
a dug-up field of seeds
lines the road, toes up,
lost amid the dirt and grime and filth
shoveled aside.
they were looking for landmines
nothing unique about this
clockwork and blissful menagerie
with measured orchards and
smokey funeral pyres
which stretched like charcoal mascara
veins towards the heavens
it could have been Ilium
or the Potomac's banks of 1812
that served as source
for an autumnal red sky
breath like a rasp from feverish lungs
or wind long lost in misty hollows,
a parting voice receives no reply.
we've seen it all before, but of course
we've prayed the same white lies again.
cookie-cutter graveyards neighbor
equally disturbing and bleached suburbs,
and men sculpt their lawns
while women sculpt their breasts –
it's easier that way
necrophageous war, spawn of the dawn
of man and unwedded mother (human) nature,
promised peace and absolution –
that slick perverted creature –
but wrought only disillusion.
now raw lips mouth a word: "begone"
Only the prospect of death makes life worth living.
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
The Furiously Scribbled Note
How dose it right to live like a god, Having those under you do your will, make your food, clean you clothes, carry your bags? need I go on. Thou you are the king of this land, you do nothing for youself. If you are priked others bleed for you, if it is wished others will die for you.
Well I say no! i will not be a servent to a world who treats me like a slave. If you want the province nay the world to bow before you, you must bow before them. until that time i shall no longer serve as you loyal warrior
How dose it right to live like a god, Having those under you do your will, make your food, clean you clothes, carry your bags? need I go on. Thou you are the king of this land, you do nothing for youself. If you are priked others bleed for you, if it is wished others will die for you.
Well I say no! i will not be a servent to a world who treats me like a slave. If you want the province nay the world to bow before you, you must bow before them. until that time i shall no longer serve as you loyal warrior
Quotidian Modding Hologram
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
-
Silvone Elestahr
- Developer
- Posts: 183
- Joined: Mon Oct 06, 2003 11:10 pm
- Location: Pelagiad
- Contact:
This is an essay I wrote in high school. It was a creative writing essay thingy, about yourself or someone else's life. I chose to do it about myself. Here is the result.
I retitled this essay to "Frustration and Desperation" based on a comment I received by my teacher on this essay and a letter I wrote to my mother once. The original title is below. I am sorry for the language near the end of it. If it is unnaceptable, I will take it out:
Life In The Eyes of A Norjick
Silvone Elestahr walks from class to class, ignoring most people, acknowledging few others. He walks past Scott in the morning on the way to his first class.
"Good morning, g0D." Scott bows as he walks past. A smile escapes Silvone's lips as he replies to his "warlord".
"Good morning, Dagon." Silvone forces himself to get through the first class of the day, R.O.T.C. He used to like it, but three years with the same idiots, who repeat the same mistakes year after year, tends to get on his nerves. Now it's all he can do not to lash out at the idiots he's stuck with every morning. As the bell rings, he rushes out to get to his next class. As he's walking he tries to catch sight of Ryona, just to see her. He finds her intriguing. He doesn't know what it is about her, but he feels...attracted to her. He shrugs it off as blasphemy; g0D cannot love. It is just not...him. She's taken anyways.
Silvone glances at Ryona every once in a while during his next period. When he is not risking a glance at her, he is in his other world: his world of wonders. He is speaking his own language to people of his own creation. He is building his own cities on his own world. He loves it there. If he could make things go his way, he would never leave. "Emris nordevi ny jaeick amrin?" He glances at Ryona again, and then quickly looks away before she can catch him. The bell rings, and its off to the next class.
As Silvone walks home he is back into his own little world. He walks deep in thought. As he reaches the stoplight he quickly glances around. He knows Luis is there somewhere, wanting to walk home with him. Wanting to...talk. But Silvone does not talk. He picks up speed.
Just as he thinks he is safe: "Josh! Hey, Josh!" Silvone ignores him. "Josh!" He keeps walking. Soon the calls subside. Silvone is back in his world, without interruptions. He thinks of how nice it would be to live as a Norjick. No religion, no government..."Josh!" No Luis. Silvone turns to glance at Luis, and sees him waving his arms in the air in some sort of gangster signal. He turns and keeps walking, shaking his head at the guy's stupidity.
As Silvone walks through the door into his house he is greeted by screaming parents.
"You forgot to take the fucking trash out! I would understand if it was once every fucking three months, but every fucking week? I don't understand. What the fuck is your problem? How many times do I have to fucking tell you? It's not that hard to remember! Only once a fucking week!" Silvone takes it in silence, though his fists clench and his blood heats to a boiling point. He had worked his ass off all weekend. One small error erases it all. Now Eric would search and search for something else to yell at him about. As he sits in his room, waiting for the next round of lectures and yelling, he thinks about his world, and he writes down the day's thoughts. Then he types them up. He loves typing. Thinking the thoughts is only part of the fun. But getting them onto something, there's the real work. he decides not to do his homework that night. There's just too much on his mind to get out. His parents are fighting too loud anyway.
"Your son is a worthless fuck! How many times do we have to remind him to get the damn trash out?"
"It's not his fault! He has a lot on his mind."
Yeah, that's right. Silvone has a lot on his mind. Just nothing that is supposed to be there. There's nothing about homework or chores or the human world in there; nothing but fantasies, and impossible futures. Silvone would do anything to escape this world, escape his parents. Sometimes he thinks he would kill to get away. Silvone turns off his light and climbs into bed, still thinking. His last thoughts before he turns in were: "I'm gonna kill that bastard..."
The next day Silvone relaxes, and the process continues, day after day after day, with the same outcome. "I'm gonna kill that bastard." He doesn't think he really will, or wouldn't if he could help it. But someday that strong young man, the dreamer, the container of anger and hidden emotions, the norjick named Silvone, will break. His safety-line between reality and fantasy will snap.
I retitled this essay to "Frustration and Desperation" based on a comment I received by my teacher on this essay and a letter I wrote to my mother once. The original title is below. I am sorry for the language near the end of it. If it is unnaceptable, I will take it out:
Life In The Eyes of A Norjick
Silvone Elestahr walks from class to class, ignoring most people, acknowledging few others. He walks past Scott in the morning on the way to his first class.
"Good morning, g0D." Scott bows as he walks past. A smile escapes Silvone's lips as he replies to his "warlord".
"Good morning, Dagon." Silvone forces himself to get through the first class of the day, R.O.T.C. He used to like it, but three years with the same idiots, who repeat the same mistakes year after year, tends to get on his nerves. Now it's all he can do not to lash out at the idiots he's stuck with every morning. As the bell rings, he rushes out to get to his next class. As he's walking he tries to catch sight of Ryona, just to see her. He finds her intriguing. He doesn't know what it is about her, but he feels...attracted to her. He shrugs it off as blasphemy; g0D cannot love. It is just not...him. She's taken anyways.
Silvone glances at Ryona every once in a while during his next period. When he is not risking a glance at her, he is in his other world: his world of wonders. He is speaking his own language to people of his own creation. He is building his own cities on his own world. He loves it there. If he could make things go his way, he would never leave. "Emris nordevi ny jaeick amrin?" He glances at Ryona again, and then quickly looks away before she can catch him. The bell rings, and its off to the next class.
As Silvone walks home he is back into his own little world. He walks deep in thought. As he reaches the stoplight he quickly glances around. He knows Luis is there somewhere, wanting to walk home with him. Wanting to...talk. But Silvone does not talk. He picks up speed.
Just as he thinks he is safe: "Josh! Hey, Josh!" Silvone ignores him. "Josh!" He keeps walking. Soon the calls subside. Silvone is back in his world, without interruptions. He thinks of how nice it would be to live as a Norjick. No religion, no government..."Josh!" No Luis. Silvone turns to glance at Luis, and sees him waving his arms in the air in some sort of gangster signal. He turns and keeps walking, shaking his head at the guy's stupidity.
As Silvone walks through the door into his house he is greeted by screaming parents.
"You forgot to take the fucking trash out! I would understand if it was once every fucking three months, but every fucking week? I don't understand. What the fuck is your problem? How many times do I have to fucking tell you? It's not that hard to remember! Only once a fucking week!" Silvone takes it in silence, though his fists clench and his blood heats to a boiling point. He had worked his ass off all weekend. One small error erases it all. Now Eric would search and search for something else to yell at him about. As he sits in his room, waiting for the next round of lectures and yelling, he thinks about his world, and he writes down the day's thoughts. Then he types them up. He loves typing. Thinking the thoughts is only part of the fun. But getting them onto something, there's the real work. he decides not to do his homework that night. There's just too much on his mind to get out. His parents are fighting too loud anyway.
"Your son is a worthless fuck! How many times do we have to remind him to get the damn trash out?"
"It's not his fault! He has a lot on his mind."
Yeah, that's right. Silvone has a lot on his mind. Just nothing that is supposed to be there. There's nothing about homework or chores or the human world in there; nothing but fantasies, and impossible futures. Silvone would do anything to escape this world, escape his parents. Sometimes he thinks he would kill to get away. Silvone turns off his light and climbs into bed, still thinking. His last thoughts before he turns in were: "I'm gonna kill that bastard..."
The next day Silvone relaxes, and the process continues, day after day after day, with the same outcome. "I'm gonna kill that bastard." He doesn't think he really will, or wouldn't if he could help it. But someday that strong young man, the dreamer, the container of anger and hidden emotions, the norjick named Silvone, will break. His safety-line between reality and fantasy will snap.
37: Rejoice as TeeAr rebuilds these lands that have been ravaged by war and famine. May those who STand in his way be smited by his many hands in an unrelenting torment.
-Noirgrim
-Noirgrim
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
WOW THAT WAS COOL
ah' well
*Cough Hack Cough*
Let it be known across this land that i am no man nor am i woman i am both and yet neither. when i get up i do as men do but when i lay at night i cry myself to sleep.
my friends say i am crazy they are right to an extent. though i am crazy i am normal. i am me. people say you should follow other mens examples, if i do that i will waste away in a sea of violence, laziness, and "hard work." well i say that who i want to be and what i have to do to become me is "hard work." everyone askes me wether i am man or woman. is the world so gender oriented? i am neither. i am the one who has "no feelings" or so says my fellow coworkers. the truth be told i do have feelings, more then men but less then women. my feeling exceed those who think i am man the say be tough and fight them back, but when i see people hurt the feelings take over. when things are happy and women tell me to be glad, i am overrun with a deep nothing that wont let me be happy.
i have several personalities that roam my body. sometimes they come wthout being called. now these personalities are not violent they just take certian aspects of me one of utter dispare, one of denial, one of the hero, one of the coward, one who always tries it's best and yet can never satisfy anyone, one who dosen't do it's best and lets everyone fail it without a second thought. i am set to fail every time.
these people turn me into things i do not want to be the wolrd bring them to me with rules of conformity. i try to let the evils go but evil is all around me. the love of loved ones only seeks to bind me. those who protect me are those like me ones whom i seek to find online and in dark places. they know the pain of being one gender and felling neither, told that you have to be that or the ONE other nothing else. well i tell the world today
I AM NOT MALE, NOR AM I FEMALE, I AM BOTH, AND YET NEITHER. THOSE WHO JUDGE ME SHALL BE JUDGED BY GOD. AND THOSE WHO ACCEPT ME SHALL NOT ASK SUCH INTRUSIVE QUESTIONS ABOUT MY LIFE!
ah' well
*Cough Hack Cough*
Let it be known across this land that i am no man nor am i woman i am both and yet neither. when i get up i do as men do but when i lay at night i cry myself to sleep.
my friends say i am crazy they are right to an extent. though i am crazy i am normal. i am me. people say you should follow other mens examples, if i do that i will waste away in a sea of violence, laziness, and "hard work." well i say that who i want to be and what i have to do to become me is "hard work." everyone askes me wether i am man or woman. is the world so gender oriented? i am neither. i am the one who has "no feelings" or so says my fellow coworkers. the truth be told i do have feelings, more then men but less then women. my feeling exceed those who think i am man the say be tough and fight them back, but when i see people hurt the feelings take over. when things are happy and women tell me to be glad, i am overrun with a deep nothing that wont let me be happy.
i have several personalities that roam my body. sometimes they come wthout being called. now these personalities are not violent they just take certian aspects of me one of utter dispare, one of denial, one of the hero, one of the coward, one who always tries it's best and yet can never satisfy anyone, one who dosen't do it's best and lets everyone fail it without a second thought. i am set to fail every time.
these people turn me into things i do not want to be the wolrd bring them to me with rules of conformity. i try to let the evils go but evil is all around me. the love of loved ones only seeks to bind me. those who protect me are those like me ones whom i seek to find online and in dark places. they know the pain of being one gender and felling neither, told that you have to be that or the ONE other nothing else. well i tell the world today
I AM NOT MALE, NOR AM I FEMALE, I AM BOTH, AND YET NEITHER. THOSE WHO JUDGE ME SHALL BE JUDGED BY GOD. AND THOSE WHO ACCEPT ME SHALL NOT ASK SUCH INTRUSIVE QUESTIONS ABOUT MY LIFE!
Quotidian Modding Hologram
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
With so much cluttering up the Books forum, I've decided to move this to the Lounge. Of course, if you're reading this, you've figured that out already.
There's that... and the fact that the thread hasn't been active in a while.
There's that... and the fact that the thread hasn't been active in a while.
I have kleptomania, but when it gets really bad, I take something for it.
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wishmaster
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu May 13, 2004 8:50 am
- Location: Norway
A couple of lyrics I wrote. Ugh. What a sucky english I have!
A soldier's farewell
(melody: Rhapsody - Where Dragons Fly)
This is the day
A silent atumn morning
I have to say farewell
and begin my journey
---
Over majestic Hills
Will my journey go
Under silent willowtrees
I have to leave
Darkness is threatening
our proud land
My sword is needed there
My beautiful lady, my dear love
I will return, so don't be afraid
---
I want to feel your warm lips
against my own, one last time
My heart belongs to you
but my king have called for me
---
Over majestic Hills
Will my journey go
Under silent willowtrees
I have to leave
Darkness is threatening
our proud land
My sword is needed there
My beautiful lady, my dear love
I will return, so don't be afraid
---
Over majestic Hills
Will my journey go
Under silent willowtrees
I have to leave
Darkness is threatening
our proud land
My sword is needed there
My beautiful lady, my dear love
I will return, so don't be afraid
____________________________________________-
A Winter Alone
A lonely wanderer
walked there alone
Far away from his home
Frostbitten winds blowed on him
no one heard his begging words
of sadness and pain
no one wanted him
no one loved him
Just the freezing night
another winter alone
another winter alone
A tear ran down his cheek
a tear of of sorrow
but just a tiny drop from his heart
Every step arched
The heartbeats ripped his belief
that someone loved him
no one wanted him
no one loved him
Just the freezing night
another winter alone
another winter alone
At last he kneeled
his faith failed
and he took his last breath
Deadly cold snow
embraced his body
and he was gone, forever
Blaah. Maybe I'll quit writing lyrics in english? They're just too bad.
A soldier's farewell
(melody: Rhapsody - Where Dragons Fly)
This is the day
A silent atumn morning
I have to say farewell
and begin my journey
---
Over majestic Hills
Will my journey go
Under silent willowtrees
I have to leave
Darkness is threatening
our proud land
My sword is needed there
My beautiful lady, my dear love
I will return, so don't be afraid
---
I want to feel your warm lips
against my own, one last time
My heart belongs to you
but my king have called for me
---
Over majestic Hills
Will my journey go
Under silent willowtrees
I have to leave
Darkness is threatening
our proud land
My sword is needed there
My beautiful lady, my dear love
I will return, so don't be afraid
---
Over majestic Hills
Will my journey go
Under silent willowtrees
I have to leave
Darkness is threatening
our proud land
My sword is needed there
My beautiful lady, my dear love
I will return, so don't be afraid
____________________________________________-
A Winter Alone
A lonely wanderer
walked there alone
Far away from his home
Frostbitten winds blowed on him
no one heard his begging words
of sadness and pain
no one wanted him
no one loved him
Just the freezing night
another winter alone
another winter alone
A tear ran down his cheek
a tear of of sorrow
but just a tiny drop from his heart
Every step arched
The heartbeats ripped his belief
that someone loved him
no one wanted him
no one loved him
Just the freezing night
another winter alone
another winter alone
At last he kneeled
his faith failed
and he took his last breath
Deadly cold snow
embraced his body
and he was gone, forever
Blaah. Maybe I'll quit writing lyrics in english? They're just too bad.
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
The Creamation
The darkness is everywhere
I feel cramped, alone.
Suddenly,
A light at my feet breaks the steel box
As if I was blind and now I see.
But I can't move I try to yell,
"Hey, I’m still here, what are you doing?
Were are you taking me? Hey! Listen to me!"
Emptiness are the words that feel the air.
The man is in white and
Has his mouth covered with a mask.
He puts me in a metal chamber on a bed that i cannot see
And as I look through my chest
I see the polished vent above me.
I realize looking at my reflection that I’m dead,
But I’m still here am I not?
There is no afterlife, no heaven, no hell
And all the while I’m trying to burst free and escape.
To late the door is shut.
Is hot in here or is it me?
I see the flames as bright as could be
and like all my family before myself
The one place I’ll end up is on a mantle or a shelf.
The darkness is everywhere
I feel cramped, alone.
Suddenly,
A light at my feet breaks the steel box
As if I was blind and now I see.
But I can't move I try to yell,
"Hey, I’m still here, what are you doing?
Were are you taking me? Hey! Listen to me!"
Emptiness are the words that feel the air.
The man is in white and
Has his mouth covered with a mask.
He puts me in a metal chamber on a bed that i cannot see
And as I look through my chest
I see the polished vent above me.
I realize looking at my reflection that I’m dead,
But I’m still here am I not?
There is no afterlife, no heaven, no hell
And all the while I’m trying to burst free and escape.
To late the door is shut.
Is hot in here or is it me?
I see the flames as bright as could be
and like all my family before myself
The one place I’ll end up is on a mantle or a shelf.
Quotidian Modding Hologram
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
The Dreaded Deep
The darkness is everywere
And so is my mind,
Little bits and pieces
Of the books i left behind.
The gap in the deep
Is longer than i can cross,
But why is the air filled
With all this slimy moss?
Everywere is north to me
A felling i cannot hide.
Will the light ever come
To the one traped deep inside?
The darkness is everywere
And so is my mind,
Little bits and pieces
Of the books i left behind.
The gap in the deep
Is longer than i can cross,
But why is the air filled
With all this slimy moss?
Everywere is north to me
A felling i cannot hide.
Will the light ever come
To the one traped deep inside?
Quotidian Modding Hologram
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
The Road Yet Seen
My heart is old worn out and grey
A time of peace is no closer to this day.
When will the world come to me
For i have the gift of forsite and yet none believe.
The day will turn to night consumed by a horrid rain.
the light of the sun will decrease as the wold prepares for war.
the next item on the list is the power of the world,
The mock peace will bring the world to friviolus cantations of old prayers long forgotten by the younger generation
i will die in a pool of blood.
TR will never die.
And in a small little town a company will be turning from fantasy(RPG) to fantasy(GBG) in an attempt to reconsile the world.
It is the president who will start this downfall and not G.W.B.
someone later more unrealistic than him
the some one is a guy named Arnold Guinn.
My heart is old worn out and grey
A time of peace is no closer to this day.
When will the world come to me
For i have the gift of forsite and yet none believe.
The day will turn to night consumed by a horrid rain.
the light of the sun will decrease as the wold prepares for war.
the next item on the list is the power of the world,
The mock peace will bring the world to friviolus cantations of old prayers long forgotten by the younger generation
i will die in a pool of blood.
TR will never die.
And in a small little town a company will be turning from fantasy(RPG) to fantasy(GBG) in an attempt to reconsile the world.
It is the president who will start this downfall and not G.W.B.
someone later more unrealistic than him
the some one is a guy named Arnold Guinn.
Quotidian Modding Hologram
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
-
Mr. Sorry of Balmora
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:14 pm
First Come, Only Stay
every day i see him,
his long hair,
his green eyes,
and that look that says,
"watever you say i know better."
everyday i see her,
her small figure,
her natural hair,
the soft scent of her lotion,
and those eyes that turn
from blue to green when mad.
i am torn between them.
the ever growing desire to know them both,
but the pain to only choose one.
it drives me mad.
the state of my self is in utter chaos.
alone i shall stay
untill one comes to me
that is how i'll chose
Male or Female
every day i see him,
his long hair,
his green eyes,
and that look that says,
"watever you say i know better."
everyday i see her,
her small figure,
her natural hair,
the soft scent of her lotion,
and those eyes that turn
from blue to green when mad.
i am torn between them.
the ever growing desire to know them both,
but the pain to only choose one.
it drives me mad.
the state of my self is in utter chaos.
alone i shall stay
untill one comes to me
that is how i'll chose
Male or Female
Quotidian Modding Hologram
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T
Please state the nature of the Modding Emergency.
"Peace is a dream. Reality is a knife." ICE-T