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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #23 - "Night"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
- Status
Anton Sugar
Member
Sorry guys, got a friend coming into town for a week, so I won't be able to contribute. I'm gonna try and critique though, when I have some time.
Great Rumbler
Member
Ebon Pinion
Word Count: 1900
“It was a dark and spooky night.”
The words sat motionless on the page. Eldin tapped his pencil a few times and then scratched at an itchy spot on his scalp. He traced over a few of the letters that were a bit light. Tap, tap, tap. In disgust, he crumpled the paper and tossed into a nearby trash bin. Utter dreck!, Eldin thought to himself angrily. He considered a few more approaches, but, coming up with nothing particularly compelling, excused himself and wandered in the direction of the kitchen.
The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes that had become a vast arthropod metropolis. It reminded him of New York City. A mess of this sort was nothing new though, but given his failure of late to secure a proper opening for his story, it tended to make his mood all the more worse. He pulled out one the plates to wash it off a bit. This caused the pile to become unstable. The mess was now no longer in the sink, although it was arguably worse. He tossed away the unclean plate so that it could be with its brethren and went in search of his keys.
Usually they could be found hanging on a bent nail by the front door. As Eldin approached, he found that the nail was woefully lacking in adornments. He scowled at the nail and imagined himself using various torture devices to coax the nail into given up the whereabouts of his absconded keys. He did this for several seconds before realizing how wholly ridiculous the idea was. The nail would most likely not be so easily broken. Perhaps bribery would be a better course of actionÂ…
In the end, Eldin found the keys resting comfortably in one of the many pockets that were carefully fastened by tiny, foreign childrenÂ’s hands to his jeans. He took the keys and went in search of his car. Thankfully, it had not seen fit to move from where heÂ’d parked it the day before. He got in the car, started it, and drove towards NathanÂ’s Grocers, the only grocery store in town.
Normally, Eldin would not frequent a place like Nathan’s Grocers. The store was old, disgusting, and reeked of the unwashed. He’d seen things there that no decent human being should have to see. Spam? Pickled pig feet? Spreadable meat by-product? The very thought of such scientific abominations turned his stomach. It might actually be bearable if not for Nathan’s usual clientele of trucker hats and so-called “wife-beaters”. Civilization could not come to this backwoods flyspeck soon enough.
As Eldin stared longingly at the empty space where 12oz ribeyes usually could be found, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He was being approached by the town talker, a man known throughout the area for his ability to barge into any given conversation and have something totally irrelevant and inane to say about the topic being discussed.
“Hey, cousin!” Lyle said cheerfully, “What’s ya’ll up to on this fine mornin’?”
“I am seeking to procure sustenance,” Eldin told him, “Unfortunately, Nathan has seen fit to allow his stock of quality steaks to run dry.”
“That’s shame alright,” Lyle replied, shaking his bulbous noggin from side to side, “Ain’t nothin’ better’an a good steak. Say, ya ever finish that story you been workin’ on?”
“No, I’m afraid that my progress on the story his been impeded for various reasons.”
The larger man thought for a second. “Why don’t you write a story ‘bout all the people that live ‘round here instead? Ya know, who done what an’ that sorta thang?”
“A novel idea, Mr. Lyle, but I’m afraid that such work is not my field of expertise. As you no doubt are aware, I pride myself on my innate ability to send shivers down the spines of unsuspecting readers who happen to accidentally fall prey to my books of horror.”
“Ya mean like those pictures where some feller with a hook on his hand goes ‘round to summer camps an’ what not, attackin’ youngins and rippin’ off their dingleberries?”
“Hrmm…,” Eldin said, feigning deep thought, “Not entirely so, but you at least seem to have grasped the general concept, I suppose. The tales that I weave blend the macabre with the unknown and unknowable to deliver a sense of dread and foreboding that extends from prologue to epilogue.”
Lyle picked up a package containing several pounds of chuck roast and casually tossed it atop his heaping pile of deep-fried pork rinds, Bud Light, and spreadable meat by-product. Eldin tried not to think about what LyleÂ’s lunch might look like.
“So what’re you writin’ about this go ‘round?”
“The tale that I’m currently striving to tell is of a group of nubile youngsters who unknowingly unleash a particularly devilish ghoul because of their nocturnal dalliances in his domain.”
Lyle scratched one his many chins. “Sounds like weighty doin’s alright. Well, I hope ya’ll can get yer issues sorted out and finish it up right quick.” Lyle’s cart trundled away, dragging one wheel behind it, as he went in search of more innocents to engage in his particular brand of rhetoric.
Eldin left the store with some filtered mineral water and assorted nuts. It was not the feast that heÂ’d been anticipating, but it would have to do for the time being. He drove back home and, as he was pulling into the driveway, noticed that his neighbor, the most educated idiot in town, was peering through the front window. Eldin briefly considered running the man over and then later claiming that it had been an accident brought on by poor visibility and the belief that his home was in the process of being burgled by hooligans, but decided against it.
“Good mornin’, Eldin!” Wayne greeted him, “I just thought I’d come by and see how your inditing is comin’ along.”
“I had hoped to return to my domicile and continue my work in peace and quiet, but I see that that is now no longer a possibility with you here to while away the hours with tales of the alma mater,” Eldin said, ignoring the obvious attempt by Wayne to use a word that he had absolutely no familiarity with.
“Now don’t be like that, Eldin,” the younger man chided him, “Maybe I can help you along, ya know one educated man to another?”
“I have the utmost confidence that you will try you very best, Wayne. Well, enter in and enlighten me with your community college wisdom.”
Wayne, like a gleeful child allowed to take a trip to the candy store, came inside and immediately began wandering about the various rooms of the house, picking up things and looking thoughtfully at them. He would often stop to make a remark or two, drawing from all of the factoids and wisdom nuggets that a two-year safety degree could provide. He correctly identified the kitchen table as being made of wood, but was generally wrong about everything else.
His travels eventually brought him to EldinÂ’s desk, which was currently being occupied by several stacks of papers that represented the sum total of several months of delving into the darkest corners of his own twisted and demented mind. Some of the papers had doodles of kittens.
Wayne studied a small stack of papers with overly dramatic intensity. His brow was furrowed, his hand rest at his chin, and he held the papers only a few inches from his face. However, his eyes were glazed and empty. HeÂ’d seen the words before but was unable to place their meaning. But this was nothing new.
“Have you been vocationing at any new books these days? I’d certainly like to pick your brain if you don’t mind.”
“Given your fastidiousness, it would hardly benefit me to deny your request. I have an idea in my mind for a particularly gruesome tale, but am having some difficulty in acquiring a suitable introduction. The only line which comes to my mind is ‘It was a dark and spooky night’. But I hardly think such a simple remark as that will suffice for a story which, I profoundly hope, will send out tendrils into the minds of my readers and latch on to their very nervous system until the final, spine-chilling conclusion.”
Wayne thought for a moment. One could practically hear the tiny gears that constituted his meager brain grinding and screeching against one another as they attempted to briefly scrape away the rust of decades for one, brief moment of enlightenment.
“That’s a good line, especially the “dark” part, but…maybe you could try ‘It was a dark and stormy night’?”
Eldin was stunned. How could he have been such a fool?! The answer had been sitting right there in front of him and it had taken this dullardÂ’s inane ramblings for him to finally see it. He quickly pushed Wayne to the floor and began writing as one possessed.
His teeth clenched and a manic grin split his face. His hand moved across the page, pencil gripped between thumb and forefinger, as a blur. As he went, the pages became filled with crystallized genius and then fluttered to the floor. This was it. This was it! The masterwork that heÂ’d prayed to Odin so long for. A tale so chilling and filled with horror that any who read it would be struck dumb, or worse, from the shock! Beads of sweat formed on his brow and then rolled gently down his face.
The writing stopped. A final page floated to the floor. The pencil, smoking, wrested in a cup at one corner of the desk. The man himself lay back in his chair and his arms hung at his side. Wayne looked up at him.
“It is finished.” Eldin said.
“You’re not gonna die now, are ya?”
“And what would posses me to do that, pray tell? This is a moment of celebration, you half-evolved simian!”
Eldin reached down and pulled a sheet off the bottom of the six-inch tall stack of papers. He handed it Wayne.
“Read it.”
Wayne read the paper. Then he asked for the next page, which Eldin happily obliged him with. Then WayneÂ’s eyeÂ’s shriveled up and he fell over with a loud thump. Dead.
Eldin laughed. He laughed as he had never laughed before. Then he stopped laughing. This was not, in fact, a good thing. It was important that the book receive several subsequent reprintings prior to its release; otherwise the percentage-of-sales clause in his contract wouldnÂ’t kick in. Once news got out that the book actually killed people, itÂ’s likely that it would not be reprinted. HeÂ’d be stuck with the standard lump sum amount!
He sat deep in thought. This was truly a conundrum for the ages. He picked the first page up and looked at it. He sighed then, because it was clear what he needed to do. And so, he did the deed.
Later, Eldin sat in front of the fireplace basking in its warm glow. His labor had been in vain, but at least he knew the truth. Well, Wayne also knew, but, being dead, was not in a position to tell anyone about it. Eldin took a sip of the chardonnay that heÂ’d been saving for the past few years. It was exquisite.
“I like ‘spooky’ better anyway.”
Word Count: 1900
“It was a dark and spooky night.”
The words sat motionless on the page. Eldin tapped his pencil a few times and then scratched at an itchy spot on his scalp. He traced over a few of the letters that were a bit light. Tap, tap, tap. In disgust, he crumpled the paper and tossed into a nearby trash bin. Utter dreck!, Eldin thought to himself angrily. He considered a few more approaches, but, coming up with nothing particularly compelling, excused himself and wandered in the direction of the kitchen.
The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes that had become a vast arthropod metropolis. It reminded him of New York City. A mess of this sort was nothing new though, but given his failure of late to secure a proper opening for his story, it tended to make his mood all the more worse. He pulled out one the plates to wash it off a bit. This caused the pile to become unstable. The mess was now no longer in the sink, although it was arguably worse. He tossed away the unclean plate so that it could be with its brethren and went in search of his keys.
Usually they could be found hanging on a bent nail by the front door. As Eldin approached, he found that the nail was woefully lacking in adornments. He scowled at the nail and imagined himself using various torture devices to coax the nail into given up the whereabouts of his absconded keys. He did this for several seconds before realizing how wholly ridiculous the idea was. The nail would most likely not be so easily broken. Perhaps bribery would be a better course of actionÂ…
In the end, Eldin found the keys resting comfortably in one of the many pockets that were carefully fastened by tiny, foreign childrenÂ’s hands to his jeans. He took the keys and went in search of his car. Thankfully, it had not seen fit to move from where heÂ’d parked it the day before. He got in the car, started it, and drove towards NathanÂ’s Grocers, the only grocery store in town.
Normally, Eldin would not frequent a place like Nathan’s Grocers. The store was old, disgusting, and reeked of the unwashed. He’d seen things there that no decent human being should have to see. Spam? Pickled pig feet? Spreadable meat by-product? The very thought of such scientific abominations turned his stomach. It might actually be bearable if not for Nathan’s usual clientele of trucker hats and so-called “wife-beaters”. Civilization could not come to this backwoods flyspeck soon enough.
As Eldin stared longingly at the empty space where 12oz ribeyes usually could be found, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He was being approached by the town talker, a man known throughout the area for his ability to barge into any given conversation and have something totally irrelevant and inane to say about the topic being discussed.
“Hey, cousin!” Lyle said cheerfully, “What’s ya’ll up to on this fine mornin’?”
“I am seeking to procure sustenance,” Eldin told him, “Unfortunately, Nathan has seen fit to allow his stock of quality steaks to run dry.”
“That’s shame alright,” Lyle replied, shaking his bulbous noggin from side to side, “Ain’t nothin’ better’an a good steak. Say, ya ever finish that story you been workin’ on?”
“No, I’m afraid that my progress on the story his been impeded for various reasons.”
The larger man thought for a second. “Why don’t you write a story ‘bout all the people that live ‘round here instead? Ya know, who done what an’ that sorta thang?”
“A novel idea, Mr. Lyle, but I’m afraid that such work is not my field of expertise. As you no doubt are aware, I pride myself on my innate ability to send shivers down the spines of unsuspecting readers who happen to accidentally fall prey to my books of horror.”
“Ya mean like those pictures where some feller with a hook on his hand goes ‘round to summer camps an’ what not, attackin’ youngins and rippin’ off their dingleberries?”
“Hrmm…,” Eldin said, feigning deep thought, “Not entirely so, but you at least seem to have grasped the general concept, I suppose. The tales that I weave blend the macabre with the unknown and unknowable to deliver a sense of dread and foreboding that extends from prologue to epilogue.”
Lyle picked up a package containing several pounds of chuck roast and casually tossed it atop his heaping pile of deep-fried pork rinds, Bud Light, and spreadable meat by-product. Eldin tried not to think about what LyleÂ’s lunch might look like.
“So what’re you writin’ about this go ‘round?”
“The tale that I’m currently striving to tell is of a group of nubile youngsters who unknowingly unleash a particularly devilish ghoul because of their nocturnal dalliances in his domain.”
Lyle scratched one his many chins. “Sounds like weighty doin’s alright. Well, I hope ya’ll can get yer issues sorted out and finish it up right quick.” Lyle’s cart trundled away, dragging one wheel behind it, as he went in search of more innocents to engage in his particular brand of rhetoric.
Eldin left the store with some filtered mineral water and assorted nuts. It was not the feast that heÂ’d been anticipating, but it would have to do for the time being. He drove back home and, as he was pulling into the driveway, noticed that his neighbor, the most educated idiot in town, was peering through the front window. Eldin briefly considered running the man over and then later claiming that it had been an accident brought on by poor visibility and the belief that his home was in the process of being burgled by hooligans, but decided against it.
“Good mornin’, Eldin!” Wayne greeted him, “I just thought I’d come by and see how your inditing is comin’ along.”
“I had hoped to return to my domicile and continue my work in peace and quiet, but I see that that is now no longer a possibility with you here to while away the hours with tales of the alma mater,” Eldin said, ignoring the obvious attempt by Wayne to use a word that he had absolutely no familiarity with.
“Now don’t be like that, Eldin,” the younger man chided him, “Maybe I can help you along, ya know one educated man to another?”
“I have the utmost confidence that you will try you very best, Wayne. Well, enter in and enlighten me with your community college wisdom.”
Wayne, like a gleeful child allowed to take a trip to the candy store, came inside and immediately began wandering about the various rooms of the house, picking up things and looking thoughtfully at them. He would often stop to make a remark or two, drawing from all of the factoids and wisdom nuggets that a two-year safety degree could provide. He correctly identified the kitchen table as being made of wood, but was generally wrong about everything else.
His travels eventually brought him to EldinÂ’s desk, which was currently being occupied by several stacks of papers that represented the sum total of several months of delving into the darkest corners of his own twisted and demented mind. Some of the papers had doodles of kittens.
Wayne studied a small stack of papers with overly dramatic intensity. His brow was furrowed, his hand rest at his chin, and he held the papers only a few inches from his face. However, his eyes were glazed and empty. HeÂ’d seen the words before but was unable to place their meaning. But this was nothing new.
“Have you been vocationing at any new books these days? I’d certainly like to pick your brain if you don’t mind.”
“Given your fastidiousness, it would hardly benefit me to deny your request. I have an idea in my mind for a particularly gruesome tale, but am having some difficulty in acquiring a suitable introduction. The only line which comes to my mind is ‘It was a dark and spooky night’. But I hardly think such a simple remark as that will suffice for a story which, I profoundly hope, will send out tendrils into the minds of my readers and latch on to their very nervous system until the final, spine-chilling conclusion.”
Wayne thought for a moment. One could practically hear the tiny gears that constituted his meager brain grinding and screeching against one another as they attempted to briefly scrape away the rust of decades for one, brief moment of enlightenment.
“That’s a good line, especially the “dark” part, but…maybe you could try ‘It was a dark and stormy night’?”
Eldin was stunned. How could he have been such a fool?! The answer had been sitting right there in front of him and it had taken this dullardÂ’s inane ramblings for him to finally see it. He quickly pushed Wayne to the floor and began writing as one possessed.
His teeth clenched and a manic grin split his face. His hand moved across the page, pencil gripped between thumb and forefinger, as a blur. As he went, the pages became filled with crystallized genius and then fluttered to the floor. This was it. This was it! The masterwork that heÂ’d prayed to Odin so long for. A tale so chilling and filled with horror that any who read it would be struck dumb, or worse, from the shock! Beads of sweat formed on his brow and then rolled gently down his face.
The writing stopped. A final page floated to the floor. The pencil, smoking, wrested in a cup at one corner of the desk. The man himself lay back in his chair and his arms hung at his side. Wayne looked up at him.
“It is finished.” Eldin said.
“You’re not gonna die now, are ya?”
“And what would posses me to do that, pray tell? This is a moment of celebration, you half-evolved simian!”
Eldin reached down and pulled a sheet off the bottom of the six-inch tall stack of papers. He handed it Wayne.
“Read it.”
Wayne read the paper. Then he asked for the next page, which Eldin happily obliged him with. Then WayneÂ’s eyeÂ’s shriveled up and he fell over with a loud thump. Dead.
Eldin laughed. He laughed as he had never laughed before. Then he stopped laughing. This was not, in fact, a good thing. It was important that the book receive several subsequent reprintings prior to its release; otherwise the percentage-of-sales clause in his contract wouldnÂ’t kick in. Once news got out that the book actually killed people, itÂ’s likely that it would not be reprinted. HeÂ’d be stuck with the standard lump sum amount!
He sat deep in thought. This was truly a conundrum for the ages. He picked the first page up and looked at it. He sighed then, because it was clear what he needed to do. And so, he did the deed.
Later, Eldin sat in front of the fireplace basking in its warm glow. His labor had been in vain, but at least he knew the truth. Well, Wayne also knew, but, being dead, was not in a position to tell anyone about it. Eldin took a sip of the chardonnay that heÂ’d been saving for the past few years. It was exquisite.
“I like ‘spooky’ better anyway.”
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
The path to Knighthood.
Words: 647
“You wut?”
“Like I said, the positions for Royal Knight have already been filled.”
Darian looked at the man’s crooked nose in stunned disbelief. “What do you mean, filled? You can never have enough Knights!”
Crooked Nose sniffled. “Nope, terribly sorry, we’re all filled up. If you want a position as a Royal Night however, we’ve got plenty of those available,” he said matter of factly.
Â…
“The wut? That’s the same bloody thing you sack of shit! You’re just jerkin’ me chain you are,” Darian declared, placing his mug directly above that blasted nose of his.
“Parish the thought, gov’na! Note the lack of a “K”, right up ‘ere see?” he said, holding a parchment in front of him. The title said “Royal Night”. Definitely lacking a K.
“I can see that! But what the hell is a Royal Night?” Darian spat back.
“You mean Royal Night?”
“I JUST SAID THAT!!” Darian shouted, his tolerance five inches from destruction.
“Right. Well, you guard the castle ‘ere, the kingdom, its people. You know, the usual,” he explained.
Â…
“Isn’t that the same fuckin’ thing?” Darian tried to rationalize.
“Nope. Worlds of difference they are,” he-whose-nose-looked-broken replied smugly.
Darian let out a sigh for the ages. “How, pray tell, is that any different from a Royal Knight.” Darian asked, no matter how he feared the answer.
“Well for one you don’t get paid.”
Â…
“WHY THE ‘ELL WOULD ANYONE TAKE A JOB LIKE THAT??” Darian exploded.
“That’s why we have so many open positions,” the crooked-nosed man explained.
“This is preposterous!”
“Ah, but think of the benefits!” he continued.
“BENEFITS? WHAT BENEFITS? What could possibly overshadow the lack of wage?” Darian demanded.
“Well, you’d be pretty popular with the ladies for one. They loves them a virtuous Night they do,” crescent-moon-nose sung, rubbing his nose on the curve.
“I’M ALREADY MARRIED YOU BLOODY DOLT!”
Â…
The man of poor nose sniffled again. “I believe the point stands.”
“NO IT DOESN’T!!” Darian screamed, lifting the man up by his impossibly white shirt.
“You’re no fun, you know that? With that attitude you won’t be married for much longer…”
“WHAT??”
“Well ‘ho’d want to stay with an unemployed bum like yourself, gov’na?” he poised.
“THAT’S WHY I NEED A BLOODY JOB YOU IMBECILE!!” Darian quipped.
“Well we have lots of openings in-“
“A PAYING JOB! NOT THIS STUPID ROYAL NIGHT TRIPE YOU KE-“
“You mean Royal Night, yes?”
“I JUST SAID THAT!”
“Wonderful! Here’s the form, just sign here and you’ll start tomorrow,” he cheered, grabbing the paper and handing it to Darian. Instead of taking the paper however, he reached for the sword he had brought with him and slashed it clean in two.
“W-What’re you doing?” the man trembled.
“Can’t you tell? I’m going to kill you and take your job for myself!” Darian answered as if he’d achieved Nirvana.
“N-now calm down gov’na…”
SLASH!!
His crooked nose became straightened when it hit the ground with a loud fop! Not that it matted as heÂ’d be unable to smell is own blood pour out of him. Darian smirked at the corpse he created. Screams filled the air as onlookers Darian hadnÂ’t cared to notice started to flee in panic. Soon an armed brigade of knights appeared on the scene.
“What the devel happened ‘ere??” one inquired.
“I killed him,”
“WHY YOU LITTL’!!” he exclaimed, preparing his sword for combat. However a voice behind him held him at the ready.
“Settle down, what’s all this commotion?” a royal looking figure asked. It was King Pickering III, being escorted by the Captain of the Royal Knights.
“This man killed ol’ crooked nose ‘ere!” a knight declared.
“Is this true?” the king inquired.
“Yes my liege” Darian answered swiftly.
“Hm. I see. I like the look in your eyes, unwaivering, determined, confident. Tell me, have you considered becoming a Royal Knight?”
Words: 647
“You wut?”
“Like I said, the positions for Royal Knight have already been filled.”
Darian looked at the man’s crooked nose in stunned disbelief. “What do you mean, filled? You can never have enough Knights!”
Crooked Nose sniffled. “Nope, terribly sorry, we’re all filled up. If you want a position as a Royal Night however, we’ve got plenty of those available,” he said matter of factly.
Â…
“The wut? That’s the same bloody thing you sack of shit! You’re just jerkin’ me chain you are,” Darian declared, placing his mug directly above that blasted nose of his.
“Parish the thought, gov’na! Note the lack of a “K”, right up ‘ere see?” he said, holding a parchment in front of him. The title said “Royal Night”. Definitely lacking a K.
“I can see that! But what the hell is a Royal Night?” Darian spat back.
“You mean Royal Night?”
“I JUST SAID THAT!!” Darian shouted, his tolerance five inches from destruction.
“Right. Well, you guard the castle ‘ere, the kingdom, its people. You know, the usual,” he explained.
Â…
“Isn’t that the same fuckin’ thing?” Darian tried to rationalize.
“Nope. Worlds of difference they are,” he-whose-nose-looked-broken replied smugly.
Darian let out a sigh for the ages. “How, pray tell, is that any different from a Royal Knight.” Darian asked, no matter how he feared the answer.
“Well for one you don’t get paid.”
Â…
“WHY THE ‘ELL WOULD ANYONE TAKE A JOB LIKE THAT??” Darian exploded.
“That’s why we have so many open positions,” the crooked-nosed man explained.
“This is preposterous!”
“Ah, but think of the benefits!” he continued.
“BENEFITS? WHAT BENEFITS? What could possibly overshadow the lack of wage?” Darian demanded.
“Well, you’d be pretty popular with the ladies for one. They loves them a virtuous Night they do,” crescent-moon-nose sung, rubbing his nose on the curve.
“I’M ALREADY MARRIED YOU BLOODY DOLT!”
Â…
The man of poor nose sniffled again. “I believe the point stands.”
“NO IT DOESN’T!!” Darian screamed, lifting the man up by his impossibly white shirt.
“You’re no fun, you know that? With that attitude you won’t be married for much longer…”
“WHAT??”
“Well ‘ho’d want to stay with an unemployed bum like yourself, gov’na?” he poised.
“THAT’S WHY I NEED A BLOODY JOB YOU IMBECILE!!” Darian quipped.
“Well we have lots of openings in-“
“A PAYING JOB! NOT THIS STUPID ROYAL NIGHT TRIPE YOU KE-“
“You mean Royal Night, yes?”
“I JUST SAID THAT!”
“Wonderful! Here’s the form, just sign here and you’ll start tomorrow,” he cheered, grabbing the paper and handing it to Darian. Instead of taking the paper however, he reached for the sword he had brought with him and slashed it clean in two.
“W-What’re you doing?” the man trembled.
“Can’t you tell? I’m going to kill you and take your job for myself!” Darian answered as if he’d achieved Nirvana.
“N-now calm down gov’na…”
SLASH!!
His crooked nose became straightened when it hit the ground with a loud fop! Not that it matted as heÂ’d be unable to smell is own blood pour out of him. Darian smirked at the corpse he created. Screams filled the air as onlookers Darian hadnÂ’t cared to notice started to flee in panic. Soon an armed brigade of knights appeared on the scene.
“What the devel happened ‘ere??” one inquired.
“I killed him,”
“WHY YOU LITTL’!!” he exclaimed, preparing his sword for combat. However a voice behind him held him at the ready.
“Settle down, what’s all this commotion?” a royal looking figure asked. It was King Pickering III, being escorted by the Captain of the Royal Knights.
“This man killed ol’ crooked nose ‘ere!” a knight declared.
“Is this true?” the king inquired.
“Yes my liege” Darian answered swiftly.
“Hm. I see. I like the look in your eyes, unwaivering, determined, confident. Tell me, have you considered becoming a Royal Knight?”
“So there I was, not knowing what to do. It was barely 1:27 AM, still too early to go to bed. I couldn’t play any games because my awful PC isn’t able to run mostly any 3D game, so I decided to go downstairs, have a glass of water, and maybe even watch some TV. While I sat down on the couch to turn on the TV, I noticed, by looking through the window, how everything looked so calm at night. Leaving the TV on, I went outside. Not a single car would drive through the empty, quite cold street of my house. I sat by the door, absorbing and enjoying every single second of my peace, thinking about things I would else probably not think about.
Suddenly, I hear a quite disturbing sound. It probably wasnÂ’t very loud, but buried in my thoughts as I was, it sounded loud enough for me to get quite scared. I remember thinking it couldÂ’ve been a shot, but, then again, I had never really heard how a real shot sounded before. It was from about two houses away from mine, and I was bored enough to go take a look, so I stood up, and then walked up to the corner of the street. At the exact moment I decided that doing what I was doing was not exactly a good idea, I heard the same sound I had heard minutes, maybe seconds before. And two seconds after that, I hear it again. This time I was sure that it was a gun shot sound, and that it came from around the corner. When I reach the last house of the block, I stop. Sounds of steps getting louder and louder every second. Suddenly, a person appears from the other side of the corner I was standing on. He sees me, looking worried, and shoots me. I died. Well, I didnÂ’t die right after he shot me, some seconds passedÂ…
While I was there, agonizing, I remembered how peaceful I had been some minutes ago. But before I died completely, I also remember how I was not afraid of death, and how I actually embraced the thought of dyingÂ…
See, I always liked these things that are unexplainable. Death was number one on the list of things I wanted to experience. I’m going to miss my family and all, but it was worth it, I suppose…”
Optional ending [Follows from last sentence]
“So, am I in or out?” I asked, trying not to show impatience.
“You were a good man, so you can stay.” He said.
And thatÂ’s my story of how I got here, to heaven.
PS: English is my second language, I can barely write anything since my English vocabulary is quite scarce.:lol
Suddenly, I hear a quite disturbing sound. It probably wasnÂ’t very loud, but buried in my thoughts as I was, it sounded loud enough for me to get quite scared. I remember thinking it couldÂ’ve been a shot, but, then again, I had never really heard how a real shot sounded before. It was from about two houses away from mine, and I was bored enough to go take a look, so I stood up, and then walked up to the corner of the street. At the exact moment I decided that doing what I was doing was not exactly a good idea, I heard the same sound I had heard minutes, maybe seconds before. And two seconds after that, I hear it again. This time I was sure that it was a gun shot sound, and that it came from around the corner. When I reach the last house of the block, I stop. Sounds of steps getting louder and louder every second. Suddenly, a person appears from the other side of the corner I was standing on. He sees me, looking worried, and shoots me. I died. Well, I didnÂ’t die right after he shot me, some seconds passedÂ…
While I was there, agonizing, I remembered how peaceful I had been some minutes ago. But before I died completely, I also remember how I was not afraid of death, and how I actually embraced the thought of dyingÂ…
See, I always liked these things that are unexplainable. Death was number one on the list of things I wanted to experience. I’m going to miss my family and all, but it was worth it, I suppose…”
Optional ending [Follows from last sentence]
“So, am I in or out?” I asked, trying not to show impatience.
“You were a good man, so you can stay.” He said.
And thatÂ’s my story of how I got here, to heaven.
PS: English is my second language, I can barely write anything since my English vocabulary is quite scarce.:lol
The Game Coach
(Word Count: 1552)
For as long as I could remember, IÂ’ve always been obsessed with video games. It wasnÂ’t until I found out I could make a living (or, at least, a partial living) with them until I was around 18.
Street Fighter II changed my life as a gamer forever. I remember I mustÂ’ve dropped hundreds of dollars of my DadÂ’s pocket change into that game over the years trying to master its many moves and characters in the local arcades and pizza parlors. There was a seemingly limitless number of moves and characters to master. It was like real time chess and the first thing gamers had that could bring their hobby into the world of sports-like professional competition.
It didn’t end there with me, I also had an affinity of for many other genres of games – puzzle games like Tetris, platforming action games like Super Mario, and even text-heavy, book-length RPG games like Final Fantasy and Dragon Quest. Serious Street Fighter players shunned these games, but I became so obsessed with them that I couldn’t wait for them to release in English. The Japanese games were always released in the land of the rising sun months, and sometimes years ahead of the English versions, if at all. I decided I had to learn Japanese. And I did, in H.S.
Luckily, my public High School had a pilot program for Japanese language instruction. It was taught closed circuit via crude early video conferencing technology with a native speaking Japanese-American teacher in California.
It was a struggle, but I managed to learn the language well enough to be able to play Japanese RPGs like Live A Live and Dragon Quest months and years ahead of any other American. Knowing the language also benefited me in my Street Fighter and fighting game sessions. I ordered mooks and strategy guides from overseas. Most of my competitors didnÂ’t have access to this information, and it gave me a huge edge in competitive play.
The mooks, coupled with hours and hours of practice paid off. I entered several regional, and nationwide fighting game competitions over the years, and won many prizes. Most were minor cash prizes, some were even some minor sponsorships. But they werenÂ’t enough to make a living on. I had to find some other way to eak out a living.
My options were few. Me, nor my family didnÂ’t have enough money to send me to college, or even trade school. I didnÂ’t have much interest in college anyway. I like to play games, but I didnÂ’t have any desire, or ability to make my own.
How could I make a living doing this? I scratched my head, and couldn’t think of anything. Then, one day while I was looking up for tips on how beat a Japanese RPG online, it hit me. There’s a bunch of people who don’t know Japanese that play games by reading other people’s translations. They stumble through them, looking up “FAQs” or Frequently Asked Questions. It holds your hand through the game, including all the dialogue and story, and gives a walkthrough of the game in English.
What if I could provide my knowledge of Japanese to people who play these games? I wouldn’t necessarily know the game inside and out, but I could at least translate the unreadable text to people while they are playing. It seemed like a hairbrained idea at first – who would pay someone per hour to play games with them?
I decided to try it out. I put an ad in gaming fanzines, and posted on early versions of Internet message boards. Interest was slow at first, but much to my amazement, people were willing to go along with it. I played lots of games with people – most of them were early releases of games that wouldn’t come out in the U.S. for months or years, Final Fantasy, Lunar. Others were games that never saw the light of day in the U.S.
It was fun. I went over to people’s houses, and got paid to sit around and play games with them. Most of the time it was popular RPG games that haven’t seen release in the U.S. yet. Rarely was it ever times where we plowed through games that never will see the light of day in the U.S. Usually the clients had to provide their own games, but I also acted as a rental service of sorts, bringing my games over to their place to play along with them. I didn’t hold their hand all the time – acting as a coach, I kind of prodded them along, giving them hints. When they got stuck on a puzzle or what to do next, I held their hand through it. The sad part of most of these people was that they just wanted a gaming buddy to hang out with – they didn’t really have any friends to share their hobby with. Some people hired me to walk them though the game, others just wanted to know what was going on in the game and needed a translator, others were “completetists” and wanted to uncover every side-quest and secret the game had to offer.
Most of the people who hired me as a gaming coach were in their late teens and college age. I got a few people in their 30s, and even an older guy in his 40s. Once people were older, games were just something to do on the side – they didn’t take them very seriously. They didn’t take them seriously enough to pay anybody to help them play them better at that age. There were exceptions. One of my older clients was a rich lawyer with a peter-pan syndrome complex. He probably had tons of money, and I think he was just lonely and wanted a gaming buddy. I bet he couldn’t find anybody his age who was as interested as him. He used to give me big tips at the end of the year.
One of my favorite clients was a 17 year old who was fanatical about Japanese RPGs. He had went above and beyond the call of duty in High School to learn the language, and I think he was more interested in a Japanese coach than he was in a gaming coach, or someone to help him . He must have hit a brick wall and learned everything his teachers could teach him. He often played stuff that didnÂ’t get released in the U.S. like Front Mission and Star Ocean 1 on the Super Famicom.
It wasnÂ’t always RPGs I coached people on. I especially had fun coaching people on Fighting games. More often than not, the latest version of Street Fighter was what I worked on with them. Most people just wanted to up their game around their friends and beat them. Some people were bloodthirsty tournament players like myself who wanted to learn how to deal with fireballs, cancels, and parry practice. Still others were just looking for a gaming friend. With fighters, I often didnÂ’t have to supply the games for people; they often had them and were playing them already. I turned many people on to the wonders of the joystick. Most kids didnÂ’t realize that when you have the precision controls of a stick, you can do much better in these games. It made me feel good sharing my knowledge and love of gaming with others.
All of a sudden, business slowed down for me. The problem was that the clients and I got stuck in a game, and didnÂ’t know what to do. This exclusively happened with RPGs. Fighting games I knew my way around, but I simply didnÂ’t have enough time to play through every RPG my clients wanted to play. The Internet was crude at this time, and not all FAQs were available either. ThatÂ’s when I had to turn things up and actually start playing these games to completion.
I bought mooks and strategy guides, and bought and played all the new games. I got to know them inside and out. The best times for me were nighttime. I did all my best thinking and had the most concentration at night, for some reason. This is also when I had the most free time.
As the Internet grew and word got out, I became busy. It was almost too much to keep up with. RPGs take from 30-120 hours to beat, and there wasnÂ’t enough time to master and know the ins and outs of every new release. I had to move on to something else. What could it be?
The natural progression for me was to write. I started out slow, writing for fanzines and sites, and eventually worked my way into freelancing. My experience and reputation as a game coach helped too; I eventually did some translation for Japanese RPGs that were brought over to the U.S. IÂ’d like to think I helped bring U.S. JRPGs out of the dark ages of localization. I also co-wrote several strategy guides. It was a lot of fun, but it was also a lot of work.
I donÂ’t know what the future holds for me, but one thingÂ’s for sure; Whatever I do, it will be sharing my love of gaming with the world.
(Word Count: 1552)
For as long as I could remember, IÂ’ve always been obsessed with video games. It wasnÂ’t until I found out I could make a living (or, at least, a partial living) with them until I was around 18.
Street Fighter II changed my life as a gamer forever. I remember I mustÂ’ve dropped hundreds of dollars of my DadÂ’s pocket change into that game over the years trying to master its many moves and characters in the local arcades and pizza parlors. There was a seemingly limitless number of moves and characters to master. It was like real time chess and the first thing gamers had that could bring their hobby into the world of sports-like professional competition.
It didn’t end there with me, I also had an affinity of for many other genres of games – puzzle games like Tetris, platforming action games like Super Mario, and even text-heavy, book-length RPG games like Final Fantasy and Dragon Quest. Serious Street Fighter players shunned these games, but I became so obsessed with them that I couldn’t wait for them to release in English. The Japanese games were always released in the land of the rising sun months, and sometimes years ahead of the English versions, if at all. I decided I had to learn Japanese. And I did, in H.S.
Luckily, my public High School had a pilot program for Japanese language instruction. It was taught closed circuit via crude early video conferencing technology with a native speaking Japanese-American teacher in California.
It was a struggle, but I managed to learn the language well enough to be able to play Japanese RPGs like Live A Live and Dragon Quest months and years ahead of any other American. Knowing the language also benefited me in my Street Fighter and fighting game sessions. I ordered mooks and strategy guides from overseas. Most of my competitors didnÂ’t have access to this information, and it gave me a huge edge in competitive play.
The mooks, coupled with hours and hours of practice paid off. I entered several regional, and nationwide fighting game competitions over the years, and won many prizes. Most were minor cash prizes, some were even some minor sponsorships. But they werenÂ’t enough to make a living on. I had to find some other way to eak out a living.
My options were few. Me, nor my family didnÂ’t have enough money to send me to college, or even trade school. I didnÂ’t have much interest in college anyway. I like to play games, but I didnÂ’t have any desire, or ability to make my own.
How could I make a living doing this? I scratched my head, and couldn’t think of anything. Then, one day while I was looking up for tips on how beat a Japanese RPG online, it hit me. There’s a bunch of people who don’t know Japanese that play games by reading other people’s translations. They stumble through them, looking up “FAQs” or Frequently Asked Questions. It holds your hand through the game, including all the dialogue and story, and gives a walkthrough of the game in English.
What if I could provide my knowledge of Japanese to people who play these games? I wouldn’t necessarily know the game inside and out, but I could at least translate the unreadable text to people while they are playing. It seemed like a hairbrained idea at first – who would pay someone per hour to play games with them?
I decided to try it out. I put an ad in gaming fanzines, and posted on early versions of Internet message boards. Interest was slow at first, but much to my amazement, people were willing to go along with it. I played lots of games with people – most of them were early releases of games that wouldn’t come out in the U.S. for months or years, Final Fantasy, Lunar. Others were games that never saw the light of day in the U.S.
It was fun. I went over to people’s houses, and got paid to sit around and play games with them. Most of the time it was popular RPG games that haven’t seen release in the U.S. yet. Rarely was it ever times where we plowed through games that never will see the light of day in the U.S. Usually the clients had to provide their own games, but I also acted as a rental service of sorts, bringing my games over to their place to play along with them. I didn’t hold their hand all the time – acting as a coach, I kind of prodded them along, giving them hints. When they got stuck on a puzzle or what to do next, I held their hand through it. The sad part of most of these people was that they just wanted a gaming buddy to hang out with – they didn’t really have any friends to share their hobby with. Some people hired me to walk them though the game, others just wanted to know what was going on in the game and needed a translator, others were “completetists” and wanted to uncover every side-quest and secret the game had to offer.
Most of the people who hired me as a gaming coach were in their late teens and college age. I got a few people in their 30s, and even an older guy in his 40s. Once people were older, games were just something to do on the side – they didn’t take them very seriously. They didn’t take them seriously enough to pay anybody to help them play them better at that age. There were exceptions. One of my older clients was a rich lawyer with a peter-pan syndrome complex. He probably had tons of money, and I think he was just lonely and wanted a gaming buddy. I bet he couldn’t find anybody his age who was as interested as him. He used to give me big tips at the end of the year.
One of my favorite clients was a 17 year old who was fanatical about Japanese RPGs. He had went above and beyond the call of duty in High School to learn the language, and I think he was more interested in a Japanese coach than he was in a gaming coach, or someone to help him . He must have hit a brick wall and learned everything his teachers could teach him. He often played stuff that didnÂ’t get released in the U.S. like Front Mission and Star Ocean 1 on the Super Famicom.
It wasnÂ’t always RPGs I coached people on. I especially had fun coaching people on Fighting games. More often than not, the latest version of Street Fighter was what I worked on with them. Most people just wanted to up their game around their friends and beat them. Some people were bloodthirsty tournament players like myself who wanted to learn how to deal with fireballs, cancels, and parry practice. Still others were just looking for a gaming friend. With fighters, I often didnÂ’t have to supply the games for people; they often had them and were playing them already. I turned many people on to the wonders of the joystick. Most kids didnÂ’t realize that when you have the precision controls of a stick, you can do much better in these games. It made me feel good sharing my knowledge and love of gaming with others.
All of a sudden, business slowed down for me. The problem was that the clients and I got stuck in a game, and didnÂ’t know what to do. This exclusively happened with RPGs. Fighting games I knew my way around, but I simply didnÂ’t have enough time to play through every RPG my clients wanted to play. The Internet was crude at this time, and not all FAQs were available either. ThatÂ’s when I had to turn things up and actually start playing these games to completion.
I bought mooks and strategy guides, and bought and played all the new games. I got to know them inside and out. The best times for me were nighttime. I did all my best thinking and had the most concentration at night, for some reason. This is also when I had the most free time.
As the Internet grew and word got out, I became busy. It was almost too much to keep up with. RPGs take from 30-120 hours to beat, and there wasnÂ’t enough time to master and know the ins and outs of every new release. I had to move on to something else. What could it be?
The natural progression for me was to write. I started out slow, writing for fanzines and sites, and eventually worked my way into freelancing. My experience and reputation as a game coach helped too; I eventually did some translation for Japanese RPGs that were brought over to the U.S. IÂ’d like to think I helped bring U.S. JRPGs out of the dark ages of localization. I also co-wrote several strategy guides. It was a lot of fun, but it was also a lot of work.
I donÂ’t know what the future holds for me, but one thingÂ’s for sure; Whatever I do, it will be sharing my love of gaming with the world.
Not a rapist (652 words)
Night is the best time to be a vampire. The twenty-first century is not.
We just donÂ’t have the same impact these days. We used to be terrifying. Today people donÂ’t even credit our existence. ItÂ’s all those films. TheyÂ’re all shit. A vampire in a film has to be some pretentious, smug tosser who dresses like an aristocratic goth and whose head is so far up their own arse that itÂ’s a wonder that they can actually bite anyone. The actual life of a vampire is far less romantic.
I live in a small, pretty squalid flat in the suburbs of Liverpool. ItÂ’s horrible but itÂ’s what I can afford. Since I canÂ’t go out in the day to work, IÂ’m on benefits. That and the money I get from the government for my disability is all I have to live off. Anyway, the one upside of my grotty lodging is the face that the main window looks out onto a park. This park is the main obstacle for people getting back to the estate I live near from the city centre. As such, thereÂ’s always someone trudging through this park, even at night. Victims you might say.
I wouldn’t though. You eat meat don’t you? Same difference, you judgemental prick. If anything I have the moral high ground. At least I try to build up some rapport first. Bet you don’t chat to your pork or your beef do you? Truth is, it’s pretty lonely just staying in my flat. I get one visitor a week, a man that the clinic send to ‘evaluate’ me, asking me about what I think, what I feel. It’s all rubbish of course, there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just different.
Anyway, every so often there’s an article in the paper about a woman’s body being found in a ditch or something. I usually take the purse, knock her around a bit or something. It’s Liverpool, it’s not that much of a stretch to think that some council estate bint walked somewhere a bit lonely, got into trouble and ended up as an ex-bint. I usually dump the body somewhere, try mix it up a bit to avoid suspicion. I realize, having written this, that the ‘rapport’ I previously mentioned may be slightly overstated. Admittedly it’s not exactly the vampiric romance ‘Twilight’ would have you believe. As a side note, fuck ‘Twilight’. Done nothing for our lot but make us a laughing stock. I suppose teenage girls are a bit more susceptible these days but that was never really a challenge.
The other day I picked up the paper from that doormat (have to have it delivered, canÂ’t really go out to get it) and found that one of my conquests was featured. I didnÂ’t much appreciate the tone of this one though. The article made out that it had been some sort of sexual attack, the bite on the neck being evidence of this. Imagine my resentment. I go out, do something admittedly unpleasant but necessary, and I am labelled some sort of pervert by a journalist that doesnÂ’t even know me.
It reminded me of the time I was caught. I was fairly young, early twenties, stopped during an attack. I was gutted as you can well imagine. Anyway, I had to see some doctors, they interpreted it as some sort of mental defect and I was locked up in some sheltered living with a load of mentals for four years. Of course I stopped the whole blood thing to appease them so I would be let out again. I got through but I did not like it. Eventually I was allowed to leave, although IÂ’m still under surveillance to some extent with my weekly visits. CanÂ’t complain though, I suppose.
Think IÂ’ll probably head off out tonight. ThereÂ’ll be someone in the park. Got to fill the days somehow havenÂ’t you?
Night is the best time to be a vampire. The twenty-first century is not.
We just donÂ’t have the same impact these days. We used to be terrifying. Today people donÂ’t even credit our existence. ItÂ’s all those films. TheyÂ’re all shit. A vampire in a film has to be some pretentious, smug tosser who dresses like an aristocratic goth and whose head is so far up their own arse that itÂ’s a wonder that they can actually bite anyone. The actual life of a vampire is far less romantic.
I live in a small, pretty squalid flat in the suburbs of Liverpool. ItÂ’s horrible but itÂ’s what I can afford. Since I canÂ’t go out in the day to work, IÂ’m on benefits. That and the money I get from the government for my disability is all I have to live off. Anyway, the one upside of my grotty lodging is the face that the main window looks out onto a park. This park is the main obstacle for people getting back to the estate I live near from the city centre. As such, thereÂ’s always someone trudging through this park, even at night. Victims you might say.
I wouldn’t though. You eat meat don’t you? Same difference, you judgemental prick. If anything I have the moral high ground. At least I try to build up some rapport first. Bet you don’t chat to your pork or your beef do you? Truth is, it’s pretty lonely just staying in my flat. I get one visitor a week, a man that the clinic send to ‘evaluate’ me, asking me about what I think, what I feel. It’s all rubbish of course, there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just different.
Anyway, every so often there’s an article in the paper about a woman’s body being found in a ditch or something. I usually take the purse, knock her around a bit or something. It’s Liverpool, it’s not that much of a stretch to think that some council estate bint walked somewhere a bit lonely, got into trouble and ended up as an ex-bint. I usually dump the body somewhere, try mix it up a bit to avoid suspicion. I realize, having written this, that the ‘rapport’ I previously mentioned may be slightly overstated. Admittedly it’s not exactly the vampiric romance ‘Twilight’ would have you believe. As a side note, fuck ‘Twilight’. Done nothing for our lot but make us a laughing stock. I suppose teenage girls are a bit more susceptible these days but that was never really a challenge.
The other day I picked up the paper from that doormat (have to have it delivered, canÂ’t really go out to get it) and found that one of my conquests was featured. I didnÂ’t much appreciate the tone of this one though. The article made out that it had been some sort of sexual attack, the bite on the neck being evidence of this. Imagine my resentment. I go out, do something admittedly unpleasant but necessary, and I am labelled some sort of pervert by a journalist that doesnÂ’t even know me.
It reminded me of the time I was caught. I was fairly young, early twenties, stopped during an attack. I was gutted as you can well imagine. Anyway, I had to see some doctors, they interpreted it as some sort of mental defect and I was locked up in some sheltered living with a load of mentals for four years. Of course I stopped the whole blood thing to appease them so I would be let out again. I got through but I did not like it. Eventually I was allowed to leave, although IÂ’m still under surveillance to some extent with my weekly visits. CanÂ’t complain though, I suppose.
Think IÂ’ll probably head off out tonight. ThereÂ’ll be someone in the park. Got to fill the days somehow havenÂ’t you?
Cradle
(1,632 Words)
Samuel moved his hand left and grasped at something in the dim of the display lights. Small beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. A rhythmic series of quiet whimpers could be heard over the sputtering hum of the machinery. Mark always wondered why Samuel never quite managed to adapt to the sims. He, like everyone else, could function inside without ever betraying themselves to those on the outside. SamuelÂ’s not-quite-subtle gyrations, perspiration, and moans were tell-tale signs of the type of sim he was in. Mark hated it when Samuel waited until he was sleeping to do this, because it always woke him up. After a while, Mark was able to fall to a dreamless sleep.
“Mark?” Samuel asked. Nothing. Samuel turned his head just enough to see his brother deep in sleep. “Mark, are you awake? Mark?”
Why can’t he just let me get some sleep, Mark thought to himself before he slowly opened his eyes. “Well…I’m awake now. What is it, Samuel?” Mark asked. Fatigue coursed through Mark’s body like a wave. He had actually managed to get some sleep, too, but not enough to feel rejuvenated. He turned over in his bed to face his brother. “Why’d you have to wake me up?” he groaned.
Samuel was sitting in the center of the room with several terminals strewn about the floor, their light casting sick and withering shadows on the walls and ceiling. His back was toward Mark but he had his head turned to the side. His face was enveloped in the blackness of shade. Dozens of the thick cords that hung from the panel in the ceiling were sloppily laying about the floor, some resting atop SamuelÂ’s bare feet, the others connected to the displays. One cord swung sleepily near his brotherÂ’s head, the many wires within exposed. No. That canÂ’t be right, Mark thought to himself. He rubbed at his eyes and focused at the loose cord, the frayed and singed fibers that were visible at the end of it. Mark jumped off his bed, not entirely why he was suddenly afraid.
“Samuel?” Mark called out. No response. As he neared Samuel he stepped in something cold and slippery and lost his balance. He reached out wildly at anything to grab on to as he fell backward—his feet shot straight out and kicked into Samuel. He smacked the back of his head against the metal frame of his bed and cried out as his vision momentarily flashed a reddish color and pain beyond imagining took hold of him. He must have woken up his parents because at that time he heard their bed start creaking and the muffled sounds of his mother’s voice. The world was spinning around him. He inched his head up just enough to see over his rapidly rising chest and saw Samuel begin to slump over to his side.
As Samuel slumped over, a peculiar sound had begun: it sounded like someone was peeing. Mark squirmed as the sound of liquid hitting the ground grew louder and louder. He flattened his open hand against the cold hard floor, and pressed down onto it as hard as he could. Just as the joints in his hands had begun to hurt, he felt a rush of liquid hit his hand. The cold liquid came from SamuelÂ’s direction. Mark raised his hand up so he could see just as his mother opened the door to his room, flooding his room with light. Something red and thick was on his fingers, Mark saw. He turned his hand over and some of the substance began to drip onto his face and into his mouth. He barely even heard his mother scream.
Why did it taste like blood?
He placed his hand back on the now wet ground and tried to push himself up. His mother was huddled over Samuel, he could see, cradling him. Crying. His hands slipped against the slick ground and his head crashed against the hard floor in the exact same spot he had earlier hurt. Inside his head rang out in an explosion of pain and his vision became very pale. The world seemed to have slipped beyond him.
He slept, then.
She bent down until her lips were touching his ear, “Wake up, Mark. You’ve slept long enough, now you’ve got to wake up.”
Her voice had become very faint, he could tell. Her confidence in his recovery was no longer there and it pained him to hear her despair. How much time had gone, he wondered? All Mark could remember was feeling SamuelÂ’s blood sticking to his hair and his head wanting to explode, but even he knew that it wasnÂ’t the pain in his head that kept him locked in his body. He had lost too much. When he first regained his thoughts he had heard his parents talking amongst themselves and then to him. He had heard doctors and Investigators. From what he could gather, the sim his brother had been in was a blackmarket job: smut.
“Some hacker decided to ‘have fun’ and send a barrage of corrupted data through an open connection into the kid’s adapter while he was inside. Normally, this would cause the subject to become too excited too quickly; cum in the pants or shittin’ themselves” he had heard an Investigator say. “The kid’s adapter was too old for that, one of the external ones. Blew half his goddamn head off.”
“What about the hacker?” This voice was a man’s, another Investigator.
“What about the hacker? ‘e never left any sign so there’s nothin’ we can do about it. If anyone’s the real criminal it isn’t some punk hacker, anyway.”
That was around the time that Mark stopped hearing from his dad.
That was a while ago.
***
She straightens up in her seat and rubs her wrist against the pain in the small of her back. She’s been aging poorly ever since that night. With an air of futility she sighs and moves in close to his ear before continuing, “Please wake up, baby. If you don’t wake up soon you won’t be able to see your father before he goes away. Just open your eye or wiggle your toe. Anything. That’s all you’ve got to do for now.”
Someone behind her clears his throat, “Ma’am, are you busy? We need to talk.”
She turns around to face him, an older man who looks to be around fifty. “About what?” she asks, trying her best to not let her face betray her.
“It’s about—,” he begins, as if unsure of how to continue. Almost imperceptivity, he straightens his posture and speaks with a hint of authority, “Well…we didn’t get a payment for this week.” He pauses before continuing, “We can keep the kid on for this week but it’s going to put you in debt…and with your job it will be at least a year before you’ll be solvent—”
“Look,” she sighs, “I’ve gotta make—it’s just hard for me, you understand? Sometimes you have to—” she starts before winding down to a whisper. She looks back up at him, her eyes wet with tears, “Fine…you can cut it off today, but I want to—I NEED to be here. He’s my son—”
“I understand,” he interrupts, “We’ll let you know beforehand.”
To Mark, the passage of time was imperceptible, but she took advantage of every minute that she had.
After a time, she sat down on the bed next to him and lifted his small body up and resting his head against her waist, “Here, c’mon,” she exhales as she repositions him, “get comfortable. Have I ever told you about the first time I held you? I was 36 years old, at the time, and I had just met your uncle. He was the one that drove me to the hospital when I went into labor. It was a Tuesday. I was in labor for 16 hours, it was the longest pain I’ve ever felt. Your brother, when it was his time, I was only in labor for 4 hours. But you, you took your time.” She smiles wearily, “The doctors, they asked me if I wanted any pain medicine and I told them ‘No’. They kept asking me and I kept saying no—you see, when I had your brother, I took the medicine and it took me hours to think straight. By the time I was able to hold him they had already examined him and tagged him. I wanted to see you before they did any of that, you know why? I wanted to hold you in my arms in case, just in case, you didn’t pass the examination. I wanted to at least hold you in my arms. So I told them, ‘No’ and they punished me for it. They strapped me up and left the door open for all those hours. Anyone walking by got a clear view—it was humiliating—but it was worth it. When you were born it was the worst pain in my life, but your father was there and I heard your first cries! I asked them to hold you and I cupped you in my arms and I cried, baby, I cried. I loved you so much and I never regretted a minute of that night. You were born at 11:18 and passed your examination at two in the afternoon. I held you in my arms for hours—days—no, months, before I ever let you go.”
“I love you, Mark” she cries.
Mark, watching from behind as his mother lowers him onto the bed, her tears falling on his ever cooling face.
“I love you, too” he says as he turns away.
(1,632 Words)
Samuel moved his hand left and grasped at something in the dim of the display lights. Small beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. A rhythmic series of quiet whimpers could be heard over the sputtering hum of the machinery. Mark always wondered why Samuel never quite managed to adapt to the sims. He, like everyone else, could function inside without ever betraying themselves to those on the outside. SamuelÂ’s not-quite-subtle gyrations, perspiration, and moans were tell-tale signs of the type of sim he was in. Mark hated it when Samuel waited until he was sleeping to do this, because it always woke him up. After a while, Mark was able to fall to a dreamless sleep.
“Mark?” Samuel asked. Nothing. Samuel turned his head just enough to see his brother deep in sleep. “Mark, are you awake? Mark?”
Why can’t he just let me get some sleep, Mark thought to himself before he slowly opened his eyes. “Well…I’m awake now. What is it, Samuel?” Mark asked. Fatigue coursed through Mark’s body like a wave. He had actually managed to get some sleep, too, but not enough to feel rejuvenated. He turned over in his bed to face his brother. “Why’d you have to wake me up?” he groaned.
Samuel was sitting in the center of the room with several terminals strewn about the floor, their light casting sick and withering shadows on the walls and ceiling. His back was toward Mark but he had his head turned to the side. His face was enveloped in the blackness of shade. Dozens of the thick cords that hung from the panel in the ceiling were sloppily laying about the floor, some resting atop SamuelÂ’s bare feet, the others connected to the displays. One cord swung sleepily near his brotherÂ’s head, the many wires within exposed. No. That canÂ’t be right, Mark thought to himself. He rubbed at his eyes and focused at the loose cord, the frayed and singed fibers that were visible at the end of it. Mark jumped off his bed, not entirely why he was suddenly afraid.
“Samuel?” Mark called out. No response. As he neared Samuel he stepped in something cold and slippery and lost his balance. He reached out wildly at anything to grab on to as he fell backward—his feet shot straight out and kicked into Samuel. He smacked the back of his head against the metal frame of his bed and cried out as his vision momentarily flashed a reddish color and pain beyond imagining took hold of him. He must have woken up his parents because at that time he heard their bed start creaking and the muffled sounds of his mother’s voice. The world was spinning around him. He inched his head up just enough to see over his rapidly rising chest and saw Samuel begin to slump over to his side.
As Samuel slumped over, a peculiar sound had begun: it sounded like someone was peeing. Mark squirmed as the sound of liquid hitting the ground grew louder and louder. He flattened his open hand against the cold hard floor, and pressed down onto it as hard as he could. Just as the joints in his hands had begun to hurt, he felt a rush of liquid hit his hand. The cold liquid came from SamuelÂ’s direction. Mark raised his hand up so he could see just as his mother opened the door to his room, flooding his room with light. Something red and thick was on his fingers, Mark saw. He turned his hand over and some of the substance began to drip onto his face and into his mouth. He barely even heard his mother scream.
Why did it taste like blood?
He placed his hand back on the now wet ground and tried to push himself up. His mother was huddled over Samuel, he could see, cradling him. Crying. His hands slipped against the slick ground and his head crashed against the hard floor in the exact same spot he had earlier hurt. Inside his head rang out in an explosion of pain and his vision became very pale. The world seemed to have slipped beyond him.
He slept, then.
She bent down until her lips were touching his ear, “Wake up, Mark. You’ve slept long enough, now you’ve got to wake up.”
Her voice had become very faint, he could tell. Her confidence in his recovery was no longer there and it pained him to hear her despair. How much time had gone, he wondered? All Mark could remember was feeling SamuelÂ’s blood sticking to his hair and his head wanting to explode, but even he knew that it wasnÂ’t the pain in his head that kept him locked in his body. He had lost too much. When he first regained his thoughts he had heard his parents talking amongst themselves and then to him. He had heard doctors and Investigators. From what he could gather, the sim his brother had been in was a blackmarket job: smut.
“Some hacker decided to ‘have fun’ and send a barrage of corrupted data through an open connection into the kid’s adapter while he was inside. Normally, this would cause the subject to become too excited too quickly; cum in the pants or shittin’ themselves” he had heard an Investigator say. “The kid’s adapter was too old for that, one of the external ones. Blew half his goddamn head off.”
“What about the hacker?” This voice was a man’s, another Investigator.
“What about the hacker? ‘e never left any sign so there’s nothin’ we can do about it. If anyone’s the real criminal it isn’t some punk hacker, anyway.”
That was around the time that Mark stopped hearing from his dad.
That was a while ago.
***
She straightens up in her seat and rubs her wrist against the pain in the small of her back. She’s been aging poorly ever since that night. With an air of futility she sighs and moves in close to his ear before continuing, “Please wake up, baby. If you don’t wake up soon you won’t be able to see your father before he goes away. Just open your eye or wiggle your toe. Anything. That’s all you’ve got to do for now.”
Someone behind her clears his throat, “Ma’am, are you busy? We need to talk.”
She turns around to face him, an older man who looks to be around fifty. “About what?” she asks, trying her best to not let her face betray her.
“It’s about—,” he begins, as if unsure of how to continue. Almost imperceptivity, he straightens his posture and speaks with a hint of authority, “Well…we didn’t get a payment for this week.” He pauses before continuing, “We can keep the kid on for this week but it’s going to put you in debt…and with your job it will be at least a year before you’ll be solvent—”
“Look,” she sighs, “I’ve gotta make—it’s just hard for me, you understand? Sometimes you have to—” she starts before winding down to a whisper. She looks back up at him, her eyes wet with tears, “Fine…you can cut it off today, but I want to—I NEED to be here. He’s my son—”
“I understand,” he interrupts, “We’ll let you know beforehand.”
To Mark, the passage of time was imperceptible, but she took advantage of every minute that she had.
After a time, she sat down on the bed next to him and lifted his small body up and resting his head against her waist, “Here, c’mon,” she exhales as she repositions him, “get comfortable. Have I ever told you about the first time I held you? I was 36 years old, at the time, and I had just met your uncle. He was the one that drove me to the hospital when I went into labor. It was a Tuesday. I was in labor for 16 hours, it was the longest pain I’ve ever felt. Your brother, when it was his time, I was only in labor for 4 hours. But you, you took your time.” She smiles wearily, “The doctors, they asked me if I wanted any pain medicine and I told them ‘No’. They kept asking me and I kept saying no—you see, when I had your brother, I took the medicine and it took me hours to think straight. By the time I was able to hold him they had already examined him and tagged him. I wanted to see you before they did any of that, you know why? I wanted to hold you in my arms in case, just in case, you didn’t pass the examination. I wanted to at least hold you in my arms. So I told them, ‘No’ and they punished me for it. They strapped me up and left the door open for all those hours. Anyone walking by got a clear view—it was humiliating—but it was worth it. When you were born it was the worst pain in my life, but your father was there and I heard your first cries! I asked them to hold you and I cupped you in my arms and I cried, baby, I cried. I loved you so much and I never regretted a minute of that night. You were born at 11:18 and passed your examination at two in the afternoon. I held you in my arms for hours—days—no, months, before I ever let you go.”
“I love you, Mark” she cries.
Mark, watching from behind as his mother lowers him onto the bed, her tears falling on his ever cooling face.
“I love you, too” he says as he turns away.
You can do it, man! Just... believe in yourself.Scribble said:
Seriously though, I'm in kind of the same boat. I'm going to have to squeeze it in somewhere amidst all the other stuff, I guess. Anyway, I think it's better to submit something that's crap than to submit nothing, so I'll at least get something in.
crowphoenix
Banned
Life's thrown me a bit of a curve as well. One that I'm none too happy about. It'll take some time to clear my head, but I guarantee I'll have another middling piece.Scribble said:
I have a rough idea of where the story is going before I write it, and I usually have a few notes that I've jotted down about what's going to happen, but I don't usually fully outline my short stories, at least not for these challenges.Timedog said:
I outline heavily for NaNoWriMo, though, and it seems to work well for that. Maybe I should give a more thorough outline a try for one of these challenges.
Hey, there's a possible future secondary objective--outline your story. Or conversely (and probably more fun as an objective), don't plan ahead at all and just wing it.
i think my worst stories(not votes wise) are when I tried to do too much outlining. I think it puts my brain into this linear mode where I get bogged down by plot inconsistencies that i didn't think of when outlining and other little details and I end up editing as I write and then I'm fucked and I lose any inspiration I had like 3 paragraphs in.
crowphoenix
Banned
I tend to have a very rough outline in my head. What the character is doing, why they are there, what's going down, but the actual how something occurs is something that I do as I'm writing. Most of my outlines tend to involve, a starting point and a rough idea of the finish line. I like to see how my characters would get to it.
Hmm... which ones did you outline? I'm guessing you outlined the one about the sculptor, but I thought that actually turned out pretty well...Timedog said:
Funny enough, it's almost the opposite for me. If I don't plan things out at all, I tend to get locked into this half-writing, half-trying to figure out what comes next mode. And then my writing suffers because I'm over-thinking it. So outlining, at least to a point, helps me write without getting stuck or starting to over-think things.
At his parentsÂ’ funeral, Olber was told by the minister that his parents werenÂ’t dead, but that they were waiting for him, and that one day he would see them again. How can this be, said Olber, pointing to the twin caskets. My parents are right there.
No, Olber, said the minister. Those are but empty vessels. Your parents are watching over you from above, in Heaven.
Being a young boy of four-and-a-half, Olber interpreted the ministerÂ’s words quite literally, and every day he scoured the night skies with a telescope. For within the night was the twinkling star of his fatherÂ’s eye, the ebony embrace of his motherÂ’s love.
*****
In the beginning, there was infinite mass bound into an indescribably dense point of light. But this light could not be contained, and it was with a great and brilliant violence that this light was unleashed into the heavens. Everything that came to be, and everything that ever will be, was written in those first moments. Every birth and every death foretold by the forces set free at the dawn of time.
Oceans of atoms coalesced over eons into galaxies, stars, and planets. From this cosmic minuet, a curious phenomenon emerged. Tiny bits of dust came into being, playing and bickering and loving each other for a brief instant before returning to the darkness from which they came.
*****
In his last years, Olber found himself thinking of the night skies that had comforted him as a child. He had long since ceased his daily ritual of looking to the stars. But as his time drew to an end, Olber once again looked forward to the night, to be reunited with those that he lost long ago.
No, Olber, said the minister. Those are but empty vessels. Your parents are watching over you from above, in Heaven.
Being a young boy of four-and-a-half, Olber interpreted the ministerÂ’s words quite literally, and every day he scoured the night skies with a telescope. For within the night was the twinkling star of his fatherÂ’s eye, the ebony embrace of his motherÂ’s love.
*****
In the beginning, there was infinite mass bound into an indescribably dense point of light. But this light could not be contained, and it was with a great and brilliant violence that this light was unleashed into the heavens. Everything that came to be, and everything that ever will be, was written in those first moments. Every birth and every death foretold by the forces set free at the dawn of time.
Oceans of atoms coalesced over eons into galaxies, stars, and planets. From this cosmic minuet, a curious phenomenon emerged. Tiny bits of dust came into being, playing and bickering and loving each other for a brief instant before returning to the darkness from which they came.
*****
In his last years, Olber found himself thinking of the night skies that had comforted him as a child. He had long since ceased his daily ritual of looking to the stars. But as his time drew to an end, Olber once again looked forward to the night, to be reunited with those that he lost long ago.
MorisUkunRasik
Member
"Midnight Ride" Word Count: 826
Squad car 215's lights drifted down on the curving road, pushing forward through snow and sleet, eventually up and over the hill. My jawline aching and lips quivering, as my swollen eyes peek through slits. My left foot naked and completely vulnerable to snow all around me, my hands restrained behind my back. A barely decipherable green sign in front of me layered with aged spray paint, "Welcome To Saskatoon", welcome indeed.
Foot in front of foot, one after the other, again and again and progress would come. The air that had licked my face in the summer has become razor-ed with ice, whipping and lashing at my exposed skin. I hold back tears for the sake of my warmth, while I recall preceded events that pale this obsidian pain to porcelain. Kicking and screaming to stop a beating so severe I can't make a full account of it. Flashlights descending on my bones with such force, I swear I can hear them crack. The butt end of standard issues against my head, leather heels forced into my gut. Leather gloved hands pull me out of the back of the cruiser, his mitts shoving my face onto the ice cold hood. In my peripheral, I can see the moon cringe with every blow. I fall exhausted with my hands handcuffed behind my back, my legs grabbed and dragged. My left shoe lost in the process, and I'm propped back up in the back of the car.
A few moments later I would be thrown out, just yards from Saskatoon city limits. I lower my shoulder and take on the wind full force. I grind on through snow stacked in unforgiving piles. I put my arms straight down and swing my legs behind the handcuffs. My hands previously numbed by pain now silent, dormant and painted purple at the tips. I don't dare look at my sensation-less foot. I pull my shirt up to cover my mouth and trudge on. I stare down and curse at the road in front of me, praying to any God that could save me. I imagine a round table discussion in the heavens, debating back and forth whether or not to directly intervene. The Gods display nothing but shrugs and a "time will resolve it all" attitude. Hell is mountains of snow. Hell is frozen wind wrapping a blank landscape. I can see the top of the hill in the distance, I tell myself if I can make it to the top, I'll be home free. If I can make it to the top I would have saved my soul.
My chattering teeth form an erratic beat and my ears plead with my brain to make it stop. I clinch my jaw to stop my noise but my mouth is forced open by a sharp pain. I run my tongue around my mouth to take inventory of my teeth. I close my eyes to keep my mind from approximating the distance. With my last burst of energy I run up the hill. I shut down all negative thoughts. The mental images of my funeral, snapshots of friends and families consoling each other are all put on the back burner. Film reels of my return run in my head. My mother and father taken back by the consequence of my mundane acts. My friends putting me in back of a car and darting to the hospital. The immediate events white wash and fade to black. My mind switches to eventual birthday parties, holiday celebrations, graduations, weddings and promotions. And then there it is, the top of the hill.
I peer down on it, the city smiles at me and cheers me on. The city lights looks hand painted, like a thousand fireflies caught in a spider's web. The distance is all down hill from here until the road levels out with the city. The muscles in my thighs are tight from the walk thus far. I can see at the base of the hill that there's a car coming towards me. I squint my eyes almost closed and flail my arms for its attention. The flood light by his side mirror is turned on and sweeps the roadside. It hits me and a sinking feeling enters my stomach. I race away from the road at a slant angel towards the city. He pounds the gas and steers off road. He swerves ten feet in front of me and the headlights now cast on me. I fall to my knees and accept the gallows before me. His hand lands warm on my shoulder and he hoists me up.
"Son, you a'right?"
I raise my head and saw an elderly man's face covered with a grimace and marked with concerned. I smiled at him and laughed. Unaware at how my red teeth and battered face must have shocked him.
"Jesus boy, we need to get you some help. Tonight wasn' your night, was it?"
Squad car 215's lights drifted down on the curving road, pushing forward through snow and sleet, eventually up and over the hill. My jawline aching and lips quivering, as my swollen eyes peek through slits. My left foot naked and completely vulnerable to snow all around me, my hands restrained behind my back. A barely decipherable green sign in front of me layered with aged spray paint, "Welcome To Saskatoon", welcome indeed.
Foot in front of foot, one after the other, again and again and progress would come. The air that had licked my face in the summer has become razor-ed with ice, whipping and lashing at my exposed skin. I hold back tears for the sake of my warmth, while I recall preceded events that pale this obsidian pain to porcelain. Kicking and screaming to stop a beating so severe I can't make a full account of it. Flashlights descending on my bones with such force, I swear I can hear them crack. The butt end of standard issues against my head, leather heels forced into my gut. Leather gloved hands pull me out of the back of the cruiser, his mitts shoving my face onto the ice cold hood. In my peripheral, I can see the moon cringe with every blow. I fall exhausted with my hands handcuffed behind my back, my legs grabbed and dragged. My left shoe lost in the process, and I'm propped back up in the back of the car.
A few moments later I would be thrown out, just yards from Saskatoon city limits. I lower my shoulder and take on the wind full force. I grind on through snow stacked in unforgiving piles. I put my arms straight down and swing my legs behind the handcuffs. My hands previously numbed by pain now silent, dormant and painted purple at the tips. I don't dare look at my sensation-less foot. I pull my shirt up to cover my mouth and trudge on. I stare down and curse at the road in front of me, praying to any God that could save me. I imagine a round table discussion in the heavens, debating back and forth whether or not to directly intervene. The Gods display nothing but shrugs and a "time will resolve it all" attitude. Hell is mountains of snow. Hell is frozen wind wrapping a blank landscape. I can see the top of the hill in the distance, I tell myself if I can make it to the top, I'll be home free. If I can make it to the top I would have saved my soul.
My chattering teeth form an erratic beat and my ears plead with my brain to make it stop. I clinch my jaw to stop my noise but my mouth is forced open by a sharp pain. I run my tongue around my mouth to take inventory of my teeth. I close my eyes to keep my mind from approximating the distance. With my last burst of energy I run up the hill. I shut down all negative thoughts. The mental images of my funeral, snapshots of friends and families consoling each other are all put on the back burner. Film reels of my return run in my head. My mother and father taken back by the consequence of my mundane acts. My friends putting me in back of a car and darting to the hospital. The immediate events white wash and fade to black. My mind switches to eventual birthday parties, holiday celebrations, graduations, weddings and promotions. And then there it is, the top of the hill.
I peer down on it, the city smiles at me and cheers me on. The city lights looks hand painted, like a thousand fireflies caught in a spider's web. The distance is all down hill from here until the road levels out with the city. The muscles in my thighs are tight from the walk thus far. I can see at the base of the hill that there's a car coming towards me. I squint my eyes almost closed and flail my arms for its attention. The flood light by his side mirror is turned on and sweeps the roadside. It hits me and a sinking feeling enters my stomach. I race away from the road at a slant angel towards the city. He pounds the gas and steers off road. He swerves ten feet in front of me and the headlights now cast on me. I fall to my knees and accept the gallows before me. His hand lands warm on my shoulder and he hoists me up.
"Son, you a'right?"
I raise my head and saw an elderly man's face covered with a grimace and marked with concerned. I smiled at him and laughed. Unaware at how my red teeth and battered face must have shocked him.
"Jesus boy, we need to get you some help. Tonight wasn' your night, was it?"
Great Rumbler
Member
Timedog said:
Not usually. If I'm writing something really long, I like to lay thing out in my mind at least somewhat so I know where I'm going. With short stories like these, I usually start with a rough idea or a couple of sentences and then go from there.
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
Timedog said:
Not this time. I just kinda went with it too see how I could do just improving.
crowphoenix
Banned
Outlining too much is what does that for me. I end up spending so much time trying to remember the exact turn of phrase I had in my mind when I first thought it up that I end up disgusted and angry at my piece before I even began.Cyan said:
crowphoenix
Banned
Starting to look like I'm not going to make the deadline. I have to get a buddy moved out of his place after a nasty breakup today, and I may have to work on it tomorrow too. I'm still going to try to get it in (it's a rather simple idea), but I just wanted to give an update.
My father is a man that does not know night.
He works away,
a man chasing a waking dream,
the way other men dream while awake.
My father's dream however eludes him.
Like a fish in a river
it flashes a silver promise
then is gone
hidden in murky waters.
Still he works on and adapts.
Skills finely honed in the halls of great Spanish corporations
were shunned away by those that saw his badge of an accent
a badge of stupidity.
So the hands that wrote memos,
balanced bank sheets,
fired and hired,
gave loans
turned to bake bread,
clean buildings,
deliver newspapers.
Four mouths to feed,
eight hands to help,
few hours for sleep,
a single dream,
no night.
Yet though his dream eludes him
from his work
I was able to clasp a tight grip on the fish.
It thrashes and struggles,
but my grip is firm,
or at least I hope it is.
From my father's wakeful nights
my children and I enjoy restful sleep.
Cradled in hands stained with newspaper ink
and the scent of baking bread.
He works away,
a man chasing a waking dream,
the way other men dream while awake.
My father's dream however eludes him.
Like a fish in a river
it flashes a silver promise
then is gone
hidden in murky waters.
Still he works on and adapts.
Skills finely honed in the halls of great Spanish corporations
were shunned away by those that saw his badge of an accent
a badge of stupidity.
So the hands that wrote memos,
balanced bank sheets,
fired and hired,
gave loans
turned to bake bread,
clean buildings,
deliver newspapers.
Four mouths to feed,
eight hands to help,
few hours for sleep,
a single dream,
no night.
Yet though his dream eludes him
from his work
I was able to clasp a tight grip on the fish.
It thrashes and struggles,
but my grip is firm,
or at least I hope it is.
From my father's wakeful nights
my children and I enjoy restful sleep.
Cradled in hands stained with newspaper ink
and the scent of baking bread.
AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
Timedog said:
I usually do for the most part. They look a little random though and I do it in MSPAINT. Here is the image:
Here is what it says:
A) DANIEL CRAIG SUCKS AND DIES ON A COCK
-PARENTS CALL HIM A F*A*G*G*O*T
-COP OR SOMETHING
-BALLOONS FROM STORES
-PROMOTION? YES SIR.
C) LADY PARTNER BECOMES WHORE
-SISTER MAKES DBZ FAN-FICTION "OH NO PICALLO!" (/ADAM SANDLER)
-DUUUUUURRRRRRRRR, DO A LIST OF 7
4) THE HAUNTING OF A SHELL GAS STATION
END) SOLVE THE HOMO PROBLEM
Notes: Make C into A as one and 4 into its own, end as its own. Short. 1100 words or so.
“Dreams Under The Stars” (1,824 words)
Under a frozen sky filled with the milky shapes of cloud and snow, a man woke from sleep. He blinked in the dark, adjusting his blankets about his waist as he studied the darkened room around him. His fingers brushed against a switch. It snapped and he could see again. His familiar, wooden cabin enclosed the room. Snowflakes lazily settled outside the window.
He couldnÂ’t sleep, now that it was so late. Or early. He pulled his bathrobe off a hanging hook. Stopping in front of the mirror, he frisked his dark hair with his fingers and yawned. He proceeded through the bedroom door. A quick survey of his loft revealed that he wasnÂ’t alone. His short, red-headed friend stooped over a stovetop. As the man sleepily approached, her grip tightened around the ladle in her hand as if it were a club.
“Only me,” the man groggily reported.
She turned, saying with a hint of fatigue, “Speak up earlier next time, I had it in my head you were some kind of window-scaling lunatic”.
He mumbled something indistinct about liability or insurance before throwing himself into a wooden chair. His jaw hovered precariously above the table, dipping and retreating as he battled with spontaneous exhaustion.
“Looking like that, I have to wonder why you came out here in the first place,” she said.
“Beginning to regret it,” he groaned. He threw his head back and leaned into the chair, breathing audibly.
“You going to try to sleep?” she asked. Her ladle returned to the pot, swirling the broth in sweeping revolutions.
“Nah, no, too late for that now. Soup nearly done? I wouldn’t mind having some myself,” he said with one eye half-ajar.
“Probably not for a while,” she answered.
He sat straight. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to keep his mind occupied. Due to an unknown quirk or some area of neglect in his diet, he was very hungry. Forgoing sleep for a little while longer would be worth a bowl of freshly-made soup. He slammed his head into the table lightly in a bid to shake himself to alertness.
“Hey, everybody else is still sleeping,” the woman at the stove softly scolded.
“Sorry,” he croaked, his head still one with the table. He sat straight and tried to strike up a conversation. “Had the weirdest dream before I got up. Maybe it was something I ate.”
She replied, “Well, go ahead and tell me about it. Going to be a bit of a wait for this to be done.”
He shifted in his seat and made himself comfortable. Folding his arms on his lap, he began to describe where it all had started.
“It was dark…”
--
It was dark. The sky was clouded, and their bottom lips glowed softly in the rays of moonlight. The breeze lightly tossed the branches of pine trees to and fro in a quiet, midnight dance. A murmur poured over the wind and jumbling processions of torches mixed about on the valley floor.
They were the night-workers, and they mobbed to their stations as their forefathers had done for generations. They were not delivery men, maintenance workers, or anyone resembling workers no-one else wanted to replace. It was their calling to continue the noble industry of sunrise. Young men and women dreamed of being able to man the beasts of burden and the fastening lines, to see the world filled with light at the end of every struggle.
A light snow whipped about in the breeze, and the supervisor looked on. His name was Tolb. The wind rustled his long, white beard and mustache. His hands pulled down harshly on the rim of his fur-hat, reseating it securely. His blue eyes squinted against the weather.
An underling stopped by, with a question or two for the bearded overseer. The raging flurries stunted their voices beyond several feet, so they leaned towards each other and made their best efforts by shouting. Finding himself satisfied with TolbÂ’s answers, the underling moved on toward his own station.
A creaky door swing wide behind Tolb, and a hooded man emerged from a log-built structure. His brown eyes contrasted with his brown-toned facial hair. It ran in thick courses along his face, but was frequently trimmed short. The hood itself did an admirable job of keeping the weather out of his eyes, but he frequently carried a pair of glasses as a supplement. Taking notice of the overseer as he stepped out onto the snow, he coughed.
“Evening, Tolb,” the hooded man greeted.
“Evening, Vorek,” Tolb replied. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up today at all”.
“Ah, well, you know. I’m not quite over my symptoms just yet,” Vorek replied. “Things going according to schedule?”
“Not everything. We’re short rope,” Tolb said. He turned to look at Vorek, who was the corporation’s supply requisition officer. Every piece of rope, food, and equipment passed under his pen at least once.
“Gimpy gears!” he remarked in one of his odd exclamations. “How much rope are we talking about?”
“Enough to bring it in crooked, Vorek,” he answered. If lines were missing, there’d be too much pull in one area and not enough in another. Crooked.
Vorek grinned. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Bring that map of yours inside, I’ll find you some rope”. He retreated back indoors, and Tolb shuffled away from his post to follow.
The map was laid out on a large table, and the two men gathered around it. Vorek fumbled inside his coat for his pair of wood-framed glasses and planted them on the bridge of his nose. He didnÂ’t need them to see, but he liked to use them in this manner anyway. Vorek was of the opinion that it added an air of sophistication.
“Are the roads to Brennig clear?” Vorek asked as he studied the map.
“No, an avalanche closed it three days ago,” Tolb replied. His fingers gripped a cigar and he smoked leisurely in a chair next to Vorek’s.
“Alright, then we’ll have to bring some in from Praula. A crate’s worth can be here within a few hours,” Vorek mused.
“That’ll be fine,” Tolb answered before he left the room. He dispatched riders immediately. Everything was tied to a schedule. Everyone could only afford to have schedules slip a few times a year, and you had to apologize for those slips anyway.
Tolb and Vorek returned outside, watching the procession of torches from the cliff-side observation point. Their new rope arrived as the riders marked their return a few hours later. It was at these quiet times in the job, the times after all the organizing and crises had passed, it was at this point that one fell deepest into thought.
Mulling over scraps of contemplation in his mind, Vorek spoke. “Hey Tolb, do you ever wonder if we’re defined by our actions or by imagination? Is the mirror us, or do we look into the eyes of the real dreamer?”
Tolb shifted onto one foot and shook his coat briefly. “In one of those moods again?” He glanced over at Vorek and saw that the question was still in play. “I can’t claim to know. If this is but a dream, we may at least be thankful that it is vivid,” he said.
“For how long? When will the dreamer pull away from the looking glass?” Vorek asked. He pulled his hood down to around his ears, as if what was interfering with the discussion at hand.
“When? I shall venture only as far as ‘if’, Vorek,” Tolb replied. He adjusted his fur hat again as the wind picked up. He observed as another cycle of labor began below them.
Newly requisitioned mooring ropes were carried upward in the talons of squadrons of giant eagles. The lines coiled about low-lying clouds to form heavenly anchors. The loose ends were dragged down and driven deep into the ground below. They were then fastened with large boulders placed carefully above, weighting the rope adequately.
“If that is what we are, what will define us when we go? Memory? Retelling?” Vorek asked.
Tolb shivered. He didn’t much care for this sort of talk; it accomplished nothing beyond compounding his own discomfort. “I don’t know, Vorek”.
The slender mooring ropes tensed and elongated horn-wails snapped the men to attention. Grunting behemoths stood idly in their harnesses, waiting for the crack of a taskmasterÂ’s whip. The mooring lines pulled and the creatures pushed, the latter assembly winning by virtue of sheer numbers. They marched forward, whips flying and men jostling behind them. The morning was behind them.
--
“The morning was behind them,” he said as he took pause.
The woman gave the soup another stir, saying, “Yep, I think you must have eaten something funky to get a dream as odd as that. Here’s hoping your sub-conscious agrees with the soup, mm?”
She handed him a bowl of the steaming soup, and he took it gladly. He was less sleepy now, but his appetite was omnipresent once woken. As he sampled hot spoonfuls of the stuff, he was contented.
“It always seems like it’s the funky dreams that matter the most,” he mused. She nodded. She slurped at the edges of her own bowl, and a peaceful silence lingered for a short time. She grew restless, however, and stalked about the windows in a manner typical to house-cats.
“It must be gorgeous outside, what with all that snow. Perfect conditions for an outdoor breakfast,” she asserted. She eyed the scenery through the window, almost as if calculating how long before the vista might vanish before their eyes. “Snow, soup, and a nice view. You game?” she asked as she scrutinized her red hair in the window reflection.
He was. He wouldnÂ’t be going back to bed, and now he didnÂ’t want to miss the best part of the morning. Sleep would have been nice, but this was nicer still. Soon the morning would turn to day, soon the remainders of sleep would shake themselves and everyone would go back to being hyperactive busy-bodies.
After grabbing his coat, he followed her out into the frozen yard. They selected a large tree, and having done so, sat underneath it to resume eating. Their backs snuggled against its bark and they looked toward the horizon. It was dark still, with faint light creeping around the edges. They hastened now, setting their bowls down in anticipation of what was fast approaching.
A brilliant point of light grew upon the horizonÂ’s summit. Dark clouds took forms and color, and they spread themselves across the firmament of the sky like a sprawling blanket. The snow slowed and the wind warmed. The trees caught dying light beams in their branches. A warmed breeze strengthened and seemed to push the stars back. The curtains of heaven drew back, ushering in an infant sunrise to the world.
Under a frozen sky filled with the milky shapes of cloud and snow, a man woke from sleep. He blinked in the dark, adjusting his blankets about his waist as he studied the darkened room around him. His fingers brushed against a switch. It snapped and he could see again. His familiar, wooden cabin enclosed the room. Snowflakes lazily settled outside the window.
He couldnÂ’t sleep, now that it was so late. Or early. He pulled his bathrobe off a hanging hook. Stopping in front of the mirror, he frisked his dark hair with his fingers and yawned. He proceeded through the bedroom door. A quick survey of his loft revealed that he wasnÂ’t alone. His short, red-headed friend stooped over a stovetop. As the man sleepily approached, her grip tightened around the ladle in her hand as if it were a club.
“Only me,” the man groggily reported.
She turned, saying with a hint of fatigue, “Speak up earlier next time, I had it in my head you were some kind of window-scaling lunatic”.
He mumbled something indistinct about liability or insurance before throwing himself into a wooden chair. His jaw hovered precariously above the table, dipping and retreating as he battled with spontaneous exhaustion.
“Looking like that, I have to wonder why you came out here in the first place,” she said.
“Beginning to regret it,” he groaned. He threw his head back and leaned into the chair, breathing audibly.
“You going to try to sleep?” she asked. Her ladle returned to the pot, swirling the broth in sweeping revolutions.
“Nah, no, too late for that now. Soup nearly done? I wouldn’t mind having some myself,” he said with one eye half-ajar.
“Probably not for a while,” she answered.
He sat straight. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to keep his mind occupied. Due to an unknown quirk or some area of neglect in his diet, he was very hungry. Forgoing sleep for a little while longer would be worth a bowl of freshly-made soup. He slammed his head into the table lightly in a bid to shake himself to alertness.
“Hey, everybody else is still sleeping,” the woman at the stove softly scolded.
“Sorry,” he croaked, his head still one with the table. He sat straight and tried to strike up a conversation. “Had the weirdest dream before I got up. Maybe it was something I ate.”
She replied, “Well, go ahead and tell me about it. Going to be a bit of a wait for this to be done.”
He shifted in his seat and made himself comfortable. Folding his arms on his lap, he began to describe where it all had started.
“It was dark…”
--
It was dark. The sky was clouded, and their bottom lips glowed softly in the rays of moonlight. The breeze lightly tossed the branches of pine trees to and fro in a quiet, midnight dance. A murmur poured over the wind and jumbling processions of torches mixed about on the valley floor.
They were the night-workers, and they mobbed to their stations as their forefathers had done for generations. They were not delivery men, maintenance workers, or anyone resembling workers no-one else wanted to replace. It was their calling to continue the noble industry of sunrise. Young men and women dreamed of being able to man the beasts of burden and the fastening lines, to see the world filled with light at the end of every struggle.
A light snow whipped about in the breeze, and the supervisor looked on. His name was Tolb. The wind rustled his long, white beard and mustache. His hands pulled down harshly on the rim of his fur-hat, reseating it securely. His blue eyes squinted against the weather.
An underling stopped by, with a question or two for the bearded overseer. The raging flurries stunted their voices beyond several feet, so they leaned towards each other and made their best efforts by shouting. Finding himself satisfied with TolbÂ’s answers, the underling moved on toward his own station.
A creaky door swing wide behind Tolb, and a hooded man emerged from a log-built structure. His brown eyes contrasted with his brown-toned facial hair. It ran in thick courses along his face, but was frequently trimmed short. The hood itself did an admirable job of keeping the weather out of his eyes, but he frequently carried a pair of glasses as a supplement. Taking notice of the overseer as he stepped out onto the snow, he coughed.
“Evening, Tolb,” the hooded man greeted.
“Evening, Vorek,” Tolb replied. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up today at all”.
“Ah, well, you know. I’m not quite over my symptoms just yet,” Vorek replied. “Things going according to schedule?”
“Not everything. We’re short rope,” Tolb said. He turned to look at Vorek, who was the corporation’s supply requisition officer. Every piece of rope, food, and equipment passed under his pen at least once.
“Gimpy gears!” he remarked in one of his odd exclamations. “How much rope are we talking about?”
“Enough to bring it in crooked, Vorek,” he answered. If lines were missing, there’d be too much pull in one area and not enough in another. Crooked.
Vorek grinned. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Bring that map of yours inside, I’ll find you some rope”. He retreated back indoors, and Tolb shuffled away from his post to follow.
The map was laid out on a large table, and the two men gathered around it. Vorek fumbled inside his coat for his pair of wood-framed glasses and planted them on the bridge of his nose. He didnÂ’t need them to see, but he liked to use them in this manner anyway. Vorek was of the opinion that it added an air of sophistication.
“Are the roads to Brennig clear?” Vorek asked as he studied the map.
“No, an avalanche closed it three days ago,” Tolb replied. His fingers gripped a cigar and he smoked leisurely in a chair next to Vorek’s.
“Alright, then we’ll have to bring some in from Praula. A crate’s worth can be here within a few hours,” Vorek mused.
“That’ll be fine,” Tolb answered before he left the room. He dispatched riders immediately. Everything was tied to a schedule. Everyone could only afford to have schedules slip a few times a year, and you had to apologize for those slips anyway.
Tolb and Vorek returned outside, watching the procession of torches from the cliff-side observation point. Their new rope arrived as the riders marked their return a few hours later. It was at these quiet times in the job, the times after all the organizing and crises had passed, it was at this point that one fell deepest into thought.
Mulling over scraps of contemplation in his mind, Vorek spoke. “Hey Tolb, do you ever wonder if we’re defined by our actions or by imagination? Is the mirror us, or do we look into the eyes of the real dreamer?”
Tolb shifted onto one foot and shook his coat briefly. “In one of those moods again?” He glanced over at Vorek and saw that the question was still in play. “I can’t claim to know. If this is but a dream, we may at least be thankful that it is vivid,” he said.
“For how long? When will the dreamer pull away from the looking glass?” Vorek asked. He pulled his hood down to around his ears, as if what was interfering with the discussion at hand.
“When? I shall venture only as far as ‘if’, Vorek,” Tolb replied. He adjusted his fur hat again as the wind picked up. He observed as another cycle of labor began below them.
Newly requisitioned mooring ropes were carried upward in the talons of squadrons of giant eagles. The lines coiled about low-lying clouds to form heavenly anchors. The loose ends were dragged down and driven deep into the ground below. They were then fastened with large boulders placed carefully above, weighting the rope adequately.
“If that is what we are, what will define us when we go? Memory? Retelling?” Vorek asked.
Tolb shivered. He didn’t much care for this sort of talk; it accomplished nothing beyond compounding his own discomfort. “I don’t know, Vorek”.
The slender mooring ropes tensed and elongated horn-wails snapped the men to attention. Grunting behemoths stood idly in their harnesses, waiting for the crack of a taskmasterÂ’s whip. The mooring lines pulled and the creatures pushed, the latter assembly winning by virtue of sheer numbers. They marched forward, whips flying and men jostling behind them. The morning was behind them.
--
“The morning was behind them,” he said as he took pause.
The woman gave the soup another stir, saying, “Yep, I think you must have eaten something funky to get a dream as odd as that. Here’s hoping your sub-conscious agrees with the soup, mm?”
She handed him a bowl of the steaming soup, and he took it gladly. He was less sleepy now, but his appetite was omnipresent once woken. As he sampled hot spoonfuls of the stuff, he was contented.
“It always seems like it’s the funky dreams that matter the most,” he mused. She nodded. She slurped at the edges of her own bowl, and a peaceful silence lingered for a short time. She grew restless, however, and stalked about the windows in a manner typical to house-cats.
“It must be gorgeous outside, what with all that snow. Perfect conditions for an outdoor breakfast,” she asserted. She eyed the scenery through the window, almost as if calculating how long before the vista might vanish before their eyes. “Snow, soup, and a nice view. You game?” she asked as she scrutinized her red hair in the window reflection.
He was. He wouldnÂ’t be going back to bed, and now he didnÂ’t want to miss the best part of the morning. Sleep would have been nice, but this was nicer still. Soon the morning would turn to day, soon the remainders of sleep would shake themselves and everyone would go back to being hyperactive busy-bodies.
After grabbing his coat, he followed her out into the frozen yard. They selected a large tree, and having done so, sat underneath it to resume eating. Their backs snuggled against its bark and they looked toward the horizon. It was dark still, with faint light creeping around the edges. They hastened now, setting their bowls down in anticipation of what was fast approaching.
A brilliant point of light grew upon the horizonÂ’s summit. Dark clouds took forms and color, and they spread themselves across the firmament of the sky like a sprawling blanket. The snow slowed and the wind warmed. The trees caught dying light beams in their branches. A warmed breeze strengthened and seemed to push the stars back. The curtains of heaven drew back, ushering in an infant sunrise to the world.
this is so cool.AlternativeUlster said:I usually do for the most part. They look a little random though and I do it in MSPAINT. Here is the image:
Here is what it says:
A) DANIEL CRAIG SUCKS AND DIES ON A COCK
-PARENTS CALL HIM A F*A*G*G*O*T
-COP OR SOMETHING
-BALLOONS FROM STORES
-PROMOTION? YES SIR.
C) LADY PARTNER BECOMES WHORE
-SISTER MAKES DBZ FAN-FICTION "OH NO PICALLO!" (/ADAM SANDLER)
-DUUUUUURRRRRRRRR, DO A LIST OF 7
4) THE HAUNTING OF A SHELL GAS STATION
END) SOLVE THE HOMO PROBLEM
Notes: Make C into A as one and 4 into its own, end as its own. Short. 1100 words or so.
AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
Timedog said:
You should make your next story outline in MSPAINT. I think it works wonders for your creativity.
AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
Timedog said:
You bet your ass I am. They will eventually get me for tax evasion and avoiding my student loans. This is why you never live somewhere that you have to sign a lease. I plan to eventually leave the country. Is there a country where cocaine is legal?
crowphoenix
Banned
I have my priorities in the wrong place.
AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
:lol I think the next challange should be a MSPaint storybook.
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