Post Your Stories! (Creative Writing)

[ALuckyChance]

I've been thinking of this for a while, and why the hell not. Any genre is allowed, but try not to be too obscene.

Don't let this be mistaken for the RP thread, as no participation will be happening, except for friendly suggestions on how to improve the stories you post.

[HEADING=3]Please put all creative writing in a spoiler box. Thank you.[/HEADING]

It would also be appreciated if you used Microsoft Word or something similar (OpenOffice, perhaps?) to help clean up grammar and punctuation errors.

I might post my own tomorrow.

Edit: Edited to be more precise.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Spoiler

Stories about what?

Ah, sorry. Edited now.

 

[Luke5515]

Spoiler: My story

Well this happened a few days ago. Me and my buddy were going to hop on a bus and go downtown for a game of DnD. We were at the bus stop and we got talking about how whenever we wait for a bus that we normally don't take, we freak out thinking that it's never going to show up and we read something wrong. So I just want to double check and I say "So what route does this bus take?" and he explains and then I ask "What time does it get here?" and he says 3:17-ish. And I say "3:17?" "3:17." "3:17?" "yes." "you mean the 3:17 that happened half an hour ago?" ".....Luke?...I fucked up." So we figure that there is another bus down a 10 minute walk from where we were. We start walking and I said, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if we turned around and just say the bus drive by?" I shit you not, no more than 3 seconds after I said that we hear a loud "Whhhuuuuurrr" and see our bus pull off. ".....Luke?.....I fucked up agian." We made it only missing 1 round.

EDIT: well this isn't a made up story. Just funny thing that happened a couple of days ago.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Come on guys, don't give up on me now! It's not like there's only one person who has a literary work to tell!

 

[Enigma6667]

Lemme warn you all, that all of my works are incredibly artsy. If you aren't into that shit, don't bother reading.

Spoiler: To Whom That Pounds The Nails (A Short Story About A Crucifix-Maker)

[to whom that pounds the nails.]

[written by enigma.]

That's right. I turned myself in.

You could say I was somehow...compelled, I guess, to do so.

You couldn't call me insane, because I truly did hear it.

The voice of God.

He was the one who instructed me. Told me. Nurtured me into creating my one single astonishing masterpiece.

And now, I'm gonna finally reveal it to you, because it is His will.

Before I begin telling you anything, you should know, first, about my job. The profession that I've done to make a living for more than 25 years. You know how every single church has one giant crucifix in front and center. I provide them the crucifixes. I give them my Messiahs, my Saviors.

It's actually a pretty basic formula, to create your own God, no matter what size He be.

The first step, is the cross. Anybody who's ever been to a wood shop class in Middle School should be able to do this step. Simply just take 3 blocks of wood, one extra long, and two short. They should be cut into the most precise measurements you could possibly fathom, and sanded and smoothened so that it looks like a worthy throne for your Lord.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

As soon as you glue the two short blocks onto the sides of your long block, you have created your perfect cross. However, perfect isn't good enough. True sculptors, such as myself, will harness the maximum amount of detail humanly possible. So create a thin sheet of wood, shape it into that of a book or a scroll, and paint in the letters INRI. Now you have a true cross, perfect for your Messiah.

The second step is rather challenging. You will now helm the creation of the man Himself. I like to call this step: "Returning the favor". The torso should come first. To truly depict the suffering your Savior had to ordeal, then make Him truly suffer.

Form a visible rib cage, to starve him, add in lots of tiny but discernible cuts for the whippings, and the like. But one thing that many foolishly ignore is an important detail. You must add in the spear wound. The one the Romans put on his starving aching body. The moment when they stabbed him to make sure He was truly, surely dead. Make it as grisly and graphic as you want for all I care, because the churches certainly don't. They could care less about how you dislocated his shoulder, or how when you look into that stab wound, you will see the muscles constricting in agony. They won't even care if children watch as their Savior is hanging dead in their school chapel. All they care about is manipulation. The more you make Him suffer, the more the effect is raised, and the higher the chance of conversion.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Next is the legs, and as always, attention to detail is important. Make sure they criss-cross so that one foot is on top of the other, and be sure to make sure his legs are bending, trying to hold the body up for another agonizing breath. And of course, you can always make the bones of his knee-cap jut out of his skin.

The arms are easier. With the palms always facing towards the audience, simply make them stretch far enough, but not reach the ends of the cross.

So close, but so far.

And do NOT under any circumstances put in the nail holes just yet. We're going to save that for step four.

Lastly is the head, which will be the hardest. Anyone will just simply mold their Messiah. It takes a true artist to sculpt the face of God. Make Him suffer. Torture Him. Have his nose broken, a teeth or two missing, and rather than closing His eyes peacefully, it's much more effective to have them opening. I want you to look into the eyes of one of my crucifixes and just try to not see the suffering your Lord endured. With the tears of blood streaming down his face, his eyes glistening in the light, your Messiah must have a personality. He must have at least one flaw. He must feel it.

Now comes the third step, because as everyone knows, a King isn't complete without His crown. Your two clay circles should intersect each other, and fit around your Messiah's head. For the thorns, just stretch many points out and then dip it all in brown paint. Of course, the tips should have bits of red. When you place it on your Savior's Holy head, drizzle some red paint to make Him bleed.

The fourth step is my favorite, and is a lot of fun. Place your Messiah on the cross, take three real nails, and a hammer. This is the moment where you take control. When you pound in the nails, you feel like you're in control of Gods. That you shape your own destiny. That your fate isn't already inscribed into the books of the omnipotent. It is here, that you kill your Messiah. You regain control of your life. You shape your destiny. You create a God.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Why did I tell you all this? It's essential in knowing my motives. Every killer has a motive right?

This time however, it wasn't exactly my motives. It was His.

2 years ago, it was He that spoke to me.

You can not call me insane. I know what I heard. It was clearer, and more profound than anything I've ever heard in my entire life. It was then that he told me to create a brand new crucifix. My greatest one yet. My masterpiece. After months of gathering the resources, I began the creation process mentioned earlier. I immediately took it to the nearest church to take it, and they were astounded by its sheer beauty. They said that it was so remarkable, that they thought they could hear the voice of God. Ha. Ha. Ha.

However, it didn't matter how much praise it would get. Nobody would truly understand the true poetic meaning behind it until I revealed it, and here I am. When I was given the signal, the sign, I knew that it was time to truly show the world my masterpiece.

I am going to give you a list of instructions that you are to follow, sheriff. Firstly, you should probably get a chisel. Second, take down my masterpiece, and chisel it. Finally, keep on chiseling it, and inside you will find the body of Walter Robinson inside his Messiah-shaped plaster tomb.

You remember him, right? The missing person case that couldn't be solved. Until now. He was hesitant, but it didn't matter. He was what God had demanded. I'm surprised that nobody noticed the oxygen and water tubes. If you looked at it from a certain angle, they could be seen. But, of course, they were too busy praying to him.

Don't say that what I did to poor Walter was an act of evil, or insanity. It was an act of salvation. I used my power of creation, to turn Walter Robinson into a God. People worshiped him, prayed to him, bowed to him, and touched his casket hoping it would heal their ailments. And they hadn't the faintest clue, as they blindly knelt before him. It all went so...perfectly.

Now I can finally die, knowing that my masterpiece was truly unvieled.

His suffering. In my hands.

Amen.

Spoiler: Sonnet of the Subway (A Short Story Of A Man Who Finds Peace From The Downs & Outs Of Society Through A Song)

[sonnet of the subway.]

[written by enigma.]

I'm just a little person
One person in a sea
Of many little people
Who are not aware of me

I do my little job
And live my little life
Eat my little meals
Miss my little kid and wife

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

These are the lyrics that begin the song. That song that remained a part of my life for three years. Never in these three years have I heard the rest of the song. Never have I even bothered to learn what the rest of the lyrics were. Never have I ever discovered why, oh dear god why, this song felt so familiar, even when I heard it for the very first time.

Twice every day, for three years, I would step into the subway and the same woman would enter the train, sit in the exact same seat, and sing. Sing her lonely heart out to nobody but herself. Nobody really cared for her singing. Nobody bothered to acknowledge that she even existed.

She did look rather unremarkable, to be fair. She wore a white shirt with buttons near the collar to reveal a slight hint of her unremarkable breasts. The little jacket on top of that shirt was a dreary light gray, her shoes were white, with the exception of the splotches of grime and dirt caught on them, and her pants were of blue denim.

She contained only two remarkable features. One was her dyed hair, which shifted color every day. I think I've guessed the pattern, though some days would act as exceptions. Mondays were usually blue. Wednesdays were often orange. Fridays were normally crimson red. And you can always bet that every Sunday would have her locks a sensual violet.

The second remarkable feature was her voice. That voice. For three years, I have listened to this very same voice, and I have never grown tired of it.

Every day, I would live my shitty life. Waking up, eating the same shitty breakfast, wearing the same shitty clothes, always being hassled for the shitty rent by the same shitty landlord. Exiting the apartment. Having to pass by all of these shitty people. Going to the piece of shit dump you call a subway. Waiting in the shitty train.

And then...

...it would stop at Fairemont.

The girl with her newly colored hair stepping inside. Sitting in that same exact seat she always sat in. And when the train was almost there...she'd sing.

Then the shitty train would finally stop at my location, and I would have to leave before I could hear the rest of the song.

I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say...

The door slamming shut in my face. A feeling of painful rejection ensues.

Working the same shitty job. Being hassled by the same shitty boss. Hassled by the same shitty employees. Having to sell the same shitty products to the shitty customers. Finally exiting the shitty building. Going back down to the shitty subway dump, stepping inside the shitty train.

Stopping at Fairemont again.

Finally being at peace from all of the noise and the shittyness for just one measly minute again.

Being able to imagine myself in my sanctuary again.

Away from all the shitty people. In an island full of peace and rhythm.

The waves rolling in synchronization with the song.

Hearing the train bell ring again.

Never being able to finish the song.

Again.

Eating my shitty dinner. Watching my shitty sitcoms. And then finally...rest.

8 hours of sweet rest. The song in infinite loop. The back and forth of the ocean. Me just chanting to myself, good things come to those who wait, good things come to those who wait.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away

I am the zen master. This is my sanctuary. Please let me stay. Please.

Good things come to those who wait.

Each and every single day was just another chance to get a migraine. The noise kills me. It's more than just the city coming alive with all of those cars and taxis. Even more than the obnoxious music, or the constant thunderous rampage of the trains below. It's also the people. Whining and bitching about everything. More, more. Me, me. Now, now. The noise is a stormy sea that can't be tamed by mother nature herself. It could be psychological, it could be something I was born with, but none of that matters to me. In noise, you feel trapped. Locked in a prison of other people's excuses, lies, and tantrums. Sometimes, I snap and feel like massacring everything I see.

But I remain sane. The secret is finding your sanctuary. All I have to do is close my eyes, imagine the most serene little place you can think of, and block all of the noise. This is extremely hard, even for me to do. There's only so much noise that you can block. That's where the woman comes in. She provides a conduit for me to release all of the anger for one minute, and tolerate the chaos that surrounds me. And one minute is more than I need. I don't need to thank her, ask for the lyrics of the song, find it on a music store and download it on an mp3 player, or even wonder what exactly the lyrics mean. Her angel voice is all that's needed. And I can always count on her returning to her usual seat, and singing her usual song.

That is until March 12th.

My day begins just like every other. The breakfast, the alarm clock, the landlord, all of it shitty. Having to pass by all the people. Shitty as ever. Stepping into the subway, it's still a dump. Nothing has changed. But something is wrong. I have no idea what it is, but it's just...wrong.

Inside the train, I hear the train's bell ring. We've stopped at Fairemont. The door opens up and hordes of people enter as always...hey, wait a minute...where's the girl.

She's supposed to be here. Today is Saturday. She's supposed to be in here with her hair colored green this time.

Good things come to those who wait.

Waiting wasn't enough. The door has already closed, and the train is moving away.

No...this can't be happening. I need this. Maybe she entered another car, moved to another seat. No, that's not right. That's impossible. Her seat is still empty. She should've come. She's never late, never early. Always here exactly at 9:33 A.M.

Nngh...

The noises. They've gotten louder. All these people bitching about insignificant things and ideas. The train's motor louder than usual.

You know what, okay, this isn't in total loss. Don't over-react. It's just a song. You know the words, right? Sing it to yourself. Imagine her angel voice in sync with yours. Imagine the sanctuary. The waves, the warm sand, the ocean water, the sunset in the horizon.

Good things come to those who wait. Good things come to those who--

"You're fired."

Perplexed I reply with, "I'm sorry...what?"

"You're fired, Walter, get the hell outta my face."

"I know that but...why?"

"You really need a reason? Get outta here, you no longer work here. Piss off."

"Sir, I believe that I have a right to know why I'm not going to have a job anymore."

He ignores me. As if he is already trying to forget I exist.

Angrily I reply with, "This makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. I'm not leaving this office until I get a good explanation from you! You hear me!"

Still nothing.

A little more calmly, I reply with, "Okay...Obviously you don't like me. To be completely honest, I don't like you, or anybody in this place either. But I need this job. Without it, I won't be able to..."

I think about the sanctuary. The unfinished song. I am the zen master.

I continue, "Just...please..."

I sigh. I can already hear the noises of the city protruding my head. I can already tell that the migraines are going to be more painful than they've ever been before.

I continue again, "Okay, I get it now. I'm fired. However, I would feel a lot better if you just told me...why this has happened to me. Just...please explain to me why the fuck you just fired me out of thin air."

He sighs, puts on his glasses, and finally begins to speak...wait, what?

His mouth is moving but...there is no sound escaping from his chapped lips.

Puzzled, "I'm sorry, what?"

His face begins to get more puzzled as well, mirroring my own. He tries talking to me again, but he's still silent. Am I deaf?? No, of course not. I can still hear the printer beeping, and Bob is outside trying to flirt with Angela again.

"Are you fucking with me, right now?" I ask.

His mouth moves expressively, and now it appears that he's supposed to be yelling at me. Bob and Angela stare through the office window. They can hear him, and I'm stuck in a singularity of silence.

AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!!

For three seconds, the noises of the city became louder. Actually, "louder" is an understatement. They boomed like a skyrocket was propelling into the air right next to you. I gripped my head in agony and screamed like I never screamed before in my life. The volume dims back down to normal again. Everyone is staring at me. The boss just stares at me in bewilderment.

I have to get out of here.

I just try to exit the building, outside the revolving door. The subway shouldn't be too far--

NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

As soon as I step outside, the noises of the city skyrocket into a sonic boom and don't stop. Everything has gotten the volume maximized 100%. The cars vroom like space shuttles on lift-off, taxi cabs hailing like skyscraper sized speakers, a police siren so unforgivably loud, it's the equivalent of strapping a child to a desk and forcing him to listen to ten thousand nails scratching ten thousand chalk boards. Everything was like wearing a hearing aid as powerful as an atomic bomb.

NNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!

All of the civilians in the block huddle around me to find out what is happening to me. Their presence is only makes things works.

OHMYGODISHEOKAYISHEMENTALLYILLWHATTHEHELLISTHEMATTERWITHHIM
ISTHISGUYFUCKINGRETARDEDMOMMYIMSCAREDSOMEONECALLANAMBULANCE
HELPHELPTHERESAMANANDITHINKHESHAVINGAHEARTATTACKSOMEONECALL
911WHOHASACELLPHONEJESUSCHRISTISHEHAVINGASEIZUREORSOMETHING

I felt like someone was drilling into my skull. Like a train just hit me smack-dab in the face...

Wait a second...the train...

The subway is just on the other side of the block. I can reach it.

"EXCUSEMESIRIAMADOCTORANDIMHERETOHELPYOUJUSTHOLDSTILLSOICOULD--"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!"

I push him to the side, and navigate my way through the chaos and confusion. I can't even walk straight anymore. My muscles burned like someone injecting lye into my blood vessels, and my heart was beating so fast I felt like I had to keep up with it. All of a sudden, a pair of headlights hit me, and I tumble over to the street. More people scream. The headaches get worse. Somehow, the pain in my head was so strong that I couldn't even feel the impact of the windshield break my left arm. Limping, and keeping one hand grasped onto my seemingly imploding skull, I brink down the stairs of the subway. Not a smart move.

Losing balance, I trip and roll all the way down the stairs. Only the pain in my head increases as more civilians panic. However, I persevere through the headaches. I run across a sea of horns, and screams, and bells, and whistles, all around me. An ocean of noise trying to engulf me into the eye of the storm. I quickly leap over the ticket entrance, and hobble to wherever the next train is. Anywhere but here.

The train is about to leave. My vision is completely blurred but I can tell that doors are slowly closing. Panicked, I run straight for the door. The small space between the closing doors gets smaller and smaller as I get closer. I reach my hand out, and quickly pry the door as much as I can. The gap becomes big enough for me to fit, I step inside, and the train reaches home. Panting, the volume fades, just a little bit. I turn around, and there's nobody in my car. The train gets faster and faster. I peek into the surrounding cars. Nobody is in those either. The subway train takes a sudden halt strong enough to make me fall right on my broken arm. Not even that is as painful as the sensory drills lodged into my skull.

As I regain my sense of balance, we stop at Fairemont. The doors whoosh as they open, in a way that's just heavenly. The bright light of the fluorescent bulbs begins to bloom into a void of complete and pure white. Nobody enters yet. Cmon, cmon. For a millisecond, I couldn't even hear the train's locomotive engine anymore, but the pain was still there. Please. Just help me figure this out. I need your voice.

She enters through the clean white, and just like normal, she sits in the same seat as always. Then I notice something wrong. Her hair is crimson red. It wasn't Friday today. It was Saturday, it was supposed to be green.

The train begins to move. As soon as it makes it more than halfway to my home, she should sing. She sits there normally, like she doesn't notice me in agony, the blood dripping from my ears. The train gets faster and faster. It's gonna get there sooner than expected. I hear her inhaling. She's ready to sing. Help me make sense of the chaos. Sing for me my sonnet.

Please.

I'#m j!@#us%&t a@ l$it#&$%tle pe*&)rson&&$
O11$#^≠ per*#&$%so()(#&#&n in a@@~! se&$%(#a

GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGHHH!!

Her voice sounded garbled. It was torturous. You could hear her angel voice, but it was covered by static, and bad reception, and bullshit. And it was louder than anything else I've ever heard.

Som+#@wh&$ere ma&$%ybe$%^ s)@##&omed#^%ay

The pain became continuous. I couldn't stand straight anymore. I knelt and begged for it all to just end. She just kept singing, and staring at the window. I felt faint.

Suddenly I'm falling, and I land on the ground, but I'm not in the train anymore. I can still hear her mangled angel voice, but now, the screams of civilians are added as well. My vision is a blur now. I can see people standing high above me, the woman singing, and a bright light getting progressively closer. Everything gets louder and louder. Everything is spiraling out of control. A personal hell of screams and dissonance engulfing me into the ocean of noise. The screams get louder, the charred voice of the angel I once knew becomes more garbled, the lights approach my position closer and closer. Good things come to those who wait.

With no other way to end my sorry little excuse of a life, I hold my hand up and try to touch the woman that accompanied me through these last three years. You were the closest thing to a connection I've ever made. She keeps singing, unable to notice my blood stained hands stroking her cheek. Please, angel, bring me into salvation.











A void. A white void. Of silence and nothingness. And it was beautiful. All of the noise gone. The people, the cars, the trains, everything, drowned by a bright and pure white. For the first time in my life, I feel at peace. The ocean of noise calmed. The storm reaching its toll. And...now I still feel like something is missing. That shouldn't happen. Why am I feeling this loneliness?

Then a sudden realization reveals itself from the silence. Yes. I guess that makes sense.

I get into a fetal position, close my eyes, and relish the silence. The cushioned white becomes warm sand. The ocean, the beach, the eternal sunset, all materializes in front of me. My sanctuary made real.

And now, to add the final part.

Now, lying next to me is the angel. The missing piece of the puzzle. Now I can rest. And finish the song. Sing for me the sonnet, just like you did in the subway.

I am the zen master.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

I know you.

[The End.]

Spoiler: The Eternal Narrative (A Short Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A...)

[the eternal narrative.]

[written by enigma.]



Once upon a time, a man named Robert was born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

His adult life was somewhat special. He had a big house, a nice car, a well-paying job, and an enormity of books to read. So much books, in fact, that his love for literature has began to wane. Too many he has read, and thus, he has waited for the one book to replenish his age-old hobby. Maybe today will be the day, he thought.

As always, the bookstore was still there. Two levels of books to read, and he has read almost all of them. He strolls straight to the "new release" shelf, and nothing has been shipped today. Peculiar, but not enough to shake off his unimpressed feeling. Disappointed, he exits the bookstore, and heads back to work.

Next day begins. Robert wakes up. As always, he grabs a cup of coffee. As always, he reads some of the news. As always, he starts the car. As always, he drives to the bookstore first.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever. Biographies were the worst. It was the hardest to find the true gems in what seemed like a septic tank of bland unoriginal life stories. Each person's life just another bland empty life, no matter how famous they've been. The interesting bits have already been done before and better, the writing sub-par, especially the auto-biographies written by people who don't know a damn about writing.

Finally, he finds one book he hasn't read yet, and surprisingly in its unsurprising-ness, its title is the epitome of blandness. The Official Unauthorized Biography by Joseph Kessler. That was it. Who this biography was about, it didn't even say. No synopsis on the back, the cover flaps were blank. There wasn't even a description of the author on the last page. Paradoxically, the amount of mundanity crammed into one book just by looking at the cover interested him. He decided to read a few pages, and if it all ended up being shit, he would just put it down. Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

Once upon a time, a man named Harold born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

He flipped the page. Robert then looked at the page and read it.

His mother gave birth to Harold at Our Lady of Hope's hospital wherein she died giving birth to him. He spent years K through 12 kissing everybody's ass because he believed it worked on his father. His father only pretended to love him. He always blamed the little snot-nosed prick for the loss of his wife, and now he's alone, and stuck with him.

Robert dropped the book. He took a gasp of air. What on earth, he thought. A state of paranoia ensues him. He picks the book back up, and reads the next page.

Harold's father always hid his over-wrought hatred of Harold under a facade of warmth, for it was all he could do. He believed that it would be what his wife wanted. But he still kept that hatred burning inside him. She was gone now. All his fault. Too much to bear. Oh, how he missed her.

What followed was two whole pages describing some of the things the father pretended to care about. The fishing trip. The birthday parties.

The young Harold thought that his father's silence was a sign of care. He had no idea of the black fire that burned inside his father. His father did everything in his power to control this hatred. Young Harold did everything in his power to keep disillusioning that his father actually loved him.

Robert, feeling confused and angry and uneasy all at once, skimmed through everything quickly until he finally hit a crucial moment.

At 18 years of age, he was finally ready to graduate, and he was given the honors of giving a speech. "Before I begin," he proclaimed, "I'd like to start with a few words. I wouldn't have made it this far, if it hadn't been for the greatest man I'd ever known. My dad."

Everyone clapped, and the father tried to smile...but he couldn't. Too long had he endured the pain he felt. Too long had he hid his true feelings for the young boy. He just wanted to take that kid's smug face and beat it. The clapping engulfed the man, everyone thinking he loved the very thing he secretly despised.

"ENOUGH!" he finally yelled. "I'VE HAD IT!!! SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!!!"

"Dad, what's going on--"

"YOU!!" he said in a voice that sounded like it came from a separate entity.

"IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!! IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR YOU, SHE WOULDN'T HAVE DIED!!!"

"Dad..." he uttered pathetically.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!!"

Everyone stared at him. Harold. Both of them. All of them puzzled. Unsure to feel sympathetic to one or the other.

"I'm sorry son...but I never loved you. And I never will."

He exited the room, and everyone in the ceremony was just baffled.

Harold. He whimpered pathetically. Then sobbed pathetically. Finally cried pathetically. And knelt down on his knees in surrender. Words rushed through his mind like a storm. Words like, 'Father', 'Dad', 'Guardian', and 'Papa'. They whirred in his head as he drew out those pathetic little tears, until finally...the words died down.

No.

Robert knelt in the bookstore. He felt like crying and he knew exactly why. Robert was Harold. That pathetic little boy whose father never loved him grew up into the successful but emotionally distant man you see today. Ladies and gentlemen, give a huge round of applause for Robert.

Robert then snapped. He blitzed to the cashier, paid for the book, and drove his sorry ass home. He finally entered the house. Slammed the door shut in fury, then sat on the couch trying to make sense of what just happened. He grabbed the book, and opened it up for another torturous stroll down memory lane. He flipped page, by page, until he would find something of noteworthy interest.

Page 46

...and after he had sex with her, losing his virginity for the first time, they never saw each other again. The ultimate anticlimax. The first woman he could call his lover never loved him.

Page 57

"The truth is, Robert...I never thought this relationship would work out."

"I'm sorry what?"

"I never loved you."

Page 120

Congratulations, Harold. You are now vice president of Signature Publications. Welcome to the team!

Page 267

Harold felt a perpetual sense of déjà vu when Holly broke up with him. It mirrored Stacey, which mirrored, Kourtney, which mirrored Penelope, which mirrored...his father.

Page 294

Harold stood right at eye level to the new tombstone. Father finally passed. He wished he could do that one thing in that one movie, where he could plant a seed in his grave, so that a tree would sprout from his father's corpse, but when he looked back at the urn, he realized that wouldn't work either. He opened the urn and took a good long look at the pile of ashes, and he got the strangest feeling that even the ashes of his father hated him. "Just dump me in the river you little punk" they seemed to say. "Nobody loves you. Nobody ever will."

And after that...four blank pages. The End. Nothing else happened after that moment. It was just a barrage of day in day out work attendings. Robert needed to rest. He had to lie down. It'll all make sense after some rest.

Robert woke up. Groggy and delirious, he stepped out of bed and proceeded to change and get ready. He ignored the coffee maker and didn't check his porch for the newspaper. After putting on his tie, something glimpsed his eye. He missed it for half a second but finally looked back. On his reading chair was the book. He missed at first because it didn't look like the book at first. He finally realized that it was the same book he read yesterday...but it had gotten bigger. It looked like more than 1000 pages were added.

Page 312 described his job.

Page 341 was just more of his day to day drudgery.

In fact, it was like that from Pages 295 to 437. The mundanity, the book reading, the job attending. He skimmed through everything in that allotted page frame and finally made it to Page 438.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever.

This was exactly what happened yesterday, in an amount of frightening detail.

Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

No..., Robert thought. Dear God, no.

Once upon a time, a man named Walter born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

What the fuck? Robert thought. He flipped a page, and it went on.

Harold then looked at the page and read it. In it, Walter looked at the page and read it. In it, Gregory looked at the page and read it. In it, Fred looked at the page and read it. In it, Regis looked at the page and read it. In it, Edward looked at the page and read it. In it, Alan looked at the page and read it. In it, Timothy looked at the page and read it. In it, William looked at the page and read it. In it, Jim looked at the page and read it. In it, Morty looked at the page and read it.

It went on and on like a mirror looking into its own reflection.

For how long? Robert skimmed through as many pages as he could. And the book didn't end. Page after page after page was a new name looking into the page within a page within a page within a page within a...

He began to notice something. As he was looking more and more into the book, it got heavier. It was getting bigger. Right before his very eyes. He's frightened now. More than he's ever been his whole life. He's experiencing something that wasn't written by human hands. He needs to find out what is happening. He must find Joseph Kessler.

At the bookstore, he quickly looks through the database, and much to his surprise, there were no authors named Joseph Kessler. He was wasting his time. He looked at the Biography shelf and there were no other copies. For all he knew, there weren't any other copies. For all he knew, maybe it was all just a groggy dream. He had to get a grip on his sanity. Going to work will do the trick.

Back at the Signature Publications building, Robert quickly went up the elevator and onto the 8th floor. Just act natural, he thought. Say hello.

"Hello, Dave," he said.

"Hello, Harold."

Robert stopped dead in his tracks. Did he say what he thought he said?

"What did you call me?"

"Oh yeah, right, you hate it when people call you that. What was your nickname again? Uh...I think it was Harry or something. Am I correct?"

This had to be some sick joke, he thought.

Are you feeling alright, Walter? You look kinda sick.

Harold then grabbed Dave by the collar and proceeded yelling at him. "WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF A JOKE IS THIS DAVE? I'M SICK OF THIS SHIT! YOU HEAR ME!"

"Jesus, Rob!" Dave exclaimed. "You don't have to act like a dick all the time, I only got your name wrong.

Dennis saw that everyone was staring at him now. The same way they stared at him during his graduation.

Robert stormed out the building, and turned on his cell phone. He had to make this one call, just to make sure. He dialed the number. It was Stacey's. Surely she'd be there for him, at least for now.

"Hello?" he said through the phone's mic.

"Jesus Christ, Dennis this better be important 'cause you just interrupted my nap.

Robert grew silent.

"Hello?...Damnit, Kenneth are you even there?"

He quickly hung up. His own sanity began to tear away at him. He realized he can trust no one but himself. He had to shut off the niggling doubts that what was going on around him, was all part of his imagination because it wasn't. He read those pages, he felt the book enlarging itself, he heard everyone calling him Walter.

Harold had no choice but to do everything in his power to find Joseph Kessler.

After entering the car, he headed to his first destination: The bookstore. Hurriedly, he zipped through traffic at dizzying speeds. He didn't care about the speed limit this time. All Harold could think about was finding the truth.

"I'm sorry sir, but for the hundredth time, there are no authors under the name of Joseph Kessler," the information desk man said.

"Please, I need to find this man," urged Walter.

"Look, I'm not the right person for this shit. If you really want to find this guy, look it up on Google, or ask for some records or something, I don't know. I really don't have time for this."

His patience was wearing thin, but the man was right. He had to look somewhere else. Quickly he sprinted past the door, and out onto the parking lot. Dennis struggled to get the key from his pocket, and when he finally obtained it, he tried starting the car. Nothing happened. The car wouldn't move. The engine didn't do a damn thing.

Kenneth yelled. He screamed louder than any time he could ever remember. This couldn't happen! Not now! He had no time to waste.

Walter then decidedly just got out of the car, and ran there. He didn't stop for a bus, or a cab. He just knew that something would happen that would try and stop him. It'd be safer to just run there. The cars were too dangerous.

No. I can't let him get away. He knows too much. He's beginning to recognize what's happening. I need to stop him...but I can't kill him. God damnit what should I do...must be something. Anything that'll slow him down.........yes. That's it. I'll use this. It'll work perfectly. He will not escape. I need him. Just have to type this down...

Everything was just a blur now, almost like being on acid. The blurs kept getting stronger and stronger. Nothing looked the same anymore. People were just moving splotches of color. Cars looked like indistinguishable zipping shadows. The light. Dear God, the light. The light started getting brighter and brighter. Harold couldn't stop running even if he tried. It was like being on a treadmill. If you stop, you'll end up skidding yourself on the floor until you're an unrecognizable pile of meat and bone. The blurs became more frantic. The lights got more blinding.

Suddenly, a giant light was headed towards him, only it wasn't what he thought it was. The light was from a car zooming at him.

In just five seconds, the flash dims down. Now he's in a hospital room. Couldn't think. Couldn't...move.

"Oh, thank goodness you're up. You've been mumbling to yourself for two days now."

"I...ugh....what?"

"Oh dear Lord, don't tell me you don't remember."

He says nothing.

"You were hit by a car two weeks ago, Gregory."

"nngh...no.....not.......name..."

"Jesus, you've been saying that for two days. You've been asleep for two whole days, and the entire time you kept yammering about how people kept on saying your name wrong or something."

"please.....listen.........my name.....is....."

What was his name? Who was he now? Was he Gregory? Alan? Walter? Robert? How many levels of stories deep is he? When he was Robert, was he in reality, or was he just another story??

"AUGH!!"

"Now what's the matter?"

"Voice.......so loud.................make it stop....."

He was a quick learner. Slowly but surely, he was getting a grasp of reality.

"Too loud........turn it down...........grasp of reality.......quick learner....."

But he still knew too much...

"Make it stop...........must be real.......me........what is......."

I didn't wanna have to do this...but there is no other way.

"No........don't...............beg you......."

I am truly sorry.

His mouth completely dried up, he couldn't even speak anymore. If he was lucky, he would be able to say certain vowels, and that'd be about it. His arms and legs completely crippled from the injury, he couldn't run, nor could he write what had happened to him. A vegetable who can do nothing more but share his new-found ideas with no one but himself.

The story is now finished. Hopefully, it will sell well. Hopefully, he will never recover. Hopefully, I could keep him alive.

If only...if only...

[The End.]

Sonnet of the Subway is my personal favorite. To Whom That Pounds The Nails was more of a test drive, and The Eternal Narrative was highly experimental.

 

[viranimus]

This is a small excerpt from a book I wrote a couple years back, from when I first started writing heavily. So its not as good as alot of the things ive wrote since.

Spoiler

Book 2: Chapter 15: Welcome to the jungle.



Deep from underneath the brush and lush jungle leaves, Loud screams of conflict are emitted. The animals in rustle in fear of uncertain noises. The night sky has cooled the land, and as the jungle would hold the heat of day trapped within its canopy, A haze of sweaty fog hovered upon the ground. From inside the binds of conflict inside of the darkness of the night. Sharp fangs reflect in the faint deathly ill hue of light that has reflected from the moon. A growl of anticipation is quietly released. Its sound barely audible, But its bass was loud enough to vibrate the ground.

The predator hid deep within the underbrush, waiting patiently for the prey that it stalks. It quickly snaps to attention as the wounded biped staggers into the clearing that the predator is now surveying. Exhausted, The biped collapses to one knee. Panting, begging its lungs for the air and being rejected summarily with each pained breath.

In absolute stealth, the predator now stood positioned over the prey, savoring the impending kill. It slowly creeped to snap the prey's neck and as it slipped in. the predator could see that it was once again in danger. It moved to escape, But the predator was close enough to now grasp, And pin the prey . The prey collapsed under the weight of the predator resting on top of it. A smart ploy to force the last bit of energy out of the prey.

Out of desperation, The prey frantically kicked and squirmed to open up a free spot. It was lucky enough to achieve, and the prey bit into the powerful arm of the predator. The predator screamed in agony as its flesh was penetrated, and blood was released in a splurt upon the soft carpet of fallen leaves.

The final squirm released the prey as the predator recoiled to tend to the wound it had sustained. It scurried away and headed toward the underbrush. But just as it disappeared, The predator unleashed a small blade, and launched it at the prey. His mark was off, and only hit the fleeing lizard mans left leg. Our predator knew that his prey would not stray far, given that it was now leaving a trail of blood for him to follow.

The predator, In its exhaustion, rested itself on the ground. As it landed its head was illuminated in moonlight. Dark elvan the predator was, His Hair was long, dark and Matted. His facial hair was overgrown and unkempt. Although his whole visage emitted primal instincts. His eyes screamed the signs of sorrow and exhaustion, just before he closed them, to rest.

It was clear to see he had been in this overgrown hell for a long time. He had become long since removed from the life he once lead. In exchange of heavy platemail, His body was adorned sparingly with what looked to be tattered black short pants. And a belt to carry what tools were needed for him. It was clear he was once more civilized, But had adapted to meet the environment that he now found himself in.

As he lay on the leaven canopy, and his eyes sought for slumber, slowly he slipped into the dark void of unconsciousness. But correspondingly, as soon his body found slumber, his body began to twitch, progressing into seizure. He thrashed wildly, and writhed in pain As this pain came from the dreams he now endured.

Two Dark crimson strands flow on the black background of oblivion. Come streaming into the though of dream. The strands move together and apart, twisting and writing together. The strands start to form an image for each. One clearly male, The other clearly female. The female strand begins to lighten its hue from red to deathly pale Blue white. The Male strand, begins the change of its hue from red, to blue, then to green, then into black, where it fades completely out of existence.

The feminine strand slowly takes form of the vision of Dark elvan beauty, With long black silken hair, wrapped in robes of satin and silk, which tightly cling to the form it works to accentuate. The form, moves with the grace of a Katana cutting thru soft muscle less flesh, to slump into a heap. Head bowed in sorrow, Its eyes still look up however thru the strands of black hair. They peer maniacally, as if torn by hatred, anger, and desolation. The dark elvan form slowly fades from the proud indigo hue that the skin portrayed. to a ghastly white, Seeping the blue out as if to be drained out of existence over the fully filled form.

"This is your doing" The form spoke and at the last breath of the last word it spoke, The form opened its maw wide as the mouth works to consume all into the darkness inside. Inside of this darkness, Heat waved from all sides broiling and searing everything. The only breeze came from a stream of bats that could audibly be heard in this darkness, but not seen. From the darkness, the form was brought back into light, This time in a small stone walled room bathed in eerie green light.

"Your future is now, Your destiny has been guided to us, and you will be a part of it, regardless if you want to or not. You let her die, but you can make amends, you can ensure her life was not lost to you in vain. Travel south, till you find our temple. We will wait for you there, And you will be reborn."

The predator woke with a start, screaming and panting for oxygen. The pain of slumber had subsided, now the pain of existence set back in. He staggered to his feet. Due to the torment of his dreams, He always woke now in a state of disorientation. His mind has been clouded by his visions, And he had forgotten all that he had ever known. All that is, Except for the memory of his loss. No other thought penetrated his mind except for her. How he loved her, How he could have done more to save her, to protect her. How he paid no attention to her love that she gave him so willingly, And how he withheld his long enough, till beyond the point when it was too late. All of his hatred, anger, frustration and loss was not realized until he had lost her. And now his life was nothing but torment of regret and sorrow.

His dreams always called him to the temple south. As far back as he could remember it called for him. He resisted but slowly he found himself closer and closer to the temple day by day. As he ventured into the jungles His mind changed from civilized to savage as the Lizard men and wild beasts held no hesitation to make him a meal. His existence was now only to hold dominion over the creatures who would seek to destroy him.

As he sat on the bed of leaves that he rest upon during the night the sun began to rise, Its orange haze penetrating thru the leaves like that of water rushing from a broken dam. Unresistable, and instant. The new dawn was beckoned by the sounds of wildlife, beginning their days anew, from wild monkeys on the ground, to birds singing their songs.

He sat with his head in his hand, trying desperately to find some sense of clarity. The only clarity he could come up with, was that he could not exist in this chaotic state. He finally gave in and decided to go to this temple. If he answered the call, Perhaps it would leave him be.

He slowly rose to his feet again and begain to walk southward.....

 

[nuba km]

I made this story for an English exercise where you were given words you had to use in your story.

Spoiler

OK I can't find the story right now but it is about a worm racing a lion around the world I'll edit it in when I find the document.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Lemme warn you all, that all of my works are incredibly artsy. If you aren't into that shit, don't bother reading.

Spoiler: To Whom That Pounds The Nails (A Short Story About A Crucifix-Maker)

[to whom that pounds the nails.]

[written by enigma.]

That's right. I turned myself in.

You could say I was somehow...compelled, I guess, to do so.

You couldn't call me insane, because I truly did hear it.

The voice of God.

He was the one who instructed me. Told me. Nurtured me into creating my one single astonishing masterpiece.

And now, I'm gonna finally reveal it to you, because it is His will.

Before I begin telling you anything, you should know, first, about my job. The profession that I've done to make a living for more than 25 years. You know how every single church has one giant crucifix in front and center. I provide them the crucifixes. I give them my Messiahs, my Saviors.

It's actually a pretty basic formula, to create your own God, no matter what size He be.

The first step, is the cross. Anybody who's ever been to a wood shop class in Middle School should be able to do this step. Simply just take 3 blocks of wood, one extra long, and two short. They should be cut into the most precise measurements you could possibly fathom, and sanded and smoothened so that it looks like a worthy throne for your Lord.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

As soon as you glue the two short blocks onto the sides of your long block, you have created your perfect cross. However, perfect isn't good enough. True sculptors, such as myself, will harness the maximum amount of detail humanly possible. So create a thin sheet of wood, shape it into that of a book or a scroll, and paint in the letters INRI. Now you have a true cross, perfect for your Messiah.

The second step is rather challenging. You will now helm the creation of the man Himself. I like to call this step: "Returning the favor". The torso should come first. To truly depict the suffering your Savior had to ordeal, then make Him truly suffer.

Form a visible rib cage, to starve him, add in lots of tiny but discernible cuts for the whippings, and the like. But one thing that many foolishly ignore is an important detail. You must add in the spear wound. The one the Romans put on his starving aching body. The moment when they stabbed him to make sure He was truly, surely dead. Make it as grisly and graphic as you want for all I care, because the churches certainly don't. They could care less about how you dislocated his shoulder, or how when you look into that stab wound, you will see the muscles constricting in agony. They won't even care if children watch as their Savior is hanging dead in their school chapel. All they care about is manipulation. The more you make Him suffer, the more the effect is raised, and the higher the chance of conversion.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Next is the legs, and as always, attention to detail is important. Make sure they criss-cross so that one foot is on top of the other, and be sure to make sure his legs are bending, trying to hold the body up for another agonizing breath. And of course, you can always make the bones of his knee-cap jut out of his skin.

The arms are easier. With the palms always facing towards the audience, simply make them stretch far enough, but not reach the ends of the cross.

So close, but so far.

And do NOT under any circumstances put in the nail holes just yet. We're going to save that for step four.

Lastly is the head, which will be the hardest. Anyone will just simply mold their Messiah. It takes a true artist to sculpt the face of God. Make Him suffer. Torture Him. Have his nose broken, a teeth or two missing, and rather than closing His eyes peacefully, it's much more effective to have them opening. I want you to look into the eyes of one of my crucifixes and just try to not see the suffering your Lord endured. With the tears of blood streaming down his face, his eyes glistening in the light, your Messiah must have a personality. He must have at least one flaw. He must feel it.

Now comes the third step, because as everyone knows, a King isn't complete without His crown. Your two clay circles should intersect each other, and fit around your Messiah's head. For the thorns, just stretch many points out and then dip it all in brown paint. Of course, the tips should have bits of red. When you place it on your Savior's Holy head, drizzle some red paint to make Him bleed.

The fourth step is my favorite, and is a lot of fun. Place your Messiah on the cross, take three real nails, and a hammer. This is the moment where you take control. When you pound in the nails, you feel like you're in control of Gods. That you shape your own destiny. That your fate isn't already inscribed into the books of the omnipotent. It is here, that you kill your Messiah. You regain control of your life. You shape your destiny. You create a God.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Why did I tell you all this? It's essential in knowing my motives. Every killer has a motive right?

This time however, it wasn't exactly my motives. It was His.

2 years ago, it was He that spoke to me.

You can not call me insane. I know what I heard. It was clearer, and more profound than anything I've ever heard in my entire life. It was then that he told me to create a brand new crucifix. My greatest one yet. My masterpiece. After months of gathering the resources, I began the creation process mentioned earlier. I immediately took it to the nearest church to take it, and they were astounded by its sheer beauty. They said that it was so remarkable, that they thought they could hear the voice of God. Ha. Ha. Ha.

However, it didn't matter how much praise it would get. Nobody would truly understand the true poetic meaning behind it until I revealed it, and here I am. When I was given the signal, the sign, I knew that it was time to truly show the world my masterpiece.

I am going to give you a list of instructions that you are to follow, sheriff. Firstly, you should probably get a chisel. Second, take down my masterpiece, and chisel it. Finally, keep on chiseling it, and inside you will find the body of Walter Robinson inside his Messiah-shaped plaster tomb.

You remember him, right? The missing person case that couldn't be solved. Until now. He was hesitant, but it didn't matter. He was what God had demanded. I'm surprised that nobody noticed the oxygen and water tubes. If you looked at it from a certain angle, they could be seen. But, of course, they were too busy praying to him.

Don't say that what I did to poor Walter was an act of evil, or insanity. It was an act of salvation. I used my power of creation, to turn Walter Robinson into a God. People worshiped him, prayed to him, bowed to him, and touched his casket hoping it would heal their ailments. And they hadn't the faintest clue, as they blindly knelt before him. It all went so...perfectly.

Now I can finally die, knowing that my masterpiece was truly unvieled.

His suffering. In my hands.

Amen.

Spoiler: Sonnet of the Subway (A Short Story Of A Man Who Finds Peace From The Downs & Outs Of Society Through A Song)

[sonnet of the subway.]

[written by enigma.]

I'm just a little person
One person in a sea
Of many little people
Who are not aware of me

I do my little job
And live my little life
Eat my little meals
Miss my little kid and wife

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

These are the lyrics that begin the song. That song that remained a part of my life for three years. Never in these three years have I heard the rest of the song. Never have I even bothered to learn what the rest of the lyrics were. Never have I ever discovered why, oh dear god why, this song felt so familiar, even when I heard it for the very first time.

Twice every day, for three years, I would step into the subway and the same woman would enter the train, sit in the exact same seat, and sing. Sing her lonely heart out to nobody but herself. Nobody really cared for her singing. Nobody bothered to acknowledge that she even existed.

She did look rather unremarkable, to be fair. She wore a white shirt with buttons near the collar to reveal a slight hint of her unremarkable breasts. The little jacket on top of that shirt was a dreary light gray, her shoes were white, with the exception of the splotches of grime and dirt caught on them, and her pants were of blue denim.

She contained only two remarkable features. One was her dyed hair, which shifted color every day. I think I've guessed the pattern, though some days would act as exceptions. Mondays were usually blue. Wednesdays were often orange. Fridays were normally crimson red. And you can always bet that every Sunday would have her locks a sensual violet.

The second remarkable feature was her voice. That voice. For three years, I have listened to this very same voice, and I have never grown tired of it.

Every day, I would live my shitty life. Waking up, eating the same shitty breakfast, wearing the same shitty clothes, always being hassled for the shitty rent by the same shitty landlord. Exiting the apartment. Having to pass by all of these shitty people. Going to the piece of shit dump you call a subway. Waiting in the shitty train.

And then...

...it would stop at Fairemont.

The girl with her newly colored hair stepping inside. Sitting in that same exact seat she always sat in. And when the train was almost there...she'd sing.

Then the shitty train would finally stop at my location, and I would have to leave before I could hear the rest of the song.

I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say...

The door slamming shut in my face. A feeling of painful rejection ensues.

Working the same shitty job. Being hassled by the same shitty boss. Hassled by the same shitty employees. Having to sell the same shitty products to the shitty customers. Finally exiting the shitty building. Going back down to the shitty subway dump, stepping inside the shitty train.

Stopping at Fairemont again.

Finally being at peace from all of the noise and the shittyness for just one measly minute again.

Being able to imagine myself in my sanctuary again.

Away from all the shitty people. In an island full of peace and rhythm.

The waves rolling in synchronization with the song.

Hearing the train bell ring again.

Never being able to finish the song.

Again.

Eating my shitty dinner. Watching my shitty sitcoms. And then finally...rest.

8 hours of sweet rest. The song in infinite loop. The back and forth of the ocean. Me just chanting to myself, good things come to those who wait, good things come to those who wait.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away

I am the zen master. This is my sanctuary. Please let me stay. Please.

Good things come to those who wait.

Each and every single day was just another chance to get a migraine. The noise kills me. It's more than just the city coming alive with all of those cars and taxis. Even more than the obnoxious music, or the constant thunderous rampage of the trains below. It's also the people. Whining and bitching about everything. More, more. Me, me. Now, now. The noise is a stormy sea that can't be tamed by mother nature herself. It could be psychological, it could be something I was born with, but none of that matters to me. In noise, you feel trapped. Locked in a prison of other people's excuses, lies, and tantrums. Sometimes, I snap and feel like massacring everything I see.

But I remain sane. The secret is finding your sanctuary. All I have to do is close my eyes, imagine the most serene little place you can think of, and block all of the noise. This is extremely hard, even for me to do. There's only so much noise that you can block. That's where the woman comes in. She provides a conduit for me to release all of the anger for one minute, and tolerate the chaos that surrounds me. And one minute is more than I need. I don't need to thank her, ask for the lyrics of the song, find it on a music store and download it on an mp3 player, or even wonder what exactly the lyrics mean. Her angel voice is all that's needed. And I can always count on her returning to her usual seat, and singing her usual song.

That is until March 12th.

My day begins just like every other. The breakfast, the alarm clock, the landlord, all of it shitty. Having to pass by all the people. Shitty as ever. Stepping into the subway, it's still a dump. Nothing has changed. But something is wrong. I have no idea what it is, but it's just...wrong.

Inside the train, I hear the train's bell ring. We've stopped at Fairemont. The door opens up and hordes of people enter as always...hey, wait a minute...where's the girl.

She's supposed to be here. Today is Saturday. She's supposed to be in here with her hair colored green this time.

Good things come to those who wait.

Waiting wasn't enough. The door has already closed, and the train is moving away.

No...this can't be happening. I need this. Maybe she entered another car, moved to another seat. No, that's not right. That's impossible. Her seat is still empty. She should've come. She's never late, never early. Always here exactly at 9:33 A.M.

Nngh...

The noises. They've gotten louder. All these people bitching about insignificant things and ideas. The train's motor louder than usual.

You know what, okay, this isn't in total loss. Don't over-react. It's just a song. You know the words, right? Sing it to yourself. Imagine her angel voice in sync with yours. Imagine the sanctuary. The waves, the warm sand, the ocean water, the sunset in the horizon.

Good things come to those who wait. Good things come to those who--

"You're fired."

Perplexed I reply with, "I'm sorry...what?"

"You're fired, Walter, get the hell outta my face."

"I know that but...why?"

"You really need a reason? Get outta here, you no longer work here. Piss off."

"Sir, I believe that I have a right to know why I'm not going to have a job anymore."

He ignores me. As if he is already trying to forget I exist.

Angrily I reply with, "This makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. I'm not leaving this office until I get a good explanation from you! You hear me!"

Still nothing.

A little more calmly, I reply with, "Okay...Obviously you don't like me. To be completely honest, I don't like you, or anybody in this place either. But I need this job. Without it, I won't be able to..."

I think about the sanctuary. The unfinished song. I am the zen master.

I continue, "Just...please..."

I sigh. I can already hear the noises of the city protruding my head. I can already tell that the migraines are going to be more painful than they've ever been before.

I continue again, "Okay, I get it now. I'm fired. However, I would feel a lot better if you just told me...why this has happened to me. Just...please explain to me why the fuck you just fired me out of thin air."

He sighs, puts on his glasses, and finally begins to speak...wait, what?

His mouth is moving but...there is no sound escaping from his chapped lips.

Puzzled, "I'm sorry, what?"

His face begins to get more puzzled as well, mirroring my own. He tries talking to me again, but he's still silent. Am I deaf?? No, of course not. I can still hear the printer beeping, and Bob is outside trying to flirt with Angela again.

"Are you fucking with me, right now?" I ask.

His mouth moves expressively, and now it appears that he's supposed to be yelling at me. Bob and Angela stare through the office window. They can hear him, and I'm stuck in a singularity of silence.

AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!!

For three seconds, the noises of the city became louder. Actually, "louder" is an understatement. They boomed like a skyrocket was propelling into the air right next to you. I gripped my head in agony and screamed like I never screamed before in my life. The volume dims back down to normal again. Everyone is staring at me. The boss just stares at me in bewilderment.

I have to get out of here.

I just try to exit the building, outside the revolving door. The subway shouldn't be too far--

NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

As soon as I step outside, the noises of the city skyrocket into a sonic boom and don't stop. Everything has gotten the volume maximized 100%. The cars vroom like space shuttles on lift-off, taxi cabs hailing like skyscraper sized speakers, a police siren so unforgivably loud, it's the equivalent of strapping a child to a desk and forcing him to listen to ten thousand nails scratching ten thousand chalk boards. Everything was like wearing a hearing aid as powerful as an atomic bomb.

NNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!

All of the civilians in the block huddle around me to find out what is happening to me. Their presence is only makes things works.

OHMYGODISHEOKAYISHEMENTALLYILLWHATTHEHELLISTHEMATTERWITHHIM
ISTHISGUYFUCKINGRETARDEDMOMMYIMSCAREDSOMEONECALLANAMBULANCE
HELPHELPTHERESAMANANDITHINKHESHAVINGAHEARTATTACKSOMEONECALL
911WHOHASACELLPHONEJESUSCHRISTISHEHAVINGASEIZUREORSOMETHING

I felt like someone was drilling into my skull. Like a train just hit me smack-dab in the face...

Wait a second...the train...

The subway is just on the other side of the block. I can reach it.

"EXCUSEMESIRIAMADOCTORANDIMHERETOHELPYOUJUSTHOLDSTILLSOICOULD--"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!"

I push him to the side, and navigate my way through the chaos and confusion. I can't even walk straight anymore. My muscles burned like someone injecting lye into my blood vessels, and my heart was beating so fast I felt like I had to keep up with it. All of a sudden, a pair of headlights hit me, and I tumble over to the street. More people scream. The headaches get worse. Somehow, the pain in my head was so strong that I couldn't even feel the impact of the windshield break my left arm. Limping, and keeping one hand grasped onto my seemingly imploding skull, I brink down the stairs of the subway. Not a smart move.

Losing balance, I trip and roll all the way down the stairs. Only the pain in my head increases as more civilians panic. However, I persevere through the headaches. I run across a sea of horns, and screams, and bells, and whistles, all around me. An ocean of noise trying to engulf me into the eye of the storm. I quickly leap over the ticket entrance, and hobble to wherever the next train is. Anywhere but here.

The train is about to leave. My vision is completely blurred but I can tell that doors are slowly closing. Panicked, I run straight for the door. The small space between the closing doors gets smaller and smaller as I get closer. I reach my hand out, and quickly pry the door as much as I can. The gap becomes big enough for me to fit, I step inside, and the train reaches home. Panting, the volume fades, just a little bit. I turn around, and there's nobody in my car. The train gets faster and faster. I peek into the surrounding cars. Nobody is in those either. The subway train takes a sudden halt strong enough to make me fall right on my broken arm. Not even that is as painful as the sensory drills lodged into my skull.

As I regain my sense of balance, we stop at Fairemont. The doors whoosh as they open, in a way that's just heavenly. The bright light of the fluorescent bulbs begins to bloom into a void of complete and pure white. Nobody enters yet. Cmon, cmon. For a millisecond, I couldn't even hear the train's locomotive engine anymore, but the pain was still there. Please. Just help me figure this out. I need your voice.

She enters through the clean white, and just like normal, she sits in the same seat as always. Then I notice something wrong. Her hair is crimson red. It wasn't Friday today. It was Saturday, it was supposed to be green.

The train begins to move. As soon as it makes it more than halfway to my home, she should sing. She sits there normally, like she doesn't notice me in agony, the blood dripping from my ears. The train gets faster and faster. It's gonna get there sooner than expected. I hear her inhaling. She's ready to sing. Help me make sense of the chaos. Sing for me my sonnet.

Please.

I'#m j!@#us%&t a@ l$it#&$%tle pe*&)rson&&$
O11$#^¡Ù per*#&$%so()(#&#&n in a@@~! se&$%(#a

GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGHHH!!

Her voice sounded garbled. It was torturous. You could hear her angel voice, but it was covered by static, and bad reception, and bullshit. And it was louder than anything else I've ever heard.

Som+#@wh&$ere ma&$%ybe$%^ s)@##&omed#^%ay

The pain became continuous. I couldn't stand straight anymore. I knelt and begged for it all to just end. She just kept singing, and staring at the window. I felt faint.

Suddenly I'm falling, and I land on the ground, but I'm not in the train anymore. I can still hear her mangled angel voice, but now, the screams of civilians are added as well. My vision is a blur now. I can see people standing high above me, the woman singing, and a bright light getting progressively closer. Everything gets louder and louder. Everything is spiraling out of control. A personal hell of screams and dissonance engulfing me into the ocean of noise. The screams get louder, the charred voice of the angel I once knew becomes more garbled, the lights approach my position closer and closer. Good things come to those who wait.

With no other way to end my sorry little excuse of a life, I hold my hand up and try to touch the woman that accompanied me through these last three years. You were the closest thing to a connection I've ever made. She keeps singing, unable to notice my blood stained hands stroking her cheek. Please, angel, bring me into salvation.











A void. A white void. Of silence and nothingness. And it was beautiful. All of the noise gone. The people, the cars, the trains, everything, drowned by a bright and pure white. For the first time in my life, I feel at peace. The ocean of noise calmed. The storm reaching its toll. And...now I still feel like something is missing. That shouldn't happen. Why am I feeling this loneliness?

Then a sudden realization reveals itself from the silence. Yes. I guess that makes sense.

I get into a fetal position, close my eyes, and relish the silence. The cushioned white becomes warm sand. The ocean, the beach, the eternal sunset, all materializes in front of me. My sanctuary made real.

And now, to add the final part.

Now, lying next to me is the angel. The missing piece of the puzzle. Now I can rest. And finish the song. Sing for me the sonnet, just like you did in the subway.

I am the zen master.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

I know you.

[The End.]

Spoiler: The Eternal Narrative (A Short Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A...)

[the eternal narrative.]

[written by enigma.]



Once upon a time, a man named Robert was born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

His adult life was somewhat special. He had a big house, a nice car, a well-paying job, and an enormity of books to read. So much books, in fact, that his love for literature has began to wane. Too many he has read, and thus, he has waited for the one book to replenish his age-old hobby. Maybe today will be the day, he thought.

As always, the bookstore was still there. Two levels of books to read, and he has read almost all of them. He strolls straight to the "new release" shelf, and nothing has been shipped today. Peculiar, but not enough to shake off his unimpressed feeling. Disappointed, he exits the bookstore, and heads back to work.

Next day begins. Robert wakes up. As always, he grabs a cup of coffee. As always, he reads some of the news. As always, he starts the car. As always, he drives to the bookstore first.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever. Biographies were the worst. It was the hardest to find the true gems in what seemed like a septic tank of bland unoriginal life stories. Each person's life just another bland empty life, no matter how famous they've been. The interesting bits have already been done before and better, the writing sub-par, especially the auto-biographies written by people who don't know a damn about writing.

Finally, he finds one book he hasn't read yet, and surprisingly in its unsurprising-ness, its title is the epitome of blandness. The Official Unauthorized Biography by Joseph Kessler. That was it. Who this biography was about, it didn't even say. No synopsis on the back, the cover flaps were blank. There wasn't even a description of the author on the last page. Paradoxically, the amount of mundanity crammed into one book just by looking at the cover interested him. He decided to read a few pages, and if it all ended up being shit, he would just put it down. Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

Once upon a time, a man named Harold born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

He flipped the page. Robert then looked at the page and read it.

His mother gave birth to Harold at Our Lady of Hope's hospital wherein she died giving birth to him. He spent years K through 12 kissing everybody's ass because he believed it worked on his father. His father only pretended to love him. He always blamed the little snot-nosed prick for the loss of his wife, and now he's alone, and stuck with him.

Robert dropped the book. He took a gasp of air. What on earth, he thought. A state of paranoia ensues him. He picks the book back up, and reads the next page.

Harold's father always hid his over-wrought hatred of Harold under a facade of warmth, for it was all he could do. He believed that it would be what his wife wanted. But he still kept that hatred burning inside him. She was gone now. All his fault. Too much to bear. Oh, how he missed her.

What followed was two whole pages describing some of the things the father pretended to care about. The fishing trip. The birthday parties.

The young Harold thought that his father's silence was a sign of care. He had no idea of the black fire that burned inside his father. His father did everything in his power to control this hatred. Young Harold did everything in his power to keep disillusioning that his father actually loved him.

Robert, feeling confused and angry and uneasy all at once, skimmed through everything quickly until he finally hit a crucial moment.

At 18 years of age, he was finally ready to graduate, and he was given the honors of giving a speech. "Before I begin," he proclaimed, "I'd like to start with a few words. I wouldn't have made it this far, if it hadn't been for the greatest man I'd ever known. My dad."

Everyone clapped, and the father tried to smile...but he couldn't. Too long had he endured the pain he felt. Too long had he hid his true feelings for the young boy. He just wanted to take that kid's smug face and beat it. The clapping engulfed the man, everyone thinking he loved the very thing he secretly despised.

"ENOUGH!" he finally yelled. "I'VE HAD IT!!! SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!!!"

"Dad, what's going on--"

"YOU!!" he said in a voice that sounded like it came from a separate entity.

"IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!! IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR YOU, SHE WOULDN'T HAVE DIED!!!"

"Dad..." he uttered pathetically.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!!"

Everyone stared at him. Harold. Both of them. All of them puzzled. Unsure to feel sympathetic to one or the other.

"I'm sorry son...but I never loved you. And I never will."

He exited the room, and everyone in the ceremony was just baffled.

Harold. He whimpered pathetically. Then sobbed pathetically. Finally cried pathetically. And knelt down on his knees in surrender. Words rushed through his mind like a storm. Words like, 'Father', 'Dad', 'Guardian', and 'Papa'. They whirred in his head as he drew out those pathetic little tears, until finally...the words died down.

No.

Robert knelt in the bookstore. He felt like crying and he knew exactly why. Robert was Harold. That pathetic little boy whose father never loved him grew up into the successful but emotionally distant man you see today. Ladies and gentlemen, give a huge round of applause for Robert.

Robert then snapped. He blitzed to the cashier, paid for the book, and drove his sorry ass home. He finally entered the house. Slammed the door shut in fury, then sat on the couch trying to make sense of what just happened. He grabbed the book, and opened it up for another torturous stroll down memory lane. He flipped page, by page, until he would find something of noteworthy interest.

Page 46

...and after he had sex with her, losing his virginity for the first time, they never saw each other again. The ultimate anticlimax. The first woman he could call his lover never loved him.

Page 57

"The truth is, Robert...I never thought this relationship would work out."

"I'm sorry what?"

"I never loved you."

Page 120

Congratulations, Harold. You are now vice president of Signature Publications. Welcome to the team!

Page 267

Harold felt a perpetual sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu when Holly broke up with him. It mirrored Stacey, which mirrored, Kourtney, which mirrored Penelope, which mirrored...his father.

Page 294

Harold stood right at eye level to the new tombstone. Father finally passed. He wished he could do that one thing in that one movie, where he could plant a seed in his grave, so that a tree would sprout from his father's corpse, but when he looked back at the urn, he realized that wouldn't work either. He opened the urn and took a good long look at the pile of ashes, and he got the strangest feeling that even the ashes of his father hated him. "Just dump me in the river you little punk" they seemed to say. "Nobody loves you. Nobody ever will."

And after that...four blank pages. The End. Nothing else happened after that moment. It was just a barrage of day in day out work attendings. Robert needed to rest. He had to lie down. It'll all make sense after some rest.

Robert woke up. Groggy and delirious, he stepped out of bed and proceeded to change and get ready. He ignored the coffee maker and didn't check his porch for the newspaper. After putting on his tie, something glimpsed his eye. He missed it for half a second but finally looked back. On his reading chair was the book. He missed at first because it didn't look like the book at first. He finally realized that it was the same book he read yesterday...but it had gotten bigger. It looked like more than 1000 pages were added.

Page 312 described his job.

Page 341 was just more of his day to day drudgery.

In fact, it was like that from Pages 295 to 437. The mundanity, the book reading, the job attending. He skimmed through everything in that allotted page frame and finally made it to Page 438.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever.

This was exactly what happened yesterday, in an amount of frightening detail.

Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

No..., Robert thought. Dear God, no.

Once upon a time, a man named Walter born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

What the fuck? Robert thought. He flipped a page, and it went on.

Harold then looked at the page and read it. In it, Walter looked at the page and read it. In it, Gregory looked at the page and read it. In it, Fred looked at the page and read it. In it, Regis looked at the page and read it. In it, Edward looked at the page and read it. In it, Alan looked at the page and read it. In it, Timothy looked at the page and read it. In it, William looked at the page and read it. In it, Jim looked at the page and read it. In it, Morty looked at the page and read it.

It went on and on like a mirror looking into its own reflection.

For how long? Robert skimmed through as many pages as he could. And the book didn't end. Page after page after page was a new name looking into the page within a page within a page within a page within a...

He began to notice something. As he was looking more and more into the book, it got heavier. It was getting bigger. Right before his very eyes. He's frightened now. More than he's ever been his whole life. He's experiencing something that wasn't written by human hands. He needs to find out what is happening. He must find Joseph Kessler.

At the bookstore, he quickly looks through the database, and much to his surprise, there were no authors named Joseph Kessler. He was wasting his time. He looked at the Biography shelf and there were no other copies. For all he knew, there weren't any other copies. For all he knew, maybe it was all just a groggy dream. He had to get a grip on his sanity. Going to work will do the trick.

Back at the Signature Publications building, Robert quickly went up the elevator and onto the 8th floor. Just act natural, he thought. Say hello.

"Hello, Dave," he said.

"Hello, Harold."

Robert stopped dead in his tracks. Did he say what he thought he said?

"What did you call me?"

"Oh yeah, right, you hate it when people call you that. What was your nickname again? Uh...I think it was Harry or something. Am I correct?"

This had to be some sick joke, he thought.

Are you feeling alright, Walter? You look kinda sick.

Harold then grabbed Dave by the collar and proceeded yelling at him. "WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF A JOKE IS THIS DAVE? I'M SICK OF THIS SHIT! YOU HEAR ME!"

"Jesus, Rob!" Dave exclaimed. "You don't have to act like a dick all the time, I only got your name wrong.

Dennis saw that everyone was staring at him now. The same way they stared at him during his graduation.

Robert stormed out the building, and turned on his cell phone. He had to make this one call, just to make sure. He dialed the number. It was Stacey's. Surely she'd be there for him, at least for now.

"Hello?" he said through the phone's mic.

"Jesus Christ, Dennis this better be important 'cause you just interrupted my nap.

Robert grew silent.

"Hello?...Damnit, Kenneth are you even there?"

He quickly hung up. His own sanity began to tear away at him. He realized he can trust no one but himself. He had to shut off the niggling doubts that what was going on around him, was all part of his imagination because it wasn't. He read those pages, he felt the book enlarging itself, he heard everyone calling him Walter.

Harold had no choice but to do everything in his power to find Joseph Kessler.

After entering the car, he headed to his first destination: The bookstore. Hurriedly, he zipped through traffic at dizzying speeds. He didn't care about the speed limit this time. All Harold could think about was finding the truth.

"I'm sorry sir, but for the hundredth time, there are no authors under the name of Joseph Kessler," the information desk man said.

"Please, I need to find this man," urged Walter.

"Look, I'm not the right person for this shit. If you really want to find this guy, look it up on Google, or ask for some records or something, I don't know. I really don't have time for this."

His patience was wearing thin, but the man was right. He had to look somewhere else. Quickly he sprinted past the door, and out onto the parking lot. Dennis struggled to get the key from his pocket, and when he finally obtained it, he tried starting the car. Nothing happened. The car wouldn't move. The engine didn't do a damn thing.

Kenneth yelled. He screamed louder than any time he could ever remember. This couldn't happen! Not now! He had no time to waste.

Walter then decidedly just got out of the car, and ran there. He didn't stop for a bus, or a cab. He just knew that something would happen that would try and stop him. It'd be safer to just run there. The cars were too dangerous.

No. I can't let him get away. He knows too much. He's beginning to recognize what's happening. I need to stop him...but I can't kill him. God damnit what should I do...must be something. Anything that'll slow him down.........yes. That's it. I'll use this. It'll work perfectly. He will not escape. I need him. Just have to type this down...

Everything was just a blur now, almost like being on acid. The blurs kept getting stronger and stronger. Nothing looked the same anymore. People were just moving splotches of color. Cars looked like indistinguishable zipping shadows. The light. Dear God, the light. The light started getting brighter and brighter. Harold couldn't stop running even if he tried. It was like being on a treadmill. If you stop, you'll end up skidding yourself on the floor until you're an unrecognizable pile of meat and bone. The blurs became more frantic. The lights got more blinding.

Suddenly, a giant light was headed towards him, only it wasn't what he thought it was. The light was from a car zooming at him.

In just five seconds, the flash dims down. Now he's in a hospital room. Couldn't think. Couldn't...move.

"Oh, thank goodness you're up. You've been mumbling to yourself for two days now."

"I...ugh....what?"

"Oh dear Lord, don't tell me you don't remember."

He says nothing.

"You were hit by a car two weeks ago, Gregory."

"nngh...no.....not.......name..."

"Jesus, you've been saying that for two days. You've been asleep for two whole days, and the entire time you kept yammering about how people kept on saying your name wrong or something."

"please.....listen.........my name.....is....."

What was his name? Who was he now? Was he Gregory? Alan? Walter? Robert? How many levels of stories deep is he? When he was Robert, was he in reality, or was he just another story??

"AUGH!!"

"Now what's the matter?"

"Voice.......so loud.................make it stop....."

He was a quick learner. Slowly but surely, he was getting a grasp of reality.

"Too loud........turn it down...........grasp of reality.......quick learner....."

But he still knew too much...

"Make it stop...........must be real.......me........what is......."

I didn't wanna have to do this...but there is no other way.

"No........don't...............beg you......."

I am truly sorry.

His mouth completely dried up, he couldn't even speak anymore. If he was lucky, he would be able to say certain vowels, and that'd be about it. His arms and legs completely crippled from the injury, he couldn't run, nor could he write what had happened to him. A vegetable who can do nothing more but share his new-found ideas with no one but himself.

The story is now finished. Hopefully, it will sell well. Hopefully, he will never recover. Hopefully, I could keep him alive.

If only...if only...

[The End.]

Sonnet of the Subway is my personal favorite. To Whom That Pounds The Nails was more of a test drive, and The Eternal Narrative was highly experimental.

Those stories are absolutely amazing, and rather creepy. The only parts I didn't like were these:

In To Whom That Pounds the Nails, the "His suffering. Is in your hands." seemed a bit repetitive after the first time it was said, though I certainly saw the point.
The Eternal Narrative got a bit confusing from all the different narrators (I guess?) and their different fonts, but again, the point was clear.

You could seriously write a book with that material, though.

 

[Enigma6667]

Lemme warn you all, that all of my works are incredibly artsy. If you aren't into that shit, don't bother reading.

Spoiler: To Whom That Pounds The Nails (A Short Story About A Crucifix-Maker)

[to whom that pounds the nails.]

[written by enigma.]

That's right. I turned myself in.

You could say I was somehow...compelled, I guess, to do so.

You couldn't call me insane, because I truly did hear it.

The voice of God.

He was the one who instructed me. Told me. Nurtured me into creating my one single astonishing masterpiece.

And now, I'm gonna finally reveal it to you, because it is His will.

Before I begin telling you anything, you should know, first, about my job. The profession that I've done to make a living for more than 25 years. You know how every single church has one giant crucifix in front and center. I provide them the crucifixes. I give them my Messiahs, my Saviors.

It's actually a pretty basic formula, to create your own God, no matter what size He be.

The first step, is the cross. Anybody who's ever been to a wood shop class in Middle School should be able to do this step. Simply just take 3 blocks of wood, one extra long, and two short. They should be cut into the most precise measurements you could possibly fathom, and sanded and smoothened so that it looks like a worthy throne for your Lord.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

As soon as you glue the two short blocks onto the sides of your long block, you have created your perfect cross. However, perfect isn't good enough. True sculptors, such as myself, will harness the maximum amount of detail humanly possible. So create a thin sheet of wood, shape it into that of a book or a scroll, and paint in the letters INRI. Now you have a true cross, perfect for your Messiah.

The second step is rather challenging. You will now helm the creation of the man Himself. I like to call this step: "Returning the favor". The torso should come first. To truly depict the suffering your Savior had to ordeal, then make Him truly suffer.

Form a visible rib cage, to starve him, add in lots of tiny but discernible cuts for the whippings, and the like. But one thing that many foolishly ignore is an important detail. You must add in the spear wound. The one the Romans put on his starving aching body. The moment when they stabbed him to make sure He was truly, surely dead. Make it as grisly and graphic as you want for all I care, because the churches certainly don't. They could care less about how you dislocated his shoulder, or how when you look into that stab wound, you will see the muscles constricting in agony. They won't even care if children watch as their Savior is hanging dead in their school chapel. All they care about is manipulation. The more you make Him suffer, the more the effect is raised, and the higher the chance of conversion.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Next is the legs, and as always, attention to detail is important. Make sure they criss-cross so that one foot is on top of the other, and be sure to make sure his legs are bending, trying to hold the body up for another agonizing breath. And of course, you can always make the bones of his knee-cap jut out of his skin.

The arms are easier. With the palms always facing towards the audience, simply make them stretch far enough, but not reach the ends of the cross.

So close, but so far.

And do NOT under any circumstances put in the nail holes just yet. We're going to save that for step four.

Lastly is the head, which will be the hardest. Anyone will just simply mold their Messiah. It takes a true artist to sculpt the face of God. Make Him suffer. Torture Him. Have his nose broken, a teeth or two missing, and rather than closing His eyes peacefully, it's much more effective to have them opening. I want you to look into the eyes of one of my crucifixes and just try to not see the suffering your Lord endured. With the tears of blood streaming down his face, his eyes glistening in the light, your Messiah must have a personality. He must have at least one flaw. He must feel it.

Now comes the third step, because as everyone knows, a King isn't complete without His crown. Your two clay circles should intersect each other, and fit around your Messiah's head. For the thorns, just stretch many points out and then dip it all in brown paint. Of course, the tips should have bits of red. When you place it on your Savior's Holy head, drizzle some red paint to make Him bleed.

The fourth step is my favorite, and is a lot of fun. Place your Messiah on the cross, take three real nails, and a hammer. This is the moment where you take control. When you pound in the nails, you feel like you're in control of Gods. That you shape your own destiny. That your fate isn't already inscribed into the books of the omnipotent. It is here, that you kill your Messiah. You regain control of your life. You shape your destiny. You create a God.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Why did I tell you all this? It's essential in knowing my motives. Every killer has a motive right?

This time however, it wasn't exactly my motives. It was His.

2 years ago, it was He that spoke to me.

You can not call me insane. I know what I heard. It was clearer, and more profound than anything I've ever heard in my entire life. It was then that he told me to create a brand new crucifix. My greatest one yet. My masterpiece. After months of gathering the resources, I began the creation process mentioned earlier. I immediately took it to the nearest church to take it, and they were astounded by its sheer beauty. They said that it was so remarkable, that they thought they could hear the voice of God. Ha. Ha. Ha.

However, it didn't matter how much praise it would get. Nobody would truly understand the true poetic meaning behind it until I revealed it, and here I am. When I was given the signal, the sign, I knew that it was time to truly show the world my masterpiece.

I am going to give you a list of instructions that you are to follow, sheriff. Firstly, you should probably get a chisel. Second, take down my masterpiece, and chisel it. Finally, keep on chiseling it, and inside you will find the body of Walter Robinson inside his Messiah-shaped plaster tomb.

You remember him, right? The missing person case that couldn't be solved. Until now. He was hesitant, but it didn't matter. He was what God had demanded. I'm surprised that nobody noticed the oxygen and water tubes. If you looked at it from a certain angle, they could be seen. But, of course, they were too busy praying to him.

Don't say that what I did to poor Walter was an act of evil, or insanity. It was an act of salvation. I used my power of creation, to turn Walter Robinson into a God. People worshiped him, prayed to him, bowed to him, and touched his casket hoping it would heal their ailments. And they hadn't the faintest clue, as they blindly knelt before him. It all went so...perfectly.

Now I can finally die, knowing that my masterpiece was truly unvieled.

His suffering. In my hands.

Amen.

Spoiler: Sonnet of the Subway (A Short Story Of A Man Who Finds Peace From The Downs & Outs Of Society Through A Song)

[sonnet of the subway.]

[written by enigma.]

I'm just a little person
One person in a sea
Of many little people
Who are not aware of me

I do my little job
And live my little life
Eat my little meals
Miss my little kid and wife

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

These are the lyrics that begin the song. That song that remained a part of my life for three years. Never in these three years have I heard the rest of the song. Never have I even bothered to learn what the rest of the lyrics were. Never have I ever discovered why, oh dear god why, this song felt so familiar, even when I heard it for the very first time.

Twice every day, for three years, I would step into the subway and the same woman would enter the train, sit in the exact same seat, and sing. Sing her lonely heart out to nobody but herself. Nobody really cared for her singing. Nobody bothered to acknowledge that she even existed.

She did look rather unremarkable, to be fair. She wore a white shirt with buttons near the collar to reveal a slight hint of her unremarkable breasts. The little jacket on top of that shirt was a dreary light gray, her shoes were white, with the exception of the splotches of grime and dirt caught on them, and her pants were of blue denim.

She contained only two remarkable features. One was her dyed hair, which shifted color every day. I think I've guessed the pattern, though some days would act as exceptions. Mondays were usually blue. Wednesdays were often orange. Fridays were normally crimson red. And you can always bet that every Sunday would have her locks a sensual violet.

The second remarkable feature was her voice. That voice. For three years, I have listened to this very same voice, and I have never grown tired of it.

Every day, I would live my shitty life. Waking up, eating the same shitty breakfast, wearing the same shitty clothes, always being hassled for the shitty rent by the same shitty landlord. Exiting the apartment. Having to pass by all of these shitty people. Going to the piece of shit dump you call a subway. Waiting in the shitty train.

And then...

...it would stop at Fairemont.

The girl with her newly colored hair stepping inside. Sitting in that same exact seat she always sat in. And when the train was almost there...she'd sing.

Then the shitty train would finally stop at my location, and I would have to leave before I could hear the rest of the song.

I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say...

The door slamming shut in my face. A feeling of painful rejection ensues.

Working the same shitty job. Being hassled by the same shitty boss. Hassled by the same shitty employees. Having to sell the same shitty products to the shitty customers. Finally exiting the shitty building. Going back down to the shitty subway dump, stepping inside the shitty train.

Stopping at Fairemont again.

Finally being at peace from all of the noise and the shittyness for just one measly minute again.

Being able to imagine myself in my sanctuary again.

Away from all the shitty people. In an island full of peace and rhythm.

The waves rolling in synchronization with the song.

Hearing the train bell ring again.

Never being able to finish the song.

Again.

Eating my shitty dinner. Watching my shitty sitcoms. And then finally...rest.

8 hours of sweet rest. The song in infinite loop. The back and forth of the ocean. Me just chanting to myself, good things come to those who wait, good things come to those who wait.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away

I am the zen master. This is my sanctuary. Please let me stay. Please.

Good things come to those who wait.

Each and every single day was just another chance to get a migraine. The noise kills me. It's more than just the city coming alive with all of those cars and taxis. Even more than the obnoxious music, or the constant thunderous rampage of the trains below. It's also the people. Whining and bitching about everything. More, more. Me, me. Now, now. The noise is a stormy sea that can't be tamed by mother nature herself. It could be psychological, it could be something I was born with, but none of that matters to me. In noise, you feel trapped. Locked in a prison of other people's excuses, lies, and tantrums. Sometimes, I snap and feel like massacring everything I see.

But I remain sane. The secret is finding your sanctuary. All I have to do is close my eyes, imagine the most serene little place you can think of, and block all of the noise. This is extremely hard, even for me to do. There's only so much noise that you can block. That's where the woman comes in. She provides a conduit for me to release all of the anger for one minute, and tolerate the chaos that surrounds me. And one minute is more than I need. I don't need to thank her, ask for the lyrics of the song, find it on a music store and download it on an mp3 player, or even wonder what exactly the lyrics mean. Her angel voice is all that's needed. And I can always count on her returning to her usual seat, and singing her usual song.

That is until March 12th.

My day begins just like every other. The breakfast, the alarm clock, the landlord, all of it shitty. Having to pass by all the people. Shitty as ever. Stepping into the subway, it's still a dump. Nothing has changed. But something is wrong. I have no idea what it is, but it's just...wrong.

Inside the train, I hear the train's bell ring. We've stopped at Fairemont. The door opens up and hordes of people enter as always...hey, wait a minute...where's the girl.

She's supposed to be here. Today is Saturday. She's supposed to be in here with her hair colored green this time.

Good things come to those who wait.

Waiting wasn't enough. The door has already closed, and the train is moving away.

No...this can't be happening. I need this. Maybe she entered another car, moved to another seat. No, that's not right. That's impossible. Her seat is still empty. She should've come. She's never late, never early. Always here exactly at 9:33 A.M.

Nngh...

The noises. They've gotten louder. All these people bitching about insignificant things and ideas. The train's motor louder than usual.

You know what, okay, this isn't in total loss. Don't over-react. It's just a song. You know the words, right? Sing it to yourself. Imagine her angel voice in sync with yours. Imagine the sanctuary. The waves, the warm sand, the ocean water, the sunset in the horizon.

Good things come to those who wait. Good things come to those who--

"You're fired."

Perplexed I reply with, "I'm sorry...what?"

"You're fired, Walter, get the hell outta my face."

"I know that but...why?"

"You really need a reason? Get outta here, you no longer work here. Piss off."

"Sir, I believe that I have a right to know why I'm not going to have a job anymore."

He ignores me. As if he is already trying to forget I exist.

Angrily I reply with, "This makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. I'm not leaving this office until I get a good explanation from you! You hear me!"

Still nothing.

A little more calmly, I reply with, "Okay...Obviously you don't like me. To be completely honest, I don't like you, or anybody in this place either. But I need this job. Without it, I won't be able to..."

I think about the sanctuary. The unfinished song. I am the zen master.

I continue, "Just...please..."

I sigh. I can already hear the noises of the city protruding my head. I can already tell that the migraines are going to be more painful than they've ever been before.

I continue again, "Okay, I get it now. I'm fired. However, I would feel a lot better if you just told me...why this has happened to me. Just...please explain to me why the fuck you just fired me out of thin air."

He sighs, puts on his glasses, and finally begins to speak...wait, what?

His mouth is moving but...there is no sound escaping from his chapped lips.

Puzzled, "I'm sorry, what?"

His face begins to get more puzzled as well, mirroring my own. He tries talking to me again, but he's still silent. Am I deaf?? No, of course not. I can still hear the printer beeping, and Bob is outside trying to flirt with Angela again.

"Are you fucking with me, right now?" I ask.

His mouth moves expressively, and now it appears that he's supposed to be yelling at me. Bob and Angela stare through the office window. They can hear him, and I'm stuck in a singularity of silence.

AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!!

For three seconds, the noises of the city became louder. Actually, "louder" is an understatement. They boomed like a skyrocket was propelling into the air right next to you. I gripped my head in agony and screamed like I never screamed before in my life. The volume dims back down to normal again. Everyone is staring at me. The boss just stares at me in bewilderment.

I have to get out of here.

I just try to exit the building, outside the revolving door. The subway shouldn't be too far--

NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

As soon as I step outside, the noises of the city skyrocket into a sonic boom and don't stop. Everything has gotten the volume maximized 100%. The cars vroom like space shuttles on lift-off, taxi cabs hailing like skyscraper sized speakers, a police siren so unforgivably loud, it's the equivalent of strapping a child to a desk and forcing him to listen to ten thousand nails scratching ten thousand chalk boards. Everything was like wearing a hearing aid as powerful as an atomic bomb.

NNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!

All of the civilians in the block huddle around me to find out what is happening to me. Their presence is only makes things works.

OHMYGODISHEOKAYISHEMENTALLYILLWHATTHEHELLISTHEMATTERWITHHIM
ISTHISGUYFUCKINGRETARDEDMOMMYIMSCAREDSOMEONECALLANAMBULANCE
HELPHELPTHERESAMANANDITHINKHESHAVINGAHEARTATTACKSOMEONECALL
911WHOHASACELLPHONEJESUSCHRISTISHEHAVINGASEIZUREORSOMETHING

I felt like someone was drilling into my skull. Like a train just hit me smack-dab in the face...

Wait a second...the train...

The subway is just on the other side of the block. I can reach it.

"EXCUSEMESIRIAMADOCTORANDIMHERETOHELPYOUJUSTHOLDSTILLSOICOULD--"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!"

I push him to the side, and navigate my way through the chaos and confusion. I can't even walk straight anymore. My muscles burned like someone injecting lye into my blood vessels, and my heart was beating so fast I felt like I had to keep up with it. All of a sudden, a pair of headlights hit me, and I tumble over to the street. More people scream. The headaches get worse. Somehow, the pain in my head was so strong that I couldn't even feel the impact of the windshield break my left arm. Limping, and keeping one hand grasped onto my seemingly imploding skull, I brink down the stairs of the subway. Not a smart move.

Losing balance, I trip and roll all the way down the stairs. Only the pain in my head increases as more civilians panic. However, I persevere through the headaches. I run across a sea of horns, and screams, and bells, and whistles, all around me. An ocean of noise trying to engulf me into the eye of the storm. I quickly leap over the ticket entrance, and hobble to wherever the next train is. Anywhere but here.

The train is about to leave. My vision is completely blurred but I can tell that doors are slowly closing. Panicked, I run straight for the door. The small space between the closing doors gets smaller and smaller as I get closer. I reach my hand out, and quickly pry the door as much as I can. The gap becomes big enough for me to fit, I step inside, and the train reaches home. Panting, the volume fades, just a little bit. I turn around, and there's nobody in my car. The train gets faster and faster. I peek into the surrounding cars. Nobody is in those either. The subway train takes a sudden halt strong enough to make me fall right on my broken arm. Not even that is as painful as the sensory drills lodged into my skull.

As I regain my sense of balance, we stop at Fairemont. The doors whoosh as they open, in a way that's just heavenly. The bright light of the fluorescent bulbs begins to bloom into a void of complete and pure white. Nobody enters yet. Cmon, cmon. For a millisecond, I couldn't even hear the train's locomotive engine anymore, but the pain was still there. Please. Just help me figure this out. I need your voice.

She enters through the clean white, and just like normal, she sits in the same seat as always. Then I notice something wrong. Her hair is crimson red. It wasn't Friday today. It was Saturday, it was supposed to be green.

The train begins to move. As soon as it makes it more than halfway to my home, she should sing. She sits there normally, like she doesn't notice me in agony, the blood dripping from my ears. The train gets faster and faster. It's gonna get there sooner than expected. I hear her inhaling. She's ready to sing. Help me make sense of the chaos. Sing for me my sonnet.

Please.

I'#m j!@#us%&t a@ l$it#&$%tle pe*&)rson&&$
O11$#^¡Ù per*#&$%so()(#&#&n in a@@~! se&$%(#a

GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGHHH!!

Her voice sounded garbled. It was torturous. You could hear her angel voice, but it was covered by static, and bad reception, and bullshit. And it was louder than anything else I've ever heard.

Som+#@wh&$ere ma&$%ybe$%^ s)@##&omed#^%ay

The pain became continuous. I couldn't stand straight anymore. I knelt and begged for it all to just end. She just kept singing, and staring at the window. I felt faint.

Suddenly I'm falling, and I land on the ground, but I'm not in the train anymore. I can still hear her mangled angel voice, but now, the screams of civilians are added as well. My vision is a blur now. I can see people standing high above me, the woman singing, and a bright light getting progressively closer. Everything gets louder and louder. Everything is spiraling out of control. A personal hell of screams and dissonance engulfing me into the ocean of noise. The screams get louder, the charred voice of the angel I once knew becomes more garbled, the lights approach my position closer and closer. Good things come to those who wait.

With no other way to end my sorry little excuse of a life, I hold my hand up and try to touch the woman that accompanied me through these last three years. You were the closest thing to a connection I've ever made. She keeps singing, unable to notice my blood stained hands stroking her cheek. Please, angel, bring me into salvation.











A void. A white void. Of silence and nothingness. And it was beautiful. All of the noise gone. The people, the cars, the trains, everything, drowned by a bright and pure white. For the first time in my life, I feel at peace. The ocean of noise calmed. The storm reaching its toll. And...now I still feel like something is missing. That shouldn't happen. Why am I feeling this loneliness?

Then a sudden realization reveals itself from the silence. Yes. I guess that makes sense.

I get into a fetal position, close my eyes, and relish the silence. The cushioned white becomes warm sand. The ocean, the beach, the eternal sunset, all materializes in front of me. My sanctuary made real.

And now, to add the final part.

Now, lying next to me is the angel. The missing piece of the puzzle. Now I can rest. And finish the song. Sing for me the sonnet, just like you did in the subway.

I am the zen master.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

I know you.

[The End.]

Spoiler: The Eternal Narrative (A Short Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A...)

[the eternal narrative.]

[written by enigma.]



Once upon a time, a man named Robert was born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

His adult life was somewhat special. He had a big house, a nice car, a well-paying job, and an enormity of books to read. So much books, in fact, that his love for literature has began to wane. Too many he has read, and thus, he has waited for the one book to replenish his age-old hobby. Maybe today will be the day, he thought.

As always, the bookstore was still there. Two levels of books to read, and he has read almost all of them. He strolls straight to the "new release" shelf, and nothing has been shipped today. Peculiar, but not enough to shake off his unimpressed feeling. Disappointed, he exits the bookstore, and heads back to work.

Next day begins. Robert wakes up. As always, he grabs a cup of coffee. As always, he reads some of the news. As always, he starts the car. As always, he drives to the bookstore first.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever. Biographies were the worst. It was the hardest to find the true gems in what seemed like a septic tank of bland unoriginal life stories. Each person's life just another bland empty life, no matter how famous they've been. The interesting bits have already been done before and better, the writing sub-par, especially the auto-biographies written by people who don't know a damn about writing.

Finally, he finds one book he hasn't read yet, and surprisingly in its unsurprising-ness, its title is the epitome of blandness. The Official Unauthorized Biography by Joseph Kessler. That was it. Who this biography was about, it didn't even say. No synopsis on the back, the cover flaps were blank. There wasn't even a description of the author on the last page. Paradoxically, the amount of mundanity crammed into one book just by looking at the cover interested him. He decided to read a few pages, and if it all ended up being shit, he would just put it down. Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

Once upon a time, a man named Harold born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

He flipped the page. Robert then looked at the page and read it.

His mother gave birth to Harold at Our Lady of Hope's hospital wherein she died giving birth to him. He spent years K through 12 kissing everybody's ass because he believed it worked on his father. His father only pretended to love him. He always blamed the little snot-nosed prick for the loss of his wife, and now he's alone, and stuck with him.

Robert dropped the book. He took a gasp of air. What on earth, he thought. A state of paranoia ensues him. He picks the book back up, and reads the next page.

Harold's father always hid his over-wrought hatred of Harold under a facade of warmth, for it was all he could do. He believed that it would be what his wife wanted. But he still kept that hatred burning inside him. She was gone now. All his fault. Too much to bear. Oh, how he missed her.

What followed was two whole pages describing some of the things the father pretended to care about. The fishing trip. The birthday parties.

The young Harold thought that his father's silence was a sign of care. He had no idea of the black fire that burned inside his father. His father did everything in his power to control this hatred. Young Harold did everything in his power to keep disillusioning that his father actually loved him.

Robert, feeling confused and angry and uneasy all at once, skimmed through everything quickly until he finally hit a crucial moment.

At 18 years of age, he was finally ready to graduate, and he was given the honors of giving a speech. "Before I begin," he proclaimed, "I'd like to start with a few words. I wouldn't have made it this far, if it hadn't been for the greatest man I'd ever known. My dad."

Everyone clapped, and the father tried to smile...but he couldn't. Too long had he endured the pain he felt. Too long had he hid his true feelings for the young boy. He just wanted to take that kid's smug face and beat it. The clapping engulfed the man, everyone thinking he loved the very thing he secretly despised.

"ENOUGH!" he finally yelled. "I'VE HAD IT!!! SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!!!"

"Dad, what's going on--"

"YOU!!" he said in a voice that sounded like it came from a separate entity.

"IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!! IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR YOU, SHE WOULDN'T HAVE DIED!!!"

"Dad..." he uttered pathetically.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!!"

Everyone stared at him. Harold. Both of them. All of them puzzled. Unsure to feel sympathetic to one or the other.

"I'm sorry son...but I never loved you. And I never will."

He exited the room, and everyone in the ceremony was just baffled.

Harold. He whimpered pathetically. Then sobbed pathetically. Finally cried pathetically. And knelt down on his knees in surrender. Words rushed through his mind like a storm. Words like, 'Father', 'Dad', 'Guardian', and 'Papa'. They whirred in his head as he drew out those pathetic little tears, until finally...the words died down.

No.

Robert knelt in the bookstore. He felt like crying and he knew exactly why. Robert was Harold. That pathetic little boy whose father never loved him grew up into the successful but emotionally distant man you see today. Ladies and gentlemen, give a huge round of applause for Robert.

Robert then snapped. He blitzed to the cashier, paid for the book, and drove his sorry ass home. He finally entered the house. Slammed the door shut in fury, then sat on the couch trying to make sense of what just happened. He grabbed the book, and opened it up for another torturous stroll down memory lane. He flipped page, by page, until he would find something of noteworthy interest.

Page 46

...and after he had sex with her, losing his virginity for the first time, they never saw each other again. The ultimate anticlimax. The first woman he could call his lover never loved him.

Page 57

"The truth is, Robert...I never thought this relationship would work out."

"I'm sorry what?"

"I never loved you."

Page 120

Congratulations, Harold. You are now vice president of Signature Publications. Welcome to the team!

Page 267

Harold felt a perpetual sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu when Holly broke up with him. It mirrored Stacey, which mirrored, Kourtney, which mirrored Penelope, which mirrored...his father.

Page 294

Harold stood right at eye level to the new tombstone. Father finally passed. He wished he could do that one thing in that one movie, where he could plant a seed in his grave, so that a tree would sprout from his father's corpse, but when he looked back at the urn, he realized that wouldn't work either. He opened the urn and took a good long look at the pile of ashes, and he got the strangest feeling that even the ashes of his father hated him. "Just dump me in the river you little punk" they seemed to say. "Nobody loves you. Nobody ever will."

And after that...four blank pages. The End. Nothing else happened after that moment. It was just a barrage of day in day out work attendings. Robert needed to rest. He had to lie down. It'll all make sense after some rest.

Robert woke up. Groggy and delirious, he stepped out of bed and proceeded to change and get ready. He ignored the coffee maker and didn't check his porch for the newspaper. After putting on his tie, something glimpsed his eye. He missed it for half a second but finally looked back. On his reading chair was the book. He missed at first because it didn't look like the book at first. He finally realized that it was the same book he read yesterday...but it had gotten bigger. It looked like more than 1000 pages were added.

Page 312 described his job.

Page 341 was just more of his day to day drudgery.

In fact, it was like that from Pages 295 to 437. The mundanity, the book reading, the job attending. He skimmed through everything in that allotted page frame and finally made it to Page 438.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever.

This was exactly what happened yesterday, in an amount of frightening detail.

Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

No..., Robert thought. Dear God, no.

Once upon a time, a man named Walter born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

What the fuck? Robert thought. He flipped a page, and it went on.

Harold then looked at the page and read it. In it, Walter looked at the page and read it. In it, Gregory looked at the page and read it. In it, Fred looked at the page and read it. In it, Regis looked at the page and read it. In it, Edward looked at the page and read it. In it, Alan looked at the page and read it. In it, Timothy looked at the page and read it. In it, William looked at the page and read it. In it, Jim looked at the page and read it. In it, Morty looked at the page and read it.

It went on and on like a mirror looking into its own reflection.

For how long? Robert skimmed through as many pages as he could. And the book didn't end. Page after page after page was a new name looking into the page within a page within a page within a page within a...

He began to notice something. As he was looking more and more into the book, it got heavier. It was getting bigger. Right before his very eyes. He's frightened now. More than he's ever been his whole life. He's experiencing something that wasn't written by human hands. He needs to find out what is happening. He must find Joseph Kessler.

At the bookstore, he quickly looks through the database, and much to his surprise, there were no authors named Joseph Kessler. He was wasting his time. He looked at the Biography shelf and there were no other copies. For all he knew, there weren't any other copies. For all he knew, maybe it was all just a groggy dream. He had to get a grip on his sanity. Going to work will do the trick.

Back at the Signature Publications building, Robert quickly went up the elevator and onto the 8th floor. Just act natural, he thought. Say hello.

"Hello, Dave," he said.

"Hello, Harold."

Robert stopped dead in his tracks. Did he say what he thought he said?

"What did you call me?"

"Oh yeah, right, you hate it when people call you that. What was your nickname again? Uh...I think it was Harry or something. Am I correct?"

This had to be some sick joke, he thought.

Are you feeling alright, Walter? You look kinda sick.

Harold then grabbed Dave by the collar and proceeded yelling at him. "WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF A JOKE IS THIS DAVE? I'M SICK OF THIS SHIT! YOU HEAR ME!"

"Jesus, Rob!" Dave exclaimed. "You don't have to act like a dick all the time, I only got your name wrong.

Dennis saw that everyone was staring at him now. The same way they stared at him during his graduation.

Robert stormed out the building, and turned on his cell phone. He had to make this one call, just to make sure. He dialed the number. It was Stacey's. Surely she'd be there for him, at least for now.

"Hello?" he said through the phone's mic.

"Jesus Christ, Dennis this better be important 'cause you just interrupted my nap.

Robert grew silent.

"Hello?...Damnit, Kenneth are you even there?"

He quickly hung up. His own sanity began to tear away at him. He realized he can trust no one but himself. He had to shut off the niggling doubts that what was going on around him, was all part of his imagination because it wasn't. He read those pages, he felt the book enlarging itself, he heard everyone calling him Walter.

Harold had no choice but to do everything in his power to find Joseph Kessler.

After entering the car, he headed to his first destination: The bookstore. Hurriedly, he zipped through traffic at dizzying speeds. He didn't care about the speed limit this time. All Harold could think about was finding the truth.

"I'm sorry sir, but for the hundredth time, there are no authors under the name of Joseph Kessler," the information desk man said.

"Please, I need to find this man," urged Walter.

"Look, I'm not the right person for this shit. If you really want to find this guy, look it up on Google, or ask for some records or something, I don't know. I really don't have time for this."

His patience was wearing thin, but the man was right. He had to look somewhere else. Quickly he sprinted past the door, and out onto the parking lot. Dennis struggled to get the key from his pocket, and when he finally obtained it, he tried starting the car. Nothing happened. The car wouldn't move. The engine didn't do a damn thing.

Kenneth yelled. He screamed louder than any time he could ever remember. This couldn't happen! Not now! He had no time to waste.

Walter then decidedly just got out of the car, and ran there. He didn't stop for a bus, or a cab. He just knew that something would happen that would try and stop him. It'd be safer to just run there. The cars were too dangerous.

No. I can't let him get away. He knows too much. He's beginning to recognize what's happening. I need to stop him...but I can't kill him. God damnit what should I do...must be something. Anything that'll slow him down.........yes. That's it. I'll use this. It'll work perfectly. He will not escape. I need him. Just have to type this down...

Everything was just a blur now, almost like being on acid. The blurs kept getting stronger and stronger. Nothing looked the same anymore. People were just moving splotches of color. Cars looked like indistinguishable zipping shadows. The light. Dear God, the light. The light started getting brighter and brighter. Harold couldn't stop running even if he tried. It was like being on a treadmill. If you stop, you'll end up skidding yourself on the floor until you're an unrecognizable pile of meat and bone. The blurs became more frantic. The lights got more blinding.

Suddenly, a giant light was headed towards him, only it wasn't what he thought it was. The light was from a car zooming at him.

In just five seconds, the flash dims down. Now he's in a hospital room. Couldn't think. Couldn't...move.

"Oh, thank goodness you're up. You've been mumbling to yourself for two days now."

"I...ugh....what?"

"Oh dear Lord, don't tell me you don't remember."

He says nothing.

"You were hit by a car two weeks ago, Gregory."

"nngh...no.....not.......name..."

"Jesus, you've been saying that for two days. You've been asleep for two whole days, and the entire time you kept yammering about how people kept on saying your name wrong or something."

"please.....listen.........my name.....is....."

What was his name? Who was he now? Was he Gregory? Alan? Walter? Robert? How many levels of stories deep is he? When he was Robert, was he in reality, or was he just another story??

"AUGH!!"

"Now what's the matter?"

"Voice.......so loud.................make it stop....."

He was a quick learner. Slowly but surely, he was getting a grasp of reality.

"Too loud........turn it down...........grasp of reality.......quick learner....."

But he still knew too much...

"Make it stop...........must be real.......me........what is......."

I didn't wanna have to do this...but there is no other way.

"No........don't...............beg you......."

I am truly sorry.

His mouth completely dried up, he couldn't even speak anymore. If he was lucky, he would be able to say certain vowels, and that'd be about it. His arms and legs completely crippled from the injury, he couldn't run, nor could he write what had happened to him. A vegetable who can do nothing more but share his new-found ideas with no one but himself.

The story is now finished. Hopefully, it will sell well. Hopefully, he will never recover. Hopefully, I could keep him alive.

If only...if only...

[The End.]

Sonnet of the Subway is my personal favorite. To Whom That Pounds The Nails was more of a test drive, and The Eternal Narrative was highly experimental.

Those stories are absolutely amazing, and rather creepy. The only parts I didn't like were these:

In To Whom That Pounds the Nails, the "His suffering. Is in your hands." seemed a bit repetitive after the first time it was said, though I certainly saw the point.
The Eternal Narrative got a bit confusing from all the different narrators (I guess?) and their different fonts, but again, the point was clear.

You could seriously write a book with that material, though.

The "His Suffering..." line is sort of a shout out to Chuck Palahniuk's writing style wherein he has "choruses" during the story. Such as in Fight Club he had "I Am Jack's [Insert Random Emotion Here]." and such.

Eternal Narrative was practically made to be confusing seeing how the purpose of it, for me, was basically to completely fuck with people's heads, which worked perfectly. I was definitely channeling David Lynch writing that one.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Lemme warn you all, that all of my works are incredibly artsy. If you aren't into that shit, don't bother reading.

Spoiler: To Whom That Pounds The Nails (A Short Story About A Crucifix-Maker)

[to whom that pounds the nails.]

[written by enigma.]

That's right. I turned myself in.

You could say I was somehow...compelled, I guess, to do so.

You couldn't call me insane, because I truly did hear it.

The voice of God.

He was the one who instructed me. Told me. Nurtured me into creating my one single astonishing masterpiece.

And now, I'm gonna finally reveal it to you, because it is His will.

Before I begin telling you anything, you should know, first, about my job. The profession that I've done to make a living for more than 25 years. You know how every single church has one giant crucifix in front and center. I provide them the crucifixes. I give them my Messiahs, my Saviors.

It's actually a pretty basic formula, to create your own God, no matter what size He be.

The first step, is the cross. Anybody who's ever been to a wood shop class in Middle School should be able to do this step. Simply just take 3 blocks of wood, one extra long, and two short. They should be cut into the most precise measurements you could possibly fathom, and sanded and smoothened so that it looks like a worthy throne for your Lord.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

As soon as you glue the two short blocks onto the sides of your long block, you have created your perfect cross. However, perfect isn't good enough. True sculptors, such as myself, will harness the maximum amount of detail humanly possible. So create a thin sheet of wood, shape it into that of a book or a scroll, and paint in the letters INRI. Now you have a true cross, perfect for your Messiah.

The second step is rather challenging. You will now helm the creation of the man Himself. I like to call this step: "Returning the favor". The torso should come first. To truly depict the suffering your Savior had to ordeal, then make Him truly suffer.

Form a visible rib cage, to starve him, add in lots of tiny but discernible cuts for the whippings, and the like. But one thing that many foolishly ignore is an important detail. You must add in the spear wound. The one the Romans put on his starving aching body. The moment when they stabbed him to make sure He was truly, surely dead. Make it as grisly and graphic as you want for all I care, because the churches certainly don't. They could care less about how you dislocated his shoulder, or how when you look into that stab wound, you will see the muscles constricting in agony. They won't even care if children watch as their Savior is hanging dead in their school chapel. All they care about is manipulation. The more you make Him suffer, the more the effect is raised, and the higher the chance of conversion.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Next is the legs, and as always, attention to detail is important. Make sure they criss-cross so that one foot is on top of the other, and be sure to make sure his legs are bending, trying to hold the body up for another agonizing breath. And of course, you can always make the bones of his knee-cap jut out of his skin.

The arms are easier. With the palms always facing towards the audience, simply make them stretch far enough, but not reach the ends of the cross.

So close, but so far.

And do NOT under any circumstances put in the nail holes just yet. We're going to save that for step four.

Lastly is the head, which will be the hardest. Anyone will just simply mold their Messiah. It takes a true artist to sculpt the face of God. Make Him suffer. Torture Him. Have his nose broken, a teeth or two missing, and rather than closing His eyes peacefully, it's much more effective to have them opening. I want you to look into the eyes of one of my crucifixes and just try to not see the suffering your Lord endured. With the tears of blood streaming down his face, his eyes glistening in the light, your Messiah must have a personality. He must have at least one flaw. He must feel it.

Now comes the third step, because as everyone knows, a King isn't complete without His crown. Your two clay circles should intersect each other, and fit around your Messiah's head. For the thorns, just stretch many points out and then dip it all in brown paint. Of course, the tips should have bits of red. When you place it on your Savior's Holy head, drizzle some red paint to make Him bleed.

The fourth step is my favorite, and is a lot of fun. Place your Messiah on the cross, take three real nails, and a hammer. This is the moment where you take control. When you pound in the nails, you feel like you're in control of Gods. That you shape your own destiny. That your fate isn't already inscribed into the books of the omnipotent. It is here, that you kill your Messiah. You regain control of your life. You shape your destiny. You create a God.

His suffering. Is in your hands.

Why did I tell you all this? It's essential in knowing my motives. Every killer has a motive right?

This time however, it wasn't exactly my motives. It was His.

2 years ago, it was He that spoke to me.

You can not call me insane. I know what I heard. It was clearer, and more profound than anything I've ever heard in my entire life. It was then that he told me to create a brand new crucifix. My greatest one yet. My masterpiece. After months of gathering the resources, I began the creation process mentioned earlier. I immediately took it to the nearest church to take it, and they were astounded by its sheer beauty. They said that it was so remarkable, that they thought they could hear the voice of God. Ha. Ha. Ha.

However, it didn't matter how much praise it would get. Nobody would truly understand the true poetic meaning behind it until I revealed it, and here I am. When I was given the signal, the sign, I knew that it was time to truly show the world my masterpiece.

I am going to give you a list of instructions that you are to follow, sheriff. Firstly, you should probably get a chisel. Second, take down my masterpiece, and chisel it. Finally, keep on chiseling it, and inside you will find the body of Walter Robinson inside his Messiah-shaped plaster tomb.

You remember him, right? The missing person case that couldn't be solved. Until now. He was hesitant, but it didn't matter. He was what God had demanded. I'm surprised that nobody noticed the oxygen and water tubes. If you looked at it from a certain angle, they could be seen. But, of course, they were too busy praying to him.

Don't say that what I did to poor Walter was an act of evil, or insanity. It was an act of salvation. I used my power of creation, to turn Walter Robinson into a God. People worshiped him, prayed to him, bowed to him, and touched his casket hoping it would heal their ailments. And they hadn't the faintest clue, as they blindly knelt before him. It all went so...perfectly.

Now I can finally die, knowing that my masterpiece was truly unvieled.

His suffering. In my hands.

Amen.

Spoiler: Sonnet of the Subway (A Short Story Of A Man Who Finds Peace From The Downs & Outs Of Society Through A Song)

[sonnet of the subway.]

[written by enigma.]

I'm just a little person
One person in a sea
Of many little people
Who are not aware of me

I do my little job
And live my little life
Eat my little meals
Miss my little kid and wife

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

These are the lyrics that begin the song. That song that remained a part of my life for three years. Never in these three years have I heard the rest of the song. Never have I even bothered to learn what the rest of the lyrics were. Never have I ever discovered why, oh dear god why, this song felt so familiar, even when I heard it for the very first time.

Twice every day, for three years, I would step into the subway and the same woman would enter the train, sit in the exact same seat, and sing. Sing her lonely heart out to nobody but herself. Nobody really cared for her singing. Nobody bothered to acknowledge that she even existed.

She did look rather unremarkable, to be fair. She wore a white shirt with buttons near the collar to reveal a slight hint of her unremarkable breasts. The little jacket on top of that shirt was a dreary light gray, her shoes were white, with the exception of the splotches of grime and dirt caught on them, and her pants were of blue denim.

She contained only two remarkable features. One was her dyed hair, which shifted color every day. I think I've guessed the pattern, though some days would act as exceptions. Mondays were usually blue. Wednesdays were often orange. Fridays were normally crimson red. And you can always bet that every Sunday would have her locks a sensual violet.

The second remarkable feature was her voice. That voice. For three years, I have listened to this very same voice, and I have never grown tired of it.

Every day, I would live my shitty life. Waking up, eating the same shitty breakfast, wearing the same shitty clothes, always being hassled for the shitty rent by the same shitty landlord. Exiting the apartment. Having to pass by all of these shitty people. Going to the piece of shit dump you call a subway. Waiting in the shitty train.

And then...

...it would stop at Fairemont.

The girl with her newly colored hair stepping inside. Sitting in that same exact seat she always sat in. And when the train was almost there...she'd sing.

Then the shitty train would finally stop at my location, and I would have to leave before I could hear the rest of the song.

I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say...

The door slamming shut in my face. A feeling of painful rejection ensues.

Working the same shitty job. Being hassled by the same shitty boss. Hassled by the same shitty employees. Having to sell the same shitty products to the shitty customers. Finally exiting the shitty building. Going back down to the shitty subway dump, stepping inside the shitty train.

Stopping at Fairemont again.

Finally being at peace from all of the noise and the shittyness for just one measly minute again.

Being able to imagine myself in my sanctuary again.

Away from all the shitty people. In an island full of peace and rhythm.

The waves rolling in synchronization with the song.

Hearing the train bell ring again.

Never being able to finish the song.

Again.

Eating my shitty dinner. Watching my shitty sitcoms. And then finally...rest.

8 hours of sweet rest. The song in infinite loop. The back and forth of the ocean. Me just chanting to myself, good things come to those who wait, good things come to those who wait.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away

I am the zen master. This is my sanctuary. Please let me stay. Please.

Good things come to those who wait.

Each and every single day was just another chance to get a migraine. The noise kills me. It's more than just the city coming alive with all of those cars and taxis. Even more than the obnoxious music, or the constant thunderous rampage of the trains below. It's also the people. Whining and bitching about everything. More, more. Me, me. Now, now. The noise is a stormy sea that can't be tamed by mother nature herself. It could be psychological, it could be something I was born with, but none of that matters to me. In noise, you feel trapped. Locked in a prison of other people's excuses, lies, and tantrums. Sometimes, I snap and feel like massacring everything I see.

But I remain sane. The secret is finding your sanctuary. All I have to do is close my eyes, imagine the most serene little place you can think of, and block all of the noise. This is extremely hard, even for me to do. There's only so much noise that you can block. That's where the woman comes in. She provides a conduit for me to release all of the anger for one minute, and tolerate the chaos that surrounds me. And one minute is more than I need. I don't need to thank her, ask for the lyrics of the song, find it on a music store and download it on an mp3 player, or even wonder what exactly the lyrics mean. Her angel voice is all that's needed. And I can always count on her returning to her usual seat, and singing her usual song.

That is until March 12th.

My day begins just like every other. The breakfast, the alarm clock, the landlord, all of it shitty. Having to pass by all the people. Shitty as ever. Stepping into the subway, it's still a dump. Nothing has changed. But something is wrong. I have no idea what it is, but it's just...wrong.

Inside the train, I hear the train's bell ring. We've stopped at Fairemont. The door opens up and hordes of people enter as always...hey, wait a minute...where's the girl.

She's supposed to be here. Today is Saturday. She's supposed to be in here with her hair colored green this time.

Good things come to those who wait.

Waiting wasn't enough. The door has already closed, and the train is moving away.

No...this can't be happening. I need this. Maybe she entered another car, moved to another seat. No, that's not right. That's impossible. Her seat is still empty. She should've come. She's never late, never early. Always here exactly at 9:33 A.M.

Nngh...

The noises. They've gotten louder. All these people bitching about insignificant things and ideas. The train's motor louder than usual.

You know what, okay, this isn't in total loss. Don't over-react. It's just a song. You know the words, right? Sing it to yourself. Imagine her angel voice in sync with yours. Imagine the sanctuary. The waves, the warm sand, the ocean water, the sunset in the horizon.

Good things come to those who wait. Good things come to those who--

"You're fired."

Perplexed I reply with, "I'm sorry...what?"

"You're fired, Walter, get the hell outta my face."

"I know that but...why?"

"You really need a reason? Get outta here, you no longer work here. Piss off."

"Sir, I believe that I have a right to know why I'm not going to have a job anymore."

He ignores me. As if he is already trying to forget I exist.

Angrily I reply with, "This makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. I'm not leaving this office until I get a good explanation from you! You hear me!"

Still nothing.

A little more calmly, I reply with, "Okay...Obviously you don't like me. To be completely honest, I don't like you, or anybody in this place either. But I need this job. Without it, I won't be able to..."

I think about the sanctuary. The unfinished song. I am the zen master.

I continue, "Just...please..."

I sigh. I can already hear the noises of the city protruding my head. I can already tell that the migraines are going to be more painful than they've ever been before.

I continue again, "Okay, I get it now. I'm fired. However, I would feel a lot better if you just told me...why this has happened to me. Just...please explain to me why the fuck you just fired me out of thin air."

He sighs, puts on his glasses, and finally begins to speak...wait, what?

His mouth is moving but...there is no sound escaping from his chapped lips.

Puzzled, "I'm sorry, what?"

His face begins to get more puzzled as well, mirroring my own. He tries talking to me again, but he's still silent. Am I deaf?? No, of course not. I can still hear the printer beeping, and Bob is outside trying to flirt with Angela again.

"Are you fucking with me, right now?" I ask.

His mouth moves expressively, and now it appears that he's supposed to be yelling at me. Bob and Angela stare through the office window. They can hear him, and I'm stuck in a singularity of silence.

AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!!

For three seconds, the noises of the city became louder. Actually, "louder" is an understatement. They boomed like a skyrocket was propelling into the air right next to you. I gripped my head in agony and screamed like I never screamed before in my life. The volume dims back down to normal again. Everyone is staring at me. The boss just stares at me in bewilderment.

I have to get out of here.

I just try to exit the building, outside the revolving door. The subway shouldn't be too far--

NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

As soon as I step outside, the noises of the city skyrocket into a sonic boom and don't stop. Everything has gotten the volume maximized 100%. The cars vroom like space shuttles on lift-off, taxi cabs hailing like skyscraper sized speakers, a police siren so unforgivably loud, it's the equivalent of strapping a child to a desk and forcing him to listen to ten thousand nails scratching ten thousand chalk boards. Everything was like wearing a hearing aid as powerful as an atomic bomb.

NNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!

All of the civilians in the block huddle around me to find out what is happening to me. Their presence is only makes things works.

OHMYGODISHEOKAYISHEMENTALLYILLWHATTHEHELLISTHEMATTERWITHHIM
ISTHISGUYFUCKINGRETARDEDMOMMYIMSCAREDSOMEONECALLANAMBULANCE
HELPHELPTHERESAMANANDITHINKHESHAVINGAHEARTATTACKSOMEONECALL
911WHOHASACELLPHONEJESUSCHRISTISHEHAVINGASEIZUREORSOMETHING

I felt like someone was drilling into my skull. Like a train just hit me smack-dab in the face...

Wait a second...the train...

The subway is just on the other side of the block. I can reach it.

"EXCUSEMESIRIAMADOCTORANDIMHERETOHELPYOUJUSTHOLDSTILLSOICOULD--"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!"

I push him to the side, and navigate my way through the chaos and confusion. I can't even walk straight anymore. My muscles burned like someone injecting lye into my blood vessels, and my heart was beating so fast I felt like I had to keep up with it. All of a sudden, a pair of headlights hit me, and I tumble over to the street. More people scream. The headaches get worse. Somehow, the pain in my head was so strong that I couldn't even feel the impact of the windshield break my left arm. Limping, and keeping one hand grasped onto my seemingly imploding skull, I brink down the stairs of the subway. Not a smart move.

Losing balance, I trip and roll all the way down the stairs. Only the pain in my head increases as more civilians panic. However, I persevere through the headaches. I run across a sea of horns, and screams, and bells, and whistles, all around me. An ocean of noise trying to engulf me into the eye of the storm. I quickly leap over the ticket entrance, and hobble to wherever the next train is. Anywhere but here.

The train is about to leave. My vision is completely blurred but I can tell that doors are slowly closing. Panicked, I run straight for the door. The small space between the closing doors gets smaller and smaller as I get closer. I reach my hand out, and quickly pry the door as much as I can. The gap becomes big enough for me to fit, I step inside, and the train reaches home. Panting, the volume fades, just a little bit. I turn around, and there's nobody in my car. The train gets faster and faster. I peek into the surrounding cars. Nobody is in those either. The subway train takes a sudden halt strong enough to make me fall right on my broken arm. Not even that is as painful as the sensory drills lodged into my skull.

As I regain my sense of balance, we stop at Fairemont. The doors whoosh as they open, in a way that's just heavenly. The bright light of the fluorescent bulbs begins to bloom into a void of complete and pure white. Nobody enters yet. Cmon, cmon. For a millisecond, I couldn't even hear the train's locomotive engine anymore, but the pain was still there. Please. Just help me figure this out. I need your voice.

She enters through the clean white, and just like normal, she sits in the same seat as always. Then I notice something wrong. Her hair is crimson red. It wasn't Friday today. It was Saturday, it was supposed to be green.

The train begins to move. As soon as it makes it more than halfway to my home, she should sing. She sits there normally, like she doesn't notice me in agony, the blood dripping from my ears. The train gets faster and faster. It's gonna get there sooner than expected. I hear her inhaling. She's ready to sing. Help me make sense of the chaos. Sing for me my sonnet.

Please.

I'#m j!@#us%&t a@ l$it#&$%tle pe*&)rson&&$
O11$#^¡Ù per*#&$%so()(#&#&n in a@@~! se&$%(#a

GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGHHH!!

Her voice sounded garbled. It was torturous. You could hear her angel voice, but it was covered by static, and bad reception, and bullshit. And it was louder than anything else I've ever heard.

Som+#@wh&$ere ma&$%ybe$%^ s)@##&omed#^%ay

The pain became continuous. I couldn't stand straight anymore. I knelt and begged for it all to just end. She just kept singing, and staring at the window. I felt faint.

Suddenly I'm falling, and I land on the ground, but I'm not in the train anymore. I can still hear her mangled angel voice, but now, the screams of civilians are added as well. My vision is a blur now. I can see people standing high above me, the woman singing, and a bright light getting progressively closer. Everything gets louder and louder. Everything is spiraling out of control. A personal hell of screams and dissonance engulfing me into the ocean of noise. The screams get louder, the charred voice of the angel I once knew becomes more garbled, the lights approach my position closer and closer. Good things come to those who wait.

With no other way to end my sorry little excuse of a life, I hold my hand up and try to touch the woman that accompanied me through these last three years. You were the closest thing to a connection I've ever made. She keeps singing, unable to notice my blood stained hands stroking her cheek. Please, angel, bring me into salvation.











A void. A white void. Of silence and nothingness. And it was beautiful. All of the noise gone. The people, the cars, the trains, everything, drowned by a bright and pure white. For the first time in my life, I feel at peace. The ocean of noise calmed. The storm reaching its toll. And...now I still feel like something is missing. That shouldn't happen. Why am I feeling this loneliness?

Then a sudden realization reveals itself from the silence. Yes. I guess that makes sense.

I get into a fetal position, close my eyes, and relish the silence. The cushioned white becomes warm sand. The ocean, the beach, the eternal sunset, all materializes in front of me. My sanctuary made real.

And now, to add the final part.

Now, lying next to me is the angel. The missing piece of the puzzle. Now I can rest. And finish the song. Sing for me the sonnet, just like you did in the subway.

I am the zen master.

And somewhere, maybe someday
Maybe somewhere far away
I'll find a second little person
Who will look at me and say

I know you.

[The End.]

Spoiler: The Eternal Narrative (A Short Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A Story Within A...)

[the eternal narrative.]

[written by enigma.]



Once upon a time, a man named Robert was born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

His adult life was somewhat special. He had a big house, a nice car, a well-paying job, and an enormity of books to read. So much books, in fact, that his love for literature has began to wane. Too many he has read, and thus, he has waited for the one book to replenish his age-old hobby. Maybe today will be the day, he thought.

As always, the bookstore was still there. Two levels of books to read, and he has read almost all of them. He strolls straight to the "new release" shelf, and nothing has been shipped today. Peculiar, but not enough to shake off his unimpressed feeling. Disappointed, he exits the bookstore, and heads back to work.

Next day begins. Robert wakes up. As always, he grabs a cup of coffee. As always, he reads some of the news. As always, he starts the car. As always, he drives to the bookstore first.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever. Biographies were the worst. It was the hardest to find the true gems in what seemed like a septic tank of bland unoriginal life stories. Each person's life just another bland empty life, no matter how famous they've been. The interesting bits have already been done before and better, the writing sub-par, especially the auto-biographies written by people who don't know a damn about writing.

Finally, he finds one book he hasn't read yet, and surprisingly in its unsurprising-ness, its title is the epitome of blandness. The Official Unauthorized Biography by Joseph Kessler. That was it. Who this biography was about, it didn't even say. No synopsis on the back, the cover flaps were blank. There wasn't even a description of the author on the last page. Paradoxically, the amount of mundanity crammed into one book just by looking at the cover interested him. He decided to read a few pages, and if it all ended up being shit, he would just put it down. Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

Once upon a time, a man named Harold born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

He flipped the page. Robert then looked at the page and read it.

His mother gave birth to Harold at Our Lady of Hope's hospital wherein she died giving birth to him. He spent years K through 12 kissing everybody's ass because he believed it worked on his father. His father only pretended to love him. He always blamed the little snot-nosed prick for the loss of his wife, and now he's alone, and stuck with him.

Robert dropped the book. He took a gasp of air. What on earth, he thought. A state of paranoia ensues him. He picks the book back up, and reads the next page.

Harold's father always hid his over-wrought hatred of Harold under a facade of warmth, for it was all he could do. He believed that it would be what his wife wanted. But he still kept that hatred burning inside him. She was gone now. All his fault. Too much to bear. Oh, how he missed her.

What followed was two whole pages describing some of the things the father pretended to care about. The fishing trip. The birthday parties.

The young Harold thought that his father's silence was a sign of care. He had no idea of the black fire that burned inside his father. His father did everything in his power to control this hatred. Young Harold did everything in his power to keep disillusioning that his father actually loved him.

Robert, feeling confused and angry and uneasy all at once, skimmed through everything quickly until he finally hit a crucial moment.

At 18 years of age, he was finally ready to graduate, and he was given the honors of giving a speech. "Before I begin," he proclaimed, "I'd like to start with a few words. I wouldn't have made it this far, if it hadn't been for the greatest man I'd ever known. My dad."

Everyone clapped, and the father tried to smile...but he couldn't. Too long had he endured the pain he felt. Too long had he hid his true feelings for the young boy. He just wanted to take that kid's smug face and beat it. The clapping engulfed the man, everyone thinking he loved the very thing he secretly despised.

"ENOUGH!" he finally yelled. "I'VE HAD IT!!! SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!!!"

"Dad, what's going on--"

"YOU!!" he said in a voice that sounded like it came from a separate entity.

"IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!! IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR YOU, SHE WOULDN'T HAVE DIED!!!"

"Dad..." he uttered pathetically.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!!"

Everyone stared at him. Harold. Both of them. All of them puzzled. Unsure to feel sympathetic to one or the other.

"I'm sorry son...but I never loved you. And I never will."

He exited the room, and everyone in the ceremony was just baffled.

Harold. He whimpered pathetically. Then sobbed pathetically. Finally cried pathetically. And knelt down on his knees in surrender. Words rushed through his mind like a storm. Words like, 'Father', 'Dad', 'Guardian', and 'Papa'. They whirred in his head as he drew out those pathetic little tears, until finally...the words died down.

No.

Robert knelt in the bookstore. He felt like crying and he knew exactly why. Robert was Harold. That pathetic little boy whose father never loved him grew up into the successful but emotionally distant man you see today. Ladies and gentlemen, give a huge round of applause for Robert.

Robert then snapped. He blitzed to the cashier, paid for the book, and drove his sorry ass home. He finally entered the house. Slammed the door shut in fury, then sat on the couch trying to make sense of what just happened. He grabbed the book, and opened it up for another torturous stroll down memory lane. He flipped page, by page, until he would find something of noteworthy interest.

Page 46

...and after he had sex with her, losing his virginity for the first time, they never saw each other again. The ultimate anticlimax. The first woman he could call his lover never loved him.

Page 57

"The truth is, Robert...I never thought this relationship would work out."

"I'm sorry what?"

"I never loved you."

Page 120

Congratulations, Harold. You are now vice president of Signature Publications. Welcome to the team!

Page 267

Harold felt a perpetual sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu when Holly broke up with him. It mirrored Stacey, which mirrored, Kourtney, which mirrored Penelope, which mirrored...his father.

Page 294

Harold stood right at eye level to the new tombstone. Father finally passed. He wished he could do that one thing in that one movie, where he could plant a seed in his grave, so that a tree would sprout from his father's corpse, but when he looked back at the urn, he realized that wouldn't work either. He opened the urn and took a good long look at the pile of ashes, and he got the strangest feeling that even the ashes of his father hated him. "Just dump me in the river you little punk" they seemed to say. "Nobody loves you. Nobody ever will."

And after that...four blank pages. The End. Nothing else happened after that moment. It was just a barrage of day in day out work attendings. Robert needed to rest. He had to lie down. It'll all make sense after some rest.

Robert woke up. Groggy and delirious, he stepped out of bed and proceeded to change and get ready. He ignored the coffee maker and didn't check his porch for the newspaper. After putting on his tie, something glimpsed his eye. He missed it for half a second but finally looked back. On his reading chair was the book. He missed at first because it didn't look like the book at first. He finally realized that it was the same book he read yesterday...but it had gotten bigger. It looked like more than 1000 pages were added.

Page 312 described his job.

Page 341 was just more of his day to day drudgery.

In fact, it was like that from Pages 295 to 437. The mundanity, the book reading, the job attending. He skimmed through everything in that allotted page frame and finally made it to Page 438.

He knew there wouldn't be any new releases, but there's always something he might've missed. He looks at non-fiction. Fantasy. Dark humor. Romance. Horror. Young Adult. Graphic Novels. Foreign Imports. Children's (In an act of desperation). Finally, biographies was last. Each one just as bland as the last. The Biography of Ronald Reagan. The Life and Times of Lewis Carroll. An Unauthorized Biography of That One Guy Who Was In The One Movie About...Whatever.

This was exactly what happened yesterday, in an amount of frightening detail.

Page one begins...

The following is a work of non-fiction. Any sort of resemblance to people - living or dead, names and locations is purely un-coincidental.

Now it's trying to be funny to him. "Ha-Ha", he muttered aloud with an expression of angry boredom.

No..., Robert thought. Dear God, no.

Once upon a time, a man named Walter born. Height: Average. Weight: Unassuming. Shoe size: Nothing special. Everything about him was average...except it wasn't.

What the fuck? Robert thought. He flipped a page, and it went on.

Harold then looked at the page and read it. In it, Walter looked at the page and read it. In it, Gregory looked at the page and read it. In it, Fred looked at the page and read it. In it, Regis looked at the page and read it. In it, Edward looked at the page and read it. In it, Alan looked at the page and read it. In it, Timothy looked at the page and read it. In it, William looked at the page and read it. In it, Jim looked at the page and read it. In it, Morty looked at the page and read it.

It went on and on like a mirror looking into its own reflection.

For how long? Robert skimmed through as many pages as he could. And the book didn't end. Page after page after page was a new name looking into the page within a page within a page within a page within a...

He began to notice something. As he was looking more and more into the book, it got heavier. It was getting bigger. Right before his very eyes. He's frightened now. More than he's ever been his whole life. He's experiencing something that wasn't written by human hands. He needs to find out what is happening. He must find Joseph Kessler.

At the bookstore, he quickly looks through the database, and much to his surprise, there were no authors named Joseph Kessler. He was wasting his time. He looked at the Biography shelf and there were no other copies. For all he knew, there weren't any other copies. For all he knew, maybe it was all just a groggy dream. He had to get a grip on his sanity. Going to work will do the trick.

Back at the Signature Publications building, Robert quickly went up the elevator and onto the 8th floor. Just act natural, he thought. Say hello.

"Hello, Dave," he said.

"Hello, Harold."

Robert stopped dead in his tracks. Did he say what he thought he said?

"What did you call me?"

"Oh yeah, right, you hate it when people call you that. What was your nickname again? Uh...I think it was Harry or something. Am I correct?"

This had to be some sick joke, he thought.

Are you feeling alright, Walter? You look kinda sick.

Harold then grabbed Dave by the collar and proceeded yelling at him. "WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF A JOKE IS THIS DAVE? I'M SICK OF THIS SHIT! YOU HEAR ME!"

"Jesus, Rob!" Dave exclaimed. "You don't have to act like a dick all the time, I only got your name wrong.

Dennis saw that everyone was staring at him now. The same way they stared at him during his graduation.

Robert stormed out the building, and turned on his cell phone. He had to make this one call, just to make sure. He dialed the number. It was Stacey's. Surely she'd be there for him, at least for now.

"Hello?" he said through the phone's mic.

"Jesus Christ, Dennis this better be important 'cause you just interrupted my nap.

Robert grew silent.

"Hello?...Damnit, Kenneth are you even there?"

He quickly hung up. His own sanity began to tear away at him. He realized he can trust no one but himself. He had to shut off the niggling doubts that what was going on around him, was all part of his imagination because it wasn't. He read those pages, he felt the book enlarging itself, he heard everyone calling him Walter.

Harold had no choice but to do everything in his power to find Joseph Kessler.

After entering the car, he headed to his first destination: The bookstore. Hurriedly, he zipped through traffic at dizzying speeds. He didn't care about the speed limit this time. All Harold could think about was finding the truth.

"I'm sorry sir, but for the hundredth time, there are no authors under the name of Joseph Kessler," the information desk man said.

"Please, I need to find this man," urged Walter.

"Look, I'm not the right person for this shit. If you really want to find this guy, look it up on Google, or ask for some records or something, I don't know. I really don't have time for this."

His patience was wearing thin, but the man was right. He had to look somewhere else. Quickly he sprinted past the door, and out onto the parking lot. Dennis struggled to get the key from his pocket, and when he finally obtained it, he tried starting the car. Nothing happened. The car wouldn't move. The engine didn't do a damn thing.

Kenneth yelled. He screamed louder than any time he could ever remember. This couldn't happen! Not now! He had no time to waste.

Walter then decidedly just got out of the car, and ran there. He didn't stop for a bus, or a cab. He just knew that something would happen that would try and stop him. It'd be safer to just run there. The cars were too dangerous.

No. I can't let him get away. He knows too much. He's beginning to recognize what's happening. I need to stop him...but I can't kill him. God damnit what should I do...must be something. Anything that'll slow him down.........yes. That's it. I'll use this. It'll work perfectly. He will not escape. I need him. Just have to type this down...

Everything was just a blur now, almost like being on acid. The blurs kept getting stronger and stronger. Nothing looked the same anymore. People were just moving splotches of color. Cars looked like indistinguishable zipping shadows. The light. Dear God, the light. The light started getting brighter and brighter. Harold couldn't stop running even if he tried. It was like being on a treadmill. If you stop, you'll end up skidding yourself on the floor until you're an unrecognizable pile of meat and bone. The blurs became more frantic. The lights got more blinding.

Suddenly, a giant light was headed towards him, only it wasn't what he thought it was. The light was from a car zooming at him.

In just five seconds, the flash dims down. Now he's in a hospital room. Couldn't think. Couldn't...move.

"Oh, thank goodness you're up. You've been mumbling to yourself for two days now."

"I...ugh....what?"

"Oh dear Lord, don't tell me you don't remember."

He says nothing.

"You were hit by a car two weeks ago, Gregory."

"nngh...no.....not.......name..."

"Jesus, you've been saying that for two days. You've been asleep for two whole days, and the entire time you kept yammering about how people kept on saying your name wrong or something."

"please.....listen.........my name.....is....."

What was his name? Who was he now? Was he Gregory? Alan? Walter? Robert? How many levels of stories deep is he? When he was Robert, was he in reality, or was he just another story??

"AUGH!!"

"Now what's the matter?"

"Voice.......so loud.................make it stop....."

He was a quick learner. Slowly but surely, he was getting a grasp of reality.

"Too loud........turn it down...........grasp of reality.......quick learner....."

But he still knew too much...

"Make it stop...........must be real.......me........what is......."

I didn't wanna have to do this...but there is no other way.

"No........don't...............beg you......."

I am truly sorry.

His mouth completely dried up, he couldn't even speak anymore. If he was lucky, he would be able to say certain vowels, and that'd be about it. His arms and legs completely crippled from the injury, he couldn't run, nor could he write what had happened to him. A vegetable who can do nothing more but share his new-found ideas with no one but himself.

The story is now finished. Hopefully, it will sell well. Hopefully, he will never recover. Hopefully, I could keep him alive.

If only...if only...

[The End.]

Sonnet of the Subway is my personal favorite. To Whom That Pounds The Nails was more of a test drive, and The Eternal Narrative was highly experimental.

Those stories are absolutely amazing, and rather creepy. The only parts I didn't like were these:

In To Whom That Pounds the Nails, the "His suffering. Is in your hands." seemed a bit repetitive after the first time it was said, though I certainly saw the point.
The Eternal Narrative got a bit confusing from all the different narrators (I guess?) and their different fonts, but again, the point was clear.

You could seriously write a book with that material, though.

The "His Suffering..." line is sort of a shout out to Chuck Palahniuk's writing style wherein he has "choruses" during the story. Such as in Fight Club he had "I Am Jack's [Insert Random Emotion Here]." and such.

Eternal Narrative was practically made to be confusing seeing how the purpose of it, for me, was basically to completely fuck with people's heads, which worked perfectly. I was definitely channeling David Lynch writing that one.

Ah, I see. Now I guess it's perfect.

 

[SimuLord]

You want short, creative pieces, I've written thousands of them. They're called forum posts. I might be arsed to dredge up a few more of my exploits for this thread later, though.

 

[Tagball]

Just a little thing I did for Language Arts. I think it's pretty flippin' good, I like it, you should too! Feast and enjoy!

Spoiler

The following memory has been lodged into my mind since the day it occurred. I remember it as if it were yesterday and can replay the event in my mind in stunningly graphic detail:
It was my 17th birthday. Every year, my two best friends from Pennsylvania (Aaron and Michael) come to visit me so we can reminisce about the good ol' days and try to fit as much fun as we possibly can during the weekend. Most of the time, we just spend indoors wasting our lives on mindless garbage like video games and really stupid movies. On this day, I quickly tore off the sparkly wrapping paper on my birthday gifts to reveal some ultra, super, ultimate, deluxe, collector's, special edition DVD's and games. The day was also unusually boring, even with the accompaniment of my best buds. So, we came to a conclusion: we would see a movie.
We picked out the feature film. We were to see a little flick directed by Martin Scorsese called Shutter Island. My family drove us to the theaters and I had a sickening feeling in my stomach, a combination of anticipation and excitement. My friends, brother and I, entered the theater, as my Dad purchased the tickets. My Dad had no interest in the film whatsoever, so he lent us some money for snacks and went home. My friends and I walked to the snack bar, and bought some treats. The popcorn was crackling, emitting a buttery scent and casting off a golden aura. The cola was dark brown and fizzing off sweet, tasty, and completely unhealthy teeth-rotting bubbles.
My friends and I, snacks gripped firmly in hand, walked into the screening of Shutter Island. Once we entered the theater, we immediately saw that it was packed to the brim. It was full of people, like a herd of cattle, packed into the room. The front row was completely empty, so that spot was as good as any to sit down. We sat down and started watching the previews before the previews. The anticipation in my stomach was steadily boiling. I was ready to start this adventure of escapism. Ready to be taken on a suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat, rollercoaster ride.
THEN...out of nowhere, like a phantom haunting an unknowing prey, an usher plopped out of nowhere. The man wore thick spectacles, had craters on his forehead that would make the Moon blush, spoke with garlic-infused breath and had a physique that would put the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man to shame. With a shrill and nasally voice he interrogated me with questions. First, he asked me if I had tickets. Then he asked for my identification. I was in trouble. I had forgotten my permit on the kitchen table shortly before we left. I told him that my Dad bought the tickets ad that I was 17. My responses fell on deaf ears as the usher completely disregarded what I had to say. He retorted with this statement that has haunted my dreams and memories and will continue to do so until the day I die. His statement: "Sorry guys. No I.D., No movie." This statement immediately boiled my blood and my anticipation and excitement automatically transformed into anger and hatred. My face was crimson red due to simultaneous anger and embarrassment. My friends and I took our extra large bag of popcorn and humongous cup of soda and left the theater. This experience just goes to show how fast feelings can change in certain situations and also gives a very valuable lesson:

Never leave the house without your I.D.!

Too bad I only got an 8/10 on it.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Just a little thing I did for Language Arts. I think it's pretty flippin' good, I like it, you should too! Feast and enjoy!

Spoiler

The following memory has been lodged into my mind since the day it occurred. I remember it as if it were yesterday and can replay the event in my mind in stunningly graphic detail:
It was my 17th birthday. Every year, my two best friends from Pennsylvania (Aaron and Michael) come to visit me so we can reminisce about the good ol' days and try to fit as much fun as we possibly can during the weekend. Most of the time, we just spend indoors wasting our lives on mindless garbage like video games and really stupid movies. On this day, I quickly tore off the sparkly wrapping paper on my birthday gifts to reveal some ultra, super, ultimate, deluxe, collector's, special edition DVD's and games. The day was also unusually boring, even with the accompaniment of my best buds. So, we came to a conclusion: we would see a movie.
We picked out the feature film. We were to see a little flick directed by Martin Scorsese called Shutter Island. My family drove us to the theaters and I had a sickening feeling in my stomach, a combination of anticipation and excitement. My friends, brother and I, entered the theater, as my Dad purchased the tickets. My Dad had no interest in the film whatsoever, so he lent us some money for snacks and went home. My friends and I walked to the snack bar, and bought some treats. The popcorn was crackling, emitting a buttery scent and casting off a golden aura. The cola was dark brown and fizzing off sweet, tasty, and completely unhealthy teeth-rotting bubbles.
My friends and I, snacks gripped firmly in hand, walked into the screening of Shutter Island. Once we entered the theater, we immediately saw that it was packed to the brim. It was full of people, like a herd of cattle, packed into the room. The front row was completely empty, so that spot was as good as any to sit down. We sat down and started watching the previews before the previews. The anticipation in my stomach was steadily boiling. I was ready to start this adventure of escapism. Ready to be taken on a suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat, rollercoaster ride.
THEN...out of nowhere, like a phantom haunting an unknowing prey, an usher plopped out of nowhere. The man wore thick spectacles, had craters on his forehead that would make the Moon blush, spoke with garlic-infused breath and had a physique that would put the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man to shame. With a shrill and nasally voice he interrogated me with questions. First, he asked me if I had tickets. Then he asked for my identification. I was in trouble. I had forgotten my permit on the kitchen table shortly before we left. I told him that my Dad bought the tickets ad that I was 17. My responses fell on deaf ears as the usher completely disregarded what I had to say. He retorted with this statement that has haunted my dreams and memories and will continue to do so until the day I die. His statement: "Sorry guys. No I.D., No movie." This statement immediately boiled my blood and my anticipation and excitement automatically transformed into anger and hatred. My face was crimson red due to simultaneous anger and embarrassment. My friends and I took our extra large bag of popcorn and humongous cup of soda and left the theater. This experience just goes to show how fast feelings can change in certain situations and also gives a very valuable lesson:

Never leave the house without your I.D.!

Too bad I only got an 8/10 on it.

Well, the writing's pretty solid, though you might've stuck a few more "and's" than you should've. The story itself is also rather mundane (which is what usually happens with writing prompts, however), though you tried to spice it up a bit more by telling the reader the emotions and precise details you were feeling.

Probably the biggest problem with the story is that although you were descriptive, you didn't really seem to be angry. See if this sounds more emotive, for example:

"The statement boiled my blood; my anticipation doubled with my excitement turned into rage and hatred almost instantaneously. My face was crimson as blood boiled in my body. I wanted to punch him many times over, but I instead left, cursing at the man silently."

See how much more angry the main character seems?

 

[Naheal]

I won't go through an actual story, but how about campaign notes on a setting for D&D? Setting type is Technomancer (Modern day-Cyberpunk tech level, heavy magic). Heavy inspiration is taken from Sailor Moon, but the setting and campaign have a much more gritty feel to it. Time from modern day is ~100,000 years

Spoiler: Timeline. More will come if folks are interested

Notations: SoC = Start of Campaign. Measurements taken in years

5000 Pre SoC: Galactic civilization begins. FTL travel is discovered on an inhabited planet near the galactic core through the use of a multi-dimensional power source.
4900 Pre SoC: Movement between systems becomes more convenient as dimensional travel is phased out. Rather than using FTL ships to travel from place to place, portals are opened between two locations to speed travel. Use of this multi-dimensional power becomes much more rampant and grows unchecked.
4750 Pre SoC: Contact is established with a primitive world on the rim. Exposure to magic develops the civilization rapidly, forging an alliance with the core systems and rim worlds.
4725 Pre SoC: Rapid expansion and rampant use of "magic", as it's being called now, start opening a flood of power in the core. A hole is torn in the fabric of time-space through overuse of magic, creating a large temporal anomaly at the core worlds. Several systems are destroyed, causing a cascade of mistrust with magic.
4700 Pre SoC: Galactic government collapses as factions shatter throughout the galaxy. One set of factions at an arm system, named "Sol" by the inhabitants, begins to set up filters to control the flow of magic within the galaxy in an attempt to prevent a repeat of the disaster that destroyed trillions and plunged the galaxy into a dark age.
4650 Pre SoC: The filters are put into place around the Sol system with the rulers of the now terra-formed planets and stations throughout the system controlling who gets access to what magic via an allegiance system. Some citizens resist, but soon find that the controls in place are easily worked around.
3500 Pre SoC: The third planet in the Sol system begins to show signs of civilization and magic use. In an attempt to prevent overuse, representatives from each nation in the system begin to teach responsible use of magic, allowing access to magic through their allegiance system. Without prompting, many of the inhabitants begin to set up a belief system around the allegiances and begin to worship the rulers as gods. The planetary crystals are created and placed under the care of rulers of the individual planets as a means to assist in this filtering system.
3000 Pre SoC: Wars begin to break out on the third planet as arguments begin to explode about the established belief systems.
2990 Pre SoC: Representatives from Mars, the fourth planet in the system, sit down with members of the warring nations. After months of aggressive negotiation, the representatives from Mars deem it necessary to advise the countries to establish war-like "tournaments" similar to what the inhabitants of Mars hold. Of all the nations, one small city-state agrees to this and begins teaching its citizens to begin training as a means of worship to Mars. Mars reps point out that they are not, in fact, gods, demonstrating by drawing their own blood at the meeting. A truce is called amongst the nations of the third planet for the time being.
2975 Pre SoC: Wars begin to break out again as the national leaders refuse to reveal then nature of the solar nations to their people. The bloody war continues for the next three hundred years.
2600 Pre SoC: A deva by the name of Morion appears outside of a newly established village on an inner sea of the eastern continent. He quickly establishes himself as an agent of the local nation.
2570 Pre SoC: As the village grows into a small trading town, Morion is sent to deal with the leaders of surrounding nations. Without the proper tools for negotiation, Morion proceeds to assassinate the leaders of these nations and destroys their communication lines, leaving them ripe for conquest. Morion doesn't return and his name is stricken from all records.
2550 Pre SoC: The trading town proceeds to place leaders in each of these open nations, creating a sort of confederation led by the leader of the town. The town and nation are christened with the name "Elysion." A two millennia long peace begins with the establishment of this confederation.
1000 Pre SoC: A small group begins to form in the Lelande system near the Sol system. Calling themselves "Dark Moon", they begin to infiltrate the Sol system's nations.
700 Pre SoC: Small villages are established within the nation of Elysion who's specific nature is to remain dedicated to specific gods.
300 Pre SoC: Selene is born on the moon of the third planet.
250 Pre SoC: As Selene grows, succession begins to become an issue. Her older siblings begin to bicker over who will be the better ruler.
230 Pre SoC: The murder of Selene's eldest sister throws the country into a panic. It's unknown who will lead the nation.
190 Pre SoC: Selene suggests a council be established of all the Sol nations and lead by a member of the royal family. As it is her suggestion, she is nominated as the first representative to the council.
110 Pre SoC: Minevra is born on Mercury.
70 Pre SoC: Minevra begins studies on magic, specializing in illusion based spells.
65 Pre SoC: All life on a planet in the Lelande system is wiped out by the leader of Saturn's nation using their crystal embedded in a glaive.
50 Pre SoC: Baron Weishaust is born in Elysion.
30 Pre SoC: Selene meets with the ruler of Elysion and some of his local rulers in an attempt to get control over a brewing civil war before it happens. She continues to meet with a young Baron Weishaust over the next ten years.
25 Pre SoC: A deva appears in Elysion by the name of Morion. He is commissioned as an agent and representative of Elysion then sent to their moon, Luna.
23 Pre SoC: Baldur is born in Elysion.
20 Pre SoC: Twins are born to Selene. To everyone's surprise, they are born as earth human rather than eladrin like their mother. In an attempt to prevent the same succession troubles as before, the children are separated at birth, one kept with her and the other sent the small Mars worshiping village to be raised.
19 Pre SoC: Naheal is born on Mars.
14 Pre SoC: A girl named Lilith is born south of the Mars village. She is found crying by her dying mother by a man from the Mars village and is adopted by him. Later in that year, the male twin of Selene, named Gearan, begins to learn magic use and swordplay.
13 Pre SoC: Naheal Ch 1.
12 Pre SoC: Gearan enters into service with the militia and begins full time combat training.
9 Pre SoC: After being saved by him, Gearan swears allegiance to Sigmund and, later, Mars as he learns the truth behind the gods. He agrees to remain within his village as a messenger for the kingdoms.
7 Pre SoC: Baldur's father is killed in an accident on the walls of Elysion. Baldur is crowned King soon afterwards.
6 Pre SoC: Baldur meets with the council on Luna for the first time. After a few weeks of speaking with the council, he decides that he will reveal the full nature of the gods during his reign. Morion disappears shortly afterwards.
4 Pre SoC: Gearan begins to teach brand new mages and warriors within his village. He's declared to be the youngest to do so in well over a century.
2 Pre SoC: Baron Weishaust begins to take advice from a new consort, a young woman named Leah. The surrounding area begins to be plundered for resources.
1 Pre SoC: A deva appears in the mountains around a small fishing village. He's taken in temporarily to get his bearings straight, then he leaves to the north, towards a Saturn worshiping village.
1 week before SoC: Gearan, Ch 1.

 

[Blind Sight]

Unfortunately most of my work is 40 pages or more, I know no one wants to go through that. So here's a bit of one of my character's inner monologs, still haven't found a place for it yet. The character is from a novel I attempted to write, where I use the themes of cyberpunk (an individual lost and drifting in the system, complex structures ensuring that the characters are stuck at the bottom of the food chain, etc.) and apply it to the modern day. Let me know what you think.

Spoiler

Sometimes I look up at the night sky and see the stars. Not often, of course. Bloody city lights usually turn the heavens an ugly orange, as if a second sun just happened to be going supernova in the middle of Confederation Park. But still, sometimes, on my little back porch, I tilt back my rusty lawnchair and see a perfect circle of clarity right overhead. The stars twickle through the pollution, defiant to our attempts to overpower them. I see a dozen celestial bodies, maybe more, maybe less. When I was a kid living in the boonies, I could count hundreds, and see the Milky Way itself curve along the sky. I know it?s still there, and it will always be there, long after we?ve wiped ourselves off this ball of dirt. Stars have got it made. Long lifespan, early retirement, and great seats for the End of It All.
When I look up at those stars, their light hundreds of years old, only one thought comes to my mind: I want to go to every goddamn one of them. I want to travel unimaginable distances, explore new worlds, find life, make peace, make war, make love. I want to see every little miracle the universe has to offer us, cause the Sky Bastard ain?t sharing his anymore. I need something new, something different.
But will it ever happen? Of course not. I?m stuck here, like the rest of you, stuck to wallow in this hedonistic century. Doubtful I?ll ever visit all the continents, doubtful I?ll even cross an ocean. Hell, I want to feel the light of Alpha Centauri on my skin and I can?t even make it to the fucking moon. It?s a sobering thought, looking up at the night sky, realizing that those little dots, that seem so close, are impossible to reach.
Morgan Freeman?s character in the Shawshank Redemption once said that after awhile, the walls of a prison began to comfort a man. I like to think he wasn?t looking at the tall, granite walls of Shawshank when he said that. Instead, I bet he was looking upward, at the vastness of space, better then any wall at isolating our little planet. And we?re in lockdown, secure and safe with the night sky overhead. Welcome to Earth Maximum Security, folks. Check your shoes and sanity at the door.

 

[Tagball]

Well, the writing's pretty solid, though you might've stuck a few more "and's" than you should've. The story itself is also rather mundane (which is what usually happens with writing prompts, however), though you tried to spice it up a bit more by telling the reader the emotions and precise details you were feeling.

Probably the biggest problem with the story is that although you were descriptive, you didn't really seem to be angry. See if this sounds more emotive, for example:

"The statement boiled my blood; my anticipation doubled with my excitement turned into rage and hatred almost instantaneously. My face was crimson as blood boiled in my body. I wanted to punch him many times over, but I instead left, cursing at the man silently."

See how much more angry the main character seems?

Gasp....you're calling my life....mundane? Well, I never! This was based on a true story, and it illustrates how some Ushers are psychotic enough to track you down even after your father paid for the tickets! It was a PSA!

Anyway, thanks for the pointers.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Well, the writing's pretty solid, though you might've stuck a few more "and's" than you should've. The story itself is also rather mundane (which is what usually happens with writing prompts, however), though you tried to spice it up a bit more by telling the reader the emotions and precise details you were feeling.

Probably the biggest problem with the story is that although you were descriptive, you didn't really seem to be angry. See if this sounds more emotive, for example:

"The statement boiled my blood; my anticipation doubled with my excitement turned into rage and hatred almost instantaneously. My face was crimson as blood boiled in my body. I wanted to punch him many times over, but I instead left, cursing at the man silently."

See how much more angry the main character seems?

Gasp....you're calling my life....mundane? Well, I never! This was based on a true story, and it illustrates how some Ushers are psychotic enough to track you down even after your father paid for the tickets! It was a PSA!

Anyway, thanks for the pointers.

Ah, that explains it. See, back in elementary and middle school (so far), we had to write about stuff some of us never did, or didn't care about - thus, I attributed the mundanity to the prompt and a typical lack of passion one might experience when being forced to write that. Apparently, I was wrong.

 

[Redlin5_v1legacy]

I guess I could post something here in a bit. It will have to be one of my short stories I don't care about getting published. All of my major ideas are staying in their respective word documents until the time is right XD

 

[Diddy_Mao]

The first few paragraphs of a project I'm working on It's still a pretty rough draft and I've changed any names to generic descriptors so as to keep the characters private until the writing is complete.

Spoiler

The poet had been reciting his works for the better part of an hour and like the dutiful daughter she was the Princess had remained quiet much as her mother had instructed. After all "Proper paramours prefer perfect poise." as her mother the queen had been so keen to remind her when she objected to this arranged romantic interlude.

She remained quiet but inattentive. From time to time she would catch a verse as he compared her hair to the golden sunlight spun into gold, her skin the purest cream and her lips the finest rubies befitting the crown of the queen.

For the most part her attentions were elsewhere. She glanced about the chamber browsing the trophies she had won in the wars of unification, The Shield, Staff and Sword that were the symbols of authority to their respective lands now hung in the halls of the Sanguine Queen as proof of her authority and the might of her armies.

Coming to her senses long enough to realize that the poet had stopped droning on and was looking to her quite expectantly.

The Princess quietly cleared her throat as she gracefully rose to her feet careful not to wrinkle or tear the silken finery she had been instructed to wear.
"Your words are quite lovely and any young woman would be the envy of all others to hear them spoken to her."

The young poet seemed most pleased with himself and opened his mouth to thank her for her praise.

"However.. she continued, well aware that she had obstructed his reply ...your poetry speaks of love and loveliness and this meeting, for all the pretty words and frilly dressings is not about love. My mother wishes to sleep peacefully knowing that her lands will remain in the hands of her family. Although adopted I am her only heir and as such it falls to me to see to it that it does. As the master of her armies it is in my best interest to know that the royal line remains strong enough to hold onto what is rightfully ours.

The Poet found himself caught in the gaze of a woman that had seen a thousand men cut down by her own hand, burned their villages and salted the fields. She was still a vision of beauty, but where he had mistaken her allure for the gentleness of the fields he now saw her for the bloodied Valkyrie she was.

The poet struggled to keep his composure as well as his bladder control as the Princess placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was gentle, but he couldn't help but feel that if she so chose she could crush his collarbone without much effort.

You are a fine poet and an honest man. But I am a soldier first and foremost which leaves me little time to play the role of maiden.

She stood straight and turned her back to The Poet and began to walk away.

"I have combat drills to attend to. I must change out of this abhorrent gown and attend to my men. Turn your attentions elsewhere good sir, shower another fair maiden with your words and raise a family in town. I would advise you to act quickly as I do not expect to see you in these halls upon my return.

It's kinda hokey in it's current form. I think I need to edit the dialogue down so it's not quite so flamboyant.

 

[Valkyrie101]

Sorry, might be quite a lot of text.





Okay, it's not pasting. I think 16 pages was too much.