Post Your Stories! (Creative Writing)

[Serenegoose]

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!

I've got a full novel in the works, but that's at a sticky point and ho ho ho if you think I'm putting all of that up here.

So, I guess I'll write up something else, just to test the waters and see what people think of the universe in general.

Spoiler

This is it. Everything we?d planned for these past months, and it all happens tonight.

Forgive the melodrama ? live as long as I have and you?ll take what you can get to keep day to day life interesting, and when you?re leading an elemental force of destruction on a merry chase around a city whilst trying to maintain a low profile, the amateur theatrics tends to follow you around.

Me? Name?s Lem, Lem Erisson. My life? Well, I was a boy. And then before that period of childhood innocence could run its course I was enslaved. A few centuries of being a mindless vessel for one of the Fae?

Yes, of the tales, but please don?t interrupt, you asked, now listen to the answer.

Oh yes. Centuries passed before I earned my freedom. I fled here, to this city, to lose myself in the mass of humanity some say I resemble. I don?t see the likeness. In time, I met others like me and we banded together. The Fae might desperately crave to return us to their suffocating embrace, but they stop short at actually working with each other. Their loss.

Quiet. Did you hear that? I?ve entertained you long enough. Come back tomorrow, you?ll get your story.

Go! Now, unless you have a particular distaste for your life!


The patter of your footsteps echo into the distance, bouncing off the stone alley walls. Sorry about the deception, but I?d lost track of time, and talking to the press doesn?t endear me to my companions.

?Ruining another career, Lem?? A voice comes from above.
?Funny. You going to sit up there all night or can we get moving??
The gentlest movement of the air tells me she?s right behind me. When I said the amateur theatrics follow me around, I wasn?t being entirely metaphorical. If only the rest of the cast were as benign as her, however?
?Ready when you are. Ama tells me you?ve found him??
?I?m surprised it took us this long. Would you believe he?s holed up in a tomb?? I pause briefly. Until this flying visit, it?s been years since I?ve seen these two. Working with a Fae, especially this Fae, will always gives me the creeps. She?s got too much history, little of it good. ?Will she be joining us??
?She hadn?t decided when I left. Two of us can handle him though.?
?Aye. If it?s only him.?
She fades into view in front of me, eyebrow arched, blue hair like a frozen bolt of lightning cascading down her back. Still naked. It?s a grand joke that the most feared enemy of my race has a hobby of running naked on the rooftops.
?Don?t tell me you?re having a crisis of confidence?? She asks.
?Just because Ama trusts you doesn?t mean I?m ready to.?
She rolls her eyes. ?Really? I thought we?d moved on from this Lem. I?m hurt.?
?I?m sure I?ve cut you to the bone, Syllaf.? I start walking. She follows, her own footsteps inaudible against the cobbled stone of the alley.

Leerenfal graveyard is an unpleasant enough place even when it isn?t infested with young hunters out to prove themselves. There?s more of them now than there used to be ? but there?s no skill or organisation, luckily for us. Above, the sky is a clear dark blue dotted with stars, a mild summer night. Ahead, a pale yellow light spills out from a mausoleum. I feel almost embarrassed that I didn?t spot this child the moment he arrived. Embarrassed, and more than a little ashamed. One life already lost, two more kidnapped ? A substantial portion of the local Half-Fae population I?m supposed to be protecting. I know what he?ll be doing with those he kidnapped, and the thought of how scared they must be right now, locked away in their own minds, fuels a fire in my gut that pushes me onwards. Syllaf and I fade from sight as we peer inside the tombs entrance. It?s a small, modest thing ? there are few families in this city who could afford much more. Within, shadows flit across the path of a lantern, casting lengthy shadows. The air is stagnant and cold down here. The quicker this is over with, the better.

?Take the lead. I?ll stay concealed for now.? Syllaf whispers as we creep down into the tombs hall. The Fae doesn?t seem to notice as we enter. I allow myself to fade into view as Syllaf remains hidden, taking a small amount of amusement in his failure to notice me, pre-occupied with tying up his latest victim, a third figure next to two kneeling, dormant, men. How he?s been this successful so far is beyond me.

?Typically they?re supposed to be dead before you inter them.? I call out. To his credit, he doesn?t display any evidence that I surprised him, turning quickly to face me.
?I wondered when you?d arrive, beast. Drawing you out took less effort than I?d anticipated.?
?Your incompetence was part of a plan, then??
?Don?t try and intimidate me with your insults. Take your place amongst your kin and I?ll ensure the journey back to Enaerin is as painless as possible. Fight, and I?ll dispose of you.?
?Each and every one of you that turns up in this city gives me the same offer. I?ve given them all the same answer.?
?Pity. There would have been considerable prestige had I returned with you. There is still some to be gained from bringing your head back. It will suffice.?
?You?ve been lied to, I?m afraid.? Syllafs voice echoes out into the darkness. ?Someone back in Enaerin wanted rid of you, and you?ve done all the work for them, coming all the way out here just to die.? She actually almost sounds genuinely sympathetic. Unsurprising, really. Some flickerings of kinship. A few centuries ago and it would have been her in his place, and in all likelihood, I?d be dead now. Her words have visibly rattled him though, which gives me no small sense of satisfaction. She flickers into view besides me, sending the young Fae recoiling backwards.
?L-lady Syllaf!? He stutters. I can see it in his eyes, his mind frantically working out how he can possibly survive this situation, but the simple truth is that his time is rapidly drawing to a close, whether he realises or not.
?My reputation precedes me still.? She notes with a smile that never reaches her eyes. ?I am sorry for this, child.? She continues. But Lem and I cannot allow you to threaten the Half-Fae.?

He tries to stop us, hiding his body behind a magical barrier wrought with desperation, channelling every ounce of strength his will has into keeping us from him, but it?s of no use. It crumbles quickly to our onslaught, our attack tearing into him, simple, brutish exertions of magic shredding his body apart like a flimsy doll?s. What?s left collapses to the floor in a wet thud, oozing blood into the cracks of the tomb floor.
?That was anticlimactic.? I mutter.
She nods agreement, but it?s obvious her mind is elsewhere. I look at the three bodies, kneeling together, placid and calm amidst the pool of gore spreading out from the Fae?s mangled corpse.

It?s going to be a long night.

I suppose that's not bad for a couple of hours work.

 

[Jack and Calumon]

I wrote this AAAAGGGEEEESSSS ago for my Digimon RP.

Spoiler: Kazuki Aiche

Kazuki Aiche


Kazuki burst into his room, threw his bag onto the floor and fell onto his bed.
Stressful day as always? He thought.
Life was hardly ever fair for him. He always managed to get himself in trouble, always doing something wrong, something out of order and all because of his damned imagination.
Some people crave a good imagination. They would say that they could write an epic novel if they had a good enough imagination. Kazuki had an imagination, and it was a big one.
It was too big.
Day after day, after every waking moment, he would be haunted by thoughts in his head, visions in his mind of him committing things that would be inconceivable to most people. Death was merely a tiny fragment of what horrors twisted inside his mind. Torture, Violence and other evils were just choice cuts for what his mind could conjure in the bakery of gratuitous and twisted thoughts.
Occasionally, these thoughts come true. He would add application to them. Maybe the small things; a stab in a mocking persons hand with a sharp object, ramming a rubber ball down a laughing person?s throat, a beating with a chair. Those were tiny, miniscule fragments of what he thought of, and he did them. Of course there were much worse things he had thought of, some of which he had performed.
No-one had ever died by his hand, but many had suffered, and now someone is in the Shinjuku District Hospital, all because of a little argument over where to go out on Saturday. A petty argument perhaps, but when it got serious, it would turn into a matter of life and death for both of them.
Why should he go to the bowling alley? The Street Serpents would be there and Kazuki was hated by them for sending one of their top men into hospital with smashed ribs. Hell, he was part of them until he ran away; making them even more inclined to get him.
What did Kimiko have against going to the Karaoke Club? She wanted to go all week, and when he said they could go, she complained. She said she couldn?t bear going there, and when they argued, Kazuki?s mind got the better of him, so be struck her, she just stood in shock in what he did and looked at him, afraid.
He hated that look.
He clenched her throat and winded her, causing the escaping air to become trapped and her to pass out. When he let her go, she wasn?t breathing.
Waking up to reality, he ran home, trying not to get caught. It was fortunate that they were alone in the house. Kazuki placed an empty bottle of tablets next to her and placed one in her mouth before leaving the apartment.
If the devil were flesh and blood, he would be Kazuki.
The boy without conscience.

Calumon: Errr... Who was Phone?

 

[Cxizent]

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.

Alright, you've got some pretty decent chops. As mentioned above, you seem fond of the word "and", and also of commas. Neither of those things are really a problem if you try to remain concious of them while you're writing.
Writing about past experience is a tricky premise, but doesn't have to be a nail in the coffin, and it almost certainly prevents Mary Sue from showing up (depending on how much you embellish), and you've handled it with a good amount of restraint.
A short story is just as much about what you take out as what you leave in - do we really need to know the names of your best friends? The names aren't mentioned past that first introduction; since this is essentially a story about your personal feelings, it would be fine by me to have them remain nameless companions.
In a similar vein, I'd say you spent a bit much time describing the food and drink. Calling the popcorn "warm" or "buttery" and calling the cola "crisp" or "cold" would probably have sufficed and gotten the same message across.
The ending might be a bit of a point of contention, with the hideous descriptions of the usher, but I think it's a brilliant laugh. After all, he's the source of the narrators aforementioned personal feelings, so sure. Go bananas, make him horrible.

Keep writing.

 

[D Moness]

http://www.fictionpress.com/u/543935/

This might be easier then copy-pasting everything onto the forum. Sadly i haven't added something new in a while, tying to work on that.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Every time this topic comes up, I present the same short story. It's the best piece I've ever done, which doesn't say much. Since I revised it with the new beginning, I've gradually lost my ability to craft a compelling narrative, meaning that even this feeble attempt will be difficult for me to top. It upsets me; I used to be far better at fictional writing than non-fiction, and all of my talent at the former has just disappeared.

Anyway:

Spoiler: The New Challenge

The New Challenge

War has its challenges, harsh and violent ones, but the post-war period brings its own trials, some of which can be as difficult as any that war can muster.
* * *
The sound of rifle-fire, machine-gun bursts and the sporadic, faded sound of distant artillery fire filled the air as the squad, now numbering nine ? three had been shot ? made their way through the forest. The private smelled only the acrid smoke of bullet propellant, and his thoughts were occupied by the carnage that was unfolding around him as more and more of his comrades and associates were gunned down by the enemy.

The sergeant in charge of the squad screamed out disciplinary orders as the rest of the squad, comprised of a corporal and seven privates, reluctantly trudged through the uneven ground beneath their feet. They knew their eventual fate, and they would not march into it blindly.

As the sergeant continued forwards through the trees, the other soldiers continued behind him. The squad were supposed to have ambushed the enemy, but had failed as enemy reinforcements had arrived in greater numbers than could have been anticipated. Now, it was a case of finding their way back to friendly ground, while avoiding hostile forces in their weak and exhausted state.

The private grunted and continued his trudge, feeling his rifle, which he had strapped around his shoulders, knock into his abdomen with every step he took. Finally, the sergeant stopped for a moment to get his bearings, and the private allowed himself to relax temporarily, especially relaxing his shoulders, which carried the burden of his forty-kilogram rucksack, along with his rifle and two belts of machine-gun ammunition.

The private observed his surroundings. Trees scattered everywhere, a loose layer of dead leaves on the ground ? essentially, the same thing he had been looking at for the past hour and a half. But suddenly, his eye caught on something which looked out of place. There was a patch of the ground, about three hundred metres from his position, which was completely bereft of tree cover. Following the patch horizontally with his eyes, he noticed that the trees were missing from more than just that one patch; the treeless ground cut a clear swath through the forest.

"Sergeant," the private asked, "Can you see that line of treeless ground over there?"

"Yeah, I see it. What about it?"

"I'm pretty damned sure that's a road through the forest."

The sergeant contemplated this for a moment and checked his maps. A minute later, the sergeant replied, "You could be right about that, Private. Squad, reform. If this is the road I'm looking at on the map, we're only three miles away from base camp."

The private's heart lifted. Three miles more was nothing when they had covered over twenty that day, and with those three miles of extra effort came security, comfort and a temporary respite from the madness of war. With that, the private reshouldered his pack and his gear and followed the sergeant on the march over to the road.

It transpired that the private had been correct, as the sergeant observed when they were one hundred metres from the road. However, this brought a brand-new problem with it: the enemy were likely to use such roads for their own purposes, which meant that there was most likely a hostile convoy in the vicinity of the squad. Unfortunately, the sergeant's maps revealed an unsettling truth ? there was no way back to base camp which did not involve crossing the road at some point.

The decision was made. There were no enemy personnel in sight and no indication that there were any in the immediate vicinity. They would take the chance, making their way across the road quickly, before any enemy vehicles had the chance to turn the blind corner that blocked the squad's view of the road.

The squad kept low while they made their way over to the side of the road; there was no guarantee that the enemy had no sentries in the area. The private held his rifle by his hip, ready to fire at the sign of any disturbance.

Suddenly, one of the other soldiers stopped in his tracks, signalling with his hand for the rest of the squad to halt. When the sergeant confronted him about it, he said, ?I'm sure I heard something. Sounded like an engine.?

The sergeant replied, ?You're probably jumping at shadows. The quicker we get out of this god-damned forest, the sooner we can get some rest. Now, come on!?

As they approached the side of the long dirt road, the soldiers turned their full attention to their surroundings, knowing that if they were to be ambushed, that this was the most likely point for it to occur. ?One at a time,? the sergeant said, ?and keep it quiet!?

The corporal was the first to venture across the road, resting his rifle on his shoulder, ready to attack. As he crept forth, his head darted from side to side, trying to pick out any disturbances. Finally, the corporal had crossed, turning and giving a thumbs-up to the rest of the squad. The sergeant was next to make his way across, this time more quickly than the corporal.

The private was fifth in line. Once the two preceding him had crossed safely, the private stepped forward. His hand trembled as he clutched his rifle tightly by his hip. He had suddenly had a premonition of his imminent demise, and he was not going to tempt fate by making any dangerous moves. He crossed slowly, moving his weapon up to his shoulder and sweeping his eyes rapidly across the area.

Eventually, he had reached the others who had crossed already. He had panicked for nothing, it appeared, proving the effects of a claustrophobic environment on the psyche. The next soldier was proceeding across the road as planned.

Suddenly, though, that soldier stumbled on the uneven ground present on the worn-down road. With his hands on his rifle, and unable to regain his footing, he crashed to the ground, his shoulder thumping into the ground, leaving the soldier no recourse but to howl in pain.

The private's insides suddenly felt like they were made of ice. The soldier's innocent mistake had suddenly alerted any enemy personnel present of the squad's existence and location. But at the same time, they could not leave the soldier there to be captured or killed by the enemy; they had to assist. The private reasoned that he had nothing to lose except his life and instantly volunteered to assist the fallen soldier.

As the private rushed towards the soldier on the road, the three soldiers on the other side quickly rushed across to the rest of the group. There was no point in maintaining stealth any longer; their cover had been blown, and they felt that it was almost undoubted that the enemy had heard. The only option left that they could consider was to try to escape at full pace.

As the private reached the grimacing soldier, who was clutching his shoulder as he lay on the ground, he put out his hand for the soldier to prop himself up. The soldier grasped onto the private's arm, his face contorted as he pulled himself onto his feet.

"Thanks, mate. We'd better get out of here quickly. I hear something in the distance. Something rumbling."

As the private and the soldier sprinted over to the rest of their squad, the private listened to the ambient noise. The soldier was right, it appeared. Something seemed out of place, a rumbling. Almost like that of engines, the private considered.

Returning to the rest of the squad, the private discovered that his thoughts had become the consensus among the rest of his comrades, and the squad were becoming irrational. "They'd have already plugged us full of lead if they were already here. Let's find some cover and wait until they pass us by," one of the soldiers reasoned.

"No, that won't work at all, you idiot. Maybe they're just combing the area. I reckon we should run for it, get as much distance between us and them as possible," another soldier contended.

A small argument threatened to break out, before the sergeant interjected with his own comment. "Find some cover. We're going to wait it out. Go!"

The private was uneasy, but he crouched behind a tree in order to take full advantage of his camouflage, his rifle raised by his chest. The rest of the squad found their own places to hide, while they waited for the enemy to pass by, the noise in the distance becoming louder and more distinct from the noise of the wind whistling through the trees. They were diesel engines, the private gathered as the low bass rumble of their engine notes shattered the calm air. His hands began to tremble. The vehicles were only a few hundred metres away.

Finally, after a few agonising seconds, the private could hear the vehicles turning the blind corner on the road, only about two hundred metres away from their position. A few seconds after that, the vehicles began to rumble down the road, only a few metres away from the private at the closest point.

Suddenly, the sound of shouted orders came from the vehicles and some of them came to a brisk stop. The private strongly resisted the temptation to bolt, to leave his squad to fend for themselves, but he couldn't take the risk ? he didn't know the exact way to the base, and wandering alone through the forest for any extended length of time would drive him insane.

A number of the personnel from the enemy vehicles stepped out onto the dirt road, their boots crunching the gravel surface under their feet. The private heard some of their exchange from his position.

"The lieutenant's informed me that the enemy's attack failed. We're setting up here. Some of them are bound to retreat through this forest," the leader of the enemy personnel noted.

"It'll be like shooting fish in a barrel. They won't stand a chance," another of the enemy soldiers replied with satisfaction.

The private's blood ran cold. From what he could hear, the enemy outnumbered his own squad by at least a factor of two-to-one, and they were fresh and well-armed, compared to his own exhausted state. From what he had heard, there was no chance of the enemy leaving any time soon.

Suddenly, one of the enemy soldiers shouted over to the leader of his detachment. "Sir! I just heard something! Some sort of disturbance, over in the bushes just there!"

The private jumped. They had been discovered, something which became apparent as the enemy began to shoot. One, then another of his comrades screamed in pain as bullets ripped through them from a sustained volley from the enemies' weapons, and the private was close enough to see the full results as abdomens were flayed, intestines were blown out through the bullet-holes and blood sprayed from the wounds.

Faced with imminent death, the private screamed at the top of his lungs, "RUN!", before jumping out from behind his tree and beginning a run deep into the forest. Just behind him, he could hear some of the rest of his squad, the ones who were remaining, follow his lead, and the enemy personnel in swift pursuit.

As the private thumped and smashed through the trees, he was intensely aware of his footsteps, the growing pace of his heartbeat and his rapid, deep breathing as he charged as if possessed. He had no idea of knowing how many of his squad remained, if any, as he heard the enemy maintain their chase. His body was at full work capacity, and accordingly, with that much physical effort, his mental capacity slowed; in other words, his external senses were dulled.

Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he ran for his life, narrowly avoiding contact with many of the trees by split-second jumps and dodges, but the enemy would not yield and were bearing down on him with great speed. The leaves underfoot gave yield to thick, viscous mud which affected the private's stability, requiring the rest of his meagre energy reserve to merely keep himself standing up, let alone maintaining full pace.

Suddenly, with horror, the private noticed a thick low-lying branch right across his path, and he found himself unable to change direction in the sludge he was running through. Sliding through the mud, the private took full contact from the branch, which thumped into his abdomen with an almighty force which knocked the air from his lungs, knocking him immediately to the ground.

The private managed in the following seconds to prop himself up with one arm, his body and face covered in clotting dirt. His hands instantly reached for his rifle, raising it up as he tried to regain his breath. He wished for a respite, for somebody with authority to back him up, one who could cope with the horrors with more consummation than him, but he knew that this was a fruitless wish and expected that his comrades were dead. There would be no luck for him. He would die in this accursed forest, with the clotting mud obscuring his sight, with the bodies of his comrades scattered.

Suddenly, the enemy personnel that had been giving pursuit reached his position. Their faces were cruel as they walked towards him and raised their weapons ready to fire. The private raised his gun in a weak token gesture of resistance, dragging himself back to support himself against something. The soldiers were in sight as his back found a tree, which the private propped himself up against as they continued to walk forward. He took aim, knowing that this would likely be the last shot he would ever take.

The private screamed in terror as the enemy personnel continued to come towards him. There was a flash, and the rifle kicked into his shoulder.

* * *
The ex-soldier's scream of terror continued as he bolted from his bed. As he returned to the realms of consciousness, he took a moment to embrace the truths of reality ? the bed under him, the sensations of cold that he felt. He twisted to his right and switched on the electric lamp that resided beside his bed, bathing in the incandescent glow.

 He found it difficult to believe that he had merely been dreaming ? the sensations of smell and sound had seemed so realistic. However, he supposed, it was a clever trick of the subconscious mind, dredging those smells from the back of his mind, for this was reality as he supposed it. He was no longer a private ? the war had ended three months ago. The war had been vicious and it had been bloody, but it was over now, and his country had won.

(But what have they won?)

The war had taken away many of his friends and had stopped just short of taking him as well. However, for his survival, the ex-soldier had paid dearly, with the revisiting of the battles in his mind becoming a common occurrence. He had paid his pound of flesh also; his left arm was amputated just above the elbow.

There was a consideration which the ex-soldier had: He had experienced the battles, the scenes of bloodshed and terror once, and once had been one time too many. Why did his subconscious mind feel compelled to revisit, to fixate on those things which terrified him? Surely, he had paid the price for his own survival already, with his missing left arm and his dead family, killed when a crashed bomber flew straight into their house. Of all the vagaries of chance, the ex-soldier thought, for them to die in such ironic circumstances? He had been told that they had died quickly, as if this was supposed to comfort him or give him consolation after the loss of his family.

His girlfriend had left him, also. As he had continued to fight, his letters had begun to become more and more morbid as he tried to put to paper the inner feelings of his mind and express them to somebody, anybody who would listen. As each reply came in, he could sense the growing rift between them, as the letters from her became more and more impersonal. Still, he had continued to write letters of increasing morbidity, knowing deeply that he was losing the rest of his tenuous grip on her, but feeling compelled to express his sentiments to somebody who wasn't in his situation. The process of separation had been accelerated by the fact that he had been granted no leave (he had not even been given bereavement leave when his family had died, and had only been relieved of duty when his arm had been shot and amputated. They had needed the soldiers, they said). Perhaps with a break from the terror, he might have patched up the relationship; perhaps even regained some of his lost humanity. The soldier's emotions had been dulled until he only had fear and cynicism left. Yes, he thought, I have paid the price for my own survival.

The ex-soldier switched off the electric lamp, attempting to return to sleep, but after an hour of restless turning and twisting inside his sheet, he arose from his bed.
* * *
The ex-soldier had hobbled down the stairs and was currently in the process of making himself some breakfast. He had a bowl, a plastic bag full of corn flakes, a glass bottle of milk and a spoon. He had adopted a taste for cereals as he had been medically discharged; they were easy to prepare and eat with only one hand. The only difficult part was opening the cereal bags, but, necessity being the mother of invention, he had devised a plan to deal with that difficulty.

Once he had poured the corn flakes and the milk into the bowl (making sure not to use too much milk, for it had to last him the rest of the week), he picked up the spoon and dug it into his cereal. He had soon devoured the cereal; he was continuously ravenous, for rationing policies had grown particularly harsh towards the end of the war and farmers were only beginning to return their fields to the production capacity required.

After his breakfast, the ex-soldier stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. It was only a small unit, a counter-top model, for that was all that he could afford to run. Electricity rations had been discontinued, but the price of electricity had sky-rocketed as a result. As the electrical supply was controlled by the state, the ex-soldier reasoned (correctly) that this was a plan by the government to try to recoup some of the massive expenses that associated keeping the military in the field. He opened the refrigerator door and took a brief inventory. There was the loaf of bread that he had bought two days earlier, a few fruit preserves, a jar of mayonnaise, a block of butter, which the ex-soldier was using slowly, for the same reasons as he had used little milk ? dairy supplies had been struck especially hard by the rationing authorities. While that was on his mind, he grabbed the bottle of milk that he had left on the table and brought it back to the refrigerator, placing it into its receptacle. He continued his inventory and realised that there was no meat and that there were few vegetables and that meant that he would have to leave the house.

The ex-soldier now disliked leaving the house. He felt very conspicuous, resulting from the stump that was the sole remainder of his left arm. Once, a child had pointed and mentioned it to his mother. The mother had chastised him with the standard phrase, ?It's rude to point?, and walked off, but not before staring at the amputated stump before she had left.

He supposed that those who stared felt pity for him, but the ex-soldier did not want pity; he wanted normality. He wanted to be just another person, not haunted by the spectres of his fallen comrades, not terrified by the continuing replays that accompanied his sleep, not debilitated with a wound which was not held with pride but with indignation for the government that had conscripted him into their lines.
* * *
The ex-soldier had soon returned upstairs, dressing himself, albeit with a good deal of difficulty, especially when it had come to the buttoning of his trousers, a task which required a large amount of finger-dexterity to perform correctly. However, he had managed to put on his clothes properly within fifteen minutes and promptly took his wallet, keys and his ration stamps and left the house.

The soldier looked around him as he walked down the streets of the city, the sky still dark, but the shops just beginning to open. What was this world that he now lived in? Over three years, there had been so many changes; blocks of houses now lay in ruins, roads still had bomb craters which had not been filled in. The city of his childhood and adolescence had been blown to pieces. Yet, the ex-soldier thought, if the world of his adolescence were to be rebuilt, he would not feel at home. He had changed almost as much as the city. He was only twenty-six years old, but mentally, he felt at least thirty years older. In three years, a lifetime had appeared to pass before his eyes, a lifetime of hardship and bitterness.

One change had been particularly strange: While he had found that he had despised the conduct of war, he had soon found himself, and still found himself, constantly ready for combat. The army had trained him well; to fight no matter what the circumstances were, to distrust his emotions, to warp his instincts towards the conducting of war. He was constantly looking over his shoulder, convinced that somebody was out to kill him, because that had been the way for three years. It would take a lot of self-reconditioning before he was ready for this world again, to live as a civilian again.

Up ahead of him, he noticed a group of men and a few tall teenage boys, pulling concrete slabs and timber supports from the ruins of a house, beginning the process of rebuilding the houses, and in the processes, rebuild their shattered lives. The ex-soldier respected those who could look forward when everything appeared to be trying to push them backwards. Secretly, he wished that he was one of them, instead of the bitter and cynical shell that he had been left with.

There was an eerie silence in the air; the roads, which would, under normal circumstances, be packed with cars, were empty. Even the volume of parked cars, which one would reason, in the affluent city that this had once been, had been reduced to almost zero. The ex-soldier remembered the government-sponsored initiative which had asked people to scrap their cars in order to use the precious and scarce steel and recyclable plastics for the military machine. In exchange, the government had paid over the odds for each car which had been scrapped; the resources were more important than the money. Even if the cars had been around to use, few would have taken the privilege; petroleum had too precious a resource to the military to be flooded away in civilian automobiles.

Eventually, the ex-soldier reached the first of his destinations, the local butcher's shop. Before he stepped in, he pulled his ration book and his money from his inside coat, then pushed open the door, the action being accompanied with a sharp ringing from a bell attached to the door. The ex-soldier walked over to the counter, where an attractive young woman that he had not seen before was waiting patiently at the counter, eager to accept the ex-soldier's business.

As the ex-soldier reached the counter, the young woman asked, ?Hello, sir. May I help you??

As the soldier made his order, the young woman took the meat from the display unit, weighed it, wrapped it in paper, laid it on the counter and said, ?That will be three dollars and thirty-six cents, please.?

As the ex-soldier handed her a five-dollar bill, the young woman asked innocently, ?May I ask how you lost your arm??

Tactless, the ex-soldier thought. ?I'd prefer not to talk about it,? he answered gruffly. ?It brings back a lot of painful memories...?

?Oh! I'm sorry... I didn't mean...?

?Let's discontinue this conversation now.?

The ex-soldier promptly left the butcher's shop, clutching his package of meat under his arm. As he walked towards the next of his destinations, the greengrocer's shop, he passed by another group of men plucking concrete slabs out of the remains of a home. The soldier started to feel slightly bitter. It was good for them to be able to rebuild, but what about him? How was he meant to reassemble the broken shards of his life?

That is very good; I just took a quick skim (just woke up and all), but it the story does a very good job at, well, telling a story. The character's emotions aren't just thrown at there, and you actually get some connection toward the main character.

The only slight problem I can see is that is in paragraph four - 'As the seargeant...' and at the beginning of paragraph five, you use 'continued just a slight bit more often than you probably should. I'm really just nitpicking, though.

 

[Count Igor]

Spoiler: A series!

T'was the dead of night when the snoring started.
I put my head further into my pillow and dropped off.
I dreamt of T'vain again.

To be continued tommorrow!
Or when I feel like it anyways.

 

[Kevlar Eater]

Pulling this out of the flash drive I've owned since high school days.

Spoiler

Note: Any actual names used in this story is purely coincidental.



Hostage situation


The day was cloudy, the snow fell hard and unrelenting, and much of the downtown metropolis was covered in snow. A hostage situation was happening in a five-star hotel, and the terrorists, a team of dishonorably discharged Marines, were the culprits, and their demands were close to unreasonable. Many police cars barricaded the streets and illuminated the seemingly dark road with red and blue lights. The police chief, an aging, Hispanic female, was communicating with the terrorists via walkie-talkies about changing the demands so they would be a lot easier to follow without anyone getting hurt due to misinterpretation. The chief sets her walkie-talkie on...

"This is Police Chief Jennifer Hernandez. Although we find your demands unreasonable, we will see what we can do, provided you release the women who are showing any physical signs of pregnancy." She patiently waits a minute for a response, and gets one that same amount of time later. In a deep, masculine voice: "This is Locust. We are discussing your proposal at this moment, but we cannot give you a response until we have made our decision. Over." The news has gotten the chief's new baboon heart thumping in her chest. She didn't dare say another word to the terrorists, and had decided to have two SWAT teams enter the rear and side entrances of the hotel building, hoping they will be stealthy enough not to alert any of the Marines. Those men knew how breaching a door works, and knew exactly where to shoot should the door they're behind is breached. The SWAT are fully expected, and will die, despite the rigorous training they have undergone.

In the hotel room with several windows facing the main street, the masked terrorists, dressed in urban camoflage, armed with the latest of military infantry technologies and weaponry, had three families of four on the ground, laying down in the presidential suite. The men were using sign language to communicate so no voices could be recognized by any hostages. One of the men nodded, and proceeded to pick up a young blond female by her short hair and noticed a bulge in her shirt, and after a short inspection, she was indeed pregnant. Two other older women were picked up and inspected, and they checked out to be pregnant. The terrorists were indeed going to let the women walk free, but they had to leave the men behind. Two of the women rushed back to their husbands and hugged them, while the men were telling them to go on outside, where it's reasonably safe. After several moments of I love you's and sad memories, the women walked out of the hotel room. The blond woman, the last to leave the room, closed the door and took a look at the room number, the number she will hate the rest of her life: 1437.

Chief Hernandez is getting cold and sick from the numbing cold, but she knows she has to stay until the situation got better. Looking around to make sure no one sees her, Hernandez grabs her cellular phone from her dashboard and makes a very important call to her niece, who happens to be an assassin for hire with some immunity from the law, as long as her killings are purely professional and leaves a special mark for the police to easily find and identify. In the assassin's case, it is a calling card in the mouth of her victims. "Come on Melody, pick up...." she whispers. Nearly 30 seconds pass before the the receiving end is picked up. "Melody's Molecular Mishaps, Melody speaking" she says cheerfully. The chief looks around for anyone watching her, and begins her whispering. "Where are you? I need you now." "Well Jen, I'm in the hotel you're looking at right now. I'm just getting dressed and ready to kill my target a couple of rooms down the hall. Ooh, can you see me form down there?"

Melody, the palest, skinniest redhead woman anyone has ever laid eyes on, was looking at Chief Hernandez through binoculars. "Yes, but can you wave an arm to confirm what I'm seeing is you?" asked Hernandez. Melody waves her right arm for a few seconds, enough time to be spotted. "Yes, I can see you. since you're in that hotel, you're basically our only hope in freeing the hostages." Melody is wondering how she is going to find the exact room the terrorists and hostages are with no information to work with. She responds: "I don't have a room number to go by, and neither do the SWAT teams you sent into the building. This is a big hotel building, and I'm pretty sure they will make a ton of noise opening just about every door. Until I get something to work with, I'm sticking to my original target." *beep* Melody throws her phone on the bed, zips up her red tightsuit and heads to her target's room. Two doors later, she stops and puts her ear to the door. She hears swords clashing, and assumes the man behind the door is watching a movie. The door requires a key card, but there's always an alternative way to do this, Melody thought. She rummages through her short, red hair and finds a paper clip. She bends the clip into an L-shape and inserts the clip into the card slot. The red light on the card lock turns green and the door unlocks. Slowly, she peeks in the crack of the door and spots a balding man on ta white leather couch, laughing at cartoons. Melody slithers in without a sound and crouch walks to the kitchen, using the white cabinets in front of her as cover.

SWAT team Alpha (the ones who went through the side entrance) were scouring the second floor and quietly evacuating the people from their rooms, hoping no one would do anything that would attract too much attention. The men have to stay quiet and be on the lookout for any surprises. Squad leader James (a short man with black ski and gas masks on) turns on his walkie-talkie and speaks: "This is Alpha Team. We are discreetly evacuating the civilians on the second floor. They will be massing in the lobby, so I request that no one gets in or out of here until our job is done. Over."
"Chief Hernandez here. I have a visual on the people in the lobby. The message is spread, so no one in the building will be shot. Over."
"All right men. We will not be doing any more evacuations. We don't know what's going on or what room to go to, so we're be in the dark for now." The team continues to walk down the dim hall until they reach elevator doors. A man in the back hears humming through the elevator and asks everyone to stop and listen to the elevator make its descent. The humming stops a few seconds later, the doors open up, and guns are immediately drawn. One bloody, pregnant, blond-haired woman stood in front of the door, holding a knife, while watching the other two women twitch on the ground in agony. The bloodied woman on her left is gurgling on her blood and will die in a moment, and the other one is dead and twitching. "Are you here for the hostages" she asked softly. The woman's lips, swollen and red from the beating she received, had managed to crack a smile. "Before you kill me, I want to tell you something. *sigh* The room you want is number 1437. The room is the presidential suite, at the top floor before the roof. There are ten guys, each of them is positioned in an area favorable to them. Lastly, I'm pregnant." Her brown eyes squint evilly, then she clutches the knife tightly and charges at the men, barely able to get in a few steps before being blown back and riddled with bullets. All of the men are surprised at what the woman has done, and James (Alpha Team leader) is checking the body he had helped kill for any identification. He finds a passport in her black suede purse. "The coroner will identify the other two. This one's ours. Her name is Tori Cho, a Vietnamese immigrant. She is, or was, a legal U.S. citizen. Let's assume that insanity has taken over her completely. Move out."

Locust, a bald, dark skinned African-American male, is looking out the window from a closed balcony door. He's watching the police officers put out blueprints of the hotel building on a police car, and other officers of high rank look at them on the hood of a squad car. He shuts the curtains and turns on his walkie-talkie: This is Locust. We have discussed what you have said earlier, and we have released the pregnant women. Expect them on the outside any minute." He hears a sigh of relief from the other end. "But just so you know Hernandez, I've been watching your comrades look at blueprints. Those happen to be of this building, am I correct?"
"Yes. I won't lie to you."
"You're making a big mistake. Anyone you send to us doesn't stand a chance, and the hostages will be dead after we've dispatched of everyone who comes in here. Over and out." He talks to the men nearest him: "Charles, Green, tell the rest of the guys they're free to talk. No point in sign language at this time." They responded with a "Yes sir" and moved to the other rooms to spread the message.

Hernandez, now out of her squad car and next to the owner of the hotel and blueprints, which is an old, heavily liver spotted man with many patches in his white hair. Beside them is Lieutenant Cletus Kane, a recently promoted man in his late 30's. Unhealthily tanned and long hair and muscles to match, he's known around the city as an an Adonis, but he's not favored in the police station due to lack of real brains. The trio looks at the blueprints, with the owner of the hotel guiding Bravo Team through the more complicated kitchen area. A male rookie cop runs over to the trio with a message "Chief! Turn your radio to Alpha Team's frequency. We just got word from them!"
"No time, give me your radio." she asks. The man hands his radio over to her and he goes off to do his own thing. "This is the chief. What news do you have for me? Over."
"We just encountered mild resistance and eliminated it. It was a pregnant Vietnamese woman, armed with a knife and we had no time to subdue her. Over." Hernandez is now shaking from multiple feelings at once, but she manages to keep calm and asks: "Any others? I must know."
"Yes. Two women, one to be in her late teens, the other looks to be in her late 20s. Both confirmed pregnant. But wait. We just got a numbered room to look for; it's 1437. There is ten men in the room, and they're in the presidential suite. We need to know if the information that was given to me is valid. Over." The hotel owner, overhearing the brief conversation, tells her that what the Alpha Squad leader said was indeed correct. He tells Hernandez about the staircases and has her relay the information to the squad. Then he relays the information he was given from Alpha Squad to Bravo, and asks both the lieutenant and the chief to see the possibility of the squads meeting up.

Melody takes a peek from the cabinet, noticing that her target is indeed guarded and not paying attention. She pulls the silver .357 Magnum from her holster and takes aim at the hulking bodyguard in a hockey mask and black suit. A cell phone rings, and it's in front of Melody. The bodyguard sharply turns his head to look at the phone and spots Melody put her head down. "Intruder! Get down!" The bodyguard opposite Melody's target forces the man down the other guard draws his pistol and fires in her general area. Melody pulls out a stun grenade, pulls the pin and throws it in the enemy's area. An explosion goes off, and she quickly runs out of cover to engage her target. Firing a single shot, the guy who spotted her is dead. The second man is shooting at her from behind the couch. He dives for cover behind a mini-bar and removes the combat shotgun from his back side. He inserts seven shells, gets up , and begins to fire at Melody, who has by now already eliminated another bodyguard. She sees the shotgun and ducks down to the couch. A big bang goes off, and a hole is made in the couch from the shotgun blast. Another blast goes off, and a hole is made in the couch, closer to Melody's head. She puts the barrel of her gun in the hole and fires away at the mini-bar, destroying two of its legs and making it fall over. Most of the full bottles of wine break on impact of the ground, and the few that didn't break were thrown by the bodyguard. Melody has one bullet in her gun chamber, so she takes aim at the guard's knee and fires, making him fall in agony. She gets up and hops over the couch to discover that the man she was supposed to kill has escaped. I hate reloading, she says to herself as the the man she shot is slowly crawling to a nearby pistol that is slightly out of reach. Melody puts in four bullets, closes the chamber and takes aim at the crawling man's elbow, waiting for him to lay a finger on the gun he's reaching for. A moment later, he touches it, and immediately has his elbow shot. Two more shots destroys the other elbow and other good knee, rendering him immobile. "Kill me!" the body repeatedly pleads, but the assassin tunes him out as she reloads her gun fully. She leaves the hotel room and closes the door behind her, ignoring the screams. Frustrated, Melody returns to her hotel room to hear her phone ringing. She answers it only to hear a desperate chief Hernandez: "Oh my god, it took you forever to pick up! Where were you?!" "I just finished with my typical business, though my target escaped." Melody replies.
"Well, I have a task for you. Free those hostages I told you about earlier. They're in the presidential suite, room 1437. I have two SWAT Teams heading there--
"Wait a sec. Why'd you have them go after the terrorists? That's what they're expecting... *sigh* I'm on my own on this one again, and you owe me big time when I get out of this."

Alpha Squad, moving up the dim staircase slowly, had recently had the green light to go to room 1437 and eliminate all threats in it. Bravo Squad is closing in on the presidential suite and silently stacks up at the mahagony double doors. The demolitions expert places a breaching charge near the doorknob and a satchel charge on one of the hinges, and moves to his original position, and they wait patiently for Alpha Squad to arrive. In a matter of minutes, Alpha Squad arrives at the double doors and stacks up on the opposite side of Bravo. Two teams of six, on opposite sides, wait for the best possible moment to destroy the charges; several agonizing moments pass by, and the Bravo Squad leader signals the charges to be blown. The demolitions expert detonates the charges, and the doors are blown off their hinges. Two by two, the SWAT officers rush in the room, killing the first two terrorists on sight. Bravo and Alpha split up and go opposite each other to scour the presidential suite. Bravo heads to the bathroom door, but were interrupted by a screaming child and a gunshot. They turn to Alpha to help out since they found out the hostages were in the bedroom. The bathroom door opens when Bravo's backs are turned, and Locust, armed with an M107 .50 cal sniper rifle, takes aim and fires at the SWAT, ripping apart several people at a time with single shots. He kills half of each team before he is shot to death. Bravo rushes to the bathroom to clear out anyone in there; another terrorist waits in the cabinets below the bathroom sink, with his hand on a detonator. He hears footsteps coming his way into the bathroom, waiting until he hears the word "Clear!" to make his move. A minute goes by and he hears his signal. He presses the glowing red button and feels a big vibration as the C4 charges he left disguised around the bathroom blow up, destroying it completely as well as the rest of Bravo Squad, but at the cost of his own life. Six terrorists remaining, and waiting in the large bedroom for Alpha Squad to burst in the room. Impatiently, they shoot the walls and the door exiting the bedroom, taking Alpha Squad completely by surprise. With no way of getting in the room without dying, they retreat and run to the halls outside of the suite, but the terrorist responsible for demolitions was outside, and he wasn't near the commotion at the time. He plants a satchel charge and goes prone. He sees the shadows come his way, he detonates the charge, and Alpha Squad unknowingly runs into the explosion, killing all of them instantly.

Much of the building rumbles from the explosions, and onlookers and police officers alike were terrified of the aftermath. All the glass on the top floor was shattered, and everyone can see what's going on now. A terrorist throws a disemboweled SWAT officer from the balcony to tell all who watched who won the battle. An angry police officer opens fire on the terrorist, missing every shot she made, and several others joined in. Chief Hernandez is trying to yell at everyone to stop shooting, but she couldn't be heard because of the gunfire. The terrorist walks in the room and out of sight, then everyone stops shooting. Many people are enduring multiple emotions at once, and barely any can keep themselves from crying, the chief included. She had lost contact with Melody and fears she is the only hope of freeing whatever surviving hostages there are left. No one can do anything but wait and see what else happens. "Where are the snipers?" she asked Lieutenant Kane. "They're on vacation; I think they're in Mexico" he calmly replies. The overwhelming stress from that reply made Hernandez faint.

She's opening her suitcase full of guns, removes and loads an MP5 and puts a silencer on its tip, then quickly puts a red dot sight on top. Melody then straps three full clips of ammo along with several kinds of grenades, and begins to rush to room 1437. She always found herself to be the classy type, so she takes the elevator route to the top. Anyone with ears would hear the elevator coming, so she breaks part of the roofing off and hops on top of ot, then placing part of it back to conceal herself, and tosses a smoke grenade through the crack. In seconds, the cramped area is gray with choking smoke, and the elevator comes to a stop; the doors open, and gunfire blasts into the cramped space. Melody gets a hold of a fragmentation grenade and pulls the pin, cooking it for a couple of seconds before releasing it down. It explodes, and it destroys the man shooting at the smoking elevator. Melody slips into the elevator and rolls into the partially wrecked top floor. She can feel a cold breeze coming in form the outside, but doesn't care. She chambers a bullet in her MP5 and heads for the presidential suite. Melody can still smell the smoke from the explosions that happened less than five minutes ago, and can see where a satchel charge was blown at. She knew that the open door was being watched, and she had to come up with a plan to lure someone out; a simple thought came to mind. She would lie on her back and scream to the top of her lungs until someone came out and she would then shoot. She waits for someone to say something before she gets on her back. A short time later, she hears a voice, and the plan is executed. A man, armed with a combat shotgun, rushes out to investigate the sound, but was immediately shot by Melody on sight. The killing has alarmed someone watching form inside the room, and Melody immediately gets herself and removes a flash-bang grenade from her belt and tosses it into the open double doors. After the bang goes off, she rushes in the room and shoots two terrorists, killing them both quickly. One of them screamed before he died, and the bedroom door opened up and out came two more terrorists, both rushing out of the door firing at Melody. She dives into the prone position and rolls around on the floor, pulling out her .357 Magnum and firing at the men. A single bullet grazes her cheek, but the unfortunate men were shot in the genitalia and were screaming in such pain Melody has never heard of before. She crawls back up and quickly executes the downed men, then picking up her MP5 and continuing into the open door. One of the last remaining terrorists appears in the doorway with an AT4 rocket launcher, firing it at Melody on sight. She jumps and kicks the rocket so hard, it deflected back at the man launching it and it it blew up, disintegrating him and the door he was blocking.

When the smoke cleared Melody entered the room. There they were, the remaining hostages, consisted of two men, two young boys and girls, and an elderly woman sitting in a corner next to the big screen TV by an open window. The room was dimly lit, and everyone was scared when they saw Melody enter. Much of the ash and gunpowder residue she encountered on the floor blackened every part of exposed skin, which was the hands, face, and her red hair. She stared at them all with a grim expression on her face, then decides to cheer up and laugh a bit, brightening the mood of everyone a bit. Exhausted, Melody sits on the king-sized bed, picks up the remote and turns on the television, with the news station on, taping live coverage of the situation at hand. "Hey guys, do you mind if the kids watched some cartoons? They look like they could use a bit of a laugh. And by the expressions on your faces, you adults can do well with one too." She turns from the news station to a cartoon channel, which was showing a classic TV show. Melody turns her head to the former hostages to notice they are all awe-struck from her cheery mood. "Are you guys gonna just sit there, or are you gonna laugh with me, or even get out of this place?" The whole family gets up and makes a run for it while she sticks around and laughs at her once-favorite cartoon.

The main lobby doors open and everyone remaining in the hotel, fled the building going their separate ways. The last people to exit were the hostages, who were walking out of the main lobby, surrounded by medical personnel, police offiicers, and reporters who are curious as to what happened from their perspective. Coroners went into the hotel to locate and identify the dead people that were still lying in the building. Melody waited several minutes before she came out of the building, her own way, which was jumping off the balcony and falling twenty stories before landing on top of a squad car and destroying the roof completely. She crawls out of the wreckage and wipes the coffee from her face, while everyone focuses on her walking to Chief Hernandez as if nothing was wrong. "Lieutenant Kane! Is she gonna be all right?" she asked. He was stunned by the way she recovered from her fall with no scrapes or cuts, and having the audacity to even ask such of thing. Out of fear, he replies: "Yes. She only fainted."
"I'm just wondering, what were the demands of those terrorists?"
"$100 million and plane tickets to Peru."
"Tell the chief she owes me big time for my task. I'll tell her my demands when she wakes up." Melody grabs a handful of snow off a nearby squad car and cleans her hands, face, and hair, and walks off into the foggy afternoon.

End

 

[Cheesus333]

Are we allowed to submit fan-fiction? I did a short descriptive writing piece on Rapture, if we are. I'll stick it here anyway.

Spoiler: Rapture

Drops of seawater patter relentlessly against the stubborn tiles below as a hairline crack in a skylight window secretes tiny volumes of the sea beyond. The flow is rhythmic, a steady drip every few seconds. Light from a blinking neon sign catches each drop as it falls on by, words painted in light reading ?Gatherer's Garden?. Beneath this sign is a machine, coloured a soft pink to mask its dark history and attract the eye of the common citizen: one of whom spots it now.
?Adam...? He grunts to himself and, relinquishing a corpse he had been scouring, drifts dreamily towards the inviting machine. A few of his desired genetic cocktails are displayed in the panels of the machine. The man scratches his last remaining tuft of hair and rests the section of brass pipe he carries over one shoulder as he inspects the problem at hand. The man is dressed in contemporary wear for the time ? a light brown sweater-vest with grime and blood stained into the fabric; a white work shirt that seems to have taken on a grey hue from years of mistreatment; a pair of plain grey trousers with damp hems around the ankles, mould creeping up the side of each leg. On his face he wears a mask, as he always has since his decline into animalistic insanity. Many believe it is to cover his shame. He insists that ?it's the latest fashion? in Rapture.
The man settles on a plan of action and, raising his trusty brass pipe, begins to beat the machine brutally. Dents appear in the frame but the machine does not give way, only continuing to sing its taunting song to him. The man wears himself out and, collapsing before his iron mistress, begins to weep.
Beyond the cracked skylight high above him ? which continues to drip water onto the man's shoulders as he cries ? the sea is abundant with life. Shoals of silver fish dart past the windows, oblivious to the carnage and chaos within the walls as a solitary whale moans its solitary cry, moving slowly through the 'streets' of the dystopia.
Meanwhile, a heated battle is taking place.
?Daddy, get her!? Cries a little girl, no older than seven as she darts into safety behind a crate. A woman approaches her, her face horrifically warped and mutilated. Her hair is dank and oily, falling over her hollow eyes and resting on a tumour protruding from her cheek. A little trickle of blood oozes from the corner of her mouth, and she wipes it away on her sleeve, pausing to inspect the stain before continuing towards the panicking child.
?Filthy girl!? Shrieks the woman, swinging a hand at the child's face. The girl cries out as she is slapped, tears rolling down her mud-encrusted cheeks. Her eyes, yellow and pale, stare up in fear at her attacker as she quivers behind her crate. The woman towers over her, raising a crowbar in preparation for a blow.
?Help me, Daddy!? Pleads the child to an unseen guardian, begging for a timely salvation from her death by her all-powerful father.
?No-one's coming to save you, urchin. It's just you, and me,? sneers the woman, her last words a cruel taunt.
The girl screams sharply, and the sound is answered by a loud roar from the shadows. Eight red lights appear mere metres to the left of the woman, and immediately charge at her. The sound of a whirring drill cuts the air and slams with devastating force into the mutant's scarred face, demolishing her skull completely. She falls to the ground with what could have been a whimper, and the red lights gaze down at her in hate, before a gargantuan boot crushes what remains of her head into the tiles.
The girl squeals in delight, and immediately clambers onto the steel shoulders of her protector ? with some assistance. They survey the room, and the hulking creature begins to march away, his beloved daughter by his side.
Outside, a single squid darts by. A shark seizes a fish in its powerful jaws and tears as it swims. Crabs scuttle along the seafloor, plant life dances in the winds of the undersea current, and the failed dream of Rapture goes unnoticed for another day by the rest of the world.

 

[ALuckyChance]

Also, I'll finally post something!

Spoiler: Prologue (to an extremely generic fantasy story)

It was a cold day in Lhanteyrim. Just the week before, people had rejoiced in the pleasantness of spring, holding festivities in honor of the Gods. Fine feasts and drunken revelry did little to stop nature, however. Fierce storms had rattled houses just days after the celebrations, and more than a few men regarded it as a bad omen. Roads were completely flooded over, making even short trips difficult. The rain could obscure visibility as well as the heaviest of fogs; people who tried to brave the climate would be found rotting in the forest weeks later. Some bodies were never found.

One person endeavored to journey outside however, no matter the cost. As the weather battered his small shack, he paced and muttered expletives. After a few minutes of creative curses to the gods, he stopped, sighed, and slowly walked to a corner of his shack. He kneeled in front of a box, debating whether to open it. After a while, he sighed again. Taking a key out of his pocket, he slowly turned the lock on the container. As soon as he heard a click, he turned to the side, narrowly dodging the small dart that flew at him.

A few seconds later, the stranger had calmed his pounding heart sufficiently, and made to open the chest. Inside were a few worthless baubles and souvenirs from other cities. He pawed through them impatiently, and felt around the bottom. As he found a small opening there, he hooked his fingers in and pulled upwards. The 'bottom' was lifted and put to the side. Now, the chest held a large assortment of weapons and armor. Most noticeable was the obsidian sword lain across the other items. As the man reached to pick it up, he smiled.

The stranger walked in the darkness, with the rain still pouring from the sky. As his boots sloshed into the muddy road, he started cursing again.
"Godsdamn it - why does it have to be now, of all times? I could be home enjoying some nice hot cocoa, or in a tavern drinking beer! I could-"

He tensed; an instinct had pulled at his nerves. Most other people would have passed it off as paranoia, but the stranger knew better. His instincts had saved his life more than once before, and he wasn't about to ignore them now. He peered around but saw nothing; the weather was affecting visibility immensely. The man saw no other choice but to continue on.

He didn't have to wait long. In just a few minutes, a trio of men stepped out from the trees, swords hanging from their arms. The man in the center of the group -the leader, most likely- stepped forward.

"Why, hello there, Jeremiah! Fine time meeting you here!"

Jeremiah blinked. He didn't recall that voice, and he made a habit of remembering people who most likely wanted to kill him.

"Uhh... I'm sorry; did you just call me Jeremiah? I'm afraid my name is Casavir, actually." If he lied well enough and added just the right amount of nervousness, maybe he could -

"Oh, well, that's too bad," one of the men said. "I'm afraid we're just going to have to kill you anyway."

Two of them charged, while the leader brought up a crossbow. Thinking fast, Jeremiah pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it - the man was dead before he could fire a shot. Jeremiah quickly ducked before another of the thugs could behead him. He brought up his sword, trying to both dodge and parry to stave off repeated stabs to his vital organs. Spotting an opening in his enemy's offense, he slid his sword into one man's ribs, then turned around the falling body and promptly beheaded the other attacker.

Jeremiah stood next to the corpses, breathing heavily. His mind raced with a thousand questions, but he forced himself to put them aside. If he didn't find anything after checking the bodies, then there wouldn't be any sense in dwelling on it.

Also, fan fiction's fine, but don't go crazy and start posting Yaoi Sonic the Hedgehog and Mass Effect crossover fanfiction or anything.

If any of you have somewhat short chapters from, say, a story or book you're writing, then feel free to put them here.

 

[Count Igor]

Spoiler: Series! 2nd

First off, let me just say, I will in no way be taking myself seriously, as I can't write, and I despise people who write with a grim look of their face, grunting whenever they have to re-write a line or two. Nor will I be writing about anything that annoys the hell out of me. Such as a story about Marines who are crippled and then find out that there's a war going on and IT JUST SO HAPPENS THEY CAN KILL THOUSANDS OF TERRORISTS WITHOUT EVER DYING.
That makes me want to hit people.

So then.
2nd story.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, the series is called Series. I've decided to make them as OF NOW. GOT A PROBLEM?
Ok.
Let's begin.

-Then I woke up again.
I still have no idea what or who T'vain is.
But it was pretty damn awesome.

I got up, got dressed, and got out of bed. It takes real skill and planning to get dressed in your bed
After playing around a bit with my breakfast by making smiley faces, then pretending I was a deity and eating them, I realised what time it was and set out.


WHEREUPON I MET A TERRORIST ARMY, USING MY MARINE SKILLS AND MY ONLY ARM LEFT I KIL-
No.
That didn't happen.


TO BE CONTINUED


..

You still have no idea what this is about, do you? Nor what time period, universe, country, idea, fantasy or any other setting it could possibly be bas- Ooh! Or which planet! -ed in.
That's good.
Because you shouldn't.

 

[Ironic Pirate]

Here's my Yaoi Sonic the Hedgehog and Mass Effect Crosso...

Also, fan fiction's fine, but don't go crazy and start posting Yaoi Sonic the Hedgehog and Mass Effect crossover fanfiction or anything.

... aw damn it!

Anyway, here are two of my stories. Humorous shorts from the perspective of a very, very stupid character.

I wrote this a year or so ago, when I was 13, so there may be references to year old things. You have been warned.

Spoiler: Part one! Where I purchase a video game, and discover the meaning of life!

So, the other day, I visited my local gamespot. I was trying to find a bowling alley, but everyones knows they are impossible to find. In the game spot, I saw a game with a picture of a heavily armed man wearing some kind of bathrobe. "Ah," I said to my self, "A game about the frightening correlation between wearing bathrobes and killing people." Naturally intrigued, I picked up the game and walked out. As I left, I heard some strange, yet oddly catchy music start blaring, "Oh the store must be thanking me for shopping there, how polite".

As I turned around, I was greeted not by a happy gamespot, but by an immencely fat man bearing down on me, screaming, "YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT, *****!" I sighed to myself, this alwayd happens when I go out shopping. I remember the curfuffle when I got my car! Luckily, I managed to make it to said car without getting shot, which is rare. The police give up chasing me rather easily, I think I recognised the lead officer, his driving has been noticeably worse since I ran over his right leg a few years ago.

When I finally got home, I had forgotten how to open the car door from the inside and was stuck for several hours until someone ran up, smashed the window, and grabbed my Ipod. I decide it was a small price to pay for dying slowing of starvation, so I thanked him profusely. I did cut myself climbing out the window, but whatever.

When I finally got the game home, I had no Ipod, my picture was all over the news, and I was bleeding heavily out of several lacerations to the chest and arms. I'd have to say, it was a successful trip.

Spoiler: Part two! Where I go Five Guys Burgers and Fries, and learn the ancient ways of my people!

I was wandering about the other day, when I realized I had forgotten to eat for almost a week, and all I had in the fridge were those low calorie yogurt things. I said out loud, "I can't have those, my co-workers would get mad!" That was when I remembered I was in my house, and there was no one else home. Wondering why my co-workers would care if I ate my food, I decided to go out and eat at a restaurant, something I hadn't done since the police had put a collar on my ankle and told me I was under "howz avest". Some people are just impossible to understand.

After switching cars to lose some wimpy little motorcycle cop, I discovered that I was very low on gas. Deciding to go until the gas ran out, I ended up puttering to a halt right in front of a Magical place called Five Guy's Burgers and Fries. I didn't know it was magical at the time of course. I'm writing this afterwards. I'm very safe, I would never type while driving. As I was pondering what kind of food they might serve thoughts a gigantic Mac truck slammed into my car and sent it flying forwards (the driver didn't stop, he had to be on time, naturally) and hit several buses and a group of cyclists. I was of course waiting patiently in line by this point.

Before I continue, I will say that there were several boxes of peanuts sitting around the restaurant, for reasons unknown. If you are allergic to peanut's then you shouldn't read on,as there are several graphic depictions of peanuts. I must also say that I don't normally like restaurants, as they (particularly fast food places) have a rather disturbing inclination to explode at the slightest provocation.


After waiting in line for one hundred and eleven seconds, it was my turn to order. When asked what I wanted I replied "All three levels of the Italian version of Rosetta Stone" The person taking orders sighed and said that she meant what did I want to eat. Oh, I thought (and said) and began to panic. I hadn't looked at the gigantic Menu right above my head, I had been hoping for divine inspiration. "Bacon!" I blurted out, because that makes everything better. "Did you mean a bacon cheeseburger?", she said, helpfully. "Oh, yes" I replied, giving my best coy smile.

"Okay, you're order 123" was her reply, given with a smile. "Wait a minute," I said , "You can't expect me to remember three whole digits. It's Wednesday" I smiled pleasantly, pleased I knew what day it was. "First, it's Friday, and second, sit down, jackass."

Damn. I had been studying for months, trying to find some kind of pattern in the days, but to no avail. I did manage to find the the drinks all by myself, though. I was disheartened to find that like most sensible restaurants there was no cherry chocolate doctor pepper to be found. I opted for water which turned out to be sprite.

When I turned around I found myself face to face with... the manager. "So,how do you like the place?" he asked. Awed to be in the presence of one who had their position on their shirt, not just their name, or what they just ate, I stuttered, and managed only "What are the peanuts for?" in a squeaking voice. "Oh, they're complimentary." he replied. Now, I may not be used to positive remarks, but I know when I've been complimented. I know every single time, because I write it down. "I know for a fact those peanuts aren't complimentary, in fact, one of them gave my a very nasty look on my way in." My respect for the managerial position was rapidly dissipating.

"123, order one two three" I heard over the tension. Quickly glancing at my hand, I realized that was my order. Either that, or page 456, problems 12-34 odd. Once I extricated myself from that awkward situation, I took my food and sat down. Whereupon I was greeted by the most incredible culinary explosions ever. Grease, cheese, ketchup, meat, some leafy vegetable. Salt, sprite, tin foil. I stopped when I realized I had started to eat the wrapper inn my desire for more.

That is the precise moment I saw a sign on the wall. I was an innocent little sign, by itself, but the words upon it carried immense significance. "Only genuine Idaho potatoes". This seemingly idyllic restaurant was consorting with the enemy. The red and white color palate, a battle flag. The peanut extolling manager, a general. I bolted up from my seat and ran into the door, crumpling to the ground upon impact.

To be fair, it was a glass door, but that didn't stop everyone inside from laughing at me. I stood up, and unable to figure out how to open the door, kicked it out and ran. I'm not sure where I am, but I'm hoping the nice policeman who just showed up will know

 

[ALuckyChance]

Here's my Yaoi Sonic the Hedgehog and Mass Effect Crosso...

Also, fan fiction's fine, but don't go crazy and start posting Yaoi Sonic the Hedgehog and Mass Effect crossover fanfiction or anything.

... aw damn it!

Anyway, here are two of my stories. Humorous shorts from the perspective of a very, very stupid character.

I wrote this a year or so ago, when I was 13, so there may be references to year old things. You have been warned.

Spoiler: Part one! Where I purchase a video game, and discover the meaning of life!

So, the other day, I visited my local gamespot. I was trying to find a bowling alley, but everyones knows they are impossible to find. In the game spot, I saw a game with a picture of a heavily armed man wearing some kind of bathrobe. "Ah," I said to my self, "A game about the frightening correlation between wearing bathrobes and killing people." Naturally intrigued, I picked up the game and walked out. As I left, I heard some strange, yet oddly catchy music start blaring, "Oh the store must be thanking me for shopping there, how polite".

As I turned around, I was greeted not by a happy gamespot, but by an immencely fat man bearing down on me, screaming, "YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT, *****!" I sighed to myself, this alwayd happens when I go out shopping. I remember the curfuffle when I got my car! Luckily, I managed to make it to said car without getting shot, which is rare. The police give up chasing me rather easily, I think I recognised the lead officer, his driving has been noticeably worse since I ran over his right leg a few years ago.

When I finally got home, I had forgotten how to open the car door from the inside and was stuck for several hours until someone ran up, smashed the window, and grabbed my Ipod. I decide it was a small price to pay for dying slowing of starvation, so I thanked him profusely. I did cut myself climbing out the window, but whatever.

When I finally got the game home, I had no Ipod, my picture was all over the news, and I was bleeding heavily out of several lacerations to the chest and arms. I'd have to say, it was a successful trip.

Spoiler: Part two! Where I go Five Guys Burgers and Fries, and learn the ancient ways of my people!

I was wandering about the other day, when I realized I had forgotten to eat for almost a week, and all I had in the fridge were those low calorie yogurt things. I said out loud, "I can't have those, my co-workers would get mad!" That was when I remembered I was in my house, and there was no one else home. Wondering why my co-workers would care if I ate my food, I decided to go out and eat at a restaurant, something I hadn't done since the police had put a collar on my ankle and told me I was under "howz avest". Some people are just impossible to understand.

After switching cars to lose some wimpy little motorcycle cop, I discovered that I was very low on gas. Deciding to go until the gas ran out, I ended up puttering to a halt right in front of a Magical place called Five Guy's Burgers and Fries. I didn't know it was magical at the time of course. I'm writing this afterwards. I'm very safe, I would never type while driving. As I was pondering what kind of food they might serve thoughts a gigantic Mac truck slammed into my car and sent it flying forwards (the driver didn't stop, he had to be on time, naturally) and hit several buses and a group of cyclists. I was of course waiting patiently in line by this point.

Before I continue, I will say that there were several boxes of peanuts sitting around the restaurant, for reasons unknown. If you are allergic to peanut's then you shouldn't read on,as there are several graphic depictions of peanuts. I must also say that I don't normally like restaurants, as they (particularly fast food places) have a rather disturbing inclination to explode at the slightest provocation.


After waiting in line for one hundred and eleven seconds, it was my turn to order. When asked what I wanted I replied "All three levels of the Italian version of Rosetta Stone" The person taking orders sighed and said that she meant what did I want to eat. Oh, I thought (and said) and began to panic. I hadn't looked at the gigantic Menu right above my head, I had been hoping for divine inspiration. "Bacon!" I blurted out, because that makes everything better. "Did you mean a bacon cheeseburger?", she said, helpfully. "Oh, yes" I replied, giving my best coy smile.

"Okay, you're order 123" was her reply, given with a smile. "Wait a minute," I said , "You can't expect me to remember three whole digits. It's Wednesday" I smiled pleasantly, pleased I knew what day it was. "First, it's Friday, and second, sit down, jackass."

Damn. I had been studying for months, trying to find some kind of pattern in the days, but to no avail. I did manage to find the the drinks all by myself, though. I was disheartened to find that like most sensible restaurants there was no cherry chocolate doctor pepper to be found. I opted for water which turned out to be sprite.

When I turned around I found myself face to face with... the manager. "So,how do you like the place?" he asked. Awed to be in the presence of one who had their position on their shirt, not just their name, or what they just ate, I stuttered, and managed only "What are the peanuts for?" in a squeaking voice. "Oh, they're complimentary." he replied. Now, I may not be used to positive remarks, but I know when I've been complimented. I know every single time, because I write it down. "I know for a fact those peanuts aren't complimentary, in fact, one of them gave my a very nasty look on my way in." My respect for the managerial position was rapidly dissipating.

"123, order one two three" I heard over the tension. Quickly glancing at my hand, I realized that was my order. Either that, or page 456, problems 12-34 odd. Once I extricated myself from that awkward situation, I took my food and sat down. Whereupon I was greeted by the most incredible culinary explosions ever. Grease, cheese, ketchup, meat, some leafy vegetable. Salt, sprite, tin foil. I stopped when I realized I had started to eat the wrapper inn my desire for more.

That is the precise moment I saw a sign on the wall. I was an innocent little sign, by itself, but the words upon it carried immense significance. "Only genuine Idaho potatoes". This seemingly idyllic restaurant was consorting with the enemy. The red and white color palate, a battle flag. The peanut extolling manager, a general. I bolted up from my seat and ran into the door, crumpling to the ground upon impact.

To be fair, it was a glass door, but that didn't stop everyone inside from laughing at me. I stood up, and unable to figure out how to open the door, kicked it out and ran. I'm not sure where I am, but I'm hoping the nice policeman who just showed up will know

Heh, pretty good. Not incredibly hilarious, but still funny, and the writing's very solid. The only thing you seem to forget is that when you have dialogue, you ALWAYS have either a comma (in place of periods), an exclamation point, or a question mark. As you can see in Paragraph Five, some of that dialogue had no end punctuation at all.

 

[Lost In The Void]

Alright at work now but I'll post some stuff when I get home. All of it will be from the old Short Story thread but since that's completely inactive these days I'll put it in here to get some critique

 

[Enigma6667]

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.

O hai thar. I heard you like short stories, and I wrote a new one, so I figured "what the hoo-hey."

Spoiler: The Star Harvest (A Short Story About The Future of Celebrities)

"Jesus answered, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God."

~John 3:5

[The Star Harvest.]

[Written by Enigma.]

I have been conditioned to feel angry when people lie to me. But I've never felt that in my whole life until now.

I am Audrey Hex. I'm pretty sure all of you know who I am, but for the two of you in the room who don't, I'm the youngest person in the world to become a billionaire.

Age 13 years, 9 months, and 22 days: Multi-Platinum single released called "Reachin' Forward". Billions of downloads for a generic pop song that I didn't write, and I keep insisting I didn't write, but people keep believing that I wrote, because that's what my employers have conditioned them to believe. "He's so modest," they usually say.

Age 14 years, 4 months, 14 days: Autobiography hits shelves and becomes New York Times Bestseller. Also not written by me. And everyone gobbles it up.

Age 16 years, 0 months, 0 days: Documentary film shot in 3-D about me entitled Audrey Hex: Follow Your Dreams is released upon what is technically considered my third birthday. Film has commentary by me, but it isn't really me. It's just my image. All of the answers to the questions were provided by the teleprompter. Everything I have been allowed to say in public my whole life has been dictated by the scrolling texts of the teleprompter.

Records For Things With My Face On Them: 1,003,021 posters sold under retailers. 4,207,641 albums sold (35% of which sold without the actual CDs in them). 241,021 love pillows sold (28% of which were sold to adults without children).

My face was everywhere. Is everywhere. Currently. I look at that face and I just want to punch it more than any of those angry people on the internet. Trolls, my employers call them. "Those, dirty, no-good trolls," they'd say. "Giving you negative press, giving us negative press, petitioning for the ban of your CDs like it's some kind of joke."

I don't blame them for having such disdain towards me. They always called me a fag. A tool. Just an instrument of some conformist corporation. They just don't really understand just how truthful what they're saying is.

They don't know the full story. Won't know the full story. Until now.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I wasn't, technically speaking, born. I never knew where I came from. For the longest time, I thought that I just...was.

I asked my employers about my mother when I woke up for the first time, but they never talked about her. However, I did overhear them converse, and they always mentioned "Project Glass Mother". They always referred to her as "GM-53". So I kept asking them when I would finally be able to meet her. I've always just wanted nothing more than to be hugged. It was something that mothers did, I guess.

Though how should I know? All of the other kids, who were born as 0 year olds, they learned through experience and teachers. I had no teachers, and no experiences. Everything was just already there in my head when I woke up. How to say "Where is my mother?", knowing the meaning of a question, the meaning of words such as "newborn" and "parent" and "bed" and "family". All of these were things that I'd never be able to have, and never be able to be.

They say that the reason why I know these things is because I am special. Unlike any other human being in the entire planet, just because of the mere fact that I'm not technically human. I asked if I was a robot. They said no, and that I was 98% organic material. They also said they were impressed to see I knew the meaning of the word robot, like I was one of those slow kids who I'd normally see licking the sidewalk because there's gum on it.

They told me I was 12 years old at the time of awakening, and that I had a bright future ahead of me. They told me I'd be a star, which made no sense because stars are made of hot gas, and I'm 98% organic matter.

Needless to say, I still needed work.

Speaking of stars, it was probably my favorite pass time, which was star-seeking. Whenever they locked me up in my room, I'd lay right under the glass dome and watch the stars. I read more about stars, and now, I know every single constellation and each one of their locations. My employers, however, told me that I wasn't allowed to read too much. Too much reading could make for "rapid brain growth", they told me. They wanted to keep me dumb enough to appeal to my future target audience.

However, dumb as I was, I wasn't oblivious.

They said that it was part of the little problems they had with the engineering process. They told me that I was the model closest to perfect. It was weird of them to tell me earlier on that I wasn't a robot, because that was exactly how they were treating me. With words like engineering and models. But, they explained to me that you can engineer people too.

Is that what happened to me? Am I just a lost boy, who wandered off from his parents? Was I kidnapped, and did they engineer my memories out of existence? What is the 2% of me that isn't organic?

Actually, they answered that last one, they said that they had to install something into my brain, which is half-synthetic. They told me it was how I was able to "process" words. So everything was organic but my mind.

"What about my spirit?" I asked. "Did you engineer my spirit?"

They kept silent.

"Do I have one? Everyone's supposed to have one. That's how they feel."

Then, they got that look in their eyes. That scared look that they were doing something they weren't supposed to be doing. Like there was a part of them that thought of my creation as an abomination.

However, they were too blinded by their endless pursuit of wealth. They purchased the top scientists to create what they kept calling "the perfect pop star". Again, they used the word star.

They told me I wasn't just engineered to talk and move. I was also engineered to sing, dance, and act. In fact, they said that they spent the most time on engineering acting, because I had to end up using it not just for potential films, but whenever I went out in public. I was told that, although I am a perfect and unique little special snowflake, a majority of our society still wasn't used to people as special as me, because I was the first of my kind.

So they helped me act like I had a soul. A spirit. They told me to laugh, and I executed pathetic, but cutesy sounds. What I was laughing at, however, I hadn't a clue. They told me I didn't need to learn how to cry, because nobody likes seeing celebrities cry.

Finally, they needed a name for me. Model 53 wasn't a marketable name, according to them. They needed something that was catchy, that was also able to subliminally click into the human subconscious. They called me Audrey Hex.

First name Audrey, because it was a girl's name, meaning that I'd instantly appeal to the female demographic. Last name Hex, because it rhymed with "sex" which was apparently "in" with today's young culture. It also allowed them to create nicknames like "Sexy Hexy".

Soon, after a year of social training, I was able to be released into the world. And my first thought was that people were weird. There were so many words that I had never heard of that made absolutely no sense at all. It was like reading a different language. Whenever I'd receive fan-mail, they'd write things in impractical ways.

"wher do u liv? i wanna meet u in person. kisses <3"

These people were actually able to have teachers, and they couldn't even spell simple words like "live" or "where". If I was considered stupid, what did that make all of those people who sent me e-mails?

Of course, it still didn't matter to me, because I wasn't allowed to read them. They were answered by my publicity agents, who would just keep things as brief as possible, like "cool", and "i know", just to give those girls nothing but a mere tease of something they'd never have. Looking back, it now doesn't surprise me that one of them got arrested for charges of pedophilia.

When I talked in public, I had to talk like I was "in". And apparently, being "in" made you more marketable. The two words that were the most "in", that they told me to say most, were "shawty" and "swag".

It was weird because as much as I said all of those "in" words, there were still a large amount of people who called me "fag" and "tool". It didn't make sense to me. I was engineered, to say what was conditioned to have me liked by everyone, but there were people who weren't under that influence.

All of those people, who I called "unindoctrinated" were very merciless and cruel with their insults. They said things that made no sense to me, things that weren't true. However, what they said wasn't supposed to be true about the real person behind me, it was true about my image. It was an image that was just nothing but the shadow of my employers.

I was engineered to be what they wanted me to be. And they used me as a tool to engineer what they wanted me to be, into the minds and hearts of millions of people. Everyone was a product to them. Everyone cost money. Nobody was human. Everyone was stupid.

I didn't want this life anymore. I never wanted it, but I never wanted to disown it. Until I realized that my purpose was just to give my employers money. Soon the pieces all fell into place. I never got any benefit out of any of the work I did. I never got a bed, a mother, a legitimate home, I didn't even get any of the money as many of you have been led to believe. I was just their tool.

I wanted a mother. I wanted to go out. I didn't want to be trapped in a cubicle. I wanted to have sex with someone, and see what all the fuss was about. I wanted to be human. But I could never be human. I could act like one all I want, but I am just a portrait of my employer's twisted dream of perfection.

Dreams. I've never had any. At least none when I'm asleep. I sleep and there's nothing but blackness. However, I do have dreams in the day. Hopes. That I could see those stars up close. The stars that have long since been out of reach for so long, but were right there in front of me.

Out in that endless void of space, where no other humans are ever going to bother me. Never eating, never sleeping, just like before, but with complete freedom. Nothing will be around me but endless possibilities. New constellations to discover, stars that are different colors. Blue, red, green. Wrapped around nebulae, if that's really the plural version. Golden clouds in the sky. Floating and resting with me. No one else in the universe.

Is that what heaven is? Self-inflicted paradise?

I asked my employers if I am able to die. If you die, doesn't that make you human? Because you have a soul and it departs from your body?

They said that I sadly couldn't die. They said that when I am 5 years old, which will be 21 years if we're talking physically-wise, I will be stuck with the body I have forever. However, there is an equivalent to dying, and it is called disposition. In disposition, the body is burned alive, and just like that, it doesn't exist anymore. They told me that it was what they'd do to me when I had fulfilled my purpose and the general public lost interest in me, and they'll create a new model to replace me, that is more significantly improved upon their views of perfection.

It was weird for them to tell me that they'll kill dispose of me as soon as I was done with, but they still believed that I didn't have a soul. I wanted to run away, but I was trapped in my cubicle. All I could do is look up at that bit of glass ceiling, and search the stars for an escape.

They wouldn't ever reveal me for what I really am, even if I did escape. I would be the abomination, but the scientists would be the one responsible. If I could only just find a way out...

After every concert, every tour, every book signing, I would scan the area, for ways for me to hide and run. Nothing. Guards are always watching me. Then I begin to notice all of the cameras in my room. They watch me stare into the stars, they watch me talk to myself in my sleep, praying for an escape.

I couldn't take it any longer. I had to live my life. I had to prove to myself that I did, in fact, have a life. A soul. A spirit. I had to reach complete Nirvana.

Rebirth.

--

As many of you may have already guessed, I am already missing. I do not believe that there is a god, but I do believe that when I can die, I will go to my own little paradise. If there is a god, however, he has certainly listened to me. A tree fell right on top of my glass dome and served as a climbing ladder the day I went missing.

It was the only chance I had. That hole in the wall was no longer separating me from those celestial lights that have always been blocked by glass. So I climbed up that ladder, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I could reach those stars.

I can not tell any of you my whereabouts. I have made carefully sure that this letter would be sent anonymously. Completely untraceable.

I just want everyone to know my employers for who they really are. And yet, as many of you will find them immoral & also look back and think of me as an ethical abomination of science, I still thank them, despite the suffering. They gave me the closest thing possible to life that I could obtain.

I will continue my eternal search. I may not ever find my soul, but I've found enjoyment in other things. I've been reading more, listening to Bach and Mozart, and best of all, I moved to a nice, quiet little beach, where I could perfectly see more stars than ever before. And when you lie down there, with the sea gently ebbing against your body by the shore, it looks as if the stars are gently falling towards you.

And every time I look at those stars, it's the closest I ever get to actually crying.

[The End.]

"Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God."

~John 3:3

This one isn't totally creepy like my previous ones. Just a bit of a sad tale. It's actually kinda inspired by what I thought Justin Bieber's life was like, strangely.

 

[Enigma6667]

Oops double post. Sorry, mah bad.

 

[The Salty Vulcan]

Really just something I did while I was bored at school one day. Be gentle

Spoiler

The cold, wet street makes my bones ache. The smell of dampness and cigarette butts, carelessly discarded on the ground, makes me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.

The buzzing, flickering street light above me brings no comfort either. As the adrenaline begins to flush itself out of my system, I once again look at the scene before me from my perch against the cold steel of the lamp. The crumpled body sprawled chaotically on the ground, the stained knife and the small pool of blood uniting all the elements together. "How did it all go wrong?"I desperately need a hit. I begin to cry.

After a few minutes, I raise myself up on my feet and wipe the tears from my face. I don't know why but I start thinking of my mother and how she would always talk about God. "Dios te ayudar hijo. God will help you". Of course I never believed her. There was a time I used to make fun of her and her superstitions. Me, the big college boy. Where did it all go wrong?

The words echo through my head and out of desperation I look up at the street light and for a few minutes try to pretend as if God washing my sins away, but it fails. I still can't wipe the memory of what's happened out of my head. Though I shut my eyes tightly, the events are still so clear and they hound me.

I'm walking down this very street, the knife in my pocket is heavy and the handle is covered in my own sweat. I continuously tell myself "I need the money, I need the money" as I scratch and agitate the sores on my neck and my chest. "This will be the last time", I try to tell myself in my most convincing voice, but it's a lie. For a few months now that's all that's ever really came out of my mouth.

As I dart my eyes, scanning the street I see her walking on the opposite sidewalk. Long red hair, tight blue sweater, denim jacket. Even in the dim light I can see the gold chain hanging loosely from her neck. It looks old, probably a family heirloom. I know a pawn broker over on 42nd who could give me money for it. I wait for her to past by before I cross the street and make my move. The street light is only a few blocks away; the adrenaline starts to kick in. I followed her for a while and briefly studied her; the way her hips swayed with each step, like it had some sort of orbit of its own. Her legs were great, dressed in skin tight jeans. For a split second I found myself smiling when I saw her shoes. Lime green All-Stars. I quickly hide the smile, I need the money. Forgive Me.

Through sheer force of will I bring myself to the present. I walk to the cold lifeless body before me; its partly opened lips are blue, its hands and stomach covered in blood. I begin to cry again and the memories come flooding back, there much more intense this time. It all goes by so fast.

As I approach myself behind her, I pull out the knife and grab her arm, she fight back harder than I thought she would. As we dance violently, trying to take control of the knife, our bodies come closer together and for a brief moment, silence fills our small world. We both realize what's happened. As we look at each others fear bleached faces, we back away slowly, like lovers from the old movies. She starts to cry, blood is on her hands and stomach. My legs feel like jelly. She slowly turns and walks away, stumbling. I attempt to follow...I fall.

What happens next is a blur of visions and sensations, in truth I don't remember what happened as I hit the concrete, but I didn't see any lights, no familiar faces. I wake up, standing over my own body. Words cannot describe the sensation. My lifeless lungs gasp for air and I sit, stunned. That was 5 minutes ago. I lean on the steel of the streetlamp and bath myself in its artificial halo.

What's going to happen to me? To her? I don't blame her...for what she did, if she ever had to face a court she'd get let off. Self defence against some junkie with a knife, a beautiful girl like her. It shouldn't have been like this.

The cold emanating from my own bones is making them ache. The smell of this horrible, surreal new existence and my own lifeless body is making me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.

 

[SimuLord]

Can't post 'em here for copyright reasons, but this month I'm writing a bunch of stuff for the blog (link's in my profile). I figure it's about time I told some of my old stories.

 

[Cogwheel]

Mine don't seem to fit into spoiler blocks. What should I do? They're still short stories, shouldn't take more than about 5 min for the shorter one, 20 for the longer one. Doesn't fit, though

 

[wadark]

Wish I had a story that was short enough to post. I'd love to get an unbiased opinion of my current project. But even the damn prologue is probably too lengthy for a forum.