"Dead men Don't talk"

[BarryPlionaer]

Hell, my friends.
This will be the artist post here. If you want to comment, go ahead.

[BarryPlionaer]

The leaking Vault

"Just because some of us can read and write and do a little math, that doesn't mean we deserve to conquer the Universe" - Kurt Vonnegut Jr. 1922-2007.

"I saw many different characters in my life. I saw some interesting men and women, but most of them were dull and empty, their heart only filled with bloodlust. Today the reason to kill is to earn something materialistic. The rest of my kind is almost extinct." The man tells to the boy.
The man stands behind the boy and looks out the window, staring at a poor survivor wandering the wastes alone.
"We never sought out any materialistic value, nothing we can touch or eat. And sadly, as I move more through life, I begin to question the word "We" every single day." The man says, slowly inhaling and exhaling. The old and shaky building stands still in the wastes of the place that was once called Utopia. The only thing that is fair in that waste at the moment is death. And even that is ought to bite you.
"I have told you my story, Haven't I, John?" the man tells the boy. The boy nods his head in approval. He looks at a survivor who tries to leave through a tall pile of grabble that was a once tall and mighty building. Now the poor man is trapped in the intersection.
"Do you remember when we first met, John?" The man says to the boy. The boy moves his hands violently to loosen the ropes wrapped around his wrists. His hands are attached to the wooden chair in the central of the room. No one can hear him in this wilderness. There is no point for screaming, unless he wants his final moments to be with a hungry dead walking corpse.
"I remember everything, John. You were searching for your younger sister, and you were foolish enough to enter the deeper parts of the city." Revealing his god forsaken rotting teeth, the man smiles and stretches his torn and bloody lips from one side to the other. The man's small red eyes stare at the back of the boy.
"You tried to find her. You showed me a picture of her. What a beautiful lady, I guess flowers do blossom in this god forsaken wilderness." The man reaches for the inner pocket of his brown worn out jacket and unfolds a piece of paper. He stares at the piece of paper for a few moments. The boy struggles to leave, but the wooden chair is screwed to the floor wooden boards. The man throws the piece of paper to the ground.
"Do you know how much time has passed?" The man says to the boy, moving his head to his right shoulder and then slowly to his left.
"Six years, two months and eighteen days. Six years, two months and eighteen days since the last time I felt the warmth of a woman." The man moves his hands down his beaten body and sighs. He looks to the horizon, maybe waiting for a better tomorrow.
"Now I am a wreck of my former self, an empty shell of what used to be Abraham Jenkins Junior. I can't believe I can still remember my name." The man smiles and laughs but his laughter quickly turns into a violent cough as he struggles for air.
The man reaches for the right pocket of his black trousers; an elaborate patchwork system combines all sorts of common rags into a respectable pair of trousers with many colors. He takes a dirty piece of cloth and rounds it into a small ball. He puts the cloth ball on the wooden desk on his right and turns right to face the half broken mirror.
The man takes the piece of cloth and cleans the mirror, and then looks at himself. He looks at his long and dark hair and down his eyes go until they stop at his wrists. He moves his wrists closer to his face and examines them. So many cuts, both deep and shallow are preset, showing their ugly faces as old scars or in the process of healing. He moves the red colored sleeves of his once white shirt and reveals many cuts along his hands ending at his broad shoulders. There are dozens of cuts in every hand.
The man breathes heavily and takes the ball of cloth and a pair of broken scissors from the wooden desk. The man slowly walks towards the chair, "Do you know how I have survived for so long, my friend?" The man tells the boy and smirks. The boy begins to pray. The boy remembers the small congregation assembly every Sunday, were he went on with the rituals of the church. He remembers the faith in god and now he prays for his forgiveness and salvation. But god isn't answering.
The man slowly moves his broken pair of scissors along the hands of the boy while the boy squirms and tries to set himself free from this hell only to walk afterwards to another pit of fire, also known as Utopia. When the man will find a large enough vein, he'll do the necessary thing to do - cut. The man stuffs the ball of cloth into the boy's mouth and breathes.
Inhale.... Exhale....

(To be continued)

[BarryPlionaer]

(The continuation of Hell's Kitchen... Um... Wait, that's the wrong show!)

He then cuts the hand of the boy with the broken pair of scissors. Blood begins to drip from the boys hands as the man moves a small tin cup underneath the boy's hands. The boy screams and curses whatever comes through his mind; he desperately tries to escape this torture, but he is still tied to that wooden chair. The man reveals his rotting teeth once again, as he glares at the warm blood dripping from the hands of the boy.
The man takes the tin cup and throws it through the window into the intersection.
"The dead like fresh blood. This is how I moved through this city undetected. This is how I managed to salvage food from downtown without a scratch." The man begins to laugh and then he looks at his wrists.
Moaning sounds begin to be heard faintly, still distant, far far away. The man in the intersection begins to panic and tries to find a higher spot where he could hide from the horde of walking dead.
"YOU came to ME" the man shouts. He looks at the boy with his small red eyes. "YOU wanted MY help" The man screams again. The boy struggles to get out of this chair; his legs are tied to the floor boards. The man's voice begins to go up and down.
"I told YOU to LEAVE. YOU could have LEFT. But you didn't leave... You insisted. You wanted to help. This is YOU HELPING" the man screamed at the boy.
At this moment there are two men in that room. One of them is about to die. The other one is a broken man.
The man at the intersection reaches for his Ruger-14 rifle. He takes a deep breath and begins to aim at incoming walking dead from a power line platform. The man breaths slowly as the distant sounds of moaning become the closer sound of screaming.
The man smiles at the boy. "I will let you go now. You'll be free." He takes the ball of cloth from the boy's mouth. The boy begins to scream for help and to warn the man in the intersection. Before the second "Help" echoes through the intersection the man punches the boy in the face. The man unties the boy and smashes his face yet again. The boy falls to the ground.
He hears a gun cocks.
The safety pin is pulled back.
The last words the boy ever read were from a yellow piece of paper on the floor

"Obituary, by Jones Jenkins.
We have all came to the funeral of our beloved Abraham Jenkins Junior. He was a father, a grandfather, a husband and a ..."
The man pulls the trigger.
Splat.
The man moves to his left and opens his cabinet.
He takes out a loaded bolt action rifle and he breaths again.
He comes closer to the window and he sees the man in the intersection fighting for his life.
The man mumbles to himself. He mumbles what he told the boy earlier. It was the crucial piece of information that doomed the boy.
"What we search for is the truth. What we need is the comfort of the truth. But what we truly desire is a vault to keep all of our secrets hidden from the rest of the world. But you can't trust anybody in hell".
The man takes a deep breath.
Inhale.... Exhale.....
He screams with all of his might to the open plains of hell: "I'm Immune".
He pulls the trigger.
The body of the man in the intersection falls to the street outside.
All of the vaults are closed shut.
The dead can only walk.

"On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero" - Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club.

[BarryPlionaer]

Well.... I'm waiting for a reply.
Anyway, I'll post a new piece soon.
Turn in for more updates.

[BarryPlionaer]

This is an incredibly short piece I wrote as a school assigment. It actually turned out quite well.
Enjoy.

Untitled

'I can hardly remember what happened then' I say to my new friend.
'I think that someone bashed my head. I just remember a sharp pain and then I blacked out' I stare at the ground.
'Don't get upset' the child says.
I hear screaming. Some dots appear in the horizon. My heart starts to pump faster.
'You'll get used to it' the child smiles at me. 'It'll be my last smile. There won't be any more reasons to smile' the child said, falling down on his behind.
'I just can't shake off the feeling I forgot somebody' I mumble to the boy.
'We all did. Our loved ones... Parents' the boy says. He begins to cry.
'I remember. I remember them all. Philip - he will be in the Mines. He won't survive for long' I said to the boy. We both began to cry.
'Like my father' the boy said, crawling closer to me.
We both held the steel bars. The screaming grew louder. We could see the others crowd in their cages together, frightened.
'The elderly couple... became supper.' I cried even harder. 'They were people ' I shouted. The others began to listen. The boy holds me tighter.
'Poor Marge. She didn't deserve that fate. A test subject. I don't want to imagine what happened to her' I began to cry harder. The boy cried out ' Mommy... Daddy... Mark...'.
'And Ruth... I will do something about her. I can't be here and stand here doing nothing' I scream and the others hear me.
We shout and curse and bang stones on the steel bars of our cages.
We begin to see the faces of the other people... the aliens.
'She became one of the servants... in a brothel.' I stared at the children running around, looking at us.
' Just like my mother' The boy said in a weak voice.
' What have we become... We became... Entertainers. Exhibits .' I said to myself.
I stared at a small child looking alien at me. He threw something at me and laughed.
This is my fate.
This is not my destiny.

[BarryPlionaer]

This is a first person tale. Let's see if you can figure out the situation. Good luck.

----- Transmission Begins -----

As I am standing on the ledge, looking atop a long drop to my demise, I am trying to remember, maybe even understand why I am here.

All I know is that I want to die.

I try to piece together the shards of information, voices, and memories. None make sense. It doesn't make any sense to me.

What am I?

I look up and I see my hands. They are bloody and so are my cloths. I clench my fist firmly but I'm too scared to let go. I don't know what is in there.

My other hand is so bloody I am having trouble seeing the shape of it. I am missing a pinky on my left hand.

I begin to choke. This is amazing, I feel no pain.

I smile and look beyond the shattered glass window, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, now only having broken glass sticking from the floor and the ceiling.

I notice that my feet are bleeding. I have no middle toes on my feet, but they aren't the source of the bleeding.

I am starting to think that this is not my blood.

There isn't enough information, the scenery isn't enough. I think that I am in a lush and fertile environment.

It's raining.

I know where I am.
We need to move.
Off to New York City.

---- Transmission Ends ----

The small squad of four men sat in the vehicle, waiting for the encounter. They were petrified, but the mind enhancing drugs took over their bodies long ago. They are no longer men, individuals. They are the sole property of the Inc Company, bought as merchandise and equipped with the best weaponry and armor imaginable. The one thing that all of the men wanted, was the safety and comfortable life of their families. They signed on a contract that sold their lives and in return gave a fresh start for their children.

They entered the space port of New York City, anxious. They were all consciousness at that time, but linked to their handlers. They again listened to the broadcast to prepare for the fight.

"I know what to do. I saw it all happening. We need to move, fast"
I am telling the four men.

I am different. You see, I was hired to lead this squad.
We are here to kill the wanted man. At least that is what the corporation wants us to think.
They wanted me so bad that they tried to clone me. You see, what makes the man truly a man with all of his skills - are his memories.

They can't reproduce that, but at least they try to.

My twin brother, my clone is the wanted man. He is merely a child in a man's body, my body.

The corporation has some useful technology.

Since he is my clone, we have the same Mind IP. This is almost impossible to replicate, and is very common with Identical twins.

I saw what he will do soon, very soon. I saw his condition, and I saw his clothes, soaked in blood.

"Sir, we have reached our destination" The soldier says to me.

"We move out, follow me" I tell them.

We are entering the facility where he is right now.
We can't seem to find him.
We search everywhere, but he is no where to be found.

The team lowers their awareness, and I am entering the bathroom.

In the toilet, I piss all over my shoe and I am forced to take it off.
I panic.
I am shocked.
I want to die.
I don't have any middle toes.

I take off the other shoes and I load my back up pistol. My gun is with the soldier guarding the door.
I need to escape.

I open the door. He charges at me with a knife, I am able to block it but het cuts off my pinky on my left hand.
I shoot him in the head.
He is now lifeless.

The others notice the shot and rush towards me. They aren't three anymore. They are sixteen. Today eighteen lives will be lost.

I killed them, all of them. I slay them, one by one.

They drop like flies.

I run to the top floor.

They surround me.

I have no escape.

They want me, my body.

They can't have it.

A team bursts from the large window on the top office and smashes it.

They will kill me soon.

I take a grenade out of my belt and I take out the safety pin.

I hold it and I count backwards.

I look at myself for the last time.

The drugs start to kick in.

I hear a gun reload and a voice "We have finally succeeded in creating a new you"

As I am standing on the ledge, looking atop a long drop to my demise, I am trying to remember, maybe even understand why I am here.

All I know is that I want to die.

I try to piece together the shards of information, voices, and memories. None make sense. It doesn't make any sense to me.

What am I?

I look up and I see my hands. They are bloody and so are my cloths. I clench my fist firmly but I'm too scared to let go. I don't know what is in there.

My other hand is so bloody I am having trouble seeing the shape of it. I am missing a pinky on my left hand.

I begin to choke. This is amazing, I feel no pain.

I smile and look beyond the shattered glass window, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, now only having broken glass sticking from the floor and the ceiling.

I notice that my feet are bleeding. I have no middle toes on my feet, but they aren't the source of the bleeding.

I am starting to think that this is not my blood.

There isn't enough information, the scenery isn't enough. I think that I am in a lush and fertile environment.

It's raining.

I am forced to count to three.

Boom.

I'm back at the facility.

"Sir, I know where the next clone will be headed to. Save the formula. I think that we have succeeded" I tell my superior.

I smile.

The corporation has some useful technology.

I said that it's almost impossible to replicate Mind IP.

This is my job.

I am trying to make more of myself.

And then they will kill the clone.

Me.

[tigerkitty]

I just started, but already I've noticed a few issues with grammar. "The man tells to the boy" is not correct, get rid of the "to". This is just an example, but I can see quite a few of such errors in your work.

When in doubt of how a sentence should flow, it's often a good idea to read it out loud. If your tongue trips over a sentence, then perhaps it's a good idea to reformat it a bit.

to be honest, I'm having real trouble even getting through your works. The grammar is a big downfall that is making it difficult to read. Also be careful of metaphors and the sort, they can confuse the reader when they get really tangled.

[NekoMika]

Well this is in response to your first piece, you should try to do your spacing more like this so it doesn't appear as much as a wall of text.

paragraph 1

paragraph 2

You did a beautiful piece of work with that one, however I didn't really think he would have killed himself, ouch! Also I noticed there were a few spots where you you tended to do things like this near the end. This is just an example:

I saw him there.
He saw me here.
We pulled the trigger but only one of use died.

Those kind of things should really just be on the same line together instead of giving them a new line by themselves.

[BarryPlionaer]

At least you gave me some attention.
Well, I really didn't give the grammer any attention when I posted this. When you say it that way I should probably make another post with a corrected story.
But my problem is my lack of knowledge here. The problem is not that I am an uneducated ignorant boy, I'm just a boy with English as a thrid language. Only if You could read how I wrote this originally...
But it's a pain in the neck to properly write it. especially when I can't really edit my posts.

Is there any chance of you volunteering to help me edit this?

[BarryPlionaer]

At 1/29/10 03:53 PM, SCTE3 wrote:

You did a beautiful piece of work with that one, however I didn't really think he would have killed himself, ouch!

You probably didn't fully understand the story. It's a pain in the neck to try and flow with the story. If you want I can tell you the story, if you want to think about it in a chronological order you need to read it backwards... Seriously.
Also I noticed there were a few spots where you you tended to do things like this near the end. This is just an example:

I saw him there.
He saw me here.
We pulled the trigger but only one of use died.

Those kind of things should really just be on the same line together instead of giving them a new line by themselves.

Yes... but to create the effect of drama and a pause, at the end the reader is anxious to see the wider scope of the story, and they are forced to progress slowly, line after line.

[gumOnShoe]

At 1/29/10 04:01 PM, BarryPlionaer wrote: You probably didn't fully understand the story.

I just want to say that's more likely a mark against the story than it is the reader. A writer's job is to convey meaning and understanding. Complexity for the sake of confusing the reader or "neat effects" is probably not a good idea.

Just saying, you should consider any story that does not properly communicate to the reader to be on some level weak. And as such you should revise and edit to clear up misunderstandings.

I wrote a story backwards once sentence by sentence, and my teacher was correct when he told me it was bad. Just because YOU wrote it doesn't mean you have to or should stand by or defend it. If you want a critique, you should accept it and move forward rather than defending it.

I'm seeing a little bit too much attention seeking in your posts though. You've said it yourself, all you want is a little bit of attention. I just want to warn you that you are writing for all the wrong reasons if that truly is your motivation.

[BarryPlionaer]

Above all, I want to improve myself.
I was just so annoyed that no one went through my posts.
I wrote so in my posts because I wanted someone to review my abilities, and now that I see what you have written already I know I am not that good.

If you have any advice, feel free to say so.

[zbox101]

You made multiple spelling errors, convention errors, and grammatical errors. Also, you're story has quite a bit of ADD in it; that is to say you seem to have trouble staying on topic and appreciate the metaphoric over the literal, which is harder to convey in a story.

I personally found it boring. I didn't care too much for it and I found it a bit cliché, as well as lengthy over impactful.

Your story, needs a back story. Too much is missing from this and I personally don't care about the boy's death, nothing absurd is happening to him, nothing about him is something I care about, the only thing you have going for you is that he is a boy of some unidentified young age.

The only round character you have is the main character, and he himself is static.