Ifun's Word Dump

[InsertFunnyUserName]

Story index
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This is where I'm going to drop all of my short stories (and possibly poems). I would really, really appreciate some constructive criticism on these, as I haven't had much success in that regard so far. Criticize anything, even it's something as little as an awkward sentence.

So, I'll start off with a story that I wrote back in 2008 that I revised about 10 minutes before posting this opening post. It's less than 700 words, so it's a bit of flash fiction for you. Let me know what you think.

"Colors"
I open my eyes and look around. There is a ceiling as white as teeth, thin curtains in a soft ocean blue, a gnarled gray rug with ugly yellow stains and a chestnut dresser cloaked in dust. All is normal with my room, the way it should be, except for the air, that is. The air is clear like glass, clear like crystal. It's such a dreadful thing. It's the color of waiting, the color of nothingness, the color of this stagnant, repulsive air that circles around me like a shark and asphyxiates me like a large snake.

I push the grimy, unwashed bed sheets off of me, sit up into a labored stretch and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My emaciated hands ascend to my face to caress an agonizing sting that stretches across my skin. I feel dried blood in rough globs around my nose and mouth and the memories begin to rush back to me in a flood of searing anguish. The blood is red like cherries and like rotten, withered apples. It is such a painful color, that of suffering, of malice, of this parasitic blood that snakes its way up my entirety like a snail leaving a painful trail. Red is the color of something wrong.

Tentatively, I stand and walk down the hall with the hideous, peeling wallpaper to the bathroom that's clothed with a blanket of spider webs. There's a tan linoleum floor disturbed by cracks in its shoddy pattern, gray shower curtains that used to be white, blue walls splotched with water stains, a silver medicine cabinet and a grungy porcelain sink. I gaze into the mirror on the chrome cabinet and see my dilapidated reflection. There are blue eyes that have been tinted gray with sorrow and pink lips frozen into a frown. All is normal with my image, the way it should be, except for the bruises, that is. The bruises are black like night, black like ants at a picnic. This color is a fearful one, one of evil doing and ill will, the color of death, the color of the bruises that spot my face with the horrid memories of loss.

I take off my clothes, soiled with the fetid odor of anxious sweat, and step into the shower. The hot water stings my wounds momentarily, but the pain soon washes away with the blood that streaks down to the floor in pink lines. The ceiling is wooden, a thick, dark wood. Probably mahogany, but I have never known. It was he who installed it. The showerhead is silver like silverware, silver like tin. It's a fickle color that can be the color of healing like medical instruments or the color of destruction like the gun that they shot him with while I, bound and bleeding, lied helplessly on the ground.

I step out of the shower and put new clothes on, clothes that aren't stained with blood.

The stairs down to the kitchen are defiled with mud and tears from when my body dragged my shell-shocked mind up to the safety of my bed. As I reach the bottom, my naked feet touch a gray tiled floor and my eyes see white cabinets with chipping paint, dark gray counter tops, and a light brown table. Brown is a human color that comes in many shades, much like ourselves. It's the color of our hands and of our hair, the color of the hands that held me back and of the hands that struck me when I tried to save him. It was the color of his skin, but not any more. Now, in its absence of life, it's pure white like the drugs they killed him in the name of on that dark, stormy night.

I walk into the living room and stop, my eyes welling up in salty tears. The air is clear. Clear like oxygen, clear like water. It is such an empty color, the tint of indecision and of poverty. This shade is the absence of Mike, my husband of 15 years.

Clear is, by far, the ugliest color.

[Dubbi]

Very good job!. Your description is great; you were really able to set a vivid mood and I felt the woman's anguish. But I'm not too thrilled with the story itself, the actual subject matter seems a little hackneyed; there wasn't much creativity. I want to read a story filled with interesting characters and dialogue not just a tale of a depressed widow. But for waht it's worth, I did enjoy it, you're a very good writer. :)

Also, please read my short stories: http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1145 022 http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1145 595

[InsertFunnyUserName]

At 2/14/10 09:49 PM, Dubbi wrote: Very good job!. Your description is great; you were really able to set a vivid mood and I felt the woman's anguish. But I'm not too thrilled with the story itself, the actual subject matter seems a little hackneyed; there wasn't much creativity. I want to read a story filled with interesting characters and dialogue not just a tale of a depressed widow.

Yeah, I see what you mean. If I revise this, I'll definitely emphasize her internal conflict more and maybe add in some flashbacks to the night her husband was killed.

Thanks :]

I enjoyed this short piece very much. I think the greatest examples of very short stories in literature are the ones that are extremely aware that, despite the small space available, still have to contain some sort of narrative, whether that be conventional or not. What you've crafted here is a story that decides not to give itself away quickly, and I think it works very well. While I think that it's possible that the story's conclusion (not quite the final line but the the sentences following the 'climax', the sort of revelation) could be fine-tuned, for example by giving the character's husband a much more emotional send-off, with just a little bit more.

I bring this up specifically, because the use of something or someone's presence is one of the best things about the narrative of the story. Obviously, the strongest tones are your adjectives, which in essence are probably the primary narrators of the story. They don't speak for themselves, but it's as if they do, while the human characters are well placed, right at the back of the frame where they might be almost meaningless as far as the story is concerned. What I think is interesting about this now, is how you've used the stream-of-consciousness style of telling the story. It encourages the reader to search for a meaning, but like I say, the way the story is illustrated really puts that out, and it's actually quite shocking.

I think you're right to write this as a piece of flash fiction. I'm not always a big fan of the format, but in choosing to use it here, I think you've contained the story well. Due to the adjectives being so rich and forming such a basis for the story, they've needed to kept under control before you suffocate the reader with ridiculous amounts of alternative vocabulary.

The one technical error I believe to have discovered is a minor one at the end of the fourth paragraph:

At 2/14/10 09:35 PM, InsertFunnyUserName wrote: It's a fickle color that can be the color of healing like medical instruments or the color of destruction like the gun that they shot him with while I, bound and bleeding, lied helplessly on the ground.

My dictionary tells me that the word used should be 'laid' rather than 'lied'.

I enjoyed the story. Like I said, I think you may be able to sand the edges of the conclusion, but it's definitely not a pressing matter when assessing the thing as a whole. Surprisingly rich given the format, I'll say.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

At 2/15/10 11:29 AM, Scarab wrote: My dictionary tells me that the word used should be 'laid' rather than 'lied'.

Ah, gracias, I never know when to use "laid" and when to use "lied."

I enjoyed the story. Like I said, I think you may be able to sand the edges of the conclusion, but it's definitely not a pressing matter when assessing the thing as a whole. Surprisingly rich given the format, I'll say.

Thanks for the detailed feedback. :] I agree about the conclusion now that you've pointed it out.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

This is something that I wrote for school for history timed during the industrial revolution. Already handed it in, but I'd still like some feedback. There's a "sincerely..." part at the end, but I took it out since I signed it with my name (so my history teacher would actually know who wrote it), so it takes away from the mood.

Dear friends,

I sincerely apologize for not writing to you sooner. The abusive hours of my current employment do not leave me with the time for myself that I once had in my old life, leaving me more drained and brain dead than I had ever suspected I could become when I was working at our shop. This mil is sucking the soul out of me. After fourteen hours of grueling repetitiveness, I am left with only the energy to bathe myself and prepare for a night's dreamless sleep.

I hope that you are all doing fine in this industrial economy. I pray that the majority of your patrons have stayed loyal to the business and have not fallen into the hand of mass production. My heart felt heavy, as heavy as these steel machines that possess my body day after day, the last time I stepped through the doorway of our beautiful young shop. But finances had gotten the better of me. My living expenses were overwhelming me and driving me into a deep debt, as though I was being pushed farther into a deep chasm of perpetual dependency. So I find myself now in this desolate and dejected city that is stricken by poverty and crime.

For a seamstress such as me, paychecks lie only inside of these mils. The free market that I so vicariously enjoyed within the confines of our business is nonexistent in my new reality. It's as though I am bound by heavy chains to the bitter logic of supply and demand. This industry is a monster, decimating budding independent businesses with its low prices and extraordinary production that remain unparalleled by any single force of man or nature. What our shop could do in an hour, this mill can do in minutes and the consequences are devastating. Worker's rights have become an ideal of the past. What are we in the eyes of our employers but mere pests dropping waste upon the floor, turning the wheels of the factory only by our sheer weight and momentum? We have become replaceable hands without minds, without souls and without freedom as the dehumanizing circumstances drain all hope from us. Day in and day out we slave inside of this confined, vile chamber. They have nailed the windows shut, even through the sweltering midday heat, as to keep in the humidity that prevents the breaking of these most precious threads. I watch as the workers around me fall sick, their lungs contaminated with the cotton dust that is unable to escape. At night, our eyes strain in the dim light to see our work and despite these burdens, we are expected to operate up to four machines simultaneously. I have never witnessed such human misery before in my life and the pangs of longing for the comfort of our shop are striking me more ferociously with each passing day.

It is because, to the management, we are nothing more than machines. No longer can I discuss philosophy or books or family with the women by my side, to befriend them and to understand them. The prowling eye of our foreman is like a fist around our throat, reminding us that we are all, after all, just workers. We are now parts of these machines, just like the steel and the copper. We know one thing and one thing only: our own specific motion. This is not an art, a career or a trade; it is only a motion. To this mil, I have ceased to be the tradeswoman that I was, but rather a single cell of a cumulative tailor. I do my part and my peer does the next. It is the unfortunate truth of the science of business: all mental freedoms and evolutions must disintegrate in an enactment of the ultimate emotional obeisance to a supreme goal.

I am sorry to say that I have no news of a more optimistic type, but I can't help but feel as though I have fallen into a rattrap. I pray that your reply to this letter will brighten up my day; however, I cannot see the light at the end of this tunnel. At this moment I know that I am trapped inside of a machine, one with an unyielding desire to grow and a bottomless well of contempt for competition. Change is imperative. If you can, do not enter yourself into this lifestyle. But, I fear that it may be the only direction in which this world is willing to go. For now, I bid you good health, good prosperity and a high spirit.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

Okay, so this is something that I wrote today that, honestly, I think came out completely and utterly awful. But I don't know what I should do to make it better, so I decided to post here for feedback. Basically it's me trying my hand at erotica for the first time in two years. Now, if you're part of the select minority that remembers my past erotica stories Pet, Submission and Don't Hitchhike (you probably aren't, but just in case you are...), then you'll remember that I primarily write fetish stuff, but this doesn't fall under that category. I won't be posting stories like those up (unless someone asks) as I don't feel this is the place for them. So, that means that this particular story is totally vanilla. If you get a rape vibe, please tell me because that's not what I was intending.

I'll most likely revise this in the future. Please be as picky as possible. Even if it's just grammar/mechanics stuff, let me know. I can take constructive criticism, so throw it at me. :]

______________________

The House of Cards
I suppose it had always occurred to me that our bond was destined to shatter. Our relationship was a house of cards, waiting to topple at the slightest breeze. Without any proper foundation of emotions, we played our own separate hands in the turbulent game of lust. Our own agendas were our private secret weapons and our brains had always been tied at the hip to our loins.

But at that moment, I was swaying in the waves of lust, drifting in the vicarious sea of human sexuality. Her lips were supple, resting under a thin layer of rose lipstick. It blended with a gradual gradient into the skin that glowed with the healthy, subtle tan of a woman that wanders the countryside naked and without a care. A brilliant green radiated outwards from her eyes that rested in the center of her face. It was a face that was long and doused in arousal with thick curls falling in a dark tangle around its edges. My own hands, dark and slender, fell with a gentle touch from her cheeks down to her bare shoulders.

It was as though I was in a daze, separated from my body, and the only item of any solid importance that bound me to reality was the fire in between my legs. I watched my skin react with pleasant goose bumps as the sensation of her fingers sliding down my sides rattled my nervous system with a flood of need. They fell lower on my naked body, reaching my hips and eventually, in between my legs. She caressed my sex with the gentleness of the lover she never was and never will be. But her fingers sliding through my wetness, rubbing my clitoris, left my worries to reside in the unconsidered shadows of my consciousness. Involuntarily, lungs drew in deep breaths, skin swept over hypersensitive skin and the rising waters of my arousal subverted my entire being. My orgasm hit me with a startling whiplash that drew a long moan from my lips.

Before I knew it, I was being pulled to a bed, ornate and clothed in sheets that soothed my flesh. As I knelt over her, my weight resting on my elbows, black hair hung down with ends that brushed the tips of her firm breasts. And then my lips had met hers, her hands moving over my thighs. Her sweet perfume intoxicated my senses and in my haze of sexually driven detachment, I witnessed my tongue probing her mouth and sliding across her lips. I descended from her mouth to her breast, licking her nipple to pull a groan of arousal from the both of us.

Our moment of pleasure, however, was slammed to a halt by the creaking of the door with the hinges that had been neglected for decades. To my own amazement, my first reaction to the tall blond in the doorway was an indignant accusation of adultery, but I came around to remember that I, in my own selfishness, was the criminal. I was the mistress and the blonde was the wife. Reality then seemed to move in frames. I was upon her; she was out from under me; her wife was in her arms and struggling. With a tactile and vindictive strategy, the blond soon found her wife's hand down her pants and with a sigh, her tension dissolved. I was transfixed and astonished by the scene in front of me. I understood neither blond's submissions nor why the woman I had been thieving for eighteen weeks had refused to say a word to her contemptuous lover. To this day, I still cannot comprehend such a preposterous agreement.

The wife's orgasm came to me as a slap in face for a reason that crashed onto me in a tidal wave of confusion. It was jealousy, I realized, and disgust at the blond's immediate acceptance of the circumstances by the simple hand of sexual pleasure. And if I had thought the situation couldn't have become more confusing, I soon discovered that the wife was then on top of me. My mind strained to comprehend, but I, betrayed by my curiosity, didn't fight her as her tongue slipped into my mouth. Her fingers explored my skin and rubbed my nipples until they stood erect. I took a sharp breath as her palm rested against my sex, sliding slowly across my clitoris.

I then heard her whisper in my ear: "If my wife will have you, so will I. Welcome to our house of cards."

[vow2thou]

At first I was like "I aint even got a semi-"...

She caressed my sex... ...rubbing my clitoris

...then I was like "OH YEAH!"

Joking aside, it read like any other generic erotic literature I've read before, but there really didn't seem to be any intimacy involved. It was, as you put it, "porn in text". It just felt like the two characters were going through the necessary motions. I didn't feel their excitement. I wasn't even sure if there was any.

Eroticism is just as much about the sensuality as it is the sexuality, if not more so! Every absolute single moment that precedes actual contact should be a rapturous turmoil of anxiety, anticipation, and impatience. Aching for that moment makes time stagger, each second elevating the atmosphere until the simple thought of release, rather than the actual physical provocation, is enough to demand ecstasy!

'Grats on actually posting this though. Erotica demands so much intimacy in a field that is still very much taboo.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

At 2/21/10 06:50 PM, vow2thou wrote: Joking aside, it read like any other generic erotic literature I've read before, but there really didn't seem to be any intimacy involved. It was, as you put it, "porn in text". It just felt like the two characters were going through the necessary motions. I didn't feel their excitement. I wasn't even sure if there was any.

Eroticism is just as much about the sensuality as it is the sexuality, if not more so! Every absolute single moment that precedes actual contact should be a rapturous turmoil of anxiety, anticipation, and impatience. Aching for that moment makes time stagger, each second elevating the atmosphere until the simple thought of release, rather than the actual physical provocation, is enough to demand ecstasy!

The thing about the rout that I chose to go is, I think, that part of the conflict is that the main character is thinking about the fact that neither she or her partner actually have emotional connection. But, I tried to find a balance between her thoughts on the matter and the sex that holds the tension. I guess it didn't work, lol. That's why I'm always tentative to try writing in the genre. I'm not sure how to make the sensuality of the writing stand out without making it a romantic cliche. The challenge for me is weaving in sex with the plot. Like, I know what I need to do, but I don't know how to do it, if that makes sense.

[vow2thou]

I know exactly how you mean. I noticed that you said that you sometimes write fetish. In almost all the erotic fiction I've read, a female protagonist is in a position that she is not experienced with: be it an unfamiliar scenario (BDSM, Rape, etc. etc.) or simply virginity. In the former, it's easy to get the blood pumping because it's the sexual equivalent of shock and awe.

Most furry and/or fanfic seem to take this route. Personally, I think this may be why I have little respect for these fields, because they're often self-indulgent to the point where they sidestep any obligatory intimacy that must precede the action itself for it to seem legitimate. My biggest peev is rape scenarios that happen between characters who are strangers to both each other and the reader.

I hesitate to mention, but I'm currently writing something in this genre myself. It's currently pushing double figure chapters (though certainly needs editing) and there hasn't even been a suggestion of actual sex. Just curiosity becoming lusting becoming the overwhelming conflict of gratification (at risk of pushing her too soon) vs. sensitivity. I love writing it, just anticipating that (surely!) inevitable moment.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

At 2/21/10 07:16 PM, vow2thou wrote: I know exactly how you mean. I noticed that you said that you sometimes write fetish. In almost all the erotic fiction I've read, a female protagonist is in a position that she is not experienced with: be it an unfamiliar scenario (BDSM, Rape, etc. etc.) or simply virginity. In the former, it's easy to get the blood pumping because it's the sexual equivalent of shock and awe.

That's exactly the thing that I'm trying to avoid: the same old storyline that's been used again and again. I personally stick more to BDSM-esque stories and in a lot of them, there's some person who starts out being ashamed of their fetish and then via some outlandish circumstance he/she comes to realize how amazing exploring said fetish can be. Some of them are beautifully written and that alone effectively distracts the reader from the unoriginal plot, but most of the stories in this particular range of plot are okay for passing time, but otherwise are just not that good at all. I'll read them for their erotic value, but as literary pieces I have a deep well of criticism (though, note that these are amateur pieces)

So, in trying to push myself away from that trap, I've put myself in a difficult position.

Another reason why I'm walking a thin line is that I notice in a lot of stories, it's just the same events happening in different settings or under different circumstances. It's not as challenging to make sex or romance a subplot, but for me, making it the primary storyline is difficult. I guess I'm just lost as to where to go.

[SeaBoundRhino]

The short story is the most noteworthy so far, but, like all stories, it could be improved.

Firstly, there's too many similes, which made the language of the story too repetitive. It just sounds wrong when the word 'like' comes up so often. I'd recommend replacing some of the weaker ones with metaphors or suitable adjectives. Also, concentrate more on a variety of senses.

Secondly, I think her husband should be given a bit more attention. Nothing big though. The wife is obviously traumatised, but you should make her realise what has happened at the end in a short sentence.

Otherwise, I found the piece to be very good. I hope to see more like it in the future.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

This is a story about stuff and things. Let me know if it doesn't make sense, por favor.

I'd love critical constructive criticism.

The Word Children

They say that language has died, but they are wrong. Those poetic words dance in each of our minds with all of poise and intensity of the ones that used to slip out of our mouths.

***

The alarm was piercing when it rang. It scratched at me, each swipe drawing me further and further back into reality. At times, I wished I could tear the wretched clock from the wall and sleep past its unalterable and resolute six-fifteen a.m. deadline, but alas, it was impossible. Those four unyielding bolts held the box in place. Past attempts at removing the thing had failed and resulted in disciplinary administered by the Doctors themselves. When I finally opened my eyes, the lights, switched on by the alarm, burned into my retinas and watered my eyes. I groaned, irritated and overtired, and rolled over until I fell out of bed, landing with a thump on the floor. Without the energy to move, I lay on my stomach as a pile of flesh and white cotton staring into the floor tiles. They had recently been sterilized, but still seemed grungy in their own way.

By the time I had left my room, I was clothed in the mandated gray cotton that the Doctors had issued all of us. My face had been washed, my bladder emptied and features turned expressionless. Everything was tiled in different sizes and shades of ugly colors including (but not limited to) puke green, jaundiced-Caucasian-scurvy-patient yellow and the gray color of rats. Floors, walls and ceilings were all plastered in those porcelain squares that had been arranged in different patterns (all of which were hideous). In the mess hall, all of the tables had been constructed out of chrome and bullet-proof glass. The rules against language had been, as I found out at a later point, created to isolate us, but in retrospect, I realize that our hatred of the décor had united all of us on one level or another.

As I reached the breakfast line, I found it to be shorter than usual, but it appeared as though I just hadn't finished my morning routine as quickly as the rest. Most inmates from my sector were already eating with the entirety them facing away from the food counter. This way, I could see all of their buzz cuts in full view. There were men, women and children, and for all of them: buzz cuts. These horrible, unflattering, slapdash hairdos were sitting on us all; I pushed the image away with a roll of my eyes. The normal gruel, with its lumpy bits protruding outwards in unexplainable positions, was dumped on a plate and plopped onto my tray with a glass of water and a packet of powdered milk. At the sound of my groan, the woman behind the counter shot me a discommending glance, but I disregarded it and sat down at the emptiest table I could find. I wish I had known the words to complain about the wretched meal that had been laced with preservatives and artificial nutrients, but alas, my vocabulary was miniscule and strictly prohibited.

But the normality of the day was disturbed by a curious site. A woman appeared in the doorway, but unlike the rest of us, she was entirely bald and her clothes were vibrantly red. The most curious of her features, however, was her dark skin. I had seen these people before through the windows as the guards carted them around, but they had never appeared in my ward. Although I found out later that this segregation of colors was designed to prevent interest in each other's differences, at the time of the woman's arrival, I was utterly perplexed. My interest grew as she took a seat in front of me, facing the food counter. Is no good, I thought to myself, is no good look at food place. Is no good, they see you face.

My biggest surprise arose from the woman's arms. She had symbols - words, I learned - that she had etched into her arm. The tool she used to create the sentence I couldn't read was beyond me, but I couldn't keep my eyes off of her and her mutilation. She know words, she like me, she know words, I repeated over and over in my head. My heart accelerated. After the war of uncertainty and tentativeness that raged inside of my mind had settled to a dull roar, I caught her eye and mouthed the word "Hello."

***

There was a knock on my door around one p.m. and, as the thing creaked open, the dark-skinned word-child emerged into view. I stepped aside so that she could enter; we sat cross-legged on the floor as far away from the microphones as was possible. Without any understanding of what I was expected to say or do, I merely whispered "Hello" in her ear. She replied, "Hello."

"I speak fluent English." Her voice was soft to the extent that she was almost inaudible, and we both knew why. There were no cameras, but the Doctors littered the complex with sound equipment, always waiting to chastise speech.

I raised an eyebrow. "Floo-ent?" My voice was raspy from such a long period of silence. The sound of it surprised me.

She paused with uncertainty. "I speak... I know all words."

"How?" I asked.

"I am from the outside. I fight the government."

"Gov-earn-mint?"

"I fight... the Doctors. The Doctors... do not like me. How... do you know words?"

"Mother... of me. Teach words. She... like you. Doctors... no like her." I answered her with a racing heart, fearing that we would be overheard.

"My name is Taev."

"Nay-im?"

"I am... called Taev. You are called?"

"Mark." The name took me a minute to remember, as I hadn't heard it in fifteen years. "Why you here?"

"I speak and I write." She pointed to her arm. "They... um... move me. They place me where I look different. They want to take away my influence, to control, to suppress resistance. I want to fight. I want to take away their power." I had understood the words, "influence," "control," "suppress," "resistance" and "power," as I recalled my mother repeating them to me when I was a child. But, for that very reason, I've always had a melancholy guilt hanging over my head. The idea that her language lessons were the reason that the Doctors took her away was constantly nagging at my psyche. "We all must fight." Taev whispered.

"Yes. Teach me more words, please. I need know more words. I need know understand."

***

The next few weeks passed by like a whirlwind. Every day, Taev would arrive at my door, sometimes at two in the afternoon and sometimes at four in the morning, but she was always careful never to arrive at the same time two days in a row. My learning speed took me by surprise, as I had learned more words in those four weeks than I had ever imagined could exist.

"I used to be an English teacher," she had said, "Until I found out about this place. I can't tell you about how I learned of it, but I was enraged, disgusted, and I felt betrayed by my own government." I was amazed at how patient she was, even in her times of tribulation, as she would pause to explain whatever words or phrases I didn't recognize. But, at times, I longed for the days when I didn't - and couldn't - understand. Before I could comprehend the words that described the pain of the world, I was free from all worry. I could look at my fellow inmates and ignore the hopelessness in their faces, but now, I couldn't take my eyes off of them. Back then, I felt no sickening responsibility, but as my naivety slipped away, I was overwhelmed with the anxiety of knowing that something must be done, and that I was the one that needed to do it.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

Woops, scratch my last post, I messed up, lmao.

I'll request it be deleted, so if it's me messing up on posting the second part is gone when you read this, then that's why.

The Word Children: Part 2
Mostly, however, I missed the period in time where I felt no resentment towards my peers. As the truth flooded into my brain, I hated them for their ignorance, despised them for their helplessness and their inability to complete even the simplest of tasks together, knowing that the absence of language in their brains was the reason Taev and I were alone.

There wasn't a night that I harbored more spite than when a Doctor appeared in my doorway. He took me by the wrist, his pale and boney fingers digging into my flesh, and ordered me into his office. With a face that resembled much of a rat, he glared at me and I could see him attempting, in vain, to appear benign. As I watched him take his seat in his office chair, I couldn't help but feel disgusted by the decadency of the room. There was a desk made of wood inordinately disproportionate in size to how much space his various objects took up. I had learned from Taev that wood had become absurdly priced as resources were dwindling in the outside world and I noticed that not only was the furniture entirely comprised of the material, but the floors were as well.

"We know that you speak English." The rat Doctor hissed. "You learned it from that negro." As I was speechless, he continued. "You see, this is proposing quite a problem for us. We can't have you around the others, infecting them with your knowledge, now can we?"

"If you didn't want me to know language, then why didn't you stop me from learning before I knew too much?" I muttered with sharp insubordination.

"You do not, and never will, understand the complexities of our situation." He narrowed his sunken yet bulging eyes. "It's not in your genes, your rebel genes that drive you to your desires for challenging the system. Yes, I heard you discussing your little plans, and we won't have it. You will not compromise our beautiful system."

"If your system is beautiful," I scorned, "Then why does it allow people like me to threaten it?"

"Silly fool. You think you're the first word-child, don't you? But that's far from the truth. You see, we eliminate factors like you."

"You can't do this forever. Your control will eventually fall apart." I tried to keep myself from trembling.

The Doctor laughed aloud. "Oh, you are so naïve, you stupid man. Look at these people. We watch you all from afar at times. You incompetent morons couldn't figure out how to carry a table across the room together and you expect yourself to be able to organize a revolution? Your ancestors may have been ingenious in their treason; that's why you're here. But, the elegance of our practice is that we have all of you are living in your own little worlds. Without communication, you're blind, deaf and dumb to each other. There's only four things on your minds: eating, shitting, fucking and sleeping."

I could barely contain my indignation, so I decided not to. Clenching my fists, I spat on the ground before fleeing from the room. Hearing the Doctor scream, "Guards!" I panicked. "Taev!" I screamed as I saw my fellow word-child spin around to face me. "They're coming. We have to go."

"Mark, there's no way out." Her eyes settled on me with a great sadness.

My jaw dropped. "What do you mean?"

"If they have found you out, then this is the end. There's nothing either of us can do." She whispered as the two guards appeared behind me.

I began to tremble. "No, there has to be a way..."

"I'm sorry, but we're alone with our language. We may as well be mute." She came to me and hugged me. "I'm sorry."

"If they kill me," I whispered in her ear, barely audible. "Then write my story. You have to find a way to shed light on this place. Please... for me..."

"Yes," was all she was able to say before the guards finally dragged me away.

***

I received the death penalty via lethal injection under the sadistic eye of the rat Doctor. Soon after, records of my encounters, including 734 hours of audio recordings and written commentary from all of the members of the administration for the National Criminal Behavior Correctional Facility of the Northern Republic of the Americas, was stolen from the compound's computerize file storage system. Two weeks later, a document was leaked to the public containing the records and a first-person narrative of my experiences.

The compound is still operational; however, the system is crumbling. More and more inmates have become word-children. Soon, there will be an uprising; soon, there will be a new world.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

So, this is a historical fiction piece that I did for my American History class. It's pretty self explanatory, so I won't say much. Essentially, I read a number of letters for World War II soldiers and utilized the reoccurring themes to create an original narrative.

>History in the Making: Part 1 of 2

War is companionship, war is heroism, war is victory, war is glory. It's overcoming challenges, upholding our morality, hope; it's trust and it's altruism. At least, that's what we tell ourselves. In reality, war is also shame, war is death, war is pain, war is humiliation, destruction, desecration, blasphemy; war is hell.

Did I ever foresee myself being here? No, I don't believe I did. Maybe I thought I would be a patriot; perhaps I considered the idea of preserving my county's values. But, this is nothing like I would have ever thought I would see. It's like a dream where I'm watching some poor bastard follow the orders of some other poor bastard in the midst of a reality of calamity and misdirected logic.

What are we actually doing here? A raid of sort, or something, or absolutely nothing. Is there any way for me to know, really? No, not really, not as long as I am still myself, still the man in this lowly soldier's uniform. They say, why should you know? And that begs the question, who am I really? Nothing, I am nothing, not an individual, not a voice, not a human being. A cog in the machine, a single part working in a project much larger than myself. All I am is a soldier without a face, without a considerable mind, without any opinion; just a tool, just a fool. Or at least that's what they tell us.

Our infantry moves forward, M-16's and AK-47's in hand. In front of us are the remains of a decimated town, one that our preceding troops had set aflame just a night and a half away from this bitter chill. Suffice to say, it's a revolting sight, one that exemplifies the nature of humanity, and it's a noxious odor of rotting tissue arising from the corpses of man and beast. I hear on occasion that the civilians are more than ecstatic to have us stay, that they're overwhelmed with relief that their protectors have arrived. In my mind, that begs the question, what the hell has the Axis done to these people to make us into the heroes?

We move forward through the mud, through the ashes, the fetid stench, the images and through it all in our boots that don't fit. Up ahead is our destination: a German armory of some sort that looks suspiciously like a church. There's a pang of indignation that shoots through me, one that scorns the desecration of this holy place, one that damns the use of God's house of worship for such a heinous task. After all, I am a religious man, most of us are. Some could say we're only using God as a crutch and that may be so, but at the end of the day, the devotion nullifies the intentions, I suppose. But, at the same time, I have to ask myself, is this still a church? Is it really? Or has it become just another heap of stone somewhere in the nowhere of the European woods? On one hand, you could condemn the Germans for their blasphemy, but then again, I would also like to think that God isn't concerning himself with such petty matters.

So we take our steps, one by one, towards the site and grit out teeth against the anxiety. Who will we lose today? No one knows, except for God, perhaps. Any officers? God, we hope not. That's always a cause for depression, and never the healthy kind, just debilitating depression. Step by step, moment by moment, we move, brimming with nausea and fear and excitement and pride.

The blast from that damned grenade whirls debris up around into a swirl that whips at my face, but it has done its job. The door of that former house of God is blown to shreds, torn to pieces that jettison outwards alongside crumbling pieces of stone, and all of a sudden, the deafening roar of a firefight subverts the ambience of midday nature. Rapid fire, bullet after bullet in a rapid succession too quick to follow, bounces from here to there and land there and here.

Pausing, we listen for German retaliation, but nothing sounds, nothing indicates life. Do we have the wrong place? Had there ever been a soul in that dilapidated building from the start? It's possible, but it's also possible that we were wrong. "History in the making," I hear echoed from one set of lips to the next on an almost daily basis, but in reality, this isn't anything but an egotistical self-flattery. They're replacing their grief with pride, and a misplaced pride at that. And, on the conscious of that pride are mistakes like the one we may have just made. Shall we go shooting and barging in on every suspicious-looking establishment that we can find? Sure, why not. The US is worth is, after all. It's worth the lives lost, lives of the innocent, lives that we don't have the right to excuse away. Because, this is history in the making...

But, it turns out that we were wrong about being wrong. We were horribly, horribly wrong. Out of that devastated doorway comes bazooka fire that rains down on our infantry. As an explosive force, it scatters us, driving us away with the sheer force of its momentum. Fire, fire, more, more, it comes, almost superfluous, as if to make a point, shattering the fabric of our realities and solidifying our failure. In an almost dreamlike state, I stare down at myself, realizing I had been hit, not with the fire, but with propelled debris from the explosion. It had lodged itself into my thigh, leaving me lying on the ground like an animal in a bear trap.

To add insult to injury, the Germans start pouring out of their makeshift armory, coming to check on the state of their attackers. It's a pathetic sight, in all honesty. It's a field of the wounded, those directly or indirectly affected by the barrage, and then it's petrified dissenters fleeing the scene like scared children. Is this the face of our military? Is this the extent of our courage? I suppose so. I figure it's understandable. These men never wanted this; they never really understood what it would be like to die for your country, or at least that seemed to be the case. Their primary concern is getting out of this war alive, of seeing their families again or living another day to write the letters that they depend on to maintain their own sanity. But, for reasons of what may be described as jealousy for their physical ability to flee, they disgust me. I curse to myself, what happened to history in the making?

Then I find a rifle hovering above my head, pointed at my face. This German is scowling, but not in any way that really meant anything. It was just something that he was supposed to do, something that he was supposed to feel. He was no more of an individual as I in this circumstance. So, I stare up at him as he stares down at me, wondering what he's thinking but not caring to find out. He's intending to kill me and he's perfectly able; I understand that. Killing is doing good, they tell us, it's the victory you should all be aiming for. Thus, I have nothing but high expectations for my soon-to-be executioner.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

History in the Making: Part 2 of 2

In this moment, I find myself surprised by my own lack of fear. Perhaps it's because dying by gunfire beats the odds of what I could be suffering from. This beats out torture, being burned alive and shitting myself to death from dysentery by a long run. But, at the same time, I can't help but feeling as though it's simply a matter of a comprehension of the absurd futility that I've been feeling for quite a while now. Those letters that give my fellow soldiers strength don't seem to do much for me. They're so face value. It's not as though we can put anything meaningful into them due to the censors that seem to block out every single one of the details that bother me the most. And, when the letters finally do get sent out after multiple attempts at editing, they may get lost in the mail or the replies are two months late or whatever unfortunate and reoccurring consequences that the universe views as appropriate at the time. So, what do I have to run on? God? Perhaps, but even him, I suspect, I may be losing faith in. Thus, as I make eye contact with this glowering German, I'm prepared for the moment when he will pull that trigger and ends my insignificant existence.

[TrevorW]

I am going to make sure to read these and comment soon!

[InsertFunnyUserName]

At 6/7/10 11:49 PM, TrevorW wrote: I am going to make sure to read these and comment soon!

Thanks :D

[TrevorW]

At 6/8/10 03:55 PM, InsertFunnyUserName wrote:

At 6/7/10 11:49 PM, TrevorW wrote: I am going to make sure to read these and comment soon!

Thanks :D

However in return you have to read something when I finish it ;)

I just worked an 8 hour shift and, I haven't written in a while so, I need to write but after I am done with my stuff I will be reading your creations.

[InsertFunnyUserName]

At 6/8/10 04:06 PM, TrevorW wrote: However in return you have to read something when I finish it ;)

Can do. I'm not that great at reviewing poetry, but I'll throw my two cents in. :]

[TrevorW]

At 6/8/10 07:59 PM, InsertFunnyUserName wrote:

At 6/8/10 04:06 PM, TrevorW wrote: However in return you have to read something when I finish it ;)

Can do. I'm not that great at reviewing poetry, but I'll throw my two cents in. :]

Not poetry ;) I have turned to prose.

[Deathcon7]

One thing that strikes me about your writing is its gender neutrality. You don't get any male egotism bleeding through, or female emotionality. Especially in the first piece, when the image started falling together, it was a pleasant surprise to find out the character was female. It's very difficult to hold back such an intimate detail about the character, it's even more difficult to retain attachment to that character when the details are as shocking as being the opposite gender of the reader. In that, you did a great job.

I also really liked the word-children. It was very unique. The writing itself was really on point, the only issue I had was with Taev appearing at this prison. Why put someone who speaks, in a prison full of mutes-by-ignorance. It's like putting a match in a room full of gas. Maybe I missed it, but no where in the short did it say the others explicitly couldn't learn to speak, in which case, if she were meant to draw out those unique individuals that could speak, then that would make a lot of sense. It would also bring more reason as to why the let it go on for so long, especially since they already knew. It just seemed like you were being too kind to the character. However, if they were reserving bringing these word-children in until Teav drew out a good amount, if not all of them, then I think i understand it a bit more. Anyway, that was my confusion with the plot. Other than that, it was very well written.

[TrevorW]

The first piece I read was the letter covering the industrial revolution. I feel that the writing is very strong and the lack of voice fits the voice (odd I know). I do think that some of the words used are WAY too rich for an industrial worker, but I will let you go on that one. However as a history lover I would prefer if you 100% check all of your information -- there were no significant history mistakes, and I did read this last night, but I recall an error. Anyways, nicely done.

I will read another here soon.