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Seggi
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-13 22:27:13 Reply

i was just wondering... how many people are online on the wirters club at 10:30? Just wondering since i live in Aus and when its about 10:30 on NG its more like 2:30 here

P.S. thanks for the praise sistine

Boltrig
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 06:18:50 Reply

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3926700/1/Th e_1st_Lukitarian_The_First_Planet

I posted the link because the entire story is a bit big to post here. Im planning on taking this story to 6 chapters, and I know what I want in each. Do you guys think its worth it. Any criticism and comments gratefully received.

SprintT
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 07:48:26 Reply

At 12/14/07 06:18 AM, Boltrig wrote: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3926700/1/Th e_1st_Lukitarian_The_First_Planet

I posted the link because the entire story is a bit big to post here. Im planning on taking this story to 6 chapters, and I know what I want in each. Do you guys think its worth it. Any criticism and comments gratefully received.

Interesting idea and plot, but the writing it's self was so dry. You really need to work on varying your sentence structure, and giving your sentences some zing.

overall: 5/10


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SprintT
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 07:49:37 Reply

At 12/13/07 10:27 PM, Seggi wrote: i was just wondering... how many people are online on the wirters club at 10:30? Just wondering since i live in Aus and when its about 10:30 on NG its more like 2:30 here

P.S. thanks for the praise sistine

At the time of this post I amigin most of us are asleep during the week days. During the weekend I got another 4 hours-5 in me so XD


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SprintT
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 18:06:24 Reply

2 peoms I did today
----------------------------------------
====================
----------------------------------------
Sorrowful Calm

Upon deaths great door I stand.
The sight of the end is much to take.
In search for that of a gentle hand.
The slightest hope of worry for my sake.

The end forever drawing me closer.
To be lost in the great abyss.
Like the controlling hand of a composer.
Yet something is amiss.

The death in which is the end.
The seemly sorrowful tone.
The end is not to be had, for a hand death would lend.
The calm presence, I was not alone.
--------------------------
Awakening

From the depths of the abyss.
The grand end forever feared.
The simple solemn bliss.
The end is not what it appeared.

To die is the final end.
Yet upon the world thou stand alive.
The chance of anew, death would lend.
The chance for repentance, that which to stride.

The eyes blind to the world, forever nevermore.
That which goes unseen is forever admired.
To look past that which, is expected evermore.
The great gift acquired.


<"Clusterfuck of ideas heading nowhere... " Writersblock

Not-a-panda
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 19:09:19 Reply

I don't know whether people will be annoyed at me for posting this or not. I've stated who I am (aaaaages ago) and all that biography stuff. So, here it goes.

*note* imagine Rick (The Young Ones), A.E Pessimal (from "THUD!" by Terry Pratchett) and Arnold Rimmer (from Red Dwarf). Combine them and multiply, and you get Pritchard Loxsley.

Begin.

Chapter one: In which we meet Pritchard.

10/09/02, 11:29 a.m. New York City.

"Pheeeep!"
"You, stop! You are in direct violation of section 3b, appendix J, paragraph E of the 2002 New York Motorist handbook! Stop in the name of the law!"

Pritchard Locksley was proud of his job. Every inch of him, from patent leather shoes to obsessively parted hair, was a Parking Inspector. He blew his whistle with conviction, come rain or shine. He graduated a straight-A student from school. He had won seven consecutive "golden whistle" awards. He ironed his socks every morning. He also had the charm and goodwill of the bubonic plague, which is why he ended up as a parking inspector. Nonetheless, he was the worst nightmare of all motorists. And proud.

"You, sir! Your windscreen wiper is broken! Fifty dollar fine!" he ripped a ticket out of his little book and thrust it at the confused owner of a bright red Lamborghini Diablo Convertible. The young man stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out if it was some kind of joke. He spoke with a heavy italian accent.
"Cosa? Seriously?"
"Your left windscreen wiper is damaged and may impede your view in heavy rain and/or sleet," Pritchard proclaimed.
"I..I..ciò è ridiculous! It's only a little bent!"
"Fifty dollar fine."
"No!"
"Yes. Otherwise you are, once again, in direct violation of-"
"Okay, okay! Bah!"
The Italian youth swore heavily and sent him a look of pure loathing, ripping the ticket out of his hand and stalking towards his car. Pritchard looked at his watch and a malicious grin spread over his face.
"Wait just a minute! That car has been parked one minute longer than paid for! Come back here!"
"Vai a cagare, bastard!" The man revved his engine and sped off, with Pritchard in hot pursuit on a Moped, practically steaming with indignation.

What passed for low hour traffic was a filthy, agressive monster prone to outbursts of swearing and fehement horn honking, but at least there was enough room for a little speeding. As the Lamborghini wove it's way around lesser cars and it's driver swore in rapid italian, Pritchard followed it, blowing his whistle until he was purple in the face. He was gaining, slowly but surely, on the guilty party. An intersection approached. Pritchard floored it, and was now only five metres from the red car when...
SLAM!
The Italian stomped on the brakes, halting with a shockwave.
Again, SLAM!
This time it was the moped which slammed into the car. For Pritchard, the world went in slow motion. He was thrown forward and soared over the convertible, with a triumphant grin on his face and the wind ruffling his immaculate hair. A quick slap and the ticket was stuck to the windscreen, and then the world sped up again. He landed with a CRUNCH in the blessedly empty intersection, managed to stand up, pointed imperiously and roared:
"YOU HAVE BEEN SERVED JUSTIC-"
Then he was hit by a truck.

No traffic. No tickets. No New York City. Nothing but sky, sky, sky. And a voice.
"Pritchard Locksley, you have been chosen." boomed a voice.
Pritchard's eyes snapped open and he retorted instantly.
"Who are you? Is this a joke?"
"No, Pritchard. I have a task for you!" the voice sounded a little impatient.
A new voice chimed in, this one scratchier.
"Oi, you can't do that! That's against the rules!"
The other voice countered it.
"Rules? Since when did you know anything about rules, Lucifer? I MAKE the rules!"
There was a distinctive sound of a boot punting a heavy object and suddenly it was only the first voice.
"Pritchard, listen carefully. You will wake up in one year and one day, in the Fort Worth airport in Dallas."
"Wh-what do you ask of me?"
"Only that you be yourself. Now go."
And with that, the sky faded.


Fin.

Feedback? Improvements? Suggestions?


~I can kill you with my mind~

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cooldude76
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 19:27:04 Reply

Thanks, i didn't really do anything.... :D but i still put some tought into it, so don't call me lazy.

cooldude76
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 19:28:37 Reply

Thanks for the input.... also... the referance is to His Dark Materials a book by Pullman... and also yeah, i relized that the askign for mercy was kind of pointless...

Sistine1408
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 21:33:24 Reply

sprintt, have you ever written poetry that didnt use the same single word to begin each sentence?


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SprintT
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 22:04:45 Reply

At 12/14/07 09:33 PM, Sistine1408 wrote: sprintt, have you ever written poetry that didnt use the same single word to begin each sentence?

The last two, and I don't tend to. My personal style is ABAB with the same word to begin with.


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Lindione
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-14 22:21:27 Reply

Ok, time for some poetry from me

"Infinite Pathway to a Place Unnattainable

Jake walked down the infinite pathway
Trying to reach the nearly endless staircase
Before the shadowy cave with no end
Right after the impassible high bridge
Yet he never seemed to care about
The giant sign next to him which read
"Goal of life unattainable this way"
He never looked for a second way
He just kept marching ever onward

"Poet's Conformity"

He never thought twice about his choice
About how readers would never rejoice
After reading a work of art
While he was putting movies in a shopping cart
The thoughtless poet lets his work rot
For selfish pleasure which he never sought
The world of conformity has captured another mind
Soon his vision into other worldly thoughts will go blind

"Cry Out in the Night"

He was alone in the room that night
His vision was blurry nothing in sight
He heard a voice cry out
Which he could do very much without
He was in pain from a migraine
Wondering if he was sane
Hallucinating his wildest dreams
Hearing that woman's screams
But being caught up in his own imagination
Having absolutely no concentration
He ignored her

"One"

One crescent moon in the night's sky
One lonely star oh so high
One mourning widower whose wife had died
One sighing neighbor who failed but tried
One beaten path on the way out of town
One peacefully sleeping girl in a silk nightgown
One lamb roasting in an oven pan
One windy storm blowing over what it can
These things are all different but yet all the same
some are in peace and some are in pain
but all are unique and nothing is the same

As always, tell me what ya think


"Any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man, that state is obsolete."

Don't bother using the bible as an argument.

Seggi
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-15 03:38:54 Reply

At 12/14/07 10:21 PM, Lindione wrote:
As always, tell me what ya think

I really liked 'One' and i thought the middle two were pretty good, but i didn't really like the first one. But then, i don't know much about poetry, i'm more of a short story kinda guy. But, i did like the way you used different styles.

Seggi
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-15 04:49:04 Reply

Ok, most likely, noone will be on, but i just wanted to post this short story that i just finished, coz this will be my first finished story that i posted on the wirers club, and maybe i could get some feedback from some wise and learned NGers. (I censored it slightly for the writers club)

"Steve was a good brother," Jon Davisson read his brothers eulogy, tears welling in
his eyes, then streaming down his cheeks. "a good friend, a good writer... but a troubled
man." The funeral was small, just Steve's family and friends, a few reporters had been
waiting outside, but were denied entry. Everyone inside was crying.

The eyes of the little children still haunted Steve in his sleep, like little
demons intent on making him excavate inside his skull in an attempt to bore the images out
of his mind. He remembered all of their eye colours, three dark brown, two hazel and the
deepest pair of baby blues you ever saw.

"He struggled with his demons, like we all do..." Jon's voice broke as the tears started to
flow harder. "Unfortunately... he lost."

"It's my fault," Steve thought, gravely. "my fault that they'll never grow up to be
doctors, or sports stars or even, maybe, little senators or presidents." He rose to his
feet,anger and self-pity swept over him. "No, I couldn't possibly blame myself (Yes, I
could), it wasn't my fault, I was a victim in this as well(BULLSHIT!). It was David, not
me, Dave was the one who did it(SHUT UP and LISTEN to yourself!)!"

"He was constantly conflicted, never able to choose a side and stick with it..."

His fist slammed down on a little writing desk, causing it to break under the pressure. A
notebook and some papers spilled onto the floor, his last six months work, stained and
ruined by a week-old cup of coffee that had smashed to ground with the desk.
"Goddammit!" He thought. "My work! That was everything I've produced since I got rid of my
post-traumatic writer's block! (It was all crap and you know it!) No, the quality was
getting better, it was starting to get good! (Then why won't you try and save it?)" The
rhetorical question stopped him in his tracks. "Dammit..." He conceded.

"But he was still a great person, his soul was contaminated by his anger, aside from that,
it was pure."

He picked up a small rubber stress ball, cursing in time with his squeezing.
"Get out of my HEAD-"(You can't stop me) "-you MOTHER----ER!" His voice seemed to echo in
his head. "GET-" (You) "-OUT!" (Can't) "Get the-" (Stop) "-hell OUT!" (Me!)
He pelted the stress ball, tossing it at a nearby window. It made a loud slap against the
glass, then bounced off to some unknown place, to wait to be found for four or five weeks.
He looked at the window, someone was out there... smiling, their evil eyes taunting him.
"Hello, Steve." His voice sounded menacing, like he would kill his mother just for a break
on his rent.
"David." Steve sounded angry and frustrated. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, you know, I just wanted to... stop by..." He let out a loud, despeccable laugh.
"You're not welcome here. You've never been welcome here."
"Not even BEFORE you killed those children?"
"I DIDN'T kill them, you did! It wasn't my fault!" His hand slammed into the wall next to
the window, making the glass shake.
"Okay, so it WAS me. But everyone still thinks you did it. Just because you got off on some
weird loophole doesn't mean noone thinks, ney, KNOWS it was you."
"Stop it..." His voice had shrunk to a whisper.
"You think their parents will ever forgive you?"
"No...'
"You think they'll ever be the same?" His smile grew more malicious, if it were possible.
"Wasn't me..."
"You ruined their lives!"
"No..." His voice was slowly rising, his infuriating impatience taking over.
"They'll never get over it!"
"NO!" His scream of fury echoed in the small room, off the window and back at him.
"Everyone knows it was you!"
"IT..." His voice growled in the back of his throat, his hands clenching into tight fists
of anger. "...WASN'T..." David's eyes shone with triumphant glory. "...ME!"

"He was quite patient and loving, when he wasn't fighting himself..." His words touched the
hearts of the crowd. "...or 'David'."

Steve's right fist swung around, smashing into the glass and impacting on David's skull. He
was looking at the ground and saw a few shards of the glass that had bounced back on the
ground. He felt David's head fly back as his fist made contact, and heard a loud snap, like
plywood breaking, before his hand came into contact with a cement wall.
He looked up and saw his bleeding hand, now uncurled.
"A wall." He said to himself, softly. "How did Steve do that?"
Centimetres beyond the glass was a broken plywood wall, snapped to reveal the cement frame
beneath. He looked down at the glass that had bounced back, bending down to pick one up. He
sat down on the bed, the springs beneath squeaking loudly.
"I can't take it, any more."
He took the glass to his wrists, drawing blood and cutting veins, slowly draining his life
force.
"I'm not gonna see you hurt any more people, David." He muttered, his strength sapping
away, painfully.

"Suicide is a terrible thing." Jon's voice turned somber and slow. "It effects everyone, at
some stage..."

He gazed deeply into the blood stained glass, looking down at a solid colour.
"Wha-" His throat was dry and worn.
He turned the glass over, looking down at the shiny surface.
"No..."

"...Unfortunately, it is not uncommon in cases of split personality.."

Steve couldn't believe it, looking down at his own face, everything suddenly became clear.
He rolled over onto the bed, and, right then, staring at the ceiling, he uttered his last
words; "Sorry, kids."

"...but we must never forget the most important part..."

His gaze turned cold and unforgiving, his heartbeat silenced as blood poured out onto the
bed, dripping down onto the floor in a repetetive, wet smack.

"...he was loved."

As the the funeral house emptied, Jon took one last look at the sign on the altar, then
went home and cried.

Steve Davisson, 18th January, 1885 - 15th December, 2007; The good die young, the troubled
die younger.

So, how'd ya like it?

Seggi
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-15 05:03:24 Reply

At 12/15/07 04:49 AM, Seggi wrote: "A wall." He said to himself, softly. "How did Steve do that?"

Sorry, that's supposed to say "How did David do that?"

Phantom
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-15 10:58:48 Reply

At 12/15/07 05:03 AM, Seggi wrote: Sorry, that's supposed to say "How did David do that?"

That happens to me a lot, I change a character's name and sometimes use the old name in the actual story, which is why I have a proof reader who hates it when my work is all messed up.


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NG Dept. of Defense Chief Sup. Commander/Ball buster.
I live in Israel:...Whooptie-fucking-doo.

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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-15 11:29:17 Reply

Yep. I actually wrote a (n incredibly) short story about not writing stories.


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Sistine1408
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-15 15:20:13 Reply

ahs anyone been in contact w/ gunground recently?

if hes been on then hes been ignoring my PMs, and i havent seen him.

also sprintt will u be on msn tonight?


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Lindione
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-16 10:21:56 Reply

Well i didn't do much yesterday but i came up with this

The lone stranger rides out into the storm
Out into the cold which was once warm
Taking no insult or scorn
He rides out on his old horse beaten and worn
The old man ends up in town at noon
Wondering if was there too soon
As planned a bar stool flies out
Another fight he could do without
He draws his dusty pistol from his belt
With adrenaline going he no longer felt
He shot the men involved
But knew his problem was not solved
He might have avenged his brother's death
Yet he could not draw another breath
He was poisoned with a dart from the east
Painful was to say the least
With his last breath he loaded one shot
And fired the bullet red hot
However, he would not know the fate
Of those that were involved that date


"Any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man, that state is obsolete."

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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-16 13:36:05 Reply

At 12/15/07 03:20 PM, Sistine1408 wrote: ahs anyone been in contact w/ gunground recently?

if hes been on then hes been ignoring my PMs, and i havent seen him.

also sprintt will u be on msn tonight?

Probably will be on ya.


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Zodir
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-16 17:00:55 Reply

Hey everyone, I just thought I'd post some of my work. Here is the first part of my Godzilla fanfiction:

Godzilla: Dark Prophecy

October 5, 2013, Yamanashi, Japan, 8:57 P.M.

Dr. Karagato and his colleagues had just made a very important discovery. They were geologists, but they had made a discovery that contributed greatly to archaeology. They had discovered an ancient city within a semi-dormant volcano! This volcano's top opening when it had once erupted and magma cooled, blocking the exit. This city used a large wall of rock to protect it from magma. This city, using carbon dating, was over 8000 years old!! This was well before modern archaeology had believed people had first formed cities Dr. Karagato thought, we have even discovered writing on large sections of the wall that protected the city from the magma.

"Sir!" one of his workers called, running up to him.

"What?" Karagato asked.

"We've discovered pictures on the wall!" the worker said.

"Really? Show them to me!" Karagato ordered.

The worker led Karagato to a section of the wall he hadn't seen before. On the wall was writing in a language he didn't understand. Then he saw them. The large pictures, a diorama, and one of the pictures looked like...Godzilla. Karagato gasped. The scene depicted something that looked a lot liked Godzilla fighting a gigantic creature, something twice as large as Godzilla, something with large tentacles protruding from its back. And underneath it was a large system of the strange writing. It read: %uF057%uF068%uF065%uF06E%uF020%uF074%uF0 68%uF065%uF020%uF067%uF072%uF065%uF061%u F074%uF020%uF064%uF072%uF061%uF067%uF06F %uF06E%uF020%uF072%uF069%uF073%uF065%uF0 73%uF020%uF066%uF072%uF06F%uF06D%uF020%u F074%uF068%uF065%uF020%uF073%uF065%uF065 %uF02C%uF020%uF074%uF068%uF065%uF020%uF0 67%uF061%uF074%uF068%uF065%uF072%uF069%u F06E%uF067%uF020%uF077%uF069%uF06C%uF06C %uF020%uF063%uF06F%uF06D%uF065%uF02E%uF0 20%uF020%uF041%uF06E%uF064%uF020%uF074%u F068%uF065%uF06E%uF02C%uF020%uF074%uF068 %uF065%uF020%uF064%uF061%uF072%uF06B%uF0 20%uF06F%uF06E%uF065%uF020%uF077%uF069%u F06C%uF06C%uF020%uF020%uF061%uF073%uF063 %uF065%uF06E%uF064%uF020%uF061%uF06E%uF0 64%uF020%uF06F%uF06E%uF06C%uF079%uF020%u F061%uF020%uF066%uF069%uF06E%uF061%uF06C %uF020%uF061%uF06C%uF06C%uF069%uF061%uF0 6E%uF063%uF065%uF020%uF077%uF069%uF06C%u F06C%uF020%uF068%uF061%uF076%uF065%uF020 %uF061%uF020%uF063%uF068%uF061%uF06E%uF0 63%uF065%uF020%uF061%uF074%uF020%uF073%u F061%uF076%uF069%uF06E%uF067%uF020%uF074 %uF068%uF065%uF020%uF077%uF06F%uF072%uF0 6C%uF064%uF02E%uF020%uF020 "Does anybody have any ideas what this means?" Karagato asked. There was a general sound of mumbled no's. "Then, it is time to bring in the experts."

October 6, 2013, Yamanashi, Japan, 4:22 P.M.

Ozaki looked around the newly breached top of Mt. Fuji. He was a Sergeant in the Japanese military assigned to help protect the researchers from the crowd. So far the day had been pretty uneventful. There were a few protesters, claiming that we were "violating a sacred city of the gods." Ozaki didn't believe any of that. Heck, he didn't even want to be here. He was here just to get a paycheck. He checked his Type 89 assault rifle, the standard issue in the JSDF. Then he looked at the new crater to check if the researchers were back yet. Nope. Then, he heard a rope snap and a scream. He ran to the crater's rim and looked down. The rope that the archeologists used to climb back up had snapped. No one seemed to be hurt, except one person was unconscious. "Don't worry! We'll get you out of there!" Ozaki yelled down to the scientists. He then turned to his fellow soldiers and told them to go get another rope. "And stronger this time," he added.

October 6, 2013, Tokyo, Yamaniashi, Japan, 8:29 p.m.

Ozaki was sitting by a door in the JSDF Special Forces Headquarters. He then shook his head, remembering how he got there. He had just gotten home from guard duty. No one was hurt from the rope-snapping incident, and the rest of the day was uneventful at best and downright boring at worst. He had just gotten home and lay on the couch. He was about to go to sleep when he noticed that there was an envelope on his coffee table. He got up and tore open the envelope. It read: "Sergeant Ozaki Kuchki, You have been called to the JSDF Special Forces Headquarters. Be there at 8:30 sharp." Then Ozaki looked at the clock and swore. It was already 8:15, and it took him about 10 minutes to get there. Fortunately, he made it there in time, with about a minute to spare.

Then a voice said, "Come in." Ozaki stood up


Godzilla Film Fan Club
Proud Demon residing in the METAL HELL!
Lay down your soul for the god's rock n' roll!

Boltrig
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 05:26:16 Reply

Cheers for the feedback, SprintT. Not sure what you mean though. For those of us completely new to writing, how do you mean "dry".

How can I make my writings more moist?

SprintT
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 07:44:22 Reply

At 12/17/07 05:26 AM, Boltrig wrote: Cheers for the feedback, SprintT. Not sure what you mean though. For those of us completely new to writing, how do you mean "dry".

How can I make my writings more moist?

Try to paint a picture at a nice speed that fits the story, try not to jsut throw facts at the reader.


<"Clusterfuck of ideas heading nowhere... " Writersblock

blamninja1
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 16:56:05 Reply

Not-a-Panda, good story. Made me laugh.Sistine, thanks for taking a swift leadership over the club whilst we investigate gunground's abscence. Everyone else, clicky,clicky.
Also, still working on my story that I posted earlier(which nobody commented on GRRR!) and I will repost it(later)with the add-ons.

And merry Christmas. (lol)


To be or not to be....
You get the idea.

Sistine1408
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 19:56:11 Reply

At 12/17/07 04:56 PM, blamninja1 wrote:

:Sistine, thanks for taking a swift leadership over the club

sweet

i love gettin props for shit i dont remember doing


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Not-a-panda
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 20:06:41 Reply

Thanks :3


~I can kill you with my mind~

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Sistine1408
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 22:14:08 Reply

okay, since gunground is too not getting on for me to ask his permission, im gonna go ahead and post my story.

Breathing Death

The sky is bright and smiling. Clouds drift lazily through a gentle breeze and trees rustle their leaves in the shine of the noon sun. Birds flit about joyfully and chirrup little cries of glee to each other as they ride the warm drafts. The sidewalks outside are lightly trafficked, as are the darkly striped roads that vanish in the distance. The time for commute has temporarily passed, and the relative peace will remain for several hours more. I see all this from my windowed perch, up from the city streets by several stories, not enough to be dizzying but just enough to give a respectable view. I smile at the beautiful day and decide to relish the weather with a light stroll.

I step down from the large sill below my window onto shining hardwood. A carpet blankets the center of the floor with vibrant colorations and seemingly-random spiraling patterns. I waltz, still smiling, to an open door on the other side of the room, and the hallway opens to my vision, carpeted and decorated with grandiose paintings. Nothing to go awry...

And then I wake, eyes still shut tight, just trying to keep the screams of frustration inside. I lift my lids, slowly, regretfully, and gaze up again at the same blank ceiling. Flowers and faded emblems criss-cross like dancers on the walls. A gaping hole in the wall that once held a window is now not even a frame, blown open savagely by explosives, pebbles of rubble scattered below. Garbage of all sorts litters the scarred and gouged wood floor.

My cot sits in a corner, old, hard, of no comfort. I huddle upon it, the greasy, thin sheets ineffectually draped across my pallid frame, trying to come to terms with the facts, that what I had seen was a mere dream, a ghost of times long past, and that this painfully familiar barren room is all that I have left now...

Outside, the city is still. If it has risen as I have, then it won't show. The bloodied streets are clogged with abandoned cars and military roadblocks. Lifeless monoliths of buildings stand tall in all directions, peppered by square holes and collapsing wings, massive and foreboding and empty. Evacuated by war. Like mine.

I stand up on two unsteady feet and hobble to the makeshift window. I've not taken a look outside in some time, enough to warrant a quick check. I glance out and frown. Just the same depressing, disappointing nothing that I've grown accustomed to. Nothing but the vile afterburner of a war-torn city.

It was out of nowhere, I recall, that they swept through and attacked. We fought. If one could call the meaningless slaughter of untrained citizens--women and children included--armed with baseball bats and hockey sticks a "fight", then yes, we fought. And then, bloodlust apparently satiated, they just up and left, likely to repeat the malicious cycle on the next town they came to, leaving us-well, me, as far as I know-with nothing at all. No one survived-after all, no one can breathe death...and this dead city reeks of it.

So how did I live, I ask myself? How could I have survived the slaughter, the poison, the corruption, the orgy of greedy destruction? I don't know, not really. Flashes, explosions, screams of the innocent, that's all I know about what happened...

But I've changed, I can tell you that.

Less feeling, less sleep, less appetite, and far, far more thought. All thought, all ideas, come to me in multiple dimensions. A filth-ridden rat scuttles by and I see a potential food source, a threat of disease, an instrument of amusement, a weapon, a tool, even a cloth with which to cleanse myself.
Everything I see, everything I hear, everything I smell...its all sharper, brighter, honed, as though something takes everything natural and cleans it, polishes it before the sensation finds its way to me.

And it's not just me, either--even the city that I once so relished seems changed...

It's lost its familiarity. Once I could navigate the winding alleys and despairing ghettos as a sewer rat would, weaving through the city like a vigilante with an obsession, and now even the open streets confound me with their emptiness. Their emptiness...The death, all around me...it strangles me, a ghastly shroud of blank non-existence constricting my airways as it does my heartstrings. I can barely stand it...

So leave.

Maybe I will...

The streets below me disappear as I turn to the door. Then I turn again before finishing a step, on a realization, and gaze out the window one last time. I don't know where I'm going, but there's green in the distance, something green and foreign, I can see it. As the familiar scent of death floats to my nostrils as it does nearly every day, I realize that I've never been there before ...

My mind made up, I find the ground floor and tentatively open the double doors, try not to recall the last time I had to tread across these foreboding grounds, and look out on the human world from a slightly lower perspective. Innumerable days have passed since I last vacated my single room. As I glance about, nothing seemed even vaguely familiar, despite my window vigil. A stench floats to my nostrils. I cringe. Step back...then see what I'm standing in. Blood...a pool of death, and in it, a wavering illusion of myself, of my past, of everything I've come to fear...

I leap back, shrieking, and shake my bare, callused feet. Thick and sticky, the blood flies from my soles in fat drops, spawning dark patterns across the bleach-burned pavement. Once nothing remains but faintly reddish smears, I notice something else: I'm panting. Heavily.

Scared?

"Sh...shut up..."

I cough lightly, lift my head high, and look around like nothing happened. My throat clears itself, closing to an unexpected smell. I can smell it, something hiding, masking itself in the overwhelming stench of the raw, unclotted bloodshed resting like a fog on the earth all around me. I gaze again towards my distant query and begin anew towards the green, far more wary of the red everywhere around me.

Cars surround me as I travel, cars of all sorts, all colors, and all levels of destruction-some near perfection, some merely battered, and some protruding trunk-up from the stained pavement, windows shattered, doors ripped to pieces, and nose smashed across the street. It's not just cars, either; an enflamed hull of what used to be a tank, heavily marked with faded emblems of political preference and several naked women, is blown open. Black smoke billows out of it, escaping into the serene red sky like a liberated bird hailing from some dark abyss.

However, as I travel farther from my building, I cannot help but notice that all the lanes and alleys and inner workings of the city are less and less crowded by remnants of the pasts' transportation, the congestion decreasing as the distance increases in a trend utterly new to me. Slowly, gradually, the scattered cars and military paraphernalia disappear.

The roads break off, the buildings grow tiny, and everything in the once-towering necropolis of a city seems to hunch down, forsaken to silence, as I leave my home of so many years. I pass the final building...the road ends.

Or rather, it dies, replaced abruptly by reddish, lumpy dirt. An odd stench, that of something dying, emanates from the muck, blocking off near everything else. I glance forward again, and as the wondrous greenery of the newfound countryside swallows the previously gray and menacing horizon, the road snakes off into the distance like a worm on cocaine, following the curves and bumps like a skilled goat. I stare down at the red dirt again...

No, the dirt isn't red...it's stained.

Stained...right, isn't that what I said? Stained red by something...something ominous.


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Sistine1408
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 22:16:27 Reply

(continuation)

I inhale the foul stink, exhale it, inhale what seems to be purer air this time, and then step cautiously. The dirt compresses, spongy, under my weight. I steal back my foot and shiver once the sensation hits me and look down, tremors still coursing down my spine. A footprint, half an inch or so sunken into this new substance. I shudder. Bubbles rise around the awkward shape, biting at the cracked edges as air is released from some chamber somewhere out of sight.

I return my gaze up and look around. A hill, very high, somewhere off in the distance. Massive. Probably a local landmark. At least, back when there would've been people around to use it. I glance down again.

"The road leads to it..."

I think, then close my eyes for a moment, two, and then breathe in deeply. From everywhere at once, images inundate my mind as smells and sounds from miles around flood my scent glands. Death still lurks on the wind like a foul emissary, as before, but there's something else, something warm and rank and decisively inhuman. If ....whatever it is... is still skulking around here, it must be avoided. I get a distinct vibe that this new survivor is the final thing I wish to rendezvous with...

You're scared again, aren't you?

I mumble at myself to shut up, eyes still closed. When nothing more than a foreign smell (which I take to be that of the rotting animal dirt) comes, I realize the conversation is over. I shake myself, expel such thoughts as had raised the subject, and step into the red filth again, resolute, tenacious, confident, ignoring the lifeless sponge that was compressing around my bare foot like some demented mud creature.

But as I trek on, I soon see that the countryside...it is the same deathless emptiness, just not so...well, not so barren, in a sense. The dirt roads, the lone trees...they've always been like this, almost. The only difference...well, it's the same as in the city. No intelligent life anywhere. Grassy fields still coat the rolling hills, but there's a distinct lack of stinky animals eating and shitting all over the place. And the grass is caked red in places, dotting the natural flow of the wind in the grass with a sick defamation...

It appears, unfortunately, that a rather familiar fate has befallen my country brethren. All of the crop fields, speckled about the numerous pastures like sprinkles on some twisted cake and once laden with a generous burden of agricultural surplus, have been maliciously burned to the ground, the fertile mud mixed with dark ashes in a sickening stew of the aftermath. The few houses have been razed to the ground as well, the outdated wooden frames as susceptible to the flames of war as the life-giving plants that surrounded them.

I turn and find myself standing, forlorn and forgone, before a great pile of thoroughly destructed rubble, the blackened remains of a once noble life all gathered here and defamed like trash for all the world to see. Or all that's left of the world, anyways. In small numbers, scarce figures of familiarity are present, the scorched head of a child's doll here, an eiderdown coated in thick ash there.

I shake my head, slow, despondent, and move on.

Society, it seems, in trying to hold itself together with precious few strings it can find, never really succeeds in anything more than furthering its own depressingly inevitable destruction. Politics, corruption, treaties...they are nothing but the same fatal loins that their Destroyer hails from. He will always come, and not a single person will ever succeed in even slowing His tedious march of an advancement, let alone halting its progress altogether. Such thoughts plague my mind, throwing bombshells back and forth across a mental battlefield as I trudge down my path again, eyes down and body numb.

I find myself suddenly perched on the hull I had scouted out, and halt.

"What was the point?" I think aloud, "Did it ever really matter?"

Depends; who are you asking?

I jump. "Who...who are you?"

Whoever you want me to be.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

No response. Whoever...whatever it is, it's gone now. I look around, nervous. Had they really always been talking to me? It all seems so vague...I think this as a torrent of wind whistles through the wheat germ and grasses at my feet, that same rank smell rising to wrinkle my nostrils as it continuously had earlier. The connection is made and my panic doubles. I whip my head around again. Who is this thing?

Reluctantly, and with a feeling of forgone sadness, I ignore the painful knot in my stomach and tread on, ever searching in the horizon for the answers to questions I didn't even ask.

Then, out of near-nowhere, the country has vanished like a wraith into the distance behind me and the foul dirt road opens into a large highway, looping in and around itself and peppered with houses on all sides of it, settled through years of gradually migrating further and further outwards, taking up more and more space on the roads till there was no more. I grasp with startling realization that I have been here to before, lived here even, at least in a sense.

I have found the suburbs.

Once, as a small child, I had journeyed out with my parents...we were on some trivial quest to promote my father for something; he was seeking some position in something, and we went about telling people about him and shaking important peoples' hands and giving out various trinkets that bore his resemblance. We often traveled to peaceful little neighborhoods -- not unlike what stood before me -- for just those reasons.

But as I halfheartedly see, this place is as nothing, nothing more than a miniature city. The houses are barren and wrecked, and the streets are littered with the remnants of a small-town society. The filthy bunches of leaves around the sewers are stained with the bloodshed of innocents, just as in the city I left. Windows are smashed in by surviving looters and forlorn, makeshift graves are abound in the dirt yards.

Looking back, I remember the apparently necessary travels as trifling, an annoyance, even; we were out for several days at a time, just walking around and making speeches and sitting around in stuffy conferences, and in the night, we would stay in crummy hotels, usually with no television and only one bed. Then we'd get up and do the same silly thing all over again. This went on for some time, I recall; months, in fact, unending and repetitive.

And then...then they attacked. Everything fell to pieces. My home, my family, my people...

Now, high on the rooftops of the city I have come to so resent, my perch laying bare to my eyes each of the three worlds around me, tears well in my eyes as I regret, regret, and regret. I barely even knew this world before it was held to a fire and roasted, before everything I knew was stolen from me, and as the banshees and wraiths of the past unbridled screamed at their restraints and at their all-too-early demise, the tormentors did nothing but laugh in their faces and spit at their feet.
Really, everything in this destroyed nation is the same. The raging hurricane of invasive "liberation" has left my entire world acrid, empty, dead.

War really does something to a country...when the victors see those that they trampled, they only see one less thing to worry about, one less factor in the equation of modern day stress. But not our side. No, the only people who see our side of this...this genocide are the few who pretend to care and then actually see the state of affairs here and run off screaming, clutching their fat wallets close.

Tears flow freely from my eyes, falling down miles to dissolve in the polluted city air. Wind swirls up around me, ruffling my clothing, and as it does, a scent, rancid, one that has grown familiar, seizes control of my attention. I know what it is. I whip my head around to face my adversary--


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Sistine1408
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-17 22:17:42 Reply

(continuation--again)

--a second too late. His laughter echoes through my head, and I come to realize that now it is me rushing through the wind, flying downwards at speeds too high for me to guess. The air shrieking in my ears tells me that it is far too late, that I don't stand a chance falling from this height. I laugh whole-heartedly, glad that someone decided to make the decision for me. The wind steals my laughter, but it still rings in my ears, something I haven't heard in far too long. I turn to face downwards, hurtling towards my final destination, staring it in the face...

And, for once, I am totally and utterly fine with breathing death.

FIN


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DELUCA2400
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-18 14:16:39 Reply

Wow awesome story so far.

Centurion-Ryan
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Response to Writers Club 2007-12-18 15:05:40 Reply

Well, if anyone's interested, I started work on that story about the dude who can generate metal and kick arse and drink tea and shit. (Unfortunately, he's out of tea)

Now, I know what you're thinking, 'Ryan you procrastinating handsome young man, you said you would 'finish your current shit first'.

I know that's what I said, but unfortunately, I lost all my current shit when the preverbial toilet was clogged but then fixed again, but unfortunately, I had to flush all my shit.

See where I'm getting at?

My PSN: Obilisk745
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Add me on Steam! :D

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