The Smeargle's Studio Writing Thread

Alchemator · Jul 25th, 2010, 1:35:31 PM

I sat at my laptop thinking, how shall I celebrate one thousand snippets of Alchemator-goodness; how can I make it so that people will say "Man that Alch guy had a great 1k post!".

I sat at my laptop thinking, shout-outs have been done so many times before, cluttering Firebot with the same famous (-ish) names. Some just don't even bother noting that they post quite a bit on a Pokémon forum.

I sat at my laptop wondering, why does Smeargle's Studio only contain drawings and other visual art. Of course, there have been a scattering of music threads in the past (I should know, one weekend I spent my time reading every possible thread in the Studio).

I sat at my laptop wondering,

To hell with it, why not!

---

And so to mark reaching one thousand blocks of Alchum Powder on Smogon I decided to start my own writing thread instead of failing to improve my non-spriting art skills. Note that you are welcome to contribute!

I'll get the ball rolling with a short story that I entered into a competition at my school. Unfortunately I didn't win, apparently because it wasn't conventional enough. Hopefully I can get some constructive criticism from the internet!

WARNING: Long.
Note: This was a nightmare to format...

The Adventures of Propalom - Alchemator

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Latest News:

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat Persistence

Writing Reviews/Critique

I have noticed that the main problem of this threat is a lack of critique, so I had an idea: I'm going to force you! "Why not set up a scheme that makes sure a piece has at least two reviews?". Not only would this give valuable critique to the writer, but it helps the reader expand on their style - the more you read, the greater the register of vocabulary you possess for use in your own works, particularly characters.

I am going to start a separate review section at the bottom of the OP, and I encourage you to write tabloid-style comments (like the ones you'd see in books, here's an example: "Funny, delightfully inventive and refuses to lie down in its genre" - The Observer. Naturally it doesn't have to be all roses, though constructive criticism is a must. I hope that each piece in the OP will get at least two reviews. Ok next idea!

Writing Competitions

The best ways to improve your writing are to read a lot, and to write a lot. The former has been covered above, so logically I should force you all I should present the opportunity to write, but with a competitive twist! Unfortunately there will be no reward (I couldn't wangle a feature in The Smog) but I think it will be very interesting to see the different ways people interpret the given word. Yes, word. Here is how it would work:

- Occurs once a month.
- I generate a random word and post it here.
- The submission should be related to the word in some form, whether it be a character (though they must express the values of the word in some way) or whatever you can come up with.
- The submission can be verse or prose.
- At the end of the month, I choose the winner. No fancy judging system because it's pretty informal. The main reward is not winning, however, but seeing everybody else's entries!

Current Competition: Dependence

Writing

Mr H.Sight [WIP] - Alchemator

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Everwhite - Exarius

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She starts to wake up. The world feels slippery, humid. She turns to her side and looks at her long black hair that has spread out over the ground.

Wait a moment.

She had blond hair.

She sits up, and touches her hair. It feels oily, like a poor bird after it swam in oily sea. She looks to the ground. The ground is black too. No plants anywhere to be seen. She looks up. The sky is red, filled with black smoke that rains down in ashes, like the apocalypse had come to the world. The sun is blocked by it.

She stands up. The ground is slippery, she has problems to stand. Her clothes feel like they are made of lead. Her legs feel powerless. Her arms feel powerless. Her neck feels powerless, like it's going to snap under her heads weight. She looks around her. Only red and black is to be seen. No animals. Everything is dead. The air is heavy, she coughs. She coughs oil and ashes. Her lungs feel like they had been filled with this oil. Her head feels dizzy; her throat feels dry as the desert. She walks towards a huge rock, hoping to find some water. She falls.

Her face hits the swamp that lies in front of her. It's green, like toxic waste that the factories let out. The factories are beside her. She looks up. She hears the machinery, but nobody is to be seen. Like it was abandoned a thousand years ago. The walls are covered in oil and ash. The pipes puke out more smoke, more ashes. There are no windows, no doors. She walks forwards; her head can't stand the smell.

The world stenches like a rotten corpse hidden inside the bathtub for weeks. But there are no corpses. No nothing. There is only oil, smoke and ash. She tries to walk on, but can't stand the smell. She falls to her knees. The ground feels hard.

She looks down. The ground isn't oily. She looks up. The sky is clear, white, like pure snow. She looks around her. There are no factories. No ashes. No smoke. She looks down. The ground is covered in skulls. White, clean skulls. No bugs. No plants. No sand. Only skulls. Her hair drips oil on those skulls, staining them brown and black. But the oil spreads out. It spreads out even more. She tries to wipe it out, but it makes the ground even more stained. The ground turns to brown and black, until it reaches the horizon. It starts to spread over the sky, staining it. The pure, white sky turns into a brown, dirty eternity.

She feels sadness. She looks towards the horizons, and coughs out some ashes. The ashes spread out, turning the eternal brown into empty black. She starts to cry and tries to wipe it away. Her hand doesn't do anything to the stain, but her tears burn away the darkness, and open holes to a blinding light beneath the dark. She looks into the light, while her tears pour out. The dark tries to run, evade the light, but it can't. The darkness is eaten away, and she is surrounded by a never-ending light. She starts to fall slowly.

The smell of corpses are gone. The air is clean, light. She coughs again. Small cherry blossoms come out of her mouth. They start to spin around her while being grounded into fine dust. She tries to look at it, but she is too dizzy. She looks at herself. She is naked. But she doesn't care. She is alone. Nothing can bother her anymore, in this never-ending light. The dust starts to clean her body. It feels like a summer breeze on her pale skin. A single cherry blossom forms in front of her face. She looks at it, while it slowly spins. She starts to feel tired, hungry. The blossom comes closer to her face. She falls asleep when the blossom touches her forehead.

The police forces break into the building. They were informed that a young girl hadn't come out of her basement in over a month. The door breaks down and pukes an overwhelming stench into the faces of the police forces, like a body that has been left to rot alone. They start to search. In the basement they find a naked body. The room itself is filled by feces and urine, and the ground is slippery. There are visible spores floating around in the air, and the air is heavy. The body itself belongs to a young, slender girl, barely of puberty, lying naked on the floor. Her long blond hair is stained by the feces on the floor, it's almost black. She has been dead for at least a week, but still there is one single cherry blossom on her forehead, that looks like it was plucked merely a moment ago...

A Summer Daydream - Dr.Attack

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Dolly's Dagger - Bombiron

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The Colours of Crime - Dogfish44

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The Pied Piper - Mountain Dewgong

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He was always alone.

His pallid face thinly veiled by the swirl of a deep breath as he stepped out from his car. Mundane, but from previous experience, immaculately kept. The frost conceded under his precise steps with a resounding crunch. He always missed the third step on his way to the door when he readied his key. Always. At the door, there was no fumbling, the lock never resisted. The house was eager to have him return. The door closed silently behind him with a flick of his wrist.

And then he was gone.

That was his afternoon ritual, unfailing and meticulous. I watched him most days, I suppose you could say it became a hobby. He was a teacher at the local high school from what I’ve gathered. Middle aged and heavily jaded, a faded tweed jacket was appropriate for every occasion. They say home is where the heart is, it must be where he kept it when he left. Exhausted, his house frequently moaned in opposition to the ceaseless arctic winds. Though the somnolent curtains were always subdued, like its inhabitant, an impassive face offered no insight to the world within. An empty shell. How I longed to know what lay inside.

As the sun faded, it became obvious where he was. His nights were regularly spent in his garage, a shrunken doppelganger of his home. It was nestled in the dark bowels of his property, a weatherboard Pandora’s Box. Occasionally a chilling rattle would gargle out into the crisp nocturnal air, I would convulse with an arousing terror. It fascinated me. It captivated me. I was obsessed, a lowly rat being led to the harbour, hypnotised by a malevolent bard.

Light cut across the weathered pavers, fractured by ethereal columns of darkness that scuffled from beneath the garage door. My breathing was excited and shallow, my steps muted. The shed lay silent as I ran my clammy fingertips across its side. The window was close; a portal into his world, so near. I bit my lower lip excitedly. Mechanical and deep, the shed began to growl. The petrol spiked air seared my lungs as I pressed myself up against the gently quivering wall. Saturated with fear, my irrepressible curiosity willed my legs to persist.

I slid warily, the weatherboard clawed at my shirt; it opposed my progress with minute splinters. My hooked fingers grasped the lip of the sill as I knelt, bobbing nervously. The rumbling was accompanied by a disconcerting scraping. The perverted sound of metal against metal. My body was heavy and my muscles were reluctant to rise. The insipid drapes were slightly ajar, an uncharacteristic but tantalising opportunity. Recklessly intoxicated by adrenaline I inched upwards as my heart beat throbbed and echoed in my skull. He stood at the opposite bench, crooked over and deeply absorbed in his work. The bulbs overhead buzzed faintly, fashioning an unsettling fusion of baleful shadows. He roused from his work with a nonchalant stretch, at once I dropped back to the uninviting brick work.

Away from the eclectic disarray of chilling instruments, there lay a clandestine contraption, surrounded by swathed containers. My mind swarmed hysterically with unanswered questions. I needed another look. Blindly, I lifted myself up to steal another glance. A weary skeletal hand was pressed up against the glass, coaxing the curtain open. His malicious eyes met with mine as he tilted his head in a sickening curiosity. His jagged lips contorted into a masochistic snarl. I bolted, overcome with fear. The spiteful asphalt cut my feet.

The escape gave no respite, no relief. I needed to go back. I needed to. The hushed flute swelled. The Pied Piper's encore.

A Day in the Life - Bad Ass

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Cobalt - Lord Jesseus

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Infanticide - Adm. Empoleon

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Part 1

From a mountainside runs a spring that feeds the flowers and grass that has grown without any obvious purpose, and birds that takeoff as soon as they land.

He let his huge palm slide above the bumps in the wall, then he eavesdropped again. The moon was hanging in the horizon, a pearly white sphere amidst the condensing darkness. He turned on his heels impatiently, as he took a look from the corner of his eye to the door that stood ajar, and at a shadow that nearly faded on the doorstep. He searched his inside pocket for his cigarette packet, which was empty but for one last cigarette. He lit it, and felt as the smoke filled the corners of his chest, and in the air its fog mixing with the paleness of the moon. He turned on his heels with his back against the door. The cricket continued his chirping relentlessly. Suddenly, he heard a sound of someone stepping on something, and a scream came from within the door. He hurried to the source of the disturbance, and there she was lying on the light sheet, legs apart, her arms hanging over the bed in fatigue, her gown retreated to her waist and her knees against her chest.

As for her hair, it had scattered over the pillow, and one of her hands covering her face, still as a leaf on silent water. And to her side, the Daya holding between her hands the baby, tossing it, until she holds it upside-down, and hits her bottom with a sign of approval. She had tried to open its airway, hitting softly but surely on the little infant's chest until she takes her first breath of life, revealing and back that was like a soft piece of meat, in the middle were spinal bumps that reminded him of the wall's bumps at first sight, over a round mechanism split in two. The soft meat had been stained by blood. He advanced the baby that was hanging in the Daya's hands in silence, as his feet crossed the light sheet that was spread over the rough floor.

Worry pulsed through his body to an unknown beat, feeling a chill in his body, and a sweat that ran to nowhere. He kept shaking, closing his eyes and tensing his fingers.

The knuckles retracted and hooked inwards. He took a few steps towards the old lady who was sitting squarely on the floor. He took the baby from her hands with eager, and ran between her thighs on the light coming from the lamp oil. The light stayed there for a period of time, in which the baby had stopped crying. And when there was no room left for doubt, the picture came together. He gave it back to the old lady, and leaned over his laying wife. He lifted his leg and let it come down on his wife's side, the worn leather colliding with flesh. And he barked.

"YOU DAUGHTER OF A DOG! I TIRE MYSELF ALL DAY LONG, AND YET YOU BRING ME GIRLS?! What need do I have of them? If I had a son, there would be someone to help me on the earth which I work in! But woe! My mother had warned me 'She will only bring you girls!'. But I didn't believe her! Now look at me... "

And as his torso retreated, his right leg aiming for his wife, the old lady threw himself on his leg, pleading, "Fear God! Haven't you wondered as to why she is still until now? She's dead, she died giving birth to this bride! Sweat came down her face, and saliva from her mouth, and her breath stopped! She sacrificed herself to give you this miserable baby orphan..."
"Are you aware that this is a girl? In the future she will grow up and all the youth from the estate will chase her! And for what? Her body, nothing else!"
She interrupted him with her words jumping out of her mouth.
"So what if she's a female? You've got me. Sure I'm a widow, but I have bundles of meat in my house. But only God knows. My father, may God's mercy be upon him, was kind to us girls! By God, did you ever hear anything bad from me? By the white hairs in your head, can five of you do half the work as I? Why are you silent? Speak!
"And what guarantees me that she won't grow up to be like you? Have you forgotten about the baker's daughter last month? Woe to this sex! Here! Go to the butcher and get some meat for them! A bride, you say..."
And her hand pressed upon a small bundle of money he had given her...
She tried to run towards him in feeble footsteps, outside the doorstep, her weak torso had penetrated the darkness. And when he went outside to discard of the cigarette butt that was still between his fingers, he found her leaning against a wall with her forearm, her hair covered by a white scarf that had been untangled. And in the moonlight, he saw congestion in her eyes, and a remnant of tears.

<Insert Title> - Johann

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Floralis, The Game - Zari

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Chapter 1
~Lone white flower~

With the ease of practice of one long accustomed to chilly weather, the young woman wound her scarf snugly around her shoulders, sighing happily as warmth gradually seeped back into her shivering body. It had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday, not seven days past; hand-made of wool dyed spring green, it was embroidered with a small floral motif, within which six letters were strung together like a chain of flower petals. They spelled out a name; her name. Mariah.

Oftentimes she would head outside like this, not because she was forced to, but rather that being surrounded by nature’s work filled her with a sense of peace, especially during wintertime. There was nothing she enjoyed more than wandering across landscapes swathed in snow; after all, just being outside reminded her of the snow-white waterfall atop her head.

Originally she was distraught by its presence, locked into a state of gloom because of what it brought upon her—staring and the like, all because of the ivory color. But that negative mind-set had changed completely when the Healers—Clerics who wielded the highest form of Nature’s might—found out what had been going on. They were the ones who taught her to love her hair for what it was; a gift from the gods that she should be proud of, not ashamed. But while that issue had eventually been resolved, another, larger problem still hung over her head.

Her Gracing had failed.

In the distant past, millennia ago, Man had been granted the power of Nature, to use and control as he or she saw fit. But Nature had locked this power away, concealing it within the human soul, only to be awakened in a process known as “Gracing.” From that point on, all children, boys and girls alike were born with some degree of Nature’s might.

Everyone except her.

Her peers cared little about its absence, once they got to know her, but the adults of her village were a completely different story. They tried to hide it, but their disdain was obvious enough to her. Only her parents—both powerful Clerics—and the other Healers who stayed in the village still gave her their support. Whenever she was feeling down, or just needed someone to talk to, they had been there for her. Always.

No amount of work could repay their kindness… she thought to herself, letting a small, sad smile work its way onto her face. It would be take many years to pay off her debt to them. But even though they were and had been there for her, the truth remained unchanged. Her Gracing had still failed. And that wouldn’t change no matter how many friends or allies she had. Heaving a long sigh, she spun around. It was time to head back.

Staying out in winter weather wasn’t really worth it when you were in a gloomy mood.

--------

The sun was sinking below the horizon by the time Mariah reached home, its light painting a collage of oranges and reds across the snowy canvas. For a while she stood outside the front door, hand on doorknob, transfixed by the picturesque landscape. Her house was situated right on the edge of town, just inside the line dividing man and nature. It was a sheer drop off between the two, as if a giant’s knife had split the land neatly in half. While fascinating to watch, the magic had to end eventually; when the sun finally sank fully below the horizon she turned and unlocked the wooden door before her.

For all of her parents’ high status, they owned a rather modest house. It wasn’t grand or anything, just comfortable and…cozy. It was composed of a mere 5 rooms—a small foyer, 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, and a larger room where everything else took place. Scattered along the walls were watercolor paintings, the results of her father’s hobby. Oil lamps were placed here and there, glowing like enormous fireflies in the dim light. Various forms of furniture were sprawled around the largest room, the slight untidiness only cementing the friendly atmosphere in place. Sitting upon one of the larger chairs was a girl of about five, drawing in a coloring book while kicking her legs into the air. As Mariah closed the door to the foyer, she looked up, her blue eyes wide.

“Mai~ah, where’ve you been? Kitty wants to play!” The youngster pouted, holding out her arms when Mariah came into the room, demanding to be picked up and pampered.

At this the elder girl could only smile. If there was anyone who accepted her in this world, it was her little sister, Catherine. Kitty was just her nickname, and deservedly so; at every possible opportunity she would pounce upon whoever was near and stare at them, demanding attention, just like a cat. And—like now—she usually got what she wanted.

Mariah couldn’t help but giggle along with her little sister, delighting in the youngster’s shrieks of laughter. And yet the joy she felt had an uncomfortable edge to it; she couldn’t help but remember what her own childhood had been like, especially at moments like these. There had been no big sister to comfort her when she was little, only adults who were….reserved in their affection. No matter what, she didn’t want anyone else—especially her little sister—to go through what she had back then. Though I doubt that’s possible, considering her gracing was a success…

She couldn’t help but let out a small, sardonic laugh at the irony of it all; it seemed that every emotion she felt came with a bitter aftertaste. To the uneducated mind, nothing about that would seem ironic at all, just sad. Only if you knew the language of the ancients was the irony revealed. Bitter. That was what her name meant. Bitter like the wind chill of a midwinter storm. She took a deep breath. Everything would work out if she could avoid falling into that pit of self-pity again. Now if only she knew for certain that that was the truth…

“Mariah, don’t be sad—Kitty will ward off the bad ‘uns!” Catherine whispered, hugging her sister’s neck in a death grip.

“Okay—now let go! I need to breathe you know!” Mariah gasped out, take off guard by how strong her little sister was.

Kitty obliged, giggling once more as they both toppled onto a nearby cushion.

“So…” Mariah drawled, tucking a few cerulean strands behind the younger girl’s ear. She couldn’t help but envy her little sister’s luck. It was never enough to make her stop loving the little girl, but…. She shook her head in frustration. There was just no end to the long list of everything that was wrong with her life. When Catherine tried to mimic her earlier motion, she smiled, tilting her head downward just enough so that the white strands clutched in her sister’s small fist would fall behind her ear. Once the small ritual had been returned, she cocked an eyebrow at the younger girl.

“You want me to fix us some hot chocolate…?” At Catherine’s nod she got up, just in time to hear the front door slam shut.

Hanging her coat on the rack by the doorway was their mother, Carissa. Not unlike Catherine or Mariah, she was taller than most of her age, keeping her long aquamarine hair bound up in a tight braid at the nape of her neck. Like many others in the village she wore a similarly blue robe, that, while beautiful, still allowed for a full range of movement. It was the mark of a full Healer; one who had completed his or her training at the small academy on the north side of the village. Mariah had and continued to study there, of course, but when lessons turned towards to Gracing or anything else related to wielding Nature’s power, she was permitted—forced—to leave class. A scant few of the other students taunted her occasionally for this, but nothing too substantial.

Still....sometimes I wish I could stay in class, just to see what was happening…. Mariah thought to herself as she waited for the water to boil. It wasn’t as if there was anything to hide from her, was there? After all, she saw people wielding Nature’s might every day, all the time. And yet…everyone was so insistent that she leave every time the discussion shifted in that direction. Was everything really as it seemed? There were many plausible explanations that her mind had conjured up, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion that there was…something more than everyone let on about. It was possible that they would tell her whatever it was, but…

Yeah, right. I’ll be a Healer before they tell me anything—which won’t happen. Ever. She sighed. Whatever thoughts she had on the matter would have to wait for a bit; the water had boiled, and there was no point in letting it cool. But the simple task of filling three large mugs with steaming hot chocolate—she figured her mother could use one as well—only made Mariah realize just how tired she really was. After trekking more than a few miles through shin-high snow, the soothing aroma of hot chocolate was enough to make her legs wobble. For a minute she contemplated staying up for a little longer, then thought better of it. Draining the still-steaming mug of hot chocolate in three big gulps, she trudged slowly upstairs. She was asleep almost before she made it to the bed.

Almost.

Chapter 2
~To Wither~

Morning came far, far too soon for her liking.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like mornings, just that…she’d rather sleep in. But there was work to be done, gardens to tend to, and streets to sweep clean of snow; the general routine needed doing and time stopped for no one.

Her legs thought otherwise.

The problem was that they were as listless as lead, the result of all the walking she’d done the day before. It wasn’t any sort of serious injury or anything, and the stiffness wasn’t terrible, but the muscle spasms were painful enough to make her cringe. Even wiggling her toes wasn’t worth doing because of the pain.

She sighed, both out of frustration and out of resignation. Never mind cleaning up and sweeping streets, just getting out of bed was too big of a hurdle to jump. And it wasn’t like her parents would be totally oblivious to the matter either; both of them hounded after what she was doing night and day, every day. She knew they were only doing it because they cared for her, but still—wasn’t it a bit much to follow what your child was doing all the time? And it wasn’t like she couldn’t take care of herself, either. After all, she was seventeen now, already a year into adulthood by local standards.

I bet one of them will be here any second now, ready to pelt me with questions about what’s going on… She heaved a sigh once more, clutching a pillow to her chest. At least she actually had an excuse this time, if only a rather feeble one….

There was a knock on the door.

“Mariah? Are you in there?”

Speak of the devil….Mariah rolled her eyes skyward, idly flicking a few ivory strands out from in front of her face. The voice on the other side of the door could only be her mother’s—no one else could put that particular note of worry into their voice, especially when the subject at hand was her. Other people would get worried over her health occasionally, but not that worried….

Taking a deep breath before replying, she steeled herself for the inevitable lecture that was about to happen.

“Of course I’m in here; I can’t move.”

The door closed.

“You can’t move…?” Carissa looked her daughter over, clicking her tongue softly in annoyance when she noticed the awkward way Mariah was cradling her legs.

“I’m guess you went out on another one of your ‘adventures’, correct?”

Mariah couldn’t help but flinch at the acid contained in her mother’s words.

Trust her to know where it hurts… She opened her mouth to fire off a retort, only to close it moments later, frowning. Was there really a point to arguing about it? After all, it was her fault she was in this mess…

“Mariah, look at me. We need to talk.”

Mariah remained silent, carefully keeping her expression neutral. Her best course of action was to stay silent; at least that way she couldn’t be verbally flayed for launching a snarky remark.

When it was apparent she wasn’t going to get a reply, Carissa dragged over the sole chair in the room, sitting down with a grace her daughter could only envy. Much to Mariah’s surprise, however, the lecture she was expecting never came. Instead, Carissa only smiled.

“I’m not going to lecture you on where you spend your time my dear; I just wanted to know what was going on. Though from the look on your face, I bet you’ve already played through that particular conversation on your own!”

She smirked as Mariah’s jaw dropped, patting her daughter reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Now then, let’s get you fixed up, shall we?”

Still slightly dazed, Mariah nodded, craning her neck to see what was about to happen. It had always fascinated her to see Healers at work, even if she couldn’t practice the techniques herself. But when Carissa’s hand gently pressed against her leg—the way every Healing session started—everything changed.

What started out as a usual routine quickly descended into madness; instead of the normal sleepiness “after-effect” associated with a Healing session, every iota of her body convulsed with pain. She tried to scream, to somehow alert her mother that something had gone horribly, terribly wrong. But all that came out was a whimper, no more audible than a blade of grass shifting in the wind. Unable to move a muscle, unable to speak, Mariah found herself calling out mentally, though she knew it would do no good.

Someone make it stop MAKE IT STOP MAKEITST—

Everything went utterly, completely black.

--------

Mariah opened her eyes at the sound of ghoulish laughter. But having them open was no different than before; everything was still pitch black. Had she really opened them, or just imagined doing so? Vaguely she could recall the sensation of opening them, but…. Moreover, where was she? How long had it been since she was last conscious? And if she wasn’t in her room, had she died back then…?

“Oh yes, you most certainly did.”

The voice cackled softly, almost directly in front of her. But when she tried to reply, no words came out.

“…How stupid are you? Of course you can’t talk. You’re DEAD.”

She frowned, or at least imagined she was frowning. It was becoming harder and harder to distinguish the two…. Seconds later the voice cleared its throat, bringing her attention back to it. Just who was speaking to her…?

“That’s simple; you can call me Death, the god of the underworld.”

The voice laughed again.

“You called?”

--------

The funeral was held the day after it happened. No one spoke of the matter to her family, for Carissa had almost lost it when the death was confirmed. But while every other part of the process had been rushed, the burial was to be delayed, and the body preserved, upon Carissa’s request.

She was only a ghost; a remnant of the past. Yet that did not prevent her from watching everything as it unfolded.

“Delicious emotions aren’t they?” Death said from atop her shoulder. He had taken the form of a small mouse. A rotten, maggot infested mouse corpse. Yet she did not flinch at his hideous form; no longer could she feel anything, smell anything—she didn’t even know if she still had sight. Nothing made sense anymore. Was all of this scenery conjured up by Death, or was it the real world?

“Oh it’s the real world alright. Real as real can be. Though considering we’re here now, is it really reality, or is this reality? Whatever the case, I’m granting you sight for now. After all, I did take you rather abruptly out of that world.”

So that was how she had come to be here. But getting an answer only gave rise to more questions. For instance, if Death loved to see pain, why had he ended hers…? Was that kindness, or something more?

“Ah, finally. You see, Mariah, I have plans for you. Wonderful plans. Provided you can cooperate with me.” Death jumped off of her shoulder, coming to rest suspended in the air in front of her.

“You see, I’ve been bored lately. Nobody comes to visit me anymore, because they all go to that nasty white place up in the clouds. And forcefully taking people is against the rules. So, I wanted to play a…game.” One of his eyes popped out of its socket, landing with a splat against the hard ground.

“Here’s how the game works: You become my slave and send me lots of new toys to play with. In return, you get to go back to the world of the living.”

He cackled, laughing harder as more parts of his body broke off and splattered against the ground.

“There’s a catch though; if you don’t send me a toy within a period of three days, you’ll die for real. But if you do send me something to play with in time, that timer resets, of course.”

The mouse-form exploded, showering bits and pieces of itself everywhere. Death next spoke as if he himself was the world surrounding her.

“How long will you survive….? Anyways, LET THE GAME BEGIN!”

Darkness overwhelmed everything once more.

Chapter 3
~Bloodwood ~

There were no words to describe how good it felt to be alive again; just being able to feeling sensations again was enough to make her cry with happiness. And yet, while that was all well and good, she couldn’t help but notice that something seemed…. different than the last time she was here. It was as if she hadn’t been fully awake before; everything was sharper and more in focus. From the lilting caress of the breeze to the smoky scent of meat cooking, there was nothing that escaped her notice. Still, despite this…oddity, it felt good to be back. She sneezed softly, sending a few dried petals into the air. It didn’t feel good, however, to be covered in mounds of old flower petals, even if they were from roses.

She suppressed a grin. There were oh-so-many possibilities on how to ‘come back’ to life. But she knew better than to just jump out of her ‘coffin’. It would be better if she ‘gradually’ came back to life, rather than scaring the living daylights out of someone.

Although on the other hand, provided someone saw her, the mere act of opening her eyes while in her coffin was certain to cause almost as big of a stir. Normally she’d be all for counting coup on the rest of her village, but this was a separate matter. If she wasn’t really, really careful with how she managed this, the other villagers would try to truly put her to rest, if only out of alarm.

Some slight wiggling revealed that she was resting on top of some sort of raised platform; a perfect situation for her purposes. If she could make it look like falling off from this table or whatever had brought her back, all of her problems would be solved. The only problem with that, of course, was contriving everything so it looked like her personal box had been blown over; a feat easier said than done. It took some waiting, but just as her patience was about to snap, a gust of wind picked up, blowing in just the right direction. It took a little more shifting and some squirming, but at last she was off—

—and falling the remaining 6 feet to the ground.

The impact hurt worse than hell.

I guess I’m heading back there after all… She thought feebly, feeling herself losing consciousness. It was only moments later that the world went white.

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“……”

“………….”

“…………iah”

…am I …still…alive…?

Weakly she opened her eyes, only to snap them shut moments later as pain lanced its way through every particle of her body. That was enough proof for her; there wasn’t supposed to be pain if you were dead. She was alive, though only slightly.

I’d rather be dead and free of pain, She thought with a shudder.

“Mariah…?”

Somehow she managed to find the strength to reopen her eyes. As her vision cleared, she noticed that she wasn’t alone anymore. Kneeling beside her was none other than Carissa, looking as if she was about to break into tears.
It wasn’t long before she did.

“…Mother, you’re…killing…me…” Mariah gasped out as her mother ensnared her in a bear hug. Immediately Carissa’s embrace faltered. She gazed down solemnly, eyes choked up with worry.

“Hold on, Mariah. I’m going to go get the rest of the Healers. Promise me you’ll stay alive until then.”

But as Carissa quickly strode away, Mariah couldn’t help but notice that something was happening to her body. Something extraordinary.

It wasn’t possible supposed to be possible. But here it was, happening to her right now.

Her body was regenerating.

--------

I must look like a bloody mess, Mariah thought to herself as she dusted what was left of the burial gown off. The left shoulder had been torn off at the seam, the direct result of the coffin landing right on top of her. In fact, now that she thought about it, most of her injuries must have stemmed from the box landing on her, not the actual impact itself.

Whatever the case, I’m going to be mistaken for a zombie if I don’t get out of this blood-soaked dress. She eyed it with distaste. It seemed a waste to trash the lovely thing, but she knew there really wasn’t any other option; when the blood had already dried—like now—it was far from worth the effort to try and get it out. It was possible that the remains could be used for bandages, but… she shook her head. What she really wanted was to take a shower and get clean again. But that would have to wait; just after that thought her mother entered her range of sight, the rest of the village on her heels.

This is going to be one looooong day… Mariah thought as she watched the crowd approach. She took a deep breath, not quite ready for the inevitable confrontation. The other villagers were bound to ask her thousands of questions, most of which she probably wouldn’t be able to answer. After all, how the heck was she going to explain her speedy recovery, much less her reentry into the world of the living?

When they saw her standing and on her feet, the rest of the village—Carissa included—slowed their pace. Trying her best to conceal her distaste, Mariah waved at them. This of course only made the other villagers mill around in confusion. She rolled her eyes skyward.

Now I’ve gone and done it… She thought as everyone but her mother picked up a weapon before continuing their advance. What was she, a bear? Mariah shoved the rest of her sarcasm back into the recesses of her mind. It was probably better to be straightforward and honest with the crowd…

She gulped as a new problem worked its way into her head; the other citizens of her village had picked up pikes, deadly spears that were one and a half times the height of a human. Normally they were used to pierce the tough hides of wild boars from a safe distance. Her heart fell to her boots.

Hopefully I won’t get skewered on the end of one of those…

By now the crowd had surrounded her, and it looked as if the inevitable confrontation would start at any moment. Because of this, Mariah couldn't help but blink in confusion when they turned not upon her, but upon Carissa. It was the Mayor who spoke first.

“Carissa…what is the meaning of this…? I thought you said she was injured, not all fine and healthy!” He boomed, his gray beard wobbling with each syllable.

“I…don’t…know…” She replied, aquamarine hair swishing softly as she shook her head.

“Well then,” The Mayor scratched at a particularly large zit on his weathered nose.

“Why don’t we ask the girl herself…?”

Mariah flinched as every pair of eyes there focused upon her. She shook her head.

“…I—I…don’t know either; I mean…my body just healed on its own…” She stammered, all too aware of the Mayor’s growing impatience.

It was only mere moments later that he snapped, wrenching a pike out of one of the other villagers’ hands.

Everyone gasped at his next move.

“What…?” Mariah faltered as her mother screamed. It was only as her knees buckled that she noticed the pike protruding from her chest.

“That’s that then.” The Mayor gloated with satisfaction, picking a splinter out of his palm before turning and shoving his way through the rest of the crowd.

The Butterfly - Jigglypuffers42

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<Insert Title> - NatGeo

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Eyes of a Child - Alchemator

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Assorted Poems- KidX

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FRANK - Kitten Bukkake

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If She's Listening - -TheLucarioEffect-

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Poems - Persistence

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Writing Competition #1: Dependence

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Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat Smith - The Wall

He sighed. Class was boring. He hated school, and frankly didn't understand the point of it. We get good grades, and for what? To get into more schools, to get a job. He didn't want a job- his Dad had one and he hated it. So why bother? But that was how it all worked; everybody had a job, doing one thing or another, that was just how life was.

He stared out the window. Outside he saw the line of the street, going almost infinitely out to the horizon. Houses lined up, and stores, and restaurants, and all the other facilities people needed. That people worked at. The people didn't enjoy it there, working at shops or restaurants, but somebody had to do it, and as jobs go, they weren't awful. But it was a job, and nobody enjoyed that. Out beyond this, was the wall. Grey, monotone in structure, as ancient as civilization, expanding in all directions and upwards into the sky, almost blocking out the sun in the evening hours. The sun was beyond the wall. It was outside the wall- otherwise it wouldn't cast a shadow- his teacher told him that. Other things were outside that wall, too. New things, things he hadn't seen before. He wished he could see it.

But the wall was a protector.

Something BAD was outside the wall. Savages were outside the wall, as they learned in history. The wall was the divider, between the primitive brutes and the civilized. And to cross it simply wouldn't do. It was impenetrable, unscalable- which was for the best. He didn't like the prospect of a job, but without jobs, he was a savage- and that was certainly far, far worse. He shuddered at the thought of the savages loose, those without even the most simple tools, like writing, or agriculture. He wondered what it was like on the other side, the land inhabited by these wild "people". He shuddered involuntarily.

Thankfully, he thought, I'm on the right side of the wall.
________________
He sat in the grass, thinking. His stomach full on wild berries, he enjoyed to relax after a meal. Which came frequently- there were always enough berries, or fruit, or mushrooms around, and it only took him a quarter movement of the sun every day to gather his food for the day and eat.

Belching, he stood up and looked at the horizon. Foliage as far as he could see, and the sun low in the sky, blocked by the wall. He smiled. He knew about the wall, about the savages on the other side. His parents had told him long the story of the people outside the wall- a sad tale. These people gave up their freedom, for reasons not even his parents understood. They were dependent on each other to provide for one another, and lacked any sense of individual. They had what the called "government", which was a group of people that controlled the freedoms of other- they made them do whatever they wanted, and the people responded willingly. They had to toil, up to a whole rotation of the sun, to fulfill their many tasks. With all this time for tasks, what time was left for being?

He shook his head. They were all slaves for each other, and he shuddered to think what that must be like- to devote all of one's day, doing one task, when you couldn't even use what you had made yourself. But the wall was high, and not even the eagles crossed it. And that was good- he didn't want other people telling him what to do. He provided for himself, and that was good enough for him. The wall protected him, and for that he was grateful. The wall kept out the ignorant, the mindless, the savages.

Thankfully, he thought, I'm on the right side of the wall.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat Persistence - The Starti

The voices in my mind flicker into life, and though I cannot see, I can see everything. The scraping noise echoes through my mind again, and though I cannot feel, I know everything. I know the future, a fictitious past and what goes on outside my world. I am the most powerful creation known to the human race and beyond, yet still I am bound.

I am bound by the Starti.

I live in a world of new beginnings, and of swift and gruesome ends. I am prepared for any occurrence that could be imagined, yet I have no control over myself. I leap, I dive, I run. I dodge, I fight with a gun. I laugh, I cry until I have won – and even then I do not rest.

I defy time, as do those that are etched into life around me. I have no fixed nationality, yet it is always that of the Starti. The Starti imposes its rules upon me, its expectations, and its needs. I can learn to survive an explosion at the pulse of a thought; I can learn to fight within a second. I am the perfect being, yet I am still bound.

I am bound by the Starti.

And now my world is crushed and crumpled, thrown away and left to rot, the perfect being to be reborn in another. I will never die.

I will never die as long as the Artist lives.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat undisputed - Freedom

16 years. Big day in everyone's life. He could already see it. Hungry? Hell, he can get pizza whenever he wants. He would finally be free. Freedom. That's a word he hardly ever used to talk about himself. It was always, "Hey Mom can I go get a Call of Duty?" with the inevitable, "later." Now he wouldn't have to ask. He could do whatever he wanted when he wanted. Freedom. Ah, yes, it felt good. Just the ring of the word. Crisp, fulfilling.

"Hey come over on Sunday night. I might have a few friends over."

Gosh. It had been what he had dreamed about for years. Would his parents get him one? What kind would it be? Oh, red, he hopes. Yeah, a red one would be nice. Then everyone would know who he is. Ride downtown, and everyone would know his name just by seeing a streak of red fly by. Freeeeeedom.

"Huh, how many people are here?"

He had gone over it a million times in his head. Had to know what he would say when the moment finally came. If he didn't prepare, he'd be at a loss for words, and he wanted to express his gratitude. Gratitude for freedom. What can he say if he's never had it?

"Well, just a couple", came the answer, "a couple friends invited their friends. It'll be chill." His eyes dart to the back of the room. These weren't his friends.

He had played the situation over with his friends every day for the past week. They could go wherever they wanted! And, he'd be in control. He'd be the coolest kid in school. And the moment was coming nearer and nearer. Freedom. Nearer and nearer.

"Hey you!" said one of the boys in the back. He recognized him as one of the 'popular kids' who got all the babes. Soon, it was apparent why he got all the babes. He knew how to have a good time, and everyone laughed the night away.

2 days until freedom. No one could take it way now! It was his. Freedom was all his.

"You know how to drive right?" came a laughing, uncertain voice. Almost slurred, but probably unnoticed. "Give me a lift home, will ya?"

"Yeah." After all, he couldn't say no. He couldn't wait to be free.

It was here. It was finally here. The moment he had been waiting for. Everything passed in slow motion. Like a slow movie, where you are anticipating action at any minute. Freedom he thought. It is mine! And it was just like he planned in his dreams. He was glad it was red. He felt overjoyed as his Dad lifted him out of the hospital bed and into his new crimson wheelchair. Thanks, Mom. Can we get some pizza now?

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat Dracoyoshi8 - The Rabbit and the Stoat

The rabbit hopped out of its burrow. He sat up, watching sun as it slowly disappeared beneath the horizon. The sky was rich lavender color with streaks of orange crossing the sky. The rabbit's ears twitched, picking up every rustle of the leaves and every whisper of the wind. A grass snake slithered quietly past the rabbit, dipping into a cool pond. The rabbit heard the fluttering wings of a moth as the insect rode the winds that swept across the rabbits woodland home. The rabbit quickly scanned the area with his large black eyes, focusing on anything that he heard or saw. When he finally felt safe, he slowly began inching his way deeper into the forest, getting faster as confidence began to surge through his small frame.

He stopped at a small patch where bright green weeds and grass shot up from the earth. He scanned the area again. A robin chirped overhead as she settled down in her nest, warming her eggs with her body. The rabbit looked up nervously at a sleeping red squirrel in the deciduous tree above him. The squirrel snored loudly, her tail twitching in her sleep. The rabbit continued to scan the area with his senses. He smelt the presence of another rabbit a few meters away. He rose on his hind legs slightly, trying to see if he could spot her.

Suddenly, he heard a rustling in the nearby brush. The rabbit turned around nervously, muscles tense just in case he needed to flee. A long figure almost slithered out of the brush. She was covered in auburn fur with a white underbelly. Her pink paws made little sound as she approached him. The tip of her fur-covered tail was black and bushy. The rabbit sniffed her. She didn't smell like anything he ever encountered before. He was just about to flee when a smooth, elegant and seductive voice cane from the creature. "Why do you run?"

The rabbit froze. His predators have never spoken to him before. Hell, most animals haven't. Conversation isn't common in the forest, where predators lurk around every corner. The creature stared at him with large, curious eyes. Her pink lips formed a small smile, showing no teeth. The rabbit remained tense, but stammered an answer. "I don't know who or what you are." He began to shake as the creature inspected him.

She tilted her head to the side as she spoke, her voice flowing and lucid as a the creek he drank from. "And I don't know who you are, yet I didn't flee from you."

The rabbit blinked. The creature showed no fear. She exhibited confidence and trust. "Aren't you scared of predators?" The rabbit felt his muscles relax as he spoke to the creature.

The creature looked at him with the bright black gems that were her eyes. "The stoat fears no creature. Not the fox, not the falcon, not the man." The stoat's long body seemed to sway side to side as she spoke.

A red flag popped up in the rabbit's mind. If she feared no one, that means she was the most dangerous! But his curiosity took hold of him. His body wanted to flee, but his mind wouldn't let them. "Why aren't you scared?"

The stoat inched closer to him. He inched slowly away. She stopped moving and said, "Not all creatures mean harm. Not all creatures are predators and prey. I heard that some work together, like the aphid and the ant."

The rabbit tilted his head. "The ant? The aphid?"

The stoat giggled softly. "The ant protects to aphid since the aphid provides food for the ant. They are dependent on one another for survival."

The rabbit was intrigued by this creature. "Why did you approach me?" he asked.

The stoat looked down at the ground. Her voice was laced with sorrow. "I was lonely," she said. "The animals of the forest don't trust each other like the aphid and the ant. They cower at the sight of one another." Her gazed returned to him, her eyes glinting. "Do you trust me?"

The rabbit's red flag lowered in his head. He felt relaxed for the first time in his life. He felt like he didn't have to worry about the fox, the falcon or the man. When he spoke to the stoat, he felt all his fears and worries go away. He felt like he never felt before, even though he just met her. The rabbit smiled. "I trust you."

The stoat's grin widened, but she still showed no teeth. He inched closer to him, and this time he didn't inch away. She whispered in his ear, "Dance with me." She bounded around him, doing flips and rolls.

The rabbit stared at her, entranced. He watched every roll, every twist and ever flip. The stoat danced around him, slowly getting closer. The rabbit felt his foot begin to thump the ground out of excitement. The stoat's white underbelly was exposed to the rabbit. The rabbit began to mimic her movements. He started to roll and hop. The stoat's eyes glinted as she watched the rabbit dance, as he flipped and leaped in a frenzy of joy. They watched each other as they danced and moon illuminated the patch of grass. The red squirrel woke up and she gave a shriek when she saw the stoat. She quickly leaped to another tree and then to another until she was out of sight.

But the rabbit didn't hear the squirrel. He was having to much fun with the stoat. He closed his eyes as he continued his dance. The stoat's dancing began to slow, but he didn't notice. He did a roll, kicking the air with his hind legs. The stoat's leaping and bounding ceased as she watched the rabbit. Her upper lip curled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. She crouched as she watched every movement on the rabbit. Her muscles tensed and her tail began to twitch.

The rabbit opened his eyes and screamed. The stoat was charging him, fangs exposed. He quickly turned to run away, but the stoat was on top of him. She held onto him like a leech, her claws digging into his sides. Thought was replaced with instinct and adrenaline in the rabbit. He began to flail, trying to shake off the stoat. He attempted to kick her with his hind legs. He rolled quickly, and managed to knock off the stoat. But she was determined. The hair on her back rose as she lunged at the rabbit once more. Her eyes danced with blood lust as she wrapped her long body around the rabbit. The rabbit bit at her with his large teeth, but it was all for naught. The stoat's teeth glinted in the night as the stoat dug them into the rabbits jugular. The rabbit gasped for breath as blood spurted out of the wound. His flailing ended, his legs stopped kicking. His body began to grow cold as he collapsed on the ground. He looked at the stoat standing over him.

The stoat licked her pink lips as she looked at the rabbit. "We all depend on each other." She crouched down and whispered into his ear, "And I depend on your for my survival." She rose on her hind legs and tore open the rabbit's gut.

The rabbit gave one final gasp as his once cautious eyes dimmed. His body twitched slightly as his muscles began to fail. He felt something leave him. And, with one final blink of his eyes, he died.

In a brush not to far away, the female rabbit he had caught the scent of smelled the distinct odor of rabbit's blood. She began to flee, but stopped in her tracks. Standing in front of her was a auburn creature with a white underbelly. He smiled softly at her, his pink lips covering his teeth. "Hello, miss," he said smoothly. "Why do you run?"

Reviews

Reviews will be added when there are some! xD

Fuzzberry · Jul 25th, 2010, 4:38:40 PM

I'mma read the story later 'cause I've not got time now. But happy 1000th, Alchy!

I just wanted to be the first to say that, honestly.

Exarius · Jul 25th, 2010, 6:00:58 PM

Congrats on the 1k, I really have to get building that anti-Alch machine of mine.

Also, I liked the story, though there was something missing that I can't put my finger on. Probably all the jumping with lines. And I would contribute, but my stories aren't exactly... kid-friendly. And I am conscious(?) of my writing ._. I'll see if/when this thread gets more of these :P

KidX · Jul 25th, 2010, 7:57:38 PM

Congrats on the 1K!

Bucky · Jul 26th, 2010, 9:59:39 AM

w000t! Go Alchemator!!! Now put your fingers to the keyboard and work up those MAC scores! :D

Alchemator · Jul 26th, 2010, 3:33:44 PM

So here is the introduction to another (more thorough) short story I'm planning. Please critique ^_^

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Hope is very difficult to kill.

Yet Hope is always there in the direst, most dangerous of situations, skulking in the hearts of the outnumbered warriors, of the barren woman, of the beggar. Hope is the driving force of the few, and the enemy of another few. Hope has its long, sharp talons clutched around the bereaved and downtrodden who can only wish for a better future. Hope is the greatest of magicians – not only does it enthral you as it saws the woman apart, but actually makes you believe that she’ll be fine in the end. Hope is the cruellest of emotions. Nevertheless, Mr.Sight was trying to find it.

Now, he knew that it was hidden away somewhere in one of these bottles, he just had to systematically find it.

Mr.Sight was not a bad man, yet nor was he a good man. Mr.Sight was one of those men who liked to watch the passing of life from a position firmly outside of it – one of those men who always occupy a barstool in the pub, standing dutifully outside the door waiting for it to open and dutifully trying to glue themselves to the stool upon which he sits when the pub closes. Mr. Sight was the kind of man who was not interested in sport or women or cars or ambition. Mr.Sight was a man who was blindly interested in Hope.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that the only hope he knew was the barmaid at his local trou d’eau, whatever the hell that meant, which had closed down a good three, five, ten years ago. Now he had taken to sitting on the same barstool but in his kitchen, staring at the peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall.

He drained the last of his current bottle, finding to his drunken surprise (though edged with sober cynicism) that Hope was indeed not at the bottom of the bottle. He gave a slight sigh. With all the care of a drunken man he delicately put the empty bottle down amongst many others to his left, the silence turning slightly in its slumber to the faint clink. Mr.Sight then robotically reached down to his right in his continuing search for Hope in the bottles. His hand fumbled for a while on thin air before his subdued mind reached the conclusion that there were no more bottles. His sigh escalated to a deep growl. He shifted carefully from the stool and stepped outside to acquire some more brandy.

Passers-by noted it unfortunate that the outside he stepped onto was ten storeys high. Their cleaners concurred.

Exarius · Jul 26th, 2010, 5:47:35 PM

[23:17:44] <Alchemator> definitely post that though
[23:17:48] <Alchemator> and I'll include it in the OP
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[23:31:01] <Alchemator> btw post that story in the thread
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[23:37:42] <Alchemator> anyway, you need to post that story in the thread so I can include it

So, I'll start the ball rolling on non-Alch stories. Enjoy. Also to other people, POST YOURS!

Oh, take note: Probably Not Safe For Kiddos.

And it's supposed to read a bit wacky, I tried something new with it.

Everwhite

She starts to wake up. The world feels slippery, humid. She turns to her side and looks at her long black hair that has spread out over the ground.

Wait a moment.

She had blond hair.

She sits up, and touches her hair. It feels oily, like a poor bird after it swam in oily sea. She looks to the ground. The ground is black too. No plants anywhere to be seen. She looks up. The sky is red, filled with black smoke that rains down in ashes, like the apocalypse had come to the world. The sun is blocked by it.

She stands up. The ground is slippery, she has problems to stand. Her clothes feel like they are made of lead. Her legs feel powerless. Her arms feel powerless. Her neck feels powerless, like it's going to snap under her heads weight. She looks around her. Only red and black is to be seen. No animals. Everything is dead. The air is heavy, she coughs. She coughs oil and ashes. Her lungs feel like they had been filled with this oil. Her head feels dizzy; her throat feels dry as the desert. She walks towards a huge rock, hoping to find some water. She falls.

Her face hits the swamp that lies in front of her. It's green, like toxic waste that the factories let out. The factories are beside her. She looks up. She hears the machinery, but nobody is to be seen. Like it was abandoned a thousand years ago. The walls are covered in oil and ash. The pipes puke out more smoke, more ashes. There are no windows, no doors. She walks forwards; her head can't stand the smell.

The world stenches like a rotten corpse hidden inside the bathtub for weeks. But there are no corpses. No nothing. There is only oil, smoke and ash. She tries to walk on, but can't stand the smell. She falls to her knees. The ground feels hard.

She looks down. The ground isn't oily. She looks up. The sky is clear, white, like pure snow. She looks around her. There are no factories. No ashes. No smoke. She looks down. The ground is covered in skulls. White, clean skulls. No bugs. No plants. No sand. Only skulls. Her hair drips oil on those skulls, staining them brown and black. But the oil spreads out. It spreads out even more. She tries to wipe it out, but it makes the ground even more stained. The ground turns to brown and black, until it reaches the horizon. It starts to spread over the sky, staining it. The pure, white sky turns into a brown, dirty eternity.

She feels sadness. She looks towards the horizons, and coughs out some ashes. The ashes spread out, turning the eternal brown into empty black. She starts to cry and tries to wipe it away. Her hand doesn't do anything to the stain, but her tears burn away the darkness, and open holes to a blinding light beneath the dark. She looks into the light, while her tears pour out. The dark tries to run, evade the light, but it can't. The darkness is eaten away, and she is surrounded by a never-ending light. She starts to fall slowly.

The smell of corpses are gone. The air is clean, light. She coughs again. Small cherry blossoms come out of her mouth. They start to spin around her while being grounded into fine dust. She tries to look at it, but she is too dizzy. She looks at herself. She is naked. But she doesn't care. She is alone. Nothing can bother her anymore, in this never-ending light. The dust starts to clean her body. It feels like a summer breeze on her pale skin. A single cherry blossom forms in front of her face. She looks at it, while it slowly spins. She starts to feel tired, hungry. The blossom comes closer to her face. She falls asleep when the blossom touches her forehead.

The police forces break into the building. They were informed that a young girl hadn't come out of her basement in over a month. The door breaks down and pukes an overwhelming stench into the faces of the police forces, like a body that has been left to rot alone. They start to search. In the basement they find a naked body. The room itself is filled by feces and urine, and the ground is slippery. There are visible spores floating around in the air, and the air is heavy. The body itself belongs to a young, slender girl, barely of puberty, lying naked on the floor. Her long blond hair is stained by the feces on the floor, it's almost black. She has been dead for at least a week, but still there is one single cherry blossom on her forehead, that looks like it was plucked merely a moment ago...

Alchemator · Jul 27th, 2010, 6:27:16 AM

Exarius' story has been included, and chapter 1 of Mr H.Sight has been added, with extra snuffles :D

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ColdRAIN · Jul 27th, 2010, 8:11:53 AM

I recently did a story for a school project, I'll see if I can find it.

Alchemator · Jul 29th, 2010, 11:53:16 AM

Chapter two of Mr H.Sight :D It's much longer though. Hopefully you'll enjoy!

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bombiron · Jul 31st, 2010, 2:57:40 PM

i have a short story in the works ill post later on

Alchemator · Aug 2nd, 2010, 4:40:19 PM

Chapter three is in the works. In the mean time, a good friend of mine drew this picture of Death :3

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EDIT: Chapter 3! Shorter, more of an in-between times chapter.

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Chapter 3: A Conference with Death
Because businessmen don’t do meetings

I leaned back in the chair. I looked out across the city at dusk, a mesh of shades of red and grey. I drained the paper cup and threw it into the bin next to me. I ignored the fact that I missed, and stood up.

“I really need to get that water cooler fixed, I hate warm water.”

I said this to no-one in particular. It was just part of the bank’s routine, like checking the vaults and Mr.Burghe handing out towels and the million other idiosyncrasies of what is supposed to be an honourable constant of the country. In reality the water cooler had never been fixed, we just bought a new one every time the last one broke down (which was more often than you might expect. Bankers love to take out their rage on innocent suppliers of water. Ever seen a plumber in a bank? Exactly).

I stepped into the lift, pressed the ground floor button to a cheery (yet professional and subdued) ding and slid down onto the carpet as the lift music began to play. Sometimes I wished that Mr.Burghe would keep his Carpenters obsession to himself, but I suppose it isn’t as repetitive as typical lift music. As the luxurious carpet curled over the soles of my shoes, my mind shifted to other matters.

The eulogy. How can I possibly write about someone who I didn’t know at all? I know more about Mr.Burghe, and he has many secrets. For example, he tends to skulk around the ground floor entrance to the lift on an evening with a glass full of compost. No-one knows why, they just accept it. I guess I’ll manage somehow, not like the turnout for the funeral will be high.

A professional, yet subdued, ding brought me out of my trance as the golden light of evening spilled into the lift. I stood up slowly and walked out. Without flinching, I slipped into routine.

“I see you have a cup of loam there Mr.Burghe.”
“Indeed I do, Mr.Sight. Good night Mr.Sight.”
“Good night Mr.Burghe.”
“Sweet dreams…”

As usual, I strolled outside and robotically walked down the street. After a minute or so I paused.

Mr.Burghe didn’t usually say that.

Well I suppose everyone has to break routine sometime eh? Eh… Despite this surprisingly normal thought I was unnerved. Mr.Burghe was not a one for breaking routine. If he could break routine by himself then he would have gotten a new mug to drink or at least taken the compost out first. But if he wasn’t breaking routine by himself, who could be helping him?

I stepped through the doors at the other end of my daily journey.

“Good evening Hilary.”
“Goooooooooood evening Mr.Sight.”
“Another long night is it?”
“I’m not bothered by the dark Mr.Sight.”

There it was again. Something… almost like an animal. It was a smooth, silky whisper. While not unkind, it seemed to be enjoying my restlessness. I involuntarily put on my poker face (hit by a hot poker) as I walked over to the lift. Amongst the normality of the evening was a twinge of something strange, and I didn’t like it.

The carpet in here was nowhere near as luxurious in the bank. In fact it really did curl around your shoes; you had to keep moving them unless you wanted to be dragged into the abyss or whatever the hell was living in there. With a more audacious DINE, the lift doors opened onto a corridor. I attempted to stroll down it nonchalantly, but on second thoughts decided to run instead. I fumbled with the key in the lock. It opened and-

“Good evening Mr.Sight – Junior, might I add.”
“Ok I hope to God that the staff didn’t spike my orange juice again.”

Having opened the door, I discovered a strange creature sitting on my bed. Recognising my vacant expression, the thing smoothly began its own idiosyncratic routine.

“Cower before me, brief mortal, for I am Death, bringer of despair and conjurer of tragedy! Many a fierce warrior hath fallen on my bristles of terror, and entire kingdoms have- you have biscuits somewhere. You will give them to me.”

I scampered into the kitchen like a scolded child and obediently took a lonely packet of biscuits from the cupboard. I peered back through. The creature appeared to be a hedgehog of some sort, with bat wings and ghostly green fire around it. It was reclining on the bed, but it probably was just floating – it definitely wasn’t of this world.

When I gave it the biscuit it only just managed to hold onto it – its width being the same as the cookie. It then began, to my unexplained horror, to eat the cookie just like any small animal would – in tiny, audible chunks. In between minute mouthfuls it explained the situation as I sat opposite, rocking slowly to and fro.

“I’m sure you must have been expecting me? I’ve been going out of my way to-”

An irritated munch.

“- make room in my oh-so-busy schedule just to help some guy write a doting speech about his dad. I suppose I’m here now so once I finish this lovely crunchy biscuit we’ll start mmm? Oh and another thing, Mr.Burghe recently sold his soil to me. Get it? Get it?”

I nodded, terrified. Why is Death sitting in front of me eating a biscuit.

And why is he fluffy.

Dr. Attack · Aug 3rd, 2010, 4:48:43 PM

My humble effort. v(o_o)v

...

Alchemator · Aug 3rd, 2010, 4:56:59 PM

Creepy and concise Dr.Attack, I love it :D It's been added to the OP [I took the liberty of coming up with a title, feel free to suggest one yourself and I'll change it].

Exarius · Aug 3rd, 2010, 5:06:55 PM

Dr. Attack, that was awesome O _ O I started to wonder what was going on at the middle, and when I finished it, chills went down my spine. Could (should!) have been a bit longer, otherwise kudos to you for a good read!

Dr. Attack · Aug 3rd, 2010, 5:57:35 PM

Thanks for the positive feedback! =] I like A Summer Daydream for the title.

bombiron · Aug 3rd, 2010, 8:27:33 PM

little story i promised. still a major wip, but heres the first chapter, and the prologue
Dolly's Dagger

...

Quote:

Prologue
Lately, in the night when I’m struggling in the fight to lose consciousness, even for an hour or two, I’ve been thinking of a theory I heard on a radio show last month. The theory is Erwin Schrödinger's, and the idea is that there is a box with a cat and a machine in it. The machine releases poison at random, killing the cat immediately when the gas is released. Now here’s where the fun begins. One doesn’t know whether the machine has released the gas yet, so there are two scenarios that are possible in this box
1. The machine has released the poison and the cat is dead.
2. The machine hasn’t released the poison and the cat is alive.
Now, Erwin thought that this form of thinking was all wring and that because both scenarios were possible, this introduces another scenario, possible
3. The machine released the gas, and the machine has yet to release the gas, and the cat is both alive and dead.
I have started to think that I am the cat.

Chapter 1
It all started on Friday.
The alarm clock roughly hauled me out of my sleep; I begrudgingly got up, my recent acquisition of insomnia made sleep a rare commodity anyways. As I rolled out of bed I scratched my forearm on the protruding screw Dr. Holst promised to tighten every time I had to staunch the bleeding at breakfast, although I am not too enthusiastic about his doting. He’s done enough for me.
You see a year and a half ago I was homeless, hooked on Plumeve® (lose the pain, feel the gain!), a new drug, designed to replace morphine, vicodin, and other opiate-based pain killers, advertised and praised as a non addictive, and more effective substitute. In reality, the drug is more addictive than any other narcotic introduced in the last two thousand years, and was promptly withdrawn as an acceptable drug by the FDA standards. But nevertheless, the damage had been done, in the 3 years Plumeve was in circulation; over three hundred thousand people were addicted. I am included in that particular statistic.
Enter: Doctor Hans G. Holst. On his way to work one day he saw me get my shoes stolen off of my feet in the dead of winter, by fellow addicts, who sold them to get Plumeve. He promptly took the day off and brought me to his home, before returning to work. When he returned I was still unconscious. He came home with some eve he left me on the bedside, than returned to work for his second shift. When he returned he brought some basic medical supplies, and took extended leave for personal interest. When he got off the phone I was awake, but delirious, I thought he was one of the muggers, back for my clothes. He spent 7 months weaning me off of eve, and another four helping me through withdrawal.
Ever since I've been living with Holst, helping wherever I can, I've been looking for a job but no one wants to hire an ex-eve fiend. And it’s not easy hiding it from them ever since the medical record disclosure act. It says that one can access anyone’s medical history as long as one has said person’s social security number. This in tandem with the Customer Protection Act of the Better Business Bureau stating that ‘all employees must have a clean record, free of all mental ailments, medical disabilities, and criminal charges.’ Well eve addiction falls right into the ‘mental ailments’ portion of that law.

excuse the lack of formatting,for some reason it wont let me tab in the hide box

Spiffy · Aug 3rd, 2010, 9:08:57 PM

Ahem.

Exarius has been pestering me for feedback on his story, "Everwhite". So brace yourself...

It was good.

There you have it. No need for applause, I do this kind of thing on a daily basis.

/joke

Anyway, I liked it, and I am usually a very assholish critic when it comes to writing. I like short stories with little dialogue and a lot of description, which was exactly why Exa's story held my interest. It's very hard to explain why I liked it, but the ending was obviously the best part of the story. I really wish I could explain why better, but I don't exactly know how to put it.

Anyway, I haven't yet read anyone else's stories, but when I do, expect some feedback in two to four weeks, batteries not included.

Alchemator · Aug 4th, 2010, 2:05:54 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat Spiffy

I like short stories with little dialogue and a lot of description

I'm the complete opposite (as you'll probably see reflected in my stories). My view is that the more freedom of imagination the reader has, the better. The character of the characters should be shown through dialogue and the way they act rather than describing the buttons on their shirt.

@Bombiron - Though not much has happened yet, I see a lot of potential! What do you have in mind?

Exarius · Aug 4th, 2010, 3:47:55 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fat Alchemator

I'm the complete opposite (as you'll probably see reflected in my stories). My view is that the more freedom of imagination the reader has, the better. The character of the characters should be shown through dialogue and the way they act rather than describing the buttons on their shirt.

I'm complete opposite again, at least when I write

I prefer to describe the actions, since I absolutely despise to write dialogue ._. So, I guess I have gotten myself: 1 fan.

@bombiron:
I see potential, but pick up the pace a little in the story. The ending of prologue and start of chapter 1 raise the interest, but then it kinda falls on it's face. If you can change that, the story has a promising future. I am slightly interested what the doctor has been doing...

Exarius · Aug 4th, 2010, 5:14:23 PM

Quote:

[23:49] <@Alchemator> it was a pleasant summer's day at school, and we were all sitting outside eating lunch
[23:49] <@Alchemator> I had ham
01[23:49] <Exarius> "I gots lots more in mah van over thar"
[23:49] <@Alchemator> seems a man is shouting over too me from the gate
[23:50] <@Alchemator> "No thanks, ham is only really nice in small amounts ^_^"
01[23:50] <Exarius> "lol"
[23:52] <@Alchemator> I wondered what 'lol' meant as the lunchtime bell rang
[23:52] <@Alchemator> I stood up, brushed the crumbs off my clothes and went inside to class
[23:52] <@Alchemator> during maths I couldn't notice the same man standing at the gates, staring at me. I waved
01[23:54] <Exarius> I saw as she was waving at me shyly from the classroom window
01[23:55] <Exarius> In a few days, she wouldn't be waving, no...
[23:55] <@Alchemator> He was murmuring under his breath
01[23:56] <Exarius> I almost started to shake from the thoughts of what I as going to do to her, it made me more exited than any of my old targets
[23:56] <@Alchemator> since I could lipread because I'm deaf, I could tell that what he was saying wasn't really threatening at all
01[23:56] <Exarius> I looked up again, saw that she was still looking on me
01[23:57] <Exarius> I raised my hand, hesitated for a moment before waving back
[23:57] <@Alchemator> Oh he was waving at me, what a nice man!
01[23:57] <Exarius> she was genuinely surprised, but also a bit delighted
01[23:57] <Exarius> this would most likely be easier than I thought...
[23:57] <@Alchemator> I snapped to attention as the wrath of the teacher passed over the classroom
[23:58] <@Alchemator> I turned back to my multiplickayshun
[00:02:42] <Exarius> As she jumped slightly and turned away, I spun my back against the school and walked away. I knew what I was supposed to do, and how.

(If you can't tell, we are swapping between perspectives)

So we decided we would be collabing on a story a few days back, and this is what we brainstormed together on the spot today. We still got to get some plotline for this, and decide how we split the text and such, but expect a complete (short) story in a months time or two, depending on real life, and how fast I get my inspiration :P

Dogfish44 · Aug 10th, 2010, 3:32:56 PM

...

Mountain Dewgong · Aug 10th, 2010, 3:58:07 PM

This is a really cool thread so I thought I should contribute, here's a short story I wrote for English class this year:

The Pied Piper

He was always alone.
His pallid face thinly veiled by the swirl of a deep breath as he stepped out from his car. Mundane but from previous experience, immaculately kept. The frost conceded under his precise steps with a resounding crunch. He always missed the third step on his way to the door when he readied his key. Always. At the door, there was no fumbling, the lock never resisted. The house was eager to have him return. The door closed silently behind him with a flick of his wrist.
And then he was gone.

That was his afternoon ritual, unfailing and meticulous. I watched him most days, I suppose you could say it became a hobby. He was a teacher at the local high school from what I’ve gathered. Middle aged and heavily jaded, a faded tweed jacket was appropriate for every occasion. They say home is where the heart is, it must be where he kept it when he left. Exhausted, his house frequently moaned in opposition to the ceaseless arctic winds. Though the somnolent curtains were always subdued, like its inhabitant, an impassive face offered no insight to the world within. An empty shell. How I longed to know what lay inside.

As the sun faded, it became obvious where he was. His nights were regularly spent in his garage, a shrunken doppelganger of his home. It was nestled in the dark bowels of his property, a weatherboard Pandora’s Box. Occasionally a chilling rattle would gargle out into the crisp nocturnal air, I would convulse with an arousing terror. It fascinated me. It captivated me. I was obsessed, a lowly rat being led to the harbour, hypnotised by a malevolent bard.

Light cut across the weathered pavers, fractured by ethereal columns of darkness that scuffled from beneath the garage door. My breathing was excited and shallow, my steps muted. The shed lay silent as I ran my clammy fingertips across its side. The window was close; a portal into his world, so near. I bit my lower lip excitedly. Mechanical and deep, the shed began to growl. The petrol spiked air seared my lungs as I pressed myself up against the gently quivering wall. Saturated with fear, my irrepressible curiosity willed my legs to persist.

I slid warily, the weatherboard clawed at my shirt; it opposed my progress with minute splinters. My hooked fingers grasped the lip of the sill as I knelt, bobbing nervously. The rumbling was accompanied by a disconcerting scraping. The perverted sound of metal against metal. My body was heavy and my muscles were reluctant to rise. The insipid drapes were slightly ajar, an uncharacteristic but tantalising opportunity. Recklessly intoxicated by adrenaline I inched upwards as my heart beat throbbed and echoed in my
skull. He stood at the opposite bench, crooked over and deeply absorbed in his work.
The bulbs overhead buzzed faintly, fashioning an unsettling fusion of baleful shadows. He roused from his work with a nonchalant stretch, at once I dropped back to the uninviting brick work.

Away from the eclectic disarray of chilling instruments, there lay a clandestine contraption, surrounded by swathed containers. My mind swarmed hysterically with unanswered questions. I needed another look. Blindly, I lifted myself up to steal another glance. A weary skeletal hand was pressed up against the glass, coaxing the curtain open. His malicious eyes met with mine as he tilted his head in a sickening curiosity. His jagged lips contorted into a masochistic snarl. I bolted, overcome with fear. The spiteful asphalt cut my feet.

The escape gave no respite, no relief. I needed to go back. I needed to. The hushed flute swelled. The Pied Pipers encore.

Alchemator · Aug 10th, 2010, 4:22:08 PM

"They say home is where the heart is, it must be where he kept it when he left."

Fantastic line, though I'm pretty sure his heart was plastered to-

It's great in general M_D, though slightly overly verbose at times (irony...) I was like that originally - in some respects I still am, and I'm getting irritated at how verbose I'm being here.

If you haven't already, I recommend reading some of Ernest Hemingway's work, particularly The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway has a very concise style, but it still presents all the imagery you need.

Thanks for contributing!

Adm. Empoleon · Aug 15th, 2010, 10:44:04 PM

i might have ideas for short stories. i'll bookmark this so i won't forget. :)

Jul 25th, 2010, 4:38:40 PM	#2
Fuzzberry Join Date: Dec 2008 Posts: 590	I'mma read the story later 'cause I've not got time now. But happy 1000th, Alchy! I just wanted to be the first to say that, honestly. __________________ well your angel's not idle, he's just gone insane

Jul 25th, 2010, 7:57:38 PM	#4
KidX Join Date: Feb 2010 Posts: 472 Avatar Done By Yilx	Congrats on the 1K! __________________ Feel free to chat with me about anime and every else related to it.

Jul 26th, 2010, 3:33:44 PM	#6
Alchemator my god if you don't have an iced tea for me when i come back i'm gonna flip Join Date: Feb 2009 Posts: 3,762 Zrack attack!	So here is the introduction to another (more thorough) short story I'm planning. Please critique ^_^ ... Hope is very difficult to kill. Yet Hope is always there in the direst, most dangerous of situations, skulking in the hearts of the outnumbered warriors, of the barren woman, of the beggar. Hope is the driving force of the few, and the enemy of another few. Hope has its long, sharp talons clutched around the bereaved and downtrodden who can only wish for a better future. Hope is the greatest of magicians – not only does it enthral you as it saws the woman apart, but actually makes you believe that she’ll be fine in the end. Hope is the cruellest of emotions. Nevertheless, Mr.Sight was trying to find it. Now, he knew that it was hidden away somewhere in one of these bottles, he just had to systematically find it. Mr.Sight was not a bad man, yet nor was he a good man. Mr.Sight was one of those men who liked to watch the passing of life from a position firmly outside of it – one of those men who always occupy a barstool in the pub, standing dutifully outside the door waiting for it to open and dutifully trying to glue themselves to the stool upon which he sits when the pub closes. Mr. Sight was the kind of man who was not interested in sport or women or cars or ambition. Mr.Sight was a man who was blindly interested in Hope. It was unfortunate, therefore, that the only hope he knew was the barmaid at his local trou d’eau, whatever the hell that meant, which had closed down a good three, five, ten years ago. Now he had taken to sitting on the same barstool but in his kitchen, staring at the peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall. He drained the last of his current bottle, finding to his drunken surprise (though edged with sober cynicism) that Hope was indeed not at the bottom of the bottle. He gave a slight sigh. With all the care of a drunken man he delicately put the empty bottle down amongst many others to his left, the silence turning slightly in its slumber to the faint clink. Mr.Sight then robotically reached down to his right in his continuing search for Hope in the bottles. His hand fumbled for a while on thin air before his subdued mind reached the conclusion that there were no more bottles. His sigh escalated to a deep growl. He shifted carefully from the stool and stepped outside to acquire some more brandy. Passers-by noted it unfortunate that the outside he stepped onto was ten storeys high. Their cleaners concurred. __________________ Twitter \| Blog

Jul 26th, 2010, 5:47:35 PM	#7
Exarius Join Date: Aug 2009 Posts: 713 In the dark corner, lurking	Blame Alch. [23:17:44] <Alchemator> definitely post that though [23:17:48] <Alchemator> and I'll include it in the OP ... [23:31:01] <Alchemator> btw post that story in the thread ... [23:37:42] <Alchemator> anyway, you need to post that story in the thread so I can include it So, I'll start the ball rolling on non-Alch stories. Enjoy. Also to other people, POST YOURS! Oh, take note: Probably Not Safe For Kiddos. And it's supposed to read a bit wacky, I tried something new with it. Everwhite She starts to wake up. The world feels slippery, humid. She turns to her side and looks at her long black hair that has spread out over the ground. Wait a moment. She had blond hair. She sits up, and touches her hair. It feels oily, like a poor bird after it swam in oily sea. She looks to the ground. The ground is black too. No plants anywhere to be seen. She looks up. The sky is red, filled with black smoke that rains down in ashes, like the apocalypse had come to the world. The sun is blocked by it. She stands up. The ground is slippery, she has problems to stand. Her clothes feel like they are made of lead. Her legs feel powerless. Her arms feel powerless. Her neck feels powerless, like it's going to snap under her heads weight. She looks around her. Only red and black is to be seen. No animals. Everything is dead. The air is heavy, she coughs. She coughs oil and ashes. Her lungs feel like they had been filled with this oil. Her head feels dizzy; her throat feels dry as the desert. She walks towards a huge rock, hoping to find some water. She falls. Her face hits the swamp that lies in front of her. It's green, like toxic waste that the factories let out. The factories are beside her. She looks up. She hears the machinery, but nobody is to be seen. Like it was abandoned a thousand years ago. The walls are covered in oil and ash. The pipes puke out more smoke, more ashes. There are no windows, no doors. She walks forwards; her head can't stand the smell. The world stenches like a rotten corpse hidden inside the bathtub for weeks. But there are no corpses. No nothing. There is only oil, smoke and ash. She tries to walk on, but can't stand the smell. She falls to her knees. The ground feels hard. She looks down. The ground isn't oily. She looks up. The sky is clear, white, like pure snow. She looks around her. There are no factories. No ashes. No smoke. She looks down. The ground is covered in skulls. White, clean skulls. No bugs. No plants. No sand. Only skulls. Her hair drips oil on those skulls, staining them brown and black. But the oil spreads out. It spreads out even more. She tries to wipe it out, but it makes the ground even more stained. The ground turns to brown and black, until it reaches the horizon. It starts to spread over the sky, staining it. The pure, white sky turns into a brown, dirty eternity. She feels sadness. She looks towards the horizons, and coughs out some ashes. The ashes spread out, turning the eternal brown into empty black. She starts to cry and tries to wipe it away. Her hand doesn't do anything to the stain, but her tears burn away the darkness, and open holes to a blinding light beneath the dark. She looks into the light, while her tears pour out. The dark tries to run, evade the light, but it can't. The darkness is eaten away, and she is surrounded by a never-ending light. She starts to fall slowly. The smell of corpses are gone. The air is clean, light. She coughs again. Small cherry blossoms come out of her mouth. They start to spin around her while being grounded into fine dust. She tries to look at it, but she is too dizzy. She looks at herself. She is naked. But she doesn't care. She is alone. Nothing can bother her anymore, in this never-ending light. The dust starts to clean her body. It feels like a summer breeze on her pale skin. A single cherry blossom forms in front of her face. She looks at it, while it slowly spins. She starts to feel tired, hungry. The blossom comes closer to her face. She falls asleep when the blossom touches her forehead. The police forces break into the building. They were informed that a young girl hadn't come out of her basement in over a month. The door breaks down and pukes an overwhelming stench into the faces of the police forces, like a body that has been left to rot alone. They start to search. In the basement they find a naked body. The room itself is filled by feces and urine, and the ground is slippery. There are visible spores floating around in the air, and the air is heavy. The body itself belongs to a young, slender girl, barely of puberty, lying naked on the floor. Her long blond hair is stained by the feces on the floor, it's almost black. She has been dead for at least a week, but still there is one single cherry blossom on her forehead, that looks like it was plucked merely a moment ago...

Jul 27th, 2010, 6:27:16 AM	#8
Alchemator my god if you don't have an iced tea for me when i come back i'm gonna flip Join Date: Feb 2009 Posts: 3,762 Zrack attack!	Exarius' story has been included, and chapter 1 of Mr H.Sight has been added, with extra snuffles :D ... Chapter 1: A Meeting with Death Mr.Sight got up. True, only his spirit got up since the rest of him was strewn across nearby walls and shocked bystanders but he nevertheless got up. Two immediate thoughts came to mind. One went something along the lines of “Bloody hell I haven’t been this sober in years!” with the quick follow-up of “I could murder a brandy right now.” These brief trains of thought were interrupted by a light whisper in his ear. It was one of those smooth, silky whispers which you can always understand regardless of the volume. “I believe congratulations are in order Mr.Sight.” He turned around and saw nothing. The voice continued. “Not only did you metaphorically fall from grace, but you managed it physically too. I believe this adds a new meaning to the word ‘failure’ wouldn’t you agree?” The whispering, while not exactly unkind, seemed to be enjoying this despair slightly too much. Mr.Sight turned around again and came face to face with- A hedgehog. Well, it was indeed the scariest of hedgehogs – much effort had been put into the swirling, ghostly fire surrounding it and the bat-like wings were certainly a nice touch. Unfortunately, however, it was still a hedgehog. Death, seeing the look on Mr.Sight’s face interrupted in a more assertive volume. “Cower before me, brief mortal, for I am Death, bringer of despair and conjurer of tragedy! Many a fierce warrior hath fallen on my bristles of terror, and entire kingdoms have been investigated by my fearsome – and at this point in time, slightly itchy – nose!” Death sat up on his hind legs, licked his paws and began to wash his face as only small, furry animals can as Mr.Sight looked on in horror. “B-B-B-But you’re supposed to be a big skeleton thing! With a big scythe and stuff, and a big black robe and-“ Death paused in his washing to give Mr.Sight a cynical stare. “And why should that be so? Naturally, many have gazed upon my true form but none have been able to take back the knowledge to the ‘real world’. That is, apart from that Jesus guy. Good lord he was a pain, I’m glad people didn’t really listen to the small, furry animal parts of his parables.” Death gave a small sigh at Mr.Sight’s blank, petrified face and, with some effort, flew up and landed on his shoulder. “Come, Mr.Sight. The chapter of life in your existence has come to an end. Your existence in death is only just beginning.” As Death snapped his tiny claws, an ordinary door appeared. Light spilled from the gap beneath the ground and the door, and sounds of mirth and merriment could be heard from within. Mr.Sight reached forward. Just one more step, he could feel the warm door handle in his hand now, twisting- “Sorry Mr.Sight, an ethereal hedgehog needs some form of entertainment!” The ground beneath them opened up like a trapdoor. While Death flitted off his shoulder, Mr.Sight unfortunately did not have the advantage and wings and dropped through, the hole snapping shut after he had passed. With a small giggle, the bat-winged hedgehog disappeared into a wisp of purple smoke, and the world continued. __________________ Twitter \| Blog Last edited by Alchemator; Jul 29th, 2010 at 1:49:10 PM.

Jul 25th, 2010, 6:00:58 PM	#3
Exarius Join Date: Aug 2009 Posts: 713 In the dark corner, lurking	Congrats on the 1k, I really have to get building that anti-Alch machine of mine. Also, I liked the story, though there was something missing that I can't put my finger on. Probably all the jumping with lines. And I would contribute, but my stories aren't exactly... kid-friendly. And I am conscious(?) of my writing ._. I'll see if/when this thread gets more of these :P

Jul 26th, 2010, 9:59:39 AM	#5
Bucky Join Date: Feb 2010 Posts: 410 What?	w000t! Go Alchemator!!! Now put your fingers to the keyboard and work up those MAC scores! :D

Jul 27th, 2010, 8:11:53 AM	#9
ColdRAIN Join Date: Dec 2009 Posts: 228 SOUNDWAVE, Melbourne	I recently did a story for a school project, I'll see if I can find it. __________________ Currently playing: Pokemon Black, Call of Duty Black Ops, Borderlands, Battlefield: Bad Company 2, Just Cause 2, Fallout: New Vegas. UP THE IRONS Current Pokemon Black Team: Samurott, Darmanitan, Axew, Archeops, Duosion, Galvantula

Jul 29th, 2010, 11:53:16 AM	#10
Alchemator my god if you don't have an iced tea for me when i come back i'm gonna flip Join Date: Feb 2009 Posts: 3,762 Zrack attack!	Chapter two of Mr H.Sight :D It's much longer though. Hopefully you'll enjoy! ... Chapter 2: It is Required A handsome face was staring at me. It had soft, luscious hair and a rough, masculine beard. Its eyes were deep and assertive, and its jaw line was simply sublime. I turned away from the mirror and shrugged on my suit, grabbed a slice of toast and hurtled out of the door. I ran along the corridor and threw myself into the lift. Into the doors of the lift. I hammered on the button and after seeing the “Lift will arrive shortly” sign pop up I reconsidered and took the stairs instead. Signs like that are designed to waste your time. Five flights of stairs later and a trail of toast crumbs plotting my route, I slowed to a brisk walk through the reception area. “Goooooooood morning Mr.Sight!” “Morning Hilary, must dash, bank to run!” I strolled calmly through the revolving doors and then, when out of site of the apartments, broke into a sprint down the street. My hastily grabbed tie slapped my back in the wind, almost encouraging me to continue. A bus pulled into the bus stop. I doubled my pace. I know I can make it. I know it. I dodged a pram and spontaneously leapt over a bin, to the grumbling of some nearby old men. “You know Howard, I remember when I could do that.” “I’m sure you could, Jack.” “I was great at making women with prams scream as I passed through.” A pause. “To be fair though, they didn’t have the prams at that point. Cigar?” The bus rumbled into life as I continued to dash down the pavement. It accelerated away. I was going to make it! I leapt up the stairs and through the doors of the bank, I reached for my watch- “Two minutes, forty-three point four seconds, Mr.Sight.” I sighed, reaching out for the routine towel on my left. “It must be the shoes Mr.Burghe; I usually get two minutes forty exactly.” “I’m sure it is Mr.Sight. The day’s newspaper is waiting on your desk.” “Make sure you send up some orange juice and biscuits please Mr.Burghe, it will be a pleasant change to my usual snack.” “It will be done, Mr.Sight.” I threw the towel at a passing laundry trolley, missed, cursed, and made for the lift. I wondered why I carried on with this charade – I apparently got two minutes forty-three point four every day, I always blamed it on the shoes and I’d been drinking orange juice and eating biscuits every morning for the past two years. It must be something about Mr.Burghe’s endless patient indifference; it makes me want to test it. With a subdued, professional ‘ding’ the lift doors opened onto the chairman’s office. It was, like all chairman’s offices, at the top of the building with a snazzy yet completely useless desk on a raised platform in the centre. Behind it was a large, leather chair (into which I’d already schlunked) which could swivel to gaze across the entire city. The other buildings were shrouded in the golden haze of morning, the sun being in its somewhat annoying yet still beautiful position in the sky. I swivelled back around to my desk in a nonchalant fashion that can only be brought on by being in control of lots and lots and lots and lots of money and took a swig of orange juice as if it was brandy. I routinely broke my teeth on a couple of biscuits and engrossed myself in the newspaper. I was woken from my newspaper trance by a subdued, professional ‘ding’. Peering indifferently over the top of the newspaper I saw no-one. Mr.Burghe had already made his way to the left of the chair with no noticeable noise. Though this was how Mr.Burghe always made his entrances, it was still strange considering his large – but not portly – figure and, er, strong (yes that’s the right word…) personality. “Please make your comfortable Mr.Burghe, considering you’ve already sat down.” There was no acidity in this remark; it had long worn away together with the attempt to refuse Mr.Burghe’s routine. He had been working for the bank for countless years, and did all of the hard work. While he did have some… unfortunate social ineptness this was made up many times over in that he accepted no pay (not even a Christmas bonus, or as I liked to call it a bribe). He could almost be likened to one of those toys that come with a fast food meal, except he had more class and (to my knowledge) wasn’t made in China. Without waiting for a prompt he explained the situation. “Your father is dead. Here is an envelope.” I accepted the envelope indifferently. I hadn’t seen my father for many years now and we weren’t even close to start with. I waved the envelope. “I expect that this is a loving letter to be delivered to his doting son upon death?” “No, Mr.Sight, it is a letter from a lawyer. His client would like compensation for extreme trauma experienced during the death of your father.” “Oh dear, it wasn’t the lawnmower again was it?” “No, Mr.Sight, he fell from a great height. Those at ground level were not particularly happy.” “I suppose they didn’t find his heart Mr.Burghe?” “It was plastered to-” I waved a hand to cut off the end of the sentence. “I was speaking metaphorically. Anything else?” “As his closest relative it is traditional that you write his eulogy.” “Yet, Mr.Burghe, I know nothing about the man other than his tasteless drinking habit. As I recall it wasn’t even good brandy.” I swivelled around to face the morning panorama. A ghostly fire engulfed Mr.Burghe’s eyes as he leaned forward, snuffling slightly. He muttered under his breath. “How the hell do you drive this thing?” After punching himself on the nose, Mr.Burghe continued. “Yes, I will help you. It should be… suitably entertaining.” “And how exactly would you help me Mr.Burghe?” “Help you do what, Mr.Sight?” “But you just – why can I smell rotten hedgehog? Mr.Burghe, sort this out immediately.” I picked up the newspaper again as Mr.Burghe silently padded out of the room. I flicked it open at a random page. How boring. __________________ Twitter \| Blog

Jul 31st, 2010, 2:57:40 PM	#11
bombiron Join Date: Jan 2010 Posts: 787	i have a short story in the works ill post later on

Aug 2nd, 2010, 4:40:19 PM	#12
Alchemator my god if you don't have an iced tea for me when i come back i'm gonna flip Join Date: Feb 2009 Posts: 3,762 Zrack attack!	Chapter three is in the works. In the mean time, a good friend of mine drew this picture of Death :3 ... EDIT: Chapter 3! Shorter, more of an in-between times chapter. ... Chapter 3: A Conference with Death Because businessmen don’t do meetings I leaned back in the chair. I looked out across the city at dusk, a mesh of shades of red and grey. I drained the paper cup and threw it into the bin next to me. I ignored the fact that I missed, and stood up. “I really need to get that water cooler fixed, I hate warm water.” I said this to no-one in particular. It was just part of the bank’s routine, like checking the vaults and Mr.Burghe handing out towels and the million other idiosyncrasies of what is supposed to be an honourable constant of the country. In reality the water cooler had never been fixed, we just bought a new one every time the last one broke down (which was more often than you might expect. Bankers love to take out their rage on innocent suppliers of water. Ever seen a plumber in a bank? Exactly). I stepped into the lift, pressed the ground floor button to a cheery (yet professional and subdued) ding and slid down onto the carpet as the lift music began to play. Sometimes I wished that Mr.Burghe would keep his Carpenters obsession to himself, but I suppose it isn’t as repetitive as typical lift music. As the luxurious carpet curled over the soles of my shoes, my mind shifted to other matters. The eulogy. How can I possibly write about someone who I didn’t know at all? I know more about Mr.Burghe, and he has many secrets. For example, he tends to skulk around the ground floor entrance to the lift on an evening with a glass full of compost. No-one knows why, they just accept it. I guess I’ll manage somehow, not like the turnout for the funeral will be high. A professional, yet subdued, ding brought me out of my trance as the golden light of evening spilled into the lift. I stood up slowly and walked out. Without flinching, I slipped into routine. “I see you have a cup of loam there Mr.Burghe.” “Indeed I do, Mr.Sight. Good night Mr.Sight.” “Good night Mr.Burghe.” “Sweet dreams…” As usual, I strolled outside and robotically walked down the street. After a minute or so I paused. Mr.Burghe didn’t usually say that. Well I suppose everyone has to break routine sometime eh? Eh… Despite this surprisingly normal thought I was unnerved. Mr.Burghe was not a one for breaking routine. If he could break routine by himself then he would have gotten a new mug to drink or at least taken the compost out first. But if he wasn’t breaking routine by himself, who could be helping him? I stepped through the doors at the other end of my daily journey. “Good evening Hilary.” “Goooooooooood evening Mr.Sight.” “Another long night is it?” “I’m not bothered by the dark Mr.Sight.” There it was again. Something… almost like an animal. It was a smooth, silky whisper. While not unkind, it seemed to be enjoying my restlessness. I involuntarily put on my poker face (hit by a hot poker) as I walked over to the lift. Amongst the normality of the evening was a twinge of something strange, and I didn’t like it. The carpet in here was nowhere near as luxurious in the bank. In fact it really did curl around your shoes; you had to keep moving them unless you wanted to be dragged into the abyss or whatever the hell was living in there. With a more audacious DINE, the lift doors opened onto a corridor. I attempted to stroll down it nonchalantly, but on second thoughts decided to run instead. I fumbled with the key in the lock. It opened and- “Good evening Mr.Sight – Junior, might I add.” “Ok I hope to God that the staff didn’t spike my orange juice again.” Having opened the door, I discovered a strange creature sitting on my bed. Recognising my vacant expression, the thing smoothly began its own idiosyncratic routine. “Cower before me, brief mortal, for I am Death, bringer of despair and conjurer of tragedy! Many a fierce warrior hath fallen on my bristles of terror, and entire kingdoms have- you have biscuits somewhere. You will give them to me.” I scampered into the kitchen like a scolded child and obediently took a lonely packet of biscuits from the cupboard. I peered back through. The creature appeared to be a hedgehog of some sort, with bat wings and ghostly green fire around it. It was reclining on the bed, but it probably was just floating – it definitely wasn’t of this world. When I gave it the biscuit it only just managed to hold onto it – its width being the same as the cookie. It then began, to my unexplained horror, to eat the cookie just like any small animal would – in tiny, audible chunks. In between minute mouthfuls it explained the situation as I sat opposite, rocking slowly to and fro. “I’m sure you must have been expecting me? I’ve been going out of my way to-” An irritated munch. “- make room in my oh-so-busy schedule just to help some guy write a doting speech about his dad. I suppose I’m here now so once I finish this lovely crunchy biscuit we’ll start mmm? Oh and another thing, Mr.Burghe recently sold his soil to me. Get it? Get it?” I nodded, terrified. Why is Death sitting in front of me eating a biscuit. And why is he fluffy. __________________ Twitter \| Blog Last edited by Alchemator; Aug 2nd, 2010 at 8:06:43 PM.

Aug 3rd, 2010, 4:48:43 PM	#13
Dr. Attack Join Date: May 2009 Posts: 262	My humble effort. v(o_o)v ... A light breeze threatened to steal his napkin right from his paper plate. He set his half-eaten hot dog back down, both to keep the napkin from achieving flight and because he really wasn't that hungry anymore. The picnic table he was sitting at gave him a pretty good view of the park and all it's current inhabitants. Moms and their kids down by the swing-set. Teenage boys playing pickup games of basketball. Older people taking naps in the shade of the trees. He wanted to talk to one of them. He wondered what would happen if he tried to start a conversation. "Hi", He would say. One of the boys would smile and ask him if he wanted to play 3 on 3. "Oh no, I'm too old for this game", he would laugh, "maybe if I was 10 years younger". beep beep beep beep He looked around for the source of the noise. After a while the confusion left his face. It was the lunch alarm. Lunchtime was over. He threw away his hot dog and stood up. The outer edges of the park began to twinkle. Slowly the park began to fade. It rippled and dimmed in small waves. He was alone again. Fifteen years in a prison cell for accidental manslaughter. Solitary confinement for eight of those fifteen years. It has been a decade since he has talked to another human being. He leans back on his cot and closes his eyes. A light breeze gently blows through his hair. He smiles. __________________ ~The Doctor is in.~ White FC: 2150 8765 1091

Aug 3rd, 2010, 4:56:59 PM	#14
Alchemator my god if you don't have an iced tea for me when i come back i'm gonna flip Join Date: Feb 2009 Posts: 3,762 Zrack attack!	Creepy and concise Dr.Attack, I love it :D It's been added to the OP [I took the liberty of coming up with a title, feel free to suggest one yourself and I'll change it]. __________________ Twitter \| Blog

Aug 3rd, 2010, 5:06:55 PM	#15
Exarius Join Date: Aug 2009 Posts: 713 In the dark corner, lurking	Dr. Attack, that was awesome O _ O I started to wonder what was going on at the middle, and when I finished it, chills went down my spine. Could (should!) have been a bit longer, otherwise kudos to you for a good read!

Aug 3rd, 2010, 5:57:35 PM	#16
Dr. Attack Join Date: May 2009 Posts: 262	Thanks for the positive feedback! =] I like A Summer Daydream for the title. __________________ ~The Doctor is in.~ White FC: 2150 8765 1091

Aug 3rd, 2010, 9:08:57 PM	#18
Spiffy Join Date: Jun 2009 Posts: 932	Ahem. Exarius has been pestering me for feedback on his story, "Everwhite". So brace yourself... It was good. There you have it. No need for applause, I do this kind of thing on a daily basis. /joke Anyway, I liked it, and I am usually a very assholish critic when it comes to writing. I like short stories with little dialogue and a lot of description, which was exactly why Exa's story held my interest. It's very hard to explain why I liked it, but the ending was obviously the best part of the story. I really wish I could explain why better, but I don't exactly know how to put it. Anyway, I haven't yet read anyone else's stories, but when I do, expect some feedback in two to four weeks, batteries not included. __________________ *† I am a Catholic and glad of it. †* <ginganinja> my sister (speaking objectivally as her brother) <ginganinja> is hot <ginganinja> I wish I was a girl

Aug 10th, 2010, 3:32:56 PM	#22
Dogfish44 Join Date: Jan 2009 Posts: 4,430 Deity of Misfortune	The colours of crime. ... Some people.... can only see.... in black.... and white... Some people.... can only see.... in blood.... and gore.... Some people.... are innocent.... Some people.... are guilty.... But nobody can see.... the true colours of crime. This case.... recalls several.... rather unpleasent.... memories... Allow me.... to present.... the truth behind.... Case JW8 I wake up to the ringing of a large black phone. It's a suicidal phone, the ringing wakes up the neighbours. At the other end of the street. I pick it up and as politely as you can at 5:00am in the morning, grumble "Harrow Residence, who's calling". "My name is.... beep beep beep" Thunder rumbles, and I assume that it struck the telephone cables. I scan the number and note that the call was made from the detention centre. Time for a walk.... just give me 5 minutes shut eye. Or 10. Or a few hours. Anyway, I walk down through the small coastal town, known as Willow Port, due to the wildlife here. The town isn't large,with just one primary school, a small police station and fire brigade. But it was also the home of Willow Detention Centre, due to a lack of room in the nearby city of Ginnington (They get as many drunk based jokes as the Irish). Anyway, I'm walking down the brilliant promenade when I run into my girlfriend, Melody. "Hi Honey!". My nice, timid approach recieved a heartwarming slap to the face. Just because I'm not her boyfriend anymore doesn't mean she isn't my girlfriend. It's that or admit I've no friends. Being a defense attorney is a hard life. She suddenly gets into a black BMW with another man. I'd kill him if Melody wasn't there. My lack of muscles have nothing to do with it. Honest. I arrive at the Willow Detention centre shortly, holding a bag of frozen peas against my face. I'm having vegetables with my meat this week, as opposed to... meat with my vegetables. Time to see what the high pitched voice was calling about... __________________ CAPASB Team & Reffing Profile ASB Ruling? It might be here! 02:47:37 AM ~ <%Objection> i'm neutral on boobs

Aug 10th, 2010, 4:22:08 PM	#24
Alchemator my god if you don't have an iced tea for me when i come back i'm gonna flip Join Date: Feb 2009 Posts: 3,762 Zrack attack!	"They say home is where the heart is, it must be where he kept it when he left." Fantastic line, though I'm pretty sure his heart was plastered to- It's great in general M_D, though slightly overly verbose at times (irony...) I was like that originally - in some respects I still am, and I'm getting irritated at how verbose I'm being here. If you haven't already, I recommend reading some of Ernest Hemingway's work, particularly The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway has a very concise style, but it still presents all the imagery you need. Thanks for contributing! __________________ Twitter \| Blog