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 Words, words, words...S

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theSeraph

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PostSubject: Words, words, words...S   Wed 05 Nov 2008, 6:01 pm

So.... would be people be interested in (non-Kong related) creative writing? Short fiction pieces? Poetry?
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discoalienpro

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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Wed 05 Nov 2008, 6:05 pm

the world is dying
we are killing it quickly
it is time for change
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noel057
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Wed 05 Nov 2008, 6:37 pm

I suck at writing it but I love hearing it.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Wed 05 Nov 2008, 7:00 pm

suck is subjective
what one thinks, others may not
post some anyway
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theSeraph

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PostSubject: 250 word short story   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 11:44 am

Choose
The same night my brother died, a church burned down across the city and my sister-in-law disappeared without a word.
'Wow. Shitty night,' you're probably thinking. And yeah, it was. But probably not in the way you're imagining.

Every thing went down hill from the moment she said "choose." That one little word, one syllable, turned my world into chaos. I won't bore you with all of the details right now; after all, you're probably more than familiar with the story. Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy discovers girl is a blood-drinking night fiend, boy confronts girl. It's been done a thousand times before I'm sure. I'm sure you've heard it; I know I had. But this time it happened to me.

After she told me I'd have to choose, choose between an existence with her or what I saw as a dead-end life in a dead-end city, I'm almost ashamed to say I told her I'd have think it over. And I did. Wound up telling my brother about it, too, since he always seemed to have the better head for long term decisions. He was, after all, married and pulling in enough green in a year to keep them in a modest home with a fancy alarm system.

I guess that just shows my poor short-term judgement I do have. I told.

Now he's gone. At least he went in a blaze of glory.

Maybe I chose wrong.
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PostSubject: a longer piece   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 11:57 am

Water: Life and Death

When I opened my eyes, I was completely surrounded by water. There was no up or down, no left or right. There was only the water and the sudden panicked clarity that comes when you face your own death. I let a small slip of air escape my lips and tried to focus as it wove and spiraled past my chest and around the curve of my hip. I did my best to turn and start following it and soon the dark blackness of the water gave way to a blurry smear that had to be light coming from somewhere... somewhere where there were still such things as air and warmth and some sound beyond the harsh thrumming in my ears.

It was only as I was finally in reach of the surface, when my fingers were breaking the surface to claw desperately at the smog-hidden moon always out of reach, that I realized I was no longer alive. My body was cold, my lungs didn't ache because they were half full of the bay surrounding me. I didn't float; I had to struggle to stay at the surface of the water. When I tried to hold my hand up, to get a better glimpse of it in the light shining across the water, I started sinking again almost immediately. Despite it seeming unlikely that I would die any further, I still had some sense of self-preservation left and started swimming for the shore.

What there was of it. For the most part it was nothing but docks and stone retaining walls. The city grew right up out of it like a once majestic set of now dingy cliffs made of concrete and steel, glass and neon. I managed to pull myself up out of the water and onto a pier where I collapsed. I was mentally exhausted and physically taxed. Laying on my back started a series of coughing spasms; I rolled over and spent a few minutes puking up sea-water and bile. I might not be wholly among the living, but apparently whatever I was still didn't cope to well to obstructed lungs.

I rolled back over, groaning, and tried to organize my thoughts. I'd come to in the bay, face down, and fully clothed. While it was possible I'd been suicidal, the absence of any nearby boats when I came to suggested that I'd been tossed overboard by someone who'd also quickly left the area. First things first, then. Get out these wet clothes - the cold was starting to turn my skin blue it seemed. Then find out who the hell I was and why someone wanted me dead.



technically this is a work in progress. I intend to add (at least) a second part to it, but just haven't gotten around to it yet.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 12:05 pm

The Prince with a Thousand Crystal Eyes

The Prince with a Thousand Crystal Eyes looked out over the charred remains of a village before breathing a quiet curse. His words slipped through the cracks of the world and tangled in the skein of fate inadvertently causing a number of calamitous disasters in other worlds, other places, other times. The echoes of those disasters further radiated out through the omni-verse to bring down several civilizations allowing for new ones to be born out of the destruction.

The Prince with a Thousand Crystal Eyes knew this, albeit distantly, for his sight extended beyond the bounds of the Silver City and through many planes and places. But at the moment, he neither cared nor fully saw. His sight was taken up entirely by the sad remnants of destruction in front of him. The culprits were hidden from even his sight, which meant they had powerful allies backing them.

The Prince with a Thousand Crystal Eyes fell to his knees, his sorrow overcoming his reserve. His hands plunged into the charred soil, dragging up handfuls of ash and soot. He dragged one hand across his face leaving a long grey smear that outlined his eyes and served to accentuate them even more. And then he wept.

The Prince with a Thousand Crystal Eyes wept and his tears spawned new rivers, the oceans swelled and crawled across the shores. And when he was done, he took up his sword and his axe and bid the Silver City a farewell. They were still out there, and though they were now hidden from his sight, he would seek them out and right this wrong. Not for vengeance. Not for justice. But for the memory of the eyes of a little girl who once played in those village streets.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 12:26 pm

“Coffee”

Maxwell sipped scalding liquid from the cheap nano-cup. Cursing and trying not to spill it as passers-by on the crowded street ebbed around him. “Too damn hot,” he muttered, trying to gulp it down before the bonds of the nano-cup evaporated. Word on the street was that a delegation from Sigma 596 was due to arrive in London any day now. Max didn’t entirely believe it. The Sigmans were pretty advanced and could likely make the journey to Earth as quickly as they claimed (though likely not so quickly as certain hawkish politicians and a paranoid media supposed), but there wasn’t much of a reason for them to do so. Too, Max had experienced those troubling dreams lately; vague half-remembered things that were like trying to grasp smoke while looking in a mirror that only brought up feelings of trembling nervous fear when he thought about the Sigmans.

On top of everything else, his shipping business was rapidly sinking like an overloaded cargo-hauler in high seas. He should’ve kept on top of the cutting edge. State of the art tech always bothered him somehow; keep things simple, as his grandfather used to say. Of course, keeping things too simple got him into this downward spiraling mess that was his life – business sinking because he couldn’t keep pace, house gone because he couldn’t keep up payments, wife gone because he just couldn’t anymore. Hell, he couldn’t even afford to be a lousy drunk because alcohol tariffs were through the roof these days.

Max stomped through the doorway of the warehouse that served as what was left of his shipping business hoping the noise would frighten off any rats or multi-legged vermin that might be lurking in the shadows. A few crates stood silent sentinel in the middle of the floor beyond which loomed the bulks of a pair of partially disassembled small cargo haulers. For a while cannibalizing one to fix the rest of the fleet had worked. But then Crazy Ed Wachowski had torn open a hull outside of Kowloon and suddenly there were two ships to pull parts from. But instead of helping, it had only seemed to make things worse. The strain of meeting the existing contracts meant overloading the other ‘haulers, which meant that they only needed spare parts all the faster. Eventually, he’d had to start selling haulers off to pay the bills. Sensing doom like sharks sense blood in the water, his pilots started bailing on him, asking for back pay, and generally being more unpleasant that normal. So, these days it was largely just Max and Crazy Ed.

That’s why it was a surprise to step into the cubicle-like office that hung above the warehouse floor to find a pair of well-dressed gentlemen apparently waiting for him. Crazy Ed got up from behind the desk, muttering the entire time he crossed the room. “They’s here for you, yes sir, yes sir. Gave ‘em coffee, coffee for ya. But wouldn’t leave, no, can’t leave, had to stay. Gotta go, can’t stay. All yours, boss. All yours,” and with that he squeezed past Max and out onto the rickety staircase. Max left the door open – Crazy Ed tended to leave an unpleasant odor behind everywhere he went and there was no telling how long he’d been in here with these guys.

“Uhm, gentlemen,” Max began. “Sorry about all that. Ed’s a little… he’s… well, he’s a damn fine pilot despite his rather unappealing approach to personal hygiene.” As he walked past the two seated figures to take his own chair behind his desk, he realized he was rambling slightly. He lowered himself into his seat, trying not to be too conscious of the slight damp left behind on the arm-rests. “So, what can I do for . . .”

Looking up, his stomach dropped. One of the figures seated across from him was indeed a man in a well-tailored business suit, but the other had a faint bluish cast to his skin, high thin cheekbones, and burning red eyes. A Sigman. The look of shock must have been apparent for the well-dressed man started in as if the question had already been finished. “Mr. Domus, I am here as a legal representative and translator for my client who wishes to engage the services of you and your company for the transportation, in bulk, of religious paraphernalia.”

Max continued to stare open-mouthed. It took him, heroically he felt, only a few seconds to be able to respond. “Mister… uh, Sir. I’m not sure you’ve got the right guy for this. Yes this is a shipping business, but certainly your client . . .” he stopped, staring at the Sigman.

“I understand your concerns, Mr. Domus,” the lawyer said with the barest hint of disdain in his voice, “but my client also requests a degree of confidentiality. Something that you and your … employee can grant simply by being who you are. No one is likely to believe a washed-out pilot nor a terminally insane one.” Max momentarily wondered which epithet was being ascribed to himself. “That being the case, my client has purchased another local facility to serve as a destination for the product he requires. I believe that you’ll find our offer a tidy enough sum for your trouble.” A flat-screen touchpad was passed across the desk and Max briefly scanned the legal documents that flashed on it.

“Wait, wait. ‘Unspecified Religious Paraphernalia.’ What exactly is it I’m supposed to be hauling in? What can’t … uhh, he… get at home. Religion starts at home, don’t it?” Max was nervous. Two of his pilots had been busted by customs inspectors just last year; he didn’t want to draw any more attention down on himself if he could help it.

“Coffee.”

Max looked around for a clean cup, settled for one that wasn’t half-filled, and poured in a measure from the constant brew pot that his wife had given him on their only anniversary. He tried not to be embarrassed at the ‘pilots do it faster’ cartoon on the side.

“No, Mr. Domus. You misunderstand me.” The disdain was a touch more pronounced now. “You will be transporting coffee. Fresh coffee beans to be exact.”

“But… religious… coffee,” Max questioningly stammered.

The lawyer sighed and sounded as if he were explaining basic human functions to an infant. “My client is interested in coffee. On his world, just as on Earth, coffee was originally used in religious ceremonies. Unfortunately, it has been largely overused on his world and the original strains of the plant have long been extinguished. In their early exploration, the Sigmans were astounded to find similar plants here and took it as a sign from their deity. I do not doubt that in the future we shall unfortunately see a coinciding proliferation of Starbucks near tourist locales and spaceports. In the meantime, however, my client wishes to procure coffee. Fresh coffee. He will handle the transportation of the beans to his own world, your job is to bring it here to him. Unobtrusively.”

Max nodded, dumbfounded, and pressed his thumb to the bottom of the touchpad. There was an audible bleep before the pad was passed back across the desk to disappear into the lawyer’s briefcase. As it did, Max noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. The Sigman had picked up the cup, almost reverently, like a priest at Sunday mass. He… she… it held the cup briefly to its mouth and took the barest of sips. Lifting the cup in a kind of salute, the Sigman then stretched out arms that seemed unnaturally long to Max and held the cup in front of his face. With a slight tremble, Max took the cup and quickly gulped a swallow, not bothering to notice that it was sweeter than normal.

Before he could say anything else, the lawyer was already on his feet and moving towards the open door, the Sigman silently in tow. Max thought that the alien was vibrating slightly, but they were soon gone and he was alone in his office. Outside the rain came down in cold and blinding sheets, but inside the coffee kept him warm.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 1:02 pm

This is from an ongoing story that I've been writing...

Prologue

Pain.

This was the man's first thought as he awoke from the pull of his nightmares. His only vague recollections of the last few days were tortured screams, and always, always, the agonising pain. Soon, the screams would start again. Or would they? Lifting his head, the man attempted to get a grasp on his surrounding. However, to tell the current time was all but impossible, as he soon realised that the light that faintly glowed within the chamber came from a species of luminescent moss that thinly covered the bare rocky walls. Around his wrists were shackles, made out of a iridescent material, of which he could not recognise. Burnt into his naked chest was a symbol, an odd four pointed star, that contained a cross, each arm different lengths. He retched as the stink of seared flesh reached his nostrils, and tried to stand, only to find his ankles constrained by shackles of the same material as those surrounding his wrists. Giving up his struggle, the man returned to surveying that which was around him. To his right was another prisoner, obviously dead, whose skin was flayed from his skull, and no longer possessing his feet or hands. To the left was a door, constructed of solid iron, and covered in vicious spikes, which glinted menacingly. Now that his eyes had become accustomed ot the faint green light produced by the moss, the man could see that the chamber contained many other prisoners, all dead, seemingly tortured to death. At that moment, a bell started tolling, and the sound of grinding cogs reached the man's ears. The door to the left slowly opened, and an imposing figure in a black robe appeared in the doorway. The figure glanced up, flicked his wrist, and the room suddenly lost all light. The man quickly raised his head, and the pain started once again.
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theSeraph

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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 2:09 pm

"Happily Blissfully Unaware"

'Ignorance is bliss.' An old cliché used most often by those who are willfully ignorant of the world outside their doors. The comfortably numb set that never bothers to question what lies beyond their own front door, much less what lies beyond the horizon. I can only wish for such lost innocence and naiveté. I've seen such horrors that your nightmares would likely be pleasant were I to visit them.

I'd returned back from yet another tour serving the leaders of the free world. No, not that stubby president guy and the dumpy prime minister. They're figure-heads. At least most people recognize that. In any case, after years dealing with the walking dead, corrupt politicians, treacherous djinn, inner-city drug czars, riddling dragons, and disaffected youth, I was tired. Dead tired.

Doesn't matter if you've got a job like mine, or if you're something better like a teacher or a librarian or a musician, you've got to have a reason for it all. A reason to get up in the morning, a reason to keep on existing, a reason not to simply throw it all away. I had something like that once, but all the nightmare memories and unforgettable dreams since then have chased it from my mind not unlike how a child abandons one desire as soon as another emerges.

I'd met a new desire. Found her actually as she lay on a beach somewhere sunny. Not a care in the world past how long she'd been lying about and when she'd have to turn over so that she wouldn't burn. I wanted her, and she seemed to want me. Or at least the me that presented to the blind and unobservant public at large. She could have been something special, but who was I to ruin the rest of her life by telling her what really went on behind the scenes.

That's why I'm here. That's why I'm lying on this operating table waiting for them to bore something into my brain while funneling some strange cocktail into my veins. Afterwards, I'll hopefully not recall a bit of this. Pleasant dreams.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 5:43 pm

I still don't recall how it happened exactly...

I thought my life was out of the ordinary, but it was normal compared to what would happen afterwards. I had a job, friends, family, a house. Then, it all vanished.

Something happened, and I messed with the wrong people. Next thing I know, my house catches fire. The police blamed it on faulty wiring, but I knew it was arson.

A couple friends of mine got into a car accident. Again, the police blamed it on something else; they blamed it on drunk driving. However, I knew what really went on that night.

My family was suddenly gone, and my cell phone was bugged, so I couldn't call the cops.

Soon afterwards, I got a call. Either I died, my family died, or I did work for them. I chose work. Little did I know what I would be doing.

My new life seemed more like death than dying would have. I became a completely new person. I went by an alias, was given new clothes, and I was completely cut off from everything else.

After a few jobs, I found that killing really wasn't hard, and a few after that, I started to enjoy the experience of watching people die slowly from blood loss with a terrified look on their face.

I was paid well, and had benefits, but I lost my morality. Somebody asked me if I was worried about Heaven or Hell and I told them I had no soul to be punished or rewarded.

I didn't meet my boss until after many people had been slaughtered by my hand and gun.

He told me I was a good man. I responded with a bullet to his head. It felt good. I killed the man who killed me. I thought I was free, but no, that was just the beginning...
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 5:58 pm

Amazing stories! Bravo!
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Thu 06 Nov 2008, 6:05 pm

i speak for all of us when i say thanks
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Fri 07 Nov 2008, 8:53 am

"The Can-Opener Conundrum"

Mata was the eleventh victim, found eviscerated on the floor of her workshop. The glistening contents of her body spread around her like a shimmering halo of light and glory.

The city-factory was buzzing with news of the terminations. It would be inaccurate to say that fear was sweeping the streets, but the fact remained that after their duties, most citizens retired until again required at work. Thus, the streets were empty when I stepped out at 2300 hours in my increasingly vain search for clues.

I stopped at Lie Zi’s for a quick drink to loosen me up. The serving girls were nervous; every one of the terminations had occurred at this end of the city-factory and Lie Zi’s place was surrounded by darkened, trash covered streets. It couldn’t have been a pleasant walk to or from work. I had lifted the mug of sludge Zi passed off as a “quality exotic beverage” and when I lowered it I found Leonardo sitting across from me. ‘Trouble,’ my mind instantly screamed. I ignored it. Probably not my first mistake of the night, but up there as one of the biggest.

“Whaddaya doing out, Talos,” he said in a slippery voice dripping with oil. “Wouldn’t think a man like you’d be down in these parts this time of night.” When he grinned I wanted to bust his cheap, fake, porcelain teeth in.

“None of your business, Leo,” I intoned, trying to sound menacing. “Best just leave it be and be on your way.”

Apparently, my attempts at intimidation were disastrously catastrophic. “Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Wouldn’t be out, say, looking for them as what eviscerated those dames, hmm,” he asked. “I can take ya around. Show you the sites, Talos. I know things. Know folks.”

I did my best to give him a steely-eyed stare to show him that I meant business. “Alright, Leo. Show me.” I chugged back the rest of my snake oil, and got up.

* * *

The eleven bodies of the victims had all been badly, savagely torn open. Ripped open before their insides were torn out. Eviscerated. I’d already seen the hollow shells of their bodies, now I was seeing the hollow shells of the homes they’d left behind. Leo seemed to be a bit too enthusiastic about showing me the various crime scenes, taking a perverse pride in pointing out how the seeming randomness of the victims, the haphazard selection of their homes, the general clutter and untidiness left behind by a suddenly vacated life.

“Bit like the old days, huh, Talos? Like the old days, right? All savage and bestial, predator and prey.” His grin was almost maniacal.

“Shut up, Leo.” His capering about was making my head throb in time with his booted feet striking the floor.

“And no one seen it,” he practically wailed. “Like a ghost done it. In and out. No one seen.”

“Shut up, Leo.”

“Someone done pulled one of them, one of them, whaddaya call it, one of them, dues ex machinas or something.’ They were here, then poof! They gone.”

“Shut,” my fist seemed to seize Leo of its own volition. “Up.” His face began to shift colors as my hand squeezed down. “Leo.” There was a flash of reflected light from off to the left. From the corner of my eye, I managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of a strangely shaped blade before it pierced Leo’s hide. With a series of rapid jerks, whether from my hand or Leo’s convulsing body I’ll never know, Leo’s hide was ripped apart and his interior parts began to spill to the floor in a series of chiming, clanging, banging shocks.

He stared incredulously back at me, his hands clawing at my face and arms. One lucky swipe managed to tear off the metallic mask that I wore revealing the flesh beneath. “Deus ex machine, Leo? More like a ghost in the machine.”

His body fell to the floor. One more robot slain by the sole remaining human on earth.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Fri 07 Nov 2008, 11:10 am

clapping happily

Thanks for sharing!
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PostSubject: Free Form Poetry   Sat 08 Nov 2008, 1:18 pm

Warning: Some people may find this disturbing.

One Last Knight

Lying on my bed, down my back a shiver runs
Anticipation quickens my step, and yet, when I look at him
Going all the way, very first time, I want to revel
Completely in the joy...pain...release...ecstasy
Hands tremble, my clothes are cast off, I lick my lips
Tonight, fully, well we know the other
Through all my life, my tears, he
Held me tender, gave me comfort
Soft caresses, his marks still on my skin
Hugging him, I press him closer to my breast
Flesh cold, but his strength felt
Warmth flowing into him, he trembles as I
His symbol of strength, what makes him
Sliding up and down my body
I lick it's tip, sharp, red, warm, for a moment shamed
I turn away, for never like this have I known him
Penetration! I moan, pleasure, pain, love all rolled into one
Again! Neither prepared, the joy overwhelms the pain
Once more! I already fell the throes of passion beginning to ebb
Exhaustion overcomes me, I lie back to rest
But excitement keeps me awake, a final gift my beloved has given me
The black knight looks in the eyes
He kisses them both, my eyelids close
Kisses my lips, a last breath leaves my mouth
Lets go of my body, yet holds me still
I see myself through his eyes
My body, lying in bed alone
It's sheets, stained of red ichor
My love's marks, old and new, releases of pain, visible
His three thrusts, last escape from this hell, over my heart
And still it flows from my arms dripping on the floor
One last shudder, I lie still
My lover, my blade falls silently into that pool of blood
Death, that knight, has come to take me home


Last edited by Razzi3l on Thu 13 Nov 2008, 9:47 am; edited 4 times in total
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PostSubject: Shakespearean Sonnet   Sat 08 Nov 2008, 1:20 pm

Beautiful Words

For thou to form thy beauty from mere words
To let the blind experience sublime
When thou speaketh, thou attract us in herds
Truly thou art is as endless as time

Merely knowing you is a gift bestowed
Every meeting is a cherished moment
Your departing leaves everyone locoed
Your return makes them all, again, peccant

A cunning incubus, you steal my breath
You words are like the diamonds in the sky
Your soul and spirit, alive after death
Burning brightly long after your last good bye

Enraptured by your being, I am lost
To love you fully, no matter the cost


Last edited by Razzi3l on Thu 13 Nov 2008, 9:48 am; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Part one of a set   Mon 10 Nov 2008, 10:57 am

"I Hate Mondays"

I used to be a police detective before some government twat stuck his nose too far in my business and got it smashed with all the righteous indignation my fist could muster. God, I hate being called a bastard. In any case, I still had a few friends on the force; blokes I could call if things got too weird out on the streets.

These days, I keep a little office. I still do the detective work, but most of the time it's tracking down stray pets, runaway kids, cheating spouses. Tame stuff. There's plenty of stuff out there that'd peel the skin from your eyes, but I had enough of that when I was gainfully employed. Mostly I sit at my desk, close my eyes, and try and drink enough to chase the memories away without killing myself in the process.

That's more or less what I was doing when my door opened that Monday afternoon. Right away, I knew it was trouble. The guy had that stereotypical government look - suit, tie, dark glasses, cheap shoes, the whole bit. His voice sounded like someone had filled his cheeks with rocks, but unlike Demosthenes this guy never recovered. "Mr. Spade," he rumbled.

"Yeah, you got me dead to rights," I quipped. "What can I do for ya?"

He walked forward, reaching my desk far faster than most folks normally do - the empty cans, stacks of books, and unidentifiable bags and jars tend to slow 'em down - and I immediately noticed that he was one tall son-of-a-bitch. He practically dropped a briefcase on my desk apparently unconcerned with the stacks of paper that were dislodged. The snaps of the locks releasing from the front of the case sounded for all the world like gunshots. "A few questions if you don't mind," he said, but before I could say that I did he went on. "You are Jonathon Spade, formerly of the Brisbane Police Department. Formerly a professor of Classical studies at the Queen's College." I was already nodding my head. Best to let bad memories slide past as quickly as possible without dwelling on the other questions that he could be asking - like why everything good in my life was 'formerly.' "Jonathon Spade, son of Margaret Spade," he stopped and looked up - or rather down - at me. The bare bulb hanging above him didn't improve the view; the shadows dripping down his face made him seem more sinister than I would've liked.

"Yeah, Margaret Spade was my mother." That's why I hate being called a bastard. "And I was a professor, and I was a detective. That's all old news. What can I do for you today?" I wanted him to tell me whatever it was so that I could refuse and get back to my healthy state of melancholy stupor.

"You will have heard about the disappearance of three prominent youths from the local university," he croaked out while leaning down over the desk. The closer he got, the more uneasy I became.

"Yeah, yeah. I mean, I read about it in the papers. Only it was four of 'em, wa'n't it?"

"Three, Mr. Spade. You're services are engaged to find out about why the three students were murdered."

I nearly shot out of my chair. As it was in my typical state of inebriation I simply sat up a bit straighter, only to have to steady myself by gripping the edges of my desk. "Look, pal. I don't know what kind of game you think this is, but I don't handle stuff that serious. If you think those kids have been killed, I'd suggest you go talk to the cops. The door's behind you; best you'd be making yourself acquainted with it."

Apparently my tough guy act had no effect because he kept right on talking. "I have here photos from the crime scene. You will, of course, keep these in the strictest confidence. Details of the events have not been made public for very good reason." He produced a large manila envelope from out of the case and dropped it on my desk. All of the information you need is inside, including a check retaining your services." The briefcase clicked shut with all the finality of a coffin-lid closing, but my eyes were riveted on the envelope. It wasn't sealed shut and the edge of a photograph had slipped out.

Involuntarily, my hands reached out and dumped the contents of the envelope onto my already full desk. As the glossy images slid and settled across the landscape, they seemed to fall into line like some ghastly cartoonist's sick joke. Images of a room, somewhere downtown judging by the scant view afforded from one of the windows. There didn't seem to be much in the way of furniture, but there was lots of color. Most of it in shades of red and flesh. Doctors and phlebotomists will tell you that there's about five liters of blood in the human body; judging by these pictures if those three kids had been in this room they didn't leave with anything in their veins. There seemed to be bits of things here and there, but perhaps it was best that you couldn't tell whether they were fingers or arms or ears or what have you. I was about to ask what the hell was up when I noticed one photo that was mostly obscured by the two on top of it. Pulling it out, it was instantly noticeable that there was a meter-diameter circle in the middle of the room that was completely clean. There didn't appear to be a single drop of red anywhere in that pale creamy blot. There was some sort of scorch mark in the very center, and some strange color marking the very edge of the circle ring. Pulling the image closer to my face it was suddenly clear that the edge of that circle was marked with dark blue, almost violet, letters. Words, actually, in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and what might have been Arabic.

As I looked up, the puzzlement must have been plain on my face because my visitor responded almost immediately. "Yes, Mr. Spade. I can see that you recognize it. Blue blood, royal blood, inscribing a circle of protection." His long black gloved finger stabbed accusing down, tapping the black smudge in the center of the picture. "But apparently not everything went as planned. Find the Prince, Mr. Spade. Find out why he risked the life of his classmates. And bring him back. Even if it means dragging him back from Hell yourself."

Damn, I hate Mondays.









(As the title says, this is part one of a set. Think of it sorta like the first chapter in a (very very very very) short novella. )
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Wed 12 Nov 2008, 7:12 am

excerpt from a scene...


There was a faint sound, barely audible... the ticking of an antique watch, or perhaps gears of some kind, or even the arthritic popping of muscle, sinew, and bone... when he sat down. He looked tired, haggard, old. His eyes were deep and cold with only a faint hint of the warmth they once held. When he began to speak his words were slow and raspy, but slowly they gained strength and power as if once started their release couldn't be stopped.

"You're wondering how I got this way, I know. It started out maybe twenty years ago. I had pieces of me almost literally ripped out. When I was almost alive again, I tried crawling into a bottle to finish the job. By the time I crawled back out, I was something less than human, but only a little more than an animal.

"I was, I am, missing something inside. Something that seperates you and me. Something that makes people more than shadows on a wall. I could feel that absence and it hurt. Without it I was scared of myself, of what I could do, of what I might become.

"I started to fill that hole, to shore up what was left of my soul and my sanity with other things: honor... duty... even love. But none of those things came from outside. They weren't mine, weren't truly me. I used them to seem more human, less like me. Came to rely on them.

"People see those things first. Take it as a first impression, find themselves impressed and don't look deeper. When the mask cracks and they see the darkness, the violence, the horror that lies beneath, they do one of two things. They assume that it only makes me more human - balances out the perfection that they mistakenly assumed was there. Or they realize that it was only a mask and get as far from me as they can, recognizing that I'm not like them. That I'm a monster on the inside, a predator, a danger.
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PostSubject: Not Real   Thu 13 Nov 2008, 9:52 am

Faint Smile

There she was, leaning against the wall near the water fountain. Her feathery brown hair cascaded down her shoulders like a graceful waterfall. Her radiant face demanded awe struck facial expressions from the boys who passed by her. She had big brown chocolate kisses with almonds on the middle for eyes, which were currently busy running from side to side at a note she held in front of her. It was the love note I had left in her locker. I told her to wait for me after school in the place she now stood; waiting patiently for that admirer I hoped would be the man of her dreams.

I started walking towards her, slowly and steadily, approaching the judge of my love life. Each step sent a cold chill up my spine. My arm hairs would climb on top small, round bumps on my skin and stand as if proud of my courage.

With a heart pounding on my chest like a woodpecker, I spoke into the silence between us, saying: “Hey,” in a loud, squeaky voice. She lifted her head up immediately so her eyes met mine.

“So, you were the one who wrote me this lovely poem?” she asked in a calm, soft, natural tone.

The hallway was hushed following the quick exit of the student body from the building. The dead silence was broken only with the rustling of papers around the corner; a teacher preparing the next day‘s lesson. I had carefully planed the words to say the night before and was ready to execute the next phase of the moment.

“Why you ask? Are you surprised?” I said back.

Her right eyebrow instantly shot upward in a quizzical glance.

“No, I just wish you had told me sooner,” she said with a worried look on her face. “I…I already have a boyfriend.”

Maintaining a cool, collected demeanor, I laid my left hand to rest on her bare right shoulder. Then I slid my fingers down her arm slowly, making sure I acted with smooth, calculate gestures, finally taking hold of her hand. I lean in closer to her and whispered in her ear, “I’m not interested in him; I’m more interested in you.”

She began to breathe a little more heavily and her palms became moist. I pulled my head back from the side of her face and we locked eyes in an intimate gaze that made the surrounding world fade from existence. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back. Not letting go, I reach over with my other hand and start stroking the bottom of her hair. She cracks a slight smile and rubs her lower jaw through my fingers. I lean in once more, where I begin to smell her neck, traveling north until I reach her ear and whisper, “all you have to do is say please.”

“No, no. no…I’m not going to beg,” she utters.

I just say, “Ok…” and cover the back of her neck with both hands, pulling her close to me.

I even let her lips get close to mine, as if we’re about to kiss but not just yet. We get closer and closer. The atmosphere thickens as a fog of emotion consumes the air. I take one last glance at her pillowy lips before I close my eyes and kiss her so passionately that all my dreams become reality and my reality becomes dreams. At that moment all I could feel was joy and at the same time remorse; excitement and at the same time fear.

Just then, I felt a rapturous grab at the back of my shirt that ripped me apart from our kiss. The giant hand threw me to the floor and I rolled across the ground in agony. I was too afraid to open my eyes but I did squint in the direction of the hand that pushed me. Overshadowing me was a monstrous, muscle-bound creature the size of a mammoth.

“What choo doing wit ma girlfriend, punk?” cried the creature.

I yelled, “Please!” and fling my arms at him before I see four gargantuan white knuckles coming right at me.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Sat 15 Nov 2008, 9:59 am

Part two of a set. Part one - "I Hate Mondays" is above


“The Adventures of Charlie Tiki”

Old Charlie Tiki was a tough gent. He’d been around the world more times than you could count. He was seal-skin brown with this rough, dry hair closer to tree bark than anything else you could imagine. His eyes were the clear, deep blue of the reflected summer sky in a deep pool of Pacific sea-water.

He wasn’t really loyal to anyone or anything, except maybe truth and freedom. So when I told him about my latest case, he was obviously interested.

“Apparently, the Prince of England has been here for some time, attending the local university. However, from what I can tell of his grades, he’s not necessarily here to learn much of anything. I’d wager instead that he’s taking advantage of the local nouveau-royalty and their penchant for exotic parties.”

Old Charlie seemed to be statue carved out of peat and painted for all the feedback I was getting. I was about to give up. I knew that I needed some back-up for this case, and I had been hoping that Old Charlie Tiki would be it – his knowledge of the esoteric, the mysterious, and the arcane was far greater than mine despite the fact that my name carried farther in the newspapers. That was an artifact held over from when the British Empire stretched from one pole of the world to another, one that the modern age had yet to completely erase.

Charlie looked at the photos spread on the table, their contrasting smears of red, blue, black and brown. “Spade,” despite speaking softly, his deep voice seemed to rise up from my bones rather than pass through the intervening air to my ears. “This is something beyond over-indulged children shoving things up their noses and drinking things they shouldn’t. This is magic of the foulest sort.”

I nodded with a sigh. “That’s why I’m here, Charlie. I need help on this one, I’m not ashamed to say.”

Charlie nodded. I hoped it was an affirmation that he was going to help me and not just him agreeing that this whole mess was beyond me. “Some of the names written here, they are not correct. They do not match their cultures. Most seem connected to the sea, or to darkness. Ulanji’s rib-spawn and Tangaroa’s violent spume. Things here do not match up. Someone is dangerously ill-prepared, insane, or trying to merge the old gods of the old peoples. Knowing what we know, I’d wager a month’s pay that they’re insane.”

I tried to pry out what he was talking about by studying the pictures again. “Knowing what we know,” I repeated, unable to suppress a tone of curiosity.

“Yeah,” Charlie Tiki said. “We know that you and I have been caught up in this. That means that there’s something crazy going on.” He was grinning from ear to ear, and you just can’t hit an old guy with a smile like that.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Sat 15 Nov 2008, 10:01 am

"Human Pets"
Part 3 in a set.
Part 1 - I Hate Mondays
Part 2 - The Adventures of Charlie Tiki


It had taken Old Charlie Tiki and I some time to follow the clues that the Prince had unwittingly left behind. At least I hoped they were being left unwittingly. If not, then that meant that the Prince knew we were on to him and was doing all of this on purpose to lead us on some grand chase for reasons best not known to Man. I made the mistake of opening my mouth about these suspicions to Charlie. He of course had an answer for me. He’s always got answers. None of them necessarily things you want to know, but as Charlie says, if you don’t want to know, don’t ask the questions.

“Look at it this way, Max,” he started, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk. As this was not the healthiest occupation in London, I quickly pulled him to the side so that we were sheltered in the lee of a large building. “We go looking for patterns because we’re detectives each in our own way and we’re good at finding things. But there are those who go looking too far, finding patterns where none should exist. Numbers reoccurring, strange correlations between the cousin of your father and your sister’s accountant, the alignment of stars in the sky. Anything really.

“Looking for motives in the actions of a madman, though, Max? That’s a sure fire way to wind up just as crazy yourself. There’s some pattern or reason or logic, yes, but don’t crawl too deep into his head or you might not find your way out.”

Little did Charlie know that I already knew a great deal about the royal family, having been on retainer for the Crown on at least two prior occasions. Of course, that was prettying up what really happened. In truth they sent some one around to fetch me and then told me what I was going to do. We commoners were little more than something else that filled their world – like air or insects or food. In some ways we were entertainment in their eyes – meant to be enjoyed, maybe shared with others, maybe hoarded for a time, but ultimately disposable when it came right down to it.

But the things we’d seen so far tracking down this bloody murderous Prince made me think that there was something else going on behind the scenes. Yeah, he was in to some sort of black magic, but there was a deliberateness to it that didn’t quite mesh with the lazy, spoiled petulance I had previously associated with the crown prince. It made me think there was something else at work here, something beyond the Thrones, something that was using the Prince in the same way that royalty often used the commoners.

I thought about all of this while we walked back to my office where we found a package waiting for us. There was no return address, but the plain brown paper had the faint scent of sulfur about it. I dreaded opening it; opened a bottle of whiskey instead. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to tell Charlie anything with the start of an afternoon’s glass in my mouth and he opened it anyway.

The contents were somewhat confusing. It was a collar of some thick dark leather, reinforced with iron ribs, and bearing an O-ring in the front. Its size was clearly showed that it was likely meant for a human to wear. Some human pet. The scent of sulfur was much stronger, almost pouring off of the leather of the collar. Charlie held it for a moment, then threw it across my desk.

When I held it up to the light, I almost groaned aloud for all around the O-ring was engraved the motto and emblem of the Royal house.
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Wed 03 Dec 2008, 11:29 am

OK, this is from a paper I wrote in college. In its essence, it's a pair of true stories; however, I did take some liberties with things like dialogue (in part because I've got a crap memory at times and in part to make it more 'story'-like).


Remembrances

It was one of our typical college evenings. We gathered at our usual table for dinner, and discussed what we would do for the rest of the evening. Not that it needed much discussion. Of course we would do what we always did on Thursday nights: play roller hockey, break, and then roll-play until the early hours of the morning. Same old routine. Different from the rest of the campus, fun and exciting, but still complacent and ordinary for us.
At the game things got fast and energetic, as always, and after about thirty minutes we were all filled with the friendly spirit of competitive rage. I was goal tending during one particularly hectic series of scuffles on the floor.
"Come on, Puck! Get on 'im! Get the god-damned puck," I screamed. As if in response, the puck shot out of a tangle of legs and sticks. I skated out to deflect it from the goal and managed to send it into one corner. I watched as Martin, Mike, and Brad shot away from the clump at center 'ice' to chase after it. "He's on ya, Puck. Watch yer back," I called as I turned to return to my position.
Mike, being on Martin's team, turned away from the chase. "Claymore! Pass it," he screamed, while the rest of my team, excluding Brad, slowly skated back to help with the defensive struggle against Mike and Martin's combined skill.
Suddenly, from the corner came a slap shot. I don't know from whom, but it screamed in front of the goal before I could even get near it. I called out to my defense, "Get back here, assholes!" Mike shot out after the puck. However, our two paths were doomed to intersect near the goal.
As Mike realized how close I was to him, he raised his stick in an attempt to get it clear of contact - understandable since Mike is so much taller than I am. Unfortunately, he wasn't as quick this time. The blow to the side of my head knocked me off balance, and I fell to the floor, my glasses flying off out of range of my now impaired vision.
I could hear Mike laughing, so I knew he wasn't hurt. He was right there beside me, helping me up. "You o.k., Stump?"
I laughed. "Yeah, just get me my glasses. Let's play."
Martin handed me my glasses, "You alright, man?"
I glanced down at my frames, noticing a lens was missing. I sighed. "Yeah. Anybody see my lens," I asked stooping down. This kind of thing happened all the time. A lens would pop out, I'd pop it back in. I picked up a shard of my plastic lens, and felt a sigh roll through my body. "Shit." I stood up to find everybody standing around. "Well, just get the bits off the floor, and let's play."
"No way, man. You're bleeding," Mike said.
"What?" I reached up over my right eye, and brought down my hand to find crimson-stained fingers. I wiped the blood on my jeans, and put my hand back to the injury. After a second of pressure, I brought the hand away again. Again blood. Again pressure. Then, no blood, at least not flowing. "O.K., it's stopped. Let's play."
"Let me see," Martin said. It soon became a chorus repeated by everyone until they had each seen it. "Man, you need to go to the hospital."
"Hospital? No way. It's just a scratch. Let's play."
"No. Doug. Go take a look."
I skated to the men's restroom. Sure enough, there over my right eye was a small gash. As I was inspecting it, in skates Mike with a trainer who had been elsewhere in the gym. The trainer confirmed Martin's suggestion of the hospital, so the game was canceled, I was driven to the hospital, and I received three stitches.
For the next week, I had to endure the inevitable question, "what happened to you," as well as Mike's unending apologies. In response to the question, I would smile and say, "My friends. I've got great friends." I just told Mike to shut the hell up.

~ * ~ * ~

I knew a guy in high school who had HIV. One of those one-in-a-million cases where an individual gets tainted blood during a transfusion. See, Phillip Tracey was a bleeder. Not a hemophiliac, really, he just always seemed to get cut somehow, and it always seemed to take forever for it to stop. Anyway, he had been in a car wreck or something, and naturally, gotten cut. At the hospital, he got the bad blood, and months and months later got the first symptoms. The doctors said that it showed up so quick because his body had gone through so much trauma due to the accident, and while his body was trying to fix itself, and stop some other kind of infection, the HIV+ blood just managed to spread its way through his body, and the virus got a foothold that it wasn't gonna let go. I first met Phillip Tracey at the hospital. I went with one of my best friends. He and Phillip Tracey had grown up together, so they were pretty close. We all sat, talked, and played cards for as long as the nurses let us, and by the time I left I had started to make a new friend.
Anyway, Phillip Tracey was in and out of the hospital all the time, but eventually they let him come back to school. No one was supposed to know that he was HIV+ but the administration and the school nurse. The teachers knew that we had a couple of HIV+ students, but they weren't supposed to know who unless the students themselves decided to let people know.
I had always been a sort of social outcast. Everyone knew me, knew my name, knew that I was intelligent, stuff like that, but only my friends knew what I was like, what I thought. They were the only ones who bothered to get to know me, who took the time to try to understand. Hell, that's what we did for each other. We were close, tight, but willing to accept anyone because of who they were, not what they wore, what they did, or shit like that.
When people first found out that we had HIV+ students, the other students suspected us. There were all kinds of rumors at school. But, it did make some of the kinder students ask us questions, questions that we answered with the truth. "No, it's not me, but I know who it is. They're o.k. You can't get 'it' unless you etc. etc. etc"
Then, somehow, they found out that it was Phillip Tracey. People started putting pressure on him. All the stress made him get sick, and he had to leave school again to go back to the hospital. Things sort of quieted down after that.
I was walking home from school one day, no real reason why. I think my car might have been in the shop or something. It wasn't a big deal, really. After all, I lived less than two blocks from the school. As I was walking, this car pulls up beside me, going real slow, as slow as I walk. Over the engine and the radio, I heard, "Hey, isn't that the AIDS lover." I was used to this kind of shit, so I didn't say anything. I just kept walking as if it were a typical day, and they kept yelling and jeering as jerks will always do. I made it to the end of the first block where I thought the guys would turn and leave since I wasn't giving into their little game. I crossed the street, and kept on walking. About half-way to my house, close enough to see it even, they sped up a little and pulled over in front of me. These guys get out of their car, and start walking towards me, saying, "where you going, huh? why don't you go back to your little gay boy, AIDS-lover?"
I said something. It could've been something smart like, "I don't want any trouble guys." It could've been something stupid like, "Cause you're much cuter." Then they were all on me. I was knocked to the ground. My glasses flew off. I heard one of them laughing. I tried to get up, but somebody kicked me. I couldn't believe it. Here I was, within sight of both my house and the school, houses all around us, and these guys are trying to beat me up. There was nothing I could do. I wasn't really a violent person then. All I can remember is curling up in a fetal ball, being punched and kicked. And their taunts. The hatred in their words. The ignorance.
They stopped, I don't know why. They stopped, got in their car, and drove away. I got my glasses and my backpack, dusted myself off, and went home. By the time my parents got home from work, I had cleaned myself up. I didn't have any visible marks on my face, so they didn't know. I didn't tell them.
I told my friends. I told Phillip Tracey.
He was sitting up in his hospital bed; he looked bad, real bad. I told him, and he started crying, he couldn't stop. I sat there with him for the longest time.
"Why? Why did they beat you? Why didn't you . . .," he sobbed, unable to continue.
"Because we're friends."
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Fri 16 Jan 2009, 10:26 pm

discoalienpro wrote:
suck is subjective
what one thinks, others may not
post some anyway
that was awesome
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PostSubject: Re: Words, words, words...S   Sun 18 Jan 2009, 5:07 pm

The Will is imperative, but it is never easy.
If it was then there'd be no point.
There would be executors but no paragons.
To travel is to fall. And you'll fall a hundred, thousand times.
You leave your friends to find your wards, and in between a lifetime full of void.
The only sound you hear is the fluttering of feathers against wind that isn't there.
Twisting, turning, falling, burning.
There is not anything that can strip your mind like nothing...




twisting...



turning...



falling...



burning



and without reward.

And then you have to come back.

Every inch of that wild, dark chasm.

Where the voices from the edge whisper ever step, twice-hard what it used to be.

Sometimes you'd rather just stay.
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