# Spontaneous Writing Challenge



## Apple Ice (Dec 19, 2013)

*Basically the rules are: you can't leave this post (you clearly can, this part isn't the challenge) without writing something completely off the top of your head, it can be any length, any genre, ANYTHING. But it has to be on the spot and not something you've been working on. I would prefer if there was a serious attempt seeing as there is already a popular thread dedicated to purposely bad writing.
This is just a fun, army-styled intensive writing challenge - the most exciting sentence ever written. 

It says "1" in the title due to a glitch, btw.

I will start off and try my own. (Language)

*"I fucking swear down, mate. When he got up he thought he was black for like 5 seconds."

"I'm going to stop listening to you now."

"Ask Jimmy, he will tell you the exact same thing."

"You did not punch someone so hard they thought that they were black, Tyler."

"Punch you so hard in a minute you little shit."

Jack and Tyler glanced at each other and grinned widely as Courtney and Abbie sat opposite them bearing drinks. The pub was packed and the noise of elated muffled talking filled the air. 

"How old did you two say you were again?" asked Tyler.

"I'm 23, Abbie's 24. What about you?"

"We're both 20" said Tyler. This is a lie, they are both 17. 

An awkward silence fell between them all which Tyler saw as an opportunity to begin working his charm.

"Have you ladies ever heard of the Illuminati?" Jack muttered Jesus' name to let Tyler know of his disapproval but Tyler didn't care. 

"It's like this organization type thing, right, and they just pretty much control everything, like all the rappers and presidents of the world. Apparently, this is what I've heard but i might be bollocks, they are run by lizards from space."

"Oh my fucking God, yes!" Courtney shouted, overpowering all other sounds in the pub and attracting eyes. When she realized she and Abbie giggled at each other playfully. Jack knew he wouldn't like these girls.

Courtney and Tyler wasted no time in jumping in to a debate about how influential the Illuminati actually were, Tyler thought very, Courtney thought "even more than very."

Jack looked at his designated girl carefully and decided she was nice enough looking. As far as he was aware non of his friends have slept with a black girl before so he saw this as his chance to become a trend setter. 

"What do you do, Abbie?"

"I'm a drama student. I'm quite active in the Green Party though so that takes up a lot of my time. I go on a lot of protests and stuff."

Fucking hell.

"Ah that's really interesting. So do you act and all that jazz? Excuse the pun." he said with a smile.

"Yeah we act but we don't do jazz." He quickly realized she was being serious and became anxious to leave. However, it was obvious at this point that Tyler would only leave if Courtney was with him. He braved conversation once more.

"How long have you known Courtney?"

"Like 2 years. It was weird though because my horoscope said I would meet someone that year with blonde hair and a name that began with C, but Courtney has brown hair so I was _really _confused."

"I can imagine."

"Jack, me and Courtney are going back to her place, she knows these video's on YouTube that pretty much prove the Illuminati exist."

"I live in the same halls as Courtney so you could come with me if you wanted?" Jack couldn't believe his luck.

"Erm, yeah, okay then."

Tyler let out his biggest smile and attempted to high- five Jack which he thought was a bit inappropriate.

As the girls left to go to the toilet before they all departed for halls. Tyler turned to his happy friend.

"This is going to be SO sick! Do you reckon' they'll give us a foursome?" 

"Haha, I don't know, mate. I fucking hope so, we would be Gods."

They both frowned with confusion as an unfamiliar and aggressive voice addressed them from behind.

"Oi, you fucking prick. Stare at me and my mates one more time and i'll fucking drop you, you dopey prick."

The smell of beer radiated from the man like heat, his face was haggard and scared. 

"Fuck off back to your mates before I wrap a pint glass across your face, you ugly mug." The man was obviously taken aback from Tyler's retort and quickly lost confidence when Tyler stood, showing his height and width like a gorilla trying to impress a potential mate. Jack was watching the aggressor friends stood at the bar. Unsurprisingly, Jack thought, the man began walking backwards to his mates, occasionally swearing at Tyler.
The girls appeared from the toilets non the wiser and they all left the pub.

Tyler, after a lot of subtle hand sliding, finally managed to place his palm on Courtney's arse as they were walking. Jack was listening to Abbie about her super hard dance routine she had to come with by Monday.

As Tyler hit the floor and the girls screamed the pissed man shouted "who's the big man now, you fucking mug!"

Jack instinctively punched the man as hard as he possibly could which turned out not to be very hard. It was enough to send the man running back to the pub however and for him to check on Tyler.
30 seconds after being rolled on his side Tyler regained conscientious and looked at Jack like a startled deer.

"What happened?"

"That bloke hit you from behind."

"Where is he, I will knock him out."

"He ran off, mate."

"Where are the girls?"

"Fuck knows. Must have ran off too."

"Why do bad things happen to good people."

Jack laughed as he pulled Tyler to his feet. 

"Well I just proved my point. I thought I was black when I woke up."

They both laughed and walked home.
*
This is obviously not very good, the pace is too fast and whatnot but I think you get the gist. Just have a go, could end up stumbling on to your next WIP.*


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## Staff Deployment (Dec 19, 2013)

"Look, there are two ways this can go down," said Boxer. "I can shove you off the plane, or you can fly us to Washington State."

"First off, this isn't a plane," said Dr. Bones. "Secondly, I'm a doctor, not a pilot, and you're in a mental asylum."

"FLY US TO WASHINGTON," screamed Boxer.

Dr. Bones sighed. His trick hadn't worked. He turned the plane around.


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## Pluralized (Dec 19, 2013)

**Horrible**

I've made my peace with it, but still get wistful when I drink the stuff. It's like someone puts their hand down into my esophagus and tickles my kidneys from the front-side, see. Since Abigail tore her phone number out of my little contacts-book, I don't even think of her anymore. Bitch woke up before me, so I'm told, and had quietly lifted all my vinyl and half my collection of fifties-era Betty White memorabilia. When I awoke, it'd been like my top brain was swimming in syrupy booze, but the bottom half dried out and felt the electric sizzle of cold air. 

She sits in a chair, staring at me with a piece of tape across her mouth. I'm no better off, hands tied and feet bound to the bottom part of whatever kind of god-awful chair I'm in. She's got an urgent look in those wide blue eyes, but something practiced about the look throws me off. She's been here before, it seems. 
"Hey, asshole -" the stumpy little man says, walking around her chair and directly toward me, "haven't I told you to keep your fucking eyes off the girl? Don't even think about her. I'll cut you. Wanna fucking test me?" He paces between us, throwing his hands up in the air as he talks, forcing shadows and bright flashes of light as he walks between the lamp and where I sit. I make the mistake of smirking with my eyes. He doesn't scare me, but I'm sure he's capable of goon-style violence. He comes at me with both hands outstretched, and grabs my head. I'm defenseless, but I tighten the muscles in my neck against his attempt to snap my neck. He pushes one way on my jaw, and the other on my temple, straining with the effort. I'm reminded of Danny DeVito in Romancing the Stone, so I keep my panic reflex in check. 

He turns away, panting and embarrassed. During the struggle and his impotent display, I've managed to loosen the binding on my wrists, and I choose my moment wisely. I reach down while he's not looking and untie my ankles. He's catching his breath, so I work quickly and stand up. I'm a solid foot taller than him, and twice his weight. I grab him up by the neck and crotch, and smash his head into the concrete wall over and over and again and again, until pulpy white stuff is covering my arm and warm blood runs down my side. I drop his limp body and look over at her. She's terrified.


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## BryanJ62 (Dec 20, 2013)

*A Monster’s Confession*​
*May I begin with a confession: I love a good scare. I do not mean the kind of scare found in a horror novel or from a movie on a Halloween night. No, I mean a real scare. The kind where noises can be heard from impossible places. Sounds of a baby's cry heard deep inside the walls of a two-story home. Or a lullaby of laughter dancing its way from the depths of one's basement. A noise so hideous it makes your neck curl up inside. A sound you can hear but never see.  A feeling of helplessness that something is crawling closer and closer until it wraps its furry arms around you in its darkness. And it can only be heard when you are alone. All alone. You know it is death. 

I love a good scare. 

Allow me to introduce myself, I am a monster. I have no other name. I am the one who scares you at night. 

I doubt you have ever seen me. I use to scare you when you were small. Guilty.  When you were a child I use to whisper your name soft like a song until you woke in a chill of fright. Remember me? I would scratch the walls that surrounded your bed as you lay snug beneath the covers. My nails bleeding your name. Scratching a little harder, calling your name a little louder and stopping the moment you cried for your mother. Now do you remember? Poor little dear.

As an adult you never forgot who I was. Nor did you ever forgive me for what I did. You made excuses never to clean under your bed. Never to look for that special something if by chance it may be hidden below where you sleep. You lied to yourself and denied to your spouse your fear of the dark and what may be hidden under your bed or what may lurk between the walls. 

Your hands would hide beneath the covers, your blanket held tight above your ears. Oh yes, I own you. I control your nightmares. 

But lets stop for a moment. Enough bragging for today. I want to confess a small little secret. The secret is something I have kept hidden for eternity. No matter how much I bath in the comfort of your fear, drinking a toast to my own private party, I must confess with a pocket full of sorrow, if I had one wish to make I would like to be you for just one day.

I would like to be alive. I would like to have a day where I wake to a world where everything is bright. I would like to walk tall and feel the soft carpet tickle beneath my feet. I want to walk outside and smell the flowers, feel the wind in my face while standing beneath a bright blue sky. I want to feel the sun bake my tender skin as if I were a tasty biscuit browning inside a morning oven. 

I want to know why you laugh, why you feel sadness and why you cry when someone dies.

I want to feel another human being. Their warmth pressed against my body. Would I be sad or would I be happy? What does it feel like to make love? 

I want to be angry. I want to stare into a mirror and watch my face turn as red as lava. I want to throw objects against the wall and scream in frustration. I want to yell DAMN YOU and THE HELL WITH YOU and cry in someone's arms when I am lonely. I wish to be the sensitive type.

 I want to touch and smell and rub sex all over me. I would like to swim in it as if I were a fish in the deepest part of the ocean. Diving deeper and deeper until the darkness surrounds me for eternity. I envy you. Oh, how I envy you.

I wish I were not a monster for one day. Poor little me.



*


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## Apple Ice (Dec 21, 2013)

Thank you all for giving it as go. 
Blimey, all of your stories are very impressive, put mine to shame. All very original and fresh.  

Just read through mine again, apologies for the constant grammatical and Syntax errors as well as the generally bad story telling. I will redouble my efforts and try again soon.


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## Pluralized (Dec 21, 2013)

Hey, AI - I thought yours was pretty good, actually. This is a fun thread.


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## CarrieD (Dec 21, 2013)

"Hi Sarah, this is Beth from child services. We have a possible placement that we would like to discuss with you. Do you have a couple  minutes?" 
The voice on the other end of the phone line struck the perfect balance between cheerfulness and professional detachment. Female, of course. All the employees at the agency were female and usually young. You tended to get burned out quickly when you were inundated every day with horrors. The rundown was the same story that I had heard dozens of times. Heroin. A young mother in trouble with the law, no idea who the father was. Only the age was different with this one. An newborn, only two days old. 
"Any health problems?" I asked. Not so far but they had very little information. The mother had been stopped by the cops for a traffic violation and the car was filled with heroin, dirty needles, and a baby that would not stop crying. "Yeah, we will take her." Life was quiet right now. The children were all in school and the house seemed empty during the hours that they were gone.  
The car arrived an hour later, a baby brought by a stork in a bright red Explorer.  A hectic hour, trying to find all the baby things that were stashed in closets and under beds. I ran out to meet Melanie in the driveway. She had been here before, delivering children that stayed, sometimes for a night, and sometimes for months. She smiled and handed me a pink car seat. 
And I was fourteen again, allowed to hold the baby one time before she was taken away. She was lovely, with a head of dark curls and pink cheeks that curved into a smile. Gas, they told me, but knew it was a smile.


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## J Anfinson (Dec 21, 2013)

The leather of his holster creaked against his leg as he slowly walked into the town. Something wasn’t right—there should have been people sitting on the balconies and horses tethered to the posts outside the buildings, but the town was empty. When he pushed through the saloon doors he found out why.

People were sprawled on the floor and laying across tables. The coppery smell of blood was thick and he bent to examine the body by his feet. They'd been shot in the back of the head. Every one of them. It was like they'd been lined up and executed.

It looked as if Poke and his boys had moved up from cattle thieves to murderers then. What a way to start the week. He'd only hoped for a bath, maybe a shave, and one of the local girls to keep him company while he drank himself stupid. He stepped over the bodies and went around the back of the bar where he uncorked a bottle of whiskey. It was cheap stuff, but it would do.

He took a long pull from the bottle and pushed a skinny man in a suit out of a chair at one of the tables. The dead man hit the floor with a thump and the stranger sat down in his place. He drank whiskey while he thought about what he was going to do.


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## Jessie_ (Dec 27, 2013)

Sorry guys new to this but I'll give it a go ... :joyous:

An owl screeched, a wolf howled and a cold sharp wind blew through the trees. Fog snaked its way around tall beech trees, creating a river of blindness in the woods. It was a deathly night, the presence of the grim reaper stalked the darkness like a hawk stalks a mouse. The moonlight attacked the floor with a silver poison that smothered its victim and lit it up for the world to see, and point and laugh at its foolishness. Everything about this night was sinister. Nothing was inviting. Even the friendly chirp of a grasshopper sounded more like a haunting nursery rhyme sung by the devils children.


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## midnightpoet (Dec 31, 2013)

The Dragon quietly stepped behind his next helpless victim.  His eyes burned as he reached deep in his pocket for the switchblade.  He began to get a hard-on as he grasped the female by the neck and dragged her into the dark alleyway.  As the knife approached the silky throat he felt her hand, quicker and stronger than expected, grab his knife hand.  He felt his own body become helpless as he was slammed to the dust-covered ground.  He looked up and saw a .38 special pointed at his skull.  He began to cry.  Then he heard the words that he had often spoken, drilled back into his face.

"Any last words, bitch?"


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## KnightPlutonian (Jan 4, 2014)

A gun went off.

The pistol had gone off into the sky, harming only the clouds above. The people around him went out sprinting, focused not on the gun or the shooter but on moving as fast as possible. Thomas joined them in their mad dash. His long hair whipped about his face and the wind whistled in his ears, almost crowding out the screams that had erupted. Thomas felt his heart beating a rhythm faster than any he had heard before. His feet his the ground with lightning speed, moving him more quickly than he thought possible. His adrenaline began fading and his beating heart was becoming painful. His breaths were sucked in and pushed out with increasing desperation. He was about to collapse.

Then he crossed the finish line.


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## Apple Ice (Mar 18, 2014)

I feel I let this thread die too easily. I will give it another go. Thanks to those who have tried, all of it is great.


Thomas looks out to the masses of dirty and angry faces. He lets his mind ramble.
Peasants. Fucking _Peasants.
_Who are they to demand anything of me? They are nobodies demanding the death of an infant child. The cause I have dedicated my life to has been reduced to this?

In the crowd Thomas spots a man edging ever closer to the outdoor stage. His face is fixed on Thomas. Its eyes plea for his help. Thomas looks to the sky, cancelling out the noisy and bloodthirsty crowd. He has realised that the one thing he has always wanted, to be remembered a hero, will either fail or come to fruition in the next few minutes. 
If he succeeds and the child escapes, he will be known as the cowardly traitor. If the child then grows up and becomes the leader this world needs, he will be remembered as a God among men.
If he fails and the child dies, he will be remembered as the stupid general who died after suffering from madness. 

His mind is made. 

"Ladies and gentlemen." he says, quieting them with gestures from his authoritative hands. "This baby is to be condemned to die because its father is a bad person? Can any of you speak for this baby's character? Do you know it will be evil when it grows? The simple and logical answer, is of course, no." Thomas looks to the approaching man in the crowd again, his face is nervous but ready. They understand each other. 

"Guards, please move along until  this side of the crowd are no longer held back. Thank you." The guards tentatively comply. Thomas stays the approaching man with a subtle gesture of his hand.

"I can see by your faces you do not agree with me. I can hear from your screams you do not agree with me. BUT, let me ask you this, which of you will stop me?"

The approaching man has launched himself on to the stage and grabbed the crying baby. He looks to Thomas and nods in thanks without realisng a member from he crowd has drawn his blade and is making straight for himself and the baby. The crowd members throat ejects a marvelous display of blood which platters across Thomas and his blade.

The crowd becomes a mob.

"Run you fucking idiot!" commands Thomas. The man flees through the back of the stage and vanishes among the streets with a few quick thinking mobsters giving pursuit.

Thomas looks towards the mob and narrates to them one final time "Come on then, you squealing fucking pigs, you dirty rotten peasants! Let's see which one of you has it in you to kill General Thomas."

Thomas takes down 13 before he finally succumbs to the mob. The mob move on to find the baby.


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## Plasticweld (Mar 23, 2014)

"Really" I peer into the mirror. An old face looks back at me. I had just put on my glasses which are normally reserved for reading. I have heard the line before how we look like our fathers as we grow older. That was for other guys, not me.  That is until I really  looked at the old guy staring back at me. 

"It's in the drawer" my wife yells from the other room. The days of talking normally have long since vanished.  years of running a chainsaw have taken what little hearing I have left. 

"Huh"    "What's in the drawer"  I think she said as I yell back just to be sure, more out of habit than necessity.  

"The thing for cutting your nose hairs"  Yeah that's right, that's what I was sent in here to do.  I had never noticed them, of coarse with my failing eyesight I never would. 

I dig in the drawer to find this weird shape razor. I fiddle with the buttons to see which one turns it on.  Kind of an amazing little gizmo. 

I study my face in the mirror.  Apparently my poor eye sight has lead to me also missing a few spots on face while shaving. I do that kind of by feel.  little patches of grey beard are here and there. 

The little razor hums to life, even kind of tickles when I attempt to cut the hairs sticking out of my nose. 

I am not sure but something tells me that someone as suave as James Bond never had to cut his nose hairs. 

I now take  a few moments to take my razor and catch the spots I missed this morning. 


Taking off my glasses I am now ten years younger and handsome as ever. Easy to see why my wife of 37 years still finds me attractive. 




This thread is a trap!


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## Pandora (Mar 25, 2014)

_Melancholy . . . a beautiful word._

_Yes, a pretty word for a not so pretty place,_
_a place one can't quite place._

_It arrives in a fog, creeps in,
covers thoughts, grays it all 
so they don't matter, so nothing matters.

Melancholy,
the aftermath of trauma, maybe the precursor,
a sixth sense to doom, another word for gloom.
Readying a wall to damn the tears, 
in a blue numb fortress, the only place to hide.

Melancholy,
sounds like a tune of sad bells
echoing defeat
no . . .
no sound, it is silence 
except for the incessant heart beat
that just can't stop.
With each beat emotion lays silent,
stifled._


_Melancholy,
no energy for anger, no energy for tears. 
Fear is absent, there is no battle.
Yes, a defeat without battle.
No game no win, no gain to be had.

Melancholy,
walking in the rain without getting wet.
Can't see the birds, won't feel the sunshine.
Will not hear a voice or see a face . . .
no touch, don't touch.

Melancholy,
It is not living, it is life on hold
until time makes it a beautiful word again._


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## Apple Ice (Mar 25, 2014)

Hello Pandora,

Very lovely piece, I always find your use of language very ethereal.

Plastic, good piece. I'm not sure how you see it as a trap haha. But hey, trapping someone can only be a good thing I think.


Has anyone else noted that amount of guests that regularly view this thread? Hello, fly on the wall guests, you have been acknowledged as real people.


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## Pandora (Mar 26, 2014)

Apple Ice said:


> Hello Pandora,
> 
> Very lovely piece, I always find your use of language very ethereal.
> 
> ...


Thank you Apple Ice, kind to say.  I like your thread, I think those reading are enjoying.

I have another written off cuff after a rather wonderful moment in time, who can forget smiling eyes?_



mesmerize my eyes...


dancing through the day 

charmed 

lighted by attraction

feeling eyes upon me 

tempting


green calm hypnotize

caress my heart 

and captivate

trapped within a spell bound

fascination hold


bewitching and enchanted

influenced by the moment 

uplifted and entrancing

induce this lasting smile 


oh those eyes 

bedazzle

thrilling me to the core

just like a looking glass 

the window to your soul_​


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## 1109 (Mar 26, 2014)

So this is my first go? Be kind! Haha!

---

There was a darkness in that tree.

There are things that were, things that are, and things that will be. But the tree? The tree was unchanging. It had witnessed the rise and fall of towns and men, cities and civilizations entire. It stood alone, upon a hill that belonged simply, to it. In its days just past a sapling, it had been watered with the blood of innocents, a stoic god to a strange people. A symbol of life, and by proxy, life's antithesis: death. Years had passed in a tumble, and the strange painted men who placated with goats and the blood of their fellows gave way to the conquerors, as it always happens in the waft and weave of history. The conquerors were a brutal people, strangely childlike with their shaven faces and glittering eyes beneath sparkling metal and clinking sounds. Her branches had been cut to provide base material for these men of war. She had given of her sap and skin to fashion arrows and poles, cruel barbed things to deliver fate to their enemies. The tree had fought wars on foreign soil without ever moving an inch from her rooted ground.

Many years later, beyond the age of the men in bright iron, a queer folk had arisen in the quiet vacuum that the absence had left behind. As a punishment, these men strung their fellows like a macabre fruit from the boughs high above. They prodded and poked the often still twitching bundles with cruel devices of iron and steel. The tree's ancient appetites were once again rekindled as the blood of men soaked deep in her roots. And so it was, with a wind blowing softly from the south, to caress and tug dry leaves from her limbs, the tree awoke to the world for the first time. She saw without seeing, heard without hearing, and smiled without a mouth.

There was a darkness in that tree.


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## Ari (Mar 27, 2014)

Because of your second sentence, 1109, I read the whole thing in Galadriel's voice ^_~ 
I've never written anything this way before, this just-write-and-there-it-is-way. An interesting game.

---

A boy walks down the empty street, he wears unbroken moonlight on his skin. His great, swan-like wings are white as snow, he shivers in the cold. Why does he not wear a coat? He could not think moonlight would keep him warm.
Buildings rise high on every side, black-window eyes set in stony whitewash face. No one looks so no one sees, all are asleep as this boy walks on alone. Sometimes he murmurs to himself, a language that no one else cares to know.
Comes to a cross-roads, which way now? The streets have names but he finds no meaning there. He turns his head, this way and that, how can he know without a map or guide? Must he just keep walking on and on, as night turns towards cold day and clouds swirl up to hide the moon?
Very gently, it starts to snow again.


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## 1109 (Mar 27, 2014)

I agree, Ari. A very interesting game! I find myself curious about the boy in the snow despite myself. I feel like almost anything could happen from that happenstance. Haha!


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## midnightpoet (Mar 27, 2014)

The white tailed buck paused, sniffing the frigid early spring air for hints of danger.  He heard shuffling along the forest floor, but it was just a mother opossum, carrying three newborns on her back.  A squirrel chattered in a nearby tree.  The birds were silent, not a good sign.  He scratched his rump on a live-oak.  A hunter's bullet was lodged in his hindquarters, but he had been lucky. It was not major and had healed over; however, it still itched.   He had already been spooked twice this morning, having gotten the scent of died-out human campsites.  He was wary of clearings, but he was thirsty and there was a pond nearby.  After checking on one of his does, hiding in a thicket with her fawn, he trotted toward the pond.  He pawed the thin coating of ice and took a drink, raising his head every few minutes for signs of danger. As the breaking dawn whispered over the forest, the birds chirped again.


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## Pandora (Mar 27, 2014)

midnightpoet said:


> The white tailed buck paused, sniffing the frigid early spring air for hints of danger.  He heard shuffling along the forest floor, but it was just a mother opossum, carrying three newborns on her back.  A squirrel chattered in a nearby tree.  The birds were silent, not a good sign.  He scratched his rump on a live-oak.  A hunter's bullet was lodged in his hindquarters, but he had been lucky. It was not major and had healed over; however, it still itched.   He had already been spooked twice this morning, having gotten the scent of died-out human campsites.  He was wary of clearings, but he was thirsty and there was a pond nearby.  After checking on one of his does, hiding in a thicket with her fawn, he trotted toward the pond.  He pawed the thin coating of ice and took a drink, raising his head every few minutes for signs of danger. As the breaking dawn whispered over the forest, the birds chirped again.


Oh I got scared when he came into the open, so glad for a happy ending midnightpoet. I was there watching with you, so wonderfully written. When my birds go quiet
I get nervous, waiting for the chirps again. I really enjoyed this write thank you! more please


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## Pidgeon84 (Mar 27, 2014)

lol not my best:

Sinking 
Sinking 
Sinking
Further down
The song of the whales echos in my ear
The colors of the reef grow dim 
Dimmer 
Dimmer 
Dimmer
Light grows thin
Not many dare go this deep
The crushing weight
I start to cave in
Everything begins to fade
Fading 
Fading 
Fading


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## midnightpoet (Mar 28, 2014)

Pandora said:


> Oh I got scared when he came into the open, so glad for a happy ending midnightpoet. I was there watching with you, so wonderfully written. When my birds go quiet
> I get nervous, waiting for the chirps again. I really enjoyed this write thank you! more please



Thanks. Pandora.  I've always been interested in natural history, and ever since I read Sally Carrighar's "One day at Teton Marsh" many, many years ago I've thought about writing animal stories.  This one came out of the blue for some reason (ever had a song you first heard in 1965
suddenly pop in you head?), and your comments have given me encouragement.


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## J Anfinson (Mar 28, 2014)

*Language/Content Warning*

He stared back at me, an evil grin showing decayed, yellowed teeth.

"You're not real."

"Oh, but I am," he said from behind the glass. "And soon we'll be trading places."

"Fuck you. You're just a reflection."

He laughed. "Yeah, I am for now. But I'm working on it, pal. You better believe it. And once I figure out how to climb through, the first thing I'm going to do is tie you up and make you watch while I kill them both."

I glanced away from the mirror, in the direction of the living room where my wife and daughter were watching cartoons. "I'll make sure that won't happen."

"Really?" He sounded amused.

"I'm afraid so." With that I left the bathroom for a moment, and returned with my pistol. "I'll see you in hell."

My reflection began to pale. "You wouldn't."

"Oh yes. You're a danger to the world, which means I am too, and I can't let myself hurt them." I stuck the barrel into my mouth, and the mixed flavors of powder and oil ran across my tongue. It wouldn't matter in a moment.

"You got balls, I'll give you that. Put the gun down, man. I'll make you a deal. Take your girls and run. I'm giving you a head start."

"It wouldn't matter. You'd just catch up," I slurred from around the barrel. "So this is the end of the line."

I tightened my finger on the trigger. On the count of three:

One...

Two...


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## 1109 (Mar 29, 2014)

J Anfinson said:


> He stared back at me, an evil grin showing decayed, yellowed teeth.
> 
> "You're not real."
> 
> ...



I find this chilling to the core, and I also love it! I would like to see this insanity from the very beginning!


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## W.Goepner (Mar 30, 2014)

Have you ever sought to find that one place? You know the one that resides in the depths of nowhere yet it is the center of everywhere. Try as you might you look for it, first here then there. Over and over you look. Everywhere you go, be it the bank or the grocery-store, you look. You even try to find it in the trash bins on the street as you pass them by. As you walk the busy streets you glance into the disgusting wast covered alleys, only to see the occasional rat scurry about or drifter sitting on the back step of a local pub or eatery. 

You will try to think back to when you thought you last held it. Held it? Yes one can hold a place. Some times it is in an object they once admired. Some times it is a gift from someone once known. A toy, a voice, a thought. More often than not you have forgotten it and do not recognize it and pass it by when it brushes gently at you sleeve. You will look high and low for it. Some times you will look it straight in the face and fear it. Oh yes you fear this place. Even though you seek it, want it, need it, desire it, you fear it. You will forever look for it, then run and hide just as you think you have found it. 

You envy those around you that have found it. They are all smiles, friendly, and jovial. Their talk is sweet and kind, they give you their attention when you are near. But oh yes when you pass by, they are jealously right back into that place you so desperately seek. Sucking that which they need from it, giving them the strength you cannot hold. Oh for that place. We remember having it once, feeling it wrap itself about us. Caressing us to the point of climax then letting us drift in its warm downy embrace. Oh to be there again. Oh to feel the strength of that place and its sweet gentle embrace once more. In desperation you wait for the day to be yours so that you can go in search of that place.

Then one day you walk into your home, or apartment, or even your room. You see it there. Glowing some times bright some times dim. Slowly you walk towards it fear holding you from advancing too quickly. Not the fear of it eluding you once more. No not that fear. The fear of having that what you once desired more than anything you remember. The fear of actually knowing that place. Slowly, cautiously you walk up to it. Gently you reach out for it,  you pick it up once again. You pear at it with wonderment. What was it that made you fear it so? Why did it elude you, making you worry and fret so? You look at it time and again and realize it was never what you thought it to be.

Oh yes, you had it all along and it was there with you every where you went. Some of you found it in the loving face of a friend or lover. The kind gentle expression of your pet. The sad mournful eyes of a child afraid in the night. Others have found it through prayer, and others through meditation. Some call it piece of mind, others say it is love, and even more say something else. Look deep within yourself and you can find it. That place which exists just for you. No one else can have it for it is yours alone. Once you have it, understand it, and embrace it. Then you can know it. 






 I could overflow this thread with thoughts like this. Thanks for the opportunity to express this one. I had fun writing it. It has been trying to escape for a couple of weeks now.


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## Pandora (Mar 31, 2014)

Fantastic W.Goepner, please overflow, this was a wonderful read, thank you!


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## W.Goepner (Mar 31, 2014)

Pandora said:


> Fantastic W.Goepner, please overflow, this was a wonderful read, thank you!



Thank you Pandora, (Takes a bow) I do so, for the praise from one that Others have such respect for, means a great deal to me. Some times these snippets lead to greater works, other times they are just what is seen. So welcome to My imagination.

Try this one. The first part is a book report, (sorry). The rest is more the story.


He sighs with relief as he finishes the read. Setting the book aside he shivers with the thought of someone opening a passage to hell. The story spoke of the demons that appeared as the passage grew over the course of a couple of weeks. At first they were small no bigger than rats, shadows moving amongst the shadowy places. The only time one knew they were there was just before they struck, they saw the eyes. glowing coal like, red-hot embers shining out of the darkness. With each kill the passage grew from the evil tainted blood of the victims. Through investigation and hard work, the hero finely figures out who and what their mindset was that opened this passage, and what it would take to close it. In the final scene of the story the hero battles the corrupt official that sought to rid the city of the scourge that plagued it. Finely throwing the official into the passage, only to have it open wider to see the devil himself rising toward it. 
He remembers the words of the Witch, "Only the sacrifice blood of the innocent can close the passage." Taking the Witch literally at her word he find a sharp object and pierces his hand squeezing his hand shut he dribbles his blood on into the passage. The Devil looks up and laughs, "You think you are innocent? Your blood is tainted as much as his was." 
The hero doubted himself for a moment then he remembers the priests words. "Though you have done wrong my son, you you can stop this. You have taken on a decision to help the greater good. It is a matter of you believing that you have been granted absolution." 
The hero stood looking at the passage as it grew. He felt a voice speak within his head. "You know what must be done. Only you can save them now." The ground trembled and he fell to all fours, his cut hand touching the edge of the passage, It shrank. The Devil coming ever closer screams. "You cannot close it by yourself. In the end you will fail." The hero drags himself to his feet finding a shard of glass from a near by broken window he slices his arm from elbow to wrist, flinging the blood from his arm around the opening he watches the passage closing the Devil screaming and shrinking with it. The hero watches as the passage is near to closing and the Devil is now at the verge. But the passage is no longer closing, the blood has stopped flowing from his arm. Realizing what he must do to finish what he had started he raises the shard of glass to his throat. A thin pail arm and hand reaches over his head to stop him. It gently removes the glass and raises it to the opposite hand and cuts. The blood flows freely the Devil's screams of rage are cut short with the closing of the passage as it slams shut. She tears some cloth from her dress to bind her hand and then his arm. She helps him up and out to the car she arrived in. As they return to the church where he had left her and her child, they see clumps of dirt and rock littering the street. As the sun rises in front of them hitting these clumps, the clumps turn to dust and blow away on a unseen breeze. 

Shaking his head he cannot get the images or the idea of what he read from his mind. Getting out of his chair he places the book on a shelf then goes about the chores he said he would do that day. First to mow the yard, then he will go to the next thing from the list of to dos. As with most of the time he goes about doing the lawn his mind wandering to and fro once on the book once on another. Then it happened. A shadow darted past in the peripheral of his sight. He looks quickly to see, nothing. Looking further expecting to see a black cat scampering away, for that was the size of it, nothing. Then a robin flies down to catch a bug in the fresh mowed grass. _Hm. Must have been a shadow from the bird, though I thought it was bigger. _He thought as he continued mowing.

Later on when he was sweeping the kitchen, again a shadow darted past to disappear behind a cabinet. This time when he found nothing he blamed his imagination. 

It was a few days later before he saw it again. this time he was sitting watching TV as it ran along the top of the couch. Again as before when he looked it was no where to be found. He resumed watching the program, near the end of the program he saw another shadow run along the foot of the couch. This time he thought for sure he looked before it could round the end. Nothing.

Days passed some times he saw the shadows more frequent other days not at all. As with all things with time he grew used to the shadows once there then gone. Days became weeks. Weeks to months, months to years. Now some thirty years later he has seen these shadows. Some times he greets them like old friends others he fears to put foot to floor, like a child afraid of the dark. 

There is one thing he has noticed the shadows are becoming smaller. Now rather than being cat and rat sized they have become mouse and spider in size.

While he sat writing at his computer one night he noticed a shadow slip passed in the peripheral of his vision. He looked and called to his dog expecting to see the Labrador come from behind the bed. Getting up he goes to look only to find, nothing. There is one thing different though. One thing that sets his mind back to that book he read many years ago. Briefly, too briefly he thought he saw... The glowing ember red Eyes.


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## Pandora (Apr 1, 2014)

Oh my shivers . . . 

very good read W. Goepner. I'll be checking my back while doing housework today. My husband swears he has seen similar about our home. I am a believer in the supernatural,
in unexplainable phenomenon, someday it may be our reality. I feel evil and I know good. Well done very much enjoyed, thanks!


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## W.Goepner (Apr 1, 2014)

Pandora said:


> Oh my shivers . . .
> 
> very good read W. Goepner. I'll be checking my back while doing housework today. My husband swears he has seen similar about our home. I am a believer in the supernatural,
> in unexplainable phenomenon, someday it may be our reality. I feel evil and I know good. Well done very much enjoyed, thanks!



Thank you Again,

As I stated at the start, the book report is real. I remember the story but not the title. I read it some thirty years ago. Yes I have seen the shadows but thankfully not the eyes. 
As most would call it supernatural, I tend to think along the line of parallel realms, and these are glimpses in to them.


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## W.Goepner (Apr 1, 2014)

When one looks into the deepest reaches of themselves, they should do so with caution. For it is within these depths that the reality of the person resides. Every thing that the person has done molds and shapes this reality. Every good deed, every challenge met, every voice that has been used, every swear word, every curse uttered, and every wrong doing. Each one of these things molding, cutting, forming, and shading the reality of the person. For example meet Jack.

Jack is your typical blue collar worker. When he was growing up he was a boyscout. Earned every badge before the age of twelve. Graduating from high school by the age of sixteen top of the class and valedictorian. Yes he has been the shining example to those who followed in his footsteps. 

In collage he out distanced most of the campus. Amassing enough credits and acing classes to graduate with a doctorates degree in six years. Landing a job within the largest marketing firm. His talents almost doubled the firms profits in the first year. A wiz is the understatement.

The thing which made Jack so unique. Every step of the way he helped others. Those who could not seem to get one thing right in the scouts he encouraged and assisted them. In High school he tutored his lower classmates. Through collage he did the same as he showed the varsity players how to pass their classes and still be their best at sports. On the job he scheduled charity events and marketing seminars for the employees.

Then one day the boss brought in to him a younger person just out of collage. "Jack this is Trish. She like yourself was the top of her class and a wiz at everything she encountered. She has followed your track record here and wanted to join our ranks to be under your wing. She is your understudy, help her shine." With that the boss walked to the elevator and up to his office.

Jack sized up this young upstart with a confident air. "Well Trish. Shall we start?"

"Actually Jack, I prefer Trishsawn. I just cannot stand that Trish." She spat the word out, despising the name. "Of course I cannot stop the boss from saying it." The glint he detected in her eyes. _Was it mirth or a glow. _He shrugged at the thought and directed her to his office.

He let her in first then followed her closing the door behind him. She maneuvered around his desk to look at the diplomas and awards hanging there on the wall. He watched her with pride as she read each one. She turned around to face him. Sitting down behind the desk she steeples her hands addresses Jack. "Well Jack welcome to the firm. We hope you will enjoy it here." Taken aback, Jack does a double take and looks about the room. But it is not his office. Plants and pictures decorate the spaces and walls he so enjoyed for their blankness. He looked to the nameplate on the desk and sees the name Trishsawn Wilson. He looks over the awards and diplomas on the wall over her head. Each one with the same name on them. Trishsawn Wilson. 

Jack looks at her, a fire burning inside him. Just then the boss walks in. "Ah Trishsawn How is Jake working out. Is he fitting in well in the mail room?" Jack looks at him bewildered he cant believe what he is hearing. He stands open-mouthed, staring at Mr. Johnson. "Don't worry Jake you will get the hang of it. I mean after all you have been here only a week now." Then he leans closer to him. Speaking softly says. "After all you came to us with only a GED you acquired just last month." The boss smiles at them both turns and leaves the room.

Trishsawn turns her attention to Jack. "Better hurry Jack. Those memos cannot deliver themselves." As he looks down at the mail cart in front of him, he gets that sinking feeling. He looks once more at Trishsawn before going about his rounds.

Trishsawn Wilson, Jack's foster sister. The apple of her father's eye. Where Jack was righteous, forthright, polite, and helpful. She was conniving, devious, rude, and mean. His one mistake was when Jack was younger he tried to prove to everyone she was not the innocent. He followed her trying to get others to see her as she truly was. Every thing she did to hurt others, Jack fixed. Every time she played the good, Jack tried to show everyone it was a lie. All of Jacks good intentions he attempted, Trishsawn made them fail. 

At the end of the day Jack did his soul searching on his lonely walk home. He went looking for all the good he attempted in his life. Only to find deep within, Trishsawn looking back at him.


This might not have been one of my better ones.


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## W.Goepner (Apr 2, 2014)

I might have told this once in another thread, sorry if I did, my memory is short some times.  Oh, and yes this is true. 

Bumper,

I  am one of those people who would go to the animal shelter to look around.  Yes I could walk up and down the isles between the pens talking to the  dogs and assessing personalities, for hours. Not for the shelter but for me. I had a  fourteen year old Papillon. (No that is not a misspell, Papillon is French for Butterfly. It is also a breed of dog.) I figured I had a few more years with him and was just getting myself in to the idea of a new best friend. Little did I know it would be less.

One time I asked the shelter people if they have small breeds often. If so did they have any now? "Not at this time. We have a puppy though. He should turn out to be a medium size dog."

"I don't know I was hoping for a small dog... Oh well can I go look at him?"

"No sir. We need to bring him out to you."

"Oh all right." They brought him out and we went into a visiting room. A place where dog and people can sit and familiarize. I sat with him in my lap for a bit then let him wander about. He put his nose to the floor and trailed around. I called to him once or twice and he came over to me let me pet him then back to his exploring.

_What are you doing? You can no more afford this guy than you can your hobby. _(I had just began driving a sprint-car, that is it in my profile picture.) So I decided to forgo this pup for now. I got up and he was more content to nose around the floor than to go with me. I walked out to get one of the people to let them know. "Not today." 

You know when I think back I saw it in the eyes of the person I told. This pup was not destined to have a happy life. But I did not think of what I saw just the reasoning of Not yet. I walked out to my pickup, got in and thought a moment. _No! you do not need another dog. _I told myself. Sometimes I hate that little voice of reason. The one that puts up the best arguments. I started the pickup. Reason, "Why not?" Put it in reverse. "If you don't. Someone will take him and abuse him, or worse. They will love him and when he gets too big for them they will return him, and no one will adopt him. He is going to die either way." I hate that voice. Not even halfway out of my parking place I stop. I sigh. I shake my head. I put the pickup back in forward and pull up and park it. A grin spreads across my face. 

I go back in as they are taking him back to the puppy pens. I stop them. "Is this the only puppy you folks have in here right now?"

"We have others but they are nursing still." I look at the pup he sniffs and comes to me his tail wagging.

"I'll take him," They look at me, the question on their face. "Yes now please."

Fifty dollars later, three forms, and about half an hour's time we were heading out to the pickup. The puppy and me. And I with this stupid grin still plastered on my face, pick him up and put him in. He licks my face. I did not think my grin could get bigger, it did.

Half an hour later I pull into the Wall-mart Parking lot. Got to buy puppy food, and dishes. I hate that voice, but I already love the dog. Puppy food, new collar, a water jug and a bowl. Seventy five dollars. Back out to the pickup. Puppy was sleeping in the seat. Good puppy. 

Half hour later we are home. Get us out of the pickup and let the puppy down, off leash and let him roam. That pup has a hard head. Bang! trailer hitch, Bong! the bumper of my dad's Lincoln that he is storing in my garage. Bonk! the third member of my pickup. Bong! the Lincoln again. Bump! the toolbox. I swear he is a pinball. Nose to the ground, run into something turn and go until the next thing, so on and so forth.

Two weeks later to the shelter vets. Free, ( My favorite four letter "F" word.) Rabies shot. "Not old enough, Bring him back in two weeks." Back home we go. 

Hm, this pup has got paw. I hope he does not grow into them. 

Two weeks later. My Papillon has been doing strange things. Call my local vet. "Can I bring him in? OK, be right there." Take him in tell the vet, he looks him over. Checks his eyes. He has a major infection, it can be cured but he might not come out of it and will starve himself. "No, Yes. I'll hold him." Never again will I.. only if I have to. Take him home, bury him. Load the puppy in the pickup. Off to the shelter vet for rabies shot. Then to the VA medical building for my blood panel. I have not eaten all day. Head home, stop at Mic-D's. Burger fries and diet coke for me six piece nuggets for the puppy. Food tastes like cardboard. I miss my Papillon, give the puppy a hug, he licks my face.

First three months of his life with me his name is Puppy. Nothing fits. I tired them all. Go up to my brother's house with puppy. We are working on the race cars. "Puppy stop pestering the old dog she'll bight you."

Nephew, "When are you going to name your dog?"

"I don't know help me think of some thing."

"Whats he do?"

"Runs into things."

"Call him Bumper."

"No, that's dumb." 

"Oh well, he is your dog."

A week later we are there again. Puppy is running about my brother's shop/garage. My Niece is working on her car. "Puppy stop getting into things."

"When and what are you going to name that dog?"

"I don't know help me think of something."

Bing! Bang! Bong! Bash! Bong! Bop! Bipp! "Name him Bumper."

Puppy stops and looks at us. That, Uh What? look. Then nose down off he goes again. It took about a month to get him used to Bumper instead of Bumpy which is close to puppy. I love that dog.

The shelter said he was a Lab mix. I think Great Dane. Twenty seven and a half inches at the shoulder, and eighty pounds. One hell of a bed warmer in the winter.

I do not believe in throwaway pets. Did I say I love the dog?

Foot note; My new avatar is Bumper. Say hi Bumper, Woof!


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## Apple Ice (Apr 16, 2014)

*​Sensitive Topic*

For the first time in his life, George is noticed as he enters the school cafeteria. 

A confused Mr. Higgins is the first to see him. Some clock George sooner than others, these lead the movement of silence that eventually engulfs the entire room. As Georges world looks straight to him, he realises he has won. He has finally done it. 

He looks to Amy whose face is as pretty as ever with the sadness it wears. Her eyes are even more beautiful now that they're fixated on him.  He looks to Darren, the only human to pay him attention, all of it bad. Regret is the only emotion Darren emits. 

He looks to Ellis, his only friend. Terror is an odd emotion to see in the flesh George thinks.

George repays all of their efforts with a loving smile.

George raises his weapon.


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## Pluralized (Apr 16, 2014)

** Horrible - Don't Read! **

Jimmy Pimplenuts found a bag of oregano in the parking lot outside the school gym and smoked the whole damn thing before he realized it wasn't what he thought. Coughing, red-faced, and enraged, he stomped down the hall to confront Hector about it. Hector, a laid-back cholo wearing too-large khakis and a hairnet, moved his arm slightly to pull aside the flannel he buttoned only at the top, revealing a black pistol tucked in his waistline. Jimmy, high on oregano, stumbled back, away from Hector and smack into a Uyghur. 

"What's wrong with you, little pizza-smelling bitch?" the Uyghur shouted, throwing his arms out to his sides dramatically. The skylight above them cast a strange light on the scene like floodlights on a swimming pool. Jimmy's stomach tingled and he thought he might throw up.

"It was an accident Ulbar, I swear. Don't hurt me. I'm just confused because of the oreg—" The first punch landed with a sickening thud, flattening Jimmy's nose and sending rockets and blackness and fireworks and gray haze through his mind. He nearly passed out, stumbled, then dropped to his knees. The Uyghur was on him, punching relentlessly, faster and faster, wearing him out. Jimmy was down on his face, protecting his head and going fetal. 

"You little pizza-smoking motherfucker!" the skinny kid spat, dancing across Jimmy's neck and head with his Docs. "I'm-a fuck you up!"

And fuck him up he did. Jimmy's face was broken. His jaw throbbed, his cheekbone felt sunken to the touch. He vomited several times on the way home, tasting that pungent oregano, cursing Hector, Ulbar, and the spice grinders at McCormick's. 

Jimmy slunk home and snuck around back. When he looked inside, he saw his mother and stepfather Brad, arguing over the kitchen table. They were screaming at each other, throwing things, and it looked like Brad might kill her like he'd 'purportedly' killed his first wife. Jimmy's mom always gave him the benefit of the doubt, even when her face was being smashed with a beer bottle or she spent an hour covering bruises in the mirror with heavy makeup. He stood there outside for a time, watching them argue. Brad went over to the spice rack and grabbed something in his hand, then smashed it over her head. Jimmy slipped in the blood as he ran into the kitchen, landing on the floor and crying out as Brad kicked him in the ribs. He sobbed, hugging himself, as Brad sprinkled the last contents of the oregano jar over him.


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## W.Goepner (Apr 16, 2014)

Apple Ice said:


> *​Sensitive Topic*
> 
> For the first time in his life, George is noticed as he enters the school cafeteria.
> 
> ...



OH SH**!

Yes sensitive topic. 

It says a lot. It dredges up the uncomfortable memories. Which I do not mind. I get to look at them and analyze them again with a more adult mind. 

What a place to begin a story. one that goes into the memories from both sides. And possibly with George's greatest tormenter confronting him with the offer to be the only target. leading to a passive ending. I see many avenues and even a real life story here. I only that it is not a real life and someone you knew was at the end of weapon.


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## W.Goepner (Apr 16, 2014)

Pluralized said:


> ** Horrible - Don't Read! **
> 
> Jimmy Pimplenuts found a bag of oregano in the parking lot outside the school gym and smoked the whole damn thing before he realized it wasn't what he thought. Coughing, red-faced, and enraged, he stomped down the hall to confront Hector about it. Hector, a laid-back cholo wearing too-large khakis and a hairnet, moved his arm slightly to pull aside the flannel he buttoned only at the top, revealing a black pistol tucked in his waistline. Jimmy, high on oregano, stumbled back, away from Hector and smack into a Uyghur.
> 
> ...



Hey now you know better than to start of like that 





> ** Horrible - Don't Read! **


 It is only going to make me read it to draw my own conclusion.

I know someone who was in a scene like that at school. Fortunately his home life was better. 

Horrible? No. Disturbing? Yes. Good read, descriptive, and true to life.

This is commonplace in the world today. To bad it is.


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## J Anfinson (Apr 17, 2014)

She stood on the highest step, the one where so many others had before her. The highest step of what the locals called, “The Stairway to Heaven”.

Seventy feet below, waves crashed against jagged rocks. They had been part of the cliff face long ago and had tumbled down sometime within the last century. Jenny held her arms outstretched, feeling the cool breeze run across the palms of her hands and through her fingers. She began to concentrate, clearing her head of all doubt. There would be no pain.

She smiled as she looked out across the lake, the sky a pale orange and the last of the sunlight sparkling off the water. She stepped forward. 

There was no pain.


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## Kepharel (Apr 18, 2014)

I wipe away the condensation from the bathroom mirror and stare back at the apparition that is now me. Sqeezing the trigger to the can of shaving foam I collect it in my outstretched palm before working the snowy white residue into the grey stubble which is claiming territorial rights to my face, while wondering where this person, this stranger now stood in front of me, has come from. As I drag the razor against the grain of the stubble I wonder, for the umpteenth time whatever happened to those people who were me, the ones whose life force crackled and sparked in anticipation of endless tomorrows.  That little boy, in competitions, who could piss further up a wall than any of his classmates.  The little chap with the cowboy pistol cap gun who shot a thousand bad guys on municiple playing fields and died just as many times, clasping his hand to his chest, staggering back and forth, just  like his father would do after a session in the pub. He was the one who sat on his bedside one day and realised he hadn't opened his toy drawer for some time,  and for that matter had no inclination to do it ever again.


Swishing the razor in the sink full of hot water I continue my chore and mentally say bye bye to that little boy.  I can't remember the exact day he said goodbye but suspect he could have been offended by his breaking voice and pubic hair.  I hope he found another happy soul keen on playing all those games.  As much as I miss that little guy, I think I miss his replacement a whole lot more. Girls and Beatles haircuts you see, and opinions, independence, a burning desire to change the world, consuming books by the yard.  Where the hell did he go I wonder? I think I miss him most because he was me for such a short time.  I don't think he liked responsibility though, that was his problem.  Pure selfishness on his part, I guess, what with all those expectations and demands of family and work. I don't think I will ever forgive him for leaving me with that middle aged me.  True, there were a lot of good times and mostly I learned what real love was, that was the jewel in the crown for middle aged me, shining through, a life raft on which sat my sanity, while a career, and the world at large for that matter stripped me inexorably of my physical essence year after year.


On finishing, I put the razor back on the shelf beneath the mirror and examine my work. It's the eyes, dark and sunken a little, tired beyond measure.  This bloke's face, my face I suppose, stares back; a slack face, lazy, with no definition, no life force crackling and sparking underneath anymore.


"Grampa!"... I turn and see a face that could launch a thousand ships. I scoop her up into my arms and we squeeze each other hard.  Life's not all bad I guess


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## Pandora (Apr 20, 2014)

Alone. I don't like being alone. It's a little scary. Wish Jake was here with me. He's always close by, just always here,
here ever since I can remember. I don't think I have lived a day without him. His dark brown eyes have watched me. 
He has always been here beside me, warm, soft, 55 shades of brown, soft. His big cold wet black nose nudging 
under my arm for me to pet him or his frisbee laid at my feet to throw. His dog smiles meant to cheer me, 
he licks my tears away.

Jake got tired, Mom said. He only wanted to lay in the tall grass here by the swing set, just to sleep.
 He was like Grandpa, she said and would some day go to Heaven, Dog Heaven. Someday came.

The full moon and the mist plays tricks with my eyes. Is that Jake there on the edge of the woods? Is he back to play with me? 
To love me? Is that a howling I hear? Jakey is that you?

Jakey my wolf style dog is here with me, he will never leave. He lives in my heart.


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## W.Goepner (Apr 20, 2014)

Pandora said:


> Alone. I don't like being alone. It's a little scary. Wish Jake was here with me. He's always close by, just always here,
> here ever since I can remember. I don't think I have lived a day without him. His dark brown eyes have watched me.
> He has always been here beside me, warm, soft, 55 shades of brown, soft. His big cold wet black nose nudging
> under my arm for me to pet him or his frisbee laid at my feet to throw. His dog smiles meant to cheer me,
> ...




Sniff, sniffle,*he wipes away the tear* Sorry I.. *clears throat* I am a dog person and I know the feeling.

There is so much one can say about the dog. Like the quote at the beginning of Lady and the Tramp. "In the whole history of the world there is but one thing money cannot buy... to wit- the wag of a dog's tail." "Josh Billings" Simple and direct, it tells volumes. When one has felt the love of a dog they truly know what love is. For the love of the dog is unconditional, knowing no bounds or conditions. It will always be shown on the return of the master or family. Whether they be gone from the sight of the dog for but a moment or a day, the results are the same.

May the Jakeys, Bethovans, Ladys, and Tramps, forever be remembered in the hearts of those they loved.


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## Kevin (Apr 20, 2014)

*last night... (language)*

This story should be played to the tune of E=MC (squared -youtube)… while watching the TV._ in_ the movie _They Live! _:

I am screaming this at the top of my lungs though I can no longer breathe deeply. The cancer spots have not begun their northerly migration, however, the fluid will soon overflow, outshining the puffiness in the ankles, purple zigzagging capillaries insisting that, indeed, time has flowed, despite exercise, diet, meditation; breathing techniques employed by dead monks for over twelve-hundred centuries according to Ayurvedic scroll downs… 

Just ignore it: best advice I ever got. Just ignore it and eventually it will just explode or implode, going away, its way, depending on freeze-thaw, ice-age or heat-cycle carboniferous, the Triassic layering. 

The Meteor will again rise, mountains filling in the sea. Handmade latex balls will be played for dominium (the monkey _was_ try number two, also a failure); we have failed only to be replaced; supplanted species, implants will last centuries after installation, their white among the bleaching bones as the wind carefully, incrementally removes the sand, revealing desiccated corporeal, three thousand-year-old shining white against the sands, time notwithstanding, outstanding, laying down layers in deposit:

_I’d taken a bus…  rode a bus there. We were the only Westerners, chickens and Campesinos, felt hats bouncing, wondering at the two crazy Gringos. Curving worn gravel, the whole experience absolutely terrifying; standing room only while careening around blind corners; taken for granted, all of it, the precipices… Several thousand feet down to the Pacific, the storms couldn’t made it… Driest place on earth, it never rained, not in centuries…wind exposing, wearing away; it’ll all be gone. We were the only ones there, ancient cemetery, and no one there to record it; gather data… _

_She was a traveler, just like me, a Brit thing I guess; you lot don’t do that over here. _

_ I’ve seen many things; been many places: Asia, Africa; I once nearly died of food poisoning in Thailand; not a word of English, lying in my room for five days burning with fever, and then there was the lack of water; that’s what’ll get you._

_ You can go days, even weeks, but not without water; bottled always, you never can tell; under a microscope it’s not just the swimming things; they have no rules; the pipes just dump…fishing, defecating and bathing…he’d told me that they ate them. _

_A fish the size of one’s palm, forests unnervingly quiet, a pure plant kingdom, stripped of all fauna; worms, beetles, occasional larva… _

_… breeding, huts, grass huts, shanty-towns, absolutely teeming, piles of used technology, mounds larger than their domiciles, burnt for scrap, precious metals, totally poisoning, the cancer rates uncharted, off the charts…  I suppose we never wondered. You take it for granted, but our throwaways provide not the slightest hope for the future, can you imagine, digging away like some dung beetle…. Extracting blackened puddles from beneath the smoldering.  _

_Not even a third, I call it the fourth, they outnumber us twelve-to-one, It’s no wonder, no wonder, they have none,  just what comes across their T.V. screens.  How they must…  something, dirt floors; filthy conditions; layers of political … all of it, lies and false promises without options. If it weren’t for the Pacific Ocean acting as a natural barrier… _

_I save up; six months, maybe a year, but never longer. She’s a horse trainer, does all right I guess. At some point you both just have to admit things. She never liked it; never felt comfortable.. _

_I buy a room for the first night and that’s it;  a small backpack, some traveler’s checks; you don’t want to present a target, but you’d be surprised; they invite you into their homes, want to cook for you, take you places… there was this one time… pretty sure the guy was drunk… an Indian… he tugged on it and I tugged back. I shook my head no and smiled, but I was firm: you’re not getting my bag. Not a word of English and I’m pretty sure he didn’t speak Spanish; I turned and walked away quickly… that was close, but if you pay attention…_

_…not sure this time. Probably Africa again, maybe South America, I haven’t anything definite._


----------



## W.Goepner (Apr 20, 2014)

Kevin said:


> This story should be played to the tune of E=MC (squared -youtube)… while watching the TV._ in_ the movie _They Live! _:
> 
> I am screaming this at the top of my lungs though I can no longer breathe deeply. The cancer spots have not begun their northerly migration, however, the fluid will soon overflow, outshining the puffiness in the ankles, purple zigzagging capillaries insisting that, indeed, time has flowed, despite exercise, diet, meditation; breathing techniques employed by dead monks for over twelve-hundred centuries according to Ayurvedic scroll downs…
> 
> ...





 Uh, um, ah, No. I think, Maybe, I do not know. Who? What is, How did... Where? Why?!!!

That is how I feel.


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## Kevin (Apr 20, 2014)

> No. I think, Maybe, I do not know. Who? What is, How did... Where? Why?!!!


Lol... "spontaneous".. well there you go...


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## Greimour (Apr 20, 2014)

I don't fancy my skills with an off the top of my head first time attempt... but what the hey. Here goes:

*Inhibited*

Exhausted and breathless he stood. Silent and lost as heavy laden arms drooped by his sides. Slowly a shield slid from his grasp and hit the floor with a dull, empty thud. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind the distant sound was registered.  A sword slid from the blood soaked grasp of his other hand but this time he did not hear the noise of it's landing - if it indeed made a noise at all.

Through eyes that no longer cared to see, he witnessed the result of battle. No songs for victors; praises for heroes or even priests for the dead. Bodies lay strewn in every direction: bodies without limbs, limbs without bodies and death a glutton whose hunger insatiable left no life spared. 

Dropping to his knees his mind turned blank. No more. No more did he want to fight or kill. No more did he want to hear the sound of swords clashing or the screams of men. No more did he desire to be prince charming and rescue a damsel from an evil beast or enchanted spell. Battle is no sacred ground of honor where heroes rise and fall.

Battle is a senseless thing. Why did men covet it? What possessed men to seek more than they had... to waste life on the senseless greed of kings and governments?

He no longer knew and no longer cared to know. Closing his eyes at last, he hoped to be forgiven. Not by god or man, or even his soul which lay now in hell, tormented and weeping. He hoped to be forgiven by the women and children - those that lost husbands and fathers to his sword, his savagery, his madness and his fight for survival. Hoping further that his eyes would never open - that never again would he witness the results of what he lived through - he fell face forward onto the lifeless body of his swords last victim. 

A single tear streaked his face as consciousness left all thoughts behind. 

***

Tempted to delete, but now it is typed I guess I will just hit the post button. I will try to resist re-reading it because I will likely edit it for the next few hours. I will just leave it as is, as first written right here as the 'challenge' instructed and hope it is at least readable


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## W.Goepner (Apr 20, 2014)

Greimour said:


> I don't fancy my skills with an off the top of my head first time attempt... but what the hey. Here goes:
> 
> *Inhibited*
> 
> ...



Gulp. I am sweating, and reeling from the vision you have placed in front of me. I desire more but fear the consequence. If I write this well as a first draft I would be famous. I see a berserker and the rage of battle. There is so much more that could follow, an attempt at a peaceful life away from the things he despises, or the mercenary that has to fight endless battles. 

I think the point of this was to help those who thought they could not proceed with one work in progress to maybe restart it or pass it for now and work on something new. I definitely think you need to elaborate this one into a full story.


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## Kepharel (Apr 21, 2014)

Yes Greimour effort was pure class


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## Greimour (Apr 21, 2014)

Kepharel said:


> Yes Greimour effort was pure class



:cheers: heh, thanks, both you and Goepner. 

Make me blush - I didn't actually expect any feedback on it, but glad you liked it all the same.


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## Apple Ice (Apr 21, 2014)

Greimour doing the classic "I don't know how to play basketball" before slam dunking from 50 yards out. You crafty cow. 

Also, if one of the moderators would be so kind and remove the "1" from the title I would be very grateful. It was a glitch and irritates me every time I see it and suggests there's more than one of these threads.

EDIT: thank you, you beautiful mysterious person (looking at you Kev).


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## adam c (Apr 22, 2014)

(mostly true story. Some language and sexual dialogue)

"I realize it isn't as impressive as actually _writing_, with words and stuff, but we've got over two hundred followers," Brian said. "People love her vagina." 

"Well," I said, "I'm glad you found something you enjoy. People do like vaginas." 

"Oh, but listen. It isn't just like, close up crotch shots. These are artistic, with editing and stuff. Some nice black and whites." 

"I don't know that your fan base is overly concerned with high class art." 

"Oh, no, no. These aren't just creepy dudes in their parents basements-"

"Some of them are definitely creepy dudes in their parents basements." 

"Well, yeah, but that's not all. There's a couple of trannies and a bisexual dude. Some real freaks." 

"Dude, you're posting pics of your fiance with dildos in her ass." 

"Yeah, but that's different. These guys are into some crazy shit." 

The cashier was getting impatient, so I nudged him in the ribs. He looked at her and handed over twenty dollars which she held by the corner and dropped it into the cash box. As she handed him his change, he looked back at me. "So I've got this one, big as a soda can. She says she'll need a drink first."


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## Greimour (Apr 23, 2014)

Pre-post note after written completion: Seat of my pants writing again, but... this time a much bigger piece. Probably around 800 word area... You did say 'any length' though, so *shrugs* ... it is what it is. ^_^
*

Inhibition p2*

Wearily lifting his body under the weight of armor he no longer wore, Tavorian rose from the uncomfortable flagstones that made his bed. Propped on elbows and still feeling the shield attached to his arm he found himself checking to ensure it was no longer there. It wasn't, and nor had it been for a lifetime, yet still; it weighed heavy and his shoulder ached. Attempting to let go of a sword he no longer carried to take off a helm that was not there, Tavorian groggily fought to regain some senses. 

Wiping drool from his face and confirming his purse sat empty, he wondered first where he was and second; how he may acquire the coin for more ale. The only saving grace he had left in the world was found at the bottom of empty barrels. Sweet honey colored nectar robbing him of senses and guilt, or, more importantly - robbing him of dreams and nightmares. He'd been taught long ago that sometimes water did not work on fire; that sometimes it was best to fight fire with fire. The same was true of ghosts... the spirits of ones past were best fought with spirits of another kind. 

Pushing aside discarded trash in the shadowy alley where he'd found himself waking, Tavorian pushed himself to a semblance one might call standing. The effects of alcohol had not yet worn off and with no intention of being sober, he needed money. Half staggering and half falling towards the alleys entrance his mind reeled to find a source of money. All savings were gone, his debts were high and his options bleak. There had been a time when people recognized him. Named him hero even! Nobody knew his name anymore though... The hero they all adored had never existed and all that remained was a nameless vagrant in need of money. Looking back on it now, he wondered if anyone would consider giving their old _hero_ a loan.

Stepping out at last into the bright sun of day, Tavorian decided  his oldest method was probably best after all. Pilfering pockets had once been a last resort, but now it was the first option. He'd learned the art when people still knew his name; when people bleated nonsense about his great deeds and trusted his status to put him above petty crimes - They didn't know though. They couldn't know and didn't care to either. Horrors and nightmares long since resulting in his coffers running dry whilst bartenders lined their pockets with his ill-earned blood money. Such experiences came in handy now though, it almost made him smile. Almost.

***

Waiting by a common haunt of thieves and cut throats, Tavorian searched for a good mark. Patience wasn't a trait that carried over from his warring days but, he still found he was able from time to time. When at last his mark had been decided, he found it was in fact three. Stealing from honest folk had been like eating bile so; he found people with more money than morals and relieved them of their heavy burdens instead. It was somewhat gratifying in a way; a small pleasure that tided him over until he had coin for the next port of call.

Tailing the cut-throat instead of the contractor wasn't his usual style. Any imagined excitement of tailing such a man was less exciting in its reality. Such was the target this time though. Part of the gratification came by foiling the misdeeds that were underfoot - small acts of good seeming to ease a conscience from a lifetime of regrets. 

This time it was slavery... he'd heard enough to gather that the rich fool wanted himself a pretty little singer girl. Following the man across town to a popular busking spot for minstrels and the like, Tavorian positioned himself with practiced efficiency and waited. 

The singing girl was indeed a pretty little thing but she was much older than he'd imagined. Guessing she was around her teenage years and almost at womanhood, Tavorian doubted the rich man merely wanted her to sing for him. Her singing surprised him too... she was good! Her voice reminded him of forgotten days when light had existed in the world and death wasn't his only companion. Distracted by the stirred memories brought on by her sweet voice, he almost missed the moment to act. With the bargain struck and deal made, Tavorian stepped in. 

----------------

In truth, I was scared to revisit this piece. Especially after days away from it. I came back to read whatever posts people may have written since I was last on this thread - but seems only one new post is made. 

Having visited the thread, I decided to comply with it's 'rule' and not leave until I posted something. Finally I decided to continue Inhibited... I am not in the same state of mind as when I wrote the original piece but it was all I could think of right now.

Not sure I kept the same flow or voice as last time but whatever - no one said I had to, right? ^_^


~ Greimour.


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## Kyle R (Apr 23, 2014)

Cool thread. Loving all the posts so far.  I'll give it a shot...

Blue noticed her, at first, the same way he recognized all his prey—by scent. The thick, lavender-wrapped tendril of air grazed his sinuses like a beckoning finger. It shuttered the gaps between his nerves, closing off avenues to the senses, as if the lush aroma alone had magical powers, transforming him into a machine capable of only the simplest task: to function, to exist, to be aware. Of her. And who was she? This time of night, no human ventured out. No human with common sense, at least. He narrowed his eyes and peeked through the gap between two rusted wheel spokes. 

She stood behind the golden beam of a flashlight, her dark hair tousled around her neck, her narrow face pinched and glowing. "Hello?" she called out. "Is someone there?" 

The open junkyard clicked in the silence, its metal edges silhouetted against the night sky.


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## Greimour (Apr 23, 2014)

Nice Kyle.

Despite the name "Blue" I got the sense that Blue isn't a dog... I was torn between a fierce junkyard dog like a rottweiler or something more sinister. 
Small hints in the writing:   
* lush aroma - 
* to be aware. Of her. -
* no human ventured out. No human with common sense, at least.
* He narrowed his eyes -

Human-like thoughts, responses and actions... so ... is Blue not a dog? ^_^

I liked it  ... as proof, I am going to click the like button momentarily. But there was one thing with it..

The *prey-by scent* should be 'prey - by scent' ... no? I didn't work that out at first and got confused ...
 Either way... however a dash is used... prey-by I read like 'whereby' ... or 'hunt by scent' .. (whatever im not editing this statement again, I am too tired)  >.<

Anyway, i really did like reading it, I was disappointed when it stopped I wanted more ^_^


~Kev


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## Kyle R (Apr 23, 2014)

Glad you like it, Greimour. Yes, your instincts were correct: Blue is a shapeshifter, not a dog. 

And that's an *em dash* (—) after the word _prey_, though the courier font doesn't display it too well. Apologies for the confusion.

Cheers! :encouragement:


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## W.Goepner (Apr 23, 2014)

Greimour said:


> Pre-post note after written completion: Seat of my pants writing again, but... this time a much bigger piece. Probably around 800 word area... You did say 'any length' though, so *shrugs* ... it is what it is. ^_^
> *
> 
> Inhibition p2*
> ...




I like it Greimour, It has that thing that says I need to change but I cannot stand what I see when I do. You have described the war hero that has returned to be reminded of the atrocities he witnessed throughout his career. That can be as easily applied to today as a faraway world or time. Good job it follows the first piece.

Bill


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## Erik Fantasia (Apr 23, 2014)

The darkness consumes me, I feel it grasping my once golden soul. I fear for the life of my innocence. I fear for the existence of my self good.


The trees all cast shadows over me, keeping me from light. I curse them. I hate them. Their creaking in the wind mirrors the sound of my heart. I am cracking. I am lost.

I am lost. The tears that fall are those of first murder, but the death does not feel like my new victim's but that of my own. I find myself blaming my parents, my madness will see no readon. But what if it is reason?


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## Pandora (Apr 24, 2014)

You took a vow, a pinky swear, a promise you made to her. Then your words . . .
like stinging swords, cut through the veins of love.
Love bled in that senseless moment, a moment all about you.

Those words, red with disloyalty . . .  trust lies dying at your hand.


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## aj47 (Apr 24, 2014)

On the top of my head is the subject of marriage.  Someone on Facebook posted a pic of a trio of brides who apparently wed one another and are expecting a baby.

I don't know these people so I don't know how it will work out. I do know this. Marriage has two sides; legal and social. The legal side is the same for everyone in a region--basically your government can (and does) make rules about who can marry whom, what the legal consequences are of that union, etc.  Some jurisdictions say that marriage is between one woman and one man. Others permit couples to be of the same sex (words have gender, people have sex) and some even permit more than two parties to a marital contract.

I'm not any kind of historian but I've read some. The rules of marriage have evolved. In some places and/or times, a man would swap livestock for a bride. And there were other kinds of arrangements.  Dowries, for example.  Arranged marriages. Polygyny.  Polyandry. "Arranged" marriages used to be the norm -- you didn't get to pick your spouse, your family did.

Marriage has religious aspects as does any other facet of life. This doesn't mean marriage is a religious sacrament, although it can be if all parties agree. The thing that makes you "married legally" though isn't the religious rite, it is the filing of the paperwork with the clerk.  

I guess my last thought is that *because* it's regulated by the state, the rules regarding it can be changed in a free society by the citizenry the same as any other governmentally regulated activity. If you don't think the government should be in the marriage business -- too late, it already is and has been.


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## Pennywise (Apr 25, 2014)

*Writer's Block*

Sahil was standing there pointing at the north block of the Arts College. I don't know whether it was the July heat or his hot looks but I felt a sinking feeling and fainted. When I opened my eyes, I saw Sahil and the others staring down at me and at this point I am hoping my hair are in place.This was my first day at College of Art, I had arrived from Simla on the same day, and I was aspiring to be a writer.

Sahil rarely ever visited the writer’s block, because he was studying to be a sculptor. I always found him smoking at the college compound or in the canteen. He was always surrounded by girls and I guess, his hot looks and his sense of humor were a hit among the women. He had become my muse and all my poetry and prose were inspired by him. My small town inhibitions always stopped me from speaking to him.

But opportunity came in the form of annual festival where I was part of the same committee as him. I was scheduled to be part of the meeting on Monday and I must have prepared a week in advance for the meeting. I wore my favorite floral top and white pants. I tied my hair in a loose tail and chucked my glasses. The mere thought of his presence and deep voice was giving me goose bumps.  

“Hello Girls and Boys, so we are gathered here for the annual fest. I think the theme for the fest should be love. What do you all think?” Said Sahil and he sounded so gay! ​My heart went crash, boom, and bang. I lost my muse and for a while I developed a ‘writer’s block’ and only got over it when Karl joined the college, my next muse!


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## Apple Ice (Apr 26, 2014)

Mickey savored the sound of the metal gates closing behind him. He knew it would be the last time he would ever hear it. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Across the four fingers of his left hand the word 'hate' was tattooed, across his right, "love". As he was about to inhale he saw his latest tattoo written across the part of the hand between the thumb and index finger, "Calm". He followed its advice and after some difficulty flicked the cigarette away. The light flame became brighter as it flew and span through the air. It reminded Mickey of the sparklers his dad used to give him on the 4th of July. 

Mickey started walking through the mid-day heat. 'Beetle Bar' was the first dispenser of alcohol he came across. He ordered two shots of vodka and took to the barren dance floor, taking customers eyes with him. "Missing You" by the Rolling Stones was playing which made Mickey think God himself was smiling at him. He danced terribly for a good 5 minutes, weaving across the dance floor, his small pot belly weighing him down, his shades hiding his smiling eyes. As he left everyone was trying to get a better look of the heavily tattooed middle-aged man in 80's disco clothes. 

Mickey walked for another 15 minutes before stopping at a bin outside an expensive restaurant. He forced his hand to the very bottom and pulled out the brown bag as arranged. The customers of the fancy restaurant noticed Mickey enter instantly but all knew better than to look at him. He leisurely strolled through all the tables until he was face to face with Victor Rice. Victor stopped eating his meal and looked to the man he had never seen before. Before Victor could make a sound he was silenced by 3 deafening gunshots which exploded his face across his expensive meal and his expensive date. 

Mickey looked to the beautiful screaming lady covered in blood.

"Sorry Sweetheart. Red looks good on you." 

Mickey walked out of the restaurant, laid down on the sidewalk and waited for the police.


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## Pandora (Apr 30, 2014)

_Good man they are all good men. Good woman, we are all good women.


All we need is . . .



Love, plenty of it.


Encouragement,  you are the best!


Faith, we are meant to be.


Forgiveness,  we all make mistakes.


Trust, here is my heart.


Understanding . . .  it's ok.


Courage, together we are fearless!


Romance, please, don't forget.


__Commitment, promise that we keep.__


Friendship, I'm here for you!






Time . . .


maybe a lifetime . . ._

​


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## Erik Fantasia (Apr 30, 2014)

The red sand was disturbed by the movement of air, spewing the crimsom particles high into the blue of the pale sky. The three suns were at the placement of noon and so the fire-dragons were up. The black trees in the distance creaked in the wind, an eerie testimony to motion. The red dragons flew above this forest with leathery wings and black spiked tails. They were acompanied by crows.
In the sky there was a brown eye, unblinking, flying high. It traveled above the desert, searching. What it searched for none could tell but all knew it would never rest. This was the picture of my soul's dream.


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## W.Goepner (Apr 30, 2014)

Did it occur to you, That you were the imagined creation of another?  That somewhere in the vastness of time, space, or multiverse, someone  painted, carved, drew, or wrote you. Yes that. Each movement is apart of  the great design they have plotted through line, color, or stanza. You  are their creation. Every trip, fall, or injury was thought out by  another. As you stumble through each drab dreary passive day of  existence, someone planned it just as it had befallen you. 

Today you get out of bed, brush teeth, comb hair, and shave the places  that need it. Walk to the closet or dresser, get out the items to wear  either to office or the gym, or just to be presentable for the daily  chores around the house. Look in the mirror to see the person that  yesterday looked different, younger, vibrant, and energetic. Then you  step away to go about the necessary daily, drudgery of the life that was  chosen for you.

OH! you thought you chose to be doing what you're doing? You thought is  was a choice that you made to be right where you are at this very  moment. The thoughts you are thinking to argue with me right now? Are  you sure, or is someone else putting them there? Just a millisecond  before you think you are thinking them. Think again. look into that  mirror one more time. Keep looking. Closer, come on closer, now look  into those eyes. Deeper, go on look deeper. Focus on the pupils, that's  it, do you see it? Just keep looking, you'll see it. 

There, you saw it, don't look away focus on it. There is a face within  those pupils. It is looking out at the great big unknown world that you  live in. It watches through the eyes that you have always seen through  to what you thought was your reality. This small unfathomable being. So  small that if it were to leave the place it resides in it would be no  bigger than a neutron circling the atom. Yet it is there living out its  infinitesimal life, guiding your every thought, your every move, your  every moment. For that is its only reason of existence. 

How do I know. I see it every time it looks into the mirror. What!? Your  surprised? Of course it is there. I created it I wrote it. As you sit  there and look out through the eyes of another and write their life.  

Maybe Mine.


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## Elvenswordsman (Apr 30, 2014)

I got pulled into a thread I apparently can't leave. My engagement is minimal, and my focus otherwise occupied. My novel is coming along well enough, and I'm enjoying where I'm at with the plot, but I'm feeling slightly enamored with my own character, chances are I fall in love, or create such an unrealistic woman that I'll never find love again.

Speaking of which, you just never know when VR will replace activity. Maybe we're in VR right now 

I looked around the moon to see
A dark spot in the sky
I wondered why it hurt my soul
To gaze into the abyss.


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## dvspec (May 4, 2014)

*Spring*

I stepped from the front door to enjoy the cool evening air on my nightly walk.  The breeze swirled the fallen pink and magenta petals of the tulip tree around my feet as I rounded the corner heading for the park.  Looking down to watch the movement, I knew what it was like to be in the center of a kaleidoscope.  The breeze paused in it's play and I continued down the hill.  

I caught the smell of the neighbors petunias as I examined the old sycamore on the next block.  The tree was beautiful, though it's leaves were not yet unfurled.  The sculptural grace and color variations of the bark always made it look more like public art than a simple tree.  It had seen the coming and going of thousands of pioneers traveling from the east along the Santa Fe, California and Oregon trails.  For this tree stood in the middle of Independence, Missouri where the trails began.  It was the last major supply stop before the pioneers headed into the unknown and uncivilized region between where they were and where they wanted to be.    

Gamblers, every single one of them.  Madness, greed, fear or just hope, led them to this place, to this tree and beyond.  It would have been a sapling at that time, just starting it's own life rooted in a way humans never have been.  In truth, every American can claim a gambler in their past for who, but a gambler would have crossed an ocean in hopes of an improvement to their circumstances.  Humans have blown across the earth like the fallen petals of the tulip tree since time immortal.  Finding a niche here or there, but always seeking another.  Those petals fade and fertilize the land beneath the tree just as humans fade an fertilize the fields.


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## J Anfinson (May 5, 2014)

*Violence/Language Warning*

Nothing ever goes the way I plan it, but I have to do what they say.

He came out of the building and into the parking lot, heading for his car. I slipped up behind him, matching his footsteps with my own so he'd remain oblivious. The rag soaked in chloroform did its trick nicely enough and he collapsed into my arms within seconds, his muffled cries reaching nobody's ears but my own.

That part went well. What I didn't count on was it wearing off so quickly.

I stopped the car in a wooded area by the lake. When I turned the engine off I could hear him pounding on the inside of the trunk lid.

Shit.

The hole was already dug. All I needed to do was drop him in and pile the dirt on top of him. He'd suffocate in no time, but that was going to be difficult to pull off with him awake.

I'd left the shovel next to the pile of dirt. I went over and grabbed it, then put my key in the trunk.

He came out faster than expected, but I'd always had good reflexes. I grabbed him by the collar and threw him down to the ground. The last of the evening sunlight faded as I kicked him. He tried to get up so I hit him with the shovel. It was all I could think to do.

I buried him while a murder of crows watched from the tops of the trees, their eyes boring into me, sizing me up. I hoped they were satisfied.

When it was over they took flight. One day, maybe a year from now, maybe tomorrow, they'll demand another sacrifice.


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## midnightpoet (May 5, 2014)

On the third moon of Jupiter, a lone Galim raised a fuzzy tentacle.  A light in the sky was coming toward him.  Soon it touched down, some kind of spaceship.  Strange creatures exited, they moved about on two sticks.  They wandered around a while until they all sunk into a rachen bog.  Serves them right, same thing happened two million years ago to the Manen creatures.  They had just come from some place they called terrie or terra and left some of their pets behind. Appas they were called?  The Galim wasn't sure.  It always had trouble understanding alien speech.  it soon slithered back into its hole for another extended slumber.


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## Schrody (May 5, 2014)

I wrote this yesterday (technically today, because it was past midnight), completely spontaneous, it's not a part of my WIP's. There's some mild language.

They came to spread peace and knowledge. We showed them who's in charge. No matter how incredible it may seem, it's completely true. It was a warm, spring day. Sun was caressing vineyards across the little region called Zagorje, in a little country at the end of the world. Farmers were up even before dawn, good old Geppe, who had an internal clock, always stared singing at the same time, day after day. He was a local attraction, many farmers and their wives used to come from other villages just so they could hear his voice. He spent most of his time pecking corn, chasing hens and playing mind tricks with the dog. He was a rooster, of course. He liked to play among the tractors, until one day, he pay a price with his head. It was a pity to throw such a beautiful head, so farmers kept it, and gave it to the children instead of a football ball. Yeah, his head would jump higher than any professional ball. Good old Geppe. It was a waste of meat too, so they the cut him, and found a clock inside of his stomach. It seems he swallowed it when he was a young boy, and since he couldn't get rid of it any other way, clock stayed in his belly, growing with him. At least old farmer Franjo now knows what kept him awake at night, that non-stopping ticking was driving him mad.

Anyway, this isn't a story about Geppe, it's about them. Masters of the Universe, Lords of Cosmos, Stargazers, Terror of the Galaxy, or as they liked to be called; Bobby Bob. Bobby Bobs weren't terrifying at all, they just spread the rumors so no one would attack them.They were friendly too. Bobby Bobs were actually considered cowards since they lost their planet in a bet. Ashamed as they were,they decided to pick on someone smaller and weaker. They chose Earth. Little did they know, how dangerous fellows of Zagorje were. They hoped trip would be worthwhile, even though they had a hybrid drive, it was taking a whole five minutes to reach the Earth, and that was a lot for Bobby Bobs, since they didn't have a sense of time. Do you know those old black and white movies about monsters from outer space who came only to sow death and terror? It wasn't anything like that. 

Farmer Franjo was in his cellar, tasting last year's wine, the best in whole Zagorje, with his friends. They we're on strike, and when a man from Zagorje is on strike he blocks himself inside, and refuses to drink water. If you ever meet a man from Zagorje, you have to taste his wine. Trust me, you're in for a treat. They were all jolly from wine, singing their national anthems, and making toast every minute or two. They heard a loud noise out there, in the air. When they came out they were in a shock; fresh air was burning their nostrils, and making their throats sore. Nevertheless, it was something usual so they just dismissed that feeling and walked straight to the giant flying saucer. 
Doors opened, a heavy fog arose, and what looked like an extraterrestrial came out of it.

- We came BUAHA BU BURRRRGH!!!!! That's much better .- alien said when he cleared his throat. Damn fog. As I was saying, we came to share with you all our knowledge. 

Farmers were looking in disbelief. 

-Yes… of course… please, come in. Make yourselves at home.- Franjo gestured with his arm, inviting them into his home. 

They sat on a terrace, beneath old pine. 

- I'm sorry if we look shocked, truth is, we're shocked. Ar are you sure you're in the right country? Shouldn't you go to America (when we say America we mean the US), to meet the president?
- We heard you are the best winemakers in the galaxy, if that is not the case, we shall go somewhere else. I hear Belina is nice in this time of the year.- aliens started to laugh, but stopped when they saw humans don't understand their jokes. Fools. 
- You're in luck - Franjo was moving an alien tentacle wrapped around his leg - we truly have the best wine. 

He gave a look to his friend, he understood it, and went for the wine in the cellar. 

- Are you hungry? I can cook the dog…
- We consume only alcohol, we wouldn't survive any proteins in our fragile body.
- Oh. I see.
- Do you humans usually eat dogs?
- No… but what else to offer to foreigners?- he gave a nervous, almost on a nervous breakdown, smile to the alien he was talking to. Others were just looking at him and his friends. It gave him uncomfortably light feeling.
-Here you go. - his friend was back putting a bottle of wine on the table. Liquid was dark red, and it was steaming. 
- Holy crap.- said the other friend. You're gonna give them our best wine?
- Now, now - Franjo was calming him - they are our guests, and we should treat them like that.
- We, of course, will exchange with you our wine recipes. - alien said.
- Of course.- Franjo replied. 

He poured a glass of still steaming wine and gave it to the aliens. Leader took a sip, and it was good - for a moment. Soon he felt weakness and dizziness, whole world was spinning around, color of his skin changed into green, red, and then finally, grey. He fell on the ground, sensing darkness around him which was closing his eyes. The rest of the aliens who drank, ended the same.

- But… -he whispered, too weak to speak- how did you know?- his tentacle pointing at the farmer was shaking, until it fell down, onto his poisoned body. 
- How did you know, Franjo? - his friends were in wonder. 
- This isn't my first encounter with this scum. Also, they have a big disclaimer on their front bumper.

THE END​


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## Apple Ice (May 10, 2014)

"The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom declared war on the entire world today following the UK's poor performance in Eurovision. He said Eurovision "Is a nest of evil and a fucking farce. I swear on my Mum you're all going to regret this," before storming out crying. He is expected to be killed later on today. More follows."


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## Pandora (May 11, 2014)

_I loved your Jim Dandies, Mom, your homemade dumpling noodles, your braised oxtails and seafood gumbo.

I love the sunflowers you grew 8 feet tall.

I loved your voice at the foot of the stairs each night telling me "tomorrow is another day honey, sweet dreams"

I loved how you gave Dad hell but then forgave him a minute later with a smile.

I love the love you two shared for a lifetime, thank you.

I loved the smell of your whiskey old fashions with the fresh orange and bitters and the smell of a rare cigarette.

I love how you would change the storm windows to screens at the start of each spring, the fresh air filling the house again. It made us feel new.

I love how you laid out all the old bread in the yard for the birds.

I love that you let squirrels nest in the attic.

I loved how you hung the sheets out to dry then made a fresh bed for me. How you even put a rubber sheet under me in bed in a storm, afraid I would get struck by lightning.

How you told me to put on a sweater cause you were cold.

I loved your voice and your deep brown smiling eyes. I love how you adored music, especially Rod Stewart.

I love the way you understood when I was wrong. 

I love how you listened knowing just the right words to say. I love how you helped me through my toughest times.

I love you Mama and I love how you loved me.


It is Mother's Day everyday because I love you!_


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## Apple Ice (May 11, 2014)

Very nice and lovely, Pandora


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## cdr112 (May 17, 2014)

I jammed the accelerator as deep into the floorboard as possible..a quick glance in the rear view and they're still back there. I can't seem to shake them. I brake hard and veer left then swerve back right giving the pedal a hardy stomp. The engine revs past it's limit as the tires howl like a pack of wolves. The other cars on the freeway are multi colored blurs of metal and glass as I fly past pushing my car to it's limits. One false move and I'm a dead man. My teeth grinding together as my white knuckles strangle the sweaty steering wheel. Then I see it, a roadblock. As I approach at near top speed, the bullets from their guns rip through my ride like a tin can tearing my flesh and shattering my bones. My getaway vehicle is reduced to a smoldering heap of scrap metal riddled with hundreds of rounds of ammo. The blood drains from my body filling my leather seat and creating a gruesome sight. My soul escapes through the holes left behind as I peer down at the carnage. Now my true journey begins, as a hole of darkness opens beneath me.


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## escorial (May 23, 2014)

W.Goepner said:


> I might have told this once in another thread, sorry if I did, my memory is short some times.  Oh, and yes this is true.
> 
> Bumper,
> 
> ...


....brilliant


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## W.Goepner (May 23, 2014)

escorial said:


> ....brilliant



Thank you


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## Bishop (May 28, 2014)

"Put the transmorpher down, Jake!" Dr. Hadley screamed at the top of her lungs toward her assistant.

"No! We... we have to do this!" Jake's frantic cries overpowered the sound of his fingers pressing the thick keys on the side of the device he held in his hand.

"Jake, buddy..." Terry tugged on his glasses, the sweat on his nose making them slip, "Let's just... put the thing down, okay? Dr. Hadley's gonna stay where she is, and I'm going to come get it, okay?"

"No! They're inside us! Changing is the only way!" Jake continued his calculations. Five, nine, three, one... or was it three seven? Three nine? How do you spell aardvark? 

"Jake!" Dr. Hadley kept her place, but lowered her pistol as Terry gestured her to relax. She reached up and ran a hand through her hair, breathing deeply as she tried to hatch a plan of disarming her insane research student.

"Jake, c'mon, talk to me," Terry said, cautiously approaching, one footstep at a time, "What're you planning to do with it?"

"Birds," Jake said.

"Birds?" Terry asked.

"Birds?!" Dr. Hadley spat.

"Birds," Jake said.

"You're going to turn us into birds?" Terry laughed. "What, ah... what are we going to do as birds?" He was nearly in arm's distance from Jake.

"Birds can fly," Jake said, his tone suggesting that this answer was obvious and that anyone not in the know of how being birds solves the solution of 'them' being 'inside' of 'us' is really just wasting everyone's time.

"Okay, buddy... let's just... GRAB IT!" Terry sprang into action, but the tweaked mind of Jake was too fast. He fired the transmorpher, still not entirely sure of its operation. It zapped everyone in the room in a big white bubble and when the light finally vanished, it clacked as it fell onto the ground of the laboratory.

Standing there, where Jake, Terry, and Dr. Hadley had been were three flamingos, skwaking awkwardly, yet angrily at one another.

"This is your idea of a bird?!" Dr. Hadley skwaked.

"Wow, that's... unexpected," Terry skwaked.

Jake skwaked happily, "You're welcome." He pointed a wing in the direction of the floor, where the three flamingos watched as little maggot-like creatures crawled out of the clothing that once concealed their bodies. The maggots rolled along and died after a few moments of exposure to the air.

"So... we did have those things in us..." Terry skwaked.

"Why did we need to be birds? Why did we need to fly?!" Dr. Hadley skwaked.

"In case they could wiggle really fast." Jake's beak opened slightly, the curved opening appearing like a smile. "Now," he skwaked, "Just gotta figure out how to operate the transmorpher with wings and talons instead of fingers..."


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## Pandora (May 28, 2014)

_The elderly man jogged a circle around my car, small steps of determination. 
As he came past our eyes would meet, each time with his wink.
He wore a blue fisherman's hat covered in buttons. His life on his hat.
Tall stories, big catches and those that got away.
I imagined his life of small determined steps and how now, with each pass, I was a part of it. 
The elderly man jogged around my thoughts for the day and still, determined we are._


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## W.Goepner (May 28, 2014)

Bishop said:


> "Put the transmorpher down, Jake!" Dr. Hadley screamed at the top of her lungs toward her assistant.
> 
> "No! We... we have to do this!" Jake's frantic cries overpowered the sound of his fingers pressing the thick keys on the side of the device he held in his hand.
> 
> ...



Bishop! Wasting such talent on a petty little thing as this challenge room. But hey, More More, Bravo bravo.


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## W.Goepner (May 28, 2014)

I wrote these two pieces in an exercise, to explain my views of how I see dogs. The first was to Olly Buckle, I wanted to help him understand my views. I impressed myself and decided to post it in the Prose Fiction section. The second one I wrote because of the comment I quoted at its beginning, was made to the first one. So to avoid cross posting I am setting the links links here. Please comment on them in either location. I am curious to how they make you feel.


http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ash-fiction)?p=1721621&viewfull=1#post1721621


http://www.writingforums.com/thread...-the-ladies)?p=1721717&viewfull=1#post1721717


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## nalini-dahlia (Jun 3, 2014)

-Lying Reflection- (mild language)

     Red lipstick like a stop sign left me glued to my mirror. I just loved that lipstick so much. I had just purchased that lipstick about a day ago, and I did so on such a whim. I'll never forget the look on the cashier's face when she bagged the lipstick with a can of hairspray, hair extensions, and tacky make up that had too much glitter in it. 

     Also an impulsive action, I went to a costume store to buy some gowns. I knew they would be the only store around my house to carry such gaudy clothing. I bought four gowns and a pair of boots. I got an even stranger look from the store clerk there, which really boggled my mind. 

     I guess it wasn't in my character before to try and be really pretty. Considering this was the first time for me to ever even buy a dress or make up, I must have looked really confused or something. I decided that that had to be the reason those cashiers looked at me strangely. 

     I twirled in front of my mirror, slowly, to make sure the whole package was all that I dreamed it would be. My natural hair was hidden away by a mass of blonde curls, all decorated with glittering hairspray that froze the locks in place. The curls reminded me of those ribbons that moms liked to put on birthday gifts. 

     My face resembled a porcelain doll due to the overload of white powder I had evenly applied. My cheeks had little clouds of rosy blush. My false eyelashes cast a shadow over my eyes. The red lipstick and rosy cheeks were balanced by my maroon gown. It was like no other gown I had ever seen, except for in maybe Victorian paintings or something. It was velvety and had long sleeves. There were puffy shoulders and dark red lace and gold jewels accentuating every bit of it.

     "Damn, you look good," I said to myself while looking in the mirror. Content with my overall appearance, I snatched my red purse and threw on my high-heeled boots. It was time for me to go and show off my beautiful self.

      When I walked out of my house, I looked to the left of me to see my neighbor, Gus. He was toying with his car, the front hood up. How typical of him, I thought. He was just doing the same old thing he'd always done. I could see across the street through my neighbor's window that the whole Garfield family was watching TV. That was also something I expected to see.

     "Who the hell are you?!" Gus shouted, pointing his finger at me. His thick Tennessean accent screamed louder than his own words.  "You better not be breaking into that house while my neighbor's at work. That neighbor over there's a real good friend of mine. I'll call the cops!"

     A car drove by. I was stunned by Gus's threatening shouts. So he didn't realize, did he? From the corner of my eye, I saw the driver in the car passing by. They were staring at me.

     "I'm gonna call Leo right now and see if he knows a weirdo like you is hanging around his house." And with those words, Gus was about to stomp into his house to give his neighbor a call.

     "Gus!" I called out, causing his whole body to spin around and face towards me. A strange look of terror was cast upon his face.

     "I am Leo."


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## thepancreas11 (Jun 6, 2014)

I looked down at the Earth and tried to muster up the wonder that early explorers must have had. They say Neila de Armstrongi had first mapped out the Mare tranquillitatis three hundred and forty years ago, that remnants of that first mission were still buried deep beneath the city. I couldn't imagine the dusty, barren wastes that he first touched down on, not with the food depots and the personal interaction centers. Only the emptiness of the streets around me resembled his first magnificent pictures, the ones I had seen on the museum internet-active page. No one ever walked the streets any more. No one ever donned the cumbersome flight suits to go for a stroll.

I bounced from one foot to the other, my footsteps the first here in ages, fresh and bright against the gray dirt, and as I floated in between touches, I tried to imagine how new this must have felt to someone with Earth's gravity weighing on them, how they must have felt light and springy as one of their beloved Earth birds. I had gone to Earth, my back braces and hip stands firmly attached to keep me standing upright under that harsh force. I had dipped my feet into the cold waters, felt that unfamiliar breeze against my neck. It was a place I could get used to over time.

Sadly, my surface permit expired after only a month, and they shipped me back with the next oxygen barge. I applied for a job working on the farms, but they limited the number of humans allowed on the surface. Getting a position in the manual labor required hours of gym-work and the kind of frame my genetics simply did not support. They told me I could work one of the crop tenders, but that I wouldn't be out in the sun feeling the natural heat on shoulders.

Ever since then, I'd taken to strolling on the surface, trying to find areas of the city abandoned enough to make me feel like Neila and Buzzi in their first mission.


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## midnightpoet (Jun 10, 2014)

Zak Picj reporting from a mid-terra site.  Archeologists were excited today on discovering a mid-twenty first century landfill.   Little is known about the period, as our records show, and the period was known as a "paperless" society.  Since all of
the primitive computers were destroyed in the robot wars of the 25th century, there is little information to go on.  When our species arrived on the planet 3000 terra revolutions ago, there were only pockets of humans left.  A successful breeding program brought them back from extinction, but they had to be kept in carefully monitored internment  camps because of their violent tendencies.  Most have been sent to our home planet for re-education.  The scientists have been trying to decipher the odd symbols on what were known as "books." Stay tuned for further developments.  Now, back to the studio at the pole desert.


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## egpenny (Jul 2, 2014)

The Were-Jaguar roared in the night, and all the tribe trembled. The God was angry. Someone was going to die at the next sun's rise. Everyone trembled, who would it be this time? The headman had already chosen the lame and disfigured, and the ones not smart enough to live on their own.

 Pieka thought someone who was cherished should be sacrificed. He'd stood among the elders and leaders at the meeting that was hastily called. "Wouldn't the Jaguar God be better satisfied with someone who was precious to us," he began and was interrupted by angry murmurs from the others. "The God can't be happy that we are only sending him rejects and misfits." He sat down quickly, and waited to see what would happen.

Onman glared at him, as if Pieka had said Onman should give up his most beloved son or daughter. "That is easy for you to say, you have no one to lose," he growled at Pieka.

Pieka bowed his head. It was true, he was alone. After a few moments, he raised his head and looked around the circle. He had a sinking feeling. Everyone was staring at him. Onman was grinning at him, stroking his chin and nodding. It was a evil grin. 

The animosity between the two men was widely known. That wouldn't be a problem, except Onman was the headman's son. Pieka was nobody, an orphan of a traveler who had died in the village many years ago.  

The Olmecs were a tough people. Pieka wasn't one of them, and he realized, at that moment, that he should have kept silent. He watched in horror as the priests came toward him. He knew who the next victim, uh, sacrifice was. His arms were grasped and he was taken out of the circle. They carried him to the temple and made him climb the steps. Bitter liquid was forced down his throat. He felt a warmth creep through his body from the draught. The warmth turned into pleasure as he felt the men's hands on him, tearing at his clothes, baring his throat and chest.

The sun was just below the hills. A few more minutes and it would shine on the top of the temple, illuminating the raised platform where Pieka lay. The priest began to pray to the Were-Jaguar, offering Pieka's heart and his blood to the God. Pieka smiled, he was beyond caring, every breath was filled with blissful pleasure. He watched as the jade dagger caught the sun's first glow. Up it went, up into the air...beautiful, Pieka thought. The dagger began its journey down and at the last moment, Pieka was afraid...


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## InkPawPrints (Jul 7, 2014)

Moss still moist with remains of the last rain squelched loudly with every footstep tread upon it. Aemda   didn't even spare a glance down at the noisy greenery. She had no time for its shrill protests as her cloth shod feet carried her rapidly towards her destination. It was all dependent on time. Time for arrival, time for collection, time for departure.

Days.

Hours.  

Minutes.

Seconds.

She ducked into a small opening in the rock walls that most would miss and wove expertly through the maze of stalagmite that shot up around her. The trip was always one of familiarity and comfort. A returning home for her; a warm welcoming from the earth itself.

Her hands passed over a few of the rock structures as she passed. Smooth, rough. She knew them all. The one to the left was a cone shape with shards of crystal imbedded deep within its form. The one up ahead had a skinnier base and a sharper point and had limestone interwoven with its ordinary rock. These were her caves. The first layer of them in which she normally lived she shared with the creatures of the forest. But in here...

A shiver went down her spine as she leaped at one rock formation, sprung off of it, caught the well-worn ledge she'd been waiting for and slipped into yet another length of passageways.  

Here; this place of wondrous mystery...

A tongue flicked out over chapped and stained lips.

This was all hers.

With a renewed bounce to her stride, the short woman creature scuttled on her way further into the labyrinth.  

“Tinkers to catch, fliers to snatch, hope and all fanciful dreams to coddle.” she cooed beneath the harsh rasp of her breath. “Numerous threads to call my own and wonderful tapestries of which I will sew.” Nimble as any spry youth, she squeezed her way between two rock shelves before scrambling up a steep incline. Dirt and pebbles broke loose beneath her weight and tumbled down the way she had come but instead of falling after them as most would when their footing was lost, she'd whirl to the side before flitting forward once again. She was eerie in her reflexes. Whether they were formed from familiarity with the terrain or just an inherent poise was hard to determine but it was easy to see that no one of a normal variety would've made it passed such an obstacle.

Once at the top she let out a gleeful crow and rushed towards the end of the tunnel where it opened up into a rather large cavern filled with even more of the moss that had been scattered around the passageways. Tiny creatures milled about in carefree abandon. They darted and tumbled, they shrieked and they growled; all at home within the confines of the mysterious cave. The woman creature paused at the entrance, head cocked to the side. Listening, she was listening to the rambunctious din they made as they played and they explored. And with every second that ticked by that she spent on her listening the small smirk on her lips began to grow.

She had long ago come to terms with what she had become. It had been centuries since she had hesitated in entering the cavern-her cavern- due to anything that resembled guilt or remorse. No, she had been chosen for this. She had been born for this. After all, why would the gods have lead her here, allowed her to seek haven here, if not for this sole purpose?

And the children... well the children needed to grow out of these pathetic little daydreams anyways. She was helping them, teaching them and pushing them to grow. And they were helping her of course.

A nasty smile part her lips to expose jagged teeth, broken and stained with her meals passed.

Age mattered nothing to her, time never touched her. She was to know beauty for the rest of eternity.

Pale green eyes glazed with a white film rolled sightlessly within their sockets. It was time to feast.


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## Deafmute (Jul 7, 2014)

_I guess I will employ my tried and true method of picking a random object in the room and having it become an intro. _

The siren blared on the street below, softly at first, then picking up till the shill tone stung at James's ears before slowly fading away, returning the room to silence. The young boy sighed, turning away from the window he plopped his head back into the flat formless excuse of a pillow, the hospitals around here always seemed to use. The bright sunny day taunted him through that thick tempered glass.   Rays of sun light seemed to poke at him no matter how he positioned the blinds, as if to ask him what he was doing cooped up this dreary place. He was sick of it, sick of the doctors poking on him, sick of the overly smiling nurses that spoke to him in nasally voices trying to be cute, sick of the blinding white that perpetually surrounded him every day.... but mostly ... mostly he was just sick of being sick. 

Rolling over he attempted to empty his stomach into a small tray they had given him. Nothing came up. _God, why can't I just hurl?! _Those dry heaves sent his midsection through another series of knots and spasms that had the child's small frame curled into a ball on his side. Tears rolling down his cheek. "It's not fair!"

Finally, the spasms stopped and he flattened out, mentally and physically exhausted. His eyes traced the small tubing coming from his hand to all the way up the I.V. pump. where six different bags of medicines hung. He cursed each bag individually, giving them the worst names he could come up with. His mom would have washed his mouth out with soap, cancer or no, if she heard the words that slid out of him at that moment... or maybe she would curse them right along with him. He smiled a bit, thinking about his mom spouting out the words his older friends would teach him on the playground. "There is no way." he whispered. 

"No way what?" came an unfamiliar voice from the hallway. Clutching her I.V. poll, and peeking curiously into the room stood a little girl, probably the same age as James. A baseball cap covering her bald head, and a complexion that nearly matched the white of the sheets, somehow that girl still managed a smile. Shuffling into his room without waiting for an invitation the girl leaned into the bewildered boy's face. "I asked you a question!"


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## J Anfinson (Sep 9, 2014)

"Look, Jack. I said I was sorry. What more do you want?"

Jack paced back and forth between the table and the door. Against the far wall was an old stone fireplace. A few coals still glowed orange from when they'd cooked their dinner of canned meat and frozen vegetables. He quit pacing and opened the door to go outside.

"We're probably better off anyway," Vince said.

Jack slammed the door and stormed across the room and grabbed Vince by the collar. "Don't you say that. You fucked it up, you little shit. What do you think Mr. Pavelli is going to think about our failure? Do you think he'll put a bullet in both our heads, or just yours?"

"Geez, Jack. Lighten up. You said yourself that we should ditch that sleazeball. There's a million jobs out there for handy guys like us."

Jack gritted his teeth and pushed Vince away. "We can't outrun Pavelli. You saw what he did to Mason."

"Well I'm taking my chances. You can stick around this freezing ass cabin and wait for him to show up if you feel like it." He started for the door.

Jack sighed. "I knew you'd do this."

"What?" He turned and found himself staring down the barrel of a .45.

"Pavelli knew you were weak. This was a test."

"Oh, shit. Look, I wasn't serious about leaving. I was just gonna take a drive. You can tell him--"

"Goodbye, Vince." Jack pulled the trigger and the .45 roared. He dragged the corpse into the woods and buried it. When he was finished he went back into the cabin and flipped open his cell phone.

_"Yes?"_

"You were right, Mr. Pavelli. Vince couldn't hack it."

_"Is everything taken care of?"_

"Yes, sir. Do you have a replacement in mind?"

_"I do. You can start his training in the morning."_

"Thank you, Mr. Pavelli."

_"And Jack?"_

"Yes?"

_"There better not be blood on my rug, or you're dead."_


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## Pluralized (Sep 24, 2014)

Agenda 21’s Forgotten Sons


“It’s subterfuge and shenanigans on the highest order,” Grim said, not realizing he had latte froth hanging from his ridiculous, bushy mustache, “and they know we know it. For instance, the base units they use: they’re all in abstract numbers! Millions, billions of years.” He took a pull from the hookah and licked his lips. Must’ve noticed the froth, because his tongue did a Scooby-Doo, propeller-style and his mouth was clean again like a big black beaver from the 70s. 


“Okay, Grim. I get that you’re incredulous about the units, but how do you explain Carbon-14 dating? Seems a rock-solid bit of science to me.” Satisfied, Bohannon set his bottle on the table and motioned to the giant man who’d brought the drinks.


“Easy. Don’t you get it? It’s all flawed, due to the abstract units! They’re vehemently opposed to any of us finding out about the—“ Grim’s words were cut short by the poison blowdart lodged in his throat. He clutched wildly at his neck, fell over on the floor, and breathed out one last groaning breath. Bohannon, perplexed, turned around just in time to see the assassin climb aboard the train as the doors were closing. She pulled her wig off, took a seat, and keyed her text message into the phone: “Tell Tyson it’s finished.”


She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall of the train, and never saw Bohannon’s approach.


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## W.Goepner (Oct 11, 2014)

People always say quit living on dreams, they say living in the past is nonproductive. Yet here I am. I keep hoping for a better future and am always looking for clues in the past. Oh by the way I am a scientist that studies past events to see how they shaped our future. I am a member of an elite team of scientists that, through the use of time machines travel to the past in hopes of finding the keys to the future. Not that the future is messed up or any thing it id just not right.

For instance, today every one must where purple. Not just any purple, the one purple that makes you want to puke. That isn't the worst of it, there is no individuality, every one wheres the same pattern of clothing. On a hat day you better be wearing one, and do not think of an umbrella even if it is raining cats and dogs, if it is not an umbrella day. 

How did it get like this, you ask? Well the world finely decided to get our collective buts together and make a unified world. Everyone thought it would be great. Then the greed corrupted the system. Finely we figured to look for the people that were the least greedy of all to run the world. It worked for a while then things became over complected, first was fashion. To be among the elite had become the new battle ground. Money was the second, Socialism is how they put it. Everyone gets a set rate of credit no matter their place in society. 

Well truth be told, I think it was better with the ten to fifteen year old group was in control. Now with the five to eight year old group there is still a bit of fussing over the sharing.


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## Pluralized (Oct 11, 2014)

She didn’t seem to understand me, so I tried Japanese. “Nihongo ga, wakarimas ka?”


“Mosishasimofalo,” she responded. Or something close to that. Her throat-flaps muffled the enunciation, words came through spaghetti-mouth. Distraction lopped attention’s feet off at the ankles, left confusion at the helm of the listing vessel. 


“Do you speak English,” I said in my clearest tone. Twitching elbow, careful toe-tapping. Fight-or-flight surged.
The neck elongated to deliver the oval head nearly into my lap, then the mouth opened and teeth bared. I stiffened. Biting, snapping all around my groin and midsection, then contact was made. Nerve endings screamed red-alert, pain honked and spiraled in deep places within. Half-awake, sickened. Flushing. 


Infection, throbbing. Fear. There’s tooth marks and she’s long gone. What she was, I know not. Dirty, foreign mouth. Fading. Making excuses. Apologizing.


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## J Anfinson (Oct 19, 2014)

Pale.
Lifeless.
He carefully stitched the eyes closed and readied the machine. It hummed as it did its work, and when the cycle was complete the body was ready for embalming. Boone went about his work solemnly, forcing himself to feel nothing. He'd let himself feel too much on the first one, so many years ago and it had nearly destroyed him. If his father hadn't relied on him to get the bodies ready he wouldn't have been able to do it by his own will. Now there was just one last step, one that father had insisted.

Boone filled the machine's reservoir and turned it on again. The solution of holy water and garlic flowed through the tubes and into the body. After the outbreak, it paid to be careful. Sometimes they only pretended to be dead.


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## W.Goepner (Oct 19, 2014)

J Anfinson said:


> Pale.
> Lifeless.
> He carefully stitched the eyes closed and readied the machine. It hummed as it did its work, and when the cycle was complete the body was ready for embalming. Boone went about his work solemnly, forcing himself to feel nothing. He'd let himself feel too much on the first one, so many years ago and it had nearly destroyed him. If his father hadn't relied on him to get the bodies ready he wouldn't have been able to do it by his own will. Now there was just one last step, one that father had insisted.
> 
> Boone filled the machine's reservoir and turned it on again. The solution of holy water and garlic flowed through the tubes and into the body. After the outbreak, it paid to be careful. Sometimes they only pretended to be dead.



Good one. I did not expect that ending.


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## J Anfinson (Oct 19, 2014)

W.Goepner said:


> Good one. I did not expect that ending.



Neither did I.


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## Erik Fantasia (Mar 11, 2015)

Rainbow grass blowing in the breeze.The sound of a distant clock, ticking away the hours of a dying day. Tick tock. Tick tock. 
The blue sky homed the spiral sun, making its final appearance for the year. Tomorrow, the Delta Sun would rise.


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## J Anfinson (Mar 15, 2015)

He walked across the porch, dreading the stack of papers that would be waiting on his desk. The steps creaked as he started down, and for a moment he thought the old, rotted wood might give way and send him tumbling down, arms pinwheeling until he landed on the concrete fifteen feet below, breaking an arm or leg. Two more steps and he sighed with relief. It wouldn't happen today. Nevertheless when payday came he'd start calling around to see who would make him a deal on building a new stairway. He was so distracted by the thought that he didn't see the nailhead sticking up, or that his shoelace got caught on it, and on the next step he fell. His face met the steps with a crunch as his nose exploded in red mist, and his shoelace snapped. Down the steps he tumbled, bashing his head over and over until he reached the bottom. The daylight turned to darkness as his vision faded, but just before the tunnel of blackness closed around him he heard a voice.

"Don't fight it, Nick. It's only dark for a little while."

He hadn't heard his father's voice in thirty years. It was soothing, and it seemed like good advice. He let the darkness win.


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## Plasticweld (Mar 15, 2015)

With one eye half open, the other buried in the pillow I struggled to see the time on the clock, reading the fuzzy numbers I'm not sure if I really want to know what they say, it looks like 4:16 am.  I should be asleep.  The cool air from the open window feels good as it drifts in, I can smell the change in the seasons as the air moves through the window.  My wife lays with her leg thrown over both of mine she has me in a choke hold with her arm and seems to be the picture of contentment;  I can not tell if it is because she is passionately in love with me or secretly wishes strangle me.  For a woman with the coldest feet in the evening, she is like a furnace now making the cool air feel even better.

I am tired and I am wide awake, it makes no sense to me, 30 more minutes of sleep would sure feel good.  I roll over all the things I am supposed to do today, the calls I am supposed to make and who I need to talk to this morning to get the ball rolling and make everything work, I tick off the tasks as I  stare at the ceiling in the dark, the warm blankets feel good, my wife feels good. 

The alarm goes off and surprises me, it woke me from a sound sleep, now I do feel tired.  How could I feel  so wide awake just a few minutes ago and now feel so tired, it makes no sense. 

It is Monday morning, time to do it all over again.


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## NathanBrazil (Mar 15, 2015)

Janus unscrewed the top of her skull and left her brain on the desk, knowing that she could survive several days without it, but never sure what her body was up to during the interim.


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## JustRob (Mar 16, 2015)

Spontaneity? That's a tall order to ask of someone who is only ever spontaneous and never has a WIP as such, but perhaps I could have a look around the top of my head to see whether anything didn't get flushed out the last time that I started typing. Not much up here though; even the hair's virtually all gone now. This really is just a departure lounge for half-baked thoughts waiting to travel to other sunnier minds to get a better tan. Ah, here's a heap of ... no, that's not English, not syntactically correct anyway and most of it doesn't even look like words. Perhaps it's just some detached piece of computer code left behind by a memory leak. That's a technical term used by those of us who recollect programming languages that didn't have garbage collectors built in. Apparently I must have forgotten to clear out the garbage some time in the past. I don't look up here much, just pull the chain and out it all comes. I must have flushed it so much recently that it's empty. 

I could just sit here and wait for the next train of thought to pull in but this station seems pretty deserted. It's something that I've experienced before, in the days when this place had a thick layer of thatch on top. Yes, I remember waiting on the platform of a rural station that Beeching would all too soon erase from the network. No station staff to sell me a ticket or tell me when the train would come, but then the station master would appear from his house or even his garden by the track and stroll across the line to discover whether the odd lost soul had found his hideaway. This was always a good sign because he'd never bother to come unless a train was actually expected soon. He'd just allow five minutes to sell the tickets and then be there to greet the train as though he spent all his working hours on that platform, but even though he had only one customer it was me, always throughout my life the difficult one. You see, my father worked on the railway too, but up in London where trains arrived all the time, so therefore I was entitled to staff discount on my tickets and before the advent of computers and even calculators working out the price was a major task for a rural station master more accustomed to gardening and planting out the flower displays along the platforms. Nevertheless he would accomplish this mathematical task just in time before the ancient tank engine chuffed its way alongside the platform pulling those equally old coaches behind it and I would be able to ride just two stops down the line to my destination, another very similar station. 

Now the stations have gone as has the track and most of the hair on the top of my head and even that structure is standing vacant at present apart from me here waiting for inspiration to chuff into sight. Never mind, it's peaceful here and I can hear birds singing not far off as dusk falls. One is never entirely alone with a little nostalgia for company inside one's own mind.


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## Avaricia (Mar 23, 2015)

I continue to lazily swirl my spoon around the rim of my coffee, watching its contents swirl around the edges and barely bat an eye as some of the steaming liquid drains down the side to pool up upon the table. I sigh softly, knowing I should get to work on this infernal assignment. I lift my head up, the chatter of the coffee store resumes as I finally snap out of my daze. I lift the searing cup of coffee to my lips, allowing my fingers to brush against the side of cup, and a sudden burning sensations traces across them. I let out a hiss of pain, my fingers reflexively letting go of the cup, and in my moment of pain, I fail to realise my laptop rests just below my hand, and my eyes go wide in realisation.

I raise my hand, my palm outstretched in an attempt to save the laptop. In that small moment; the noise around me stops, no cars are heard, no birds are heard, nothing at all, and I look around in utter confusion, only to find all forms of movement had stopped. Time had stopped. My head begins to throb as I stare down at my once falling cup of dangerous coffee. It's stopped too, it's liquid a mere inch away from touching the laptop. I look around, unsure of what to do, and then... a sly smile forms upon my shaking lips, a manic thought filling my head.


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## Sleepwriter (Mar 23, 2015)

The back of my head throbs with each beat of my heart.  My vision fading with every passing second. I try to gather my thoughts, but it hurts too much to think.  I don't remember what I was doing or why I am here. For that matter, where am I?


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## BurntMason84 (Mar 24, 2015)

Thump.  Kayla heard it and began to run.  As she came out of the alley, an explosion resounded from the rooftop where she had been standing, sending scalding shrapnel and brick below where he had just been standing.  Thump, thump, thump.  Her legs pumped faster at the sound of more incoming grenades.

She turned down another alley just as the street behind her lit up with a number of explosions, right past where she had ducked in.  The humming of drones got louder as she navigated the thin alleyway filled with dumpsters, trash, and dead bodies.  Her lungs burned and her muscled ached, but the pain was numbing at this point and driving her forward.  As she neared the exit of the alley way, she heard the silent rattling of the drones machine guns and the corresponding impacts along the brick walls.  She turned the corner only to feel something slice her shoulder.

Blood ran down her arm now, a freshly wet, warm feeling as opposed to the sweat which had cooled her down.  Her feet were bleeding as well, though she lost feeling in them long ago, as they appeared more blue and black at that point than anything else.  Run.  That's all she was told to do if she was in trouble.  Just run.

She turned down a street as she heard her pursuers close in behind her.  There was nothing but a barricade not more than 100 yards away with no exit in sight, but she couldn't turn around.  She ran towards it, looking for an exit, a door, a window within reach, anything at all.  As she kept looking left and right, she didn't see that the barricade was right before her and slammed into the mess of metal, tires and scrap.  She collapsed on the ground and began to silently cry.

Her pursuers rounded the corner.  A small group of soldiers from the Dome, who lowered their weapons as they saw their cornered prey.  The droned came from over the rooftops and the soldiers shouted at them to desist so they wouldn't kill her on sight.  As they walked up, their metal plates on their uniforms bounced the sun off and cast reflected beams all over the dusty road and abandoned buildings around them.  Their trim shimmered with electricity, not merely for aesthetic purpose, but with live circuitry feeding their vitals and conditions to some unknown commander in a dark room in a command center.

The leader laughed as he walked up to the battered and exhausted girl.  "No where else to run," he stated, assured of her surrender, or death, whichever was easiest.  They were ordered to catch her alive, but shooting her would be just as easy and pose less questions about her current state of health.  He viewed the bruising, some from running, some from his own interrogation tactics.

She sobbed into her hands.  After a few moments, she decided crying wouldn't help, and wiped her tears away and composed herself; she might as well give them a fight, even if it was meek.  As she took a deep breath, she heard the telltale engine of a Banshee hoverbike revving.  She then heard another, then another.  What had been a slight buzz in a distance was quickly becoming a massive roar, drowning out anything else.  She looked up at her would be captors and smiled, "Your turn to run."

Suddenly, from over the barricade came a huge group of hoverbikes, screeching through the air with arcs of missile smoke trailing from in front of them.  Suddenly, the drones and the soldiers were bombarded from all sides by a wild dance of light and fire.  They began to fall back, except at the leader, who kept looking around in disbelief and awe.  The barricade groaned and began to arch, when it finally gave away as a massive tank rolled right up behind the girl.  The leader stepped back as the turrets, mounted on a swiveling mount from behind, like a scorpion's tail, turned until they were pointed straight at the leader of the group who kept stumbling backwards in shock.

"What the..." was all he was able to muster before the turrets unleashed twin high explosive shells on his position.  The smoke cleared and all that was left was a smoldering crater in the pavement.  The girl stood up and looked at the cockpit of the metal bohemoth, "Thanks dad."

The cockpit opened up and an elderly old man with prosthetic limbs poked his head out.  "Don't you 'thanks dad' me.  I told you not to go out by yourself, but no, nooooo!  Why listen to me, I'm just an elderly old man who nags too much.  Don't mind me and all the metal pieces I've got stitched on, I'm just talking crazy talk.  You're just like your mother..." and so on and so forth.  She rolled her eyes and hopped up onto his lap, happy that he did find her and that he was a crotchety old man.  A crotchety old man who could drive a tank, that is.


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## W.Goepner (Mar 25, 2015)

BurntMason84 said:


> Thump.  Kayla heard it and began to run.  As she came out of the alley, an explosion resounded from the rooftop where she had been standing, sending scalding shrapnel and brick below where he had just been standing.  Thump, thump, thump.  Her legs pumped faster at the sound of more incoming grenades.
> 
> She turned down another alley just as the street behind her lit up with a number of explosions, right past where she had ducked in.  The humming of drones got louder as she navigated the thin alleyway filled with dumpsters, trash, and dead bodies.  Her lungs burned and her muscled ached, but the pain was numbing at this point and driving her forward.  As she neared the exit of the alley way, she heard the silent rattling of the drones machine guns and the corresponding impacts along the brick walls.  She turned the corner only to feel something slice her shoulder.
> 
> ...




And into the depths of another quadrant do we go. Good write BurntMason, You need to expand on that one.


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## W.Goepner (Mar 25, 2015)

There is a darkness that comes before the light, they say, but what if all you have ever seen was darkness? What if you were born into the dark and have never seen light, would you know it when it appears? I have always asked that of my doctors, family and priests, no one can tell me of what I will see in that time. Through every kind of scan, test or exam they know, they cannot find what is wrong with my eyes. "There is nothing we can find wrong." They always said to my mother and me, Dad stopped going with us after the first year or so of my life. Then one day when we came home there was only a note. I was ten.

Now Mom is tired of the race to go here or there and this one says exploratory surgery, that one says more test. Mom is looking older than her years from all the stress and running about, chasing the doctors dreams. Ya the Doctors have wrong Mom and the insurances dry just about. I have been getting my Disability benefits since Dad left. Now that I am twenty and am about to get a doctorates degree in electrical science, I only have to complete this project to get it. 

Nano technology has changed many aspects of the repair field, but the human rights groups have banned human testing because most of the test subject have had adverse affects from these miniature miracle workers. I figured out why. the majority of the failed test subjects were users and only wanted drug monies. I truly want help with my ailment. The survivors of the tests have not shown any adverse effects due to either no Nano bots were used in them or they had nothing wrong with them. 

The things were designed to seek out issues within the body or brain. Most of the recipients which had adverse effects, had cellular damage in great quantities due to their drug habits. The ones which never showed any effects either did not have any issues or they were not effected by what repairs the nano bots did. 

I decided to go a bit deeper into the programming of these miniature bots. So far, three dogs with different eye problems and two cats with cataracts have recovered their eyesight. One primate which was born without sight like me has had the bots dropped into its eyes. The bandages will be coming off today. Depending on the outcome I will undergo the same procedure within twenty four hours. If that test is successful that alone will earn me the doctorate. My test is strictly for my own satisfaction.

It has been a week since I have had the drops put in my eyes. We proceeded with the test on myself even though the primate had issues with regaining its sight. It appears that its mind was not able to handle the idea of seeing when it had never seen before. They said it cowered into a corner and would not move from it, not even to eat. I have sat with it with my bandages on, They say the one time it looked at me it freaked out. All I remember is I felt a hard hit to the side of my face then I woke up to a bunch of shouting.

Today is the day I will get to see, or not, if this worked. They say the room has been darkened to prevent a shock to my brain due to sudden brightness. The doctors want to put me under so I would not have irritation from the hand held lights they look through. I told them I want to see what I only have been told they done to check my eyes all this time. I feel the scissors cut the gauze wrap and the doctor removes it and the pads which have covered my eyes for the past month. The monitoring system has shown zero activity of the nano bots for thirty six hours. They figured it was that they were finished with what ever they were doing. 

I fear I will be like the primate, it is the only example I have to go by the dogs and cats never showed side effects, but the primate did. Why?

"All right slowly open your eyes." I comply and I see darkness. "That is because I am holding a dark cover in front of your face. I am moving it now. What do you see?"

There was a flash, then only darkness, "No wait, I see something," I raise my hand to point and it goes away, as I drop it it returns. "What is that?" I ask as I point and it goes away again.

"Good that is a light in a box with a pin hole for the light to go through. All right we will begin turning up the lights."

I watch as shadows appear in the darkness. Slimmer shadows are attached to the bigger one as hands and arms are raised and the lights are brightened. I bring my hand in front of my face to see the harry back side and the dark skinned palm and fingers. A mirror is placed in it and I turn it to look upon my reflection for the first time. I am astounded with what I see. I have slightly protruding ears with smooth dark hair covering all but my ears and face, My mouth protrudes below a flat broad nose, my eyes are a dark brown and my brows extend over them. I resemble the others in the room. 

We are all startled by a loud thump to my left as the lights grow brighter I see the primate pressed up against the glass. Its fur less body pinkish in color, its yellow hair was cut short for the test it underwent. It is a male by the looks of things, its feet and hands seem strange to me being so different from each other, unlike mine. It is a wonder that they have survived as long as they have.


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## Meteli (Mar 26, 2015)

Night Sky

It is getting late. I feel it was just moments ago that the sky was beautiful jewel like blue of the evening, but when I look to the window, its black outside, with only spots of light in the houses opposite from where I live, the warm glow in their windows and colder glare of parking lots lights. The moon looms behind my curtain. A friend once told me to get on my back with her and we watched the stars above. I admitted they looked so small. We were young but both of us also knew that stars actually are just so far away that they look like pinpricks on a black canvas, and even though planet earth is carrying us like dust specks on a dome of some ancient palace, even plannet earth would not be seen if we we're trying to find it in the sky if someone would go where those distant pin pricks are and tried to look back from there. And we dust specks would not be on that invisible planet, because our time is short, and distances from sun to sun are very long. All these thoughts made me feel very insignificant. I do not know what happened after that, maybe my approach for things grew up with me. Night sky equals limitlessness now.


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## RhythmOvPain (Mar 26, 2015)

DP; Please delete.


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## RhythmOvPain (Mar 26, 2015)

Staff Deployment said:


> "Look, there are two ways this can go  down," said Boxer. "I can shove you off the plane, or you can fly us to  Washington State."
> 
> "First off, this isn't a plane," said Dr. Bones. "Secondly, I'm a doctor, not a pilot, and you're in a mental asylum."
> 
> ...



Before I say anything else, I have to say that this made me laugh like a retard for a second. =P

Kay.

"My dog is trying to kill me!" Dave screamed, running down the steps from his apartment to the street below. Passersby stopped and gawked at the man, his hair a mess and shirt torn to shreds. His pants were ripped from the thigh down and stained with blood; his face was covered in it, and his left arm had six brightly glistening gashes. 

Before anyone could react, the door burst open and the dog came barreling down the steps. Dave ran through the alleyway directly in front of his house and looked back as the dog regrouped and locked eyes with him. _Is the damned thing possessed?_ he wondered, right before it started charging for him.

He raced to his pickup and grabbed the shotgun he kept behind the seat, then locked the door just in time to stop the dog from jumping in with him. He searched his pockets and the truck furiously for the keys as the dog ravenously attacked the glass, leaving trails of slime, blood, and smudges on it. When Dave finally found the keys under the seat, he put them in the ignition and pumped the gas, sending the dog flying off the tire well.

Using every ounce of muscle in his body, he forced the truck into a tail-spin and then whopped the dog with the tailgate, then backed up over it laughing maniacally. After he felt a reassuring bump, he quickly jumped out and pumped his shotgun. He got down on all fours and looked under the truck just in time to see the damn thing fly out at him. 

In a split second Dave fired the shotgun, and took half of his face with the buckshot. The dog's head was cleanly removed by the blast, and by the time the corner had gotten there, the entire affair was deemed the effects of a concoction of promethazine and angel dust. Dave's house was subsequently raided and the bodies confiscated.

It is believed that after the case closed, the two were buried together in the same plot in a government cemetery.

The end.


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## Ephemeral_One (Mar 27, 2015)

Paradise is subjective, to say the least. Upon the cobbled road, the gutters run thick with blood. Wails and laughter are the symphony to my dance. My axe cleaves the faithless flesh set before me. Even a god would I strike down if he would dare to block my way. My goal is survival, the most primitive of desires. Yet, to survive, I clutch the great blunderbuss in my hand. Another who failed to overcome his inner beast appears before me. He drags his own axe upon the ground. Stepping aside from his wild blow, I bring my instrument of death to cut him down. Another beast felled, another boon granted to me. In the distance, I see more. Pitchforks, sabers and rifles are arrayed against me. Step, cut, dodge, slash, burn, crush and shoot. More sacrifices to my private heaven as I await it to destroy me. I will not claim to be any better, after all, there is no more appropriate hunter of beasts, than a beast itself. I shall reap a red harvest and add more voices to the choir that follow me. May whatever mad god created such a person and place receive my thanks. For I shall endeavor to savor every instant of this wonderland I've found.


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