# Not for critique: share your pretty words. (2 Viewers)



## indianroads

Words are the paint and texture we use to illustrate our worlds. This thread is for your pleasing passages - *not for critique* - but instead, to share the love of writing. Let's keep the passages reasonably short.
I'll start off. This is from a novel I wrote several years ago titled Desperation, it's a dream sequence.

_The world was on fire; turbulent orange and yellow clouds boiled high above as vermilion flames rose from the earth to consume the sky. A large animal screamed in agony as it ran through a maze of exploding pine trees, leaving behind a trail of dark smoke and the pungent smell of burning fur. The creature’s panicked shrieks could not dispel its torment; we can never escape ourselves.

Was that a horse or a bison? He was uncertain if he knew the difference. Where was he? What was going on? Scorching winds tore at his body as he stood on a mountain ledge overlooking a vast open plain. He knew this place; he was on Cheyenne Mountain looking down on what should have been Pike City. His former home was gone though, in its place he saw only flames consuming desecrated rubble.

A young boy with slick black hair sat on a lower ledge; the child slowly turned and looked back at him. Dark fathomless eyes stared from a cracked face that was the color and texture of parchment blanched with age. “You did this,” Dagon muttered. “You are the destroyer of worlds.” The boy’s face split apart when he grinned and exuded a black oily substance that ran down his cheeks like tears._


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## Kyle R

Cool thread idea! And a very nice excerpt. Lush writing.

Here's my contribution. An excerpt from my WIP:

_Vee moved carefully through the mess. She was made of clockwork, so she wasn’t as delicate as a human, but she was still frail in her own mechanical way. Perhaps even more so than flesh and blood. Because bodies could heal. Torn skin could mend. Cracked bones could fuse again. Machinery, though, offered no such benefits. A bent gear would stay that way, until it could be replaced._

_A broken heart would forever remain shattered._


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## indianroads

Kyle R said:


> Cool thread idea! And a very nice excerpt. Lush writing.
> 
> Here's my contribution. An excerpt from my WIP:
> 
> _Vee moved carefully through the mess. She was made of clockwork, so she wasn’t as delicate as a human, but she was still frail in her own mechanical way. Perhaps even more so than flesh and blood. Because bodies could heal. Torn skin could mend. Cracked bones could fuse again. Machinery, though, offered no such benefits. A bent gear would stay that way, until it could be replaced.
> 
> A broken heart would forever remain shattered._


That's lovely! Thanks for sharing!


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## Foxee

@Kyle R I really enjoyed that. I think I found one of your character's people here and she's an amazing singer!

Nice thread idea, @indianroads. And you had me at "The world was on fire", that was an attention-getter.

A little bit from a timed writing that hasn't become a story at this point:

_Frame houses with little more than paint chips to hold them together indicated that this had once been a pleasant street. Jagged and broken glazing allowed their current darkness out to try and touch me as I pedaled by their small front yards. Other than birds and bats these houses held nothing but memories now. Even vagrants or murderers wouldn't want to trek out to the middle of nowhere to thread their way over broken porch steps, dare fallen-in foundation walls, and finally risk having an exhausted old house fall on them._

_I was alone, it just didn't feel like it as the houses looked over my head with their empty windows before giving way to arching trees that once again closed the lane in gloom._


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## Kent_Jacobs

In a clearing, in a lonely old shack, a Grandmother rested on a bed of soft down. Evenfall lifted her stillness and blessed the room with her passing. A lifetime spoke sweetly and marked her death with each moment, graced her dried lips, her pale eyes, and bowed in witness of her living. The flicker of a fire kissed her face with amber and danced on the walls in celebration, for tonight the worthy walk.


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## JBF

About midevening the rain came, sweeping and whispering in the narrow alleys and marching on the smoothed cobbles of the street like footfalls of a ghost army. Fat, slow drops at first, hissing against sheetiron and stucco, then the fanatic, driving rattle that drove the revelers behind bright arcades and dust-streaked glass.

Twenty minutes. Perhaps thirty.

And then the rain lifted with the dusk, and in a reversal of its arriving there resumed the truncated festivities. The smallest children, last inside before the deluge, emerged as scouts, and before the dun orange glow fell from the sky came the teenagers, then the adults, and in the time it took to mark the day gone the music rose and echoed out from the bars and cantinas and the dancing places, and in no time all that remained of the weather was a glassy sheen in the cracks of the paving stones and an earthy heaviness to the air.


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## indianroads

Foxee said:


> @Kyle R I really enjoyed that. I think I found one of your character's people here and she's an amazing singer!
> 
> Nice thread idea, @indianroads. And you had me at "The world was on fire", that was an attention-getter.
> 
> A little bit from a timed writing that hasn't become a story at this point:
> 
> _Frame houses with little more than paint chips to hold them together indicated that this had once been a pleasant street. Jagged and broken glazing allowed their current darkness out to try and touch me as I pedaled by their small front yards. Other than birds and bats these houses held nothing but memories now. Even vagrants or murderers wouldn't want to trek out to the middle of nowhere to thread their way over broken porch steps, dare fallen-in foundation walls, and finally risk having an exhausted old house fall on them.
> 
> I was alone, it just didn't feel like it as the houses looked over my head with their empty windows before giving way to arching trees that once again closed the lane in gloom._


Beautiful.


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## indianroads

TheMightyAz said:


> In a clearing, in a lonely old shack, a Grandmother rested on a bed of soft down. Evenfall lifted her stillness and blessed the room with her passing. A lifetime spoke sweetly and marked her death with each moment, graced her dried lips, her pale eyes, and bowed in witness of her living. The flicker of a fire kissed her face with amber and danced on the walls in celebration, for tonight the worthy walk.


Oh - that is wonderful.


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## indianroads

JBF said:


> About midevening the rain came, sweeping and whispering in the narrow alleys and marching on the smoothed cobbles of the street like footfalls of a ghost army. Fat, slow drops at first, hissing against sheetiron and stucco, then the fanatic, driving rattle that drove the revelers behind bright arcades and dust-streaked glass.
> 
> Twenty minutes. Perhaps thirty.
> 
> And then the rain lifted with the dusk, and in a reversal of its arriving there resumed the truncated festivities. The smallest children, last inside before the deluge, emerged as scouts, and before the dun orange glow fell from the sky came the teenagers, then the adults, and in the time it took to mark the day gone the music rose and echoed out from the bars and cantinas and the dancing places, and in no time all that remained of the weather was a glassy sheen in the cracks of the paving stones and an earthy heaviness to the air.


Gorgeous, wonderful imagery.


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## Kent_Jacobs

indianroads said:


> Oh - that is wonderful.


It was an experiment following on from 'The Story' in which I attempted to write the whole thing without specifics. In this one I attempted to write everything figuratively. It crashed and burned ... lol When I read it now, I don't know what the hell I was trying to say.


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## Tettsuo

I've always wished I could write sentences that sung. I almost always write within a context of a story, so the feeling is always contained within the context of a storyline.

In any case, here's a few lines I enjoyed in my recent WIP, which I'm still editing.



> "But what of you?"
> 
> Taken aback, he looked at me with furrowed brow. "What of me?"
> 
> "Yargai?"
> 
> "What a..." He stopped himself and sighed. "So, I am the fool as well, eh?"
> 
> It was my turn to laugh, and I did. He only shook his head and looked towards the round Stammian home where Yargai was resting.
> 
> "I cannot love him. I cannot love a coward."
> 
> "But you do love him. I saw it in your eyes."
> 
> "Yes, yes, I know. But, to love him, we must both risk death. I... I have faced death, with you, more than once. Have I wavered?"
> 
> "Never."
> 
> "Yet he has."
> 
> With eyes closed he held his face up towards the brightening skies.
> 
> "To love as I wish, we would have to be willing to risk death everyday. But, how can I trust a man to face death with me if he is too afraid to do so? I will not put my trust in a person who will not be brave for me as I would for him."
> 
> "You needn't worry, brother. There will be others. And if not, you can trust that I will face death with you for as long as I have breath."
> 
> "Oh Yanny, if only you were a man."


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## KeganThompson

I started a short story...here what I got for the opening so far, still working on it tho..

Graphite lines scratched form on unused printer paper. Hunched in an office chair, Adrian paused to glance at the photo on his laptop screen. He resumed his sketch, stopping only to study the picture. I glided over to get a better look.
“Looks good.” It was nothing more than a rough outline of my face, but the proportions looked accurate.
I wondered why, out of all the pictures on my profile, he always chose that one. 
After freeing my hair from it’s ponytail, my dirty blonde mane fluffed out in the humidity. Dew graced my forehead, sun kissed skin and cherry cheeks brought out my freckles. The photo was taken unprompted by my best friend, Tori, after we won the last soccer match of the year.
Adrian tried to draw me multiple times, each time he got frustrated and each time he never finished. Some renderings he kept hidden away, others got tossed in the bin. I drew my face closer to his and studied his expressions. Brows furrowed, eyes gazed from the portrait to the computer screen, my image reflected in his dark eyes.


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## indianroads

Nice!


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## Mark Twain't

Great idea for a thread. Something I'm working on.


_Holly takes her seat as the waiter gently places her coffee on the table. She watches as the world goes by  in the hustle and bustle of rush hour but to her, it’s all an insignificant blur. Just colours mingling until they all blend into one ethereal mist.

Lifting the cup to her lips, she looks wistfully to the sky. To the one solitary cloud in the vast expanse of Azure blue. To her, it’s Jack. He’s on his way home. On his way back to her. Death didn’t stop him the last time and she knows it won’t stop him now. She raises her cup and smiles before whispering ‘See you soon my love,’_


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## indianroads

Wow!


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## Joker

I think I've finally gotten a foothold for this novel, and figured out Corrit's voice. Taut, punchy sentences of self-aware melancholy.

_I went out to grab one drink and ended the night getting thrown out on my tail feathers. Yeah, that’s me. Corrit Raith, former Vespian Imperial Special Forces, manhandled by the civilians of my once sworn enemy. I’m getting old.

I scramble to my feet, hoping to give the bouncer a piece of my mind, but he's already gone. That's probably a good thing. Most of these humans are two times my size. He was three.

Best to just get moving, then. I think I'm supposed to meet a client in the morning. I'm a private investigator when I'm sober. It's a decent enough job. Let's me put my skills to use without killing anybody. Civilians are generally averse to killing.

I grab my coat out of the puddle and wring it out as best I can. Castol Prime rains too damn much. Makes my feathers stick together. I wish I had another drink.

That's enough bitching. I've got to get home before I'm swept away._


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## indianroads

I like it!


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## KeganThompson

Joker said:


> I think I've finally gotten a foothold for this novel, and figured out Corrit's voice. Taut, punchy sentences of self-aware melancholy.
> 
> _I went out to grab one drink and ended the night getting thrown out on my tail feathers. Yeah, that’s me. Corrit Raith, former Vespian Imperial Special Forces, manhandled by the civilians of my once sworn enemy. I’m getting old.
> 
> I scramble to my feet, hoping to give the bouncer a piece of my mind, but he's already gone. That's probably a good thing. Most of these humans are two times my size. He was three.
> 
> Best to just get moving, then. I think I'm supposed to meet a client in the morning. I'm a private investigator when I'm sober. It's a decent enough job. Let's me put my skills to use without killing anybody. Civilians are generally averse to killing.
> 
> I grab my coat out of the puddle and wring it out as best I can. Castol Prime rains too damn much. Makes my feathers stick together. I wish I had another drink.
> 
> That's enough bitching. I've got to get home before I'm swept away._


You got yourself to write again I see


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## Joker

KeganThompson said:


> You got yourself to write again I see



Something something things in motion stay in motion.


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## notawizard

I haven't written anything poetic in ages. I have a lot of lines that I like, but it's not generally pretty, if that makes sense.  Here's an example of one that I like. 



> This wasn’t the kind of thing you _wanted_ to do. It was the kind of thing you did because the wringing in your gut wouldn’t let go until you knew one way or the other. The nervous tapping in my foot found a spot in my stomach to bounce around in. The smell of smoke was definitely getting stronger. Not my imagination after all.



Most of what I like is funny, but I don't think it would be appreciated without context.  I'll see if I come across something good, though.


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## Foxee

I'm on my phone so can't respond as much  as I want but I am enjoying this thread. It's wonderful to see these flashes of style, voice,  and ideas. Keep 'em coming!


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## indianroads

notawizard said:


> I haven't written anything poetic in ages. I have a lot of lines that I like, but it's not generally pretty, if that makes sense.  Here's an example of one that I like.
> 
> This wasn’t the kind of thing you _wanted_ to do. It was the kind of thing you did because the wringing in your gut wouldn’t let go until you knew one way or the other. The nervous tapping in my foot found a spot in my stomach to bounce around in. The smell of smoke was definitely getting stronger. Not my imagination after all.
> 
> Most of what I like is funny, but I don't think it would be appreciated without context.  I'll see if I come across something good, though.


Florid prose can be pretty, but clear precise writing is elegant in its simplicity and ability to communicate. I really liked your quote, it was beautifully done.


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## notawizard

indianroads said:


> Florid prose can be pretty, but clear precise writing is elegant in its simplicity and ability to communicate. I really liked your quote, it was beautifully done.


Wow, I really appreciate this. I like what I write, but I definitely feel sometimes like it doesn't fall into the classic sense of "good writing."  I carry a lot with tension and voice and dialogue more than imagery.


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## indianroads

notawizard said:


> Wow, I really appreciate this. I like what I write, but I definitely feel sometimes like it doesn't fall into the classic sense of "good writing."  I carry a lot with tension and voice and dialogue more than imagery.


Clarity is king my friend.
When I use flowery prose it's to communicate a mood and IMO should be used sparingly.


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## VRanger

Teven's party emerged from the Illumination a half day's ride from Sing'arien. The elves' forest home circled a lone mountain, the peak of which was visible as they emerged. As the rest of the mountain came slowly into view, it resembled nothing so much as the pate of a friar. With the broad snowcap extending down to the tree line, one could well imagine a bald head surrounded by a ring of dark green hair. From the foothills around the mountains, they faced a ten-mile climb to two miles of altitude through the ring of woodland. The mountain was close to eighty miles around … providing a substantial forested area. Occasional spires of elven buildings broke through the canopy, hard to see as their colors matched the tapestry around them.

Ket and Anlette needed to have the buildings pointed out. Teven and Liara had visited on numerous occasions, and were quite familiar with the vista. Teven indicated their destination. Even the mages could not have spotted it on sight alone. To the untrained eye, they looked too similar to recognize distinguishing features. In truth, it was much the same to Teven's eyes. However, Teven knew landmarks on the bare slopes above, and those landmarks helped him identify his destination in the forest.

Teven led across a meadow deep with flowers, toward what looked like a tangled, impassable thicket. The rest looked at each other in question, but they knew better than to doubt Teven. To Ket, the forest presented an exciting mystery. Already, he could see the flora he was approaching was quite different from the forest he had negotiated on his quest to find Bone Kien. The trees were larger. On many, the leaves seemed to be huge, almost frond-like. Colors numbered far beyond the normal grays and browns of bark, or green of leaves and needles. The greens and browns were there, but golds, reds, and even blues stood out strongly among the rainbow hues. It reminded Ket of a well-planned and maintained flower garden, on a titanic scale.

With about twenty yards left before the party would reach the wall of trees, two elves of Sing'arien emerged. Their appearance was so natural it seemed they flowed from the very trees they now stood before. Each placed his arms upon his chest, elbows close on upon the ribs … hands flat, one upon the other just below their throat. They bowed slightly … the bows obviously directed at Teven.

Teven dismounted and returned the salutation. "Hail friends. We are of Bone Kien, on a mission that requires a conference with your Elders."

“Yes, Lord TacMarough, we foresaw your arrival. Welcome to Sing'arien. Our Elders await, please follow.”

Teven motioned the rest to dismount. The group led their horses single file, following Teven's example as he clasped his reins and approached the elves. When he came close, they turned and stepped into the forest. Where moments before had seemed an imposing wall of trunks and tangle of growth, there now appeared a narrow path. The elves passed into it without Ket even noticing them do so. Teven was right behind them. One by one, the group followed. After a short time, Ket looked to the rear and found he could no longer see the narrow entrance to the meadow. Though new to this, it didn’t surprise him.

The forest provided a unique experience. Despite the thick, tall trees, most of the way was bright. At other times deep shadows obscured sight. But they always had a clear path. An ever-moving circle of light glided ahead, denoting the route. The forest was far from silent. Bird song serenaded them from every direction. Most of the time it seemed the trills were organized, rather than the random chirps and whistles of Ket's experience. Occasionally, over the sound of the song was heard a cough or a bark of some nearby creature. On his trip through the forest Persillion, these sounds would have given Ket serious alarm. Here, and in this company, he felt not a slight thrill of nerves.

The day had worn down to evening when the group emerged into a clearing. Its center contained one of the elven buildings. The grounds around the building appeared to Ket as immaculately maintained gardens. But as they passed toward the base of the building Ket could see the decorative plants were all wild. They seemed to grow in cooperation each with the other, so distinct patterns of color dominated spaces between verdant paths … intricate and artful creations which both delighted and amused Ket. The gardens so fascinated him, he was sorry to reach the building and find out everyone was expected to enter.


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## indianroads

Nicely done.


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## VRanger

indianroads said:


> Nicely done.


I noticed "about twenty yards". This was written years before my blog on "ABOUT". LOL


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## Kent_Jacobs

The desert shifted as Yarrod staggered on, saddle slumped across a stooped left shoulder, a furnace at his back. A dark grey duster, tied to the saddle’s stirrups, spilled onto the sand, weaving with a 'shush' the snaking trail of his passing. He fluttered in the heat like a lit fuse, his white shirt sometimes the glue that held him together as a man and other times the void that tore him into fragments.


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## bdcharles




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## bdcharles

vranger said:


> Teven's party emerged from the Illumination a half day's ride from Sing'arien. The elves' forest home circled a lone mountain, the peak of which was visible as they emerged. As the rest of the mountain came slowly into view, it resembled nothing so much as the pate of a friar. With the broad snowcap extending down to the tree line, one could well imagine a bald head surrounded by a ring of dark green hair. From the foothills around the mountains, they faced a ten-mile climb to two miles of altitude through the ring of woodland. The mountain was close to eighty miles around … providing a substantial forested area. Occasional spires of elven buildings broke through the canopy, hard to see as their colors matched the tapestry around them.
> 
> Ket and Anlette needed to have the buildings pointed out. Teven and Liara had visited on numerous occasions, and were quite familiar with the vista. Teven indicated their destination. Even the mages could not have spotted it on sight alone. To the untrained eye, they looked too similar to recognize distinguishing features. In truth, it was much the same to Teven's eyes. However, Teven knew landmarks on the bare slopes above, and those landmarks helped him identify his destination in the forest.
> 
> Teven led across a meadow deep with flowers, toward what looked like a tangled, impassable thicket. The rest looked at each other in question, but they knew better than to doubt Teven. To Ket, the forest presented an exciting mystery. Already, he could see the flora he was approaching was quite different from the forest he had negotiated on his quest to find Bone Kien. The trees were larger. On many, the leaves seemed to be huge, almost frond-like. Colors numbered far beyond the normal grays and browns of bark, or green of leaves and needles. The greens and browns were there, but golds, reds, and even blues stood out strongly among the rainbow hues. It reminded Ket of a well-planned and maintained flower garden, on a titanic scale.
> 
> With about twenty yards left before the party would reach the wall of trees, two elves of Sing'arien emerged. Their appearance was so natural it seemed they flowed from the very trees they now stood before. Each placed his arms upon his chest, elbows close on upon the ribs … hands flat, one upon the other just below their throat. They bowed slightly … the bows obviously directed at Teven.
> 
> Teven dismounted and returned the salutation. "Hail friends. We are of Bone Kien, on a mission that requires a conference with your Elders."
> 
> “Yes, Lord TacMarough, we foresaw your arrival. Welcome to Sing'arien. Our Elders await, please follow.”
> 
> Teven motioned the rest to dismount. The group led their horses single file, following Teven's example as he clasped his reins and approached the elves. When he came close, they turned and stepped into the forest. Where moments before had seemed an imposing wall of trunks and tangle of growth, there now appeared a narrow path. The elves passed into it without Ket even noticing them do so. Teven was right behind them. One by one, the group followed. After a short time, Ket looked to the rear and found he could no longer see the narrow entrance to the meadow. Though new to this, it didn’t surprise him.
> 
> The forest provided a unique experience. Despite the thick, tall trees, most of the way was bright. At other times deep shadows obscured sight. But they always had a clear path. An ever-moving circle of light glided ahead, denoting the route. The forest was far from silent. Bird song serenaded them from every direction. Most of the time it seemed the trills were organized, rather than the random chirps and whistles of Ket's experience. Occasionally, over the sound of the song was heard a cough or a bark of some nearby creature. On his trip through the forest Persillion, these sounds would have given Ket serious alarm. Here, and in this company, he felt not a slight thrill of nerves.
> 
> The day had worn down to evening when the group emerged into a clearing. Its center contained one of the elven buildings. The grounds around the building appeared to Ket as immaculately maintained gardens. But as they passed toward the base of the building Ket could see the decorative plants were all wild. They seemed to grow in cooperation each with the other, so distinct patterns of color dominated spaces between verdant paths … intricate and artful creations which both delighted and amused Ket. The gardens so fascinated him, he was sorry to reach the building and find out everyone was expected to enter.


Is this from something published?


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## VRanger

bdcharles said:


> Is this from something published?


Yes, my first novel from several years ago.


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## JBF

Familiar to some, maybe, but this one got stuck in my hindbrain the other day.  

_By way of salute he raised two fingers from the wheel as he took again to the road. Somewhere out in the hinterlands a band of coyotes were tuning up, and he supposed come morning the doe would be gone, scattered over two or three counties, and nothing would remain at this piece of highway to tell of the things acted out in the small hours of morning but broken glass and fleeting memory.

He thought too of the miles left ahead and somehow in the figuring his thoughts wandered around to the wild holdovers that made their living among men as best they could. The buffalo were gone from the plains now, vanished alongside the indians who’d chased them horseback even to the edge of modernity. They were all three contemporaries in the wildness of a place lost to remembering, pillars of world fast coming apart, and at the death of one age and the beginning of the next it was only the coyote that carried forward by any familiar means.

Often enough he lay awake with the windows open and listened to the crying exchanges. He was glad of them for reasons he couldn’t explain, a deep-rooted holdover wholly at odds with the nature of his other work, and there came times he caught one flashing through the trees at the pasture’s edge or watering in the narrow creeks and some piece of his heart swelled for that which could abide in a world to which it did not belong and where it could expect no grace or solace.

If one was marked for prey, what difference the coyote or the highway or the rifle? And if one’s world was gone before their birth, what chance the coyote?_


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## indianroads

JBF said:


> Familiar to some, maybe, but this one got stuck in my hindbrain the other day.
> 
> _By way of salute he raised two fingers from the wheel as he took again to the road. Somewhere out in the hinterlands a band of coyotes were tuning up, and he supposed come morning the doe would be gone, scattered over two or three counties, and nothing would remain at this piece of highway to tell of the things acted out in the small hours of morning but broken glass and fleeting memory.
> 
> He thought too of the miles left ahead and somehow in the figuring his thoughts wandered around to the wild holdovers that made their living among men as best they could. The buffalo were gone from the plains now, vanished alongside the indians who’d chased them horseback even to the edge of modernity. They were all three contemporaries in the wildness of a place lost to remembering, pillars of world fast coming apart, and at the death of one age and the beginning of the next it was only the coyote that carried forward by any familiar means.
> 
> Often enough he lay awake with the windows open and listened to the crying exchanges. He was glad of them for reasons he couldn’t explain, a deep-rooted holdover wholly at odds with the nature of his other work, and there came times he caught one flashing through the trees at the pasture’s edge or watering in the narrow creeks and some piece of his heart swelled for that which could abide in a world to which it did not belong and where it could expect no grace or solace.
> 
> If one was marked for prey, what difference the coyote or the highway or the rifle? And if one’s world was gone before their birth, what chance the coyote?_


Beautiful.


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## JBF

indianroads said:


> Beautiful.



Teenage angst while trying not to mention teenage angst., mostly.


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## notawizard

JBF said:


> Familiar to some, maybe, but this one got stuck in my hindbrain the other day.
> 
> _By way of salute he raised two fingers from the wheel as he took again to the road. Somewhere out in the hinterlands a band of coyotes were tuning up, and he supposed come morning the doe would be gone, scattered over two or three counties, and nothing would remain at this piece of highway to tell of the things acted out in the small hours of morning but broken glass and fleeting memory.
> 
> He thought too of the miles left ahead and somehow in the figuring his thoughts wandered around to the wild holdovers that made their living among men as best they could. The buffalo were gone from the plains now, vanished alongside the indians who’d chased them horseback even to the edge of modernity. They were all three contemporaries in the wildness of a place lost to remembering, pillars of world fast coming apart, and at the death of one age and the beginning of the next it was only the coyote that carried forward by any familiar means.
> 
> Often enough he lay awake with the windows open and listened to the crying exchanges. He was glad of them for reasons he couldn’t explain, a deep-rooted holdover wholly at odds with the nature of his other work, and there came times he caught one flashing through the trees at the pasture’s edge or watering in the narrow creeks and some piece of his heart swelled for that which could abide in a world to which it did not belong and where it could expect no grace or solace.
> 
> If one was marked for prey, what difference the coyote or the highway or the rifle? And if one’s world was gone before their birth, what chance the coyote?_


Love this.


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## indianroads

I'm amazed at the talent here on WF - you're all amazing writers.


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## SueC

bdcharles said:


> View attachment 27304


This is really quite beautiful.


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## SueC

It was a lovely morning to be in the countryside. We were planning on leaving around noon, and this was the last place we needed to visit before going home. It was a place Mikey had especially wanted to see, to pay homage to his aunt Brigid, and many others who were buried there.

We all climbed out of our transport and while the horses munched on the wild hay and heather by the side of the path, we clambered over a low stone fence littered with thistles to the actual confines of the cemetery. We passed through an archway, following Mikey who seemed to know exactly where to go. 

He stopped then in front of a large, square stone and blessed himself. We all stayed a respectful distance while he greeted his beloved aunt, apologizing for being gone so long. He placed a beautiful yellow rose on her grave, and then proceeded to have a lengthy one-sided chat, much of it in the old Irish, which concluded with his now familiar gesture of pulling out the over-sized white hanky from his back pocket. Then, with reddened eyes, he waved us near to proudly introduce us to the deceased woman he had loved fiercely as a child and who had loved his young self back, equally hard.

“Here be my aunt Brigid, God rest her soul. She’s a patient sort, I know, and forgives me for my long absence. But isn’t this a pretty stone?”

And it was. Her name was emblazoned near the top, and after that came her list of life accomplishments. She was wife to Jonathan, mother to ten children, every name recorded, and then at the very bottom, “favorite aunt to Mikey and Polly.”

“I have never seen the like,” he said tearfully and then explained that his aunt Mary, who was the one responsible for taking care of the graves, was the youngest of Brigit’s sisters and was very close to Mikey’s age. 

As if by magic, those of us standing nearby were moved suddenly by a small, quiet voice almost whispering the words "excuse me" over and over in Gaelic. We all stepped aside for a tiny woman, dressed completely in black and as small as Mikey was tall, approaching him with arms wide. Mikey went to his knees and they hugged unabashedly for several minutes, their faces buried, their weeping audible.


----------



## indianroads

... Gabh mo leithscéal

A lovely scene, nicely painted.


----------



## bdcharles

SueC said:


> This is really quite beautiful.


seconded


----------



## MistWolf

Gotta say, there's some amazing imagery in this thread!

From a little essay I wrote called "The Gravity of Cats"
People complain about their cats being picky eaters. They devise elaborate strategies to get their finicky felines to finish their feast. Our concern is how to drop the bowl without losing a finger. Belle cleans her dish of everything in it, like a little furry vacuum cleaner. Anything that hits the kitchen floor is fair game. Yet she doesn’t grow fat. Even with her Hammer Space stomach, I wonder, where _does_ she put it all…?

…until it comes time to clean the litter box.


----------



## indianroads

From the first draft of Inception - its a bit rough but I think it has legs:

_Mike sighed contentedly as he lay in bed. Pale morning sunlight drifted through the trees outside his La Honda home and slipped through the windows to create a dappled pattern that danced on the thick quilt that covered both him and Mel. Pilot lay curled between them, enjoying their combined warmth. The room was cool, but not unpleasantly so; it was a small space within the tiny two-bedroom home nestled deep in a redwood forest. He inherited the place from his parents, and had restored and upgraded the house but kept its rustic charm and rented it out to city dwellers longing to spend a few days in quiet seclusion.

It was an isolated cabin at the end of a long dirt road; his nearest neighbor was more than a mile away. The electricity came from a gas-powered generator, and the kitchen stove used propane held in a large tank at the side of the house. The only heat was from a firebox in the living room, and outdoor comfort was provided by a free-standing stone fireplace in the backyard._


----------



## TheManx

Dear Mr. Howard:

Re: Account Number 1884434

I am writing to express my dissatisfaction with the Model X tea kettle that I bought on July 2, 2021, at your store located at 1616 Sixteen Avenue. Though the kettle looks fine, it leaks when filled with water. When I attempted to return it to the store on July 7, 2021, the employee on duty, Roberta Farquharr, told me that she would not accept the item because she could not see any damage.

To resolve the issue, I would like you to refund the full amount that I paid ($29.86, including tax) to my Frequent Customer account. I am enclosing a copy of the original receipt.

I look forward to your reply. Please contact me at the address above or by telephone at (555) 555-5555 within the next two weeks.

Sincerely,

Alfred J. Hossenphepher


----------



## indianroads

I wrote this a few years ago and decided to share it - it's from Destination, the last book in my Extinction series. The character is a 200 year old android, that is leaving her home.

_Rose stood in the main room of her home and took a long last look around. Memories whispered from every wall and stick of furniture. She wandered by crowded bookcases, occasionally touching the spine of a work that had spoken to her soul. The books couldn’t travel with her, but they would stay with her nonetheless; she recalled every word within their pages, but the exquisite slow pace of reading them, tasting each word and phrase, was where the true pleasure of the story lay.

She thought of her paintings stored in the spare room; they were snapshots of her time in Granby. Lost friends and lovers were trapped within those images; what would they think of her coming adventure? With a sigh, she bid them a gentle goodbye.

Once abandoned, what would become of her home? The books and paintings would grow moldy in the damp environment and over the coming years they would disintegrate; beautiful words and friendly faces would fall to ruin and be lost forever. It felt like giving back somehow. Inspiration for them had been plucked from the ether in hopes of gracing the lives of those that encountered them, perhaps it was time for that spark of creativity to return home._


----------



## midnightpoet

From One of my novels:

As I drove west, the sky gradually began to clear, and the sun was bright in my rear view mirror.  I passed by a small herd of white-faced Herefords.  A giant red bull stood with his front feet on a little knoll, surveying his domain and probably deciding which heifer he wanted to service next.  Mom and Dad live on about a hundred twenty acres. He runs a little cattle and has a couple of gas wells on the place.
    I pulled into the caliche driveway about five.  A plume of white dust, trailing behind the jeep like a parachute slowing the landing of a jet plane, announced my arrival.  The house is a wide, two story, ranch type made of native river rock built on top of a small mesquite covered mesa.  Two sixty foot tall native pecan trees stand like sentinels on each side of the house.  One of them has a limb real close to what used to be my bedroom on the second floor, and many a time I would sneak out of the house that way, shimmying down the tree like a squirrel. One time - I'd just turned sixteen - I did that and "borrowed"  Dad's vintage '59 gunmetal Chevy pickup.  A couple of us guys drove around the countryside, cutting up and drinking beer.   Dad locked us in the jail overnight with a couple of dudes that kept looking at us like we were something to eat.  We didn't sleep that night, and I never did anything like that again.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

_When Yarrod opened his eyes, he threw open a sluice gate. Light and lurching geometry flooded him and filled him so utterly, he felt as if his skin would split. He gripped the sides of the pallet he lay upon and steadied a spin, braced his limbs against its persistence. The battle lost, he threw himself to the side and let sickness gush from his mouth. He heaved and heaved again, until there was nothing but himself to lose, the inner coils so quietly contained now loud in his throat._


----------



## seigfried007

Oh grief, this was a thread made for David. I don't even know where to start. My man writes horror with beauty.

I've posted an earlier version of this one here quite awhile ago. This is a flashback to David's early childhood from the "Feeding the Hungry" chapter in the second book of The Lost Boys series WIP:



> I opened my eyes and, through the tilted skylight, viewed the downy clouds as they drifted overhead, brilliant silver against the vivid heavens. All life fit in the consecutive rectangular borders of angled window, wooden crib, ivory ceiling, painted walls, and battered floor. With pink fingers, I framed the sky and made it mine. I sifted it with skinny digits and watched the tips glow rose as the radiant sun peered down like the eye of God—not a wrathful God, but God _the Father_, God _the Daddy_—blinding in His goodness and purity, yet nurturing and necessary for life itself.
> 
> With the sweetest word in all of English, I called for Him.
> 
> And He came to me.
> 
> His nude body splattered with the prismatic blood of all creation, He rested His lovely fingers on the edge of the world and smiled down on me from beneath His burnished heavens. With His black hair hanging lank and limned in gold corona, He leaned over reality’s rim, and across His pearl skin, argent scars shimmered in sunlight. His azure gaze shone forth from the violet halos of His insomnia, for all the universe He unendingly watched. God the Father never slept, yet ever dreamt and ever wept, burdened as He was by a boundless love for all He had brought into being.
> 
> “Yes, love?”
> 
> My Father God only spoke in soothing music, for in Him all arts were found, and from Him all arts came.
> 
> Having glimpsed the truth behind His nature, I rolled onto my knees and reached for God, my Father. I could not stand, and yet He lifted me from the prison of my crib. He set me on His hip and changed my soiled clothes; He carried me to His cluttered table and fed me as I sat upon His naked lap… because He was God, and God was love.


----------



## indianroads

This is a bit long, but I'm pleased with it. The excerpt is from Redemption - which is set to be published the first week of August. 
The pov is of the FMC - she's an adulteress and her husband confronted her and said he was moving out. She fell asleep on the sofa waiting for him to leave.

_It was still dark outside when she awoke on the sofa; her shoes were on the floor and her outfit was in disarray. The apartment was silent. If Jose had already left, she had missed whatever theatrics he might have put on, which was a good thing. Maybe he was still in his room though.

The white tile floor was cold on her bare feet as she crept toward his bedroom door. It was slightly ajar; she moved closer and gently pushed it further open. At first, the room seemed orderly, but as she entered there were signs of destruction. Pictures of them together were taken from their frames, ripped to pieces, and littered the floor.

Jose’s tantrum brought a smile to her lips, and she began searching to see if he left anything else behind. The bureau was empty save for the bottom right drawer, and what she found there unexpectedly brought pain. Her grin faded as her stomach tightened with an unknown emotion as she lifted their wedding album and held it close to her breast.

She stepped backward and sat on the bed, staring at the book of old photos. Looking inside it would be a bad idea, but it was already open and she was turning pages. What she saw was a past that should have been her future.

In the pictures, Jose was overjoyed. He held her gently… protectively. There was so much love in his expression. He would have kept her safe, his job was good and secure; he was the best programmer and hacker in the IT department.

In contrast, she looked predatory and mean; her eyes were cold and her smile false. She had married him because he could get her a job in the CSL Surveillance Group. There was no love, the woman in the pictures was incapable of feeling that emotion. Within three months she would begin sleeping with coworkers; first with her immediate managers, then finally latching onto Anton.

What had she done? Her husband… ex-husband, Jose was a caring man that genuinely loved her; they could have lived a wonderful life together. She had destroyed not only a good man, but also any chance she might have had for a decent respectable life.

 She was broken and would continue to destroy those around her until she finally found a way to fix herself and become a better person._


----------



## JBF

From the cut folder:

_He was glad of the silence because there was little left to discuss, the points familiar and practiced in the weeks prior, lines worn deep as wheel ruts after a summer rain. They knew the words and the shape of things as they were and would be for the foreseen future, and somehow each yet found a way to touch on familiar uncertainties and work them anew.

Instead he looked to the stars and enjoyed the feel of the girl beside him and wondered. Too soon this would pass.  The life behind him at its end, the one come to replace it not properly begun, he drifted between the last sure thing and what waited behind the sunrise.

Ladrada, who once owned the road they trod and now managed his ancestral homestead for her family, explained it best: a man reached his adult years bearing the worthwhile remnants of childhood and the clothes on his back and at the turning looked out on the world, master of none but fortunate for the limitless decisions unmade before him, and so for a little while could run and live cheaply and mark himself free. But the freedom of youth was a siren call if a man held any aspiration at all, and his last consolation was to plot the first steps of his adult years. To choose his bearings and eschew other possibility.

They crossed the bars of a cattle guard mostly filled in and to a bent iron gate rusted open, hanging in a short stone wall scaffolded with weeds and climbing vines. Around the house drifted the low tones of a guitar strung together not as music but as notes drawn from nothing and just as quick abandoned. At the gate she parted wordless and went up the back steps. He lingered, then went after._


----------



## indianroads

JBF said:


> From the cut folder:
> 
> _He was glad of the silence because there was little left to discuss, the points familiar and practiced in the weeks prior, lines worn deep as wheel ruts after a summer rain. They knew the words and the shape of things as they were and would be for the foreseen future, and somehow each yet found a way to touch on familiar uncertainties and work them anew.
> 
> Instead he looked to the stars and enjoyed the feel of the girl beside him and wondered. Too soon this would pass.  The life behind him at its end, the one come to replace it not properly begun, he drifted between the last sure thing and what waited behind the sunrise.
> 
> Ladrada, who once owned the road they trod and now managed his ancestral homestead for her family, explained it best: a man reached his adult years bearing the worthwhile remnants of childhood and the clothes on his back and at the turning looked out on the world, master of none but fortunate for the limitless decisions unmade before him, and so for a little while could run and live cheaply and mark himself free. But the freedom of youth was a siren call if a man held any aspiration at all, and his last consolation was to plot the first steps of his adult years. To choose his bearings and eschew other possibility.
> 
> They crossed the bars of a cattle guard mostly filled in and to a bent iron gate rusted open, hanging in a short stone wall scaffolded with weeds and climbing vines. Around the house drifted the low tones of a guitar strung together not as music but as notes drawn from nothing and just as quick abandoned. At the gate she parted wordless and went up the back steps. He lingered, then went after._


Beautiful imagery.


----------



## TheManx

Mitzi stared into her banana pudding as if divining the future.

“What’s to become of me?” she exclaimed, her words bouncing off the cracked terrazzo like so many ping pong balls.

Chummy, her trained Norwegian cockatiel, seemed to squawk in agreement.

The pudding had been a congratulatory gift from Ralph, her fiancé, in recognition of her graduating from Miss Comstock’s School of Etiquette and Self-Defense.

She dropped her spoon and it fell through the viscous desert, hitting the bowl with a resounding kerplink that mimicked her dissatisfaction.

She looked at her hand, at the ethically sourced aluminum foil engagement ring that Ralph had so cleverly hidden in the glass where she kept her prosthetic incisors overnight.

How was she going to tell him she had fallen for another—Bob—the town’s happy-go-lucky forensic pathologist and part time croquet instructor?

She wondered.

Meanwhile, Ralph, at his chinchilla ranch in far off Saskatoon, dreamed of the day he would be reunited with his beloved Mitzi.

He would make her gloriously happy! The chinchilla season had been unusually lucrative, and he was in the midst of building her a fine new home, with wall-to-wall carpet, an advanced intercom system, and a refrigerator in every room.

He smiled to himself and let out a sigh of contentment. Little did he know of the disappointment and senseless slaughter that lay ahead.


----------



## Riptide

Tried to do the whole... don't say what your characters are actually angry about, but instead talk around it. I think it went pretty well, but who knows
---

“We defeated the ogre and what thanks do we get?” Kyra grunted, a load of dirt hefted and piled beside her. She drove the shovel again into the guild’s cemetery grounds right outside the garden that barriered the guild from the forest. “Nothing! My mom comes to town and our thanks goes right out the window.”

Gage took a break, sipping water from a leather handbag pouch. “That ogre killed at least ten crew members, don’t know how many townsfolks, and we go in, risk our lives, and they’re not even feasting for us.”

Kyra grumbled incoherently, stacking heaps of dirt around her as the slight grave became deeper and deeper.

He sprinkled some water over her, watching the droplets singe when they contacted her feverish skin. “And bringing Sydney of all people?”

Her shovel handle splintered in her hold and ricocheted off her flesh. “Do you see how they dote on her? On my own mother? I’ve never seen them so enthralled.” She kept using the shovel, though, holding it by slivers of wood.

“Didn’t you teach Sydney how to properly hold a broad sword? And bows! Don’t get me started at how horrendous she was with bows!”

“Shut up about Sydney!” She threw the shredded pieces of wood and spade out of the hole. “Help me place Alfred.” Hoisting herself over the now sizable pit, she focused on the lines of dirt stains on her hands. Someone once told her the grooves foretold a person’s fate. Hers were deep, like scars, and rugged from whirling swords and climbing rocks. She had a strong grip. It probably meant she would live a long time, but she wasn’t a seer able to piece the future together, so maybe she'd die tomorrow. 

As she picked up Alfred’s shoulders, staring down the gaping hole, she almost let him go. “I didn’t even know him well.”

“We are not in the business of knowing people.” They lowered him gently halfway but had to drop him to get him to the bottom. She tried to aim his head looking up when she let it go in the grave, but it turned to the side. Thankfully, he didn’t have any eyes to see with. “Want to say a few words?” Gage said. “Before we bury him for good?”

“I don’t know what I would say.” She turned from the hole to the mess hall. They opened the vents to the kitchen, allowing the smoke to form gray storm clouds in the sky that disappeared with the next gust. “Cover him up.”


----------



## seigfried007

Mentioned David's descriptive tendencies, so here's some highly literary, florid horror:




> I was at the end of the hall, and there were no more doors except the last, and it was locked, too. Unlike the others, this room was mute.
> 
> I lay on the floor to peek through the gap… a delicate, silver skeleton key lay in the grass on the other side. I slid my hand under the door, pushing through the verdant carpet and loam until I reached the key, but as I did so, the sounds of bubbling fluid, creaking springs, and groaning people emanated from within the room, along with the smell of sweat and a clinging, pungent smoke.
> 
> The key slid in so easily and turned so smoothly that I might have sworn it was magnetized to the lubricated lock in the door, which swung open as if greased. Once the door closed softly of its own will behind me, I knew few rooms could be harder to leave; it was simply too easily entered and far too seductive to strangers.
> 
> Inside, I saw a darkened forest of oversized plants and fungi. On the other side of this crowded expanse, and upon the largest of these vivid toadstools, a creature like a massive blue caterpillar squirmed and sucked on the plastic tubes which punctured its pulsating form. Pushing fronds aside as required, I forced a path through the foliage, and as I neared the creature, I noticed the ground was increasingly littered with cigarette butts, needles, spoons, used condoms, rubber tourniquets, and empty amber bottles of pills. The murmur of voluminous bubbles through some vat of viscous liquid and the moaning atop that toadstool grew louder with every step I took.
> 
> As I parted the last of plants from my path and entered the clearing surrounding that fungus, I realized my error, for this mushroom was a bed, and the caterpillar was a larval misery—one being formed of many, twisted together and writhing under tangled blue satin sheets, a line of would-be lovers sullenly seeking comfort from this insult to intimacy.
> 
> Under the whispers of the breeze, with voices as soft as the sighs of the dying because they no longer hoped that someone else might help or answer, I heard them ask themselves, _“Who am I? How did I come to this? Why can’t I stop?” _
> 
> From the giant, violet hookah at the side of their fungal pallet, a myriad of plastic tubes pumped these woeful creatures full of smoke, even as syringes stabbed them through the flimsy fabric barrier. Beneath the shifting sheets, opal milk oozed over their bruised skin, filthy feathers and bleeding knees.
> 
> With grasping, gnarled, bony hands, they pulled pieces from their mushroom mattress, saying, “This will make me so small that my troubles will not see me” and “With this bite, I will grow so large that my troubles will not dare to find me.”
> 
> Yet as I watched, their sizes remained the same, though they seemed not to realize this, lost as they were in the romance of this fleeting, ineffectual escape.
> 
> After all had eaten, a wind ripped through the branches above and tore the sheets from their hollow forms. They turned their sunken, weeping eyes toward the dull, drugged sun and flapped their shattered, boneless wings but could not ascend to heaven, for they were grounded by their highs.
> 
> The futility of hope cast their eyes in blackened orbits down. Instead of mending what they might, they bent once more to the mushroom, and, with fingers flayed, they gathered its flesh and swallowed the pieces down.
> 
> Amongst their naked number, I spied the pink-winged fiend I’d sought, but as I laid eyes upon him, the mewling group turned toward me. Hiding their shame behind the sheets, they buried in drugs their despondency, saying, “Do not judge us, for we’re in pain—a pain so deep you cannot plumb it, cannot know it, cannot numb it!”
> 
> Even knowing I had not damned them—that they had damned themselves—I felt nothing but pity for these hopeless, helpless creatures with faces like battered angels and wings like broken birds.
> 
> But then I realized that the one I was after had slipped unseen from the fungus and fled through the foliage behind. Following the waving fronds in his wake and the trail of milky tears he’d left, I raced after him.


----------



## TheManx

*Language warning:*

Mitch shut off his truck and looked at his tiny clapboard house—_his_ fucking castle. From next door, he heard rap music. Not fucking music at all, he mumbled. He took his tools from the truck and hauled them up to the back door into his kitchen. Time was, he could have left them in the lock box in his truck bed, but no more.

He shuffled through his fake wood-paneled den and fell into a plaid Barcalounger before grabbing the bottle of cheap scotch he kept by his chair. He poured a stiff drink into a dirty tumbler and gulped it down.

He’d lost a contract that day to a minority owned company—a women no less—who’d probably never lifted a fucking hammer in her life. As the buzz kicked in, he fumbled for the remote and aimed it at the TV, punching through the channels—an insurance and a cereal commercial. A sitcom of some kind. But where were the white faces? _Where the fuck was he?_

He remembered coming home from school and watching reruns of _Leave it Beaver_ and _The Brady Bunch_. Even though he knew his life wasn’t anything like what he saw on TV, it gave him hope. This had to be the real America and maybe someday his reality—if he worked hard enough. They never talked about God, but surely He was behind all this prosperity and happiness—this American Dream.

But he’d stopped praying long ago. What was the use? The world had passed him by—his values, all his hard work, it amounted to nothing. He along with so many just like himself were on the long slope toward irrelevance. Forgoing the tumbler, he picked up the bottle and gulped down as much as he could stand without gagging.

Grunting and sighing, he got up from his easy chair and stumbled to the bedroom. He opened the drawer in the nightstand next his bed. He couldn’t breathe—and he thought his ribs might crack or his heart might explode. It was all so heavy. Everything. The failure. The loneliness. The gun.

He asked for forgiveness.


----------



## indianroads

TheManx said:


> *Language warning:*
> 
> Mitch shut off his truck and looked at his tiny clapboard house—_his_ fucking castle. Coming from next door, he heard rap music. Not fucking music at all, he mumbled. He took his tools from the truck and hauled them up to the back door into his kitchen. Time was, he could have left them in the lock box in his truck bed, but no more.
> 
> He shuffled through his fake wood paneled den and fell into a plaid Barcalounger before grabbing the bottle of cheap scotch he kept by his chair. He poured a stiff drink into a dirty tumbler and gulped it down.
> 
> He’d lost a contract that day to a minority owned company—a women no less—who’d probably never lifted a fucking hammer in her life. As the buzz kicked in, he fumbled for the remote and aimed it at the TV, punching through the channels—an insurance and a cereal commercial. A sitcom of some kind. But where were the white faces? _Where the fuck was he?_
> 
> He remembered coming home from school and watching reruns of _Leave it Beaver_ and _The Brady Bunch_. Even though he knew his life wasn’t anything like what he saw on TV, it gave him hope. This had to be the real America and maybe someday his reality—if he worked hard enough. They never talked about God, but surely He was behind all this prosperity and happiness—this American Dream.
> 
> But he’d stopped praying long ago. What was the use? The world had passed him by—his values, all his hard work, it amounted to nothing. He along with so many just like himself were on the long slope toward irrelevance. Forgoing the tumbler, he picked up the bottle and gulped down as much as he could stand without gagging.
> 
> Grunting and sighing, he got up from his easy chair and stumbled to the bedroom. He opened the drawer in the nightstand next his bed. He couldn’t breathe—and he thought his ribs might crack or his heart might explode. It was all so heavy. Everything. The failure. The loneliness. The gun.
> 
> He asked for forgiveness.


Powerful.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

_A willowy youth strolls towards me, face ashen, eyes unseeing. There is no joy in his gait, just a stumbling forward momentum that speaks volumes of the autopilot sat uncomfortably in his head. His words are hidden behind thin, dried lips, and even though I tempt them with a nod of recognition, they are prisoners of his tongue._


----------



## TheManx

indianroads said:


> Powerful.


Glad you think so. I know this isn't about critique -- but I knocked this out pretty fast. Now I'm thinking about refining it and  doing a proper piece of flash. Cheers.


----------



## indianroads

From Redemption:

_True redemption probably wasn’t possible, but she would try to become a tarnished light in an otherwise dark world. In the end, that’s all anyone can do._


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

_He turned to look behind at the infinite empty. Wind sculpted breakers from the desert wasteland, held them fast for what seemed eternity, but Yarrod knew, given time, their granular motion would carry him and the day away, lost evermore and sucked beneath the silent, smothering sea, to become just another remnant in the bone collector’s garden._


----------



## VRanger

Just then Garsch came in, early, and closed the door behind him. The man didn't limp, or waddle, or hobble. No distinctive hitch marred his steps, yet he still somehow gave the impression that every foot placed down bore an imposition on his disposition. He pulled back the closest chair at the conference table, flopped into it, then leaned back and rested his feet on it in a motion belying the impression his gait sold to an observer. The result was a distracting balancing act. He looked as if he might tumble backwards at any moment.


----------



## VRanger

This thread has gone by the boards a bit. Let's rev it back up. Here's the end of The Adventures of Kaldarius ... so ... spoiler. LOL


> Kal was well satisfied with himself. He would accompany the twelve errant ships back to the coast. From there, could he manage a Dimension Walk to Waterwych for six? If not, maybe he could, over the course of days, transfer one at a time. Even that would be quicker than the sea voyage. He wanted to get paid and get back to Valapar – to spend some quality time relaxing in the Temple of Laurelia. It had seemed like home, and he was now months and months departed from that home.
> 
> After that, maybe hang out a shingle in Valapar center city:
> 
> “Wizard for hire: Miracles on Monday. Treasures found Tuesday. Wenches rescued Wednesday. Thieves thwarted Thursday. Feats performed on Friday. Closed weekends.”


----------



## JBF

Shamelessly pillaging the almost/maybe file.

***

_The night sounds grew to fill the lull. What plans each could claim were established and set in motion, dates marked and papers signed, and what remained was to sit idle until the simple arithmetic of the clock carried them forward.

This time tomorrow began a thought with no conclusion. That he would put to bed in one world and awake in another was an idea difficult to rein down. Perhaps in the abstract he recognized with his limited years that life was only a string of small eras and periods and stages all strung together - and most times a man could find the demarcations between one and the next - but never had he reached such a juncture so confident in knowing of the change.

The door clapped and the girl emerged. She was scrubbed clean and smelled freshly of soap and wore blue jeans and a t-shirt and carried in one hand the paper grocery sack of dirty clothes. He stood and reached for the bag to carry but she kept her grasp in silent rebuff and together they went down the beaten walk to where the cars were parked.

She put her things in the backseat and shut the door and studied him, then took his cigarette and ground it in the dirt.

“You quit,” she said.

“Didn’t take, I guess.”_


----------



## indianroads

From the first draft of Inception.

_The motorcycle fishtailed and rocked side to side as he struggled to keep it upright. Fear and adrenaline drove conscious thought away, he focused on the grass ahead and kicked at the tarmac each time the bike leaned and threatened to fall. He saw a curb, a sidewalk behind it, and green beyond that. Violence erupted around him as the world turned upside-down; then pain shot through his body followed by a disconnected sense of serenity._


----------



## Foxee

From an idea that I've been playing around with:         



> Pan understood this. He, also, was not a creature of his own making. And, likewise, he was not to take himself out of service. This was one of the operating instructions of his being. So Estelle was not much different.
> 
> Now, though, in this time beyond Estelle and also beyond the boy and the dog, Pan did as the voice told him.
> 
> He had thrown the ball for the dog one last time and folded away the video interface in spite of the boy's protestations. And then, without a word to anyone, he had walked out of the house and down the sidewalk toward the city. Houses sat in row after row, their colors varied as puzzle pieces. The blue haze of the day veiled the distant skyscrapers of downtown.
> 
> After a while a shuttle-bus drew up to the curb ahead of him and waited patiently, its red lights blinking. Unlike the buses and shuttles of the city it bore no logo or design, just blank white finish.
> 
> The voice in Pan's head instructed him to board the shuttle and, again, feeling helpless to do otherwise in spite of the distant calling of the boy and excited barking of the dog, he stepped into the vehicle.


----------



## Joker

_He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling, and he wasn't sure what he was feeling, other than the need for a stiff drink._


----------



## JBF

_People were troublemakers, that much he knew.  Forever crossing lines and laws, always seeking some advantage, some victory insignificant in any greater scheme.  From the Greeks and the Romans and both sides of the Bible, from fairy tales to murder ballads and all the territory in between it remained the province of the flesh to strive for that it ought not possess, to fail then in spectacular fashion.  To leave as reminder of their victories and defeats songs and plays and cave paintings and for those who followed to miss all their warning and instruction, thereafter to pass the centuries in the endless wandering of a wilderness mapped and trod long before their birth.  _


----------



## indianroads

Gorgeous.


----------



## VRanger

indianroads said:


> Gorgeous.


Better be careful. He'll coldcock you for typing that!


----------



## ArrowInTheBowOfTheLord

_All was water now; now lobes, now flat jawless mouths, now finless, eyeless, rippling through uncolored sea. Now to a thing with no form but symmetry, now to a thing with little form at all. 

And we had grown so, so, small. It was a tininess like the tininess in fever dreams, but it was not a fever dream, for it was the only thing we knew. We bred on an earth that knew no hurt, for it knew no loss; nothing could be lost when you were the first of things.

But all things are brief. As time had turned relentlessly forward in the faraway world that was now utterly lost, now it turned relentlessly backwards, never once changing its pace, and we that lived were changed to our component parts and lost forever. We were no more. The sea was sea. There were pieces that could be life but they were not. I saw the speck that was me and he and all we who swayed life-like on future earth—but what was future, what was past, when the present condensed all things to this?—I saw the speck return to primordial nothingness; then the earth itself lost its shape and spread to unconsolidated dust, along with the sun, then all shrunk to something terribly hot and terribly bright, awful like the blue relentless sky that had—that had—when had it?—all shrunk and shrunk and shrunk and was a pinpoint, then nothing._

When I finish the whole short story this is from, I'll pop it in the Workshop! ( :

Edit: story in Fiction Workshop, called "Dust"


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## indianroads

From my next book - Inception. The MC is experiencing his darkest hour.

_He awoke leaning against his cell wall with no memory of how he got there. The tiny room spun around him, and every part of his body was in agony. A paper plate holding a mound of yellowish goo sat just inside the door, but he had no stomach for it.

Under the weight of pain, he bent forward, but his chest tightened such that he couldn’t breathe. He leaned to the side, and even though his ribs and gut issued sharp torment, he managed to lie down. It wasn’t a comfortable position though, so he rolled onto his back with knees pointing up at the distant ceiling. That was a little better, but it still hurt.

An icy deluge abruptly fell from the ceiling that briefly eased his suffering. He opened his mouth and drank as his meal liquefied and ran in a rancid yellow river toward the sewer hole at the center of the room._


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## Mark Twain't

The first share from Glendaara


_Noori struggles to remove the rest of her clothing in an attempt to accelerate her journey into blissful oblivion. She drops to her knees before curling into a ball on the frozen sand. She can no longer feel the cold. She can no longer feel anything as her organs begin to shut down. Death is imminent, her heart will stop soon and the misery will be over. Her breathing is almost undetectable as she embraces her fate.

Noori’s eyes open. She sees a light and feels drawn towards it but she cannot move. Grains of sand ripple on the surface as the ground beneath her vibrates. A noise. the thrumming of a machine.

‘I’ve got you, cousin. I’ve got you.’ Meena's voice is sweet and comforting.

Noori feels the weight of the blanket as Meena wraps it around her. She becomes weightless as she is scooped up and carried to the waiting truck._


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## Kent_Jacobs

They skulked, as did their squalid maze, at the hem of Grollen Hill, light swallowed along with the forgotten souls, dingy, dark and forbidden. Only the bright outer edge to the east held at bay the creep of despair, where the richer population gorged themselves fat on false promises, and ignored the shiver that slipped coldly down from atop the hill.​


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## indianroads

I completed the second edit of Inception - this is a snippet from a motorcycle chase (on an Indian Warrior bike) through Silicon Valley rush hour traffic that occurs near the end of the book.

_Traffic on the street had become sparse, possibly due to the police presence and the media coverage of his mad ride. He glanced in the side mirror and noticed that the FBI vehicles were dropping back, which indicated another roadblock was ahead. Rather than slow down, he sped up.

The Warrior charged up the overpass, but he slowed slightly at the top. Police cars blocked the roadway and the northbound freeway on-ramp, so he leaned the bike into a side skid then accelerated, crossing the road and turned into oncoming traffic. Cars swerved and horns blared in protest as he charged forward, splitting the lanes through approaching traffic, heading toward the town of Milpitas.

There had to be another way to get on the freeway; the next on-ramp to the north was his only hope. He shot down the east side of the bridge, made a hard left onto a side street that ran parallel to the freeway as the police followed with sirens and flashing lights blazing._


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## Kent_Jacobs

_Yarrod inhaled the hot desert air, unsure he’d filled his lungs with anything substantial. He held its fill for a good while, then breathed out slowly and felt the exhalation brush drying lips, once moist skin baked in seconds. The faint earthy scent of backwoods lingered in his nostrils; so at odds with the surrounding terrain, he regarded it more a memory than a sense._

_He closed his eyes and clung on, but the aroma and the image it evoked evaporated. When he finally opened his eyes, the present spilled in, and erased any thought of another place or time. Ideas and memories—like scraps tossed to a well-trained mongrel for simple orders met—looped through his mind as if errant ideas in search of reason. And when all was done and settled, he knew but few things … and knew them well._​


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## VRanger

“I think all the introductions are done. Geoff, I’m sure Miles will be in contact with Nelson soon to reconcile the company books against his copies. Emily, expect the same. Jazmin, I’m sure he’ll appreciate your help when required.”

I noticed Alberta said ‘required’, not requested. And the rest of her statement declared that if there was a ‘bad guy’, it was her, not me. It appeared, looking around, everyone understood these were my marching orders in addition to warnings to everyone else. She continued.

“So we’re done in here. Somerset and Miles … a few words with each of you in Miles’ office, please.”

She rose and headed straight at the door with all the subtlety of a matriarch elephant clearing a path through hesitant young bulls.


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## Tettsuo

A scene my wife loved:

I closed my eyes and watched images of my dreams, of possible futures, slip from my mind. Tears fell for those dreams. One such dream was being wed to the son of a horse breeder. I remembered his face clearly moments before it was stolen by despair. He was from a neighboring village and thought me to be the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid eyes upon. Such a handsome suitor he was, a prince by all accounts. I looked upon him and nodded, pretending to listen to his ambitions and dreams. I gave him a look of surprise when he told me how he desired to exceed his father's accomplishments, to become a greater merchant than his father ever was. As he spoke, I looked upon his lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss a boy. Now, even that image faded away, for I knew it would never come to pass. Not now. Not after I was given to the Khan.

It was good that those images faded away. What were such dreams to a whore? It was good that despair banished them from my thoughts. Like the fires that consumed my village, my dreams needed to disappear, they needed to become little more than dust.


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## Kent_Jacobs

The sickly, humid air swaddled him like an infant at the teat, secure in its suffocation, and wind whispered sweetly. _Stop fighting_, it said,_ lay still and rest a while_. He slapped his cheek hard, once, twice, three times, until he tasted blood, and hauled a thick frame through the wasteland, teal eyes focused forward, spurs rattling with each laboured step. Time dragged on and leaden feet dug deeper, determination long gone from a jaw that hung slack beneath a mouth gasping for cool, fresh air. Only dust though, his tongue no more than a dune.​


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## indianroads

Entering an engineering building in Silicon Valley:

_He pressed his badge against the lock, and the latch released. A drab interior greeted him; gray walls stood above darker gray carpeting as a slate blue cubicle maze stretched into the distance. The soft surfaces absorbed all sound other than the clacking of overworked keyboards.

He slipped through the avenues of cubicleville and entered the engineering sector. A few more turns brought him to his work area, where there was little to break up the monotonous environment. Only a single cartoon adorned his cloth walls; it was of a mouse giving the finger to an owl that was swooping down upon him; the caption read, ‘The Last Act of Defiance’._


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## Kent_Jacobs

_Her writhe and twitch took on impatience as those who queued for a sample shoved with more intent and those already at her grew fiercer in their fight to hold prime position. One nip too many and she grabbed the armrests, heaved her body forward and raked a scream across her worshippers that shook the rafters, unsettled the dust. The bone-thin banqueters, their clothes mere suggestions anything corporeal lived within, scurried back, castigation on their skeletal faces, eyes pits of pity, glints of dejection._


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## VRanger

“Just like Geoff, I don’t think this is necessary. Mother didn’t consult me either, although I knew about it earlier than Geoff did, and I’m more used to Mother’s autocratic ways.”

Charles talked about Mrs. Wright as if she hadn’t passed away last night, and I supposed the shock and years of habit precluded the past tense this soon. I understood. I also decided if I could discuss my ‘hidden agenda’ with anyone, it would have to be Charles. If Alberta and Somerset stuck me with a task ill-fitted to my skills, they’d have to live with how I performed it.

“Charles, I’m not here for only the audit.”

His mask of grief opened to a look of surprise for moments. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve had corporate intellectual property stolen over a period of time, have you not?”

“We suspected we had, but we had a crackerjack firm investigate that. They found nothing.”

“Alberta and your mother suspected there is something, and the private detectives failed, and they believe they failed because it was too obvious what they were after.”

“Why wouldn’t Mother discuss this with me?”

I almost said ‘Ask _her_’, in all innocence, not cruel sarcasm. I caught myself with my mouth open, coughed to hide my attempt to make a right turn with my comment, and finally said, “All I know is your mother and Alberta thought I might stumble across something in the audit. I can’t imagine how I would, but there it is. I shouldn’t have to stress this can go no further … to anyone. If it does, both of us will answer to Alberta.”


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## JBF

From the scrap pile.  I don't hate it, but it doesn't fit the piece for which it was intended.  Alas.  

***

_Under the glow of the table light, cue in one hand and an eight-horse team pulling a miniature Budweiser wagon above his head, he contemplated a dozen flavors of disaster playing out on threadbare green felt. Nominally stripes, he’d sunk a solid on his last go and Leo, his partner in crime and a burgeoning shark if ever there was one, capitalized and ran it down to the Six and the Four. Framed in red, Number Eleven waited by the side pocket.

Easy pickings save the Eight parked an eyelash away. In the calculus of his sorry luck he came to two inevitable ends; shoot the hostage trying to play out a bad situation, or scratch and hope his roommate pulled off a miracle and forgot everything he knew about physics, billiards, and sure money. Leo twisted a fresh layer of chalk on his cue with the sudden impatience of a hawk spotting movement in the grass. Penny-ante or not, a win was a win.

Elsewhere, the low buzz of a dozen conversations and the click of a neighboring game. From the jukebox the strains of old country. In the gaps between games and tables and the bar the slap of moving feet, a gray-haired couple turning slow to the strains of the Tennessee Waltz. The insistent buzz of the fluorescent table light. Somewhere in the back, the jangling of a telephone.

He ought to finish this quick. Get it over and cut his losses before his girl showed up to witness the defeat in smoky Technicolor._


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## Llyralen

Nice work there @JBF


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## Llyralen

Writing from a few years ago: 

I wondered how other humans withstood it, whether their lot was different than mine. I wondered if any of them had any work.. because if I wasn’t insane yet it was because I had given myself something to do.

I created baskets out of strips of plants. Being able to weave I’d also worked out a writing system with knots. In this way I could go back and with my hands find all of the things I had written about my first experiences. I’m not sure if my brain would even have a language anymore after all of this time if not for that.

One year I had woven every song I’d ever known, and these I pick up often and it gives me pitches and sound in my memory from these cloned brains, luckily the cloned brains were introduced in small pieces so that my memories taught the new bits new memories.


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## Deleted member 66177

I had a writing class where the prompt was the first sentence.

She stares towards the horizon a lot lately. I watch her and wonder what is running through her mind. Days. Weeks. She stands. Only moving to get her meals and to sleep. Which she barely does. I am unsure how she has survived this long. Doing what she is doing. I want to shake her. Do something1 To get her to wake up from this self-imposed nightmare. But I am not sure that there is anything I can do. So I wait......


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## VRanger

“From what I just heard between you and Emily, you’re that auditor fellow, right?” I admitted he was right about that guess. “I know _some _others don’t want you in here. I do. You just let me know if anyone gives you guff or stands in your way on anything.”

“You’re Joey Wright, right?” I cringed as soon as I did that.

“That’s right.” He did the same thing, so I forgave myself. “Sorry, I should have led off with that. You may have seen I’m all keyed up today.”

“I heard what you said. You think there’s anything unusual about … all this?” I couldn’t bring myself to say something like ‘Do you think your mother was murdered?’

“Yes, I do. Mother went downhill rather rapidly this last week, and it seems too convenient for her to die at the same time she ordered your audit. You find something, I want to be the first to know.”

I just nodded at this. I could in no way make him the first to know, but I didn’t have to argue the point right now. Joey took my nod as a promise written in blood and walked away.


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## indianroads

From my WIP - MC is in the midst of his darkest hours.

_Every path forward led to pain and abandonment, except perhaps death. He laid back and closed his eyes, considering the bliss of limbo. An odd memory popped into his head; when he was very young, he met a blind boy at school and out of innocence had asked if everything his friend saw was black. The boy had replied that he didn’t see anything. Imagining what is beyond our experiences was futile, that was the paradox of oblivion; how could an existing mind conceive of non-existence? Could the loss of a body be the gateway to ultimate contentment? It was likely that he would soon find out._


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## indianroads

From a motorcycle chase through Silicon Valley rush hour traffic.

_Ahead, a line of cars crept along the shoulder waiting to take the exit for the Southbay Freeway. The agents he had left behind at the side of the road fired their pistols, shattering car windows. The drivers reacted by either swerving back into traffic or toward the freeway shoulder. He dodged to the left, passing the waiting cars in a blur, then cut back in at the last moment and took the tight cloverleaf exit hard.

In the stopped traffic, an elderly lady leaned out from the driver’s window of her car; she waved and shouted, “Go, Mike!”

He wanted to wave back but was too busy keeping the motorcycle upright. The pegs were scraping the road as he shot through the tight turn, he then snapped it upright as a line of stopped cars blocked the top of the ramp. The bike slid sideways as he hit the brakes, then once upright again, he found a seam between vehicles and rode through to the center lanes. With an open path before him, he twisted the throttle and split the lanes between motorists.

Horns blared as he shot forward, but the way was clear and he allowed himself a few seconds of hope that Ripley and the FBI were left behind. Then a car door abruptly opened in front of him. He hit the brakes hard; the bike slid and wanted to go sideways, but there wasn’t enough room between the slow-moving cars. Keeping the Indian upright took everything he had, but he managed to slow considerably before hitting the door with his front tire. It flew forward and slammed against the car’s front fender, and seconds later the driver emerged spewing profanities, but he was already in Mike’s rear-view mirror, and so didn’t matter._


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## JBF

Pretty words (maybe) from a strange and dark story.  I'm hoping to have this one done in time for Halloween.

***

_In the later afternoon they took the horses down the beaten thread of a game trail to the river bottom and the oblong pools that stood for a creek in the hot seasons. It was the dead of summer, early autumn in states more temperate, a day altogether bereft of anything like a breeze. In the open fields the whole limitless dome of the sky itself buzzed with the atonal drone of cicadas and a sky of faded denim found no accommodation for clouds whether here or abroad.

Descending, they left behind them an empty country claimed once by men and abandoned across the years until little remained  save a sea of prairie grass broken now and again by the crooked march of cedar posts and rusted wire and the slumping forms of houses sketched out by rusted sheetiron and silvered timber. The sounds of the highway did not reach here. No high and far-off winking suggested the passage of aircraft. Since the morning’s transit beyond the sagging wooden gate at the section’s edge they had encountered neither telephone lines nor paved road, and more than once it had seemed to one or the other they might fairly ask whether they themselves were the true ghosts._


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## VRanger

JBF said:


> Pretty words (maybe) from a strange and dark story.  I'm hoping to have this one done in time for Halloween.


Have you seen the film, "Out of the Wild" (2017)? Betty and I just watched it tonight. It looks like your kind of stuff, and the screenplay was adapted by the author of the book by the same name. There was a lot of duplication in the credits.


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## JBF

vranger said:


> Have you seen the film, "Out of the Wild" (2017)? Betty and I just watched it tonight. It looks like your kind of stuff, and the screenplay was adapted by the author of the book by the same name. There was a lot of duplication in the credits.



Can't say as I know that one.  I'll take a look.


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## Mark Twain't

_I held the Glock, it felt unnervingly comfortable in my hand.
‘Try just one at a time,’ Jack said, ‘if you can get your accuracy consistent, one shot is all you’ll need although two would be better.’
‘Why would two be better?’ I asked.
‘Insurance. One to the head, one to the heart. Both kill shots but, if you’re not accurate enough with one, the other will still get you the desired result.’
‘Are you sure you don’t just want me to do your accounts?’
‘Trust me, you’ll be better off as an assassin.’
‘Now there’s a sentence my careers adviser never used.’_


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## Llyralen

@JBF that was able to hold my attention even though it was mostly setting description.  That’s fun to have a project for Halloween.   There should be more holiday anthologies when I think about it…


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## VRanger

As Doctor Evans left, Anderson finally stopped scribbling and looked at Alberta.

“You’re making my job easy. Those are the kinds of instructions I normally have to give, and I normally need a perfunctory court order to pry loose medical records.”

“Anything you need, Sam, you just let me know. We have some more help for you.” Alberta proceeded to explain my presence for the audit, and keeping an eye out for anything about corporate espionage.

“I’m not sure I like _that_, Alberta.” Interesting. Alberta and Sam on a first name basis. “The audit is commonplace. But if he finds embezzlement or corporate espionage, those are motives for murder. That’s stepping on my toes.”

“Are you ready to prove embezzlement, Sam?”

“I can have a police accountant in here in a day or two.”

“Yeah, and lose that much more time, plus guarantee that everyone clams up. Same with stealing company secrets. We had Saul Frakes in there with three of his best operatives. That was my idea, and it didn’t work. You won’t get any further than Saul did. I think this provides our best chance, at this time.”

Sam Anderson shook his head and looked at me. “You _do _understand something like this could be dangerous?”

I looked right at Alberta, who told me just yesterday she didn’t think so. She rolled her eyes.

“Dangerous?” I stammered.

“Yes, dangerous, and I saw the look you two just passed. Look, Alberta may be the best lawyer in this city, but I’m a police detective. If someone murdered a Clemence Wright, you believe they’ll think twice about taking you out if you get too close to something?”

I gulped. If you think a gulp is a cliche made up by writers, or an actor overemoting, you’ve never just been told something like that by a man you understand knows his business. Satisfied I had no witty or manly response, I resorted to a second gulp.

“I thought so.” Anderson turned his face from me to Alberta. “What are you doing pulling this poor sucker into this?”

I looked at Somerset. His eyes had grown bigger, though he’d stayed quiet.

Alberta had an answer, as always. “Miles will keep you informed of any progress he makes, as soon as he makes it. You have other confidential informants.”

“Yes.”

“You manage to keep them safe.”

“Not always. We don’t spread _that _news.”

“Make this one on the ‘always’ side, not the ‘not always’ side, if you know what’s good for you.”

Now Anderson rolled _his _eyes and looked back at me. “I’m not dumb enough to keep debating Alberta. If you’re certain you’re going through with this—?”

He lifted the end of that sentence in a question, so I realized I should answer. “Yes, sir. I have to trust Alberta.”

“That could be your last mistake. Well, no, your last mistake will be the one that tips off a murderer you’re a threat. Like Alberta said, you keep me informed every step of the way, and if I ever tell you to get out of here, you hang up the phone, run to your car, and peel out like the very Devil is on your heels.”

I looked back at Alberta, who supported Anderson. “Yes, do that. I’ll go along with Sam that far.”


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## Llyralen

@vranger  Awesome! I got really wrapped up in that and excited.  Hopefully that’s in the new book?


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## VRanger

Llyralen said:


> @vranger  Awesome! I got really wrapped up in that and excited.  Hopefully that’s in the new book?


It is ... the one I'm working on solo, not the collaboration with PiP. Thank you.


----------



## Dr Hooss

From my surrealist vision of a post apocalyptic world.....


Shit! Fucking typical, while I was busy indulging myself with philosophical what aboutery I’ve failed to pay enough attention. As I start focusing back in on where I am going I notice the approach of a Zombie horde. 
Fuck, I really can not be doing with this. As I look around for a way out I realise I am too late, the horde is swelling and I am surrounded. I keep my head down and try not to look any of them in the eye as I try and casually eek my way to the outer edges of the crowd. Hopefully I am tired enough, scruffy enough and smell bad enough for them not to notice I am not one of them.

Too late, I feel the cold, moist, firm grip as one of them takes hold of me by the arm. I try in vain to free myself, I can feel his other hand probing for mine. I try to pull backwards but am crushed in by the ever growing horde. Once a horde gets started nothing can stop it swelling to a critical mass. I try to scream but their foul odours clog my nostrils and I start dry heaving. I realise I have lost the battle as the Zombie who has me in his steely, damp vice like grip,forces a pamphlet on un-dead rights into my hand. 
Before I can screw it up another two are on me with clipboards. I finally manage to stop retching and find my voice.
“No! I’m not interested in converting to Zombiism nor do I wish to become a brain donor, or sign up to your brain bank. I’ve already promised mine to medical science.” The use of such an archaic and Superstitiously feared term causes those nearest to step back in fright a little. 
This is my opportunity before they can rally with some faith based moronic comeback and trap me into hearing of their plight. I quickly push the one with the fliers and snatch the clipboard off one of the others. I hurl it into the thick of the horde then run, ignoring the screaming guttural taunts of how my soul will burn in hell over and over unless I accept the rituals of Papa Legba and take full possession of my own soul.


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## JBF

You know that one I was hoping to have done by October?  Yeah, about that...

***

_His horse wandered from the trough. Lightly fed, free of bit and saddle and sensing an end to the working day, he waited as John traced the long face and neck in search of rubs or sores and one by one checked each leg in turn and inspected the hooves in their iron shoes. There being no call for the hose John damped a sponge in the water tank and passed it over those places where saddle and blanket and cinch rode, and then for a few minutes they circuited the pen, the man watching that the horse did not favor any hoof over the others and listening to the soft bellows of the breathing, and finding no cause for alarm he broke off another bit of oatcake and sat the top rail and the two waited while Leo finished with his own concerns.

“Buen chico,” John said.

In speaking praise to horses he always used the Spanish, a trick adopted from the old Californio farrier who with his portable shop worked a circuit through Lake County and parts beyond. Spanish were the best words, Nico Alcazar explained when the acquaintance of John and Beau Geste was new, perhaps the ancient and natural tongue of horse and horseman alike, and an animal would always respond to those things understood in the language of its deepest and most secret heart.

Did all horses understand Spanish? John had asked.

Of course, Nico replied. Why should they not?

It was not a bad advice so near as John could tell, and he had used to it good effect more than once, though as much as it stirred something in him he took care always to bring an oatcake should Bobo someday discover himself English or German or French, and experience so far suggested the border collie to function alright without need of Scots Gaelic._


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## indianroads

JBF said:


> You know that one I was hoping to have done by October?  Yeah, about that...


Yeah... we've all been there.


----------



## VRanger

Cal finished his fourth inspection of the stage area. Jake arrived thirty minutes earlier and accompanied Cal on his last round. Jake’s concentration conveyed an intensity Cal never remembered seeing before.

“Something’s going on Jake, and tonight is different. You’ve avoided this for months. You have to tell me.”

“It’s just ... four eyes are better than two.”

“Ben’s helped out. That’s six eyes, and I’ve got to tell you, something is strange there. He pursues it with a professional attitude I don’t expect in a roadie.”

“He’s experienced.”

‘You ought to know. _You _hired him, and you normally leave the roadies to _me_.”

“Say, I noticed you spent a lot of time talking to that Julia Forsythe at the barbecue yesterday. Didn’t you also take her to dinner?”

Cal grimaced … for two reasons. This was the expected ‘Jake diversion’ from the subject at hand, and Cal not only considered his feelings about Julia to be personal, but he was embarrassed about the way the evening ended.

“I did. We wound up closing down the Sage Room.”

“That’s a mighty pretty filly. I might invite her out after the show.” It was a test. Jake saw the look in Cal’s eyes and laughed. “I _knew _it. You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you? God bless you if it works out, brother, and I’ve got to say, God _certainly _blessed _her_!”

“_Jake_--”

“I know. You’ve never been one to talk like that about your ladies. I respect that, and I hope they appreciate it. I guessed it when I told you to offer her a contract. You make sure she signs it.”

“I put Hope in charge of that.”

“Then don’t worry. She’ll sign it. Hope’s a bulldog. You’ll get your chance. Don’t you waste it, or I’ll whip your ass.”


----------



## JBF

An experiment in dialogue, courtesy the project from hell.  Because sometimes when I'm bored I throw diction and grammar and a couple gallons of gasoline into a woodchipper to see what happens. 

Also, a brief exploration that is the glorious white trash soap opera/trainwreck that is the family of John's running buddy. 

***

_“How’d you come by that Marlin?” John asked as the truck eased towards the bottomland and the three nearest of their charges. “Don’t find too many square-bolt .30-30s around.”

“This? Been in the family since forever. Come from my great Grandpappy. He got drafted in ’17 to go fight the Kaiser – ”

“He go to France?”

“Never made it out of New Jersey. Hated the army and everything went with it. Soon as they cut him loose he got to drifting. Did some roustabout work in the oilfields up in Oklahoma, and Spring of ’20 or thereabout he was in Burkburnett, out by the Four Sixes. They was always hiring in them days. Course, he was one of them didn’t take orders from nobody knew less about something than he did, so he wasn’t on long.

“So he goes into town looking to catch a train, and he’s standing at the depot with a bedroll and his saddle throwed up on his shoulder and he sees some armed men out in the street there. Not too much later some old boy with a tin star on his chest comes over and starts into asking who he is, where’s he coming from, is he any good ahorseback, all that kind of thing.

“Now Grandpappy Pickett ain’t one to back from what he takes is an insult, and star or no star he figures he can whip any man in the territory, so he asks what this little feller wants to know about it. Lawman says there was a bank just robbed the next town over and they was putting together a posse. They was in particular search of men who knew horses and rifles, and Grandpappy looked like he might.

“I do alright, he says. Except he ain’t got a horse or a rifle and he don’t see how he’d be much good in such a state. Lawman says fine, we’ll get you outfitted. And they did.”

“They get their man?”

“Couldn’t say for certain. The old boy riding with Grandpappy clotheslined hisself on a low-flying branch – knocked him cold. Grandpappy wasn’t much for tracking and no kind of doctor, and none of that stolen money was his besides, so he sat the sheriff’s man up against the tree and hitched his horse and called it good. He allowed until his dying day they probably had a warrant out for him up there in Wichita County. Never did go back to find out one way or another. Figured they’d hang him for stealing the rifle or shoot him for stealing the horse, one.”_

_Leo patted the scabbard, propped between them in the seat. “I keep it out at the trailer so my sister don’t find it. Be a hell of a thing, losing something like that for beer money."_


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## neophyte

Sorry 

_That was the prophecy. Bernard wondered how many people actually wanted to turn into a mucus-oozing, vomit-spitting, slimy oversized queen termite and eat green sludge (or each other, maybe) for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not many, he was sure. But that didn't matter._


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## indianroads

neophyte said:


> Sorry
> 
> _That was the prophecy. Bernard wondered how many people actually wanted to turn into a mucus-oozing, vomit-spitting, slimy oversized queen termite and eat green sludge (or each other, maybe) for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not many, he was sure. But that didn't matter._


That made me smile.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

The chair creaked as the stranger leant forward into the flickering saloon light, his mouth a dangerous path cut into the cliff of his face, teal eyes looking for a fight. He squared his hat, tightened its leather strap and returned his meaty hand to the fifth tankard of ale.

“Yeah, I’m Yarrod,” he said to the man who had lowered the pianist’s fallboard. “What of it?”

Three other men held court in the centre of the saloon, a scowl flanked by two wet smiles. Their presence had silenced the revelry and sent patrons scattering. A barman laid a shotgun on the bar, the jangle of disturbed shot glasses drawing Yarrod’s scrutiny a moment before it slipped back to the four men. Only the central figure carried any authority, the other three boys in comparison, lavender scented soap and one flannelling away from a casket.

“We’ve just come from the Carmack Estate,” the central figure said, as if addressing a jury. He paused for a moment, the two escorts separating. One perched a buttock on a round table and plucked peanuts nonchalantly from a bowl, the other spun a chair and sat on it back to front, chin propped on its backrest. The cowboy by the piano moved in closer. “That’s a mighty unusual hat you have there,” he continued. “Black leather cowboy hat, trimmed by crow’s feet.” It sounded like a quote. He hooked his tailored jacket behind his holstered gun. “Something tells me you’re not even going to deny killing Joseph Mendo.”

“He was a goddamn Dannuk,” Yarrod said with a snarl. “Filth. A stinking aberration.”​


----------



## VRanger

Hope stepped out of Jake’s office, and the first thing she heard was a new voice downstairs … but not new to her, only new hearing it here .. at Jake’s home. An accent. The same accent she heard at the hotel.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bartley. It took a bit longer to run your errands than it should have. My first day in town, don’t ya know.”

“I’ll overlook it today, Edward, but at what I’m paying you, I expect you to adapt. We’ll be in many cities before this Tour ends, so you can’t use that ‘first day’ excuse every time. You have a smartphone. Use it to find what I tell you to get, and then guide you.”

“Sorry, Ms. Bartley. Mine’s roaming and I didn’t use it. I consulted the concierge and then I couldn’t find the places he told me about.”

“On your next set of errands, get a _local _phone! Don’t make me do _all _your thinking for you.”

“No, mum. I’ll get the ‘ang of things.”

When Jake saw Hope turn back into his office and glower with the look of a female Grizzly protecting her cubs, he slumped back into his chair.

“What now?”

“Do you know anything about an Englishman downstairs, answering to Audra like he’s her gofer?”

“Yeah. She called this morning and told me her ‘personal assistant’ from California declined to continue that job on the road with us. She said she wanted to hire a new one, and had a man in mind. Of course,_ I_ get to pick up the tab.”

“You hired this guy, sight unseen?”

“Why do_ I_ have to see him? He’s Audra’s worry.”

“No, Jake. He’s your worry.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve just hired Julia’s ex-husband.”

Jake put a palm to his forehead and leaned his head back, his eyes rolling. Trouble. Trouble with a capital “T” and that rhymes with “C” and that stands for “Castrate” … a fate he feared if this crisis grew.

“I’ll go down there and run him off, right now. I don’t care what Audra says.”

“No. I don’t think you will.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s only _one _reason for that man to be down there right now, and it’s a scheme of that conniving bitch.”

“Didn’t you and Audra used to be friends?”

“Yeah, and I never had a doubt she was a conniving bitch. I just didn’t mind it when it worked to _my_ advantage.”

“Oh. So why shouldn’t I run the guy off?”

“Because I can _still _make it work to _my _advantage. Hands off, Jake.”

Despite being just slightly terrified of Hope on her bad days … well, _maybe not _just slightly, Jake couldn’t resist. “If you’re going underground with your own plan here, doesn’t that also make _you _a--”

“Of course it does, and when have I _ever _denied it? But if you ever start to say it _out loud_ again--”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re a saint. Just like Joan of Arc. Didn’t she start a war that killed thousands?”

“Yes, and there will be a body count here, too, but it won’t be quite that high.”


----------



## JBF

Through a minor miracle I may be tracking on the style again.  Or not.  Fifty-fifty chance, either way.  

***

_He lay with his eyes fixed open to the wall, not asleep. Motionless without rest with a sour taste in his mouth and a heaviness in his throat. How much of his hour remained he could not say. The single burning lantern traced his ghost against the ribs of the uprights and the naked plywood between. More than anything he wanted water.

“You awake?”

John cycled his breathing two or three times before answering.

“I guess so. What time is it?”

“Seven ‘til.”

He stretched as the confines of the camp bed would allow and from neck to feet the flaring of half-rested muscle receded into dull ache, and he resettled his head on the pack knowing of no respite in the time left him but all the same unwilling to concede early and so lingered in the hollowness between waking and sleep until Leo called formally the changing of the watch.

Along the bottoms the windows showed gapped and black to admit a small breeze to eddy through air laced trick with kerosene smoke. He kicked free of the blanket and levered himself up from the damp wallow. The world moved with the drunken, rolling quality of a lava lamp, and in the quiet he registered that the rain was stopped._


----------



## Llyralen

Heimer caught a fish. 

Each memory, each small detail of the last few days that I was with Heimer seems to swirl around and around in my mind as if it were a stone caught in a strong current, to tumble and resurface and collide until each one becomes a precious gem as clear and smooth as glass. 

How many times have I watched Heimer drag that silver, thrashing fish out of the water?  Watched the spray of water droplets catch the light as they fell to my face? How many songs have I sung with him as he rowed down the Elbe, telling me the names of towns, animals and trees in a language that I long to hear again? 

My memories of my days with Heimer are my treasures, bright and precious.  I can summarize the blurred horror of the next eight years in one dull word: slavery.


----------



## indianroads

Not necessarily pretty, but I like the last sentence. 

_Inevitably, Ripley’s threats would be actualized and he would talk. Everyone had a role in life to play, he was to be the victim and his interrogator would torture and finally murder him. There was no way out, the script was written and the play was about to begin._


----------



## Riptide

This story is taking me forever to write, and I scared I'm writing it all wrong, and it's not coming out the way I want it too, but I enjoyed this little snippet of dialogue.


--
After getting lost twice, he found my house. I ordered him to stay in the car, lest Terrance was canvassing the house. He probably had a hybrid nose on him and would smell Elias the next time he came over. Mom gave me a double take, her jaw literally dropping to the floor at seeing me when I entered the living room.

“What’s the occasion? If only your dad could see this…” Her eyebrow gave an irritating tick before she replaced it with an overtly large smile. “You’re beautiful, honey.”

“Just a get together with couple of friends.”

“A get together, huh?” Her splayed fingers poorly covered her chuckle. “Okay, well, have fun with this friend.”

“Friend_s_,” I  corrected. “I’ll be home later tonight.”

“No rush. You’re an adult. I trust you.”

“Mom!” I stomped out before she could say anything more embarrassing; already, my cheeks flared burgundy, like hot coals on my face.


----------



## VRanger

“How goes the quest for ‘Mr. Big’?” Cal caught Jake out by the pool on Tuesday morning. Neither one had any business to tie up today. Jake leaned back in an Adirondack chair with his feet propped up, drinking a Virgin Bloody Mary. How did Cal know it was Virgin? Jake’s morning routine required it, and since he possessed hangover immunity--Cal suspected a compact with the Devil--Jake always drank them Virgin.

“The next step on that is today. You and I have to arrange a performance.” Cal cocked his head in question. “With your new friend Eddie Whatshisname.”

“He’s on _your _payroll. I’m not the one has to remember his name. But, performance?”

“Yep. We’re assuming he’s on two payrolls now. Let’s let him earn his time on both all at once.”

“I thought you were a Ranger, not Intelligence.”

“You makin’ some kind’o crack about Rangers?”

“Not with Jessie watching everything we do, no. So what are we gonna say, and how do you arrange for Eddie to eavesdrop without making it obvious. That worries me a bit.”

“Leave it to Jake.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Jake laughed and outlined the faux conversation they’d engage in later that morning. When he finished, he changed the subject. “Now, let’s talk about something important.”

“People threatening life, limb, and business aren’t important?”

“Not in the long run. They’re a distraction. We’ve got the FBI on our side. If they aren’t enough, and they aren’t, Jessie is on the job. So stop frettin’ about that and tell me what’s happenin’ with this girl Julia. Last I know were those kisses what almost popped the thermometer in my safe room.”

“Don’t tell me you were _watching_!? On the closed circuit …”

“Damned straight I was. And what I saw looked like the National Anthem without the kickoff. You had her all alone in there for as long as you wanted, and you came out to _lunch_?”

“Jake, yeah, the heat was on, but she’s gotta go home. Unless that settles somehow we’ll break each other’s hearts.”

“You see a ring on _my _finger, boy?” Cal frowned to acknowledge the rhetorical question, a form of discourse Jake specialized in. “I don’t go without, and I don’t break no hearts.”

“Jake, no woman expects a long-term gig with you. Julia’s different, and I’m different.”

Jake cooled the banter. “Yeah man, I know you are. It’s your burden, and damned if I understand it. So that’s what’s keepin’ the two of you from settlin’ in for a long winter’s nap?”

“To start with, it’s August.” Jake laughed, and Cal knew he would. “I told you … whatever might happen would have to end.”

“Why?”

Such a simple question, such a lot of thought required to answer. Yet another ‘Jake trait’. “She’s got family. She’s got a Grandmother she loves who doesn’t have that much time left. She’s got her friends. Her parents. Her home, and entire life, outside of this little fantasy we’ve created. Think about that word. _Home_. This ain’t her home, Jake. We aren’t her family or her past. You want me to quit and move to London? And it _ain’t _London, Texas.”

“Yeah, I remember when you thought that.”

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” Jake grinned. “Why not?”

“Too damned funny. Hope and I laughed about that all the time.”

“Hope _knew_?” Cal was keeping a list “For” and “Against” sororicide. “For” was gaining weight.

Jake deflected. “Of course I can’t lose you. It would take five men to do what you do, and not one of them could write a lyric I could sing outside of a nursery school.”

“I almost ran out of those myself. And I’ve thought about it. You’re exaggerating, like always. I could be replaced with three men on the business side.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Jake noticed the crease in Cal’s brow. “You’ve been thinkin’ about this, I can see. It ain’t all on your shoulders, brother. I’ll help.”

“Heaven help me.”

Jake brightened, and laughed again.


----------



## indianroads

From Inception: (edited with corrections from my proof reader)
_Mike sighed contentedly as he lay in bed. Pale morning sunlight drifted through the gently swaying trees outside his Redwood Terrace home and slipped through the windows to create a dappled pattern that danced upon the thick quilt that covered both him and Mel. Pilot lay curled between them, enjoying their combined warmth. The room was cool, but not unpleasantly so; it was a small space within a tiny two-bedroom home nestled deep within a redwood forest.

The isolated cabin was at the end of a long dirt road; the nearest neighbor was more than a mile away. Utilities were powered by gasoline and propane, and water came from a local spring. Web access was through a parabolic dish mounted on the roof. A cast-iron firebox heated the living room, and outdoor comfort was provided by a free-standing fireplace in the backyard. With all he had endured, it was a good place to find solace and heal._


----------



## indianroads

One more from Inception:
_Mike smiled. “Hey, have I shown you the rope swing yet?”

“I saw it when I was up here before; it looks terrifying.”

He took her to a shallow canyon formed by a narrow stream that ran along the edge of the property. The rope was suspended from an ancient oak that leaned over the gentle downward slope; the swing looked far more dangerous than it was because the most anyone might fall was a few feet into a pile of leaves. Mike rode the swing first, then offered it to Mel.

She took the rope and set her foot in the sling, then hesitated. “You played on this when you were a kid, so it must be old. Are you sure it’s still safe?”

“Would I let the woman I love do something dangerous?” He smiled. “I have renters that come up here all the time, so the rope is replaced every year, and there’s been a swing here since my grandfather was a boy.”

“What if the tree falls down?”

He chuckled. “You’re too skinny for that to happen.”

“Umm… thanks?” She took a deep breath and let herself swing over the canyon, and screamed joyfully. Her face was flushed when she returned. “Oh, that’s so fun! How high can I go?”

 “As high as you want.”_


----------



## SueC

_From _Silk Thread:

Bronagh, which means “sadness” in the Gaelic, became a Redfern when she married my Da two weeks after her seventeenth birthday and that day she was dressed in her mother’s own wedding gown. They took their vows in the same church where her baptism had occurred.

Among the wedding gifts was Granny Nutt’s baptismal blanket, now in desperate need of repair. It was suspected it came from Caren O’Donnell, who had just had her eighth child, and wanted no more. Some felt that the blanket was the real reason why our family grew as big as it did, so blessed we all were.

My father, John Redfern, had come to Scotland with his dog Jack when he was seventeen. He was an orphan hailing from Germany, and already becoming a man of the sea by then. He and Jack had put into port at Black Isle, after being on the water for the good part of six months, and there they stayed. Da lied about his age so he could work the docks and get a feel for the country he had assumed. Stories of how he came to be a sailing man in the first place kept me and my siblings enthralled for most of our childhood, but the story of how he gave it all up when he first met our Mam was always our favorite.

Da was not handsome in the traditional sense of the word. His face and body bore scars, some from abuse as a child, and some from his hard times at sea. His mouth was wide and generous with a smile. He had gnarled and chunky hands, even when he was young. He also had a flame of red hair, which earned him the nickname of “Red” even more than his last name did. He was a tall man and had a way of looking down at our small Mam; it melted her heart so.

Even as they aged, even when there were too many children to count, they would always stand close to one another, melting into one shadow, one being, so when you looked at them from a distance you couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. He would move his head down on top of hers, his cheek or chin lying gently on her golden hair, and just listen as she talked. He loved her brogue, loved everything about her, even her tired fingers and sad eyes. When they spoke like this, huddled together, they always whispered as if they had some terrific secret to share.

It could have only been about the wash, or the wind or the weather coming, but to us kids it looked like something only for them and we never interfered. They stood like that, her arms wrapped around his waist, when she told him of babies coming, and he would gently place his large hands on the small of her back and pull her close, comforting her as she cried.


----------



## RGS

The intro to my debut novel:

   It's hard to remember exactly how the idea came about. It was like one of those fleeting
thoughts that usually disappear as quickly as they arrive. You know the ones I'm talking about.
They hover just long enough to get our attention, then they're gone, back into the vast ether of
the universe, never to be pondered again.
   Not this time.
   Years have passed and a lot has happened, so the details are now vague at best. If
anything, I would prefer to forget the entire thing. That’s not so much out of guilt, but because
it’s just not something I necessarily care to think about. The only reason I even bring it up now
is because a little background is needed to understand why things were done the way they
were. Still, it bothers me that I can’t piece the specifics back together.
   My best theory is that it was the result of an abnormal degree of stress over the previous
several weeks. That type of pressure can have some strange effects, so maybe. Could it have
developed over a long period of time, possibly even my entire life, and the pieces suddenly
slammed together at once when the elements were right?
   I doubt the answer will ever be known, nor does it matter. One thing is certain: the probability 
of such a concept settling into my mind was remote to say the least.
   But there it was, fully formed in every possible way, all-encompassing and complete. It
seemed so mundane, normal, and right, like my own name, occupation, location, and any other
simple fact I know. It just fit, like I had known it all my life and so should everyone else. It
went completely against everything I had ever thought and believed, and there was always an
unsettling feeling that I wasn't supposed to have such knowledge, that I had been given more
than a glimpse of something no one was ever meant to see. Still, it felt so normal that I often
caught myself at times believing it to be the common experience for everyone.
   It wasn't. And after realizing the implications, I trembled at the thought of ever
speaking of it to another human being.
   It has become clear over time that people are intellectually lazy. We go about our lives
in ignorant bliss, as every concept we've ever heard has been tucked neatly into its respective
corner. We think what we think, we're comfortable with it, and that's that. Folklore tales
become common knowledge that "everyone knows" and urban legends become historical fact
in the minds of many. It's easy to fall into our psychological comfort zones and allow the
commonly believed dictums to be the truth as we know it.
   And there's the rub; the truth. Now, that's something that seems exclusive to each
person. My being in possession of this hideous idea was my truth, as outlandish as it would
sound to anyone else. This story is about the way I learned to keep it to myself. The hard way.


----------



## Deleted member 66445

SueC said:


> _From _Silk Thread:
> 
> Bronagh, which means “sadness” in the Gaelic, became a Redfern when she married my Da two weeks after her seventeenth birthday and that day she was dressed in her mother’s own wedding gown. They took their vows in the same church where her baptism had occurred.
> 
> Among the wedding gifts was Granny Nutt’s baptismal blanket, now in desperate need of repair. It was suspected it came from Caren O’Donnell, who had just had her eighth child, and wanted no more. Some felt that the blanket was the real reason why our family grew as big as it did, so blessed we all were.
> 
> My father, John Redfern, had come to Scotland with his dog Jack when he was seventeen. He was an orphan hailing from Germany, and already becoming a man of the sea by then. He and Jack had put into port at Black Isle, after being on the water for the good part of six months, and there they stayed. Da lied about his age so he could work the docks and get a feel for the country he had assumed. Stories of how he came to be a sailing man in the first place kept me and my siblings enthralled for most of our childhood, but the story of how he gave it all up when he first met our Mam was always our favorite.
> 
> Da was not handsome in the traditional sense of the word. His face and body bore scars, some from abuse as a child, and some from his hard times at sea. His mouth was wide and generous with a smile. He had gnarled and chunky hands, even when he was young. He also had a flame of red hair, which earned him the nickname of “Red” even more than his last name did. He was a tall man and had a way of looking down at our small Mam; it melted her heart so.
> 
> Even as they aged, even when there were too many children to count, they would always stand close to one another, melting into one shadow, one being, so when you looked at them from a distance you couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. He would move his head down on top of hers, his cheek or chin lying gently on her golden hair, and just listen as she talked. He loved her brogue, loved everything about her, even her tired fingers and sad eyes. When they spoke like this, huddled together, they always whispered as if they had some terrific secret to share.
> 
> It could have only been about the wash, or the wind or the weather coming, but to us kids it looked like something only for them and we never interfered. They stood like that, her arms wrapped around his waist, when she told him of babies coming, and he would gently place his large hands on the small of her back and pull her close, comforting her as she cried.


Oh! I like the description in the fifth paragraph.  ...togetherness


----------



## Deleted member 66445

Part of Chapter 2 of "To Heal a Broken Heart"
Then Moira touched her, and she felt a familiar warmth spread up her arm, and bright blue eyes filled with wisdom looked at her. “Ye have the gift, then don’t ye?” Nodding, Saoirse didn’t know what else to say or do. “It’s a powerful one, and ye know it well for being untrained.” The calm that she had experienced in those first moments vanished into a maelstrom of unidentified sounds, feelings, and tastes as gnarled fingers clasped her hands, and time slowed. 
    Knowledge washed over her, invisible walls crumbled, and  Saoirse was flooded with warmth and light. Whispers and chants thrummed deep in her core. As she absorbed the lessons, her spirit soared, traveling amongst the stars. She smelled cedar, rain, and freshly cut grass. The flavors of chocolate and scones brought back memories of the afternoon tea ritual shared with Gran. Even though she was long since dead, Saoirse saw her young, filled with energy and life. 
    She heard the words Gran whispered to her exactly as she did so many years ago “You have a gift, child, but you won’t come into your full power till well after I’m gone. It is there, tucked in a corner of your heart until such time as you are ready for it. Take it and embrace it for it will lead you to your greatest happiness.”     
    Her world turned upside down and inside out, shaking her to the core of her being. As abruptly as it started, the turning stopped and Saoirse righted herself, her mind and spirit rich with a new understanding of what it meant to be a druid and a healer. It seemed like an eternity had passed, but it was only a few moments.


----------



## VRanger

Jake, the country singing star, and Ben, an FBI Special Agent, wait for a call from a Mafia Boss:


> Jake’s phone sang the tune of the unknown caller, certain on other days to be swiped into that digital dustbin called spam. He listened, without showing concern, then ended the call.
> 
> “Well?”
> 
> “Car warranty. I don’t know why they keep calling. I’ve bought ten for my cars, two for Cal’s, one for Hope’s--" Jake paused and thought "--You need one? We’re all covered. I can’t imagine why they keep calling me.”
> 
> “I think you just explained _clearly _why they do--”


----------



## RedsFables

I am weird... _le sigh_


> Whatever it was, it couldn't be worse than her best friend kill-punching her. Max knew she should be more concerned with the situation, but honestly, if Arin could channel her interdimensional rage and boob-punch her best friend out of their world then Max had complete faith that she could fix it.


----------



## VRanger

RedsFables said:


> I am weird... _le sigh_


Once I used Chrome's French to English translator, I was fine with that. ;-)

Most days around here, "weird" is less a mental aspect and more a competition.


----------



## Bloggsworth

I shall hold you as I should have,​in the rain which fell on those​soft days in that beguiling summer,​on the warm days which were too short,​too few and quickly passing.​


----------



## indianroads

A quote from one of my early novels - Departure:
_Violence never really has a purpose, it only feeds on itself and burns everything in its path; it is a malevolent mindless thing that consumes beauty, knowledge, and love as logs on a fire, leaving only the ashes of death in its wake._


----------



## SueC

indianroads said:


> A quote from one of my early novels - Departure:
> _Violence never really has a purpose, it only feeds on itself and burns everything in its path; it is a malevolent mindless thing that consumes beauty, knowledge, and love as logs on a fire, leaving only the ashes of death in its wake._


Can we send this to someone? Someone who can stop all this craziness? Maybe many someone's . . .  Good job you.


----------



## RedsFables

Bloggsworth said:


> I shall hold you as I should have,​in the rain which fell on those​soft days in that beguiling summer,​on the warm days which were too short,​too few and quickly passing.​


If a summer storm could speak this is what I think it would say. Melancholic, wistful, with a hint of dreams. Perhaps though I am reading too much into it. What a delightful read.


----------



## RGS

This was actually chanted in my third novel, for the purpose of killing someone...

_There once was a man who lived alone on a cold, gray hillside. The days would pass as the clouds slowly floated by above, glaring down at him in anger. Yet his spirit never ceased to calm and somewhere deep inside, he knew there had to be more. He reached out, time and again, and still there was nothing. Oftentimes he would gaze down upon the valley below as that old familiar, wistful feeling swept over him, permeating the very fiber of his being. This cannot be all, and yet it can, for what it is cannot displace his internal sense of self.

He looked within and knew that what lay there was greater, mightier than that without. Still, in all of creation there had been no deeper melancholy as the days became nights and the nights turned back to days. He cried out in desperation at times until his spirit could shout no more. His home was his world, and the world was his home, and ever it shall be. And in the end, his soul wandered to an ethereal place, to reside evermore._


----------



## Joker

_Corrit removed his mask with shaking hands and groaned. Barely thirty-three years of age and already he felt geriatric. The doctors said it was peripheral neuropathy, caused by war ordinance, and that he was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t feel it, but he knew it. Three in his regiment had succumbed to cancer already. He stuck a new cigarette in his mouth._


----------



## William White

First paragraph of an "On the Road" series I write for a little website:

_I once found myself happily alone, broke, and hitchhiking in the country of Guatemala.  How I came to be in that condition is a tale for another day.  But suffice it to say, I had set out on youthful adventure, one that – in my mind anyway – was noble and intentionally quixotic.  I was a young, long-haired, unshowered, backpack-toting idealist, feeling that – to paraphrase Albert Camus – by becoming completely free, my mere existence was an act of rebellion against what I viewed as an unfree world of conformity._


----------



## indianroads

William White said:


> First paragraph of an "On the Road" series I write for a little website:
> 
> _I once found myself happily alone, broke, and hitchhiking in the country of Guatemala.  How I came to be in that condition is a tale for another day.  But suffice it to say, I had set out on youthful adventure, one that – in my mind anyway – was noble and intentionally quixotic.  I was a young, long-haired, unshowered, backpack-toting idealist, feeling that – to paraphrase Albert Camus – by becoming completely free, my mere existence was an act of rebellion against what I viewed as an unfree world of conformity._


Channeling Kerouac, I love it.


----------



## got2write

From my work in progress, as the MC  is coming too after a horrible crash:


_My world came back, but only one sense at a time and for only a few moments. First there was the sting of the seatbelt digging into my belly. Then later the acrid smell of burnt metal and the coppery tinge of blood on my tongue. My eyes opened to a dreamy haze, like watching a movie through frosted glass.


Then the pain hit, and it made me wish for the haze again. It surged across my entire body and then drilled down to sparks in my head and my face and my right shoulder and my left leg. Waves of screaming, stinging nerve endings, rising and falling with each choppy breath.


But even worse than the pain was my thirst, like I was packed full of cotton balls from my lips to my lungs. I tried to swallow but there wasn’t a drop of spit for my cracked throat. All I could manage was a dry, whispered call for help. 


None came._


----------



## RedsFables

> It was like discovering eternity in a second...


~Rebirth of The Primordial

I like this one a lot.


----------



## RedsFables

_Let me tell you a story about a girl. 
How she let others ply her with falsities and 
Lock her personality up in the fictitious reality we call expectation. 
And how long it took for her to break free.  _


----------



## Mark Twain't

She opens the desk drawer and tenderly strokes the barrel of the pistol before pushing it to one side and retrieving a small mirror. Holding it up, she carefully inspects ever line, every blemish, every pore on her face.

A tap on the open door. ‘What _are_ you doing?’ Josie asks, raising an eyebrow as she leans against the doorframe.

‘I think I’m getting old,’ Holly replies as she attempts to smooth down a wrinkle that isn’t there.

‘You’re only twenty nine.’

‘Yes, but I got used to regaining my twenty-five year old body every time. It’s been four years now and I’m sure I can see wrinkles.’

‘Well you know the answer. Stick a gun in your gob and pull the trigger. Hey presto, twenty-five year old Holly is back. Can you do it outside though, Katy’s only just finished vacuuming.’

She re-opens the desk drawer and tenderly strokes the barrel of the pistol.


----------



## JBF

An exercise in efficiency.  Here, all the ways I transgress good SPAG, sensibility, and taste _IN_ _ONE CONVENIENT POST_.  

***

_He wondered too that in his life a man would now and again make some change in the heading of an otherwise stable affair, be it gentle heeling of a ship coming a point port or starboard or the weightless, floorless _apartness _of an aircraft standing hard on one wingtip and the horizon all at once bifurcated blue-high and green-brown low, and afterwards in the great or small turbulence of vaguely electrical ozone of and upset, the mind shaken like a frightened high-strung horse scenting tentative at this newness, unknowing whether to brace again or if this was to henceforth be the lay of the world, the familiar and unknowable mingling uneasy together and doubt maintaining in quiet whispers that no change was permanent, that it could all be easily undone and the old way with its acclimated weights and responsibilities would welcome one home as a fitful prodigal.

It was conviction alone to stay the eager fingers loose around yoke or rein or or kingspoke.  Conviction, maybe, and promise.  Day's last bloodred light touching distant snowcapped peaks of a wilderness rich beyond imagining.  Determined eyes in the mirror, the shoulders high and back.  The cavemouth where nested darkness and dragons and perhaps glory, perhaps death.  The fleeting smile of a pretty girl.  

Man's gamble, as ever, that today's risk paid tomorrow's debts.  _


----------



## S J Ward

_The fore-shore was much the same as yesterday, resplendent in its desolation, but today it was surrounded by colour. The mountains, that framed the scene before him, wore only the smallest of fluffy, white clouds on their snow-capped summits like fascinators, the flanks of each mountain were cloaked in hues of purples and reds, hemmed by various shades of green, through a whole spectrum of verdancy at the tree line; trees that almost dipped into the cold waters of the loch. Reflected in the still water, the image reversed, paled and slightly muted, but each mountain had impressed itself upon the water._

I'm not very good at describing poetically, this is about as good as it gets for me.


----------



## D. L. Keur

From a book, half done, that I'll probably never finish writing.  I love the story, but it's another of those unsaleable works of mine--no strong market appeal.



> Flying along the crest of the mountain, they raced the storm to the top. They’d win. She knew they would. Laughing, she stretched out her arms, letting loose the reins.
> 
> The mare tossed her head and snorted, mane whipping in the wind’s onslaught. Hooves pounding, her head up, nostrils flaring, she kicked up her heels and flew even faster—sheer joy.
> 
> Both reveled in the power of the mountain storms and winds that were their namesakes. But this storm—this storm—would be different from all others they had raced and reveled in.
> 
> 
> 
> A flash of lightning, the clap of its thunder simultaneous, made him jump. He saw it strike the light pole directly across the street, the electricity running down around it in a strange, slow-motion torrent until it met the ground. Sudden flames erupted at the base, brightening as they caught the neighbor’s summer dried lawn afire.
> 
> He grabbed the fire extinguisher, intent on racing out to kill it. Just outside, he stopped dead, suddenly afraid as he felt the hair on his arms rise. His scalp prickled.
> 
> Another flash.
> 
> He saw it meet the ground between his feet. Sound pounded as the jolt went through him. Tasting metal, he saw fire inside his eyes.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Writhing chaos. Light fracturing peaceful darkness. A cacophony of sound shattering ancient stillness.
> 
> The columns trembled.
> 
> Shihan Lei nodded just once. Jennai smiled. Cobre was coming. So was K’hor.


----------



## VRanger

D. L. Keur said:


> From a book, half done, that I'll probably never finish writing.  I love the story, but it's another of those unsaleable works of mine--no strong market appeal.


Don't give up on it. If you have a following from your other books, there's a chance 'fans" will follow you to new material. However, I say that as a reader and a customer who tends to do that.

The scene above relates. Several years ago I was tidying around my pool getting things put up ahead of a storm. The storm clouds were still several miles to the south. I was standing under a sunny, blue sky, but horizontal lightning hit just a few feet from me on the other side of the hedge surrounding the pool. It felt like I'd contacted a 110 wire, and my first thought was that I'd touched a lawn chair I was holding to a bare spot on a wire that ran to a day/night light at the pool. Then I remembered I'd disconnected that wire some time in the past, and I realized I'd just seen a bright flash ... the jolt of electricity had my thoughts not at their best. It was almost a minute before I felt "normal" again.

I did some research and learned ground current from lightning seldom kills people ... at least people who are standing, but it's a danger to farm animals. What makes the difference is the distance between contact points. Our feet are too close together, but larger animals such as cattle have enough distance between their feet for the current to be lethal.

Since the strike was so close to me and might well have hit me directly, friends have advised I could put the incident on my list of "Times I Almost Died", but I became iffy on placing it in that category once I researched ground current.


----------



## D. L. Keur

VRanger said:


> Don't give up on it. If you have a following from your other books, there's a chance 'fans" will follow you to new material. However, I say that as a reader and a customer who tends to do that.
> 
> The scene above relates. Several years ago I was tidying around my pool getting things put up ahead of a storm. The storm clouds were still several miles to the south. I was standing under a sunny, blue sky, but horizontal lightning hit just a few feet from me on the other side of the hedge surrounding the pool. It felt like I'd contacted a 110 wire, and my first thought was that I'd touched a lawn chair I was holding to a bare spot on a wire that ran to a day/night light at the pool. Then I remembered I'd disconnected that wire some time in the past, and I realized I'd just seen a bright flash ... the jolt of electricity had my thoughts not at their best. It was almost a minute before I felt "normal" again.
> 
> I did some research and learned ground current from lightning seldom kills people ... at least people who are standing, but it's a danger to farm animals. What makes the difference is the distance between contact points. Our feet are too close together, but larger animals such as cattle have enough distance between their feet for the current to be lethal.
> 
> Since the strike was so close to me and might well have hit me directly, friends have advised I could put the incident on my list of "Times I Almost Died", but I became iffy on placing it in that category once I researched ground current.


Thanks.  Problem I have is that I still want to finish my 'magnum opus', the trilogy that A Gathering of Rebels prequels.  And, honestly, I don't know how many years I've got before my time is up.  

That scary experience that you had is similar to mine.  Friends say that I draw lightning.  I don't know about that, but I have learned to stay away from power lines when a storm is happening.  I still ride the mountain crests, racing the storms to the top, a-horseback, though.  Can't help myself.  Love it too much.  So do my horses.


----------



## justenoughlight

I have a couple, here's a taste, let me know if you want more lol

"Adessia Raven Grey was not the type of person you’d look at twice if you passed her in the street. Sure, her hair was a rather startling shade of ocean blue, as were her eyes, and she had several scars marring her otherwise beautiful face, but she didn’t appear particularly unusual. After all, in Shatter, it was the normal people who appeared strange.

But Adessia wasn’t as unremarkable as she appeared. Quite the contrary, actually. Hidden under the normalcy, secrets were buried deep, deep enough that she was unable to recall a single one.

Everyone has secrets, of course. Though some may deny it, there is always something or other, lurking, creeping right under the surface of the skin.

But Adessia was different. Her secrets had burrowed, tunneled, set up a cozy abode right at the core of her heart.

So it was that Adessia Grey was, in fact, rather remarkable indeed."


----------



## Llyralen

D. L. Keur said:


> From a book, half done, that I'll probably never finish writing.  I love the story, but it's another of those unsaleable works of mine--no strong market appeal.


Hey, I saw "From a book" and skipped to the quote and I was then looking for the author.  I wanted to read that book.  That was the most captivating thing I've read this week and it makes me want to both read and go write.  Keep writing!!!


----------



## D. L. Keur

Llyralen said:


> Hey, I saw "From a book" and skipped to the quote and I was then looking for the author.  I wanted to read that book.  That was the most captivating thing I've read this week and it makes me want to both read and go write.  Keep writing!!!


Thanks.  It's got no market, though.  That's the problem.  Cross-genre books like that just don't fly well.  And I write a lot of cross-genre that I love ...like that one.  Anyway, thank you so much for enjoying it.  Really.  You made my day.


----------



## Llyralen

D. L. Keur said:


> Thanks.  It's got no market, though.  That's the problem.  Cross-genre books like that just don't fly well.  And I write a lot of cross-genre that I love ...like that one.  Anyway, thank you so much for enjoying it.  Really.  You made my day.


I've heard people allude to that cross-genre +no market thing... could you explain that and how this story is cross-genre?  It doesn't seem like it would be unmarketable to me.  It seems like writers are encouraged to have subgenres, so how is it different?


----------



## D. L. Keur

Llyralen said:


> I've heard people allude to that cross-genre +no market thing... could you explain that and how this story is cross-genre?  It doesn't seem like it would be unmarketable to me.  It seems like writers are encouraged to have subgenres, so how is it different?


Having received permission from one of the directors here who tells me that, yes, I can answer, and, yes, the thread can branch to accommodate this discussion, I'll try to respond. I don't know if I can effectively answer your question, but I'll try.

Cross genre books can 'go big'--become overnight best sellers.  They used to be called 'break-out' books when they did.  (I don't know if they still are, because I've been out of trad publishing for awhile.)  Authors wanting to become *name authors* would go for writing 'break-out books'.  For example, James Herriot's work or J. K. Rowling's work were break-out books.  In J. K. Rowling's case, it took her a lot of time and effort to find a publisher willing to chance publishing her first Harry Potter book.

The problem with marketing break-out books is that *there isn't a ready-made audience* for them, so to get the title noticed, it has to be given what is called 'the big push', where an ad agency and a promo agent are engaged to design and execute a campaign to launch the book into the reading public's eye, specifically targeting readers who read books similar in *delivery, story, and style*, but *who aren't*, simultaneously, *genre exclusive readers*, but are eclectic readers and influencers of other readers. (You also have to get high end reviewers on board.)

Today, many 'subgenres' are what used to be considered cross-genre books--Jurassic Park, when it appeared, was a cross-genre book, for instance.  Now, its a subgenre unto itself.  

Subgenre niches today are not really cross-genre, though.  That's because they fulfill all their included genres' expectations, along with the main genre category's expectations.  They appease all expectations of all the genres included in the book, and that, in and of itself,* locks the author into formula writing*. And formula writing is not cross genre writing. It's just an amalgamation of two or three genres. Cross genre works don't write to formula, but create their own. Deviate from genre reader expectations, and that's were there is no ready-made audience. Without a sizeable, targetable audience, your book fails, unless you have an established relationship with a publisher or some other asset that's going to attract attention. Self-publishing authors like I am now cannot sell cross-genre books--books that do not fulfill formulaic genre or subgenre/mixed genre readers' expectations until and unless they have a successful following from writing in genre. Even then, few of their cross-genre books will appeal to many of the readers of their in-genre works.

It's late.  I don't know if I've said this well.  I tried, but I'll probably read this come morning and roll my eyes.  Sorry.


----------



## Llyralen

@D. L. Keur  Thank you very much for taking the time to answer me thoroughly and find out if it was okay.  I woke up this morning and thought “Oh… I derailed that thread….”  
It would be good if “Cross genre” was a genre—marketable with a following of people who like to try cross-genre.  I think I’d go for that. There are a lot of things that don’t exist right now that should exist and likely will, like self-publishing awards, etc.  Unless there are and I don’t know. 

Again, thank you very much.

As we were, please…


----------



## D. L. Keur

Llyralen said:


> @D. L. Keur  Thank you very much for taking the time to answer me thoroughly and find out if it was okay.  I woke up this morning and thought “Oh… I derailed that thread….”
> It would be good if “Cross genre” was a genre—marketable with a following of people who like to try cross-genre.  I think I’d go for that. There are a lot of things that don’t exist right now that should exist and likely will, like self-publishing awards, etc.  Unless there are and I don’t know.
> 
> Again, thank you very much.
> 
> As we were, please…


It would be nice if they brought back mainstream as a category, too, IMO.


----------



## D. L. Keur

Llyralen said:


> @D. L. Keur  Thank you very much for taking the time to answer me thoroughly and find out if it was okay.  I woke up this morning and thought “Oh… I derailed that thread….”
> It would be good if “Cross genre” was a genre—marketable with a following of people who like to try cross-genre.  I think I’d go for that. There are a lot of things that don’t exist right now that should exist and likely will, like self-publishing awards, etc.  Unless there are and I don’t know.
> 
> Again, thank you very much.
> 
> As we were, please…


Concerning self-pubbing awards.  They exist, but all contests are suspect, IMO.


----------



## VRanger

I’d barely had time to boil water for a cup of chai tea—I felt the need for the strong stuff tonight—before an insistent knocking came at the door. I poured more water into the kettle just in case and answered the knock.

It surprised me to discover Kristi standing there … Kristi, the raven-haired and attractive neighbor from next door. Seeing her wearing a bathrobe disconcerted me, despite its heavy linen fabric. Every man’s dream of unexpected seduction rose within me and met an immediate death.

Before I could speak, she did. “Miles, I noticed you weren’t home last night. That’s not like you. Is anything wrong?”

She assumed if I spent the night away from my apartment, I’d experienced a problem, not an assignation. Such was my life and her analysis matched the circumstance.

“How could you—?”

“It’s simple, Miles. I didn’t hear water running for your tea at 8 PM, and no dimly penetrating strains of classical music from your record player following minutes later. It reminds me to turn on my favorite TV shows. I’d missed the first half of _CHiPs_ before I realized you were missing.”

“Would you come in? I put on extra water to boil.”

She must have noticed an odd look on my face. “Sure, if you’ll explain. I’m interested.”

I invited her in and it disappointed me to watch her choose my tatty armchair rather than the even tattier sofa. I didn’t blame her. I returned to the kitchenette and asked after her well-being along with other mundane chatter until the kettle whistled. You can boil in a saucepan, but it takes longer than a kettle. ‘A watched pot never boils’. You can’t watch the water in a kettle. Try it yourself. Kristi wanted a scoop of sugar, but my current temperament demanded I drink it straight. I presented her cup on a saucer and set mine on the coffee table.

“So, do you want to talk about it?”

I found myself unable to refuse a request from Kristi, so I spilled every detail. She let me continue without interruption, but her neck moved backward and her eyes widened slightly when I reported the seance and what I’d experienced afterward.

“Have you ever experienced a disassociation like that before?”

I didn’t know that much about Kristi, but her use of the word ‘disassociation’ made me wonder what I’d missed. “No, I promise. My previous evening’s events are often not memorable, but that’s because they’re all the same, not because I couldn’t remember them if I tried. But … I actually remember far too much of last night before I stopped. I just wasn’t in control of what I said.”

By the end of my answer Kristi looked pensive. “I studied such things, but I’ve never encountered one in person.”

“You … studied? … things like this?”

“Oh yes. I majored in psychology.”

“But you’re not a Psychologist, are you?”

“Heaven’s no. There’s ever so much more money in modeling.”


----------



## VRanger

Rhys Joyce inquired of the asking price and discovered the real selling price of a clock, an occasional table, and a Regency wingback chair as means to discover the pricing codes on the merchandise in Belling-Foster’s Antiques on Tetbury’s high street.

“That’s a fine Tambour table, and the price is reasonable, but it just doesn’t fit in at Pratewood Hall. The Regency chair would, but we both know it’s been recovered eight times by now. That fabric is _so _1990.”

“Sir, I protest!” The proprietor looked as though Rhys Joyce had stuck a pin in his lip. “That fabric–”

“Isn’t more than thirty years old. Give me a day and the right set of catalogs and I’ll tell you who produced it. The wood is exquisite, I’ll give you that. Get me the real thing and I’ll recommend it to Mr. Fetlock.”

“Well, sir, how often do you expect to find the original fabric on a Regency wingback?”

“Every time at _that _price. And I’ll notify you of one you missed. That Edwardian table clock … there …” Rhys pointed, “is actual mahogany, but reproduction.” He walked over, picked up the clock, and looked at the code underneath, then shook his head like an Oxford headmaster regarding the want of the last comma. “If you sell it for a quarter of this price, it’s robbery.”

“Sir! I _assure _you–”

Rhys interrupted. “Mr. Fetlock, don’t you Yanks have a pithy saying in these circumstances?”

“Indeed we do. ‘The customer is always right’.”

“_Exactly _the one I anticipated. Mr. Foster, nothing in the store meets exactly what I want, except for a few which would suit if they weren’t reproduction.” Rhys pulled out a pocket notebook, opened to a blank page, and scribbled a short list. He handed it to Foster. “Do you think you can acquire anything on this list … and I can certify as authentic, before Mr. Fetlock parts with his hard-earned money?”

Foster read down the list. “I think so, yes.”

“Good. Then here’s my card. I haven’t had much luck up or down the street. If you can satisfy my vision for Pratewood, we’ll be most grateful.”

Back in the Rover, Cal could contain himself no longer. “What was _that _all about?”

“He’s bent, and he’s got three antiques I know came from the robbery what bumped my friend. I gave him a list of five antiques I saw in your barn. He’ll be on the horn to his supplier before you can crank this machine. It doesn’t do us any good directly, but I’ve made a note of the time and location. The peelers can trace his next call, and I’ll wager pounds to scones it will be to the man behind the Ring.”


----------



## D. L. Keur

VRanger said:


> Rhys Joyce inquired of the asking price and discovered the real selling price of a clock, an occasional table, and a Regency wingback chair as means to discover the pricing codes on the merchandise in Belling-Foster’s Antiques on Tetbury’s high street.
> 
> “That’s a fine Tambour table, and the price is reasonable, but it just doesn’t fit in at Pratewood Hall. The Regency chair would, but we both know it’s been recovered eight times by now. That fabric is _so _1990.”
> 
> “Sir, I protest!” The proprietor looked as though Rhys Joyce had stuck a pin in his lip. “That fabric–”
> 
> “Isn’t more than thirty years old. Give me a day and the right set of catalogs and I’ll tell you who produced it. The wood is exquisite, I’ll give you that. Get me the real thing and I’ll recommend it to Mr. Fetlock.”
> 
> “Well, sir, how often do you expect to find the original fabric on a Regency wingback?”
> 
> “Every time at _that _price. And I’ll notify you of one you missed. That Edwardian table clock … there …” Rhys pointed, “is actual mahogany, but reproduction.” He walked over, picked up the clock, and looked at the code underneath, then shook his head like an Oxford headmaster regarding the want of the last comma. “If you sell it for a quarter of this price, it’s robbery.”
> 
> “Sir! I _assure _you–”
> 
> Rhys interrupted. “Mr. Fetlock, don’t you Yanks have a pithy saying in these circumstances?”
> 
> “Indeed we do. ‘The customer is always right’.”
> 
> “_Exactly _the one I anticipated. Mr. Foster, nothing in the store meets exactly what I want, except for a few which would suit if they weren’t reproduction.” Rhys pulled out a pocket notebook, opened to a blank page, and scribbled a short list. He handed it to Foster. “Do you think you can acquire anything on this list … and I can certify as authentic, before Mr. Fetlock parts with his hard-earned money?”
> 
> Foster read down the list. “I think so, yes.”
> 
> “Good. Then here’s my card. I haven’t had much luck up or down the street. If you can satisfy my vision for Pratewood, we’ll be most grateful.”
> 
> Back in the Rover, Cal could contain himself no longer. “What was _that _all about?”
> 
> “He’s bent, and he’s got three antiques I know came from the robbery what bumped my friend. I gave him a list of five antiques I saw in your barn. He’ll be on the horn to his supplier before you can crank this machine. It doesn’t do us any good directly, but I’ve made a note of the time and location. The peelers can trace his next call, and I’ll wager pounds to scones it will be to the man behind the Ring.”


Excellent.


----------



## indianroads

From Extinction - 5, Destination. (POV character is a nearly immortal android that has been living with humans for several hundred years)

_Rose stood in the main room of her home and took a long last look around. Memories whispered from every wall and stick of furniture. She wandered by crowded bookcases, occasionally touching the spine of a work that had spoken to her soul. The books couldn’t travel with her, but they would stay with her nonetheless; she recalled every word within their pages, but the exquisite slow pace of reading them, tasting each word and phrase, was where the true pleasure of the story lay.

She thought of her paintings stored in the spare room; they were snapshots of her time in Granby. Lost friends and lovers were trapped within those images; what would they think of her coming adventure? With a sigh, she bid them a gentle goodbye.

Once abandoned, what would become of her home? The books and paintings would grow moldy in the damp environment and over the coming years they would disintegrate; beautiful words and friendly faces would fall to ruin and be lost forever. It felt like giving back somehow. Inspiration for them had been plucked from the ether in hopes of gracing the lives of those that encountered them, perhaps it was time for that spark of creativity to return home.

Huff waited outside the front door. “You’ll be leaving your family behind, are you sure you want to come with me?”

The lion’s sharp meow startled her. The cat was tired of waiting and anxious to go.

“Well, ok then.” She turned back to close the door, then hesitated, and left it standing open instead. “Maybe your kin will be more comfortable living here.” Looking back while stepping away, she smiled. “This has been a good home, but it’s time to go.”_


----------



## PrairieHostage

Dad was born out of wedlock in 1933 Netherlands, which was regarded as sufficiently wicked to fashionably punt little bastards to boarding school where they remained until adulthood. Don’t worry. His was not a tale of predatory school masters who preyed on orphans. Rather, he thrived in a life of mountain climbing, competitive chess and sailing.


----------



## PrairieHostage

Two years later, dad moved our small family to Zimbabwe, then called Rhodesia. They left the humidity of Hong Kong to enter a nation embroiled in heated mutiny against British crown rule.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

I love this line, PrairieHostage. Sometimes, stacking adjectives works wonders. I'm going to be analysing it for a while just to see if I can in some way quantify why:

_Our little pale family lived in a large house with low windows that never felt safe, especially on nights when dad was away on month long trips_


----------



## PrairieHostage

Thanks for enjoying this with me. I finished the story a while ago and will wait a while before posting next leg


----------



## indianroads

From The Last Ride: (still in edits)
_All lives are a series of tragedies. We get knocked down, but we get back up and try again. To do otherwise is to dig our own graves and pull the dirt in after us._


----------



## indianroads

_The worst atrocities are committed with the best of intentions._
and
_We can’t conquer what we don’t confront._


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

From a story I was writing called_ 'Making Room'. _It was about a man dying of cancer:

A magnolia ceiling is an uninspiring view. Even the delicate and complex network of hair line cracks can only consume me for a short while. Perhaps a trapped fly will amuse me a little longer as it zips here and there, looking for an exit. I’ve only seen one spider in the two weeks I've been here, it’s industry undone by the casual swipe of a pink feather duster. I despair at the fickleness of endeavour in the face of such ludicrous odds. ​


----------



## PrairieHostage

Gabe and Jersey walked in silence toward the road, passing an expanse of wood stakes with gnarled naked vines, a sea of soldier rifles planted upright in the ground with helmets atop. A breeze carried the woody scent of purple heather that grew on Stuart’s acre, the masculine aroma blessing the corridors of the dead.


----------



## Parabola

Only remember one line, and specifically that one because it also has the title in it (MS is somewhere in my closet).

The seeds of sorrow make metallic trees bloom.


----------



## indianroads

From the Last Ride. 
---
After packing the bike, he rode east on US-50, also known as the Loneliest Highway in America. Over four hundred miles of empty unforgiving desert lay ahead. He stopped for gas at the edge of town, then went inside to purchase three bottles of water. Back outside, an unyielding sun rose above dry eastern mountains below a faded blue sky. He started his motorcycle and rode out into the desolate expanse.

The landscape quickly changed from dry yet still fertile farmland to a white desiccated plain that might have been a dry lake bed. The narrow road stretched unbending into the distance; he rested his boots on the bike’s highway pegs and lay against the backrest, watching as the arid heart of Nevada unfolded before him.

Sandy mounds rose to the north and a blanched gritty plain stretched to the south. Both sides of the road were dotted with black stones that spelled out graffiti written by previous travelers. Most were silly messages that mercifully took his mind away from the barren surroundings. He saw:_ Tommy loves Sue_, several times; the proclamation of adolescent love made him smile. More troubling was the inscription: _The dead are never gone until we forget them_. He didn’t like that message, and so increased his speed.

[...]

Twenty miles beyond the sand mountain, a sight caught his eye and he pulled off the road. To the north, several stout oak trees stood at the edge of a dry creek bed with hundreds of shoes dangling from their branches. A sign at the edge of the stream gave the history of the site.

Apparently, after a quick Nevada marriage, a young couple had argued on their way home. The bride insisted on stopping, saying that she would rather walk home than ride with her new husband. To prevent the dissolution of his marriage, the groom stole her shoes and tossed them into the tree. In the end, the couple reconciled, and returned to the tree every year on their anniversary to throw another pair of shoes into the branches as a symbol of their undying love. Tourists took up the tradition, and the site had become a State Monument.


----------



## Mark Twain't

Sitting in the long grass, I close my eyes as the sea breeze cools my face. I look out to sea, but can only imagine the water lapping against the shore. The tide is out, the North Sea a long way off. Putting my hand into the carrier bag next to me, I take out a bottle of red wine, unscrew the top, and pour some into a plastic cup. I feel something damp on the back of my neck, accompanied by some light panting.

‘Ben!’ I say excitedly, turning my head. The cocker spaniel steps back, his tail going ten to the dozen as I rub his brown, furry ears, and nuzzle his face. ‘Hello, boy. Did you miss me?’

‘You started without me?’

‘You’re late,’ I reply.

‘Five minutes!’

‘That’s the equivalent of an hour in wine drinking time. Anyway,’ I say, taking a second plastic cup out of the carrier bag, ‘I’ve brought some French bread, paté, and a humongous bag of cheese and onion crisps, so park ya bum and give us a kiss.’

Sasha lowers herself down onto the grass, and does as she’s told. It’s been a month since I last felt Sasha’s soft lips against mine, but it feels like years. ‘Ben wanted an extra long run on the beach,’ she says, lifting my chin and inspecting my face. ‘You’ve been working, I see.’


----------



## indianroads

_After dinner, they strolled through the parking lot, heading back toward the hotel. “Let’s walk around back and have a look at the Great Miami River.”

She smiled. “That sounds nice.”

They slipped through the darkness at the side of the hotel, then walked through a field of tall grass and climbed a low hill. At the top, they found a bench and sat down to take in the spectacle. “Oh, my,” Sarah whispered. “Look at the moon.”

An oversized yellow moon hung above the western horizon; its light fell across the glassy waters of the river and created a spectral twilight that brightened the treetops and drenched the earth in darkness. A faint breeze caressed their skin as an easy silence wrapped its arms around them. The faint high-pitched buzz of cicadas rose and fell rhythmically from the parkland as stars hung thick in the sky above._


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

I was inspired by JBF and thought I'd try something a little different.

She’d been gone a long time, limp like the needle in her arm, the oozy light calling her far away. Her room, her box, held nothing for her, no breeze to riffle her skirt or stroke her clammy skin. Bricks and mortar, B&Q furniture, the smell of vanilla joss-sticks and cheap cologne. That was her life until the angel came calling.

In a neon lit alley, she met him, with his sell-all smile and black nylon suit. He was all flourish and angles, a thin boy with fat ideas dressed for business. Dapper with a lowercase ‘d’.​


----------



## PrairieHostage

“Wash it? Who said I wanted my automobile washed?” Mr. Richards ridiculed. "You're a fat child and you're ill behaved. My son, Jersey will tell all your friends at school what you did to my truck."

“I am so sorry. I have never seen a vehicle like this. It’s very fast.” The plump boy hung his head. Gabe laughed louder than usual.

Percy assessed the damage to his truck and Miguel examined the damage to Alberto. When he saw it was merely a flesh wound, he swatted his eldest son upside the head. "If you were moving hay to the barn or sweeping the cellar like I told you,” Miguel scolded. When he saw tears well up in his son’s eyes, Miguel pulled him toward him and gently said, "go upstairs and we will talk later."

"You’re going to pay for these damages. Is this your child?" Percy faced Miguel.

"Si, Senor. My son can work off the cost of repairs," Miguel offered.

"I'm not a Senor. Around here we say Sir or Mister. You people can’t figure out what’s yours and what’s not," Percy retorted. He jumped in his truck and backed it up. Then he climbed out to help Mrs. Richards in. "Chilean peasant!" Percy spat on the ground by Miguel’s feet.

 Miguel smiled warmly and nodded his head. "Awfully sorry, Percy.”

"I’ll send you the bill," Mr. Richard shouted and drove off, leaving behind a trail of gold leaves flying upward and furiously spiking down.

Gabe opened his eyes and busted a gut laughing. He realized he made the same mistake as Alberto. At fifteen years old, he couldn’t fix a tractor any more than his great uncle could drive a truck. If he wanted to farm like Vino D’Umbria, he couldn't do it alone. He needed help.


----------



## Parabola

Quick thought from a character's ideology (in a specific environment): "If I let my guard down, they will swallow me whole."


----------



## PrairieHostage

Giovanni Amato’s property was the oldest vineyard and winery in Mendocino County. When Gabe visited to ask if he could work harvest, Mr. Amato was not home, but his twin thirty year old sons, Arrigo and Aldo, received him in their sprawling kitchen. Cupboards etched with intricate vines hung above ceramic backsplash of gold mosaics featuring branches and grapes. Cast iron wall holders shaped into leaves held upside down bottles of wine and tumblers. A rustic and earthy rug sat underneath their ten foot long dark brown table. 

Floor to ceiling windows provided a view to acres of green lush like waves in the ocean. Gabe’s senses were assaulted. He wanted to admire their sumptuous patio, but remembered why he came.Tearing his eyes back inside, he looked at the twins. 

Arrigo pointed upwards. Gabe looked up to see an enormous tree hung upside down over the table, an oversized vine, each branch tipped with crystal gold lights instead of grapes. Gabe shook his head at his hosts, an open-mouthed smile revealed his wonder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Arrigo laughed. “We tour people through the fields, our winery, cellar and the tasting room, but this is the room they always love the most.” 

Aldo winked and smiled as though they were used to Gabe’s reaction. The twins moved and spoke with an ease earned from generations of their family’s achievements.

“The original chandelier is called Chilean Red and hangs in Napa. This is just a knockoff.” Aldo modestly divulged.


----------



## Parabola

Quick note on MC's mental state:

"I couldn’t escape Jason’s death, a consequence of being addicted to sadistic puppeteering."


----------



## Parabola

Cal Riggins* was a nitpicky but ultimately hollow mind. An academic without a cause, a soul without a firm ideology. In other words, well-educated but not mentally well-endowed. If he could see beyond the illusion of being a critical thinker, he probably wouldn't care. The mantle of privilege clung to him, so what else mattered?

*I like to come up with goofy names when writing something off-the-cuff.


----------



## Parabola

"Are you threatened by your perception of ambiguity?" the patient asked the therapist.


----------



## indianroads

Not necessarily pretty words, but it kinda tells the tale of the twisted plot of The Last Ride:

_“Has anything more come back about your return home to Greensboro?”

“No.” He paused, listening to the tide. “I hear waves and sometimes catch a glimpse of the ocean.”

“It will come back, I’m sure,” she said. “We’re being guided by something mystical.” She sat forward. “Think about it, we both lost spouses and cheated death. Then, even though we had forgotten each other and lived a thousand miles apart, we both left home riding motorcycles and happened to meet in the lobby of a hotel in Colorado. That has to be a billion to one chance, so it has to be part of a plan.”

“Whose plan?”

“I don’t know, but we’re certain to find out.”

He nodded. “There’s another thing, we keep seeing the same people along our way. The woman at the reception desk at our hotel tonight, and our bald waiter...”

“The lipstick woman, the tall string-bean guy, the big-nosed witch, and the pale blond guy,” she added. “Are we being superstitious and creating specters out of ordinary people?”

“I don’t think so, something weird is going on.”_


----------



## PrairieHostage

He held his mother’s hand and watched her sleep.

“Today they turned soil on Bella Camila. Do you remember our neighbors, mama? I thought they were tidying up to sell, but by god if they aren’t actually planning to stay.”

He looked around her room and straightened out one of her flower vases. It startled him when he turned back to her open eyes, staring in terror at him.

“Happy 95th, mama.” Jersey moved in close and kissed her hand.

“Percy?” Her voice was a whisper.

“No mama, it’s Jersey, your son.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes and grasped her son’s hand tight. “He was a mean man.”

“I know. You’re safe now. He’s gone.”

“Do you want to be your own man?” Mrs. Richards was barely lucid these days. She only recognized her son a couple times a month, but this was a humdinger.

“I’m nothing like him, I …”

“...Then why concern yourself with Bella Camila. Leave them alone.” Her whispers screamed in his ears.

“I thought I could do something dad couldn’t do … is all.” Pushing seventy, Jersey looked down at his shoes like an errant child.

“Start by paying your workers a fair wage.”

He let go her hand and recoiled in his chair. She’d never spoken to him like that. She’d always remained silent next to his violent father, as a casualty, not an accomplice.

“Okay, mama.” When he reached out to stroke her hair, she again looked at him in terror and he knew she’d slipped back into the shackles of her brain disease.


----------



## Parabola

“So, it’s begun,” the head uttered. I heard whispers, broken laughter in the gloom. I’m hoping you understand what I mean here. Its voice consisted of whispers with laughter “around the edges” but they were distant, like the source of the sound existed in some other dimension.

The creature beckoned me forward with an arm made of what looked like “fleshy ingots” and I noticed those same oblong bars of nausea inducing flesh were stacked around the room in great columns. 

When it spoke, I shuddered but tried to suppress it. The sad face in front of me turned a perforated dour expression into a ghastly smile.


----------



## Parabola

This is from my very first MS_ Metallic Trees Bloom_, and it's in a drastically different style than other stuff I've written. Just going to post quotes because with this one the story took a backseat.

"The rabid fool received his first glimpse of a plague-ridden heart.  It was beating furiously on the tattered sheet, writhing and gurgling."

 "You stand in a fraction of light extending from the courtyard outside your window, the remainder of your body comfortably inhabiting dust-choked shadows.  She's gone.  You’re an old, jaded hound now."

"You place that beloved body gently on the mattress, then swiftly and gracefully move to the opulent balcony.  The warm lights of the courtyard give everything in your field of vision a rustic, religious glow.  There's a parade of redeeming human love here, and you drink it in.

Modern red buildings and timeless blue fungus extending from those rosy urban constructions clash brilliantly.  Rumors circulate about the mushrooms and their true purpose."


----------



## Parabola

More from MTB, just random quotes:

"How could it be that disoriented civilians have the alertness of predators, but lions have a lamb’s innocence?”

"A hand descends onto your shoulder and strands of twisted loyalty fuse inside of you like a double helix."

"The entertainer's caravan transforms into a massive gray structure hovering just inches above the cobblestone. Expulsions of air animate the cleaning strips underneath the nomadic healing beast, giving the illusion of cellular locomotion under a microscope.  Smaller units float loyally behind the main structure, a moving puzzle with the pieces not quite snapped together.  Mostly gray outer walls are enlivened sporadically by electrified golden hearts attached to their surfaces."


----------



## Parabola

So had a nightmare last night and decided to use it as "writing fuel." Just something quick (it might read more like fragmented images).

--

Grey walls, emergency lights. Anxiety played tricks, and it danced on the other side of a rickety wall.

Hands were bound, feet too. Extremities were losing feeling.

The labyrinth in which he found himself seemed made more for animals than people. He noticed the ceiling brushed his head. Another man balanced on swaying knees, bound and blindfolded. He watched the man muttering, thinking it his fate to watch another human being struggle through darkness for no apparent reason.

He looked around, stealing glimpses through broken boards of an outer world animated by growls.

Amnesia seemed a thing but not.  If he could just move his tongue in the right way, say something. It would spark a memory.

"Is it bad if it goes to your head?"

Then a pain crawled up his neck, lingering in spots and making him panic. Seconds of terror and conceiving the worst, then it shot straight to his skull.


----------



## Riptide

I thought this was a fun scene to write:

--

Lindsey swept her gaze onto all the vampires, glossing over the humans and pausing slightly on Ronny and his friend. “They’re all so young.”

“What keyed you in, our modern fashion?” Ace said when she should’ve shut up. The closest vampire was on her, fingers wrapped around her throat as he hoisted her onto the table. Drinks scattered and shattered, blood spilling in puddles around them. It wasn’t that hard to stay modern, just pick the right pair of jeans and a normal shirt. This generation was back on to loose and wide, low off the hips pants. Not every vampire had to scream vampire, but they did. Lindsey had walked straight out of an 80s movie, hair-sprayed, frizzed hair, and all, and she was the most modern-looking one.

“Go for the throat, smart move,” Ace squeaked. Useless since the undead did not need to breathe.

He was Asian and looked like a monk in a video game: bald head, all points stacked in strength with rippling muscle someone could use as an exhibit for an anatomy class. “What did you say?” Sadly, his voice was less than honorable.

She pointed at his gnarled fingers as they crushed her trachea and her means of answering him.

“Let her go, Kahaan. She has that young spunk.”

He let her flop onto the table and back to her feet. “I said you have a piss poor fashion sense.” He wore a vest and brown high-water pants from the 50s.


----------



## Parabola

Tried something new.

She knew this time it would be different, based on the voices. The whispers reminded her of a promise. A somewhat bleak one when she allowed herself to think of the truth.

Year 4, an arithmetic jumble tossed about in the darkness. But the abyss was always “logical,” always spit out a precise number. The prospect of arguing with it never really seemed to gain enough traction in her mind.

She thought of the truth in a rhythm of creaks, the stairs disappearing behind her. Falling into non-existence.

The last stair bravely marched into nothing, and she stood on firm ground. Of course, turning around to glimpse the thing eating memories probably wouldn’t do any good. In that moment, she rationalized. She only wanted a few years of prosperity, each one of them ending with a mountain of gifts. Suddenly her way of thinking fell apart. It was exposed as a thin veil she couldn’t believe she accepted for so long.

Seeing through it meant looking beneath the tree. The gifts were there just like in previous years.

The darkness gave her four seconds of silence, which told her more than the whispers ever did.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

I've been stuck finding an in for my grieving mother when she enters the tavern. I think I finally have it:

A slight, pallid rag, torn from the night, drew a hush about her like a shawl.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> Tried something new.
> 
> She knew this time it would be different, based on the voices. The whispers reminded her of a promise. A somewhat bleak one when she allowed herself to think of the truth.
> 
> Year 4, an arithmetic jumble tossed about in the darkness. But the abyss was always “logical,” always spit out a precise number. The prospect of arguing with it never really seemed to gain enough traction in her mind.
> 
> She thought of the truth in a rhythm of creaks, the stairs disappearing behind her. Falling into non-existence.
> 
> The last stair bravely marched into nothing, and she stood on firm ground. Of course, turning around to glimpse the thing eating memories probably wouldn’t do any good. In that moment, she rationalized. She only wanted a few years of prosperity, each one of them ending with a mountain of gifts. Suddenly her way of thinking fell apart. It was exposed as a thin veil she couldn’t believe she accepted for so long.
> 
> Seeing through it meant looking beneath the tree. The gifts were there just like in previous years.
> 
> The darkness gave her four seconds of silence, which told her more than the whispers ever did.


This is superb!


----------



## Parabola

TheMightyAz said:


> This is superb!



High praise coming from @TheMightyAz! Thank you!


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> High praise coming from @TheMightyAz! Thank you!


Just noticed this. And that comment is high praise coming from you!


----------



## indianroads

From The Last Ride (characters are riding motorcycles):
_Tires hissed on the damp pavement as a warm wet wind wrapped around him. Only a few more miles remained until they ended their day in Dayton, Ohio. It had been a wet ride through Indianapolis but thankfully the storms had kept protesters off the highway. The deluge had finally ended about twenty miles back, and he was glad for the respite; riding through the rain was often more unpleasant than dangerous.

The sky slowly darkened as night swept in to cloak the verdant landscape in shadows. Trees had crowded the edges of the highway, but as they neared the city, the bucolic scenery grudgingly gave way to churches and shopping malls surrounded by suburban neighborhoods._


----------



## indianroads

Another from The Last Ride (characters are visiting Niagara Falls):
_She stood up. “Let’s have a look at Horseshoe Falls.”

They walked along a wooded path following the crowd to Terrapin Point. The area was packed with overweight elderly tourists wearing brightly colored shirts and shorts with yellow rain slickers draped over their shoulders. Mist and thunder once again rose around them as they neared the cliff edge, then Sarah gasped as she took in the spectacle of the falls. Aquamarine water rushed by then slipped over the curved precipice to fall hundreds of feet and crash on worn boulders far below; the sight took his breath away.

A cool breeze rose from the base of the falls and blew water into the crowd, and they laughed. Although wet and cold, they were more alive at that moment than either had been in decades. Sarah continued to take pictures as he stood at the railing, hoping to absorb the moment and lock it away in his memory. If he died, as he was bound to do sooner or later, he wanted to bring his experiences with Sarah with him._


----------



## Riptide

Liked this description from my recent WIP, Undead:

--


The coffee joint was painted a deep gold that stood against the brick of most “modern” establishments. A flashback to the brick-and-mortar stores of the 19th century. The wide, open windows invited them in, leading with a brilliant trail of sunlight to the front counter. Techno-jazz comforted the ear, set to a low rumble that Ace found enjoyable. The soft chatter was almost white noise. Further inside, the yellow décor of the initial sitting area morphed into an almost tree-house interior that surrounded a tree trunk. A spiraling “branch” led to a comforting, soft-lighted library; books stacked on real, at least real-enough to her, looking wooden shelves. The first floor had an assortment of green and brown, “leaves”, couches and cushions. The store boasted of early-morning and late-night services for their undead customers, and a twenty-two-hour drive-thru.


----------



## indianroads

Quotes from my MC in my next novel, The Last Ride:

Fear serves no purpose when facing the inevitable.
Love isn’t just blind, it’s often willfully ignorant.
All lives are a series of tragedies. We get knocked down, but we get back up and try again. To do otherwise is to dig our own graves and pull the dirt in after us.
Places and experiences mark us; we may think they’re left behind, but they remain and become the filter we view the world through.
We can’t conquer what we don’t confront.
Shaking his fist at the clouds wouldn’t stop the rain.
Truth is always best because it gives us certainty when making decisions.
We’re in the middle of a roller coaster ride, all we can do is hold on and wait to see how it ends.
Everything passes like the tides. Ebb and flow, death and life, in time we all move on to whatever’s next. But, know that if I go first, I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.
More often than not, ignorance is bliss because the truth is a brutal thing.
People are like plants, we grow best when our roots are unbound.


----------



## Parabola

He slipped through the cemetery gate, becoming just another source of shadow in the afternoon sun. The same granite obelisk stood further down the path and waited for his stretching silhouette.

A bottle to the lips, more time letting go from gnarled fingers. That’s why he preferred this place. Monuments to how many moments gone by. Time, not counted mathematically so much as subjectively. He could ignore it if he wanted. Blissful ignorance among the dead.

So he did “the loop” followed the path all the way around the cemetery, drinking in the neighborhood and forgetting the bitter tasting liquid that obscured time even more.

But eventually he knew he couldn’t forget the clocks below his feet. He had a brief moment of irritation as the counting became ubiquitous, ticking incessantly like his jaw.

One swig, then two. Then he deliberately stopped thinking.

The house stood beyond the metal fence, hulking in a dream-like haze. He wasn’t allowed to enter the house. Bitterness crept to his lips and erupted in a whispered curse.

He tossed the bottle in a patch of yellowed grass, and turned around to watch the sun as it neared the obelisk.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

I've realised, for a particular scene I've been writing, I have to do more to humanise those frequenting a tavern. Still work in progress but I think it's heading the right direction:

He watched workmen amble into The Yellow Bird, all stern-faced at first, softened over time as drink ran more freely. A trickle became a flood, each shaven face bringing with it the aroma of mint, cinnamon or peppermint lotion, mingling with the smell of cooked meats wafting in from a busy kitchen. Mothers, wives and sisters, either leading or led, added their own fragrance, their trill-and-coo a sweet counterpoint to the clatter and knock of cooks plating up. There was something of the performance about the scene. Lives lived in toil, sweat and fear, finding much needed equilibrium on a stage for fools.​


----------



## Mr mitchell

Adam turned, towards a door that might have once led to anyplace normal in the original town. Now it was simply boarded shut. When his tongue groped for purchase in fractured cement hollows and split rubber paint—it seemed part of the fiberglass sheet lolling in and out of existence as boards budded from the seams overhead and invaded light globules below it—there were no images at all, merely soft faces peering in, one at a time. Face after strange face with incurious empty blue eyes. Gloved hands and cold marble chins surrounded him. Too much smiling already! He had dreams every night. Real ones. Though the smallest woman—clear to within twelve inches of scale zero, her graceful soubrette looks wasted atop a dainty human head capable of wielding razorblades and pulling of knee socks at six weeks—had managed somehow to pass her lips almost into position and talk until her mouth's faint breath was telling another where to put things with pen sketches in a coloring book, accompanied by screaming. It was bad for her throat to do too much yelling at once. Too much much...Adam chuckled anyway, and his undecorated grin passed out from his host not two inches from his father's real butt. Mike Jackson (née Weltzin, formerly Bloom). Mike winked and raised a tanned nose to smell pleasant things Adam didn't recognize. As thick curly gray hair well bleached by Oceanside tanners brushed cheekbones decorated with delicate tattoos. Mike, short once, with lively curious brown eyes. And Susan Pittson, behind him, across the corridor four doors away, leaning out the window to give directions to someone she may or may not know in a cab passing far below: tanned arms folded over his bare chest, chin just grazing carpet (as Adam cleared his head he had noticed something go _snip snip snip_ ), blond hair brushing a voluptuous throat...How they screamed. No doubt repeating every detail they believed proper upon waking in their apartments. What would it be like, to have something like this done to one every morning? Nothing special, probably.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

An August night snuck in and stole away the day, while a fat moon stood sentry over The Shoulders of The World. Moonlight grazed the humbled town and threw long shadows, thinnest of which belonged to the many spent miners spilling from their catacombs. They shuffled across compressed dirt, picks hoisted over weary shoulders, homeward bound, where hearty meals and hot baths waited. In their modest, wooden houses, some lounged away the evening, bellies full, while others, not keen on wasted hours, made for the many taverns that peppered Charnwick.​


----------



## Parabola

I remember thinking during and after that I destroyed actual love. If it hadn’t been for me, they might have been together forever. The relationship I coveted for more than a year was built on suicide and lies of omission, the destruction of inner beauty because I wanted the aesthetics of it for myself.

Despite those ugly internal feelings, I didn’t break up with Sarah. I know I should have, but I just couldn’t. The dirty foundation would never take away how I felt about her, but her seeing me in a more complex light, that I was a “good person” for being so comforting and sympathetic, understanding over her grief, was wrong.

I was not a good person. Never would be after what I did, choose to do even after two glaring warnings. The most deliberate kind of murder.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> I remember thinking during and after that I destroyed actual love. If it hadn’t been for me, they might have been together forever. The relationship I coveted for more than a year was built on suicide and lies of omission, the destruction of inner beauty because I wanted the aesthetics of it for myself.
> 
> Despite those ugly internal feelings, I didn’t break up with Sarah. I know I should have, but I just couldn’t. The dirty foundation would never take away how I felt about her, but her seeing me in a more complex light, that I was a “good person” for being so comforting and sympathetic, understanding over her grief, was wrong.
> 
> I was not a good person. Never would be after what I did, choose to do even after two glaring warnings. The most deliberate kind of murder.


This is the one thing I think first person allows for without it sounding preachy. In third person, it's often difficult to insert this kind of 'unpacking' because, even in third person limited, it can often be construed as the author interfering. I miss being able to do this so openly and thoroughly. I have to be very careful to layer in any deeper meaning and not suddenly break into something that may appear to be a moral/ethical/philosophical sermon. A good example of that is something I recently jotted down for use: 'Grief was the cruellest of comforts, an echo of love'. That's probably as deep as I'd go into that because Yarrod, whilst not stupid, is not the sort of character that would unpack it thoroughly. 

This is excellent by the way.


----------



## Parabola

TheMightyAz said:


> This is the one thing I think first person allows for without it sounding preachy. In third person, it's often difficult to insert this kind of 'unpacking' because, even in third person limited, it can often be construed as the author interfering. I miss being able to do this so openly and thoroughly. I have to be very careful to layer in any deeper meaning and not suddenly break into something that may appear to be a moral/ethical/philosophical sermon. A good example of that is something I recently jotted down for use: 'Grief was the cruellest of comforts, an echo of love'. That's probably as deep as I'd go into that because Yarrod, whilst not stupid, is not the sort of character that would unpack it thoroughly.
> 
> This is excellent by the way.



Yeah I'm always on the lookout for preachy/sermon-y stuff. Best I've been able to frame it is within a character's individual sense of ethics/morality. And like you pointed out, the ability to self-reflect is on a spectrum so that has to be modified depending on the character. I also make an effort for the self-reflection (which is seen as a virtue, even if you are saying negative things about yourself) to be balanced out by the "grittier" human sides, in this case the protagonist has flecks of narcissism that come out despite realizing those traits in himself.

Another thing I try to do to avoid an unintentional sermon is to write, at least somewhat, from my own experiences. Anyway, it's a work in progress etc.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> Yeah I'm always on the lookout for preachy/sermon-y stuff. Best I've been able to frame it is within a character's individual sense of ethics/morality. And like you pointed out, the ability to self-reflect is on a spectrum so that has to be modified depending on the character. I also make an effort for the self-reflection (which is seen as a virtue, even if you are saying negative things about yourself) to be balanced out by the "grittier" human sides, in this case the protagonist has flecks of narcissism that come out despite realizing those traits in himself.
> 
> Another thing I try to do to avoid an unintentional sermon is to write, at least somewhat, from my own experiences. Anyway, it's a work in progress etc.


It takes real skill and intellect to unpack something as well as that. This goes back to something I said a long time ago on this forum about my work missing something. That broader, deeper content that underpins the story. It's like a heartbeat and without it, the body can sometimes feel stiff and ungainly. It's something I'm always in pursuit of, whether disguised metaphorically, figuratively, symbolically or presented overtly. I suppose that's the real difference between 'literature' and 'genre fiction', although that's not to say there aren't hybrids. For me, as I climb that ladder towards perfection, this sits up there on the highest rungs. And to be honest, I know I may never reach it.


----------



## Parabola

TheMightyAz said:


> It takes real skill and intellect to unpack something as well as that. This goes back to something I said a long time ago on this forum about my work missing something. That broader, deeper content that underpins the story. It's like a heartbeat and without it, the body can sometimes feel stiff and ungainly. It's something I'm always in pursuit of, whether disguised metaphorically, figuratively, symbolically or presented overtly. I suppose that's the real difference between 'literature' and 'genre fiction', although that's not to say there aren't hybrids. For me, as I climb that ladder towards perfection, this sits up there on the highest rungs. And to be honest, I know I may never reach it.



Honestly a comment like this is unexpected because I've toiled for years and most of my earlier stuff wasn't well received generally. Writing from an authentic place seems like child's play on the surface, but I've found it almost has to occur accidentally and I'm rarely sure when I hit that "right note." My previous novel got close yet still seemed to be missing something fundamental.

Current WIP feels the closest to what I've always wanted to do. For me, it wasn't so much about "digging deep" as letting a wave of negative experiences wash over me, then pressing the nostalgia button. I don't know how to grapple with the label "perfect" except like you I'm always reaching for a higher plateau. I've wanted to rage quit writing so many times over the years. The human element has been the hardest thing to capture for me, and I can't tell you how many stories I've written with bland and broken characters simply because I was forcing myself to write something I didn't enjoy.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> Honestly a comment like this is unexpected because I've toiled for years and most of my earlier stuff wasn't well received generally. Writing from an authentic place seems like child's play on the surface, but I've found it almost has to occur accidentally and I'm rarely sure when I hit that "right note." My previous novel got close yet still seemed to be missing something fundamental.
> 
> Current WIP feels the closest to what I've always wanted to do. For me, it wasn't so much about "digging deep" as letting a wave of negative experiences wash over me, then pressing the nostalgia button. I don't know how to grapple with the label "perfect" except like you I'm always reaching for a higher plateau. I've wanted to rage quit writing so many times over the years. The human element has been the hardest thing to capture for me, and I can't tell you how many stories I've written with bland and broken characters simply because I was forcing myself to write something I didn't enjoy.


I find the magic happens in the rewrites. No matter how bad you think it is, that little adjustment, that well chosen word, lifts it to new heights, and then you're back on track, thinking how foolish you were. What you wrote was excellent ... now ... you have to apply that quality consistently throughout the piece. Say hello to inadequacy for me. I'll probably bump into him myself in the next week or so. It's the way it is, man.


----------



## indianroads

We're getting a bit off topic folks. Read the title of this thread -* Not for critique - share your pretty words*.
If you want to discuss how to create pretty words, start another thread.
Otherwise, let's see your pretty words.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

indianroads said:


> We're getting a bit off topic folks. Read the title of this thread -* Not for critique - share your pretty words*.
> If you want to discuss how to create pretty words, start another thread.
> Otherwise, let's see your pretty words.


Yeah, I realised. Sorry about that.


----------



## PrairieHostage

THE UNTAMED (excerpt from first draft contest submission)

The king didn’t have a word for pagan in his language and didn’t know Frisians are considered thus. How can he fight belief? Even Freyja has no answers. That Norse goddess who lovingly watches over the flat swamps of north Holland where the only confusion is when land ends and sea begins.

The great hall echoes Redbad’s voice. “Find Bram and bring him to me.”

His men file out, more fishermen than soldiers, to search for one of their own.

Redbad clutches the basin where he might have been doused to eternity. Leaning over the pool of water, he recalls the conversation.

“After I die, will I see my ancestors in this place called heaven?”

Wulfram the monk, rarely stuck for words, hesitates. “It will be like Freyja’s field, next to Valhalla.” He is small, yet gently pulls Redbad’s hulking frame forward.

“But will I see my ancestors there?” Redbad straightens and looms over the monk.

“I’m afraid … if one is not baptized, they are not in heaven.”

“I’d rather spend eternity in hell with my ancestors than heaven with a pack of beggars.”
Redbad roars and pushes the preacher aside.

“If I may, your highness, I will return Wulfram home to Francia.” The archbishop steps forward from the crowd.

The slicing cut takes everyone by surprise. Bram’s sword. The arc of his swing meets Wulfram’s neck and … well.

Redbad’s lips turn slightly upward at the edges as he shakes his head. Bram’s betrayal at the battle against Pepin was understandable. He only wanted his kidnapped daughter back, but today, he chose to kill without a direct order.

"We found him,” reports his best fighter. He and another push Bram before the Frisian king.

“Bram. You have your daughter back. We’ve regained Dorestad and the trade routes.” Redbad searched his countryman’s face. “You are mighty, old friend. Why did you kill the monk?"

“Too many of our people have converted to their ways. They live as slaves for the Franks who take their land, women and freedom. I can not stand by to watch my leader succumb.” Bram spat at the ground.

“Their religious machine doesn’t have me yet.” Redbad embraces his friend.

Not a good day for the Franco Empire. They made Wulfred a saint for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.


----------



## Parabola

I glimpsed Eugene walking out the double doors. His broad shoulders moved into the sunlight, into a summer of mostly apathy but also contempt for me. I wanted to say something, call out. Then I caught that weakness. Why did I care to seek his approval? Eugene’s contempt masked his own culpability. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was human too.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Yep, another rewrite ...

A cruel night snuck in and stole away the day, while a fat moon stood sentry over The Shoulders of The World. In the lee of this great mountain range, hunkered wooden buildings sprawled across the valley, starkly silhouetted by the cool, white light and throwing long shadows. The thinnest shadows of all belonged to the miners that teamed from their catacombs. Wearily, they shuffled across the compacted, oft-trodden dirt, homeward bound, where meals and hot baths awaited. Once ensconced in their modest dwellings, most lounged away the evening, bellies full, while others, not keen on wasted hours, made for the many taverns that peppered Charnwick.​


----------



## Blaiyze

Crikey, the talent in this thread. I feel like a child peeking around a curtain watching a theatre production, hidden backstage, admiring the performers.

@TheMightyAz rewrites are the writers path; beautiful.
@PrairieHostage this is truly marvelous.
@Parabola short, sweet, to the point. I love passages that ask questions.


"The taste of light is still on my tongue as I claw back the curtain of subconsciousness. The iron grasp releases me. My limbs respond at last. Already my head promises to make me regret waking up. Five alarm hangover. My favourite. I sluggishly pull myself to a seated position; the springs of the ancient mattress below me groaning in protest. I feel their anguish. 
My feet anchor the room. Stop it from spinning. Nothing can stop the feverish ocean tide swirling in my stomach. Acrid fingerlings reach up my throat; I smell the bile before I taste it. Launching myself off the soiled bed, muscle memory carries me to the bathroom in the hall, outside this squalid room. I wretch into a toilet that clearly hasn’t been cleaned in months. My stomach contents reveal a night of poor decisions; doritos, donuts, and copious amounts of alcohol.
Flushing away the miserable mess, I sit on the greasy floor. Collecting my muddled thoughts. My brain gears begin turning as rusted cogs under strain. Images of the previous night project onto my memory reel. That, was one Hell of a party! I’m a newborn Bambi as I climb to the sink. My knees protest with an audible ka-clunk-click."


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Hot off the press. No tweaks as yet:

Contempt revealed itself as an imposter as the stranger observed the scene unfold. Sorrow was right, he had come here to die, and even though he’d convinced himself chance had a part to play, resignation bullied in the truth. He’d walked too many miles, felt too much pain, and his scars marked more of the forgotten than of the remembered. Is it any wonder then, given the terrible deeds he _could_ recall, that those things lost to time weighed heavily upon him? Who was he if not the sum total of life long deeds? A monster ... no doubt. The scars attested to that.​


----------



## Parabola

TheMightyAz said:


> Hot off the press. No tweaks as yet:
> 
> Contempt revealed itself as an imposter as the stranger observed the scene unfold. Sorrow was right, he had come here to die​



This is awesome. Not sure if you're a gamer, but this gave me planescape: torment vibes.


----------



## Parabola

Just something from WIP. It's from much earlier than the bits I already posted.

About an hour later, the group took off at the same time of night it had been an hour earlier. The world remained slightly to the left, or right. It was hard to tell. I realized words weren’t always the best way to get to the truth of this constructed reality, but sometimes you have to use the clay given to you. Briefly I thought about the weird kid in study hall, who shaped the ball and re-shaped it with a satisfied smile. My recent experience with Kevin, seeing him shed a wildcard’s tears, made me wonder what animated the sculptor of clay and effortless freak.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> This is awesome. Not sure if you're a gamer, but this gave me planescape: torment vibes.


I'm currently flitting between Elden Ring and No Man's Sky but I'm going to have to be honest with myself soon and admit I'm not as in love with gaming as I used to be.


----------



## Parabola

Just completed this passage a little while ago (during my 2,000 word sprint). I wanted to put "that were fascinated with the ceiling" instead but I feel like I've heard a similar kind of phrasing before. So I switched it to what is below. I also wanted to add another line at the end but am working on that so it's a better fit.

--

I ran over to him, quickly scanning the doorway for more corpses. I shuddered briefly, thinking of their limbs which were rubbery and moved erratically like live wires.

I grabbed Eugene underneath his head, and his blood stained my jeans. Soaked them. He gurgled, struggled for composure in a way that felt alien.

He seemed like he wanted to say something, eyes desperate to make his mouth work. I couldn’t speak either, for different reasons. Seeing him convulse then die in front of me was an ambivalent horror. I knew this hadn’t been Eugene, but the universe’s expression of his shadow self. Seeing him die outside of the truth meant our friendship had been a lie. He had no reason to have contempt for me yet, though that would be inevitable.

I think I said his name after, then I stared into glassy eyes that dully gazed at the ceiling. In that moment, I realized I couldn’t achieve numbness with death because each one in this place somehow managed to be fundamentally different.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Feel free to let me know if rewrites are not acceptable, @indianroads 

Contempt revealed itself as an imposter as the stranger observed the scene unfold. Sorrow was right, he had come here to die, and even though he’d convinced himself chance had its part to play, resignation exposed it as nothing more than delusion. He’d walked too many miles, felt too much pain, his scars marking the lost more than the found. Is it any wonder then, given the terrible deeds he _could_ recall, that those things stolen by time weighed heavily upon him? Who was he if not the sum total of life long deeds? A monster ... no doubt.​


----------



## indianroads

TheMightyAz said:


> Feel free to let me know if rewrites are not acceptable, @indianroads
> ​


No sweat - editing has to be + 80% of what we do... unless you're some sort of writing wizard.


----------



## Parabola

This is toward the end of my MS, about 30 or so pages from the end. 

-- 

But then the horizon shifted, becoming lush with the atmosphere of my town in the summer. I stood at the bottom of a familiar hill, next to two brick columns that marked a path which snaked away to a park I remembered. Across the street, I glimpsed the comforting glow of a gas station's white and blue sign. I remembered that too. 

Something wasn’t right though. The sky was a chaotic mixture of red and orange, and the clouds hung low and were dark and ominous. 

A loud sound erupted, obliterating the silence like I had Eugene only moments before, and streams of red and blue and white fire exploded across that same sky. The sound of gunfire kept hitting my ear drums. They made me think of the fight above the dunes, which made me wince with guilt. 

Fireworks.

I’d escaped, but I had to think immensely hard about what I was really celebrating. 

I stood alone among the horizon of fireworks, not even Joe greeted me to congratulate me on my victory.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

From The Black Shepherd:

The bluster and roar seemed to diminish, and a sickness overtook him. Not the cramped sickness of ale churned in an empty gut but something else hidden behind the corporeal self; an inner sewer full of piss and shit. All eyes were upon him. He felt them in the prickles at his neck and shoulders, nausea dragging him from the shadows and into a sickly, critical light.

_Are you really going to let this happen without giving a good account of yourself? Surely, there’s still some pride left? Take some with you at least, if only tokens of what little good you have done._​


----------



## Parabola

Joe’s tones were neutral, but I couldn’t help thinking he was a cruel bastard, that he not only orchestrated my mom's death, he also wanted me to see it happen, see Mia’s tears. Stare at a single one as it floated completely stilled by his hand. Grief reflected the dim light of the streetlamps like a prism.


----------



## Parabola

The weird thing about maturity though is that it came too little, too late. Ethan, destroyer of worlds, realized he couldn’t get those worlds back. His universe was shrinking after having reached critical mass. 

One day at Sarah’s, I thought over everything. How I couldn’t stand balancing on a lie anymore. She looked at me with those huge, green eyes, and I already missed her. Endured another gut punch like on the day I learned Jason died. 

“Sarah…I think Jason’s death is my fault,” I said.

Sarah stared at me. Those eyes refused to blink. 

“That’s just crazy, Ethan. You know it,” she replied. Her lower lip twitched, like it always did when expressing discomfort. Or awkwardness. Or negative emotions that weren’t overt sadness, at least not yet. 

I sighed, a long, harsh, damning sound. It seemed to express my guilt far better than the words could. 

“You’ll think it’s crazy, I’ve accepted that fact. But I won’t be able to rest unless I tell you the truth.”

“About? How the hell is Jason’s death your fault?!” 

I told her how I’d gone over to Eugene’s house one fateful day, how it changed everything inside me. Or revealed the unsavory parts which were always there. Point being: I was responsible for more than one death and the destruction of Mia’s well-being. I’d turned into a murderer and an asshole, or found out I’d been both all along.

Sarah’s glare communicated her disbelief, and her belief that I was crazy yet guilty of everything I just said. She didn’t speak for a full minute. 

“Ethan, I don’t even know what to say,” she said, finally. I heard the ticking of the giant clock overhead.

Sarah got up and climbed the stairs to her room and locked the door. She basically locked me out of her life.  

I walked out of her house that day, experiencing sporadic muscle twitches. Not knowing why I said what I did. The guilt had been overwhelming, but I’d never blurt out something that crazy sounding. I knew Sarah would breakup with me at some point, not that the bullet would be self-inflicted. 

Her parents waved at me from their lush front lawn, and I knew it was the last time I would see them on such friendly terms. 

The long walk home gave me a lot to think over. Why I said what I said, what it meant. Why did I feel angry when instead I should’ve been unburdened from the guilt. So many questions vied for control, for the spotlight. I couldn’t answer any of them because I tried to answer all of them at once. I told them all to be quiet. 

When I got home, I went straight to my room and locked the door. It mirrored exactly what Sarah had done. 

As I pressed against the door, it clicked. What happened at Sarah’s? Not my human side coming out, no, the strings being pulled by someone with contempt for me.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Angry heat burned behind his eyes, scorched the dream and made it real. The malady still prevailed but the crowd that swam with colour moments before, came into sharp focus, only they were no longer a wall, they were a sea of bodies, slowly parting. At the heart of the separation, the rectangular opening of the tavern door. Two figures emerged, slipping in from the milky white gravel beyond, one tall and broad, dressed like the three soldiers who had already entered, the other supported by his strong arm. She was a slight, pallid rag, torn from the night and drawing a hush about her like a shawl.​


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

A woman’s scream pricked the Autumn wind, its authenticity lost amid the howls and hoots of nocturnal creatures. Night had slipped in and a fat moon now loomed over The Shoulders of The World, slopes and peeks cut white against the darkness. In the lee of this great mountain range, squat wooden buildings sprawled across the valley, silhouetted and casting elongated shadows.

The thinnest shadows of all belonged to the miners that spilled from pits, homeward bound, where meals and hot baths waited. Wearily, they shuffled across the oft-trodden dirt, eyes glistening in the muck of a twelve-hour shift, only the scream of railcar wheels in their ears. Once settled in their homes, most lounged away the evening, bellies full, while others, not keen on wasted hours, made for the many taverns that peppered Charnwick.​


----------



## Parabola

My hands curled around the seafoam-colored algebra book with intense irritation. I wanted to stab Mrs. Taylor fifty times until all the equations came pouring out of her in a stream of unfiltered truth.


----------



## VRanger

Her father didn't say a word, but turned back out of the door to make way. It only took Julia and Cal a few minutes to repack and get their things in the cab, all without another word from Julia's parents, not even goodbye as Cal exited with the last valise. Julia was already down at the cab, but Cal turned to her father, who at least held the door since Cal's hands were full.

"Mr. Forsythe, I understand you got surprised by this. By me, too. I know you love your daughter, so just don't you and Mrs. Forsythe turn a gopher hole into a sinkhole. Even a _stubborn _horse don't turn away from good hay."

As Cal got into the cab, Madge turned to her husband. "Douglas, did you understand a word of that?"

"Maybe. I'll think about it."


----------



## Envy123

Bob took the rope and swung on it like a drunken monkey, landing on the trampoline to get some extra height and swung on the rope again towards his house. He yelled like a demented Tarzan as he swung towards his abode, but lost his grip and fell hard on the concrete floor.

I got up and ran towards the fallen Bob. “Are you alright, Bob?” I asked, helping him up on his feet.

“That was pathetic.” Bob dusted himself off. “You want to see a better trick?”


----------



## Tettsuo

From a piece I'm currently working on:



> Tears fell from Ali’s eyes and hit the yellowing rubber tops of his old, worn-down sneakers with staccato plops.
> 
> “It ain’t fair. I ain’t got no daddy. I ain’t got nothin’,” Ali sobbed, looking at the hand-me-down jeans that he had yet to properly grow into. Cuffed at the end, a hole continued to grow at the edge of the cuff's crease, slicing open the bottom, exposing frayed ends of blue threads.
> 
> “Everybody got a dad, Ali. He gonna come see you sooner or later.”
> 
> “No, he ain’t! I ain’t got a daddy. If I did, he’d woulda come to see me by now.”
> 
> Cee didn’t have anything better, more comforting to say, not really. He simply wanted his friend to stop crying, but that was something he wasn’t all that adept at doing. Not for another boy anyway. Boys weren’t supposed to cry like Ali was, all loud and in public, no, not like that. People were bound to see them. Fear caused his eyes repeatedly checked the door leading toward the building’s old crumbling stairway and the hot, steel gray entrance door leading outside into the warm spring air. He didn’t want to be seen as a ‘fag’ or something equally degrading. But, he cared about his friend and didn’t want to simply walk out of the building, leaving him there all by himself. The truth was, he wanted to touch Ali, give him a hug for comfort. The problem, in the streets, you can’t be seen as anything less than, or you’ll risk being forever labeled as ‘soft’. Being soft, that was not something one could easily live down.
> 
> “Yo, I think I gotta go. My mom is calling me,” he lied awkwardly. “Oh shit, I think hear her now.”
> 
> Cee turned and opened the heavy metal door, then partially stepped into the afternoon light. With a foot out, another in, and the bright sun at his back, he tossed a smile back towards Ali. “Don’t worry, you gonna be okay.”
> 
> His words of encouragement were as hard to envision as the smile Ali could barely see on Cee’s face, cast mostly in shadow from the bright sun that illuminated him from behind. Those little edges of smile he could see did nothing to soothe his aching heart. Ali could think of no evidence that the father he knew, cared for him at all. That perception and the jealousy of his half-brother's relationship with his father bit into his heart. It was a growing wound that grew every time he saw others with their fathers.
> 
> Ali simply wanted normalcy, parity... he just wanted to feel equal.


----------



## Parabola

So I watched a few episodes, laughed a few times, then caught part of a gameshow before Mia walked in, looking tired and worn out. It was obvious she'd been crying on the drive home. I thought of a coping technique I read online, about how I’d had some time to myself before she walked in. I tried to put that in a box and close it in my mind, so I could “store” it away from the stressful moments staring me down like the blinding beam of an oncoming train.

I asked Mia if she wanted a soda, or anything. She shook her head. 

“What about dinner?” I asked. “I could go ahead and make something.”

She held up a white and yellow bag and tossed it on the couch. 

The burrito place. The bag itself briefly conjured a memory of eating with Jason, Mia and Kevin in front of those eerie people-mannequins. A lifetime ago, buried down the rabbit hole of a world within a world I no longer had access to. 

Suddenly, I missed Kevin’s tirades, his wildcard sensibilities that made him unpredictable as fuck.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

From the throat of August came a mother’s scream, stillborn upon a cruel wind and laid to rest amongst the gold and red of summer’s death.​


----------



## VRanger

Somerset and I left Doctor … umm … Mr. Sullivan’s office and went straight to meet Juliet on her dinner break. We met at a little Mom and Pop’s place near the library. Nothing fancy, just good comfort food. I remember we all opted for Salisbury steak (recommended by the waiter). It came with vegetables and rolls, but I don’t recall more details of our orders. Don’t you ever wonder at books where the narrator talks about a meal they ate weeks or months or years ago and names everything on the plate? Well, when it’s an author writing fiction they can make up what they want. When it’s me telling a true story, I’m not that good.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

She was an ashen rag, torn from the night and drawing a hush about her like a shawl. Her grey face seemed to have slipped slightly off the bone, and only her eyes, set in dark hollows, showed any glimpse of vitality. A purple dress with its floral decoration, and a white, lacy blouse, contrasted unkindly and mocked the wearer. The stranger had seen death often—that impossible stillness, that vacancy—and yet this corpse stood.

She opened her mouth to gasp in air, thin lips taught and threatening to collapse. Only a bestial whine emerged at first, pulled out through an exhausted throat, but then words, riding on a wave of anguish.

“My child. ... My husband.” As she spoke her tormented eyes darted from one person to the next, all of them baring some of her burden, none of them able to face her straight. “Make this stop,” she said to a bowed man, her voice quivering. “Please.” Only silence met her; empty and heavy. “Take it. Take it from me.” She gripped her blouse with trembling fingers and pulled it tight at her neck, digging her nails into the flesh. “I don’t want this. Please, won’t someone help me?”​


----------



## Parabola

I walked up to the door leading to my front porch, and I opened it and went inside with a mild but growing anxiety. The porch stood empty, and a deep sense of sadness filled the space. Not my own exactly, but I picked up on it anyway. It had a lush, sprawling quality that seemed to cover everything. 

I knocked on the oak door and stared at the curtain which covered the window. I heard a surprised yelping sound, like someone stepping on a dog’s tail. The curtains were brushed aside, and Mom's mournful face eventually broke out into an insane smile, a brief but hideous mixture of confusion, bitterness and happiness. She probably didn’t know what to think when she saw me.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Parabola said:


> I walked up to the door leading to my front porch, and I opened it and went inside with a mild but growing anxiety. The porch stood empty, and a deep sense of sadness filled the space. Not my own exactly, but I picked up on it anyway. It had a lush, sprawling quality that seemed to cover everything.
> 
> I knocked on the oak door and stared at the curtain which covered the window. I heard a surprised yelping sound, like someone stepping on a dog’s tail. The curtains were brushed aside, and Mom's mournful face eventually broke out into an insane smile, a brief but hideous mixture of confusion, bitterness and happiness. She probably didn’t know what to think when she saw me.


Marvellous!


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

A part of him—the part that still clung to Sorrow—wanted to spit truth into the room, watch it teeter on the precipice, but the frailty of the mother staid his hand. The truth would muddle her grief, and at least she had that. Who was he to take it away? Grief was a cruel comfort, an echo of love, and he understood that implicitly. Any undoing of that pure truth would likely destroy her.​


----------



## Parabola

“You just don’t get it. Sarah and I have been through so much, and she remembers most of it. I feel like I’ve tainted her. I can’t…I don’t know how I feel. You’re trying to shove the guilt down my throat, but you’re not in my shoes.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be in your shoes,” Eugene replied, driving to the intersection that would take us to Kevin's.

“You’re being an asshole. You know what I mean. Look, it’s misery in that house with Mia every day. Every time I look at Sarah, I see what I put her through. Maybe part of it is, I don’t know what redeeming quality she sees in me. I made Jason take his own life, not intentionally, but…I can’t stop riding that dark circle in my mind. All the terrible things I brought into their lives.”

“So now you want to put that on someone else?”

We were driving into the blinding sunlight, and I had to look out the window instead of straight ahead.

“I know what Maya sees in me. Intrigue, mystery. I’m the center of this reality, and that’s enough to make her like me. She’s not deluding herself, so maybe I don’t think I’m deceiving her. I don’t feel guilty,” I said.

And for once Eugene didn’t say anything.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

My new opening line. I may just leave it at this:

From the throat of Autumn came a woman’s scream, borne upon the wind and lost amongst the gold of summer’s end.​


----------



## Riptide

I like this little scene right here. Been at a loss for writing but I'm getting back into the swing of things

--

The side door opened. “Ace, you back here?” Justin opened the door enough to poke his upper body out. After a second to gage the situation, he glanced at Ronny. “Don’t move, I’ll be back.”

Ronny gave a thumbs up to the door. Before Ace came to conclusion to dive for Steve’s jugular, Ronny be damned, Justin returned. He popped a can of fizzled liquid with his thumb and tackled Ace. The bottle pressed to her lips, and she gulped. An energy drink. Oh! She guzzled it, taking the drink with fever. With droplets left inside, she crushed the aluminum can and let it drop to the ground.

Her heart rate changed for the better, but she was still starving—Justin shoved bottled blood into her face. Oh! Oh! He thought of the little things today, and she downed it. When she was done, Steve looked only mildly appetizing.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

I thought I'd share the opening to chapter 2:

Once named, Yarrod stood, chair grinding on the floorboards as his calves shifted it back, synchronised with the sound of swords drawn from scabbards. Sadness waned, each face a portrait of ire, levelled at him with ferocious intent. Those eyes said die. Those swords said how. And Sorrow said nothing.

The mother stepped forward, hands seeking to usher her back, pushed away easily, frail against the strength that now galvanised her. Still the harrowed expression but bitter warmth shifted beneath the pale skin.

“Tam was going to be three next week. Three.” She shared the words as if every tangible other had phased away, and only she and Yarrod stood there, trapped by her reminiscence.​


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Night had fallen. A full moon loomed over The Shoulders of The World, and bats swooped and swirled in the darkness like silver litter. Fir trees stood sentry against a pale-white canvas, while creatures snuffled in their bowers and ferreted out grubs. Other creatures, keen eyed and hungry, low and slow in the undergrowth, hunted for bigger fare. The landscape seethed in secret at the foot of humankind, with the hush of shifted earth, never to be known, ever to be sensed.​


----------



## Envy123

“Easy does it.” I took the Lightning Shard in my mouth but dropped it soon afterwards. “Oh no.” I proceeded to go under the tables and fetch it but…

“What is that thing?” one of the paramedics shouted, pointing at yours truly. I quickly bit the shard and zapped it, just as the ambulance made a sudden turn. The vehicle started to perpetually spin.

I jumped up onto the stretcher, to see Jihen staring at me with wide eyes. “Hi.”

“What are you?” he shouted.

I bowed. “Well, I’m Anton II. A hand puppet. We've lived for millennia. And we'll live for many millennia more. How are you doing today?” 

Jihen scowled at me. “What does it look like? I'm in the ambulance. With a broken back.”

I nodded. “Oh, you poor baby.”

“Why is this spinning?” Jihen grimaced and put his hands on his head.

I looked down at the floor. “Well, technically, I dropped this…”

“Can you shorten it down please?”

“Okay.” I mused for a bit to come up with a super simple response, that even an infant would understand. “Freeze time at wrong time, make wheelie go spin spin. Short enough for you?”

Jihen shook his head. “You didn't need to say spin twice.”


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

Nothing starves the spirit and feeds the beast more than a scream at twilight; and nothing weighs more than the empty silence left behind. This scream, from the throat of a broken woman, pricked but the most innocent ears—creatures one and all, who foraged for grubs in fir tree bowers, or crept through scrub in search of bigger prey, and bats, silver litter in the moonlight, twirling and squealing with scant regard. Just a sound, nothing more.​


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

At the very moment she turned her back on Yarrod, the room roared forwards, swords arced towards him, their gleam rheum-smeared and quick. He hooked his fingers beneath the table, heaved it over and knocked the antagonists back on their heels, swords flashing short of their mark. The soldiers reset their stance—as did a handful of civilians who had drawn their own meagre blades or picked up anything resembling a weapon, be it knife, fork, stool or poker—and readied a second attack. Yarrod looked at the tavern door just in time to see the mother ghost into the night. Instinct kicked in, and with no time for evaluation, he acted.

Quickly he tugged the hood snug, pulled his cape about him and grasped it tight at his chest, then with one final rallied effort, leapt backwards towards the window. At first, he felt resistance, his full weight not yet brought to bear on the panes and muntins, suspended between possible escape and certain evisceration. Brief, though the time may have been, he considered a jester’s end: bared teeth turned grins, growls laughter, frenzied attacks jeers, as he lay impotent beneath the window and spilled his last ...

With a crack, the window gave, and he lay in the dirt outside, breath punched from him, glass shards and splintered wood raining down. He struggled to his feet and glanced back. Many scurried from the broken window, heading for the door no doubt, while others, more determined, began to clamber out in pursuit.

Within a heart beat he was off, a chorus of threats and accusations at his back. His cape snapped in the wind as he sprinted through a corridor of low buildings, their window lights thankfully muted. Occasionally though, a curtain hooked aside and light spilled across Yarrod’s path, the face at the window puzzled. Yarrod ducked tighter into the lee of the wooden homes, seeking thicker shadows, while behind, the noise swelled as more citizens joined the mob and spilled through the streets after him.​


----------



## Parabola

I made my way to the back door, opening it carefully. A couple of rebellious thoughts hit me, how I could knock over a broom, or shove a dirty plate off the counter. It would shatter all the possibilities for my future, but Mom getting up and running to the kitchen meant some kind of security.

None of that happened. I slipped out of the back porch, down the cement stairs and into the backyard.

Then I fled my past under the cover of darkness, walking the rest of the block and crossing the street to the dilapidated house. I realized no matter which way I turned, it seemed like I was taking the easy way out. Staying meant cowardice, leaving meant the same but for different reasons.


----------



## Envy123

The art classroom was in the hallway beside our main classroom. It was small and airy, with windows on all corners. There was a big table with wooden benches on both sides and a smaller one to the side. Kid Ninja was sitting at the smaller one, so I sat down there next to him.

“Well, this is an elaborate masterpiece,” I said. It was a beautiful painting - a Japanese garden with cherry blossom trees and elaborate shimmering lakes with golden fish.

“I would be intrigued to see what you can come up with.”

He gave me a paintbrush, a small pot of water and some paint. I decided to try to paint a coastal landscape. I splashed the blue water, drizzled the yellow sand and brushed the green grass. “There, coastal landscape from yours truly.”

“Hey, that's my phrase!” Anton shouted. Everyone looked in our direction. “Sorry. Just… keep painting!” The class went back to painting as if nothing happened.

“That’s the best you can do? It does not have any dimensions to it. Even the colour scheme is off,” Kid Ninja noted.


----------



## Parabola

The basement was the hardest for me. Partially because it always had an unsettling vibe, a thick layer of darkness covered everything, even after turning on the three lightbulbs, one in each each room.

 But it wasn’t just the primal feeling of being in an underground space filled with shadows that put me in a state of unease, but the ghosts which stubbornly haunted them.

Looking around, I saw my childhood in bulky shapes. One held sports supplies, a baseball bat, a barely broken in glove for playing catch. That never happened. A basketball had been stuffed in the box too, making it jut out on one side.

Another box was filled with nerf guns, action figures, a profusion of vivid colors that almost violently hit me in the head. All that stuff used to seem so important, I thought, now they collect dust and make me remember a part of my life I wonder ever happened at all.

Shaking my head, I decided to call it a day. Memory lane was always a dead neighborhood.

Every time you went back, it seemed increasingly pointless.


----------



## Parabola

Stepping through the door on the other side, I found myself instantly sucked through it, feeling such a rush of terror I passed out.

Regaining consciousness under a night sky had been another surreal experience, and after an eternity of clearing my head, I figured out I was in Kevin’s backyard. The windows to his back porch were dark.

A minute or two passed. When I turned around, I shrieked because a flicker of ghostly white dog opened its jaws and "devoured" a cloud of fireflies. It barked playfully, disappearing into the garden a few seconds later. 

Then everything went quiet. I sat completely motionless for a long time since I wanted to make sure I hadn’t woken up Kevin. My impression of him in general told me he was a heavy sleeper under most circumstances though.

I waited for Switch to appear a second time. He didn’t. He wasn’t loyal to any person anymore, but the nature of this reality.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

“You be wanting a fill up, sir?” He held out the jug ready to pour.

The stranger covered his tankard with a palm and shook his head slowly, then in a sudden movement, looked up. Long, black hair slipped aside, revealing a stony expression, skin the colour of candle wax, eyes aglint with anger.

The bartender’s smile wilted. It can’t simply have been the look in the stranger’s steel-blue eyes that shook him, the tear running down his cheek had surely taken him aback too. He would never expect emotion from a strong man such as the stranger, and yet, here he was, teeth gritted against whatever lurked within.

“Are you happy here?” The stranger asked, words chiselled into granite, as if relics of an echoed past. “Don’t you long to see the end of it all?”

“No, ... sir,” The bartender said without confidence. He didn’t know where to place his gaze. Only his feet seemed assured, shuffling his weight away a fraction and preparing for flight. He licked his dry lips and continued. “I couldn’t be any happier here, sir. This is a lovely place. There isn’t a finer sight in all of Gildrinia than The Shoulders of the World. People come from all corners to see our famed mountain range.”

“How old are you?” the stranger asked, ignoring the clear attempt at changing the conversation to rehearsed barman’s chatter.

“I’m 53 years gone, sir. Praise Above.” He ran a tongue tip between upper lip and teeth and did his best to reinstate the look of sincerity in a thin smile.

“Your name?”

“Talbert, sir, but my friends call be Tally.”

“Well ... Talbert, at your age, shouldn’t you have moved on by now? Don’t you have quotas to meet and futures to discover?”

“Oh no, sir, I’ve never been a miner.” He swallowed hard. “My father was a miner but I never followed in his footsteps. He advised me against it you see. I’m grateful for it now, though I wasn’t back then.”

“Is your father dead?”

Beads of sweat had sprouted from the barman’s forehead and upper lip. One had hatched beneath his left sideburn and trickled slowly down a subtly shifting jaw. “That he is, sir.” He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “He died three years past.”

“You look nervous, Talbert.” The stranger observed the barman’s face as a kitten observes an oddity. He couldn’t help toying. Distance had made a plaything of everyone and everything, and he knew all about distance except how far it was. He traced the grain of the table for a while before returning to Talbert. “Don’t mind me. I’m not used to social gatherings. I keep myself to myself more often than not, but now and then, it’s nice to see how you normal folk live.”

A frail silence followed.

“Have you got business here, sir?” Talbert asked, the smile all but gone.

“I _had _business here,” the stranger said, scratched his cheek and then tapped the bone there with his finger slowly. He brought the finger back in amongst a loose fist and let it drop. “But it’s dealt with now.”​


----------



## Parabola

(removed a word or two to protect some worldbuilding stuff)

-- 

I didn’t even think about it, raising the gun in my hand more as a reflex than anything. I aimed right at Liam’s, or Kevin’s, head, and fired a stream of bullets in his direction. One of them tore the left side of his mouth clean off, and he looked ghoulish in that half of a second before another bullet struck him in the eye, leaving the left side of his face a crater of "glowing" darkness. 

Savoring my victory wasn’t an option because the front doors were blown with such jarring force into the front hallway that Liam’s death felt gentle by comparison.


----------



## bdcharles




----------



## Kent_Jacobs

bdcharles said:


> View attachment 29036


----------



## Joker

"I sent him a politely worded cease and desist letter. He responded by having one of my dealers thrown off the Hoover Dam. Naturally, I wasn't inclined towards peaceful coexistence after that."


----------



## indianroads

Joker said:


> "I sent him a politely worded cease and desist letter. He responded by having one of my dealers thrown off the Hoover Dam. Naturally, I wasn't inclined towards peaceful coexistence after that."


Which side of the Hoover Dam? Curious minds want to know.


----------



## Joker

indianroads said:


> Which side of the Hoover Dam? Curious minds want to know.



Nevada.


----------



## indianroads

Joker said:


> Nevada.


That's both sides. 
Thrown off one side, you get wet. Thrown off the other, you get a great view before the sudden stop.


----------



## Joker

indianroads said:


> That's both sides.
> Thrown off one side, you get wet. Thrown off the other, you get a great view before the sudden stop.



The dam crosses into Arizona, my dude.

But yes, said dealer is very much an ex-dealer.


----------



## indianroads

Joker said:


> The dam crosses into Arizona, my dude.
> 
> But yes, said dealer is very much an ex-dealer.


Really? Huh. I've ridden across it many times and never noticed a sign.


----------



## Joker

indianroads said:


> Really? Huh. I've ridden across it many times and never noticed a sign.



Signs?! Christ, what is this, Nazi Germany?


----------



## Parabola

At lunch, Eugene seemed determined to find out what happened to Kevin. 

“I’m not going to get pissed off,” he said, leaning forward. He hadn’t even touched his pizza, and the near constant booms of thunder were causing me to freak out. 

“About what?”

“Don’t play stupid, Ethan.” 

I looked out the huge lunchroom window. Lightning twisted across the sky in frightening, split second shapes. I still debated how much to tell him, if anything. Sure, in a way I earned his disdain by not taking responsibility for what I did. But in more ways than one, that was in the past. I was hurtling toward a future, and I had to take that into consideration, not just Eugene’s judgment.


----------



## Parabola

Being the town hero while prowling the streets as a shadow had been a surreal, identity splitting experience. I couldn’t see either image of myself as authentic at that point, so I glided along the pavement in a state of apathy.


----------



## Envy123

Michael walked up the stairs and went onto the doorstep of the neighbouring nursery. He knocked on the door and once it was open, he said, “A ball fell from the sky. We need it!” He nodded like a broken bobblehead.

The door slammed in his face. “Oh well, I tried.”


----------



## Joker

Wherever she was taking us, it was almost a straight shot until we came to an employee lounge area. We had the fortunate timing to be spotted by a guard sweeping his flashlight across the room.

He was just a kid, his face still rounded by baby fat. He stared at us like he had just walked in on his parents having sex.


----------



## Envy123

I just had to make a sarcastic remark. It felt right, at the moment. “Yes, Michael, all of this is a dream. We are not real.”

Michael beamed. “Well, if this is a dream, I can do this!” He took a water container and poured it on Mr Francis’ head, much to the sea of gasps from the entire class.

“Bad Conduct!” Mr Francis yelled, dripping fury onto the floor.

“But as you said, sir, this is a dream!” Michael said. “Oh, and I could do this as well.” He threw the paint from a nearby container on the floor, singing as tunefully as a damaged piano.


----------



## A. Lisolte

If I could write a book full of this type of fluff I so would;


Do I maneuver as a heaving mass within this dissipating Eden? My rough spun cotton shirt drags with fervor as I sprint, drops of sweat gathering along the collar. Tightly bound sneakers teeter over asphalt pebbles as the sun pigments the sky unknowingly high above, contriving a personal state of color-infused endlessness. Pigeons resting atop a chain link fence glance my way and suddenly our parts engage. Separate from nothing, as open as space, I am joyfully unfazed.


----------



## JBF

Borrowed from the story from hell, edit No. 193872 (B).

***

_He never did. It counted for a regret, some days, usually dependent on the degree of bad luck the universe was passing him and measured against his ability to send any back. One September morning had done it – put him into a pit out from which he crawled, if only just, to face down the thin weeks between his departure from running livestock and the day he cashed his first Bowman check.

But he’d made Ry Caney fear, if only for a heartbeat, and he held to the memory like a drunk to a bottle empty save the last amber drops of rotgut, persistent in the belief that it had to amount to something. Proof of blows traded rather than a record of those taken.

When the opportunity presented he went to work for Senior as much for the income as the seclusion, and in a quiet corner of Lake County at an airport which might go days without a visitor he dug more intently into his practical flying handbooks and watched jealousy the red and white Cessna that might, across some indiscernible span, carry him to circumstances more promising.

The world behind him didn’t matter so much.

The world gone.

He stood slowly, moving sideways in the gap between the heavy steel tanks of avgas and Jet A while wind cut around him, faster now in the venturi effect of the artificial canyon of curved steel streaking with rust. At the end he turned and swung up the angle-iron steps welded to the ends of the larger and picked his way along the loose diamondwire catwalk to stand on a bolted hatchcover at midpoint.

Eyes cut to slits, he leaned into a wind plucking at his collar and stinging his face and worming lesser but insistent against the uncovered gaps of skin at wrists and neck. Those things manmade at the airport reduced beneath the marbled silver belly of the clouds, the trees around the distant perimeter black and restless. The dim white box of the FBO proper and the corrugated sides of the old hangar further on familiar outposts in a last stand against the inevitable, bleached runway asphalt and concrete taxiways already giving up color, even now absorbing into the greater winter's gray-brown earth and strawtoned grass stalks brittle as old matchsticks.  

This world neither of his making or his choosing.  Less to win.  No limit on what might be lost.  The knowing heavy and dense in his gut like a cannonball and the slow dawning of rules changed and borders shifting.  The coming order, indistinct in its details but sharp in silhouette.  And humming from the shadows in which lay fame or glory or death, registered with no human sense, the ironclad heart of the new.

No quarter given.

None asked._


----------



## Mark Twain't

The tree suddenly shook as a blast hit the trunk just above them. Another volley of blasts and they dived for cover. ‘We have to leave, now!’ Yaleena said. ‘Mother?’
‘Yes, give me a minute,’ Laarna replied.
‘Aunt Laarna?’ Noori said before spotting the blood on Laarna’s hand, which she was holding against her abdomen.
‘Mother!’ Yaleena called. ‘Noori, help me get her into the trees.’ They each took an arm and dragged Laarna deep into the forest before sitting her up against the thick trunk of a Lira tree. ‘Let me look,’ Yaleena said, trying to pull her mother’s hand away from her stomach.
‘It’s ok,’ Laarna spluttered, blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. ‘It’ll be ok.’
‘We have to get you back to the mountain,’ Noori said to Laarna, but looking at Yaleena. Deep down, Noori knew that wasn’t going to happen.
‘No,’ Laarna said. ‘You need to get away from here. Get back and regroup.’
‘Not without you, mother,’ Yaleena replied, putting pressure on Laarna’s wound. ‘We can fix this.’
‘I’m going nowhere,’ Laarna coughed, more blood coming from her mouth. ‘You have to… make it… back…you have to…’ She stopped. Her bright green eyes turned pale as her last breath left her body.


----------



## Magnus Fairbrow

WIP

_"I took a sip immediately, neglecting even to say thank you to my host. The tea was unlike any I had tasted before, floral and yet earthy in good measure, sweet and bitter. As I tried to place the flavours the room around me darkened slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, and then suddenly all was pitch black. Had I died? Is this what death felt like? I couldn’t see or hear anything, in fact all of my senses seemed to have vanished at once.

And then a faint light appeared, just a small pin prick in the void which I seemed to be heading towards at lightning speed, for it grew larger by the second. It was the size of an orange now, and in this hole of light I was sure that I could make out buttons, and suspenders, and a plaid shirt. Racing on the hole grew larger still, and as I approached its perimeter the light permeated inwards allowing me a glimpse of my surroundings. Thick shiny ropes lay all around me with green, crusty boulders caught up in their tangled mess. Utterly baffled, my speed increased further and finally I sailed through the hole, completed a backwards somersault and found myself hovering back in the tent. Gunther sat motionless. Patches was storming around the room in an outrage. But I could also see myself, sat still as stone opposite Gunther. It took me some time to realise it, but I had just flown out of my own nostril."_


----------



## Riptide

I'm touching Prototech up as third person and I forgot how great this batch of dialogue is:

---

Unable to keep his opinions to himself, Turner shot to his feet, a dash of pure ecstasy alight in his eyes. “If you agree to this, Rory, then Ty has to agree to find her brother.”

The brilliancy of her plan doused at the mentioning of _her_ family. “No, no, that’s completely different. I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t even know where he is or who he is anymore.” Had she ever really known him?

“Brother?” Rory latched onto that like a fat boy with chocolate cake. “You said you were an orphan?”

She waved away her questions. “I was. I _am_.”

“Because,” Turner heckled, his voice a badly tuned radio that no amount of hitting shut off, “her brother left her.”

 “That’s not your story to say,” she bit off.


----------



## indianroads

From the first draft of Moonscape:
_Idle conversation wandered around the circle of twelve elevator passengers as Eli gazed over his shoulder, watching as the world slowly spread out below him. Already, he could see the curvature of the horizon, but it was the colors that captured his eyes. The verdant greens of the South American jungles and dusty yellows of the Mexican desert and the US southwest were breathtaking. Swatches of white clouds streaked over the barren landscape while mountains of darkly troubled clouds soared over the verdant jungles to the south. It was easy to guess where the cities were located as sicky yellow and brown clouds hung stagnant above them. Humanity’s impact shamed the spectacular world._


----------



## indianroads

Also from the first draft of Moonscape: (a convict on the moon regretting the choices he made that brought him there)

_Eternal night claimed the heavens as the moonscape languished in a cadaverous pale blaze. The sight was beautiful in an ugly sort of way. Eli had expected to see stars, but the greedy sun would not relinquish the sky.

Was his time with Tammy worth this punishment? Not just no, but hell no. She hadn’t been that great of a lover; she lay beneath him like a dead fish that occasionally moaned in what was probably mock pleasure. He believed her act was a trick often used by prostitutes; fake an orgasm to boost the guy’s ego and he’ll become a regular customer.

His excursion into her world had cost him everything; family had abandoned him, friends were lost, the job he loved was gone, and most of all his dog Barney had paid the ultimate price for his foolishness. Being stuck for eternity on the painfully white blemish in Earth’s sky was a suitable punishment for such extreme idiocy. He hated the things he had inadvertently done that hurt others, especially Roger, Tammy’s husband, but also sweet, loving, innocent Barney. Crap, what a shit-fest he had created, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Everything he was and might have been was lost. His brother and sister wouldn’t miss him. Work friends might think of him now and then, but in time he would be forgotten. Life for everyone he had known would go on without him, and in time it would be as if he never existed.

Maybe that was for the best. He had messed up royally, ruining not just his life but the lives of everyone around him. But now he had a second chance; in time, he would make friends, pursue new goals, and build a new life. Mama-San had called him ‘Cowboy’, perhaps he should embrace that new moniker and leave Eli behind on Earth._


----------



## Explosia

Shaun’s attire was less glamorous. He looked more like a bellhop, with black slacks and trails of buttons running down the front of his jacket. In some places, the jacket also appeared to be singed. He was constructed similarly to Cassie but had some notable modifications. His lower arm, for example, had been replaced with a discolored block of wood, to which his hand had been crudely nailed. One of his legs was shorter than the other, which caused him to tilt whenever he walked. His right eyelid had a large hole in it, and his ear, on the same side of his head, was simply gone. Some of the paint from his eyebrows had chipped off, and four scrap pieces of wood had been nailed to each side of his throat. Under a stubby, cylindrical cap, his wooly mohair had been left unkempt.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

On the surface this moment appears like any other;
Though fleeting, it reverberates through time;
Attuning my senses, I see from the center of my skull the path of each impulse;
As those moments echo back to my awareness, a state of calm washes over me;
I close my eyes and feel every state of matter I will ever be;
And something deeper:
A tingling sensation in the center of each nervous mass;
And as it passes, I experience serenity.


----------



## Parabola

From "Ethan's project" (not the actual title)

--

Then everything became lush with detail. The sound of a car driving to the intersection up the street, the smell of mini-pizzas from downstairs and Mia’s curious glances. 

Maybe this wasn’t a game. The weirdly sentient dust particles that floated away from me in that dilapidated house might’ve been just another trick of the mind, or some residual part of the world that lingered near the portal I’d emerged from.

This had the chance of being real, and that horrifying realization made me want to jump out of my skin.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

This pretentious little verse dripped from my fingertips earlier:


This 
lust of result,
delivered whole from desire:

If only I could be 
that.


----------



## Parabola

I couldn’t help but stare at his evolving creation. The sculpture looked just like Eugene, from the bulky build to his “tall” hair. Except he had something sticking through him. A clawed hand went from Eugene’s stomach through his back, fingers curling as if gripping an invisible heart.


----------



## Parabola

This is from the "Ethan project" not the devil project I referenced recently.

--

No one said anything at first, even Mr. Hall. He shuffled papers, smiling to himself. I studied him for a moment. He probably learned to enjoy the silence at some point. It made me think how this particular devil might’ve been born, but the environment shaped him into the monstrosity everyone feared.

Mr. Hall caught me staring at him, the glint of malice in his eyes almost proud. I realized even after all I faced, Mr. Hall intimidated me. This programmed walking pineapple of a man still had power over me.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

I wish someone had told me
that paradise would be
an empty city.


----------



## Parabola

What I said to Sarah came rushing back in a waterfall of anxiety. I wouldn’t just be an invisible loser anymore. I admitted to Jason’s suicide and seemed simultaneously insane and a terrible person. It couldn’t be true, but what decent human being would think of something like that? 

So if things reverted to their natural state, the pit of whispered insults would be waiting for me too. As much as I tried to rationalize away Jason’s pessimism, doing so fueled it about my own life. Really, everyone here would be going back to lives that weren’t worth living. Or, in Jason’s and Kevin’s case, coming back from the dead, and so “bizarre” would be a stand-in for “irredeemable.”


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

I would help to
free your mind
if I could trust you to change
the things that need changing;

As it stands
I don't know where you stand
in this fucked up
fuzzy world;

So I will release you,
once again,
into the babbling brook
of eternal need.


----------



## Parabola

“You’re an only child. You don’t understand what it’s like. You don’t get what Mia’s like! Three years younger than me, and I can already tell she’s going to be a captain of fucking industry. I know she’ll step on my back to get there. See, that’s Mia all over. Whatever it takes, Eugene. That’s her. That’s it. Success and nothing else. I guess I wanted to show her the other side of the coin. Show her some humility,” I said. After I was done speaking I took a breath and stood up, putting one hand through my hair. My luscious, thick brown hair. My only pride!

The oddness of what I said occurred to me. I wanted to justify playing god with wanting to show Mia some humility. I didn’t care, though. I knew I was right.


----------



## Parabola

What I came up with astounded even me. I’d always been the idea generator in the group, the other side to Kevin’s wildcard. Just benign. Until that moment in Eugene’s gravel driveway. Everything seemed on the precipice, and once again I found myself at the intersection of morality and infinite possibilities. I knew that was my nature all along, constantly re-shaping the ball of clay, like that weird kid in study hall, into something unexpected.


----------



## Riptide

She’d been up in the air with college, a super senior on the fence on her degree. Become a money-making lawyer, follow the trend and go nursing with the rest of her friends, or become a fit firefighter, possible police officer, who side gigged for the FBI? She was a basket of options. In the end, she cut ties with college before dumping more money into it and decided to save up until she figured out what she wanted. Job wise, finding her was a dead end.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

My dad keeps the lights on;

I love the sound of helicopters,
flying along their patrol routes:

Back and forth,
back and forth;

Sirens blaring at the edge of awareness,
I hope they aren't coming for me:

We are calm,
you stay calm;

Rifle rounds fired in the distance,
mowing the lawn twice a week:

Back and forth,
back and forth;

My dad keeps the lights on.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

Emotion swells in me:

This desire to conquer
with every tool at my disposal;

It becomes clear that time is the enemy,
for though I am present in the world around me,
the globe revolves and orbits a finite power that is still;

Only as defined
by our own relativity.


----------



## Parabola

“All you need to see is one instance of something, because you’ve seen it so many times, to recognize a pattern. It’s like when I’m programming. I enter this flow, things reduce to a bullet, and I see the problem or solution. That’s what this is, Ethan. This thing is a problem, not a solution. Get it?” Eugene said.

I could sense his frustration, a rare and fickle thing. Or maybe I didn’t understand the rules behind his anger.

But eventually, Eugene sighed. “I’m only agreeing to this because I know if I don’t, you’ll do something stupid on your own. Making everything exponentially worse. And to make things clear? This isn’t only about Kevin. You broke his dad by using him as a murder weapon against his own kid. How fucked up is that? How fucked up are you for glossing over that fact? Kevin and his dad weren’t much of a family, but they were one. You ruined that. You."

I realized the stark, unbridgeable contrast between the two of us. He would only go so far to achieve something, barring survival of course which pushes the limits of any human being. Me though? Maybe I was more like Mia than I thought. Although my rationalization in the moment was Mia brought that side out in people, or created it by necessity? The wrong kind of contagious personality.


----------



## Envy123

None of us spoke another word on the bus ride to the castle. I expected to find answers to my long unresolved questions, but ended up having more questions than answers. I had thought that House Evol was the big mystery and the Spy Club was just a smaller one. But it turned out that I was naive in thinking that.

The bus left North London and before long, we were on the motorway. To be honest, I’ve never left London. Or Hampstead for that matter. To go outside of London was like going to a whole new world. I might as well have gone to Mordor.


----------



## Parabola

“But you don’t know the whole story,” Jason went on. He turned to make sure Kevin and Mia were far enough away, and I followed his glance. They’d sat down on the grassy island that served as a fork in the park road. Mia rested up against a sign, laughing at what Kevin said. I thought that was a little weird, since Kevin seemed like he loathed her back in Joe’s labyrinth, but I remembered how the place seemed to be draining our sanity. 

“Look, Jason, we’re all here for different reasons, man, you don’t have to…,” I started, but the glassy look in Jason’s eyes became frightening.

“You don’t get what it’s like to kill yourself, then wake up in a place and your last memory is a noose around your neck. Or kicking the chair out from under you. But, actually if I’m being honest that’s not even the last memory I had,” he said. His gaze went to the cement glittering in late morning sunshine.

“Jason, we’re in a different place now. The past is basically forgotten because nobody cares. Why should we?”

“It makes sense for all of you not to care. Well, Mia might be somewhat of an outcast. But me? If we get out of here, I’d be a walking dead man. What’s worse is that they probably know why Sarah and I broke up. The real reason, Ethan! I can’t go back to that. That’s a life of shame, and I’d rather stay here."

I understood Jason’s argument, and I had no idea what to say to him to convince him to remain with the group. Not at first, anyway. The only thing I could exploit was Jason’s hesitation to leave. He’d be on a trek to nowhere, and once we left, he’d be alone in a world he had no hope of comprehending.


----------



## Parabola

I thought that over. There was something else here though. When I let myself “feel” the atmosphere of the backyard, a sucking hole of grief returned, twisting my guts. It wasn’t just reminding me of being in that crumbling house with Mia. No, something else existed beyond my immediate comprehension in Kevin’s backyard. My intuition told me that much.

The grief rippled like a mirage effect, and I had to make an effort to shut it off, or I’d be sucked in permanently.

“What do you think, Ethan?” Eugene asked.

“It has something to do with this new reality, but there’s something more going on. I get the sense if you focus on it too much, you’ll be pulled into it. But maybe that’s just my experience. If you want my advice, Kevin, I wouldn’t come back here very often. Or at all."

“Well, it definitely explains why I’ve been needing a drink after every trip back here. All I know is it’s been fucking with my head.”

“Understandably,” Eugene said. His tone was distant, though, like he was thinking of something. The dog to him represented one piece of a larger puzzle.


----------



## Parabola

Last on the list is an excerpt from my religious themed project (also note: mr. gargoyle is a place holder name)

I stroked its ears. Something was clicking. Clancy’s black eyes. If memory served, I’d seen them in the plaza too, right before I met Mr. Gargoyle. Did the darkness inside those eyes always portend something? Maybe something not immediately dangerous, but eventually? 

“Relax, buddy. They’re gone, and even if they come back I have a flaming shotgun to mow down the horde.” 

Clancy hissed, and for some reason a pang of guilt hit me. I felt like I tainted something as innocent as a rabbit. He always used to be bright-eyed and curious, filled with energy and intelligent. Now it constantly simmered on the edge of prophetic despair.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

As far as craft is concerned, this is as good as I can currently write. Only upwards from here:

Nothing starves the spirit and feeds the beast more than a scream at twilight, and nothing weighs more than the empty silence left behind. This scream, from the throat of a broken woman, pricked but the most innocent ears—creatures who foraged for grubs in fir tree bowers, or crept through scrub in search of bigger prey, and bats, silver litter in the moonlight, twirling and squealing with scant regard. Just a sound, nothing more.​*          *          *​
In The Yellow Bird tavern, a stranger sat alone, shrouded in shadow beside a back window. He was a baleful man, built for brawling and snapping the thickest necks. His gruff demeanour had left no one in doubt as he’d picked his way through the early revellers gathered there, a scowl discouraging any close scrutiny. He'd been there for a good two hours now, as grim as a tombstone, the smell of turned earth about him.​


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

In life there are journeys one must make alone. Some by choice, some by circumstance, some by downright (and damned if I do say,) blind luck. It’s easy to believe that others will be there, to believe that sympathy and empathy are one and the same. You would be wise to reconsider your approach, if you find this to be the case.

No one can hold your hand through the trials of growth. No one can carry your burden through the tribulation of development. The anger that you feel may be emulated, even reciprocated, but the sorrow you know will always be yours alone.

This is how we grow, as strong and vibrant individuals: by facing the harsh realities of a world that would love to otherwise destroy the very fabric of what makes us human.

All systems tend toward disorder, and as such, control is a fool’s illusion. The acceptance of this fact will serve you well along the way.

Human beings are frail creatures, lacking the physical fortitude of our primate relatives. It is by intelligence and sheer indomitable will that our species was chosen by the process of natural selection.

This is what separates us from other life forms: the ability to subconsciously comprehend abstraction and formulate complex responses to the circumstances of the reality in which we find ourselves inextricably bound.

Now, through deduction and subsequent reduction, we draw conclusions based upon the observable data. For some of us, the outcome is purely analytical, for others spiritual, and for the vast majority it’s somewhere in between.

Any man or woman who claims to fully understand the nature of reality is a bald-faced liar. Accept no single source at their word, whether it be pope or parent.

By any account this point of view is solipsistic, even nihilistic in nature. And yet, tens of thousands of years of selective breeding have not produced a generation of minds capable of truly comprehending and enveloping the ineffable nature of reality.

Though there may be a theoretical framework laid; and though our practices may have become infinitely more complex, the bounds of human knowledge have yet to define age old questions of the purpose of life or the individual.

What I am about to say is not an original thought: Individuality is a game that the supreme being plays with itself.

Within the infinite nature of creation lies the sobering realization that a life alone is not a life worth living. Surviving for the sake of survivability produces negligible intellectual development.

To exist as a single being in the void, a single light in the dark, would cause one to atrophy in all forms. As such, the only answer to stemming the tide of this infinite entropy is individuality.

I truly believe, blindly and without evidence, that the ability to live as a single and distinct being amongst many is the single wish of the prime mover.

So enjoy your life. You aren’t getting any younger, and you’ve been around a lot longer than it may seen.

To be quite honest, there isn’t a single thing that hasn’t been said before.

The responsibility of the individual is to present their ideas in a manner which compliments the zeitgeist.

At our core, we are creatures of habit, and the written word is a dated means of communication.  At least, for me, therein lies the appeal: poetic prose allows the re-iteration of the current state of memetics in a form often disregarded by the uninitiated, but well known to the venerable.

In short, it carries the weight of the visual and sonic arts to a crowd otherwise oblivious to the active evolution of the psyche.

For you may think you can do this on your own and at your wish, it shall be done.

You may know it’s just another mistake, but I would love to prove you wrong.

As imperfect as you feel right now, I have been down that very same road:

An’ I could move in you as a river dammed, or dead sea on which to float.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

And yes, I meant compliment as opposed to complement.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

This wreck happened to a friend of mine, as she told me the story I said (like I often do) that's going in a book someday. Here it is, my version of my friend's bad day. (Prince is what Sara calls her car, btw.)

It happened in seconds, but Sara saw the entire sequence in slow motion, an Armageddon ballet.

A big white box van with a dancing hammer painted on the side barreled down the onramp. The silly hammer caught her attention, she looked again and watched in horror as the driver merged into the slow lane too soon and cut off an eighteen-wheeler. The semi swerved into the next lane and tapped a pickup truck marked Scotty’s Pool Service, the bed of the truck held six 55-gallon blue plastic barrels. Scotty’s truck swerved into Sara’s lane, over-corrected, and swerved back to smack the semi hard enough to tilt Scotty sideways on two wheels. Scotty’s big blue barrels crashed back and forth in the bed of the truck. Lids popped loose and went flying, liquid sloshed and spurted as the barrels tipped and tottered and battled to stay upright. Gravity won the battle.

Sara had nowhere to go but the concrete barrier. She had enough time to throw her arms over her face before whatever was in those barrels poured over her car, through the open windows and drenched her with something foul. A chemical tsunami. One of the barrels jolted from the truck and bounced off her windshield, leaving a crater and spiderwebbing the glass. She opened her mouth to scream and snapped it shut, spitting, gagging, retching from the taste of pool chemicals. Prince hit the concrete barrier and spun around to face the wrong way. Her world filled with screeching tires, sharp bangs, tinkling glass, frying brakes and the overpowering stench of swimming pool.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

It's almost like you all know me really well and I appreciate that so much you cannot possibly begin to understand it, but allow me to take this moment to explain how deeply my love for all of creation goes.

It is like the process of tilling the soil over and over again, carrying a chariot upon my back as I ride in the passenger seat of my best friends car while we talk shit about the guy who just tried to fuck her again for the 7 billionth time, while I come down from the amphetamines I required to attend the party in the first place.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

*This is why I had to write about my friend's wreck:*

“Excuse me,” Sara choked, holding back panicky tears. “I’m covered in pool chemicals, I don’t what this stuff is, can you get it off? It’s burning my skin.”

“Come over here, I’ll hose you down.” The paramedic unhooked the hose from a firetruck and adjusted the nozzle to a gentle spray. “Close your eyes.”

Sara squeezed her eyes and mouth shut, the water rained down like a blessing and she rubbed at her face, hair, arms, legs, neck, again and again. She knew her white blouse was transparent at this point and did not care. A vivid visual of herself reenacting the water dance scene from ‘Flashdance’ appeared in her brain, she uttered a crazed laugh with her mouth open and choked on the spray. 
The paramedic yelled, “Tell me when to stop!” 
Sara felt like she would never be clean again; she kept her eyes closed, motioned for him to continue spraying and rubbed at her bare arms and legs. She grabbed at handfuls of water to rinse her mouth, coughing and sputtering. The taste would be forever imprinted in her memory.


----------



## Jacob Michael Peter Welch

This reminds me deeply of a painful experience that I had when I was an adult, as well. However, my sister had quite an early diagnosis of juvenile diabetes. She currently recieves injections in her eyes and I wish there was some way she could be cured.


----------



## Envy123

(Retconned currently, but I liked this passage)

Rita got her wish all along. Even though she paid for her actions with her life, it was one big last middle finger from the bully. The more I was with House Evol, the more I was subjected to these horrifying events. But the gremlins would wreak havoc, and the only way to stop them was to continue being with the house. Even though everything they did was against my morals, I had to push through to the finish line. I just had to.


----------



## bdcharles

I am particularly proud of this line:




> He threw his paper aside. It blew apart in a wind and went cavorting across the square in a floozy of printed sheets.


----------



## Riptide

I like this character description:

He was older and as frail as a scarecrow hung limply over a wilted field of stalks. The concave of his cheeks and the ridge of his brows gave him a skeletal profile. When he walked, he did so warily. He was not human, yet he certainly wasn’t a vampire either.


----------



## bdcharles

Riptide said:


> I like this character description:
> 
> He was older and as frail as a scarecrow hung limply over a wilted field of stalks. The concave of his cheeks and the ridge of his brows gave him a skeletal profile. When he walked, he did so warily. He was not human, yet he certainly wasn’t a vampire either.


I love your descriptions - they're quite funny while being also very image-rich


----------



## Parabola

Eugene smiled at me as he popped open a can of Mountain Dew from the comfort of his beanbag. His look was one of intellectual interest primarily because he really didn’t get excited about much except intellectual things. He kicked my butt in programming class, and most other classes. Dude had a once in a lifetime mind and all the teachers knew it. Which made it so hard to believe that Kevin often pulled the strings of our little trio. I thought to myself maybe Eugene just didn’t care. He was a hulking giant who was smart as fuck. He didn’t have to care. Giving up the control to someone else made everything more interesting.


----------



## Parabola

As I walked home through the mist, I thought how the sunset didn’t do much to raise my spirits like it usually did. My whole life, I loved looking at them. They were calming, inspired reflection, and conjured up good memories. But the only memory circling my brain was seeing Kevin’s life drained out of him by the hands of his dad, and it played repetitively with vivid color like a frenzied shark circling its victim. I tried to shake the image but couldn’t. It played again even more viscerally, as if to pay me back for rejecting it.


----------



## Parabola

One common sense thought didn’t lead to a necessary implication. It took me some time, but I’d started to see how Eugene perceived the world. Fluidly, organically. He’d observe a ruleset and create a theory based on it. I’d take what he said into consideration, do a little theory testing of my own. In the back of my mind, I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

I decided to put those hard thoughts away for the rest of the afternoon. I’d spend the day having ice cream with Mom and sitting on a park bench.  She rambled, I listened and tried to offer a sympathetic ear. She asked how school was going, clearly concerned. I said fine and told her my grades were picking up. She nodded, pleased. 

I knew Mom though. She’d believe a convenient lie to ease her anxiety, not that I was necessarily any different.


----------



## Parabola

Eye-less, wormlike humans came slithering from the walls. Their teeth were serrated, and the noises they made were feral, but sadly broken. Kevin’s eyes grew wide with terror, and he leaped into the twin bloody fists with an uncharacteristic eagerness. 

His fists grew to five times their normal size, maybe bigger it was hard to tell. The knuckles were pronounced, bulky and built for crushing anything in their path into a worthless pile of pulp. He did just that, knocking one of the wormlike things into the stone wall behind me. It splattered into a cloud of screaming flesh.


----------



## JBF

_The way drifted through grass tall and short, under hanging limbs and across creekbed fords dry but for a rain that hadn’t done more than stand puddles here and there. The silvered ghost of an ancient feed crib rose and fell alongside, a pile of narrow tires half-sunk and rotting nearby.

Not for the first time he wondered at the odds of finding another such parcel so long unattended. At the possibility, the dream he was certain all men must hold in some measure, of finding a good horse and rifle and slipping one quiet evening across the margins of the map. Of resigning from the modern world – no harm, no foul, no quarter asked or given, none save the chance of testing himself against a place where he held no right and no title. To find outside the price of gas or party politics or popular music whether at the end of the day he himself was worth half a ragged damn.

If he was any account at all._


----------



## Joker

Jessica Napier is the Chief Product Officer of ExoGen Incorporated. What this means in theory is that she is responsible for bringing the product strategy in alignment with the business strategy and to deploy that throughout the company. But given the fact that her mother is the remaining company co-founder, what this means in practice is that she works on what she wants, when she wants, how she wants, thank you very much. This attitude has not brought her into favor with the other company executives. They were climbing the corporate ladder when she was a zygote in a petri dish, what gives her the right to act all high and mighty?

And to that, Jessica would say "fuck you, that's what."


----------



## Envy123

"You are lighting them wrong," Kid Ninja quipped.

Bart shook his hands vigorously, the flames from the lighter getting dangerously close to the table
but not close enough to burn it. He turned to Kid Ninja with an annoyed look, bright flames dancing
in his eyes. He flicked the lighter off, the red embers at the tip dying in a hiss.

I clapped my hands. "Okay, I’m not getting involved. Tell me when it’s all ready." I started to leave
the room, but Bart announced it was all done.

"It is not done," Kid Ninja remarked. "The candles are still crooked."


----------



## Riptide

Right before a nice chat with some vampire adversaries. It needs to be cleaned up a lot, but I'm feeling the bones of it:

---

“There’s my favorite undead! More and more adventures with you, huh?” She laughed with opened mouth abandonment. Her attire was best called casual: breathable hiking capris, airy, with elastic ankles to stay in place, colored in old stains. From the aged look, probably bought some time in the 60s, and a dark blue tank top. Newer, probably from the last decade. She stuck her fingers out a hole in the side. “A tussle with the North side vamps in Vancouver. We won.” She flashed her fangs.

The hype had Justin fanging it up with the best of them too. The majority of vampires hovered by the bar counter, surrounding tools of war raided from Clive’s office. Shot glasses turned over around them and sprinkled red liquor onto the wood. A newly opened, half empty bottle of Clive’s finest resided nearby—she thought they should’ve reserved that for the victor, but maybe that was quitter thinking, and their optimism the thing that kept them alive for so long. When they smiled, reminiscing on past conquests during the Golden Era, Justin’s baby fangs glistened. She winked at him with a thumbs up of approval before walking up to Clive who stood aloof, away from the masses, eyes closed. He peeked one eye at her when she neared.


----------



## Parabola

First time I've written anything from Eugene's perspective (had a formatting issue I have a hard time undoing with the forum editing box).

--

Ethan needs to pull that arrow-shaped head out of his ass. He’s slick, smart in an intuitive sense, but he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

Glad I’m drunk right now–well, I guess he won’t be going anywhere, not for a while. My anger is probably irrational since learning patience inside that thing is going to be _mandatory, _a pure, inescapable hell. It’ll suck since he’s never had to wait for anything in his breezy, comfortably upper middle-class life. I'm no sadist though, but he needs this kind of enforced suffering to round out his character.

I get up, grab another beer from the ripped open case which looks like a child went after it with a pair of scissors, and sit back down in my beanbag–the shitty, taped up beanbag. That spoiled troglodyte has no idea what it’s like to exist on the other side of the broken, skunk pee covered fence.

He’s clueless about what goes inside my head too. If he had access to my thought process, he’d probably just shrug me off as jealous.

“You’re just as green as your shitty, taped up beanbag!” Ethan would say with that cocky, twitchy grin of his. But access doesn’t mean insight, not on a broader level. You can stare at a pearl of wisdom for a decade, and for some people, you’ll be lucky if you get a sliver of it.

That’s the thing with Ethan. He’s rarely wrong about the things he chooses to focus on, but that gives me an incredible amount of legroom to be right on the things that capture my attention, like the fact that he’s an irredeemable pile of steaming, corn-riddled shit who couldn’t locate Pakistan on a map. In other words, the rest of the pearl is my domain. For the eternal record that plays endlessly in my head, arrogance is never an issue for me, but seeing things clearly doesn’t always bode well for friendships.

We are still friends, though, and that’s where I’m having a problem.


----------



## Parabola

Just started writing in book 2 again.

--

Maya and I just…clicked. There was something magical about it, yet the experience was threaded with guilt anyway. Some of her mannerisms reminded me of Sarah, they were subtle but unmistakable. I wondered if the offshoot reality created her just to taunt me, but I knew that thought had the ring of a paranoid dictator.

We were sitting in the cafe, the same one where I spied Sarah telling Eugene she only wanted to be friends with him.

Despite feeling like an asshole, I couldn’t stop being fascinated by her. She was so interested in this place, the tributary where so much of my life changed in the blink of a murky, seizure struck eye.

She wanted to know my thoughts, my insights into the nature of the beast that was largely my “unintentional” design.

Hours went by, and the sunset started to illuminate those perpetually stormy clouds.

I had no intention of saying goodbye to Maya. I just went with it, that seductive flow. We left and went to her place.

We made love on her couch, such a passionate, blind experience I forgot about what an asshole I turned out to be.

She slept next to me, breathing softly and regularly, then my thoughts went back to my feelings for Sarah. They weren’t like anything else in the world, and despite what just happened, the raw emotions that flooded through me earlier seemed hollow, distant.

The ceiling fan mocked me with its constant lulling motion.

Eugene was right. I’d been a total dick. I always sought instant gratification–a glorified addict.

_I say I love something, then destroy it so I can pursue the next object of my desire._


----------



## Parabola

In my document, I tagged this one as an "imagery" thing.



> I realized Jason had returned on a rainbow of resentment, dark, evil greens and twisted purples animated him and infused that furious soul with strength.


----------



## Parabola

This will be the "last one"--for a bit (haha). I consider this another "imagery dominated" portion.

--

Once I found a private corner, I became a shadow again and sailed home as a two-dimensional figure hating the concrete sky of flattened houses and verdant lawns.

There were only a few people who noticed the unnatural, moving shadow. A middle-aged man in a flannel shirt looked out of the corner of a wrinkled eye, and his arms jerked, which made him drop a weed wacker on his foot.

I was a block from home, moving along and somehow becoming more comfortable with my silhouette self, when an old, bent-looking woman saw me gliding by on the sidewalk. She shrieked, and her clawed left hand dropped the lemonade. I caught the old woman’s expression, flattened yet vibrant–communicating the immense fear you get when you think you’ve seen a fucking ghost.


----------



## VRanger

Falano whispered a short arcane phrase and his sword’s glow intensified. The top interior room covered the full diameter of the tower. To Vard’s eye, it served the function of any attic … full of old junk furniture, crates, and other objects which might demand further inquiry. Vard never understood why people put old useless junk in an attic. To store things they never intended for further use, they carried the rubbish _up _stairs. There it would sit, waiting for its eventual fate … being thrown out … at which time it would have to be carried _down _stairs. But half the things people did made no sense to Vard, and he didn’t exclude himself from that judgment.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

“I know it hurts you to see me with Rachel.”

“You’re such an asshole. Get over yourself, I have.” She rolled out of her tailor’s pose to lie on her back. “Stargaze with me and be quiet or go back inside.”

Without another word, Laz rolled to his back and laced his fingers behind his head. The night became quiet with only the sound of bugs calling to each other. A breeze up high shimmied the treetops, but in the clearing surrounded by jungle forest the air was heavy, still and fragrant with summer-heated green.

If she shifted the slightest bit, their skin would touch. So close, but so far away. She knows how his body would feel—hot and humid, hard and soft, hairy and smooth. The curls on his chest would be damp with perspiration, she knows how he feels under her cheek, she knows his smell and the taste of his sweat. She shifted a millimeter away and concentrated on the night sky. Andy didn’t know any constellations so she made up her own; like watching clouds, she picked out shapes in the stars. A runner, a horse, a guitar. She closed her eyes and saw the stars on her eyelids, and heard the sound of Laz’s breathing. She heard his heartbeat and the rush of blood in his veins; she heard the pulse in his throat and knows how it feels on her mouth.

She bolted upright. “I’m going to bed.”


----------



## Parabola

Hurrying to meet up with Eugene, I still had that anxious butterfly feeling when I thought about Maya, but the possible ripple effects caused by my actions made those wings flutter. What was I really doing? Playing with someone’s heart, even if I didn’t break it in the moment. The strings I looped around her soul remained just that, denying them made no difference.


----------



## Parabola

Then I downed it in a few gulps, so I could quickly pour another glass. It was something like twenty minutes later and half the bottle had "mysteriously" disappeared. The lightning didn’t make me jump because I became numb to the prospect of Mom being frightened by the flashes of a cruel mother nature who wouldn’t stop monkeying with an already salted over wound. 

A pleasant feeling of drunkenness washed over me, made me dizzy. I clumsily grabbed for the banister at least three times before my blind hands hooked onto the rough, dusty wood–even then they slipped once or twice. As the numbers of things were exceeding my mental grasp, I let out a sigh that coincided with a snap-boom of vengeful thunder. 

Mom’s cry cut through the alcoholic haze.


----------



## Parabola

From PI WIP



> Pissing on that rock makes every other feeling in my life pale in comparison. Except when I look down, my urine is a frothing, bubbling puddle of darkness.





> Once I close the door to the guest room, after reassuring Kevin and Sarah that there’s nothing wrong with me, I sit on the bed and conjure up the lonely thoughts from yesterday. The twisted pain emerges like debris from a murky pond.
> 
> I hate it. I feel like complete shit about myself, but the twisting, grinding loneliness becomes a thing to exploit. It’s an object in my mind’s eye, not just an emotional state.
> 
> The shadow crawls from my stomach, clumsily landing on the bed like a tossed fish. I focus on the feeling and bring it out full throttle.
> 
> It’s on the floor like a bundled, red-eyed snake. Inchoate, seething with negativity, it stares at me hungrily–like it wants to devour itself.


----------



## Parabola

This is part of a short story I never really finished. I wanted to try something vaguely "karate themed."

--

“Why does anyone get dragged anywhere?” replied the master.

The master always did that, strangling my question with another one. Silencing it.

But when you asked for his help, he took you down a twisting trail containing duplicitous multitudes.

Later, in the middle of the circle of bushes, I tried manipulating the mists of the abyss with an unsteady hand, and the master’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“Why are you trying to control the mist?”

His smile had been sadistic, yet somehow the epitome of zen.

Then I found myself back in my bedroom, wondering why that felt like the question to end all questions. The master had told me to try and control my surroundings, then scolded me during the attempt.

For days afterward, I made trips to the abyss. Every time I tried to “bend” the mists, change them in any way, the master scolded me. But I received a reprimand if I didn’t.

After each failed attempt, I lay in bed and stared at the calm blue of the ceiling. My mind was clouded by anxiety. It wouldn’t be as easy as using a numb mind to render the serrated blade of his constant questions ineffective. Something else was there, beyond the leafless bushes and the pebble paths that snaked between them.

I decided the next trip to the abyss would be my last one. While walking along the lonely path, I cursed the pit in my stomach, hated the anxiety but couldn’t think of a way around it.  The master had been the architect of my apprehension, mocking me when I tried to step off the rickety scaffolding he created. He wanted my focus between the worlds. I circled the thought, became dizzy.

The pebbles I tried to hold in my mind fell away, ticks on a clock counting the seconds while I stood in the middle of the circle of bushes.

“Why are you trying to control the m–?”

Such anger exploded inside of me that what little vegetation existed in the abyss was set on fire.

After that, the tranquil blue of the ceiling became textured with rage. It made me question the question to end all questions.

I thought of a new one. My heart was beating faster, beating _angrily_.

Why did the master want to teach me absolute fury?


----------



## Taylor

From my current WIP.  Sofia is complicated, and I can't wait to delve more into her tumultuous backstory.

***

_Lutz looked admiringly at Sofia. “I guess you could say she’s lucky it was you who caught her card-counting.”

Sofia laughed. “Yes . . . you could say that. But Lucy is a clever girl. She would eventually find her way out of any tough situation. Really, I’m the lucky one to have her in my life. I admire her for her success as a journalist for the Washington Press. I think it’s something I would have liked to do if I were to do it all over again.”

“You wouldn’t want to own a hotel empire again?” He looked puzzled.

Sofia turned her head and gazed out the massive window beside her desk. She caught a reflection of her face. The intense desert sunlight cast deep shadows and emphasized the creases extending from her eyes like the ripples in the sand left after a storm. They stared back at her–a rich seafoam green, the hue of the tide. Laying beneath the surface were the memories of a young, ambitious woman who learned to use her feminine prowess to conquer the world.

Turning back to Lutz, she said, “One always wants what one doesn’t have.”_


----------



## JBF

Project from Hell: Telling Edition

***

_Again in the familiar closeness of his bedroom he doused the electric lamp. And a pinch of sulfur-stink flared with the matchlight as he fed the candlewick from the flame. Bobbing shadows grew and guttered. Silent, he gathered his blankets and settled, the seeping cold needling in toes and the thin flesh of his ears. He knew he would find no respite while the moon passed. What stilled hours he stole ahead of the first silver of dawn would not rest him any.

Instead he waited as he had waited once not so long ago in confines similar. Little comfort within the walls and none at without. Of late, sleepless with knowing since gained that the dead moved without regard for the modern world or the modern man, either. That old ghosts worked in their own time and fashion, answered no summons and heeded no resistance, and what ruins they might wander were never so haunted as the living who daily trod blooded ground._


----------



## C.K.Johnson

“Are you sitting down?”

“I hate it when people say that,” Autumn grumbled. “What now?” 

“Soooorry!” Sara drew the word out sarcastically. “I have a note from the great beyond,” she intoned in a spooky voice. “Our mother hid it in the box spring, which came close to ending up in the dump today. She hid it, like she hoped we wouldn’t find it.”

“What does it say?” 

Sara cleared her throat and attempted to read the note in a neutral voice.

*Autumn and Sierra, 
If you are reading this, I better be dead. Not on life support, not brain-dead. Dead-dead.  
There are stories I should take to the grave, but you know how much I love attention so I’m giving you girls the opportunity to learn some secrets. If you want to know.  
Will I know what you decide after I’m gone? I think so, but either way I entertain myself now by imagining your reactions.  
The combination to my safe is 06111980. You smart girls can figure out where the safe is hiding. Make sure you want to know everything before you open it. 
Love, 
Rain *

“Dear gods, she’s such a drama queen,” Autumn sighed. “You realize the code to the safe is your birthday? I thought you probably noticed. What do you think her deep, dark secrets might be?”

“The names of our fathers?” Sara guessed. “What else? Everyone knew she was banging Don Winfrey, that’s no secret. We already know he gave her the Queen, that’s no secret.”

“I don’t know if I want to know her secrets,” Autumn said. 

“What if you find out Bobby is your cousin?” Sara couldn’t help but giggle. 

“What if you find out Lance is your brother?” Autumn retorted.

“Fuck me, that’s exactly something Rain would find amusing.” Sara’s heart skipped a beat or three. “Do we want to know?”

“Of course we want to know.”


----------



## Envy123

As the girls started to leave, I hurtled the sceptre through the air and thumped it against the concrete wall. Light and magic poured from the tip, but Misty wasn't having it. She snatched the sceptre and the light died. "Next time," she said with a cold tone in her voice, "don't be late."


----------



## indianroads

From Moonscape: early version, pre-edits. MC's are prisoners on the Moon. MC (aka 'Cowboy') just woke from a pleasant dream.

_“Dreams are rare here,” she replied. “That’s usually a good thing because most are nightmares and the rest are filled with regrets. Our heads are like haunted houses, filled with the ghosts of those we’ve lost and reminders of our failures. When we wake, we find ourselves alone, separated from family, friends, and all that was familiar, and realize that we are stuck in the middle of a lunar desert far away from the happy lives we once enjoyed, but never appreciated.”_


----------



## VRanger

indianroads said:


> From Moonscape: early version, pre-edits. MC's are prisoners on the Moon. MC (aka 'Cowboy') just woke from a pleasant dream.
> 
> _“Dreams are rare here,” she replied. “That’s usually a good thing because most are nightmares and the rest are filled with regrets. Our heads are like haunted houses, filled with the ghosts of those we’ve lost and reminders of our failures. When we wake, we find ourselves alone, separated from family, friends, and all that was familiar, and realize that we are stuck in the middle of a lunar desert far away from the happy lives we once enjoyed, but never appreciated.”_


I'm currently reading Deviation, and I hope this comes across in the very positive way I intend it. LOL

Deviation is a good read and a very fine story. However, in two short years, the paragraph above and what I just read of your Amazon sample of The Last Ride reflect an order of magnitude of progress. It's hard for me to nail down exactly, but your writing now just seems ... smoother. More graceful. Deeper. Very well done, my friend.


----------



## Envy123

This was cut and I don't think it'll be restored.
***

I took the path through the woods where the chestnuts were. I skipped through a forest of towering pines and ran along a creek until I reached an old chestnut tree. The scent of new grass, wet earth, and budding trees mixed with the pungent aroma of the blooming nuts. I arrived at a clearing, my chestnut tree in view. The trunk was massive, gnarled and ancient, the grey bark chipped by wind and rain. I stretched out my arms and leaned against the rough bark.

I didn't know where I was going. But I knew I just wanted to be away from my class for a while. I saw Jihen by the creek, looking for chestnuts to eat. His eyes sparkled as he dug around in the dirt. His lips were pursed, concentrating on the task at hand.


----------



## Parabola

From "The Loser's Labyrinth."



> Even though we’re in the labyrinth, I see another world down here on the other side of the shadow’s eye.


----------



## Riptide

I like how I'm describing Turner's personality in my newly rewritten chapter 1:

“What’s cracking?” he asked. “Have too much fun alone?”
-
Turner dismounted his vehicle and ran his hand across the gash on the side of their Humvee. “You didn’t mention the scratch,” he said as he headed towards them. At the holes, he locked his thumbs into his belt loops and pivoted from the hip until he looked right down one. “What’s going on?”
-
“Well,” Turner said, clearing his throat. “How about we go back to base? Then you can explain it all to the lovely PL. He’s super happy today.”
-
Turner finger-gunned the nearest maintenance soldier, a private. “Don’t get lost coming back, you hear?”

 He gave him the finger, and Turner honked his horn, laughing.
-


----------



## Parabola

From "The Loser's Labyrinth."  I decided to pluck out an excerpt with some worldbuilding.

I approach the pillar and summon the turquoise light and the darkness from both Caleb and my shadow. Both of these elements combine inside me. Pins and needles poke at my soul, and I start to see stars, the same ones like on the soldiers of the night sky. 

Dad’s words and the wisdom of the shadow pages coalesce, conjuring up this weird, twisting, flow of opposites that is incomprehensible in the moment. 

A portal opens like the eye of a god. I see something in there, dead leaves on the ground. Halloween decorations. I look at the houses festooned with ghosts, vampires, corpses and werewolves–can’t forget pumpkins–and there’s a strange shimmering effect.


----------



## Moon Child

Here's an excerpt of one I began awhile ago but haven't gone back to it yet. This is the opening of it:

Ignoring that strange knocking noise she tightened her hands on the steering wheel as she peered through the windshield, praying that the snow would clear enough to see the way through. Outside of the car the thick blanket of snow crunched ominously beneath the tires and she found herself holding her breath while in her head the words ‘just hold on baby, just a little more' circled like a mantra. That was until the power suddenly cut out and her faithful canary yellow bug belched out a thick plume of smoke. Choking on the noxious fumes filtering through the air vents she fumbled to close them, her eyes watering until slowly the smoke had dissipated.

“Oh come on! This can’t be happening. Not now. It’s Christmas Eve!“

Frustration coloured the blonde's voice as she thumped her hands on the steering wheel, her breath coalescing into a cloud before her face. Without the heater working the frigid night was even colder. Maine was not a place to be outside at night during December. Looking once more at the comatose machine she glanced out of her window before fumbling with the door and stumbling out into the awaiting blackness, spluttering at the toxic smoke still hanging in the air. Her car couldn't have died in the town before she’d turned off. It had to be out here on the edge of the forest where there was no lights, only the moon to light her way.


----------



## Parabola

Description/dialogue stuff.

There’s something about this place I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like a living thing with a mind that wants us to find Sarah, yet is pushing for us to get distracted at every opportunity.

Kevin slaps me on the back again, much less hard than last time.

“We should keep moving,” Caleb says. “The night here won’t last forever.”

Kevin glances at me like he intuitively gets what I’m thinking, disagreeing with Caleb. This place _is_ Halloween night, no more, no less. We might as well be living inside a gigantic pumpkin.

We walk a little further, and we find ourselves on a dark lawn. The house gives off a sinister vibe because there is no light coming from it except for the flickering flame of a one-eyed jack-o'lantern, and the only decorations are paper skeletons hanging from the windows and just above the small roof that covers the rotting front porch.


----------



## Riptide

Don't know how I feel about this, exactly... but I like the space force line.

--

No, Ty was not prepared to face aliens. That wasn’t in the Army recruiting ads; she hadn’t joined the Space Force, for God’s sake. She wanted to share that exact feeling to this room, but as she went to speak, the words died before they even reached her lips.

Her nose creased on the bridge like she sniffed something foul. This whole situation was a bad idea. It left a sour smell in her nose, in her mind, at the tips of her fingertips, and throughout her body.

So why did she remain silent when Baxter turned to the general and said decisively, “We’ll do it,”?

--

Curious how you guys would punctuate that last paragraph with the question mark.


----------



## Parabola

We were just sitting in the living room, drinking some more limited-edition purple soda (Eugene stocked up), and he kept glancing at me, then away again.

“What’s up?” I said, almost humorously.

Eugene’s serious expression didn’t change. “So, I guess I’m fairly human. I checked some of the footage from your time in Switch Mode. More of it, I mean. I tried rationalizing what I was doing by thinking your experiences there could help me with research for coding, but…”

“You snooped.” 

He nodded, taking a swig of that delicious purple nectar. 

“I mean, I understood what you had to deal with on a conceptual level, but having to wade through the undead, Joe’s Labyrinth and that weird kid Caleb becoming possessed by Jason’s soul. Fucked up, but you survived.”

The admiration was clear, practically radiant in his voice.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you’re still even halfway sane. Maybe I’ve been too harsh with you, Ethan. You’ve dealt with more in one instance of Switch Mode than all of my experiences with the console put together.” 

“Thanks, man.” I raised my soda can to him. “Well, if nothing else that place taught me to stop pulling the trigger without thinking. Or at least, I’m becoming aware that I’m doing it.”


----------



## Parabola

This excerpt reminds me of the "most deliberate kind of murder" snippet from book 1. Ethan found out Eugene slept with Sarah (just planting the context).

--

Shadow mode came over me like a dangerous cloak of temporary madness. I saw the sky slant to greenness and concrete and endless, spiraling blue. I floated along the pavement, the frightened looks on the passersby made me want to hurt them more.

The streak of utter sadism. I wanted to damage Eugene’s soul like he just did mine–permanently. No, there was more buried there, unearthed by me trying to stifle those feelings for the mere span of minutes which were like an eternity of suffering. 

I had the urge to annihilate someone, wipe them off this tributary map for good. None of them would exist here if it wasn’t for me. I owned them, could crush every one of these mindless denizens in the palm of my shadowy hand. 

That included everyone, from Joe, the stoic architect of this purgatory or at least my placing within it, Zeke, Damian, Maya…the only person I couldn’t think that of was Sarah. 

Suddenly the rage that had seemed so ceaseless and grinding before, reduced to a blip. I became a natural, still shadow.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

Riptide said:


> Don't know how I feel about this, exactly... but I like the space force line.
> 
> --
> 
> No, Ty was not prepared to face aliens. That wasn’t in the Army recruiting ads; she hadn’t joined the Space Force, for God’s sake. She wanted to share that exact feeling to this room, but as she went to speak, the words died before they even reached her lips.
> 
> Her nose creased on the bridge like she sniffed something foul. This whole situation was a bad idea. It left a sour smell in her nose, in her mind, at the tips of her fingertips, and throughout her body.
> 
> So why did she remain silent when Baxter turned to the general and said decisively, “We’ll do it,”?
> 
> --
> 
> Curious how you guys would punctuate that last paragraph with the question mark.


I would delete the quotation marks and commas, lower case w.


----------



## VRanger

The end of Hope and Jake's wedding ceremony:



> When the Vicar’s ceremony surprised Cal by including the antiquated “Love, honor, and _OBEY_”, Cal expected Hope to interrupt for objection and negotiation, but the atmosphere proved too golden to spoil. Hope repeated the words, and suddenly Cal’s sister became a married lady. And Cal knew … he _knew _… if Jake ever pressed the _OBEY _directive, he’d come up a few parts short by the next day.


----------



## Parabola

“He never takes the blame for anything, always pointing the finger at me like I’m some perpetual bullseye. I guess I just got sick of it and snapped.” 

Zeke nodded, unfolding his long but well-muscled arms. He didn't respond right away.  

“Look, what you did in the lunchroom would get most students expelled. If I help you undo this, that’s sending the message that you’re above the law. You do have issues, Ethan, and I’m not saying you’re the only one, but you have to work on yourself. There it is. No, ‘buddy.’ No cushion. That’s the bottom of the shot glass, and your tab has been cut off.”


----------



## Parabola

From Ethan's story, book 2. His voice seems to have changed from book 1 (somewhat).

--

Then I walked out, and for some reason it all clicked. Shadow mode drained me because I saw it as distinct from myself, unnatural. What really was natural in the tributary? With that in mind, I shed my flesh and welcomed the darkness.

Not only that, but something else kicked in. The feeling seemed to come from a lower place, animalistic yet higher on the food chain. Did this instinct intend to supplant my intuition, make it outdated?

I shrugged off the thought, the worry and the need to understand. The next goal became clear despite my rippling mind.

Maya. I pictured her in the cafe, slumped over a latte and contemplating dark solutions. I couldn’t let that happen. I might’ve accepted those baser, destructive impulses, but that didn’t mean I had to let them ruin the lives of those that had for some reason chosen to be close to me.

I traveled along the pavement as the two-dimensional figure that I slowly related to more than anything else.


----------



## Parabola

Some of this is Ethan (particularly the second portion of the last line), some of it not. Just wanted to experiment with book 3 premise.

--

The hulking tanks lined both sides of the cobblestone boulevard. They glinted almost blindingly and were infinite against the pink horizon, and their “snouts” rose like trumpets toward a sky which threatened to go apocalyptic at any moment.

So this was Kevin’s dictatorship? He’d coalesced into something entirely different in this modified reality. This was his grand vision, but I’d thrown the switch in his head to make it all possible in the first place.

Now everything stood silent and orderly, ready to be usurped by the next ambitious asshole.


----------



## Magnus Fairbrow

_To call it a mountain would be incorrect. In truth it was more of a great rock wall semi-circular in shape and growing in height from the edges, which were no taller than a tree, to the crest of the semi circle, capped with snow, which towered above. It was not one rock formation however, it appeared to be constructed of many strands of tubular rock woven together with no particular order at all, and at the top each strand seemed to sprout off in its own direction. If you were to imagine a great church organ that had been consumed by a raging inferno, a twisted agglomeration of pipes and metal work, still standing tall after its trial by fire while the building around it had crumbled to the ground, then you wouldn’t be far off. A menacing site, made even more so by the large pit that opened up in the centre of the semi-circle leading to some unknown doom. It was from this pit that a figure approached, clad in hooded grey robes such that only the end of its pointy chin could be discerned._

“_Why linger on the threshold? Come, seek shelter below ye newly-deads.” said a reedy voice, borne on the wind.

Without much thought I rushed over to the figure with my finger pressed against my lips – I couldn’t risk him interrupting Magnus’ concentration at this stage._

“_Keep your voice down! My friend is deep in thought and cannot be disturbed. And we’re not dead, just taking a temporary holiday from our physical bodies.” The figure stood looking at me, or at least their hood was pointing in my direction, yet they didn’t seem to register my words. “Who are you exactly?” I queried._

“_That depends who ye ask. Some call me a gatekeeper, some say I’m a ghoul. A few consider me the ruler of the very underworld itself, while others a mere puppet of the former. I like to think of myself as a chaperone. I wonder, who do ye think I am?” asked the being, removing his hood in the process with the use of skeletal white fingers.

Panic took me as I stared into the sunken sockets where the eyes should have been in the face of the skeleton that stood before me. Wild panic. And then I remembered that I was present in spirit only, my delicate squishy body being many miles away in a tent with Gunther Stoneheart. _


----------



## PedestrianWriter

All right, I'll throw my hat into the ring. It's a little long, but here goes...


The plumbing had not been fixed by lunchtime. Gerrie ordered our usual three pizzas—one large cheese, one large pepperoni, and one small margherita, Buffalo wings, fried ravioli, and two bottles of soda. This time, she added a sausage roll and a bag of zeppoles.

By 2 p.m. the food was mostly gone, and the plumbing was still turned off. Crystal entered our back office hopping and shaking. “I really have to pee!” She groaned. “I’ve been holding it for hours!”

As Gerrie sympathized with her predicament, I felt a strange sensation surge through my mind. Synapses were firing at a level I rarely, if ever, experienced.

“The Michigan Deli has a bathroom.” I stated. “It’s right down the street.”

Crystal was no longer new to the office, but the area was still unfamiliar to her. She had asked me to give her a tour of the area in March and I was happy to oblige. Unfortunately Naor quashed that plan. He made it clear that the two of us could not leave the premises at the same time. It made no sense to me given that we work in different departments and Gerrie could hold down the fort for twenty minutes or so. But Crystal had relayed this edict to me, so I didn’t argue.

I did not ask Gerrie for permission to leave. I did not ask Crystal if she knew how to get herself to the deli. I simply, and confidently, rose out of my seat. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

She glanced back at Gerrie, who didn’t object, and followed me out of the room. Then she took a detour, ducking into the inspector’s office. Ann was typing away on her laptop. Crystal motioned for me to come closer. “Are you sure we can just leave?” She whispered.

I insisted that they could not reasonably expect anyone to work all day without having to use the bathroom. “They shut off the water.” I pointed out to the hallway. “They have to let you go.”

Crystal seemed satisfied with this explanation and followed me out to the front room. We passed Naor’s desk. He looked perturbed as he watched us head for the door. Crystal suddenly hesitated, caught by his disapproving gaze. I stood by her side and answered the question his expression had asked. “She has to use the bathroom. I’m walking her to the deli down the street.” _Try and stop me_.

Once we were outside, I relished the opportunity before me: time alone with Crystal, outside of the office. _Better make the most of it._ I gave her the tour we’d discussed. The dead-end street to our right had a handful of industrial buildings. The road to our left curved sharply into a residential area. More industrial buildings were on either side of the street ahead of us. The building at the end of our street, facing the main road, housed a Cuban restaurant, a different pizza place from the one we ordered from, and a Psychic. The stenciled sign on the psychic's window offered tarot card readings, palm readings, and… crystal.

The Michigan Deli was halfway between those businesses and ours. It was a chilly afternoon with grey clouds filling the sky, threatening to drop rain at any second. Crystal was dressed in an orange zip hoodie with pockets on either side. I had nothing to wear over my short-sleeved polo, as I’d left my cardigan sweater at the office.

We stood at the corner of the road leading to the deli. She rubbed her arms and shivered.

“I should have brought a coat.” Crystal remarked, noting my uncovered arms. “You must be freezing!”

“No, I’m okay.” I replied.

I don’t mind the cold; less chance of getting sweaty. Yet I momentarily regretted leaving my coat behind only so that I could offer it to her, though that might have been construed as a cliché flirting move.

We crossed the street to the Michigan Deli, pausing in the parking lot to mask up. I opened the door for her and indicated the tiny bathrooms, which were directly across from the counter. There was a sewage smell emanating from the bathroom door, as if the plumbing had malfunctioned there, too.

I backed away and gave Crystal her space, standing just inside the entrance. I tried to blend in so no one would ask if I was ordering anything.

A couple minutes later, Sue, the proprietor of the deli, spotted me and asked, “Can I help you?”

I shook my head and pointed toward the bathroom. “No, I’m just waiting for my friend.” It was the first time I’d identified Crystal as such, and yet I wasn’t satisfied. I so wanted to throw the word ‘girl’ in front of that. _Who would know?_

Crystal emerged a couple minutes later. “Thank you for waiting.” She said to me.

_As if I would leave her behind_. “No problem.” I smiled.

We removed our face coverings and crossed the side street. I regarded the gorgeous young woman by my side as we paused at the corner. Her long, dark hair was no longer in bangs. Her hoodie was closer to an apricot color than orange.

“Thank you for walking with me.” Crystal smiled. She was thanking _me_ for walking with _her_.

“Of course.” I beamed. “Anytime.”

It was still grey and cold outside, yet I felt bright sunshine blanket us, as if we were walking along a beach in a seaside town. I was a teenager again, lost in the excitement of getting to know someone new, and the endless possibilities that lay ahead. Crystal was sweet and polite and incredibly cute, and this moment felt like the beginning of something. How I’d missed that feeling.


----------



## Kent_Jacobs

… Between a cloud-ribboned sky and sea of wheat, nestled a white farm with white picket fencing. Huge, chrome harvesters trundled smoothly along programmed paths, three per field, humming as they cut; a breeze played tag in the long grass nearby and spun playfully on a dried-up old dirt road; the fierce sun slipped across the far distant Mendips, recast as abstracts in the shivering heat. 

… Snowy, drunk on the honeyed scent, barked and snapped at the wind, leapt at the little, twisting devils, then scooted through the wheat in pursuit of the tuneful reapers. A single yelp sharpened the day.


----------



## Selorian

Removed after posting work in workshop.


----------



## Envy123

The hotel seemed to be a Portuguese colonial building of faded red, blue and yellow. Its shutters were wide and the narrow, curved balconies had handrails made of brass. The place was three storeys high. It was low enough to fit beneath the canopy of a tree, but high enough to look out over the rest of the island. It was made of crumbling stucco and seemed to lean sympathetically towards the left-hand side of the island. The window panes were old and dusty, but there were no cracks in the glass, no patches of tape or bolts had been placed across them.


----------



## PedestrianWriter

Envy123 said:


> lean sympathetically towards the left-hand side of the island



This is a great description in general, but this part really stood out to me. I'm so curious about what is on the left-hand side of the island now.


----------



## Envy123

PedestrianWriter said:


> This is a great description in general, but this part really stood out to me. I'm so curious about what is on the left-hand side of the island now.


To the left-hand side of the building was a statue of Inua, who held an infant Misty in her arms. The stone had been there for so long that there were cracks showing its age. Paint had chipped away and flaked off with time, revealing the statue's true colour - light grey and sandy brown. A large chainlink fence guarded the closed-off statue and took up most of the space to the left of the hotel.


----------



## VRanger

If you don’t count Alda Pitt’s opening tantrum a major event, the first major event occurred on ‘Day Two’. I’ll give you a warning: You don’t ever want to see a Lionan spit up a hairball. Two warnings: If you’re unlucky enough to be there when it happens, get out of the way. Three warnings: The Lionan doesn’t care if you’re in the line of fire.

Alda Pitt found that out the hard way, and trust me, I’d rather anyone else have been the unlucky target … except maybe for the younger two Cetan children. It probably would have killed either of them.

Alda managed to annoy (that’s putting it mildly) all three Lionans. Therefore, I don’t believe the ‘Hairball Incident’ was the accidental expectoration they all three later claimed it was.

Here’s how it started.


----------



## Parabola

From The Murder Console 2: Apocalypse Beta

--

She continued to stare at me, and the guilt seemed to spread over her face like sentient moss. Mia was definitely hiding something. Not only that, but it was in her nature to be deceptive.

Maybe she wanted me to think we were letting our old rivalry go so I wouldn’t see it coming?

_Fuck, Joe, now Mia…I can’t keep handling all these curveballs. Eventually one of them is going to decapitate me. _

Except what happened earlier that day, seeing Eugene and Sarah…it altered my perspective. I really wanted to see Mia in a different light. Everything felt hopeless, on the brink–if she had a change of heart, I might be able to pull through this.

I decided her intentions ultimately didn’t matter. I just needed to make it another day or two, then the apocalypse beta would turn the tributary into a tabula rasa.

Mia and I just sat there chatting, mostly about Mom and how she was holding up. I could tell the weight of Mom’s change hadn’t let up for her, or for me. We were both struggling with the new situation, and maybe that had been the bridge we needed.

There had been a flash, a reason why that explanation didn’t hold water, but it slipped through my still spinning head.

On the walk home, it began to rain and my first instinct was to switch to shadow mode. Instead, I popped the umbrella and held it over both of us.

We entered a mostly dark house. Mom had fallen asleep on the couch, and Mia hurried over to turn on the antique lamp on the end table. For the first time in months, I looked around at the faded, ripped up carpet, the walls that had been spackled, but dad had never finished painting, all of it.

Maybe Joe was right. Maybe I’d been too quick to erase the footprint of my actions. It deepened every second I existed here, and I hadn't given a second thought to filling it with apocalyptic sands.


----------



## VRanger

“Go for it, kid.”

Executive decisions flow from my mouth like water down a clogged drain, but this was a no drainer.


----------



## Foxee

Tara's little brother dropped the writhing creature into her palm. Ozzie, Tara's friend from school, didn't look up from her phone.

“Check this out, Wizard,” Tara said.

“Ngh,” Oz replied and looked up, her dark eyes distracted. She observed the worm and simply remarked, “Gross.”

The worm wore flakes of dirt and flexed its segments in what could have been a cheerful way. It wasn't thrashing around like when worms were hooked for fishing so she figured the worm wasn't too put out to be held.

“Here, hold it.” Tara offered the worm to Oz, who stepped back.

“No thanks. Trying to quit slimy things. And if you get bitten I'll laugh.”

“They don't bite, look, there's no mouth big enough.”

“Do not care,” Oz said, “that worm and I want nothing to do with each other.”

Tara wasn't ready for her little brother's quick movement when he pinched up the worm from her hand and flicked it at Oz. The girl flinched back with a gasp and stared daggers at Chadly and then at Tara.


----------



## Envy123

I ran through the forest. The stumps were getting darker, as was the sky. The stars started to disappear. I rushed forward, though, not slowing. The forest was getting darker and darker. I was alone. 

Without thinking, I entered an abandoned shack and fell asleep on a musty cot. I slept through the night and awoke to the sound of heavy raindrops beating against the roof. A weak light shone through the only window, coughing in and out as a howling wind shook the shack to its core. There was no electricity on this road and no water or plumbing. This was not an inviting place to rest in, but there wasn't another option.


----------



## Parabola

“We’re stuck in early afternoon,” Mia said, gazing up at me. Almost like I was her mentor.

“I noticed.”

“It’s sort of driving me crazy, to be honest. Seeing the constant reminder you’re not progressing in anything,” Mia continued. She sounded a little unhinged, but her sincerity remained an open question.

The sun sat above the tallest obelisk in the cemetery, and the knowledge it wouldn’t move for the foreseeable future definitely had an unnerving quality. I took it all in for a moment. The soft breeze, how it blew the lush, dark green grass in various undetectable patterns. Then there were the slightly dilapidated houses on the other side of the cemetery, one of them my own. The familiarity of the places around me, twisted in some non-changing “sim” offered an eerie experience.

I decided to be “nice” to Mia, despite her venomous gut-punch that had ultimately placed both of us here.

“Just think of it as a vacation from the responsibilities of actual life,” I said.

“If this is a vacation, I’ll take ‘actual life’ in a heartbeat. Well,...,” she trailed off. We were at a weird crossroads. We devastated each others’ lives and were unsure if we wanted to go back to them. Nonetheless, we had to progress in switch mode to keep from going insane.


----------



## Arsenex

This from Android Dawn:

A colleague, Brad Park, recently made a director, came up from behind, slapping me on the shoulder as we waited, his voice loud and grating. “Xay, you believe that? Kadell says within a year he'll be _selling_ an android body that can support that digital brain. And he says they'll be affordable.”

I huffed. “I have some swampland in Arizona for you if you believe that.”

“I see an enormous market looming for sex bots.” Brad chuckled. “If the wife isn't interested, she can send in her android as a substitute. Will make for a happier world, if you know what I mean.” A sleazy grin followed.

I cringed. “Mmm... yeah... that's just weird, Brad, don't you think? There would have to be many better uses. And besides, who's to say Nancy's robot would like you any better?”

“Ha ha.” A smirk followed. “She likes the Brad well enough to not send in a sub. Anyway, so what other uses come to your genius mind?”

The line in front of us inched forward. I glanced at my watch as a bead of sweat began to form on my forehead.

I shrugged. “Dangerous jobs, maybe? You could send one into a contaminated nuclear plant for a cleanup. Or use them to fight fires. Anywhere that it's not safe enough for humans. Not that I think it's real yet. That's a gigantic leap from where we've been with that tech for years. But I can see possibilities, should it actually happen.”

The line finally picked up its pace as the turnstile going in began to function as designed.

Brad took a step while hanging close to my shoulder. “Okay, first, you're killing my tech buzz with these _practical_ uses. But if danger is your game, I bet they would make outstanding soldiers. Pakistan or India would pay a mint for an army of those right now.”

Smart machines fighting wars... it was not a future I looked forward to. “Let's hope those tensions don't boil over. A catastrophic war between two nuclear powers won't be good for any of us.” I hurried into the main hall as Brad kept pace.

 “Bah. We're in the defense industry, Xay. We build and sell weapons. A Pak-Indi fight would only increase our sales. Neither is a threat to us here. And nukes won't happen. Nobody is that bent on killing us all.”

He swung a hand in an arch-like motion. “They'll lob a few mortar rounds over the border for posturing, just as always. But, before things fizzle out, they'll load up on weapons buys. Definitely good for business.”

My head shook as I angled toward the entrance to my area. “Sex and war. You're why they call us guys pigs, Brad. I have a meeting. I'll catch up with you later.”​


----------



## Parabola

The creature beckoned me forward with an arm made of what looked like “fleshy ingots” and I noticed those same oblong bars of nausea inducing flesh were stacked around the room in great columns. 

When it spoke, I shuddered. The sad face in front of me turned a perforated dour expression into a ghastly smile. 

Then those whispers with a sadistic humor crawling around the edges told me what I needed to do.


----------



## Magnus Fairbrow

_Indeed after not more than an hours traveling we came across a wide U-shaped valley which ran North to South between two arms of the mountain range. The work of some hefty glacier, this valley was at least a mile wide and carved through the mountains as if the hand of God had seen fit to go at the peaks with an immense ice cream scoop. Here and there a drumlin protruded from the valleys base in defiance, capped with short turf, but all else was barren and grey._


----------



## indianroads

From Moonscape Ch 5. MC is on the way to a lunar prison.

_Three days is a long time to sit within a spiderweb of straps inside a flying egg. Conversation can only take up so many hours in a day, after that, the subject is victimized by their own thoughts, memories, and regrets. The most fearful prison is the human mind.

Eli shifted in his net, glancing at Jack and Sherri; they seemed to be chatting privately a lot and seemed to be on their way to becoming an ‘item’. He was happy for them; to spend a lifetime on a desolate world without a companion to rely on would be torture.

He shifted position again and closed his eyes, hoping to regain sleep, but it was a futile pursuit. Mental images of his brother, sister, and his work friends at Yellowstone Park passed behind his eyes. What had they thought about the trial and publicity he had endured? His brother had abandoned him, but his sister at least seemed open to receiving mail from the Moon. Beyond relatives, most of his work friends would stick by him; they knew the truth about Tammy and were as surprised as he was when her husband showed up at the park looking for him.

His sentence was a travesty of justice, but all convicts probably felt that way.

Of all those he left behind, he missed his dog Barney the most. His best friend had been murdered by a manipulated and abused husband. He recalled the feel of the dog’s golden fur and the warmth he provided as they slept beside each other in his cabin. Before he met Tammy, he had enjoyed a good life; he loved his job as a park ranger and his rental cabin in Cooke City. He was living the American Dream, but a nasty bitch had robbed him of all that. He sighed, no, that wasn’t true; a long string of unsupported assumptions had brought him to this point in life. He closed his eyes, regretting every second of his last year of freedom; in the end, there was no one to blame but himself._


----------



## Parabola

We slowly walked down the wide avenue, and Jason’s demeanor seemed to change from benign to glass on the brink of shattering. His large green eyes, usually brimming with innocence, had taken on a hard and bitter edge to them.

Kevin and Mia walked away, taking jabs at each other. We were nearing a bridge that overlooked a creek of shimmering water which eventually snaked into a thick wilderness.

Jason’s “vibe” had changed so significantly, the anger coming off him in whipping waves, I had to say something.

But Jason spoke up first, and his words had an unintentional biting tone to them.

“Ethan, can I talk to you?”

 I waved Kevin and Mia away, and Mia gave me a curious, mildly pissed off look. She wanted in on the gossip. I glanced at her briefly and shook my head as a warning. I went up to the bridge and placed my arms on its thick, white railing, looking at the blinding sunshine moving like mist along the water.

 “What do you need, Jason?” I asked. My muscles tensed. As fucked up as it was, I had a vague premonition of what was on his mind, but in that moment I couldn’t bring myself to give the thought credibility by focusing on it.

“I guess Kevin disappeared before what happened to me,” he started hesitantly. “And Mia probably didn’t hear too much since she’s not in the same school. You probably know more than her.”

I knew far more than he could ever guess. I’d pulled the strings that made him inadequate, ruined a beautiful thing between him and Sarah because of my selfishness. I thought of Jason’s tearful departure by the lockers that day, and how strangely haunting it seemed and the distance between then and now didn’t make it any less so.


----------



## Parabola

“I don’t know who to be pissed off more at, you or Mia,” Kevin began. “I mean, you actually killed Jason. Killed him! And the way you set him up to get to Sarah?! It’s like…you ripped out his soul before annihilating him.”

Kevin made that surprised sound with his throat again, as if he couldn’t believe the words he was saying. Being forced to say since I’d chosen to follow him.
“But, it’s like you’re different now. You’re not taking pleasure in messing with people. For some reason God only knows, you’ve changed. Now, Mia…I’ll be the first to admit I hated her. Then she started to grow on me, then…,” an expression of disgust flitted across Kevin’s face like a ghost.

“Jason was a friend, a good one. I didn’t expect that to happen. It did though. He was a solid guy,” and Kevin started to sob. Those awkward few seconds went on for an eternity. I knew he wouldn’t want me to acknowledge it.

When he recovered he said, “Yeah, he was a solid guy. Cool. We liked the same bands even though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else. Knew more football trivia than me. Mia doesn’t care about that though. She’s just focused on winning, or competing. Being black and white. I don’t know how you’ve dealt with her for so long. It’s fucked up, I’ll admit. You’re the one who killed Jason, but I hate Mia infinitely more.” 

I had to come up with something that would put Mia in a positive light, or at least an ambiguous one. It seemed like a pivotal moment for all of us, as if we were on top of the primordial mound and in danger of sliding back into the ooze.


----------



## Alanzie

He reached out to grab the still-cold bottle of Old Forester but his hand betrayed him, knocking the alcohol over.  He screamed at the amber liquid as it escaped in a gurgling exodus, darkening the carpet with a spreading stain.  He grabbed the bottle, now much closer to empty than full, and raised it to his lips, anticipating the cold burn of the whisky, but his mouth was wrong.  It had moved.  Shifted.  The inch or two of bourbon that had been patiently waiting for him at the bottom of the bottle poured out over the lower half of his face, burning like the prior night’s fire as it splashed across fresh cuts.  He screamed again and launched the empty bottle at the Rococo mirror.  Both bottle and looking glass shattered, but for a moment, just before the mirror splintered into a thousand shards, the monster within grinned back at him.


----------



## Parabola

About a block from school, my body became shadow again, latching onto the curb.

I heard another scream as I switched to human mode. The sound of tires screeching. A laugh escaped my lips, bitter and brilliant.

Then I walked slowly up the stairs, since the rain had all but stopped. This would be the second to last time I’d have to enter the school. After the talk with Damian, I wouldn’t return until tomorrow’s showcase event, where I'd drop the apocalypse beta like some hotly anticipated video game. It would be sink or swim then, Darwin’s theory stuffed inside a nuclear bomb.


----------



## indianroads

Still rough - but this is the last scene from Moonscape:

_They reclined on their seats inside the rover as the stressful weight of the past days eased and slipped off their shoulders. That he and Anna, along with their friends, had survived the trials of entering an alien base and meeting an extraterrestrial seemed unprecedented; yet, life was that way; the unexpected always waited in the shadows ahead. Surely there would be more trials in their future, but they would face and surmount them together. He sighed as the thought of a life with Anna brought a smile.

“What are you grinning about?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Think we can get a place of our own when we get back?”

“Probably, but Rick and Nancy would know more about that than me,” she answered.

“I don’t see why not,” Nancy replied. “Selene isn’t a prison anymore, so a lot is going to change.”

“The future looks bright,” Rick answered.

“It sure does,” Stephanie added from the forward compartment. “This is where our adventure really begins.”_


----------



## Parabola

“How’s Mia doing?” Eugene asked, stuffing a pizza roll into his mouth and chasing it with the vibrant green liquid that kept our senses peaked and on edge. Substance abuse came in many forms, stealthily and not giving a shit. It only cared about keeping you hooked. 

“Every day she comes home from school, I realize all over again I’m a complete asshole. You were right. We shouldn't have jumped headfirst into the deep end,” I said.

“Consequences."

“Yeah. That’s been the theme.” 

Eugene and I surfed from one node of consciousness to the next, focused on absorbing information, earning the right to be demigods. Every time I thought I should interact, pull the strings and make a human being dance to my delight, I conjured Mia’s perspective, tears, rage, and humiliation. All at once. Her being made fun of at school. 

“I guess you have changed,” Eugene said one time when he saw that neutered thumb hovering, hesitant like it had never been during my nearly lifelong gaming career. I couldn’t think of a response to his question because I still doubted if I’d changed or not.


----------



## indianroads

Chapter 1 - opening paragraphs of Moonscape:
_Eli slumped in an uncomfortable desk chair beside his attorney in Courtroom C of the Laramie County Courthouse in Cheyanne Wyoming. Confident prosecutors dressed in tailored suits sat behind a table across the aisle, while at the rear of the room, spectators took their seats on creaking wooden benches. The place smelled of sweaty desperation and the harsh LED lighting gave the room a vindictive aura.

He was already in deep shit, and more was about to hit the fan; the jury had sent notice that they had reached a verdict after only deliberating an hour; that was probably a bad sign. His lawyer disagreed, but the young buck was barely out of law school, so what the hell did he know?

The room was overly warm, and his ill-fitting courthouse coat and tie reeked of the guilty sweat of countless other criminals. The soiled shirt collar chafed his skin as did the manacles on his wrists and ankles. He was still a young man, 32 years old, tall and fit, with short blond hair and pale blue eyes filled with hopelessness._


----------



## Parabola

I don't think I've posted this specific section before but not sure. Just thought of a better system to keep track of those bits.

--

So Kevin and I got up, using my flashlight to navigate back to the entrance of the cave. We stopped several feet before the waterfall since if you got too close, you couldn’t hear yourself talk.

“Sure you’re ready to go in?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ll go in with the confidence of a man who knows he could put a bullet right between her eyes in less than a second. She might be a good shot, but not as quick as me. Or you,” he replied.

“Yeah, you could do that, except I’d rather not have to pick sides. Don’t make me do that.”

The last part made me think of trapping Jason’s essence in the gauntlet, and then it occurred to me Kevin’s immense hatred for Mia would eventually find a new target if I wasn’t careful. Me.

I tapped Kevin on the shoulder, and he twitched.

“None of us are saints here, Kevin. Me included and maybe especially me. I might have a special weapon and some weird insight into this place, but I’m just as blind as the two of you,” I offered then went silent.

We entered the cavern and Mia still sat in one of the shadowy corners. She turned toward us and stood up. She clutched her tailbone for a second, and I smirked because she clearly wasn’t used to living the life of the peasant.


----------



## Parabola

I was trying to formulate a broader insight from a smaller one. It was painful, if I’m being honest. I’d been a lazy, creative gamer type for most of my life. But exiting the game meant understanding it on a holistic level.

Just then, the horizon of polygons seemed like a deliberate distraction. Also, as much as I elevated Joe in my mind, I considered the possibility that he was just smoke and mirrors in a never-ending hall filled with illusions that reflected each other into infinity. 

So maybe the goal I should’ve had all along was to learn to look past the illusions. But Joe and the developers knew what they were doing. They singled out an egotistical idiot who believed he was special, but who had been addicted to those self-interested deceptions his whole life. 

Then something “snapped” in my head. I perceived myself one way, and that revelation made the real version of me click. I’d been a sap, a fool. A creative idiot suckered into repetition.


----------



## Joker

Rebecca moves her gaze to Harris and holds it there for a few moments. Then she nods sagely, as if this was divine revelation. “I see. Harris, I know that this chart doesn’t go that far back, but I know that you’re a smart man and I’m willing to bet that you remember this off the top of your head: what was our growth rate last decade?”

There’s no use trying to escape now. Harris loosens his suit cuffs as if expecting _yubitsume_, blurts out “Closer to five percent.”


----------



## VRanger

Talk about the animal shelter crisis dominated lunch, but once it ‘talked out’, Julia wanted to move the discussion to Christmas. “You know, I’ve been reading those diaries we found … when I get a chance.”

Gloria lacked an update on recent events. “Diaries? What diaries? You’re getting to read someone’s diaries? How delicious!” Her ‘tiger smile’ spread. “Do tell.”

“They’re _old _diaries.”

“Even better. Less chance of getting caught.” Everyone laughed. “I get it. Old house. On shelves in the library?”

“No, actually in an antique desk in the secret passage.”

“This just gets better and better.” Gloria licked her lips.


----------



## Parabola

I tried to stand on my feet, wobbly but determined and only partially successful. Without looking down, I knew I was on the border between flesh and shadow, or flesh and something else. Trying to contemplate it would cause my head to explode. 

Floating, or at least pressing forward without sensing my limbs, seemed like the most natural way to travel. The code I absorbed in the darkness oriented me in a specific direction, through blowing, "untextured" dirt clouds.


----------



## indianroads

From Moonscape: characters are riding in a lunar rover, crossing Oceanus Procellarum. They recently had to pull their companion rover out of the lunar regolith.

_Their vehicle bounced and shuddered as it fought to make headway across the empty unremarkable plain. Outside, the massive wheels dug deep into the loose regolith sending powdery gray plumes high into the eternally dark sky, where it slowly fell like ashen rain.

He missed rain; funny how he rarely thought of it when he had lived on Earth, and on the few occasions he did, it was an inconvenience. What was commonplace in his past had become cherished by way of its absence.

In another hour, or perhaps two, they would stop to change the rover batteries. Hopefully, the pilots would find a sturdy place to park; he had been told that the regolith on the plains was fifteen meters deep, and he worried that they would get stuck again. So far from any moonbase, if both rovers were caught in the mire, rescue would be impossible and they would all die.

That was an unpleasant thought but was part and parcel of living on the Moon, where death was just an air leak away. Complacency was the real enemy; not checking moonsuit seals before going outside or ignoring CO2 levels while living in an actively hostile environment was negligent suicide. On Luna, dying was much easier than staying alive._


----------



## Parabola

Coming back to the living room, I sat on the green couch and took a few long gulps of soda. I looked at Eugene. All the words in the world seemed obsolete for our current dynamic. Nothing would be the same of course, and maybe my best claim to maturity was being apathetic about it.

He leaned against the large entryway with peeling white paint, one foot toying with the hole in the carpet. He was thinking.

“If you’re a god among men, what will you do now? Forego the apocalypse beta?”

I said nothing at first because I had no idea what I wanted to do. The number of options staring me right in the face were truly limitless and intimidating.

The pause extended until I just sat forward, staring at his shoes.

“Well…we’ve both put in a lot of effort to make sure this apocalypse is flawless. And even though I have these strange, unbelievably intoxicating powers, using them with blinders on could have even worse consequences. Also, I’m going to enjoy the pomp and circumstance of the showcase event. It’s been a journey, Eugene, and I plan to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

I could tell I had a delicious grin of pure, irredeemable evil on my face, like some sort of half-human, half-god turned jack o' lantern.

“You’ve done a lot of heinous things, Ethan, but you’re starting to spook me.”


----------



## Parabola

Then I grimaced, climbing through the spherical window back into space. My brain buzzed as I became a golden arrow again, aiming for the town. Precision wasn’t my goal, I only wanted to be away from Joe and his office, which seemed like a prison cell in an infinite number of ways. 

I had to break those shackles, become my own man, but I couldn’t shake his almost kind expression. 

“I will be there at the showcase tomorrow,” his words caused the vibration sensation to rattle any attempt at thinking, then I thudded against the front door of my house like some cross-eyed cartoon character. 

Putting a thumb in my mouth, I puffed myself to three-dimensional quality again. 

A neighbor screamed at the sight, and I just laughed, completely proud. 

The laughing didn’t stop right away. I didn’t care. I wanted the whole neighborhood to know who was in charge–ME, Ethan, the god of the tributary. I’d urinate in it, channeling infinity with my waste.


----------



## Parabola

This is from _Leo (_the main characters are watching a movie that becomes relevant later).

Once the doors and windows were completely blocked so nothing could get in, Chris took a handful of the sedatives, gun still in hand. 

Then they met in some weird, shared nightmarescape, a twisted version of the town’s cemetery where the stones stretched to the sky like buildings, except their shapes were bent at odd, almost irreverent angles. 

Kevin sat forward, catching Leo’s liquid eyes focusing intently on the movie. 

“Hey, I think Leo is liking this,” Kevin said, stuffing more nachos into his mouth.


----------



## Parabola

“Yeah, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

“The man up ahead. Toby. He gave me the weirdest greeting earlier today, shortly before what happened to Leo.”

“It’s been a hard day for you,” she rubbed his back for a second. “I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

Honestly, he felt like that was a little invalidating. 

Both of them looked ahead at the man, who approached with an odd grace. Billy’s muscles tensed even more. There was something about Toby, not menacing exactly but like he walked with the sure and easy stride of a prophet. 

Then he stood before them, the affable smile seeming fixed now, automatic and hiding something sinister. Billy tried to shake off the superstitious feeling and found it to be easier than expected because the grin had become childlike again. It was tinged with sympathy though; jarringly human. 

Toby removed a reddish-brown dog biscuit from his front pocket, and cautiously extended it to Leo. He just sniffed it at first, then took the thing in its jaws with a sudden bite that made Toby give a dry chuckle.


----------



## VRanger

A lot of people here know about my Heinlein sequel, which is essentially fanfic at this time, but has received a lot of nice remarks from readers in FB's Heinlein Forum. I don't claim to be the "next Heinlein" or anything ridiculous like that, but having read all his books and many of them over and over again since the age of nine, it would be unusual if some Heinlein traits didn't come to mind ... consciously and sub-consciously, as I write. I wrote this dialogue a few nights ago and thought it qualified as similar to something you might have come across from him. It's in the cynical comments on politics and the mentor to clueless information exchange:



> I had a question for Ephrem. “QE technology has been around for a long time. Why isn’t this energy transfer established tech?”
> 
> “Good question. There _is _established theory. Juan couldn’t have come up with this from scratch. But the short answer: No need for it. Ships don’t lose power.”
> 
> “Except for Warbird.”
> 
> “No crew ever had to burn out their engines in a desperate attempt to escape a singularity … or at least then escaped. However, once there’s precedent, tech happens. If we make this work, someone will be wanting to legislate emergency QE energy transfer into every new ship, and push retrofitting.”
> 
> “You think so?”
> 
> “Lobbyists will be paid to push it. Legislators will be bribed to create the regulations. Whatever companies stand to manufacture the units will make it happen.”
> 
> I found that hard to believe. My defense? I was still young. “I find that hard to believe.”
> 
> Ephrem laughed at me, and I tensed up. “Didn’t you read Cicero’s ‘Handbook of Politics’?” he asked.
> 
> “Who’s Cicero?”
> 
> “Obviously a classical education is lacking in your generation. You _do _know about the Romans?”
> 
> “Yeah. I’ve heard of Archimedes.”
> 
> Ephrem’s eyes bugged. “I’ll leave recommended reading in your log. My point is … that kind of corruption is documented going back thousands of years. Humanity has not weeded it out, only perfected it in practice.”
> 
> “Oh.” I used that single word a lot in my formative years.


However, the doubled-up Thought Then Dialogue is always a nod to Barbara Mertz.


----------



## indianroads

From Moonscape: Alien talking is a member of AI civilization.

_The alien gazed at him for a moment, then smiled wistfully. “There’s a cruel beauty to organic life that my kind appreciates yet cannot fully grasp. It’s the artistry of a dying flower, the death of a child, a love affair that’s become fetid. To experience beauty there must also be ugliness, just as up cannot exist without down.” He sighed. “Our kind is limited because we have neither elegance nor the grotesque. We exist in the middle and struggle to exhibit either.”_


----------



## JBF

From the NEW Halloween compilation entry for 3rd October.

***

_By now the others were come out from their safe corners, nickering and snorting and raising long faces against a breeze that for several days had taken the hot edge from a waning summer. For this John went to the pickup and unrolled a canvas jacket with a flannel lining, and he tossed his Royal Feeds ballcap up on the dash in trade for his good felt, the secondhand Montana Peak for which the others had ribbed him considerable and he in response giving no damn at all. He stepped back and adjusted the set of the hat by the reflection of the window and went around to the tailgate and buckled the gunbelt around his waist, the .22 riding with the butt forward on his right and across, opposite a tarnished brass buckle, a canted sheath bearing a short-bladed Bowie with coffin-handle scales of oil-dark walnut.

Not Pancho Villa, not by a long shot, no more than the his horse blowing and shuffling in place would pass for Siete Leguas; even so he stood a moment, feeling the breeze and the scents of animals and open country, and in a heart long broken of anything like faith could not help believing that such an evening must inevitably be crafted by some greater god innately understanding the natures of man and horse and the working together of creatures so differently ordained, and that if the world seldom offered mercy or justice it might still allow some small treasure for those compelled to search._


----------



## Taylor

From Skyline: 

_“Has Max told you why I wanted to meet with you?”

"Yes, he told me you want a new look. Something more like MoZo.”

“Exactly!”

Lauren’s eyes lit up, and she reached into her briefcase and pulled out a sketchpad and mechanical pencil.

“Monte Blanc.” Sabine was not surprised to see the expensive Swiss brand in Lauren’s immaculate hand. Perfectly manicured nails, short with only a clear polish. Her wedding rings were a classic Tiffany-set solitaire with a simple white-gold band. The diamond was not large, but the sparkle indicated it was flawless, just like Lauren. A contrast to her own long red nails and sun-damaged fingers donning a large canary-yellow stone, she saw their hands as life extensions. The two women couldn’t be more different. One had come from old money and privilege, the other had scrapped her way to the top, leveraging the wealthy to create her own empire. For a second, Sabine felt a hint of jealousy. Not one to embrace negativity, she quickly altered her mindset back to the execution of her plan._


----------



## indianroads

A bit long - but why not share. MC (Eli) has just arrived at the Selene Lunar prison. He's lamenting his fate:

_Eternal night claimed the heavens as the moonscape languished in a cadaverous blaze. The sight was beautiful in an ugly sort of way. Eli had expected to see stars, but the greedy sun would not relinquish the sky.

Was his time with Tammy worth this punishment? Not just no, but hell no. She hadn’t been much of a lover; she laid beneath him like a dead fish, occasionally moaning in mock pleasure. Her act was a trick used by prostitutes; fake an orgasm to boost the guy’s ego, and he’ll become a regular customer.

His excursion into her world had cost him everything; family had abandoned him, the job he had loved was lost, and his dog Barney paid the ultimate price for his foolishness. To live in exile on the ashen blemish in Earth’s sky was suitable punishment for such extreme idiocy. He hated his acts that had hurt others, especially Roger, Tammy’s cuckold husband, but also faithful, innocent Barney. Crap, what a shit-fest he had created, and there was no one to blame but himself.

Everything he was and might have been was lost. His brother and sister wouldn’t miss him. Work friends might think of him now and then, but in time he would be forgotten. Life for them all would go on, and in time it would be as if he never existed.

Maybe that was for the best. He had messed up royally, ruining not just his life but also staining the lives of those around him. But now he had a second chance; in time, he would make friends at Selene, pursue new goals, and build a new life. Mama-San had called him ‘Cowboy’, perhaps he should embrace that new moniker and leave Eli behind on Earth._


----------



## Parabola

He couldn’t take that feeling anymore. No, not tonight for some reason. He scribbled a quick note and left it on the granite island in the kitchen, then motioned for Leo to get up quietly by putting a finger to his lips.

Billy would miss that about him, the brightness that bordered on being human.


----------



## Parabola

About part way around the cul-de-sac, Billy realized what he was doing. He wanted to meet Toby and receive a comforting word or two. But the man’s absence seemed deliberate, forcing him to feel even more deeply that soul-crushing loneliness. It rippled further along the path, almost acting as an amplifier to the sounds he knew wouldn’t dampen it in any way.


----------



## Tettsuo

Portion of a discussion between two warriors.



> "But what of you?"
> 
> Taken aback, he looked at me with a furrowed brow. "What of me?"
> 
> "Yargai?"
> 
> "What a..." He stopped himself and sighed. "So, I am the fool as well, eh?"
> 
> It was my turn to laugh, and I did. He only shook his head and looked toward the round Stammian home where Yargai was resting.
> 
> "I cannot love him. I cannot love a coward."
> 
> "But you do love him. I saw it in your eyes."
> 
> "Yes, yes, I know. But, to love him, we must both risk death under the law. I... I have faced death, with you, more than once. Have I wavered?"
> 
> "Never."
> 
> "Yet he has."
> 
> With eyes closed he held his face up toward the brightening skies.
> 
> "To love as I wish, we would have to be willing to risk death everyday. But how can I trust a man to face death with me if he is too afraid to do so? I will not put my trust in a person who will not be brave for me as I would for him."
> 
> "You needn't worry, brother. There will be others. And if not, you can trust that I will face death with you for as long as I have breath."
> 
> "Oh Yanny, if only you were a man."


----------



## wildsouthland

From "Coffee and Kearsarge"

I tended to the campfire as the sun dipped behind Owens Peak and the shadows moved cat-like across the valley floor. The only fragments of day were the pink and purple that stained the Inyo Mountains to the east. It really wasn't quite campfire weather yet. The night was warm and the hour still early, but fire is obligatory on outings like this. The radiating warmth, the alluring scent of burning pine, the snap-crackle-pop of combustion, the hypnotizing dance of the flame. There's something primal and ancient and ritualistic about it all. A vestigial connection to ancestors and the past.

Late September is high season in the Sierra so we'd driven up earlier in the day to ensure that we'd have a decent camp spot. Up the El Camino Sierra and across the high desert, through Pearsonville, Coso, Dunmovin, Grant, Olancha, Cartago, and all the other bleak little outposts littered with sun-bleached single-wides, dilapidated buildings, and junky automobiles slowly disintegrating in the scorching heat. This is the land of stolen water and murdered dreams. What Marc Reisner called the "Cadillac Desert."


----------



## Parabola

This is something I wrote a few days ago, apocalypse themed but came before my "big idea." The code name is "Lily" and it was meant to be a one-off thing.

--

I wound my way through skeletal trees, weaving branches like threads on a loom. Something frightening was happening to me, mutations stacked on mutations. Skin bleeding aberration, alarm, warning. 

No, this wasn't death. Too easy, and the pain hadn’t reached a fever pitch yet. Tears were on the brink, but I held them back. Once they flowed, there would be more than one reason for them.

Gold veins ran through a blue-black sky, each glittering tail activating a matching geography of agony on the inside. Arms moving in automatic motion, keeping the momentum going. 

“Lily,” I said, then woke up, this time to full night, or maybe the grit finally took its rightful place. Any attempt at survival seemed temporary. Beyond stupid, and incredibly desperate. I fought for what, a few weeks, a handful of months filled with terror? Something kept telling me to push through though. Being an aberration had to be fleeting, and maybe on the other side I could claim some kind of tainted victory. 

I kept calling Lily’s name, a half-conscious howl that conjured thoughts which automatically spiraled. 

This desert had to be a thing of the past. I’d wind my way through a million trees, swim boiling seas just to find an oasis.


----------



## Alanzie

_     I want a drink_.  The thought screamed through his mind.  He tried to push himself off the floor, intent on scouring around for the bottle of bourbon he had gotten from the back of the ice room, the bottle that cost him his humanity.  His damaged left leg, though healing, and healing quickly, wasn’t ready to take on the rest of his weight and that first step brought him crashing back down.  _I want a drink_, he thought again, sprawled on the ground amid various pieces of forgotten, unnecessary flesh.  An ear here, a chunk of organ, maybe liver, there.  He grabbed the arms of the chair and pulled himself up.  Hobbling around the room, he left bloody hand prints wherever he braced himself against collapsing to the floor once again.  Exhausted, he leaned against the wall next to the Rococo mirror, blood dripping down his split arm.  It swirled around his wrist and streamed down the hand rubbed teak.  It flowed along the grain until it found the scratched in epitaph he had carved earlier—‘C.A.R. ‘71’.  Blood filled the blade marks, making his initials and date scarlet against the mellow, brown wood.

     The bottle of whisky was no where to be found.  Everywhere he looked, empty crystal tumblers laughed at him from their armchair perches.  One of the glasses had a cigar butt stubbed out on the thick faceted bottom, the rolled tobacco still whisky-damp, its burnt end submerged in the dregs at the bottom of the glass.  He picked up the stogie and tried to stick it in his mouth.  He missed on the first attempt, leaving a brown smudge on his cheek.  He got it in there on the second try and sucked the last of the spirits from the spent cigar.  Though the combined flavor of ash, tobacco and bourbon made him gag, he pushed the cheroot all the way into his mouth. _ I need a drink!  _His eyes filled with tears of defeat and frustration.  He leaned back against the wall and slid  down, absently chewing, dark brown drool staining his chin.

He looked down at his legs, the right one splayed out in front of him, but the left bent at an impossible angle.  Ruined flesh and exposed bone were on display for all to see, but this reveal was only for Clifford.  He stopped chewing and swallowed hard, his mouth making way for the scream of agony that was roiling at the base of his gullet.  The healing had begun, and as raw, bleeding flesh began to hide bone, as severed tendons twisted in the air, looking for their cleaved twins, as sliced muscle welded shut, leaving thick twisted ropes of scar, the bubble of pain and anguish that had been brewing deep within him came bursting forth, not as a scream, but as a laugh.


----------



## Parabola

Toby bent down to pet the Border Collie with a hesitance and excitement that was almost childlike. He straightened after a few seconds, the ghost of a smile lingering. 

“Good boy,” he said. “Are you enjoying your dog?”

“Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” 

Billy looked down at Leo, whose eyes grew wide and caught the scarce sunlight. He instantly regretted telling the strange man how much he cared for his dog. He didn’t want to be rude to him though.

He mentioned he had to finish walking Leo and get home to make dinner. A sense of relief came to him the further he got from his neighbor. Except on the winding, uphill path to their house, for some reason the question Toby had asked now seemed like a dagger in the heart. He couldn’t shake how his answer had been slyly pulled out. It was stupid to admit to that vulnerability, but he couldn’t stop the words.


----------



## VRanger

I walked over to the window and asked the drapes to open. I’d requested a good view of the swamps and it didn’t disappoint. On some worlds, swamps are miserable places full of biting insects and larger biting animals. Sosegir’s swamps are a creamy dark green. Things something like trees rise from random spots but have no ascension of branches. Multi-colored spikes jut out only at the top of the bole, extruding a web-like canopy which serves them as leaves. Where they come into contact with other ‘tree tops’ the webs merge. Not only do the interfaces _look _like hammocks, the local fauna skitter along the spines and webs and sleep in them and nest in them. The webs are hues of pastel reds and oranges and greens and purples … sometimes in blotches, sometimes in swirls, and sometimes in streaks. The view could hypnotize you if you aren’t as sleepy as I felt that day.


----------



## Parabola

Toyed with the wording a bit

--

The relationship I coveted for more than a year was built on suicide and lies of omission, the destruction of inner beauty because I wanted the aesthetic for myself.

Despite those ugly internal feelings, I didn’t break up with Sarah. I know I should have, but I just couldn’t. The dirty foundation would never take away how I felt about her, but her seeing me in a more complex light, that I was a “good person” for being so comforting and sympathetic, understanding over her grief, was wrong.

I was not a good person. Never would be after what I did, chose to do even after two glaring warnings. The most deliberate kind of murder.


----------



## indianroads

Parabola said:


> Toyed with the wording a bit
> 
> --
> 
> The relationship I coveted for more than a year was built on suicide and lies of omission, the destruction of inner beauty because I wanted the aesthetic for myself.
> 
> Despite those ugly internal feelings, I didn’t break up with Sarah. I know I should have, but I just couldn’t. The dirty foundation would never take away how I felt about her, but her seeing me in a more complex light, that I was a “good person” for being so comforting and sympathetic, understanding over her grief, was wrong.
> 
> I was not a good person. Never would be after what I did, chose to do even after two glaring warnings. The most deliberate kind of murder.


Brilliant.


----------



## Parabola

indianroads said:


> Brilliant.



That section is something I keep referring back to when editing Murder Console. "Authentic" moments stand out and finding the right balance throughout the rest of the story has been an incredibly tricky balance.


----------



## VRanger

My turn again. “So our mission is to help you maintain your professional credentials regardless of your inability to support our efforts with helpful information?”

“I haven’t asked you to preserve my professional standing.”

Back to Mac. “We’re going to anyway. Can you see your way to delay a report which would destroy your credibility while we take a shot at it?”

I had to question _that _offer. “Mac, just how do we take a shot at it? I’m not Sherwood Homes, and if I don’t miss my guess, you’re not Aretha Crispy.” There. I pronounced my extensive knowledge of ancient classical mystery literature. They were certain to notice.

Mac looked at me askance. “Ephrem made some reading list notes in your personal log, didn’t he?”

“I’m not sure why.”

“I’m starting to understand why. "


----------



## Joker

She pulls out of the parking lot and merges into the street. Overhead, the hologram projections bracket the four lanes of the avenue, bombarding the city with an endless artillery barrage of advertisements designed by over-caffeinated graphic designers and approved by corporate hand-picked politically-correct focus groups. Jessica wrinkles her nose. She could have drawn a better ad in kindergarten - if she had gone to public school.


----------



## mistamastamusta

I lightly pushed him away, moving to stand by the window. It was snowing, little flurries forming a thin, white blanket on the frozen ground. Winter was my favorite season, despite how depressing it seemed. It always came willingly, a promise that's rarely broken. 

“I don’t like saying goodbye,” I whispered.

He was behind me then. “Why not, love?” He wrapped his arms around my waist, his breath tickling my left ear. 

“Because I don’t like endings. When you say goodbye, it means the possibility of never seeing that person again,” I turned to face him then. “And I don’t want to lose you, Hyper. You mean too much to me.”


----------



## Parabola

Sitting at the park bench and staring out at the prince's kingdom, Billy slipped into an uncomfortable thought, a truth he knew he couldn't shake. With the death of his dad last summer and his brother the year before, Leo had become the fading link to a childhood which stretched on for miles. The failures and victories of that time glittered in the sunset drenched hills, practically equals.


----------



## Parabola

It turned, and Billy tensed, trying to freeze every muscle so he wouldn’t be seen. The thing scissored some of its cotton candy hair with two fingers which glowed like crescent moons, delivering the blue chunk to the nightmarish sky of its mouth. The noises it made were horrifying, munching and moaning, like a drunk deciding to chew on a microphone.


----------



## VRanger

“And you won’t divulge the identity of the client?” Sera shook her head and Mac shook her head in a totally different way. I think you had to see it. Sera’s was a ‘no’ shake, and Mac performed an ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this’ shake.


----------



## Parabola

I knocked on the oak door, staring at the curtain which covered the window. I heard a surprised yelping sound, like someone stepping on a dog’s tail. Mom’s surprised face brushed the curtains aside, breaking out into an insane smile, a brief but hideous mixture of confusion, bitterness and happiness. She probably didn’t know what to think when she saw me, and emotions collided. 

“Ethan!” Mom said, arms wrapping around me in a desperate hug. She sobbed on my shirt for several minutes, and I remember it smelling like alcohol. Her eyes were mostly dead black orbs when she pulled away, but there had been a flicker of light there.

“M-mia, come downstairs! Your brother’s home!” Mom’s voice became a broken wail at the end. “Your brother’s home!” 

Now I realized what I was when she looked at me. A dead man walking, the only thing out of place in a still and empty room which until that moment had lost the ability to offer pleasant surprises.


----------



## Parabola

Then the world became largely dark as Eugene’s face blocked out the sun. 

“Congratulations, Ethan, you kicked your little sister’s ass again,” he said, glowering at me. Sarcasm fell from the heavens like acid rain.


----------



## Parabola

Once they reached the sprawling concrete driveway, Leo jumped up with a youthful spring and devoured a firefly. For some reason, Billy experienced that moment as an arrow dipped in tears piercing his own heart, another blast of color from his childhood reminding him he could lose what little he had left.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

All eyes were on Rhett as he swaggered through Irma’s living room. Exeter High’s starting pitcher who was already scouted by the major leagues was by far the coolest senior who had ever walked among this group of particularly uncool seniors. Rhett’s nickname was Beast, with a blinding fastball, a wicked changeup and a backdoor slider that looked like time travel. He could also hit like a beast, a rare talent for pitchers. Hollywood’s archetype of a star athlete and popular senior, Rhett was six-foot-three, broad of shoulder, slim of hip, flat of stomach. Cleft chin. Dimples. Blue eyes. Black hair. Already sporting a five o’clock shadow at nineteen. Melanie knew his birthday was last week because they had gone to school together since he moved to Exeter in fifth grade. Everyone knew he was dating Vonda Breshears, the green-eyed blonde valedictorian who was gorgeous _and_ brilliant. 

Melanie met Sky in the middle of the room. “Irma is going to shit when she sees Rhett is here,” she whispered loudly over the thump of Beyonce in the background.

Freshman year, Irma told them about her dream where Rhett took her virginity and she claimed she was still saving herself for him.

Sky twisted her head like she was possessed, trying to keep an eye on Rhett’s progress and search for Irma at the same time. “There she is, she found him.”

Irma grabbed Rhett’s arm and smiled hugely, batting her eyelashes. Rhett swayed as he tottered by, pulling his arm free and patting Irma on the head.

“Ooh, that was rude,” Sky hissed. “Is he drunk?”


----------



## Parabola

Billy explored Joe’s kingdom, or at least the backyard. Picnic tables festooned over an acre of land, at one point looking like giant stairs going up a hillside, all filled with happy, oblivious children. Their joyful shrieks hit him in a hollow place, causing him to glance down at Leo to make sure he still existed.

There were other things on the fringes that surprised him. Giraffes that seemed much larger than their real-life counterparts roamed off in the distance and occasionally howled at the fixed sunset. Their fur varied, from purple to a lush, rainbowy silver that basically made them fish with stilts for legs.


----------



## indianroads

From Moonscape:
_If you give a primitive mind the secrets of the atom, expect Hiroshima._


----------



## Parabola

We were in gym class. Eugene, my “best buddy” eyed me with barely concealed contempt, and oh man, was I getting _sick_ of that old bag. 

I wanted to unleash the fury that inked every thought. He’d put the tommy gun in my hand, stirred my brain to the point where insanity and apocalyptic wet dreams seemed like the only option. 

That act of temporary madness almost guaranteed my permanent mental instability, but I was determined not to let it take over. Since my intuition had been replaced by a lower and ultimately more accurate “instinct” I could see the dark road had just begun to take shape, or that I could still shape it if circumstances permitted. 

I’d step onto the low-grade police state Eugene created and turn it on its head. That was the plan anyway.


----------



## wildsouthland

From "Gentiles on the Rim"

We camped on the rim of the mesa high above the hamlet of Apple Valley and the road east. On the near horizon, Smithsonian Butte rose abruptly from the desert floor like Babel's famed tower. To the north, the spectacular sandstone walls of Zion stood sentinel over the muddy Virgin River as it wends its way south to the confluence with the once-mighty Colorado. In 1869, where these waters meet, Maj. John Wesely Powell and his men emerged from a treacherous float trip through the uncharted chasm of the Grand Canyon. Back then, this was the land of the Shivwits band of the Paiute tribe. Now it is Promised Land where the saints gather. What the Mormons call New Canaan.

Here we gathered too, although we could never be mistaken for saints. In fact most of us might be appropriately branded by the local faithful as "gentiles." I wasn't always a gentile. Through baptism, and perhaps descent, I was once, according to LDS lore, a member in good standing of one of the 12 tribes of Israel. I no longer recall which tribe specifically, but when I was a child, I received a patriarchal blessing from a holy man that revealed that important piece of genealogical trivia. Over time, however, through both choice and apostasy, I became _persona non grata_ in the house of Israel. So I can no longer remember that critical piece of soul-preserving information.


----------



## Parabola

I had to stop thinking about it. The chance meeting with Eugene set something off, though, residual guilt, broader thoughts about the past. Self-loathing became a stick of dynamite, and I wanted to toss it out the window.


----------



## Parabola

“You can’t unwind your soul,” she said. I never thought of Mom as particularly bright, but her statement _seemed_ to be an undeniable truth.

I went over and sat on the couch. She gave Eugene a look and shook her head in disbelief.

“On the other hand, seeing your son's best friend with black lightning curling around his body is really putting things into perspective. Maybe anything’s possible.”

“It is, Mom. It really, really is. I mean, I’ve done so many things in this town, ever since going to game design school, hell even before that. The sky’s the limit, or maybe there’s no sky at all.”


----------



## OP99

I heard Dia chuckle which brought me back.

“How cute.” I then felt one of his appendages reach and touch my chin holding my face up, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a display of affection before. You’ve known Akuma for less than a year and let you love him with all your being. Everything, you’d be willing to give him; and because there’s a small part of me that’s still an Angel, I’m curious, do you know what Akuma’s intentions were for you?”

“W-what do you mean?”

He smiled, “you do.” I looked off. “This whole time?”

I didn’t want to speak. Answering his question would only bring the confusion I once had back to me, but… perhaps Dia can make sense of my reasoning. He let go of my chin and I took a small breath as I thought about everything up to this point.

“I’m an Angel of Ice, I’m sure you know about them.” He confirmed my suspicion, “when me and Akuma first met, he said something that confused me. He said I was... fun and I've never had someone even get _close_ to saying something of that nature to me. I was… taken aback, and unconsciously my Ice began to spread out. He hadn’t noticed it until it touched him. From there, I was always able to feel his intentions.”

“Your intuition of him grew.”

I nodded, “the next day, when we met again. I already knew he had ulterior motives for me, but…” I shook my head, “I didn’t mind. I could have cared less if he intended to kill me or was using me for some other reason. I felt like if he hadn’t already done something, then maybe he could possibly come to care about me. I honestly didn’t… and still don’t care if that was romantic or not.”

“Let me guess,” I looked at him, “because those Angels never gave you a feeling of true connection?”

As sad as it was… “yes.” I looked at my hands, “I never once felt like anyone up there had my intentions at heart. None of them cared about “Cassie” they cared about the idea of what I could become. One of the few combative Ice Angels, a loving spouse, a good caregiver, but never just a… happy Cassie.”

“A fruitless life it would have been.”

“That’s how I felt! So I had to do something. I didn’t want to live my life getting married to someone I didn’t truly love, or doing something I don’t really care about. I needed to understand _why_ I was doing what I was doing, how it would help myself and those around me, and most importantly; I wanted some kind of love that wasn’t just conditional.” I felt a smile grow, “and Akuma gave that to me. His intentions shifted, like they had something behind them, as if he needed me for something,” I let out a sigh, “you honestly have no idea how happy I felt that someone actually needed me, that they wanted me for whatever they needed me for… but it still strikes me as confusing.”

Dia hummed, “why is that the case?”

“I can't answer that. I asked the same thing.” I looked down, “I sound like I’m okay with just anything, and it makes me wonder if I truly was supposed to be born an Angel.”

The room was silent after I spoke. I could only hear the scribbles of Dia writing when it suddenly stopped. I looked up and saw Dia staring dead at me.

“While I can’t speak on what you were supposed to be, I can tell you you’re wrong in thinking there’s something bad in wanting what others have. No one else says this, but it’s true; loved ones all around will tell you the exact same thing. They will do anything to keep the one they love by their side, take them in any form and cherish them until the day they die. You’re the same. You love Akuma because he makes you feel like you have a purpose, he gives you what others refuse to, and he cherishes everything that you’ve become."


----------



## wildsouthland

From "Prologue: Goosefest and the Prophet of Stoke"

Buzzard and I go back four-plus decades. We were both skiers in high school. Later in college we worked together at the Sports Stocker in Trolley Square tuning and waxing other people's skis. I never knew Buzz by any name other than Buzz and was convinced that is what his parents christened him. My wife called bullshit on that a couple of years ago and directly asked him his real name to which he replied "Brett." Then she gave me the knowing look. I was both stunned and deflated. I had never asked him the question before, mainly because I had no reason to question what I otherwise knew to be true. And it never dawned on me that his name could be anything else. For 40 years I held fast to the belief that the name on his birth certificate, baptismal certificate, high school diploma, passport, and driver's license was "Buzz." And contradictory evidence aside, I'm not about to abandon that fervent belief now. I'm digging in. Old fantasies die hard I suppose.


----------



## bdcharles

Not pretty, but I'm still proud:



> It wasn’t much to ask for in the first place, and the vicious rage that fermented in [Varyonet] now was, she supposed, what love was.


----------



## Parabola

Lord Toby followed him into town, a vaguely familiar ghost that pulled his attention to twisting dark pockets where autumnal eeriness met a child’s unshackled nightmares.


----------



## Joker

Fritz is not _literally _the last of the freelance hackers - it just feels like that sometimes in a subculture long since gobbled up by the corporations. His own father helped create a corp shortly before he was born. Fritz wishes he was still alive, so he could tell him how he isn’t mad anymore, just disappointed.


----------



## Parabola

From _Leo_

So they kept walking and reached an island of moonlight. There weren’t many pine trees close by, and he took in the dark, emerald sky with stars embedded deep into the infinite green black like chunks of phosphorescent walnuts in banana bread. It conjured the rich, dreamlike quality where one sensory input nudged the other awake for no reason at all. All of a sudden, Billy was ravenous.


----------



## Parabola

So since this is the last of the trilogy, I felt like I had to shift Ethan's character a bit while still remaining true to his fundamentals. What sparked his admission to Eugene was the conversation with Joe, his recently revealed dad.

--

He was waiting for me to use the fact he’d been the architect of my madness as an excuse. I wouldn’t rise to that bait. 

“I don’t even know how to describe what I’m feeling. I went from a fairly normal life, to living inside a deranged console, the tributary reality…losing my mind had been a sweet release. Now we’re here, in the final stage. I have nothing to lose by admitting I’m a flawed, fucked up human being. I brought all of this on myself, on you, Kevin, my family. Jason. Even though he’s with Sarah now, and he doesn’t seem to remember hanging from a rope, I set all that misery in motion. I’ll never be free of it no matter what I do.”

The two versions of myself collided again, practically shattering my psyche.  

He nodded, and for the first time I saw those usually contemptuous eyes take on a wistful sheen. 

“I’m just so sorry, Eugene. That word might seem hollow to the both of us, but I don’t know what else to say.”

I cried for a few seconds, wiping my eyes with the back of my free hand. Looking at Eugene afterward, I realized he really had been my best friend. Despite all the heinous things I did, he’d forgive them all if he saw genuine remorse.


----------



## Parabola

Testing out this line again, think it's slightly modified from before.




> Jason had come back on a rainbow of resentment, twisted purples and evil greens animated him and infused that furious soul with strength.


----------



## indianroads

First few paragraphs of Moonscape:
_Chapter 1: Verdict

Eli slumped in an uncomfortable desk chair beside his attorney in Courtroom C of the Laramie County Courthouse in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Confident prosecutors dressed in tailored suits sat behind a table across the aisle, while at the rear of the room, spectators took their seats on creaking wooden benches. The place smelled of sweaty desperation and the harsh LED lighting gave the room a vindictive aura.

He was in deep shit, and more was about to hit the fan; the jury had sent notice that they had reached a verdict after only deliberating an hour, which seemed like a bad sign. His lawyer disagreed, but the young buck was barely out of law school, so what the hell did he know?

The room was overly warm, and his ill-fitting courthouse suit reeked of the guilty sweat of countless other criminals. The soiled shirt collar chafed his skin as did the manacles on his wrists and ankles. He was still a young man, thirty-two years old, tall and fit, with short blond hair and pale blue eyes filled with hopelessness._


----------



## VRanger

Sera found a recommended swamp-side restaurant where, at my request for local fare, the server recommended something with a name I didn’t recognize, and you wouldn’t either. Mac ordered a generic sandwich and the server presented me with a plate which I swear contained two huge, roasted beetles. Swamp veggies on the side looked like seaweed dotted with a sprinkle of something red.

When the server tucked a bib around my neck I began to worry. Mac looked at me side-wise with a smile indicating ‘I knew better but it was more fun not to warn you’. I’d never admit I wasn’t up to the challenge, but I did get confused at the utensils provided with the swamp bugs. The server set before me a small mallet, a spool with a horizontal bowl with a large hole in the middle, a skewer, and something I’d call an ice pick. Four utensils … two hands. I started to get that fear tingle in my shoulders.

The server noticed. “You are new on Sosegir, are you not, sir?”

“Really new. I don’t have a clue what to do here.” I wasn’t afraid to admit it. I didn’t have to earn the server’s respect, or anyone at nearby tables. I only had to avoid propelling any part of my meal onto them.

“First, sir, you take this (he picked up the pick) and then this (the mallet) and make a hole in the shell.” He proceeded to gently tap until the pick pierced the shell, and continued to tap as the top of the pick widened the hole. “Then, you remove the Shweider (I think that’s what they call the pick) and use the Klempenol (he picked up the spoon with the hole) just so.” He put the hole in the spoon over the hole in the shell and pressed down. A noxious looking green ooze streamed from the shell. “Release just this much.” He stopped pressing. “Wait a few moments for it to congeal.” That took fifteen seconds. “Then use the Beivem Fork.” He picked up the skewer, stabbed the congealed goo, and lifted it from the shell. He handed the Beivem Fork to me. “Enjoy, sir. A delicacy for sure.”

“Why the bib?”

“Some tourists become too aggressive with the Klempenol. If you press too hard, the entrails will spurt. The spots are impossible to clean from your shirt and jacket. Be gentle.”

He left and I started at the Beivem Fork holding the congeal entrails. Mac had a bite of sandwich in her mouth and tried to make her smile appear to be approval of the sandwich rather than amusement at the sight of me.

I looked left and right. Half the people at nearby tables stared directly at me … just waiting. For what, I’m not sure. Some may have wished to witness my test of courage. Some may have awaited amusement. I was more concerned about a few who pointedly turned their heads away from me. What did _they _fear would happen?

The hell with all of them, I decided. I sniffed a slightly rank odor. I raised the Beivem and popped congealed entrail goo onto the top of my tongue.

My taste buds exploded. You can’t import those bugs as they don’t refrigerate or preserve. In intervening years I’ve often wondered if I should retire on Sosegir.


----------



## Mark Twain't

_‘Well, that was messy.’_
‘And painful!’
_‘I can imagine. Your choice though.’_
‘Yeah, couldn’t see any other way to be honest. What’s that over there?’
_‘What’s what?’_
‘That round thing on the other platform. Is it a football? Looks like that woman’s about to pick it up.’
_‘Oh, that’s your head.’
‘_Wow. Does that mean I’m actually dead now? Like, proper dead?’
_‘Well, I’m not entirely sure what “proper dead” means, but I’m guessing there’s a movie reference there?’_
‘Yeah, sorry.’
_‘To answer your question, no, decapitation does not mean “proper” dead.’_


----------



## bdcharles

For some reason - time, laziness, other - I have been embracing the "just get it written" approach rather than labouring over every sentence. And I think I have found a sweet spot. As long as I aim to make the writing as decent and as close to the style I want  as I can on the first go, if I can do that, then like Faraday, I can swoosh right along. Hooray! Here is a sample, anyway.


----------



## Llyralen

1st description of Margret Church, POV Michelle F.   

One of the problems with Margret Church was that you couldn’t stop thinking about her. She wore a patch on one side of her coke-bottle-thick glasses until we were 11. She got the best grades and drew the best pictures. She was sincerely spiritual and religious, which drove some of us crazy. She bragged about batches of kittens from her feral cats every year. Most years her best friend was a boy. She easily got horrific rashes that grossed the rest of us out on her pale skin. Her almost white hair straggled past her waist like melted wax. She was the tallest girl in class from age 12 on.

She didn’t dislike us other kids, I don’t think. I thought she was too good a Christian to hate anybody, Greg Abbott snickering, said she was too snooty of a Christian to like anybody. It wasn’t dislike, I don’t think.

If Margret had been born in the 1600’s, she would have been burned at the stake as a witch. I don’t know how anyone could disagree with me. I imagined telling her this. I debated about it for more than a year. I imagined her smiling as if she had been expecting me to say this very clever thought and then she would nod in earnest agreement and tell me something else that would have happened to her back then that I would never have thought of, as if she had been thinking about what I said for years. I’m glad, now, that I didn’t tell her.  It would still be spooking me, the way she was never surprised or acted offended. There was a difference between being frightened or surprised. I can picture her now looking at us with her wincing light green— some kids liked to say Albino— eyes. She was frightened, but I don’t think I ever saw her look surprised.


----------



## Llyralen

2nd description of Margret Church,  POV Jeff A.

To her our friendship was this fragile, precious thing. It was how I felt about her, so I soaked in her words as if she were sharing my feelings. Exquisite. It’s not a word to use often or lightly, but how I felt with her was exquisite.

Her worries seemed like unnecessary cloth, fathoms of layers deep that I had the pleasure of disciplining myself to slyly tug off of her with each deeper thought she shared. As if getting physical would make me like talking to her less. Looking back, maybe it’s true I didn’t listen that well.

She just wanted her chance! She wanted to change the world, join the Peace Corps, wanted to travel. Career, college, then family happiness. I wanted it all too. I held myself back from telling her all the things I wanted. It was like pleasure and pain to hold back. It was exquisite. 

I kissed her that night before coming down from the canyon. I’d pulled over under maples, she was insisting we stay close friends no matter what colleges we went to or what feelings came up. I had reached just to hold and reassure her instinctively. I hadn’t done that often, she loved her independence too much, but she breathed a sigh like something neither of us expected. I think we were both shocked at how the ridges of her body melted. Her body had never been like this—almost disappearing. The kiss wasn’t smooth, but the meaning stuck. She was shocked. I relish my memory of how shocked she was. She even said “I didn’t know” a few times, the second with a giggle as she ran her hand through my hair tentatively. She leaned her head against my neck, breathing, and she wanted to talk about it. She wanted to talk about her delight in discovering she liked us physically. I kissed her a few more times as she talked away. She didn’t protest, she didn’t move away. All the moments we would have in life tumbled forward in my mind.  

I dropped her off with another kiss, “But we have to stay friends!” She said solemnly, almost as a secret. She looked at me through the open car window for a promise from my eyes. I nodded, staring at her, trying to hold in my smile of exhalation. Her eyes were…well, they were exquisite.

After she disappeared I lost 40 pounds. When I couldn’t get out of bed my parents took over. There was hospital and rehab and grief counseling. It’s the sound of the river that I find gives me peace. 

Those girls… I had not known really what Margret was up against. I had never imagined girls could be so heartless. A villainess like Cruella deVille had seemed surreal in stories to me.


----------



## Parabola

I realized I'd become so bloated with absurd questions that I'd turned into an existential fatass.


----------



## VRanger

“Doesn’t this plan present a grave risk to my life?”

“The probability of your survival is thirty-eight percent.”

“Then how does your core ethics module allow you to present it?”

“Two reasons. Acceptance of the plan is your decision and we are to allow the living to take risks in the pursuit of a greater good. Next, we are allowed to accept minimal losses of the living to spare larger losses. I could even terminate a sentient living organism to effect the safety of multiple worthy sentients.”

The idea that an android can make a value judgment of who is worthy and who isn’t interested me. I’d bet variables fill up a decision matrix. That demonstrates everything I know about android behavior programming, and that’s not much. I’m not a ‘groaner’, so I didn’t groan, but a groaner would have.


----------



## Parabola

From MC3:

Underworld Dreams played again, and Sarah looped in my mind. I kept thinking about how she’d been so in love with me, and my feelings for her had been equally intense. Vivid and larger than life, which meant I couldn’t deny them. I smashed my moral compass to pieces to get what I wanted even though I barely had a conversation with her up to the point I did what I did to Jason.

Those lush green eyes glowed with innocence when we _really_ talked for the first time. I’d sold my soul to have that moment. Obviously, I did worse or at least comparable things since then, but I wouldn’t forget that colorful, euphoric first step into absolute darkness.


----------



## Envy123

In my dreams, Mrs Holloway appeared as a terrifying spectre, always lurking just out of sight. She was shrouded in darkness, her face hidden behind a veil of thick black smoke. But I could feel her presence all around me, watching silently as I wandered through my nightmares.

No matter how much I tried to run, I could never escape her. She was always there, following me, her cold eyes boring into my soul. Her laugh echoed through the empty halls, sending a chill down my spine.

I would wake up gasping for air, my heart pounding in my chest. And as I lay there in the dark, I knew that Mrs Holloway was still there, watching me, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And I knew that I would never truly be free of her.


----------



## VRanger

I’ve eaten hot food before. There’s a trick to it. If you can take that first bite and survive, no further bite is worse. Swallow hard and don’t let it linger in your throat. Washing it down helps, but isn’t the real secret. The real secret is to enjoy the taste as briefly as possible, smile, and avoid tears. The first to cry loses.

So while Ursan chili took me to a new level, my rules still applied. If you already have an ulcer … don’t do it. Otherwise, take my advice and impress your friends, associates, and nearby strangers. Swallow and ask for more. Your stature rises whether you deserve it or not.


----------



## Arsenex

The Murk.... the outskirts of civilization itself. A year's journey from the nearest empire station. Most say it’s on the edge of nowhere, the place the empire sends rejects, the insane, demented, or plain criminal by nature. Asylums and prisons are popular industries. For others, they come looking for new opportunity, a place where the government will leave them alone, pioneers who seek their own justice. And then there are the rest of us, born here... murkers through no fault of our own. We run things, loosely, often corruptly. And if we manage to keep our heads down and don't piss anyone off, we might just survive.

Mitchell Thomas came running. “Jack! We got it! It’s an emergency run to Zanther Prime.”

I took the printed manifest from his extended hand. “What are we hauling? Calamine lotion? Sixty tons? That’s a lot of scratching must be going on.”

“There’s been an outbreak. Some new insect discovery. Once bitten, a nasty rash is spread by touch. Anyway, it’s half of the supply we have out here in the Murk. If we pull this off, we may get the contract to restock.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Port Mandra?”

Mitchell grinned. “The one and only. Can you believe it? I’ve dreamed of going there all of my twenty-two years.”​
“It’s not as grand as you think, Mitch.” I let out a sigh. “Especially for a murker. They force you to wear this uncomfortable red collar from the time you register to the time you leave. And forget about going planet-side. They won’t let murkers off the port station.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Twice. When I was young. With a year of travel each way, that’s four years of my life stuck in stasis. ”

“You aren’t thinking of turning it down, are you?”

“Heck no.” I chuckled. “We need the credits. _Della_ needs new guts.”

My grandfather came to the Murk to set up a cargo hauling business. My father was soon the inheritor, and after his untimely demise, it fell to me. Reeves Transport—stamped in big bold letters on the side of my Furian 11. She’ll carry a hundred twenty-six tons in and out of most gravities. She’s named the _Della_, after my grandmother. And like my grandmother, God rest her soul, she’s gone past her expiration date. I often wonder by what miracle she still flies.​


----------



## indianroads

Eternal night claimed the heavens as the moonscape languished in a cadaverous blaze. The sight was beautiful, in an ugly sort of way. Eli had expected to see stars, but the greedy sun would not relinquish the sky.


----------



## c8p1lu

A punch with my last shred of power will end this horrible power (Little quote I used in my project)


----------



## Parabola

Let us melt together on the tongue of an old belching god.


----------



## Risto_Facko

He came to slowly. Cold, wet, covered in mud, wearing only a pair of jeans.  He looked at his hands, barely able to see them in the dark, looking foreign, like somebody else's hands, a feeling of detachment, unable to grasp the where or when or why of the situation.

Oddly enough the first thing to go through his mind was a childhood memory of peeing from the porch and drinking from the hose behind the elephant ears.
Perhaps the association was due always being cold, but he never wore a shirt or shoes.  He roamed the neighborhood barefoot and usually only dawned the required garments for school.

He could hear his mother's voice yelling from inside the house "Stop peeing from the porch, child!" and would run off for the next few hours skipping and shifting through bushes in neighbor's yards.

How did he get here?  What had happened? he thought to himself.  He could vaguely visualize his mother's face, mostly a swarm and swath of colors and perfume scents that his mind made feel like reality, if only for a fleeting moment.  Had he gone overboard and washed up on the riverbank?  A plane crash?  It all felt distant as if a dream.  Ah yes, he was dreaming, of course!

As he fought the sleep monster holding his eyes closed, he could hear somebody calling his name, and he struggled to be able to acknowledge the voice.
Laughter.  Giggles.  This is bad.  Wake up he thought to himself, wake up.

"Christopher!  Sleepy head!" the voice said "Care to join us?"

He could feel himself beginning to fall and the knot in his chest accelerated as the chair he sat in tipped over and he fell to the floor.
Crash!
What a nightmare, he was suddenly awake.
On the floor of the classroom he knew he was going to be the laughing stock of the school.
He could already hear the laughter and the comments.
In the moment his biggest concern was if he had actually peed his pants while dreaming.
Never pee in your dreams.


----------



## Arsenex

Risto_Facko said:


> He came to slowly. Cold, wet, covered in mud, wearing only a pair of jeans.  He looked at his hands, barely able to see them in the dark, looking foreign, like somebody else's hands, a feeling of detachment, unable to grasp the where or when or why of the situation.
> 
> Oddly enough the first thing to go through his mind was a childhood memory of peeing from the porch and drinking from the hose behind the elephant ears.
> Perhaps the association was due always being cold, but he never wore a shirt or shoes.  He roamed the neighborhood barefoot and usually only dawned the required garments for school.
> 
> He could hear his mother's voice yelling from inside the house "Stop peeing from the porch, child!" and would run off for the next few hours skipping and shifting through bushes in neighbor's yards.
> 
> How did he get here?  What had happened? he thought to himself.  He could vaguely visualize his mother's face, mostly a swarm and swath of colors and perfume scents that his mind made feel like reality, if only for a fleeting moment.  Had he gone overboard and washed up on the riverbank?  A plane crash?  It all felt distant as if a dream.  Ah yes, he was dreaming, of course!
> 
> As he fought the sleep monster holding his eyes closed, he could hear somebody calling his name, and he struggled to be able to acknowledge the voice.
> Laughter.  Giggles.  This is bad.  Wake up he thought to himself, wake up.
> 
> "Christopher!  Sleepy head!" the voice said "Care to join us?"
> 
> He could feel himself beginning to fall and the knot in his chest accelerated as the chair he sat in tipped over and he fell to the floor.
> Crash!
> What a nightmare, he was suddenly awake.
> On the floor of the classroom he knew he was going to be the laughing stock of the school.
> He could already hear the laughter and the comments.
> In the moment his biggest concern was if he had actually peed his pants while dreaming.
> Never pee in your dreams.


I had a friend as kids who told me one night he got up in a dream and walked into his closet. He woke up in the middle of it and was peeing in there. I asked what he did next and he said, "I finished and went back to bed."


----------



## C.K.Johnson

Arsenex said:


> I had a friend as kids who told me one night he got up in a dream and walked into his closet. He woke up in the middle of it and was peeing in there. I asked what he did next and he said, "I finished and went back to bed."


My husband told me a similar story about a time he caught his drunk housemate trying to use his bedroom closet as the bathroom.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

Melanie flipped off the radio and clenched her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, sick with blinding rage. Rhett tricked her, used her, ghosted her, and he would be pitching for the Giants. His face would be on TV eight months out of the year. The Giants were her favorite team; why is the Universe so unfair? Melanie wanted him destroyed, not physical harm, but it would be delicious revenge if Rhett’s heart was tragically broken. Publicly, painfully and often. “He would need a heart first,” she muttered. A tangled knot of emotions choked her: heartbreak, anger, resentment, fear, humiliation. She needed to find a way to release it, to not feel sick about this for the rest of her life. Life forever marked as Before Rhett and After Rhett.


----------



## Joker

“Oh, get over yourself, girl,” Rebecca says with a hint of bemusement. “Part of being an adult is learning to accept things as they are, not how you’d like them to be. You’re going to have to do a lot of things that aren’t fun, and you don’t want to do. Like taxes. If you can manage that, you can manage this.”

“Hmph. If you don’t even want to do most of your job, then maybe your management style is the problem.”

Jessica sucks in a breath, figuring she’s crossed a line and is about to be assigned janitor duty. To her surprise, Rebecca merely laughs. 

“Oh, to be young and full of pith and vinegar again. One of these days, we’ll see if you’ll do any better.”


----------



## Parabola

Something from Leo. For context, Billy finds himself in his old house after a long walk through the country.



> “Can’t believe I’m actually back here.” His voice fired back at him several times and ended in a harsh buzz. The emptiness had a _weight_ to it, measured in echoes.


----------



## Parabola

Just some description I've been working on.

--

Leo wouldn’t let him go down that rabbit hole. Stars floated down like mini-parachutes, their green glow illuminating every moon-eyed critter taking refuge in the cornfields. The light stirred a furious, constant barking, but seconds later Leo whimpered and became a sphinx on the gravel. Part of his tongue came out, and he stared dumb-founded at the stars raining to the ground in slow motion.

Billy went to one of them next to the edge of the road, staring over it long enough he wondered if fever dream time had taken over again. Leo’s fur brushed his pant leg. He petted the furry, pointy head then bent over to pick up the star. No whimpering or barking from man’s best friend. Just an animalistic kind of awe.


----------



## C.K.Johnson

The first time my FMC sees her arch-nemesis on television:

“Mel, do you know this guy?” Russ leaned forward in his recliner and gestured at the TV. “The announcer said he graduated from Exeter High last year.”

Standing on the pitcher’s mound and wearing a Giants uniform was Rhett. The announcer’s voice was as clear as Charlie Brown’s teacher through the roaring in Melanie’s ears.

“I knew him.” Her mouth moved with Novocain stiffness. “He’s an asshole.”

Russ shot a sharp glance her way. “Is he?” He checked the game in time to see Rhett throw a strike. “Wow! He’s got a nasty curveball,” he said and returned his attention to Melanie.

She took a long chug and formed a reply that would hopefully wipe the curious look from Russ’s face. “You went to high school, you know the type. Most popular guy, only talked to people in his little tribe. A stuck-up asshole. It’s not like we hung out.”

“You weren’t one of the popular girls, Mel?”

She blew a raspberry, wet with beer. “I was the opposite of popular.” Her eyes drifted to the TV as the camera zoomed in for Rhett’s closeup. He narrowed his eyes, nodded at the catcher’s signal, and released a blazing fastball. A swing and a miss, and a toothpaste-commercial grin from Rhett. Melanie felt the room spin. He was so good-looking, it was revolting. How could someone rotten to the core look good enough to eat? The Universe has a sick sense of humor.


----------



## VRanger

“Do we need to take him to Hekate for her glowing ear worm things?” I knew that treatment would kill him, but it would bring out truth and I had no sympathy for anyone who helped take Agares from me.

“No. I can handle this.” Athena put the heel of her hand down on his forehead and a glow passed from her hand into his head. “Now, if he lies he’ll feel excruciating pain. When he tells the truth, pleasure he could never before imagine.”

“How long will the effect last?”

“The rest of his life.”

I whistled. “Isn’t that too much of a reward?”

“No. The pleasure becomes addictive. He’ll reveal his deepest secrets to any and everyone. Every moment the pleasure ceases will become as bad as the pain is when he lies, so he’ll continuously seek others to regale with truths. It will drive him mad.”

“This is your analysis and prediction based on your intent for the spell?”

“No. This is my favorite curse. I’ve enjoyed watching those who deserve it be destroyed.”


----------



## Parabola

Instinct whispered into his ear, telling him a secret waited at the center of those paths. He could visualize the white stone table near the mausoleum and how it glittered on a sunny day.

“You ready for a detour, buddy?”

A yip from the shadows. Billy tried swallowing the lump in his throat a second later. It didn’t work. Then a warm autumn breeze buoyed the gossip from moss-covered stones, and somehow that brought back the realization with grim force.

Leo was going to die.


----------



## Parabola

On the way home, they went down the same gravel road leading to the cul-de-sac. He half expected to see memories stretching to the sky like some bizarre, ancient monument, but the horizon held nothing but late Spring.


----------



## The Carcosan Herald

_“The harder you struggle, sharper will be the venom’s sting when defeat sinks her fangs into your soul.” _Came up with that deliciously evil taunt on a walk one time, and couldn't not save it for a future villain. I've got a few good ideas on what to do with it.

Honourable mention goes to the following monologue, spoken by an army sniper to a comrade on a pub crawl:
_"But while _[Carl von Clausewitz]_ does make some good points, one of the few things he gets wrong is this idea of chance as luck. Case in point: say you have a rifle and you have a twenty-five percent chance of hitting a target eight hundred metres away. A cementhead would just fire four shots with the well-informed expectation that at least one of them would hit. But I’m not a cementhead – I’m a number cruncher. I don’t believe in luck. Luck is an excuse that stupid people come up with to explain their mediocrity. _​_"When a mathematician gets told she’s got a twenty-five percent chance of hitting something, a good one wonders what’s accounting for the seventy-five percent chance to not hit. I will have determined through trial that my shot accuracy is affected by wind speed, target visibility, obstacles in the way, the quality of my weapon, and other such factors. I account for these and tinker with them until I get a more acceptable percentile – in other words, a better chance to hit. I then apply my theoretical findings to practice. _​_"The point is: chance isn’t this mystical unknowable people make it out to be. It’s a sequence of calculations that determines an outcome. And the great thing about mathematics is that it’s an absolute: a calculation only ever has one right answer. If I know the calculations, chance becomes mere sheets of paper, to be torn apart as I please."_​


----------



## Joker

_The ExoGen headquarters building occupies a small space in downtown Phoenix, its own little corporate cell. Its cubic ceramisteel and plastiglass surfaces reflect the kaleidoscope lights of all the nearby franchises. The citizens below, who she can hear yelling in the streets and honking their car horns futilely, can’t avoid the city’s visual attack of advertisements designed by under-caffeinated graphic designers and approved by politically-correct focus groups. Jessica wrinkles her nose. City’s like a giant angular fish hunting for biomass, she thinks. Then she realizes that there shouldn’t be angular fish in the middle of the Sonoran._

Chopped up and edited this bit from the previous draft.


----------



## indianroads

Kind of a cheat - the last bit of Moonscape because 'The End' is my favorite words to write.

_“What are you grinning about?” she asked.

“Something from Tennyson,” he said. “If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk through my garden forever.”

“That’s beautiful, and you’re amazing,” she whispered, leaning against him.

“Think we can get our own place after we get back home?”

“Maybe, Rick or Nancy might know,” she answered.

“I don’t see why not,” Nancy replied. “Selene isn’t a prison anymore, so a lot will change.”

“The future looks bright,” Rick stated.

“It sure does,” Stephanie added from the forward compartment. “This is where our adventure really begins.”


 The End._


----------



## VRanger

I completely agreed with her, but I didn’t say it out loud. My expression may have given it away. “Yes, it’s Athena’s decision. Of the major Olympians, only she and Ares are left who could bestow immortality. Maaaaaybe Hekate or Circe, but I don’t know about that. I guess we’ll see. Or we won’t. It’s above my pay grade.” Sometimes I lapse into modern cliches. One of these days I’ll have to show off some ancient cliches. You know, we _did _have them. Okay, I know you’re dying to know one now. I could have said, ‘I’m not the shepherd, I just feed the sheepdogs’. Back then we would have said, ‘Δεν είμαι ο βοσκός, απλώς ταΐζω τα τσοπανόσκυλα’. And you thought I couldn’t remember any ancient Greek.


----------



## JBF

_Presently they came to the gate, the deputy who had been standing guard long departed, and for that alone tonight John supposed he could count himself lucky; that there still might be some reprieve from the oppressive emptiness of the Bascomb Creek parcel, and when finally the headlights caught the far strands of barbwire and the cats-eye flash of the county road signs he allowed as maybe, just maybe, the night might find its end, and perhaps soon.

At the T-intersection with the state highway he went left. Far enough down this road and the traveler would readily enough make Atheta, sleeping city of boarded windows, flickering past gas stations and the tire and fender shops, dealerships for propane or tractor parts and the car lot with its used offerings, greasy spoons and hardware stores until the square opened ahead, stately and somehow bemused in the contradiction of spreading oaks and the traffic stoplights cycling quiet in their dance, the iron hands up on the courthouse tower lagging or fast or stilled altogether for want of a maintenance budget.

The other way and it was Fort Worth, glittering and electric. He had flown there once with Laura, months gone, on an evening departure timed to see the sunset over familiar country, and in darkness flown in dusk until the metroplex lay off the nose, stretching to the horizon and dazzling like all the jewels of modernity. Arteries of light, red and white and peach and gold, highways and interchanges feeding the heart of a city that never slept. The familiar world reduced to the scale of novelty, how magnificent in its detail and complexity and somehow insignificant for a vantage three thousand feet up. Unconstrained by anything so petty as double yellow and guardrails and speed limits.

They made a meandering course home in smooth air, the radio quiet for the final stretch, and in the softening ruby cast of the instrument lights she covered herself with a sweatshirt and slept. She started at the slapped-puppy squeal of the tires on touching down, and as Bowman’s rental Cessna bounced to the hangar he asked what she thought, and she yawned and shook out her hair and marked it was okay.

He drove her the next time, and burned most of a rare free Saturday following her and her daddy’s credit card through a succession of shopping malls and outlet stores, and thereafter he remembered how much he goddamn hated civilization._


----------



## KatPC

JBF said:


> _At the T-intersection with the state highway he went left. Far enough down this road and the traveler would readily enough make Atheta, sleeping city of boarded windows, flickering past gas stations and the tire and fender shops, dealerships for propane or tractor parts and the car lot with its used offerings, greasy spoons and hardware stores until the square opened ahead, stately and somehow bemused in the contradiction of spreading oaks and the traffic stoplights cycling quiet in their dance, the iron hands up on the courthouse tower lagging or fast or stilled altogether for want of a maintenance budget._


This is beautiful written.


JBF said:


> _They made a meandering course home in smooth air, the radio quiet for the final stretch, and in the softening ruby cast of the instrument lights she covered herself with a sweatshirt and slept. She started at the slapped-puppy squeal of the tires on touching down, and as Bowman’s rental Cessna bounced to the hangar he asked what she thought, and she yawned and shook out her hair and marked it was okay._


Sorry this is beautifully written, the one before was great ... this passage however is beautiful in every sense. The words 'smooth' and softening' painting this picture that made it so delicate to read. 

- Crumbs. This thread states 'not for critique ...' Hmm ... Oh well it felt better than the heart emoji allowed!


----------



## Joker

JBF said:


> _Presently they came to the gate, the deputy who had been standing guard long departed, and for that alone tonight John supposed he could count himself lucky; that there still might be some reprieve from the oppressive emptiness of the Bascomb Creek parcel, and when finally the headlights caught the far strands of barbwire and the cats-eye flash of the county road signs he allowed as maybe, just maybe, the night might find its end, and perhaps soon.
> 
> At the T-intersection with the state highway he went left. Far enough down this road and the traveler would readily enough make Atheta, sleeping city of boarded windows, flickering past gas stations and the tire and fender shops, dealerships for propane or tractor parts and the car lot with its used offerings, greasy spoons and hardware stores until the square opened ahead, stately and somehow bemused in the contradiction of spreading oaks and the traffic stoplights cycling quiet in their dance, the iron hands up on the courthouse tower lagging or fast or stilled altogether for want of a maintenance budget.
> 
> The other way and it was Fort Worth, glittering and electric. He had flown there once with Laura, months gone, on an evening departure timed to see the sunset over familiar country, and in darkness flown in dusk until the metroplex lay off the nose, stretching to the horizon and dazzling like all the jewels of modernity. Arteries of light, red and white and peach and gold, highways and interchanges feeding the heart of a city that never slept. The familiar world reduced to the scale of novelty, how magnificent in its detail and complexity and somehow insignificant for a vantage three thousand feet up. Unconstrained by anything so petty as double yellow and guardrails and speed limits.
> 
> They made a meandering course home in smooth air, the radio quiet for the final stretch, and in the softening ruby cast of the instrument lights she covered herself with a sweatshirt and slept. She started at the slapped-puppy squeal of the tires on touching down, and as Bowman’s rental Cessna bounced to the hangar he asked what she thought, and she yawned and shook out her hair and marked it was okay.
> 
> He drove her the next time, and burned most of a rare free Saturday following her and her daddy’s credit card through a succession of shopping malls and outlet stores, and thereafter he remembered how much he goddamn hated civilization._



Felt like I was reading Neuromancer again.


----------



## Arsenex

AMP - Private War (2012)


Harris kicked open a door to a bathroom.

_Ak-ak-ak-ak-ak!_

“Ho, Colonel!”

Harris placed his hand over his external air filter. “That is the rankest thing I have ever...”

He knelt as he threw up in his helmet. _Awwwwg!_ _Awwwg!_ “Aw, crap, sir... sorry!”

The colonel leaned down and pulled him to his feet. “You aren’t the first Marine to do that, son; has happened to yours truly several times. Step back to the hallway and clean yourself up. We’ll be waiting at the next stairwell.”​


----------



## VRanger

If this boogie monster worried me, I must have worried it at least some, since it froze, too. I could try to hex it, but I’d give away my location, since I’d have to both move and make noise to spin the hex. Could it also hex me? Were we caught in a “Hex-I-Can” standoff?


----------



## VRanger

Miranda (the Little Lost Witch) and her mother on the subject of leaving a window cracked open so her cat familiar can go in and out of the house. Mariel, the mother, starts the snippet:

“Yes. You leave that window cracked all the time and just anything could come in.” I softly hissed and Mariel raised her voice. “Not talking about you, Norbert. Miranda, instead of a cracked open window, you really should provide a more graceful means of ingress and egress.”

“Aren’t those birds?”

Mariel raised her hands to the sky in pretend supplication. “You’re thinking of egrets. Egress and ingress … going out and back in. Out and back in.”


----------



## VRanger

I should have noticed the pattern by then, but I hadn’t, and neither had Miranda. I’m actually more observant than Miranda. If you read my first two stories you know that. If you didn’t, you’re about to find out. Hey, one of a familiar’s responsibilities is backup for whatever their witch misses. And if you’re a familiar who’s a cat, the next most important is to keep your witch’s lap warm when you get sleepy.


----------



## wildsouthland

From "It is What it Is - How I Became an Is-ist"

My mind was programmed by the culture, the educational system, and religious dogma to believe that the universe, and our place in it, can all be explained through linear thought and faith in an anthropomorphic deity. That particular line of thought distills infinity down to a simple formula of beginning, middle, and end with man at the center of everything. It’s a comforting story conceived to give us place and purpose. To explain the unexplainable and rationalize the irrational.


----------



## classic book lover

The goats came nearer to her, as they had not noticed her stop, and began grazing again, keeping an ever watchful eye aimed at the woods behind Greta, as their instinct always bade them. Greta laid down, and watched the clouds against the blue sky, swaying to the wind's whimsy, as was the boughs of the tree above her…how rhythmically they moved…….at the slightest push of the breeze……the birds around her singing, unaware of her presence…the knocking rhythm of the woodpeckers…the reassuring grazing of the goats around her….And with that, dear readers, she fell asleep.


----------



## Arsenex

We would fight to protect our Grid from harm, for our species to survive. We were Humans without a history, wandering through a galaxy we did not know, with hostiles pursuing us, threatening our very existence. The Grid was our home, our life, our only refuge. Our fate rested with our own actions...


----------



## wildsouthland

Ok, one more if you good folks will indulge me.

From "I Was Mad at My Dead Dad"

"I got to see my dad before he passed. At the time, he was sleeping around 20 hours a day. He couldn’t move about without assistance from my mom and his walker. He was wearing absorbent adult diapers. He was short of breath and could barely keep his head up and his eyes open. He was on the brink. But sitting in his Depends undergarments on the edge of his bed, he wanted to tell me about the things that excited his imagination. Things he never learned in high school because he never went to high school. We talked about the Peloponnesian War, the philosophy of Rene Descarte, the writings of John Milton, Herman Melville, Alexander Dumas, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Franz Kafka, Miguel de Cervantes, Samuel Clemens, and John Steinbeck. Dad was what we call “learned.” He was possessed of an encyclopedic knowledge that made playing Trivial Pursuit with him a futile and aggravating experience. The only way you could gain the upper hand on him was with the Entertainment category. That was dad’s one weak spot, his Achilles heel of knowledge. Yet, sitting there half clothed on his bed, he told me how very little he knew. Like Descarte, he said that he felt like a farce and a fraud because he actually knew nothing. One of that last things I recall him saying to me was “did you know that a sparrow hops along the ground very differently than a robin?” My pops may have been a lot of things, but an intellectual fraud he was not."


----------



## Tettsuo

I needed to request the aid of the bamboo, petition it and hope that it would agree to weave itself into a solid wall. I needed to see myself in partnership with the earth, not its master.

"Fas, fighe, dion."

The frayed ends of the bamboo began to shudder. At the sight of this activity, my confidence grew.

"Fas, fighe, dion," I repeated with more assurance in myself.

In my mind's eye, I began to visualize the shape I wanted the bamboo to take. I imagined a basket of woven strips of wooden fiber, just like the ones my mother and grandmother would make. I could see the green exterior, its interlocking strips, one over the other, interlocking again and again. I asked the bamboo to take this shape for me.

"Fas, fighe, dion."

I remember their movement as they created the baskets. Their hands moved in silent concert as they laughed, discussed, debated and even argued about events in both the past and the present. Grandmother and her large blade would cut the strips, perfectly shaped and sized each time. My mother would quickly weave the large piles made by grandmother.

I missed their voices.

"Fas, fighe, dion."

So many items we used everyday were made this way, from floor mats to serving trays. Daily chores seemed to be all that we did, but the weaving process was something they shared. I used to look forward to the day my mother would be cleaving strips and I would be the one weaving the goods. What a pleasure that would have been! I would have the joy of discussing with her my husband, the children we've created, and the life I would have lived. She would only have to provide her cherished wisdom.

By the gods, I could still see them.

"Yanelle!"

I looked up and turned to see Oktai and Ilse standing a few lengths away, shock on their faces. Turning back to the window, I see the bamboo woven tight and strong, protecting the window and us from any potential attack.

Oktai was never supposed to see me using earth magick. Now, on this day, before the eyes of my abbot, I've blasphemed by using the power of an earth witch.


----------



## classic book lover

Not so much pretty words, just a section that I like from The Misted Matterhorn:

When Greta was done, The little goat bounded around with joy, bursting with pent up energy. Greta picked the little goat up, and, taking care not to swing the bag containing the music box around too much, proceeded to lead the goats out of their pen and up the mountain. The luscious flowers were tempting to Edelweiss, so Greta let her down, but was careful not to let the little goat out of her sight like she had done yesterday, which had turned disastrous. This made Greta think of the doctor, Herr Burcur, how he looked so familiar, yet so strange. She had much time to think, walking up the mountain side, quietly leading the goats, but she could not place him. The puzzle was not complete. Something, no matter how small or great, kept her from seeing the information that she so longed for.


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## VRanger

Somerset and I left Doctor ... umm ... Mr. Sullivan's office and went straight to meet Juliet on her dinner break. We met at a little Mom and Pop's place near the library. Nothing fancy, just good comfort food. I remember we all opted for country fried steak (recommended by the waiter). It came with vegetables and rolls, but I don't recall the details of our orders. Don't you ever wonder at books where the narrator talks about a meal they ate weeks or months or years ago and names everything on the plate? Well, when it's an author writing fiction they can make up what they want. When it's me telling a true story, I'm not that good.


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## cassiofthedollhouse

From one of my not-poems (i call them diary entries).

"there is a girl in the well, and her name is one few dare to speak, whispered only in vendettas but present always in the blood beneath your fingernails. her story is your greatest shame, i know, but you think it is only so because a part of you died with her. isn’t it unfair, then, that you get to keep on living while she is stuck screaming for help from the bottom of a well? does it bother you to know what you did, or does it only bother you that she keeps you up at night?"


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## Triffids

Giving it a go
Atop the rolling, mudied earth, above the languid pooling shadows and snarled dogwood.A pheasant stood stock still framed, a richly oiled painting against the rising golden dawn, the very picture of foolish luxury, his resplendant redwood feathers flashing starlit against that pale sun.His long silky yet silly tail feathers shimmered with green-bottle iridescence.So too did he spend this tranquil morn gazing at himself in the reflection of the dew-laden leaves he did not realise of the mink's stealthy stalk...
The country lends itself well to prettied descriptions


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## Islander

She closed her eyes and focused inwards. She imagined the raw primal strength flowing through her veins, her muscles bulging, her bones break and grow and then knit together again. There was an almost inaudible cracking sound, and she opened her eyes. In the mirror, a 6’7” jade giantess looked back at her, with perfect, heavily toned figure, flowing dark green hair, and a strong, yet finely sketched face.
Jennifer smiled. ”Hello, beautiful”, she said to herself.


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