Fan Fics, Original Fiction, and Fantasy

Discussion in 'SciFi & Fantasy' started by CounslerCoffee, Mar 10, 2003.

  1. Fafnir665 You just got served. Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,979
    What you see is what i got

    *holds hands away from body*

    See? Nothing more.
     
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  3. curioucity Unbelievable and odd Registered Senior Member

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    2,429
    "Where's the sun?"
    "Huh? I thought that you are rushing....."
    "Where is it? It's daybreak already!"
    "Oh, please, you're freaking me....."
    "Aaaaarrghhh!! Help, somebody, help!"
    "Whoa, now you're in serious problem, fella..."
    "Oh, I'm freezing, I'm freezing....."
    "Calm down! Drag yourself to the fireplace."
    "I can't.... move...."
    "Duh..... let me help you......"
    ----
    "Oh, the chillll....."
    "I know why you're acting like this. Still, I need to blame you for craving a life in the sun. Now look, no light can keep you satisfied."
    "Ohhhhh......... I need....... heat...."
    "Stay awhile there, I'll get you a torch."
    ----
    "......"
    "Huh? Hey, wake up!!"
    "Ugh...."
    "I have good news for now. I'll take you outside."
    "Has the sun appeared yet?"
    "You bet"
    ----
    "Ahhhh..... finally! The light! The familiar light! The heat! This is so....... excellent...."
    "Not so excellent I'll say. You suprised me earlier..."
    "Why don't you come here with me? Basking in sunlight is so warming."
    "As you wish. but I'll get some stuffs first."
    "Don't be long."
    "Okay."
    ----
    "Are you done?"
    "Sunscreen, umbrella, little snacks, foldable matress, walkman..... I think I'm done."
    "Oh, the sun....."
    "Oh no, I forgot my sunglasses."
    ----
    "Why is the sky still bright?"
    "Huh? The sun sure is setting right"
    "No! I'm burning!!"
    "Yikes...."
     
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  5. thefountainhed Fully Realized Valued Senior Member

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    Pollux V:

    I really like the first story you posted. I especially like the format and how it shifts from the external--sun, to the internal-- his mind and its insecurities. I suppose I have a certain prejudice for the psychological-- I will post a story when I get off work. I think you should expand that story. The diary should be started abruptly, mentions of his wife increasing with distance away and interactions with his shipmates. Maybe a nightmare here and there;A disturbingly erotic twist on the death of his wife by the chracter's hands won't hurt. But by God, expand it. Imagery at the end is brilliant. I am surprisedyou are 15.

    Marigny...

    Considered poetry? I like you diction and flow. Perhaps you'd do better if you tried stream of consciousness-- read Faulkner's As I lay dying, or The Sound and the Fury or even Ellison's Invisible Man.


    Others...
    I have yet to finish reading.


    Good stuff.
     
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  7. Pollux V Ra Bless America Registered Senior Member

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    6,495
    TFD

    Thanks...that's a bit of an old story now, I just read it again. I guess the idea of the main character just losing his mind has become quite prevalent in my short story writing, the same thing happens in Numina and several other stories of mine. I've read too much Lovecraft. Excluding the few typos and grammatical errors I could find, I actually enjoyed the story quite a bit, which comes as a surprise to me because I haven't read it in awhile and during that...interlude, I guess, I managed to convince myself that it sucked. Excluding those errors I do think that the story is in its final form, however.
     
  8. thefountainhed Fully Realized Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    2,076
    Pollux V:
    Shame you won't expand.

    Excerpt from a novel almost in completion. Novel is essentially the psychological disection of an insecure alum of Brown who has "three times" released his rage on the third in a subconcious ephiphany, decides to purge try and purge his demons by writing... Title: "the progression of the confession. "


    ---------
    To think it happened out of luck or chance would be a mistake. Then again, it wouldn’t. I don’t know what kind of day it was or what she was wearing. All I can remember is that she was cute. I don’t remember her shoes, her clothes, or her face for that matter. All I can remember is her aura and the sensuality mixed with innocence that exuded from her. She was sensual and a mystery; a naïve little girl who felt like a woman.
    ‘Liar’

    Ok, I do remember what she wore. She wore tight fitting blue jeans that were cut low; revealing her tiny, toned waist, which bore the cutest navel, adorned with a small piercing of Mickey Mouse. She also wore a navy blue tank top that hugged her body like hot wax would on a mannequin. The top accentuated a full set of breasts that seemed to stand even against the combined pull of gravity and her slouched body. A slight breeze from the air conditioning vaults blew her hair gently back and forth, revealing an almost angelic face with a confident smirk.
    ‘He he he. Embellisher’
    And why not?

    Nothing was forced about her, and yet everything was forced about her. She hated the glasses she wore, I could tell. Every time she noticed someone look her way, she promptly removed the glasses as if to clean them. As I watched her, I noticed her remove and clean the glasses fifteen times in the span of an hour. And this always when someone looked her way and she noticed. She craved attention for she seemed to force the looks from people. She was beautiful, yet insecure in her beauty. She was an enigma and I was immediately hooked.

    I remember how I looked at her from the corner of my eyes and how she pretended not to notice my extended gazes. I debated with myself whether to try to talk to her or not. What questions to ask, how to ask. How not to sound forced, how not to sound insecure. I could smell her. She smelled of oranges in a peppermint breeze. Everything about her was angelic, yet earthly. In short, I was hooked. I kept turning to face her squarely so she would return my gaze, I looked out of the corner of my eye to see if she would look my way. She did not. I sometimes find it easier to write stupid poems to express my feelings.
    --->Insert poem

    I realize you may think me a weird sort of fellow. But, hey, I don’t lie about it. I am fucking weird. But you know, sometimes it’s just easier to write a poem than to let the emotions linger and fester in your mind and heart. If you don’t release them on paper, they can fuck you up.
    ‘Follow your advise. Damn you are a fucking hypocritical nerd.’

    Anyway, now that I think about it, it was during the second semester of my sophomore year in college. We sat in the computer lab of my dorm building. It was on a Monday, a very lazy and long Monday. The Bears and Packers were playing on Monday night football and it was halftime of a very good and defensive game. I had gone down to check my email when I knew there was none. I was very lonely then.
    I still am.

    As I sat looking at the computer screen, looking at meaningless ramblings of politicians I cared nothing for, I thought of things. You know, sometimes your mind just wanders. Ever wonder if those talkative people who seem to always be in groups are really lonely? Well, I do. All the time. I remember this red-haired girl who was sitting with a group of three other students jabbering on and on about her boyfriend, Like anyone cared. And why do people always seem to want others to know their business? I mean the people at the lab did not care what she was saying, and for that matter I don’t think her group members cared either. But let someone tell her that. I most certainly did not want to hear her talk about how nice Jeb was, and how sweet he was to bring her flowers every Saturday. Shit, the guy probably just wanted pussy. As she went on and on, man I just wanted to smack her loud mouth over with the keyboard. That would teach her to shut up.
    ‘Hell yeah!’

    I bet the other students would probably have like that. She was cute though, with those full lips of hers that seemed to curl out every time she opened them. Anyway, as I sat looking at the computer screen and thinking my sick thoughts, I realized I was doing nothing and thought of how alone I was and how much I needed someone. I wanted someone, just anyone to recognize me or ask me a simple question. I guess nobody nowadays says hello to anyone. Everyone is so preoccupied with their own shitty lives. Even if a pig had asked me a question, I would have said chatted tirelessly with it. I would have shared my philosophy and contempt with the misdirection of the human race.
    ‘Look at yourself.’
    [I[Am I not human?[/I]
    Anyway, as I sat mulling in my own self-pity, I realized that the intrigue was walking out of the lab and into the hallway. I had this abrupt feeling of overpowering fear. It was as if I was getting pushed with a weight beyond this world under water and instead of suffocating to my death, it continued subjecting me to the endless numbness and fright of impending death. Sweat started to gather on my forehead and I felt this superhuman urge to push through everything and rush after her. There, I would take off her glasses, tell her she was beautiful and she would in turn lose her insecurities and welcome my passionate embrace. We’d walk out into the darkness, leave our fake lives, friends, professors and families, and go create a world of our own. We’d grow old and I’d become a poet and her, a teacher at a day school she created for handicapped children. We’d grow old and one day reminisce about the brave new world we helped create. Where all the lonely are gone and the word of the day was friendship.

    For twenty seconds I stared blankly after her while day I daydreamed. .........
     
  9. Marigny Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    186
    fountain,
    thanks for noticing, i do write in a poetic way--its one of my styles of writing but i also write in a mainstream conventional way as well.
    I'm going to read your short excerpt and get back to you

    Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!



    OKAY, i'm back and here's what I think of yours, Thefountainhed,

    Funny, the first paragraph, was sort of funny in a way that it made me chuckle at how guys think when they see a girl…probably, I’m not sure, but it’s a romantic-poetic kind of sense you know when you describe a woman upon first sight or their appearance, hoping it’s more than just physical.

    And your 2nd paragraph…haha! Do guys really really look at what girls wear in detail?? Geez!! *looks down at her common blue jeans and t-shirt.*

    On the 3rd paragraph….geezzzzz…LOL, if someone were looking in such detail, i’d be thinking….uh, stalker time!! Haha.
    So where’s your inserted poem?? Eh? I wanna see!

    All the way down the 7th paragraph, HAHA! Funny!
    And the next paragragh, hmmm, the author is awfully distracted huh? Lol.
    And in the end, the writer sits there daydreaming. Damn, why can’t people just do what they want to do?? I mean the good actions (thinking about that, I realized it wouldn’t be a good idea—remember “Falling Down” with Michael Douglas?? Uh-uh no good!)

    Well, that was a refreshing read. ^_^
    You’re a vivid writer.
     
    Last edited: Sep 4, 2003
  10. pragmathen 0001 1111 Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    452
    Great thread!

    I've read through a bunch of what everyone's posted and love it! Writing is such a great release, a nice way to entertain different realities. With that little preamble, I give you:

    <i>Recipe</i>
    He stood there aghast. Things didn't happen this way. He was just on his way home from the grocery center. Got his milk, his pancake mix and some eggs. And ran smack-dab into a relatively small gang demanding his money and perhaps more.

    Obviously they were speaking to him, telling him they wanted the usual--life, liberty and whatever cash he was carrying. His heart was trying its damnedest to get the hell out of his chest and away from the situation. His legs had filled with concrete, solidifying in quick-time.

    He knew exactly what he had to do. He'd take the milk jug out, swipe it against the gang leader's head, smash some eggs into another's face, and throw the pancake mix into any of the others' eyes. He could see himself doing each and every step perfectly, dancing a mind-bendingly seamless thread of precision.

    He reached for the milk jug involuntarily. The thug in front of him shoved him hard enough to send him flying backwards, arms pinwheeling for balance, back making contact with the ground. He blacked out for a good ten seconds and belatedly was disappointed to realize it wasn't long enough.

    They were all standing over him now, yelling things at him. His head hurt from the impact and the faint, his ears yammering relentlessly. His heart had given up trying to escape and was now threatening to implode unless work conditions changed dramatically.

    Without realizing exactly how it was done, he was on his feet, his fists only reacting when they met hard flesh. The muscles in his legs screamed in defiance as they were stretched helter-skelter, making contact with heads, hands and joints.

    It wasn't so much that he reacted to every potential punch and kick, but that he conducted the entire symphony of pummeling. Rather than seeing anything coming at him, it all made sense as being the only course available. He felt like he was back at work, feverishly putting metal components into switchback counterparts--he knew every part of the process and nothing surprised him.

    His whirling dervish of expended energy eventually depleted. And just in time. All of the thugs lay at rather awkward angles, some unabashedly sprawling on the hard concrete. Others were nursing broken wrists or ankles, their undivided attention devoted to recuperation rather than retaliation. Joining them, he carefully handled his broken eggs, spilt milk, and shredded pancake mix, then discarded them regretfully.

    Completely forgetting about the broken things on the ground, he headed home for some much needed lunch. When he got there, he was surprised to discover that he had forgotten to buy some milk, pancake mix and eggs when he went shopping. He threw up his hands and laughed at himself. He was surprised to find out that his knuckles were bleeding.
     
  11. UberDragon The Freak at the Computer Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    770
    umm... I'm writing this as I go along

    The creature flapped its muscled wings, pulling itself higher into the air as it banked back to it's left. The wound in it's chest was bleeding profusely and oozing pus, the two mixing together in an almost artistic display of black and white; an expression of the two forces at work in the moonlight.

    As it turned back towards him, he let a small grin flash past his lips. They were so predictable; never running away when they should, always staying to fight. Although, fighting was better than their alternative... But none of that would matter in a little while...

    He was close.

    He could feel it.


    Yeah, it's a crappy teaser. I'm probably not gonna make anything out of it.
     
  12. Fafnir665 You just got served. Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,979
    Bad Start to a Bad Story

    Part One. 'A Christmas Story'

    A soft light flickers across the darkened room, decorated with faded duck wallpaper. YOu know, the kind that has the same brown ducks repeated over and over again. On a mantle over an old brick fireplace a crumbling model of a battleship stands guard, flanked by antique soldiers. In the corner furthest fromt he fireplace is a tree, glitering in the soft light from a thousand points, the star crowing it scraping the low hung ceiling.

    A woman yells, "Ralphie, come down for breakfast, you'll be late for school."

    A voice answers, "I'm coming!"

    The same voice, thought aged somewhat,"thats me, up in my room, planning my own christmas purchases"

    The woman again "I'm serving up the oatmeal!"

    The same, aged voice "I hadn't yet settled on my mothers's gift. It would be either a perfume atomizer with golden lion's feet or a string of plastic beads the size of walnuts. It wasn't an easy choice."

    On a beat up old couch, an old man chuckles. A small boy seated beside him stares up with a blank face.

    "Grandpa, whats a perfume atomizer?"

    "I don't know myself, you should look it up at your mothers when you go home"

    "Okay grandpa"

    As the movie ended, the grandfather got up and walked to the kitchen. He stood in front of the compiler and punched in a sequence that his grandfather had shown him. He watched as two goblets formed with a small serving dish, slowly building up from the empty space in the center. When the cookies and milk had stopped forming, he slid the plate from receptacle and grabbed both goblets in one hand.

    "This is a treat my granddaddy always made me, I dont know what it's called, and neither did he, but it's an old tradition."

    "what are we going to do with them?"

    "Well, we have some now for ourselvesm they are very good" he says, while grinning,"then we leave the rest as a treat near the chimney for 'santa claus', the man who flies around the world and delivers presents to everyone"

    "Does he use a zip?"

    "No, he has a magical sled with 8 reindeer, and one with a glowing nose!"

    The boy laughs.

    "well, I guess it's your bedtime, go ahead and put yourself to bed, I'll see you in the morning"

    As the boy climbs up an aged spiral staircase, he watches as his grandfather returns to couch and continues to watch the Immitor in flatscreen mode. He turns the last bend, walks throught he opening door and doesn't notice it slide shut in silence. He flicks the 3 switches next to the door frame, the first turning off the lights (in a slow dimming manner), the second sliding the bedframe away from the wall, the third turning on the hypnoemitor and slides into bed.

    This one island of the modern priveleges of the young had been built into the house when his father had died an accidental death, his mother wanting a positive male influence in his life, and her father the only man she could trust.

    He never knew his father, the only reason he existed was his own fathers death. Hatched artificially, just like everyone else.

    'I wonder what santa does' he thought, as the low frequency sound lulled him into a deep restful sleep.
     
  13. sargentlard Save the whales motherfucker Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    6,698
    I'll keep it short and sweet

    Stutter and flutter all about she did, oh how much a rattled thought she embodied as she stuttered and fluttered all about the cold, steel, room. Yes she did, yes sir, she went discombobulated all about as she tried to find the cold hand of the door to let forth the freedom, freedom she so badly desired at the her present state of discomfort. The pain, oh so sweet the sensual pain that wraped all about her as she gently scratched away her, once, porcelain skin. Scratching and peeling off the sins that burned her mind with the fires of the never ending pain of regret and hate, oh how sweet her vile hate brewing inside her. Such lucious delicacy of feeding on the beautiful hate.

    She tried harder now to wash away the sins, harder and harder and harder, oh such sweet blood flowing away from exposed veins. Veins that glistened bright red drenched in the blood of her attempts at heavenly penance of her mortal sins, oh such sweet sensual penance, almost orgamsic in it's heathen beauty...a virgin sinner bound to penance.

    Oh my beautiful one now fluttered about the steel room washing away the sins one scratch after another.....her arms, now not knowing the shelter of the skin, flew in the air free of judgements from heaven and hell, she flung them around carelessly because by now pain had become her slave, a pathetic, sensual, desperate slave that needed her. She didn't fear pain, why would she fear such a abhorrent whore, oh such a putrid whore begging to fingered at will, as harsh as she could finger her sorry body.

    Now she was past the bludgening of the arms, now she moved on those oh so lucious legs. Those long towers of lustful intents being carresed by the warm sweat being birthed by the maddening heat stemming from penance....oh how she loved the sweat of penance, nothing much more sweeter than the sweat driven form the bowls of penance.

    She tore off the bounding chains, chains in the visage of clothes thrust upon her by her captors. She stood now as she had entered this existence, nude, in all her glory, blood dripping from every pore....oh silly me, blood and sweat poured. Blood and sweat intertwined in a most exotic of relationships, so exotic it was, oh yes, i shutter at even imagining such love her blood and sweat shared at the pinnacle of her penance. She threw herself on the cold steel ground....shaking and fluttering like a captured bird cut in her prime.........oh but dear me she wasn't over...oh no never... she could not be done with the task at hand untill the task became no more than meager rock but as it stood at the moment the task was anything but a meager rock....more resembling of a feared mountain but she was no average nomad treading the grounds of such mountain......oh my humble readers she was the god who would bring this mountain to it's begging knees.


    To be continued
     
  14. pragmathen 0001 1111 Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    452
    That was a great one <b>sargentlard</b>! I loved it. Exceptionally concise and precisely to the point. What a thrill to read. That conjured up some pretty vivid images. I also liked how you didn't give her a name--that just makes it oh so much more endearing.
     
  15. sargentlard Save the whales motherfucker Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    6,698
    Reading your comment made my day. I thank you fellow reader.
     
  16. BigBlueHead Great Tealnoggin! Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,996
    It had been a hard ride across the Lightless Wastes; the five-day passing of the triangular green moon had seen Zhanier lead his robot riding-lizard among the crisscrossing yellow lines of past unknown parking lots under the pyramidal purple clouds.

    Already the poor beast is nearly dead for want of light, he thought to himself. Under the present circumstances, to be a solar-powered being seemed a gross disadvantage, but he reflected that once his dwindling supply of granola bars was depleted, he would become as exhausted as his erstwhile mount. If that should happen, the two of them would forevermore slump together on the centuried pavement, in that terrible place where no ray of sun ever shone.

    Though neither day or night graced the endless expanse, the two silently assented to a short rest, finding shelter from the grey, insipid wind in the lee of a heap of abandoned microwaves. The robot sagged in reserved exhaustion, and Zhanier, the more energetic of the two, set about to find fuel for a fire.

    How does it come to this? he wondered inwardly. Once his life had been a normal one, his days spent herding rain clouds in the family zeppelin, his nights given to contemplation of the distant and unattainable stars. In those days his only enemy had been the overfarming of residentially zoned land. But now...

    A noise from behind alerted him to the presence of an unknown creature; not turning around he assessed the nature and position of this new threat, for threat it was. What sane being would wander so far out into this miserable desert at the ankles of the world? Any profiteering assailant would have tried to steal his robot, so this could only be a toxid, one of the foolish and egregiously sticky helpmates of the Entropica. He did not consider the vibrogladius on his belt, always ready under his metal-gauntleted right hand; the toxid was a creature whose organization was entirely derived from surface tension, and a stroke from an edged weapon would only serve to momentarily disarrange the order of its fluid membranes. His concentration was directed entirely toward his sidearm, and the motion of the liquid foe behind him.

    The trick to fighting toxids was the sound...

    He dropped quickly at the viscous noise of its attack, as a glinting blade of blue liquid hissed by inches above his head. His gathered crouch became a leap away as another poisonous stroke splashed cruelly across the pavement where his feet had been.

    Stupid but blinding fast was his only thought as he looked for the first time at the toxid, in the aerial adrenaline-filled moment as he drew the hellbore pistol under his right arm. Faster than snakes came two limbs of the blue shapeless thing, streaking at him upward through the air. Faster than all, his arm levelled the pistol and fired three shots, the stutter of the hellbore stark across the grey and crumbling pavement.

    The ground came up unwanted under his heels, and he rolled backwards to lessen the impact and take him away from the foe. Another look told him that further evasion was needless; the fluid beast had already caught fire from the cruel blast of the hellbore, hot as the heart of the sun. Its fluid would soon be consumed, as the toxids were entirely flammable.

    Zhanier took advantage of the sudden opportunity to build a fire, and quickly stacked the bits of styrofoam and old weatherstripping he had collected upon the fulgent creature, building a respectable blaze which added a little colour to the landscape. After a moment he walked to the robot, some distance away, and shone his pocket flashlight briefly upon its scales to revive it. The reptilian creature rose shakily and approached the flames, glad for their ruddy light.

    (Edited the last paragraph to remove a repetition.)
     
    Last edited: Sep 12, 2003
  17. BigBlueHead Great Tealnoggin! Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,996
    Ouch... was it that bad?:bugeye:
     
  18. curioucity Unbelievable and odd Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    2,429
    here's another one from me..... inspired.....

    The sky was colored dark white then, as snowfall began to intensify. The ground was also plain white and cold. There were very few things that stood on that white land, one of them being a fairly bright brick house with few windows and a door. Lily was the only person living in the house. She wore a glum face everyday, for she had grown tired and scared of the snowfall.
    On that night, she was cooking wheat soup, the only thing she had been eating for weeks, since the darkness came. She was lucky that she bought a lot of wheat when the days began to dim. Then she could expect to live a few more months before she could think of starving.
    She was still cooking when she stared outside the window, watching the falling snow, before she looked at her cookings again. But the next time she looked outside, she saw something that looked like ghost. She first ignored it, but when she looked again at the persisting object, she decided that she would go out to check after she had done with her cooking. And so after she served the meal, she went outside, wearing her thickest suit. As she approached what she thought to be ghost, she found out that it was a human, a mysterious man with cloak, staring at the ground. She was unsure whether or not to approach the man, but then she spoke to him.
    "Whoever you are, I suggest that you not stay out here for too long..."
    "Tell him."
    Lily was confused, but when she saw him pointing to the ground, she took a look and was surprised. There was a fainted man lying on the frozen ground with not enough suit to keep him warm.
    "He fell stiff a few moments ago, so you could still save him." the cloaked man said.
    Lily was trying to drag the man on the ground into her house, and what the cloaked man said upseted her.
    "And you don't event try to seek help even though you know that this man fell near you."
    "I couldn't help him."
    "But why.....?"
    Suddenly Lily walked faster, and once she and the fainted man reached the house, she shut the door, leaving the cloaked man alone.
    During a few days following that day, Lily nursed the man and he finally woke up. When he could finally talk, he asked her about what ahppened, and she just explained what happened that day. He thanked her, and then he told her about himself.
    "My name is Don."
    "Well, I'm Lily. first off, I want to know what you're doing out there. It's freezing, you know."
    "Yes..."
    "Hello? What's your doing?"
    "Errr.... you can say I'm a wanderer. I go from city to city to find a living in these dark days. I was just going to Southern Hills, but it seemed that I had not enough energy to stand the journey."
    "I wonder if you're really always alone?"
    "What do you mean with that?"
    "Well, there was this cloaked man who helped me help you. He was standing near you when I found you unconscious then."
    "I don't have a friend, but if that cloaked man really told you that i needed help, I need to thank him as well..."
    "He just pinpointed where you were lying. He didn't even carry you or knock on my door to let me know. I just happen to saw him that I went out and found you."
    "But still, if he hadn't been there, I might have been dead by now..."
    "Okay, you have good reason there."
    When the talk went on, the cloaked man was standing out in he darkness, looking up, and mumbling.
    "It's been long since I talked to you, Raphael. I was sure glad that I could see you, a divine, and even talked to you, talking divine thing. Yes, it was the time I feel gladdened by your willingness to descend only to see me.
    You even warned me about this disaster, and even gave me choice to survive it. In the end, I was the only one among my peers who still walked this earth. But, forgive me, this gift turned out to be grief for me...... I can see people suffering from these days, but I can't help them. I only watched them dying, yet I don't know how it feels to suffer the same...... everyone calls me a sadist, Raphael, a sadist..... yes......though I hate that....."
    The cloaked man sighed, and continued.
    "I'm only a specter now, Raphael, an apparation who is visible but ghostly, can speak but cannot touch..... No one wants me.....
    I wonder if it is the price of trying to get away from this disaster, Raphael. But now I want get away from this.... please, helpme..."

    ---------
     
  19. BigBlueHead Great Tealnoggin! Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,996
    Continuation...

    Across the endless tarmac, his destination finally came into view; the Temple of Atomic Secrets.

    It squatted in the middle of the endless parking lot, nearly fifteen meters high, a foreboding ziggurat made of New Jersey barrier and stuck together with untold aeons of cracked, greying bubble gum. This was Zhanier's goal, the repository of the Knowledge of Elder Years wherein he would find the sacred Scroll of the Control Rods that the Atomic priests so desperately needed. He knew it was there, but he also knew it would be guarded.

    Even as he approached, tugging his riding-lizard along behind him, there came a sound of stirring from the still-distant pile. The vibrations he felt through the ground could only have one source: the Keeper.

    It rose out of the crumbling mound to face him, fixing him with its one immense, cracked blue eye. So they stood, seeker and guardian, facing each other across the ancient asphalt. Zhanier's hands were at his belt, drawn there by long familiarity with combat, but he knew that this was not an opponent he could defeat by main force. The Atomic priests had told him that much.

    The Keeper of Atomic Secrets had been crafted in days long past, wrought on the fires of a nuclear forge by Mazur, the only one who could stand the hellish rays of that effulgent process. Carved from depleted uranium and brought to life with the whispered names of elder beings, the Keeper would outlast all of humanity and live to see the final extinguishing of the universe. Its cyclopean hulk scowled at him without malevolance under the greenish moon, silent as the darkness between the stars.

    Time passed like water. The lizard had settled in behind him to fall asleep. Finally, Zhanier summoned his voice.

    "Is this the temple of Atomic Secrets?" he asked.

    "No," the Keeper intoned, its voice deep as the hum of a black hole.

    "Are you lying to me?"

    There was a slight pause.

    "No."

    The hunter shifted uncomfortably, feeling insignificant under its steady, fractured gaze. The Atomic priests had never told him whether the Keeper was compelled to tell the truth; under the circumstances this seemed to be more important than he had previously anticipated. What if this was a different temple? What if the thing before him was a different Keeper?

    He banished such insane thoughts from his mind. There was only one temple in these trackless wastes, only one giant guardian statue, and it stood before him. He marshalled his resolve.

    "I would like to enter the Temple of Atomic Secrets."

    The Keeper began to raise its vast arm, the grey appendage glinting greenly in the half-light. It slowly brought its huge hand up to its face, placed its thumb thereon and wiggled its fingers.

    "Nyeah nyeah," it said, mocking him in its earthquake voice.

    Zhanier was shocked to the core, so much so that he barely heard his riding robot snickering weakly behind him. The absurdity of the situation so unbalanced him that he forgot his reverence for the lightless plain and the vast, invincible hulk before him, and his voice rang out clear across that empty place.

    "What the hell is going on here?"

    "This would be the temple," the Keeper rumbled, "if the scroll was here."

    There was an infinite pause.

    "But it's not."

    At this the man sunk his head into his hands. "But this is where it's kept! What happened to it?" He looked up, and the giant blue eye locked with his.

    "Hejel Opprobrious brought the scroll back here one hundred thousand years ago," the Keeper said, its voice like stone sliding on stone.

    "Well then, where is it now?"

    "He forgot to leave it when he came. It's still in his satchel."

    "Still in his satchel." Zhanier felt like laughing, his metal-clad fists clenched hard at his sides. "That's great, except that HE'S BEEN DEAD FOR A HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS!"

    As the echoes of his angry yell faded away across the endless tarmac, the hunter felt suddenly even smaller, alone, not just in the vast parking lots of the waste, but among the vast, obtuse decisions of men. Had the priests not bothered to check around before asking him to retrieve the scroll? A vast, deep sound from the Keeper roused him from his desperate, private thoughts.

    "Then you should hope they buried it with him." The Keeper told him, with an air of crushing finality.

    He fell to his knees, heedless of the pebbles and debris all about him, weak, defeated.

    "It can't be true..."

    And yet, in the midst of his despair, something returned to him - the advice of Father Egregious, given offhandedly just before he left.

    "He will test ye sorely," the Father had said.

    Zhanier rose, shaking off the desperation that had come upon him, and strode across the paved expanse. He walked beneath the very shadow of the vast golem that kept that ancient place, and it turned its giant eye to watch his passage.

    Within the temple all was dark and empty, and the beam from his pocket flashlight illuminated the scroll, placed carelessly atop a broken air conditioner.

    Scroll in hand, he passed again out of that benighted place, took up his seat on his riding-lizard, and trotted away. Glad to be heading back toward civilized places, he looked backward only once. The last sight of the Temple of Atomic Secrets he would see, was the Keeper sticking out its giant depleted uranium tongue at him.
     
    Last edited: Sep 26, 2003
  20. Gifted World Wanderer Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    2,113
    I do believe that this is the fist time to try writing what I fell like. Let me know how it is.

    The wind whips around my body. Barely below the low cloud cover I fly, the moisture cooling my hot scales. Down below is the focus of my attention, a small being, skimming the trees just as I skim the clouds. Her flight is different, using her strenth to fly, using the thermals above the lakes to help her up, the occasional tree to rest for a while. My magic pulls the wind beneath my wings effortlessly.

    I bank across a hole in the clouds, delibrately trying to flash the brilliant rainbow scales at her, to get her to see the one who watches. Did she see me? The silver moonlight makes her glossy black fur a pale grey. Sighing, I pull up. Through the clouds and into the moonlight above them I fly, the wind flowing ever faster across my wings. A pressure builds i nfront of my nose. soon it breaks, and I am going fast enough to be over the mountains and approaching the sea in a few minutes. Below me the inhabitants look up as the "dragon thunder" of my passing rolls over them, rattling windows and frightening children. I decide to come back and see the vixen later, as my duties pull me across the sea.

    I return as she reaches to mountains. I fly lower to see better. The strong winds between the peaks gust at her, tearing at her wings. She is a strong flyer, but her method is as vulnerable to this as mine is to the jet streams higher up, where dragons prefer to fly. I go down, to help her, and pray that she sees what I intend, not what is obvious. Among our own kind, such understandings are common, but others frequently see us differently, trying to make us what they want us to be, to keep us from flying on our own. It is always good to have someone help you when the winds become too strong, even if they are a stranger.
     
  21. BigBlueHead Great Tealnoggin! Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,996
    (Forgive my continuation)

    The scent of her effort rose behind her, sweet like snowflakes on the raw mountain wind. I approached with gentle sweeps of my wings but no effort at silence; to surprise another in the midst of difficult flight is not only mannerless, but can also be deadly. The noise of my passing whistled in the stunted pines as I came upon her.

    She was struggling with a downdraft, and I sought not to disturb her efforts, since the pride of all who wear wings is well known, from the tiniest sparrow to the vast shapes that eclipse the moon at night. None who walk the halls of the sky would give such help unasked. Instead I passed around her, the greater strength of my muscles parting the wind where hers could not, and flew slowly and steadily some distance ahead of her.

    I could not smell her now, and looked at her only briefly in an almost indifferent offer of help. With sudden dignity and grace she swept her wings and fell into my wake, taking advantage of the calmer air created by the passage of my body. She rose up in the shadow of my right wing, quiet now, and the two of us flew calmly and without words through the cloud-sheared mountains.

    Our crossing of the range was heralded by the clearing of the capricious mountain clouds, and the slanted walls of stone opened out onto starlit grasslands. Far below, the crescent moon flashed on a tiny lake as we passed; I could not help wondering if she had seen it. Carefully, I banked upward to slow myself, knowing that she would reduce her speed if she intended to follow, and she remained at my wing. I did not know what she would say.

    (Hope I captured your mood right...)
     
  22. Gifted World Wanderer Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    2,113
    Pretty good. The intent was not to continue, unfortunately. While looking for art to put in my screensaver, I came across a very good artist(watching the vixen(I used her avatar, which is copyrighted BTW) below). She had her e-mail on the sites so I've sent her a couple(flashing the scales). The story expresses the concern that she might rarely check her box, and thus miss my messages, or misinterpret my intentions. Your continuation is a pretty good idea of the desired outcome. Having found her blog, it seemed at the time that she was going through a difficult period, hence the mountain winds. My only real problem was that I couldn't figure out a way to include the help her friends give her in the story.
     
  23. BigBlueHead Great Tealnoggin! Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,996
    Ah! It wasn't my intention to butt in on something significant.

    As far as difficulties in one's life go, I don't think that allowing someone else to slipstream you is really much of a metaphor for anything...

    Artists sometimes appreciate fan art, but it depends on what sort of artist they are - I couldn't help you there.

    Many people express their feelings of concern, bitterness, anger and despair on the Internet; it seems to provide a helpful medium for people to push their worries out into the open. Everybody's got little aches and pains from things other people say and do, and it's easier sometimes to express them anonymously than directly to people who might not take you seriously.

    I guess the closest you can come to the old slipstream trick in this case is to try to identify with somebody and show that you understand how they feel... that's a stretch though.

    Luck, anyway.

    (P.S. I just realized I got the tenses wrong in every single case. Oh well.)
     

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