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... We lost this thread in the post massacre, and I kinda liked it (Plus I want to hear more of Rob's story)


At any rate, here's my latest bit of writing, hot off of the press... And yes, it's fiction.




Monday, August 17th

Fifth Period


Crap. He’s in this class, too. Paul, the athletic jackass who, for some reason unbeknownst to me, had decided that I was his mortal enemy. First gym class’s ‘fun’ exercises, that consisted of the coach yelling at us to run faster and jump higher with Paul echoing him for me alone, followed by Algebra I Honors, a class that Paul honestly didn’t belong in, but had decided to enroll in, anyways, where he punched me each time I didn’t reveal an answer, or accidentally obscured it.

After that came third period, English, where I was lucky enough to be left alone until I made the mistake of raising my hand to read aloud. He thought it was hilarious that I fit in this much with the nerd stereotype he’d clumped me into already, and reacted accordingly, performing false intimidations of my reading the accentuated upon my stutter.

Fourth period, Spanish, broke from the pattern only in the respect that I, knowing little to nothing about the language, was no longer his punching bag, thus allowing me one time during the day when, if I was just capable of keeping my huge mouth shut, I wouldn’t be ripped apart like a carrot in a food processor.

Now, however, it’s fifth period, integrated science. It’s an advanced class, of course, and Paul does not belong in this one any more than he does in this grade, much less his other two advanced classes. He’s ignoring me for the moment, talking to the kid sitting behind him. I know this will not be the case for the rest of the year, though. Our last names are very similar in spelling, leading to the two of us inevitably sitting near one another.

The teacher is giving a lecture, and finds the class’s attention elsewhere. As nothing else has worked, he mentions a few chemical reactions that will produce explosions, even methods of producing highly flammable hydrogen gas. Myself and two other students seem to be the only ones paying attention, and of the three of us, I suspect that only I retain the chemical names.

The bell rings, and teacher leaves the room in a resigned manner. I make to do the same, but fall forward as soon as I stand, a blinding pain between my legs, and Paul’s foot at the source. He’s laughing at his ‘nut shot,’ and leaves me writing in pain to proceed to his next class, proclaiming, “Superman strikes again!â€


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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Quiet nice Tofu. It begs the question though - how much of this is fiction? :wink:




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That was mad awesome Tofu. And now for one of mine, written about a month ago...




I can’t get those eyes out of my head. Those deep, golden eyes. Those sharp, intelligent eyes. When I think of them, my body lets loose a natural shiver, one which leaves my pale skin covered in a forest of goose bumps. The memory of those eye are forever embedded within my brain, always haunting me, even as I sleep. Even now those eyes are upon me, glaring at me from across the room. Judging me, weighing me, ridiculing me. Those unblinking, unwavering eyes. Suddenly, like a brief flash of lightning etched across a summer’s night sky, the eyes are gone from the room. But they are still with me, in my mind, like a constant nightmare. The eyes of Eris.


I give a start at a crash from downstairs. It sounds like it came from my study, one of my last sanctuaries; now it was lost to the menace of Eris. Even now I hear the dull thud as my precious books come toppling down from the shelves to the cold floor. Books on gardening and game, two beloved activities I have since been deprived of, since Eris. I can not recall the last time my skin, now as white as bone, took in a bit of sunlight, nor the last time I inhaled the refreshing sweetness of a spring day. I have been a prisoner in my own home for countless time. A prisoner of Eris.


As suddenly as she is gone she reappears, her black coat a taint in my bright-lit bedroom. But no number of lamps and lights can dominate the shadow of Eris. She gracefully makes her way through the ruins of my once quaint room, stepping over a broken vase here and around an upended table there. She paces over to the stool in the corner, the corner from which she surveys the entire room, taking it all in with one glance. She has such a commanding presence, sitting on that stool as if she were the Queen of Sheba, atop a golden throne, surveying her domain, and her subjects. For her eyes are once again upon me, measuring me. There is a growing fear in the pit of my stomach, festering upon me with every waking hour of day and night. This terror is feeding off my body, mind, my very soul, indulging itself in my horrid fear. A fear of Eris.


For countless minutes, hours, days, I am trapped in the stare of those eyes. Time no longer holds a meaning to me, its laws no longer rule me. There is no time, no here or there. Just myself, and Eris. Then suddenly Eris is gone, racing out of the room. Several moments pass, and then I hear it; the shattering of glass tells me she has decided to return to the dining room. I shudder at each smash of plate, each clatter of silverware as I picture a rainstorm of forks and knives falling to the once-spotless floor. As the wreckage continues, a rational thought comes to mind. My fear suppresses it, tries to hold it back, but at last it breaks through my fright, and actually makes it past those glowing eyes in my mind. My last hope before madness engulfs me. A gun. A gun for Eris.


My hand trembles uncontrollably as I reach across my four-post bed to the nightstand. It takes several minutes for me to grasp the brass handle. It takes a few moments more for my arm to draw back, opening the top drawer. My hand ventures into the darkness of the drawer, feeling past The Good Book and pens and countless other knickknacks that have accumulated over the years, until it comes to rest upon cold steel. Still shaking, my hand retreats from the drawer, reluctantly dragging the gun with it. Finally free, I stare down at the pistol in my hand. This is my only escape. The only way I will be able to rid my house of this chaos once and for all. The gun seems to bring enough hope to me that it actually fights back the fear, burying it inside me, suppressing it. For the first time in countless days, the fear is gone from my mind, and with it, the eyes. I am free from those deadly, menacing eyes. I have but one thing on my mind, all other thoughts and emotions thrust aside. The death of Eris.


My head floods with rejoice at the return of reason and sanity. I would finally be able to escape this tomb which Eris has erected for me. I sit on the edge of the bed, steeling my nerves, awaiting the eventual return of Eris. Before long she returns, picking her way across the damaged landscape of my room. As always, she makes her way to her corner, to perch upon her stool so as to gloat at me over the wreckage she has caused. I stare back into those eyes, those knowing eyes, my mind working to keep the fear and madness help back for the next few moments I need with which to act. I inhale sharply, and a bit of madness escapes as I laugh aloud into the fact of Eris. I compose myself in time to notice how much this sound startles Eris. It is the first sound I have made in weeks, and it caused her to flinch ever so slightly. If I had not been studying her when I had laughed, I would not have noticed that miniscule reaction she had. But it was enough to give me strength. I raised the gun and aimed it at Eris, sighting in on her cocked head. I take a deep breath as my prepares to press the trigger in. But as I aim at her head, I look into those eyes. Those vast, uncanny eyes. Those eyes blast past my dwindling strength and invade my brain yet again. Hope tries one last attempt to rid those eyes from my mind, but it is beaten back. I nod my head as I slowly raise the gun to my head. Eris continues to watch intently as the cold steel of the muzzle makes contact with my temple. My index finger tightens around the trigger of the gun as I understand Eris’ intentions. She is hungry, and I am now nothing more than a meal. A meal for Eris.

Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side!


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I felt like writing something, so I just wrote this for this thread. It's the roughdraft, and it's not really a story or anything. But enjoy ( I hope.).


The contrast between summer's half of the sky and the looming grey smear that always accompanied winter was a subtle sign of rain to the man in the alley. Dressed in torn layers of wool and rawhide he might have been warm in the silence of the city's cold had he enough food to vouche for energy, and as it was he shivered lightly. It wasn't helpful or even proper that his only head decor was the tangle of greasy locks and curls, but the long protection was better than nothing. He thought sad thoughts of endless plains and golden rays of light that would be gone until next year. For now he would have to wait where he was; the plains were frozen during the winter, and only those unaffected by the plague could have homes. He would have to avoid others until the urban tombstone became warm, for the marking on his head would harm him yet more in public. Looking longingly at the silent patch of mainstreet he sighed to no one in particular. A broken syringe lay next to him, the idol of his inadequecy and everything harsh in the world.


The outbreak of the disease had been treated by the city as miniscule in the shadow of more important events until the first ten died. Thousands more had been quickly diagnosed with the symptoms, and graffiti across the city marketed the line "Death to those who would make prevention for it takes death to get things done." in ridiculement of the city's poor response to the epidemic. Two months after the initial deaths the city, and surrounding plain were placed in quarantine. A week had gone by since then.


The man in the alley pondered over how long it would take for the city to die, and he dismissed the thoughts, instead focusing on the ill-fortune of his own situation. The syringe at his side was the final product of his life's achievement. He had been neither a failure or a junkie, and had purchased the beauty-inducing powder to enjoy the little morsel of time his life had alotted him.


The brick wall whispered cold to the bare of his neck upon leaning against it. Not that it mattered when the cold was so very much already, and nothing else. There was only time now. Time to wait for the prejected method of death to take it's toll. Terrible, and pale time in the pressence of the alley. The man smiled weakly in retrospect to his life, and closed his eyes to the world that closed it's eyes to him. He nodded off to a world, any world where there was sunlight, and red bricks, and wind in the fields, and there was contentment in the alley on mainstreet just south of the vaccination clinic.

"I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix." -Allen Ginnsberg, "Howl"
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@Rob and AI: Great vinegettes, guys! I liked the recurring theme of Eris in yours, Rob, but I kept kind of wondering if she might be a bird...


With regards to AI's: The syringe was a vaccine, or was it merely a drug?


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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@Rob and AI: Great vinegettes, guys! I liked the recurring theme of Eris in yours, Rob, but I kept kind of wondering if she might be a bird...


With regards to AI's: The syringe was a vaccine, or was it merely a drug?


It was a drug. The man essentially commited suicide by not getting vaccinated.


Anyways, here's another little something I just decided to write.


I am the apotheosis of self-destruction, within me there is the silence of the sighing for the crying of those who cannot die and yet who live as if they rot.


I am the apotheosis of decay and remorse for those who go and those who have gone for in me there is the truth of desparation and you shall know that apart from me there is no end, only the cycles of oblivion


I am the apotheosis of fear in the darkness that roosts within the heart of the small and the minds of the weak as these are the one's whom I prey and whom I take as mine child as Jesus did the world, but in myself there is the knowledge of withdrawal into the deeper horrors of the world.


I am the apotheosis of avarice in the hearts of the good, becoming unto the world and unto myself the undoer of the masses and the forebear of the grapes of wrath sown so subtle amidst the gluttonous and the ignorant.


I am the apotheosis of mortallity drawn out to symbolize and enunciate the drowning of babies in rivers of tears, and the extinction of life from one to the next.


I do not hear, feel, or see as my instinct requires none. I do not hold grudge or favorite and I make my will the universe. All that must be is done through me, and all that is undone is made unwhole through me. I am impersonal and deceitful and make mark upon those who would presume to know me.


I am the apotheosis of hatred for those who have it well, but I am not the scale to decide the malevolance of the malevolant.


I am the archway to the nether-worlds, the ethereal streams, and the emerald isles. I follow the path straight and stray into neither good or evil. I am nuetral and unconceited, but I am what I am and nevermore was I ever more.


I am the apotheosis of death, and spend my days sprinkling bitterness on the lips of the people, turning warm silence cold into the waning of the year as all goes grey.


I am the apotheosis of will, and I will the hounds upon the world through the eye of the king in fire, and with my will there will be absolution at last.

"I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix." -Allen Ginnsberg, "Howl"
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A poem:


Two Years


Two years ago I loved her

One moment ago I knew

That after two year’s ‘knowledge’

My world had gone askew.


Two years ago she smiled

And sent thrills down my spine.

Two years ago she looked at me

And I wondered if she’d be mine.


Two years ago my heart throbbed.

It burst with love and light.

Two years later it throbs once more,

A pain for me each night.


It seems two years have changed her

From who she was whence she was born.

I loved her just two years ago,

But now that picture’s torn.


Now each time I look at her,

A thrill still goes down my spine.

It’s just a shadow of what it used to be.

She’s no longer my divine.


When I see her face I see

The woman I once loved

Beneath two years is she,

my winged, peaceful dove.


I’ll never know what happened,

I try to love her, still

But as it stands, I’d have to stay

I’m better off with nil.


My class liked the poem, how 'bout you folks? I have a couple of other tid-bits floating around on the hard drive...


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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  • 2 months later...

*Blows off dust* Why can't I let these threads die? Oh, that's right, because I just wrote something and I want pier review. Plus I want to see how Rob reacts to my using his name for a main character who could be him at some point in the future. Kind of. Sort of. Not really. Anyway, tell me what you think. I'm still trying to come up with a title. I came up with the concept a long time ago, but I never expanded on it. (@Rob: This isn't you, so don't take offense that the character acts nothing like you. I just figured I'd use the name since it was an easy one to use.

On a secondary note: @Paul: Sorry to use your name in that first piece. Didn't even occur to me that it was your name. I just remember you as Grand Moff Connway. My bad)


I can’t say that I know exactly when it started. It just happened one day, and ever since that day it melted every day, week, month, year, decade into one. It pervaded my thoughts, changed everything from my personality right down to my skin color.

I’d been of a darker coloration before. Tanned, kissed by the sun enough to lose distinction when standing against a dark background. I was happier before, too. I could see someone and play the fool just to get a simple laugh out of them. I had no problem being laughed at rather than with so long as I was instigating laughter of a non-malicious variety.

It went on to change everything. My skin went white- whiter than it ever had any right to go. Whiter than clouds, whiter than the bones it encompassed. My personality did the same. It was bleached, leeched of all its joy and happiness, all of its lofty ideals of right and wrong fading to nothingness. It made me a shell, a shell of a human being that dared not venture out a front door for fear of what laid beyond.

I do remember the day I told someone about it. I do remember what it was like. And so does that person.


I beeped the horn and leaned back in the leather seat of my car, waiting for Rob to come out. He took longer than usual to emerge from his temporary home- a rather run-down and ransacked place, the best he could afford- and when he finally did he walked slowly rather than running as he typically did. He opened the door and sat in the passenger’s seat. He was shaking, and I wasn’t certain that it had to do with the thirteen degree weather New York was experiencing.

“Hey, Rob, you okay, man?â€


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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I liked it. You really described the narrator in execellent detail in the begining, about his downward spiral. The story was very well wrtten, keeping me on to the end. And the ending was a very big suprise...I didn't expect it to happen. And that is a good thing...you don't want the reader guessing the ending before he/she gets there. Overall, very nicely done!


PS I did see one little grammer error. When they braked the car, you said they breaked it.

Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side!


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  • 3 months later...

Jeez, these things just die so easily! Here's a nice short one for those of you who have nice and short attention spans: It isn't my best work by any means, but I think it's alright. I might wind up having to enter it in a contest if I can't get that piece where I used Rob's name down to 1500 words from the original 2,200-some (2,000 right now!) Anyway:


My Requiem


First let there be laughter. I want no tears shed for me, for nothing is gained through that sorrow. Funerals are too solemn an occasion for everyone, including the young, to have to sit through it all stony-faced and trying not to crack a smile at the little eight-year-old child in the third row’s antics.

Let me write my own eulogy, with plenty of jokes that only my close friends and family will understand, like the time we threw bread at each other from across a crowded restaurant, or how we used to play with old bits of wood, envisioning them as our blazing swords of truth and justice.

Let there be no tears- instead, only smiles. I would be remembered in more ways than one. Let the money for a proper burial be spent on other things, more important things, things for the living- my daughter can finally afford that house she was trying so hard to buy for her children as well; my youngest son can find his way to college; my sister can open that restaurant she always wanted to.

Let the black cloth be torn from the windows. Let sunlight stream in, for I entered this world in light, and I would leave it in same. How can there be smiles at a funeral when no light can shine on white teeth and red lips? Do not wear black yourselves, my friends. Your normal clothes will do, fully of bright colors and witty words; there is no need to hide such things from me.

Let me be remembered by all, not as the obscure uncle who passed away in December, not as that poor fellow that had to leave the hospital in a bag instead of a wheelchair, but as the man who’s funeral was fun. The man who died full of life, and lived beyond the grave.

Let it be a legacy, one that will live on in another’s mind; let them look upon how I lived, what I did with my life, and laugh. Let them nod their head, and years from the day, when they lie upon their own deathbed, let them write their own eulogy, let them shun the tears, let them bring in the sunlight, let them create their own legacy. But first and foremost, let there be laughter.


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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That was insightful Tofu. It makes you stop and think about the traditions we have over something so natural. How often times, the dead would not want to see their friends and family mourn in such a solem way.


BTW, did you experience a death recently that influenced this, or is it a bit of creative writing musing on death?

Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side!


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This is a little poem I wrote. It's got a bizarre rhyme scheme, and there's a couple quirks in it still, but yeah.


Power In Crimson, and The Harbinger of Gold


I'll be your muse, to use as you choose and not the ruse of a friend begotten in the shoes of an imposter whose feelings foster the hues of treachery within their hearts, torn apart by the news that there is something better in the grooves of others.


I'll take your broken pieces, and re-mend the creases of your soul betrayed, and disarrayed by the sly and wicked folk with whom you have always spoke, and never suspected to be molested emotionally in the turmoil of the another's soil gone red and thus bled all over the life of trusting.


I'll let you sing through me, one fire of a choir ready with a four part mix and the endless tricks of evil turned good, for it is understood that in darkness there is light with which to fight and resist the night, and a sword of sadness reserved for the madness of those gone wrong.


I'll be your bank of sorrow, no interest tomorrow, and through me you'll find peace in a place of ease where the honey flows free from the wisdom tree. I can take your worst pain, and there will be no shame on my face, for I am the harbinger of gold, as it has been told; An angel returned to grace. I am the most powerful person to ever live, and in such it is my duty to give and retrieve all that you would have me receive.


I'll be your gloves to keep your fingers warm, and overthrow the crowns of harm that reside in here, ever near and willing to throw the shear of woe on the fruit of our farm.


I'll stitch you up new, and kiss your bruise to make it better, a hand to hold in the winter of Hector, and I'll tell you you're beautiful because that's you are. Near and far I'll be a voice through fire, raising you higher with me into the ecstasy.


I'll be an add on, and never tell you wrong, because the lies have continued for far too long. And in this trust, I'll rust the darkness white, a blazing might of our union, for the intrusion on what is wrong.


For you, forever I'll write this song, to ease the pain far away, to another day where the rain has been stayed, and the forest is dancing. To rely on me is not as chancing, for I am a wall of leaves for your grieves to fall, and in me there is a power in crimson, the key to all prisons, and I love you until there is infinity.


You are beautiful, so never forget the truthful who will walk with you on ice until the fields of rice ferment into drink with which we can sink into the stars and rewrite legend for a split second until our hands bring the warmth of love from high above to the starving, weak, decrepit , young.


I am your muse, how can I inspire you?

"I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix." -Allen Ginnsberg, "Howl"
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  • 4 weeks later...

***blows off dust***

I have decided to finally post something I wrote. Please tell me what you guys think.



The Scavenger


Roland let the butt of his fag fall to the ground. A small cloud of dust went up as it hit. He slowly

exhaled the smoke and raised his head to look at the canyon in front of him. His large black

sunglasses tinted the vast desertic view with dark brown.

« What a hellhole! » he thought.

He was standing on the side of Shaman's Canyon, only a few miles away from where lay the Jefferson crater. The place was famous for being the place where the first bombs of the Third World War had fallen.

The Third World War, or when humanity decided to shoot itself in the head. After only 6 months of

war a truce was signed. The official reason was that terms had been settled but most people

whispered that it was because each side was having problems finding anymore soldiers to send to

the slaughter-houses that the modern battlefields had become.

The War was finished but the Planet would remember it forever. In the first two months of the conflict each faction fired off more than a hundred H-Bombs in different places around the World. The result was the turning of our good old blue and green land into a hunk of rock covered in large deserts and toxicwaters. And humanity in all this?

Nearly all those that remained locked themselves up in fortified towns and cities or « Havens » as they prefered to call them. Roland himself preferred calling them « Prisons ». But some people like Roland prefered the open land and spent their time travelling from one Haven to another. They were called the « Scavengers » by the locals because they made a living from searching the old towns for things that the people in the Havens would be ready to pay for.

Some people cast a dark eye on Roland's profession but he preferred it to living his life locked up

between four reinforced walls as the Haveners did.

He pulled off his glasses and looked at the true colors of the ground. He blinked as the wind blew

some dust in his direction.

– Time to go.

He walked to a nearby bush where his horse was waiting for him. He was a beautiful black stallion

named « Hallen ». Roland patted the horse's nose when it looked up at him from the bush it was

chewing. Roland patted it once more and climbed on to the saddle. He needed to hurry. He was

still three hours away from the « Paris 400 Haven » and needed to get there before night fall. It was

a well known fact in this area that one did not want to be outside after sunset. With a little tap

from Roland's spurs Hallen was off.

Slowly the rider and horse trotted through the rust colored canyons. No mark of civilisation was to

be seen except the occasional rusting old car. Those old vehicules had become useless due to the

fact that petrol was now a luxury and that there were no roads to drive them on. It was in these

situations that man rediscovered how practical horses were. These days just about all land travel

was made on horseback and Roland did not feel the need to complain. He smiled at the thought and

whistled a little tune as he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. It was his last

one. Yet another thing he needed to get his hands on when he arrived at Paris 400.

He struck a match and lit the fag while taking deep breathes of smoke. His friends always told him smoking so much would kill him. He just laughed and answered that his job would surely kill him first. It was the hard life of a Scavenger, a free life but a short one. But he didn't care. In the state the world was in now life was hardly worth living.

He looked up to the sky and spotted two hawks circling him. Roland didn't mind. With the scarce

amount of food there was about, the good old birds needed all they could find and a seemingly lost

traveler of the desert would surely be a nice snack. Sadly for them, they would miss out this time.




Hallen took a turn in the canyon and came upon a small depression. It was empty except for an old

medium sized wooden hut. An old sign was hanging outside, the paint was nearly all chipped off

but the word « Bar» that was still legible. Roland pulled on the reins and brought his steed to a halt. He climbed off and walked with the horse up to a nearby bush.

You stay here while I go and see if there's anything of interest in there.

Roland walked away from Hallen and towards the hut. He stopped on the threshold and looked at the dark interior. He put his hand down againt his leg and clutched the .50 caliber revolver hanging there. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. Gun powder and bullets were hard commodities to come by. But still... No one can be too careful. After one last gaze at his horse, Roland stepped into the hut.

The inside was dark with only a flew streaks of light passing through the dirty windows. The inside wasn't very special. A counter with a few old bottles standing behind it and and some tables and chairs lying around the rest of the room. A door at the back of the room led surely to the larder. Roland walked to the back of the bar. A skeleton lay behind it. It's fingers still clutching a sawn-off shotgun. Roland checked it. It looked in pretty good condition but there weren't any shells loaded. He was about to check the counter for ammo when a noise came from the back of the hut.

Roland froze. Maybe he had just dreamed, the ambiance of the place making him imagine things but at that moment there it was again. A small scuffling and scratching sound coming from behind the door at the back of the room.

Roland slowly moved to the back of the room, his pistol drawn and pointed to the ground. As he approached the door the sound stopped. Slowly he reached out for the nob.




At that moment the door shattered. Before he even had time to think of what was going on Roland found himself thrown to the other side of the room and his gun tossed aside.

He looked up to see what he was up against.

There at the otherside of the room eyeing him stood something that had once been human. Its body was irregular and featured difformations of all sorts. Its jaw had seemingly doubled in size and it was gaping at him impatient for it's meal.

It was mutant, something bought along by the radiation caused by the war. These cannibalistic abominations were the reason why no one travelled at night for fear of being eaten alive by these creatures.

This one had obviously settled itself in the hut and used it as a place to hide from the sun and ambush prey.

Roland looked at the creature and the creature looked at him. The predator and the prey. It pounced. Roland avoided it but tripped and fell to the ground. In a second, the beast was on him, trying to bite and scratch him to death. Roland held the snapping jaw of the thing as he reached for his knife. Finally he felt the cold grip of the blade. He pulled it out and stuck it into the shoulder of the creature. It reared up in pain and moved a few steps away, clutching its wound. Roland didn't wait. Rolling away he scrambled for his gun. Just as the mutant prepared to jump again, he pulled up the gun.

He fired once, twice and finally a third round. The bullets entered the chest of the beast who after a final roar fell to the ground and remained motionless.

- Bloody mutant, growled Roland.

It had made him waste three bullets. He quickly examined the rest of the hut. The hideout of the mutant contained nothing more than the remains of its previous meals, none of which were recognisible. The counter contained a few glasses and unopened bottles that he could always sell to some Haveners. Sadly he did not find any shells for the shotgun but finding the gun was always better than nothing.

Having packed his loot into a bag he walked out. Hallen was still next to his bush happily munching on some of the grass patches there. The horse looked up when Roland walked out of the hut. He patted it and fixed the bag onto the saddle. He was about to the climb on when he heard another noise coming from the hut. But this time it was not shuffling. It was growling and roaring. A few seconds later the mutant came pouncing out. Charging at Roland.

« Don't these things ever give up? » Roland though to himself.

Slowly he slid his arm under the rug at the back of the saddle.

The mutant was closing in. It was now only a few feet away. As it got close enough it reared up and prepared to strike. In a flash Roland pulled his arm out from under the rug.




The sword he now clutched in his hand slashed a deep gash into the neck of the beast. It fell to the ground clutching the wound and trying to stop the stream of blood that was pouring out. Roland slowly walked up to the dying monster.

- You should have given up when you had a chance. he said.

After a last flourish he plunged the blade into the head of the beast. After a last twitch it lay motionless. Roland removed his sword from the lifeless creature and wipped the blade on his dustcoat.

Hallen had stood there motionless. He had seen his rider do this trick far to often to be disturbed. Roland put his sword away and got onto his steed. He had to hurry he had to get to « Paris 400 » before sunset. If he didn't, he wouldn't have only one of these creatures to worry about...

Why had he already smoked that last cigarette!




Click here is you like Trance

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It's certainly an interesting concept you've got there, Mad. I'll read the rest when I can make the time to...


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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Poly Syndicism


I sat on the platform staring blankly at the crowd. Down below me feet shuffled softly as voices quieted and the faces became defiant with their stares. I tried not to make eye contact, staring blankly at the moderator. My heart was thumping as I wondered what may be asked of me and trying not to recite what so hard I had study and thought through every second leading to this conglomerate of personification. The lights began to dim and the audience became faint as the glare intensified in my own direction. A silent count expired and the moderator began his extrication, poking, prodding, searching for my vulnerabilities. I swallowed the lump in the back of my throat and noticed the dryness around my tongue. I had lost track of the moderator's question and began to panic, my heart pounding. His question was directed to the man in the seat beside me and I relaxed and try to regain my composer and focused my attention to his response. I searched through the content to determine the subject and ignoring the specifics; there it was. I tried to look inconspicuous and returned my attention to the moderator and the crowd sitting faintly in front of me. I couldn't help but feel a twisting and tugging at my stomach and abruptly all the attention of the room would shift to me. I was tipped off by the movement of the camera as it panned softly over to my seat as the moderator transitioned his interrogation to me. Suddenly all the uneasiness rushed out of me, my head felt light, my heart beat dropped off, a certain euphoria encompassed my being. It had been my moment but I froze, I choked, the words were there, I got them out... there was applause. The moment went so quickly I could not recall the question nor my response but the applause of the audience signaled a sign of a country ready for change. No, there would not be four more years of this, but I didn't really have any answers, and neither did any of my colleagues sharing the platform with me. There we spun it, like spiders in a web of deceit, promising our constituents everything that was not in our power to offer. My inability to believe my own words and to consciously deceive my fellow man with false hopes served only to intensify my own discomfort. I acknowledged my short comings and again the time had passed, caught off guard the camera and the moderator and audience waited for my response to a question that had no merit. I knew not the subject nor cared, I ejaculated the only thought on my mind - "I have lost faith in the government of the United States, I would ask you to elect me if I thought it would make a difference, but it won't. The best option for the people of these United States in put a hold on government, let current offices expire and refuse to vote for a new candidate. We should preserve what we have before new politicians can create new laws and policies that will break and destroy all the things we hold dear. None of these men, or woman, can offer you anything new that will benefit you. Only new policies of deceit and new obstacles to your life. These are my feelings after listening to myself and all my colleagues at this debate tonight. We're all full of shit, I know, you know it, and we all buy it. Why?" I took my seat and a the room was left with silence, no applause, no boos, only truth spoken and maybe, someday acknowledged. All my frustration had cumulated at that moment and had been manifested into my one opportunity to say something so damning across national broadcasting. I felt a calm, the easing of the thump in my chest, and the lump in my throat dissipating. I dropped out of the race for the candidacy that night, I went home and played with my dog, made some BBQ on the grill, and caught the 11th inning of baseball game that was running on the west coast. I rejoiced at the value of being an American and cursed the bureaucracy that surrounded it. I had done my part, now it was time for someone else to pick up the baton and to run with it. I slept well that night.


My random creative writings based upon my distaste of watching the Democrat and Republican debates hosted on CNN this week

"In the future it will become easier for old negatives to become lost and be 'replaced' by new altered negatives. This would be a great loss to our society. Our cultural history must not be allowed to be rewritten." - George Lucas, 1988. [u.S. Congressional hearing testimony on film preservation.]


My old Rebellion site (very web 1.0) - Bud's Korner and Rebellion Strategy

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Nice story, Mad! Finally got through to reading it (Nothing like having virtual schoolwork to do to make you do other stuff you were going to get around to later). I liked the story, and hope you expand on it. If nothing else, you certainly have a good, easy-to-read-through writing style. :P


@Budious: 8O Very nicely done- I liked the symbolism annd similes throughout. Well done all around!


A Poem:


What is...


What is fear?

Fear is treading water

deeper than you are tall,

with no air in your lungs

and a colossal wave blotting out the iron-gray sky.


What is pain?

Pain is a fire in your chest,

organs trying to claw their way out,

a torrent of water overhead,

and a current dragging you further under.


What is rejection?

Rejection is being thrown backward,

smashing against a sandy bottom,

sending shells into your skin,

and making you forget which way is up.


What is resilience?

Resilience is grabbing at the sandy bottom on all fours,

pulling yourself forward as your leg tries to head for shore,

and ignoring all of the signals your body sends you.


What is hope?

Hope is kicking up,

breaking the surface of the water,

and gulping down great breathes of air.


What is triumph?

Triumph is smashing through a wave four times bigger than you are,

shaking water from your hair,

and crying out your victory to the heavens.


What is life?

Life is a balance,

existing somewhere between the human race and nature.

It is not a goal to be attained,

but a road to be walked.


What is living?

Living is charging through the shore break,

being repelled five times and trying six.

It is surfing.



... I enjoy surfing in case you didn't notice. I'm terrible at it and typically leave a nipple or two attached to the board (Extremely painful, I assure you) but I still enjoy it.


The poem was inspired by trying to get through a particularly difficult breakline with a longboard that didn't agree with me.


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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