Writing types, post the best snippet you've written [Archive]

Savannah

11-02-2008, 04:04 PM

I was in the middle of Cry Me a River when I noticed him.

The set was going all right. But I was going through the motions and the audience knew it. They liked me okay, but they weren’t in love with me. Some nights you’re on, and some nights you’re not, and by then I didn’t care all that much.

Until I saw him in the darkness. He sat alone and very still, his gaze following me around the stage. Most of the crowd never really pays attention to the entertainment, but he was. And he wasn’t impressed. He sat with his drink on the table before him and his face blank, watching me. I wasn’t touching him at all.

You weren’t trying to touch him, Sandy, I thought. You were just calling this one in over the phone.

Of course I was. I was singing jazz that year. Popular jazz, familiar tunes people knew or half-remembered, nothing too way out for the suburbanites. And I was bored. Singing the same songs over and over, to an audience more interested in their highballs and balling later than in me. Still, I didn’t like the way the man in the shadows in front of the stage watched me as if he knew something I didn’t.

I was used to being assessed and judged. But more than an audience’s usual dare--entertain me--came off him. There was a quiet arrogance, and something else maybe I was the only one who felt. It made me a little angry, and so I sang to him the rest of the set. Sometimes I do that--pick out a face in the crowd and make them my only audience. Why not him? He was a good-looking man from what I could see, and that was all right, too. I didn’t have much of a career, and I didn’t have a steady man in my life. So I sang to him. I didn’t figure it would be for the rest of the night though, because who’d stick around that long?

Even I knew I wasn’t that good.

Mister Rik

11-02-2008, 06:07 PM

This is an excerpt from a short piece of erotic fiction I wrote about six years ago, called "Serendipitous". I wrote it with the specific intent of using striking contrasts to tell the story, so it might seem a bit overdone.

The protagonist is a 21-year-old guy named Seth, who plays bass in a garage band with some other 20- & 21-year-old guys, and the story opens with an extremely chaotic scene of the band preparing to start a rehearsal. But Seth has a story to tell his friends, and with some difficulty he gets them to shut the hell up and listen. He describes how he went to a bar the previous night, but got tired of listening to "...all that fuckin' ancient '70s shit" on the jukebox, and decided to go to the local underage club to listen to something current. There, he encounters a young lady who is out alone, celebrating her 18th birthday ...

***

She was the most amazingly beautiful thing Seth had ever seen. About five-foot-two, small tits, long legs, short red hair. An open, black leather jacket that exposed a lacy black bra and flat, bare tummy. A ridiculously short, tight, black miniskirt, black, thigh-high stockings and spike heeled boots. One ring in her nose, one in an eyebrow, too many to count in her ears and no doubt a stud through her tongue. Her makeup was elaborate but tasteful, and somehow the leather collar around her neck didn't look out of place.

She made her way directly to the drink counter, cutting straight across the crowded dance floor, unconcerned with the indignant looks from the frenzied dancers who were stumbling to move out of her way. Seth watched her order and receive two cans of Red Bull, and immediately drain both cans in mere seconds. He watched her turn and survey the room before making her way to the exact center of the dance floor. Some unknown force impelled everyone on the floor to give her space.

Spellbound, Seth watched her dance alone. It was as if nobody dared approach her, or challenge her claim to the largest territory on the crowded dance floor. She spoke to no one, didn't give anyone more than a cursory glance as she gyrated in time with the throbbing beat blasting from the gargantuan speakers that encircled the dance floor. There was something raw and primal about the way she seemed to become one with the music. Lights sparkled and flashed, striking colored flames that flared briefly and then died on her reflective silver jewelry and studs. Her jacket offered tantalizing glimpses of black lace and pale flesh. And she danced with herself, seemingly unaware of anything but herself and the music. She was high, but Seth could tell it was not a drug that drove her, but the very essence of her being that was cut with the music and inhaled through her ears to fuel her beyond the normal plane of consciousness commonly found in a place like this.

She whirled and leaped, a dervish and a ballerina, combining animal savagery with grace and artistry. Beauty and the beast in spandex and leather. Sweat matting and darkening her hair and a flush reddening her cheeks, neck and upper chest and contrasting sharply with the porcelain of her flexing belly. Taut, hard muscles mixed with soft, smooth skin. Her diminutive frame was larger than life, incongruously but naturally overshadowing everything else.

Aware of a cool wetness on his hand, Seth discovered the fingers of his right hand clenched tightly, crushing the thin aluminum can in his hand and forcing the remaining Red Bull out of the can to spill across his skin and onto the table. He relaxed his grip and looked up, astonished to find her standing in front of him.

Her bright green eyes burned into his for a brief eternity, and then, without a word she turned and walked away. As if hypnotized and compelled by a Siren, Seth stood and, forgetting his jacket at the table followed her out of the club...

garygnu

11-02-2008, 06:20 PM

Alone, in the dark outside the dorm building, Sarah soaked her hands with tears as the night sky soaked the rest of her with tears of its own.

Ranchoth

11-02-2008, 06:47 PM

Jeez...how to choose? I spend long enough with my stuff that I can't tell too easily what's the "best" I've done, and what's just my favorite. Assuming it's not just crap to begin with.

Well, here goes...

***

The briefcase slid across the desk surface with the smooth, velvety sound of leather against rosewood, belying it's considerable bulk. A gloved hand reached around it's manacle, keyed a combination, and opened the lid.

Yet another screen waited inside, immediately flickering to life.

A single, tabbed menu appeared, with a master title "SIOP"

The President carefully removed a pair of booklets from the simple integral keyboard, placed a finger to the trackball, and clicked the tab labeled MAJ ATK OPTNS—CENTCOM.

The menu changed into a table of arcane codewords, next to a default map window.

"...It's '118_GOCHIHR.'" came a voice at the President's side. Daria turned to the National Security Advisor, raising an eyebrow. "You wrote it?"

Eulmeyer shrugged. "Not all of it."

Good old RAND, thought the President, clicking the button again.

The map display grew, showing a full representation of the Khalifah.

"Henry, Chief...are you linked up?"

A row of red LEDs blinked by the side of the screen, before the replies came on the comm line.

"I see it on my end, ma'am."

"Pentagon Actual. We are go."

"All right, let's see a full target list..." The President drug an onscreen slider from it's default position, to it's opposite extreme. Obligingly, a text window above the slider changed from "MINIMUM" to "DOUBLE PLUS MAXIMUM."

Daria almost forced herself to look look at the map screen...and the multitude of new targets superimposed on the map.

Good god...

Eulmeyer stabbed at the screen with a long index finger. "As you can see, Red is for 'counterforce' targets—military, strategic assets. That's 'First Strike' stuff. Yellow is for 'countervalue' targets..."

"...'Second Strike.' Population centers, industrial assets. Natural resources." The President finished.

Buzcout's voice crackled over the line, again. "Now transmitting modifications to SIOP based on Chinese data..."

There was an uncharacteristically long delay, accompanied by the blinking LEDs, as the deeply encrypted data was received, decoded, processed.

About half of the yellow dots disappeared, with a much smaller handful of the red ones, replaced by pulsing orange. Curiously, a rough line of dots seemed to have been planted along the Khalifah's twisted northern border...apparently away from anything of possible value. The President squinted...and at least one was in the southern Caspian Sea.

"General...the data you sent me looks like they're making a...'skirmish line' to the north. Is this right?"

"It's right..." Eulmeyer said, leaning across the desk. "General, this looks like the Chinese are trying something we call 'Fallout Sculpting'...surface-bursting nukes in empty sectors upwind of spots they want to target. Like...crapping in the Mississippi at Baton Rouge to give New Orleans cholera..."

The President's eyes twisted towards the advisor, almost on their own. Nasty.

There was a pause, and some muffled speech sounds on the line, before the Chairman of the Join Chiefs came back on. "Yes...they're telling me the same thing, here. It certainly seems to explain some things."

'They?' Ah, of course..."General, is doctor DeWitt there? While we're on the subject, I'd like to have him start on—"

"Ma'am," Buzcout interrupted, "There's something I think you should see, first. Transmitting now..."

Delay, flicker, and a sprinkling of new dots, blue this time, appeared on the Football's map screen.

"These are the targets that Chinese intel suggests we hit, minus a few that we DID already know about..." The President scanned the image...a number of the pulsing dots—bunkers, or safe houses, Daria imagined—were on the outskirts of cities, a few in the countryside, or in the nooks of mountain ranges...

...and the rest were aligned, filling in gaps, with the line of orange dots to the north.

"Son...of a bitch..."

Silver Tyger

11-02-2008, 06:59 PM

Wow, now I wish I could read the rest of all of you guys' stuff.

I suppose I'll throw another one out (from my NaNo from 2006.) Actually this bit I had come up with randomly at some point and saved the appropriate story.

Before she placed it in the mage's hands she spoke, "If thou darest betray me with this sword, Mage, it will turn in thy hand and it and I will hunt thee down as the lowest dog. And thou wilt see us in the shadows and in thy dreams and in the faces of every stranger thou pass. And from that moment on, thou wilt be without kith or kin, ally or admirer, and thou wilt wander the world - the worlds alone, and in fear until the day we find thee. And we will not slay thee with honor, as we would a man or dragon, nor will we slay thee like the livestock, but like the soulless vermin which feed upon the livestock. And from that moment in which thou betray me, thou wilt be in Hell."

Anyone else find writing Medieval style English to be way too much fun?

Millit the Frail

11-02-2008, 07:10 PM

This is a great thread. I'm loving these. Anyway, I'm not a writer, but I wrote a novel for NaNo 2006. It's neither good nor memorable, but I wrote it, all 50K+ words. I've barely looked at it since, but here's the part that sticks in my head and still cracks me up to this day:

****

A red-haired friend once told me that the only hot red-haired people were fake-red-haired people. "What about Conan O'Brien?" I asked, skeptical. He looked at me as if I were crazy.

Whatever. Conan's wife is a lucky woman.

An Gadaí

11-02-2008, 07:16 PM

If anyone of the larger works are posted online could you please include links. I've found some of these excerpts fascinating.

Chefguy

11-02-2008, 07:23 PM

This is part of something I started on some time ago. It's actually an accurate description of my time spent living in St. Thomas, VI.

“Moot”, mumbled Hairspray Tom as nobody listened. Struggling to his feet from the bench where he had slouched motionless for the better part of two hours, Tom shuffled in the general direction of the toilet at the back of Joe’s Place. I waited for it, although I’d seen it many times. Not one to disappoint, Tom tripped over nothing in the middle of his journey – an errant dust mote, perhaps – and staggered into an embrace with a wall, which obligingly prevented him from falling. Also not one to be encumbered by long relationships, Tom slid south onto the filthy floor.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as Nikki, Lee, L.D., J.J. and I watched with mild interest to see if Tom would remain where he ended up, pissing his pants in place, or if he would be able to bring himself back to the upright position and continue his journey, assuming he could remember what the purpose of it had been in the first place.

lissener

11-02-2008, 07:24 PM

Had an idea to "update" Aesop's Fables for a child friend. The gimmick would be that the Tortoise would wander through each story as he undertook his slow, steady race. Here's one of the stories I toyed with:

THE FOX AND THE GRAPES

A hungry fox came grumbling along the road one sunny buzzing Tuesday. This particular fox, name of Dennis, hadn't had anything to eat since half past breakfast and his rumbly stomach would not let him forget it. He stopped abruptly: a deliciously grapey smell was fluttering about his nostrils. Now, being a fox, he knew that few things smell as deliciously grapey as delicious grapes, so he began looking around him with juicy thoughts of lunch.

And there they were. It seems that in his grumbly bumbling, Dennis had stumbled upon a grape arbor. And few arbors, thought Dennis, as he made his way toward the it, are as deliciously grapey as a stumbled upon grape arbor.

Now arbors, being arbors, tend to be higher than they are low. And foxes, tending not to be birds, or even monkeys, tend to find themselves, when compared to a grape arbor, rather lower than they are high. So the position that Dennis found himself in—well below the delicious grapes—was not a unique one, especially in those parts of the world where foxes are likely to find themselves stumbling upon grape arbors.

And so Dennis did the thing that any fox, in such a situation, would find himself compelled to do. He jumped.

Now, if you stop to think along with me, you might find yourself agreeing that a road is called a road because it often finds itself being traveled upon. (How that connection came to be I have no idea, but I think you are hardly likely to deny that there is such a connection.) And on this sunny buzzing Tuesday morning, as it turns out, this road was no exception to this general rule, as it did indeed find itself being traveled upon. That the traveler was a tortoise who had far more important things on his mind than the curious behavior of a hopping fox has very little to do with this story, however, so we will pause just long enough to allow the tortoise a double take, and then return our attention to Dennis.

Well, Dennis, in our momentary absence, had had it just about up to here. He had done the required: he had jumped, and hopped, he had leaped and bounced, he had flung himself into the air at LEAST a hundred and eighty-seven and a half times, and still the grapes remained just out of reach. And don't let's forget about gravity. When you fling a thing—even if that thing is yourself, and even if that self is a fox—it just does not stay flung. Every majestic flight that Dennis undertook in his efforts to achieve his lunch goals ended in a dusty thump (sometimes more than one, depending upon wind direction and bounce factor).

And so let us take stock of the situation. Let us freeze a moment in time, and see where we are. We have some delicious grapes hanging plumply from a grape arbor. Beneath these grapes, we have a fox named Dennis, suspended in that bittersweet moment we're all familiar with: the moment when flight becomes freefall, and anticipation becomes fear: we have not reached the grapes; we will hit the ground. It is at this moment, when time seems to stand still, when the comfy buzz of a summer afternoon is transformed, without changing, into the tinny screech of onrushing mortality, that we say quietly, to ourselves—"Oh great, now that tortoise thinks I'm an idiot"—just as the dusty earth slams us into a moment of darkness.

"And anway," we say, as we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and run after the tortoise in order to explain, "now that I've had a moment to think, those grapes actually looked a little sour."

ETA: I hesitate to call this my best, but my best tends either to be pretty personal, or about movies. And I didn't want to hijack the thread into a Verhoeven discussion again ;)

OtakuLoki

11-02-2008, 07:47 PM

Here's a little something for a story I've started working on. Not NaNoWriMo. Just a fun little story. This was where I set the 'voice' for the story.

Perhaps the oldest story form is that of the ghost story.

I can imagine my great-great-great-great-great-etc-grandfather Untahentupet sitting around the fire pit, and telling a story to the rest of the clan. The way I see it he’s the father of all of us story tellers. And of those of us who like to hear stories, too. So he’s your great-great-great-great-etc-grandfather, too.

Now he was a proper story teller. He’d maybe liven things up with a pile of dried leaves sitting next to him, to make the fire flare at dramatic times. Other times he’d emphasize the tension of the story by pouring a little water onto the flame, making them die down, letting the darkness come closer around the fire. And with his soft, scratchy voice, he’d cast a spell – one of fear, and bravery. Maybe there’d be a lesson in the story. And maybe not. Not every story needs a lesson, after all. Some are just fun.

But, a proper ghost story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Now, Untahuntupet, might muddle things up, by starting in the middle. Or even at the end, and then explaining how things got there. But he was a craftsman, and he’d always make sure that his story had a beginning, a middle and an end.

The ghost story I’m going to tell isn’t a proper ghost story. I’ve got plenty of middle. I’ve got muddle, too. And confusion and daring-do, and all sorts of other story elements. But I don’t really have a beginning. Or I have too many beginnings, and Untahuntupet would not approve of that at all. It’s just not proper.

I also don’t have an end. I have a place I plan to end my narrative, but it’s not really an end to the story, since, in the real world, things don’t just stop. At least not unless everyone involved is dead. And even then there are bugs and other gross things going on, so you can’t say that everything has ended. So I don’t have an end.

I don’t even know if this is a ghost story.

I think it is. But it’s awfully hard to get a ghost to stand still be measured and tested, and compared to the accepted standards of ghostology. And my ghost is even more problematical than most. First off, while this story will supply us with a body, or two, it’s not the right body. After all, in a proper ghost story at least one of the bodies is going to be that the ghost used to inhabit. At the moment, however, the body that my ghost came from is upstairs in his room, playing his hip-hop too damned loud, and not dead at all. Like I said, it’s not a proper dead body for a ghost.

So, if one needs a dead body for my ghost, and the ghost’s body is still alive, was it really a ghost? I don’t know. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

Untahuntupet definitely would be shaking his head at me, now and telling me that I’m going about this all wrong. And muttering to himself, so we could all hear – all of us around the fire pit, “Not a proper ghost story at all. This younger generation – no respect. Not proper at all.”

So, I have to begin by apologizing to Untahuntupet. This isn’t a proper ghost story. I don’t have a single, clear beginning. I know where it began for me. And I can point to some beginnings for other people – but no one person’s beginning will work for all of us involved in this story. Not proper at all.

Untahuntupet will have to admit I’ve plenty of middle. And I’ve got all the things that a middle should have, too: Derring-do, scoundrels, and heros. And lots of people in-between. And some of the scoundrels become heros. And maybe a hero is really scoundrel. All of this Untahuntupet would approve of. These are all hallowed traditions that he began for us, all those many years ago around the fire pit.

And I have a ghost. I think. It’s mysterious, and a ghost is supposed to be mysterious. Untahuntupet would have to agree with that. But my ghost lacks a dead body to go with it. If, it’s a ghost at all. Maybe it’s an angel. Or just a meddler of some kind. I think it’s a ghost, though, and since this is my story, that’s what I’m going to call it. Even if it’s not a proper ghost.

But as for endings? I’m afraid if you’re looking for a proper ghost story with an ending that ties everything up, and explains it all so it makes sense, you’re bound to be disappointed, just like Untahuntupet would be. He’d be muttering even louder when I get where I plan to finish my story. He’d be telling us all in a loud voice now, that none of his ghost stories ever left so many loose ends. He’d point to every character I’d left dangling – introduced for a few moments on stage, and then sent back to their lives – and tell us all, how in a proper ghost story all the characters have a purpose. And their purpose would be obvious at the end of the story.

But, as I pointed out earlier, this is my story – and it’s from my life. And things in life just don’t quite work out the way they do in stories. I’ll certainly agree with Untahuntupet that it would be more tidy if things would work out in life they way they do in proper stories. But, here I have to disagree with our revered ancestor. Life may imitate art, but it doesn’t follow the same rules as art. And since my story involves other people, they have their own stories that began outside my own story. They’ll go on doing their own stories, and only dance into my story by accident.

It’s the way of life. And in this case I have to tell Untahuntupet that life, especially my life, in my story is always going to trump what he says is a proper story form. And I hope that after he was done grumping, he’d smile his gap-toothed smile and tell me that I have the one thing that every story teller needs: a stubborn heart.

Even if my ghost story is improper.

Fretful Porpentine

11-02-2008, 08:08 PM

Ah, why not. A bit from YA Fantasy Novel With Art:

The artist met her under the bare tree in the center of the courtyard, and began his work again. Slowly, the misty outlines of domed and colonnaded buildings took on substance. They were clustered around the harbor, and a wide expanse of sea spread before them. In the foreground was the Rebecca Godfrey, the wind billowing its sails in the direction of the shore.

“What manner of man is this captain?” the artist asked at last. “You know him?”

“He’s my father, but I saw him last when I was six. He’s tall, with black hair and a beard –”

“You told me that yesterday. Tell me of his character.”

“He’s brave,” said Tamsin. She was fairly sure of this, at least. It took courage to help a princess escape from revolutionaries, and to return to their cottage in Falmouth when the Triumvirs had declared that it was death for him to set foot in Albia.

The artist gave her a shrewd look. “Did you like him?” he asked.

“Aye. He was kind to me. He told stories and laughed and played, but with half a heart, as if he would rather be somewhere else.”

“Where else?”

Tamsin weighted how far she dared trust him. The Triumvirs were no friends of artists, she knew that; but she could see that this man needed money, and tales of the activities of traitors fetched a good price.

“With King Francis,” she said at last. “He loved us, but he loved the king more.” Her mother had said that once or twice, on the rare occasions when she allowed herself to speak bitterly, and Tamsin had come at last to believe it.

“Ah,” said the artist, and bent to his work again. Now and again he asked Tamsin if the color of the man’s hair or the way he stood looked right, and when he had finished, the tall man on the deck looked something like the father she remembered.

“And now, you.” Last of all, the artist began to color in a small figure that he had sketched beside the captain: a girl in a grey dress with brown hair, her face turned upward toward her father. Tamsin knew it was vanity, but she could not help looking and wondering if it was really like her.

She pressed all of the money she had into the artist’s hand, and he took the picture by the corners and handed it to her.

“Take it. It is yours and none of mine, and if it be a true picture, I bid you remember me when you look on it.”

She took the picture in both hands and rolled it tightly. “What shall I do with it?”

“You look like a dreamer,” said the artist. “Look on it, and let yourself dream.”

Stauderhorse

11-02-2008, 08:09 PM

From a short story of mine:

No one in the town ever suspected him. It was an accident. This sort of thing happened. Nothing to do but move on. But he knew the truth. He knew his father would never be careless or clumsy enough to mistake rat poison for sugar. So he did it for him. As they took his father’s body away, he plucked the horse’s eye from his pocket and held it at the level of his own eyes. He sighed deeply before returning the treasure to its home.

threnodyangelfire

11-02-2008, 08:42 PM

Great idea for a thread-- and I want to read more from you all - snippets are fun, but I'm sure the actual stories are even better! Here are a few of mine...

From a Fantasy story I wrote a couple of years ago:

Do you remember our chess games, and how I used to struggle to win, and would become furious if I thought you gave me the game? Aye, but those nights playing chess taught me something that lessons could not. You must have nothing before you have something, Tendlar. And here I am once again, struggling with a concept I cannot fit my mind around. I know there are things which you cannot explain to me, and things which I will learn, and doubtlessly feel hurt and betrayed that you could not speak of them to me, but know this: I will understand. I have the tube, though I mention it only in passing. A light weight that is heavy on my heart and something that I will learn to bear. I know why I have been chosen, though there were times when I wished with all my being that I could be as Myra is even now, and content to be a governess. There is a certain satisfaction in simple things that I have never been able to achieve. I wish her well; will you tell her that for me?

From a short erotic horror:
Jim’s smile was frozen on his face. This card was certainly not referring to him. Norma, it had to be Norma. She was thinking of leaving him. His hands clenched into fists as he envisioned her warm kisses and her breasts riding her rib cage as she lowered herself onto him in the enclosed verandah in the woods last year. He had proposed after, and she accepted. She loved him. She was his goddess. He would do anything for her.

ok. :) I'll stop boring you now.

Ranchoth

11-02-2008, 08:54 PM

If anyone of the larger works are posted online could you please include links. I've found some of these excerpts fascinating.

::Looks over shoulder, and back, giving best 'who, me?' look::

Well, that one o' mine is here, (http://home.comcast.net/~Ranchoth/Inauguration_Part_1.html) if you're interested.

You can probably recognize the characters quickly enough. ;)

Kamino Neko

11-02-2008, 09:18 PM

Ah, hell with it...Mine starts here (http://kaminoneko.deviantart.com/art/Foton-Refracted-Chapter-1-68756530). Be warned, it was a NaNo, so it rambles a little under word count pressure.

Kamino Neko

11-02-2008, 09:30 PM

And...for no particular reason, another passage from the same work...a visual that spawned a plotline so I could use it...

Serena sighed, and lay her head on his shoulder. ‘If you say so. It’s too bad.’ She pulled back and smiled at him. ‘Oh, well…At least we have the good night kiss coming.’ She leaned up, her eyes closing, and her lips parting. As he leaned in, she wrapped her arms around him.

They kissed deeply, passionately, arcs and flashes of light dancing over their skin where they touched. She pressed close to him, holding the kiss for what felt like a heavenly eternity. As she pulled away, flashes of light arced between their lips.

Muffin

11-02-2008, 09:38 PM

From "Kattawagami Untouched" on my website: http://my.tbaytel.net/culpeper/index2.htmlAs we made our way along the coast we grew used to the marvellous openness of the ocean. We would take the tide out for kilometre after kilometre, far out of sight of land, and then return on it many hours later. Every hour we would stop to take a fix, set our next bearing, and lie back in the boat, surrounded by nothing but water and sky and each other. Hour after hour, day after day, we paddled and sang and slept under the hot sun on the northern ocean, wanting never to return.

Trepa Mayfield

11-02-2008, 10:31 PM

It's a fable. But one I've never actually written down before.

Once upon a time, in the year 1 A.D. God was upset. He had attempted to fix the world that he had created, only to make things substantially worse, and in the process lose his son. He was so upset, that he made an oath. He said: "Until Mankind has wholly repented for their grievous sin, I shall never again touch even a particle on Earth!" The Devil was glad, as he knew that he had free reign over the world for a long, long time. But God, even in his fury, was not unthinking. "Traitorous filth", for that was how He addressed Lucifer, "whenever someone dies, you must separate their soul and body, as I may not, and my angels are unable to harm a human even for this." The devil was happy to follow, as he risked God interfering again otherwise.

So the Devil called up one of his lesser demons; he was a good sized one, but he had not yet made a name for himself. "Grimm," said the devil, "I need you to do a task. God has left, on the condition that someone harvest the souls of the people. I'm not going to concern any of the important demons with this task, but I'm sure you'll take this opportunity." Rummaging through his cabinets, the devil found an ordinary piece of paper, on which he wrote a few lines. "Here's a list of deaths, which should constantly update. Now go." Grimm, though he hadn't said a word, was secretly joyous for the opportunity. He had always been just shy of fame, being intercepted by Mephistopheles and Beelzebub over critical turnings. He took the first portal he could find; perhaps a bit too soon, as while in transport, he realized that he had no way of separating the souls.

The soul is an ethereal wispy mass lodged within the body. It is in an individual place for each person: while most souls reside in the heart or brain, some souls have been known to hide in the genitals, spleen, or even the appendix. Removing it proves to be difficult, and impossible for any human. Basically, a transplanar form needs to cut the housing organ with something sharp that can drag the soul out--too dull, though, and it will just break the organ; too sharp, and it will cut the soul. Poor Grimm need a precise weapon, and he had nothing but a rather sharp pinky fingernail (and he refused to go down as the demon who cut dead bodies with his fingernails).

So as soon as Grimm arrived in the mortal realm, he broke into a Roman armory. Unfortunatly, there was nothing good available. Mace? Too dull. Gladius? Too sharp. Arrow? The shaft was built wrong. Pike? Didn't angle right. Scimitar? Not available. Reluctantly, he picked up a bow and arrows, reasoning that even if there was nothing available he could prop up the corpses and shoot the souls out of them. Grimm wandered the countryside for over an hour, trying to find some sort of weapon. He found nothing. Eventually, he went to his victim: Aulus, 48, a poorish farmer working in the fields, about to have a heart attack. As he prepared his bow, Grimm stopped to watch his victim. It was autumn, the crops were growing, and Aulus was using a scythe to cut crops. The curve...the blade...the handle--it was the perfect weapon. Unable to wait any longer, Grimm (a 7 foot giant red monster-like being with goat legs, horns, and bloodstained fangs, remember) ran up to the old man and grabbed his farming tool. Aulus dropped dead from the shock.

Grimm grinned and swung his new scythe straight through the man's body. The soul floated up and away, the first to get judged by God in the new system. As he harvested, Grimm decided to don a cloak, to better blend in and to avoid spooking any of his victims. Grimm died (as even demons do) some time ago, but his successor ensured his immortality by donning his name...The Grim Reaper.

Silver Tyger

11-02-2008, 11:35 PM

I just found something that I started in 2000. It's got no plot and no plan for one, but I find myself liking it all the same. I'm sure I wrote this in school, rather than, you know, paying attention in class. I almost remember writing it now that I think about it. Pay no attention to the punny locations & names. I have no idea what I was thinking.

His puckish features were marred by the crossed scars, on from ear to chin, and the other from his long nose to his cheek. They met on his left cheekbone, red slashes to remind him of his insolence.

He had white-blond hair that grazed his thin shoulders. Indeed, all of him was thin, from his narrow face to his long legs. And despite his scars – they were not only on his face but his back and chest, as well as running down his right arm – his good humor and light heart remained readily evident. Of course, both were probably due to his elvish blood, evident from his gracefully pointed ears, upswept eyebrows, and large, bright eyes.

* * *

I first met him in a bar in the little port town of Pequod. He was probably the only one in the entire town who was not drunk. I was no exception – I had been drinking since the sun had risen and it was now high in the sky. That was why I was in Pequod, my crew had deserted me and all my possessions had been confiscated. It had been an unwise choice to help that damned old man. But I had been broke and he had plentiful gold. It should have tipped me off. But how was I to know he was Doctor Richard Goby, a man much worse than a slaver, and wanted in every territory for his devilish experiments? I did not mind losing my crew, but my ship and sword were a grievous loss. The sea was my life and my life was my sword. But now I was in Pequod – drunk, practically penniless, shipless, and swordless. I walked into the Laughing Narwhal, a bar with limitless credit, and here, sober as a Maran and as drunk as any sailor, was Nicolai.

He was singing merrily, prompting laughter from the drunken Raskas – the men and women of the sea – surrounding him. He danced, perching on chairs and tabletops, his long legs bent up to his ears, mocking lightly, and forced a smile from even the hard-bitten barkeep. I was in no mood to laugh, even as drunk as I was, so I turned and was about to leave when somehow this long-limbed clown was, instead of in the middle of the bar, in front of me.

“A pretty lady shouldn’t have such a serious expression.”

“Get out of my way, boy.” I bit off the rest of the sentence, my throat closing. I had no sword to spit him with, as much as my instinct told me otherwise.

“Tut, tut. Come join the fun!” There were raucous shouts from some of the men.

“I’m in no mood for jollity. Get out of my way.”

“No mind! Ah, a sorrowful life then. Come let us enliven you. Tears are a bitter drink, but laughter is like honey.” The stupid boy took my arm and led me to the center of the bar. I had no desire to make a scene or have this clown make a fool of me. Once in the middle, how could I leave? I couldn’t, unfortunately.

“Barkeep, a drink for my friend!” In short order, I had a mug of ale. I glared about me and tried to disappear. But the fool wasn’t about to allow that.

“Come now, raska, tell us your story. Lost a love, perhaps? Yes? Or a fortune?”

“I’m no storyteller. I wish only to be left alone.”

“Just a talk among friends!”

Shouts of “Come on!” “Tell!” came from the crowd. There was no way I could get out of it. I sighed.

“I gave passage to Doctor Goby, but all I received was loss of ship, sword, and crew,” I said flatly.

“Goby, hm? I’ve seen him. Not hook-nosed or green-eyed, is he? Nothing to say he’s the monster he is, that Dick.” It took a moment for the crowd to get the reference.

“Goby Dick!” a drunken sailor yelled in my ear before passing out. I pushed him away.

“Loss of ship, sword, and crew? We’ll have to buy you new ones!” the clown continued. “Come, who will contribute? Lighten this poor woman’s misery?” The drunken crowd threw coins which he gathered into a neat pile.

“There Cap’n, enough to buy a sword at least.”

“A poor one,” I retorted.

“Too true, too true.” He pulled out his purse. “Here then. This should remedy that.” He added twenty gold to the pile of copper and bronze. Enough to pay for the design of a new sword. I made to take the money.

“Leaving? No, you mustn’t! The fun has just begun!” the boy protested.

“How about we hear your story, boy? How’d you get those scars?” I asked.

“I was sold as a slave and received them for defying Cap’n’s orders,” he said lightly, “but I escaped, tee hee hee! I’m free, I’m free!” He laughed.

I suspected that wasn’t the whole of the story. No captain would deface a slave for disobedience. Whipping and starving wouldn’t lower the value. I’m no slaver and never will be, but I know how they think. A disobedient slave can still be sold. A slave can always be sold.

“Fair Cap’n, you haven’t told us your name!” the boy realized. I had no desire to tell it.

“Come Cap’n. Here, let me start. I am Nicolai,” he said, bowed solemnly. “Now your turn.”

Once again, no way out. Another reason why I hate land. On the sea there is always an option.

“I’m Melody Summer.”

“The Cap’n Summer? I’m honored! Barkeep, ale for all. We’ve the honor of toasting Cap’n Summer!”

* * *

The crowd eventually started dropping off to sleep. Nicolai gathered up the coins for me and followed me back to my inn.

“Boy, when are you going to leave me be?” I asked on the way.

“You’ll be, nonetheless,” he laughed.

“I didn’t ask for your presence or your help!” I growled.

“Come now, Cap’n, I got you money for a sword. With a sword you can get the rest.”

“And what do you get out of this?” I asked.

“Cap’n you misjudge me! Is not the joy of helping another human being enough?”

“You’re no human – at least not a whole one.”

He laughed. “Very well, Cap’n, you have your money, and I will leave. But we’ll meet again, or so my elvish blood tells me.” He laughed again and turned aside.

“How can a body always be so happy?” I muttered as I left him.

* * *

I awoke late and immediately wished I hadn’t. My excesses from yesterday were making themselves well known. I arose, paid my bedtoll, and left. From Nicolai’s comment, I half-expected him to be awaiting me at the door, but there was no sign of him. I bought an ale on my way to the swordsmith. It relit the fire in my belly but did nothing for the emptiness in my soul. It also provided a reminder of the state of my empty belly. No matter.

I arrived at the smithy of Master Linn. We had had business before and I knew that he was deserving of his rank, at least when he was not drunk. I was in luck – he had not yet left for the day.

I waited for him to finish ranting at his apprentice and then cleared my throat.

“Captain Summer!” he bellowed merrily. “Can I hope that this is merely a social call?”

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” I said sadly.

“It is time to remake your luck then! Come, come!” he said, leading me into his studio.

I'm pretty sure I started with a drawing of Nicolai. I may even have it somewhere.

Euthanasiast

11-03-2008, 12:37 AM

I am in a room with a clock at the edge of my field of vision, and the sound of its ticking is the apparition of my every failure.

***

At its best, this small, Southern town is the deification of sunsets on perfect marsh landscapes. The foam breakers rush up the gray-rimmed shores like torn sheets from frustrated poets, and the boiling colors of the low country horizon come at you like handfuls of flung gravel. The sun gets two finger’s width above the coastline, and sets the marsh afire, blistering the underbellies of stratus clouds until they surrender and flame as well, and the sky blooms lavender shot with shades of orange in the distance.

***

Favor me, for seizing the day, for living the moment, delirious with childhood, where I may box my own shadow and win. I am you at the quickening moment before you wandered into the combines of the grown-up and wakeful. I am the purity of youth only days before taken by whatever black wreck was built within you. My adolescence is to me now the upturned face of a young peregrine falcon, mouth agape for mother’s meal never to come. I am the living and embodied consequence of the moment previous to childhood’s black and nameless end.

Cuckoorex

11-03-2008, 12:10 PM

Here's a bit from a horror story I've been working on; the narrator is a very sick and twisted bastard, and he's giving the reader a glimpse of his early development...

Frogs are natural skydivers.

I learned this when I was maybe 5 or 6 years old. Even after four or five hearty punts high into the air, their bodies - wonderfully designed by millions of years of evolution - would automatically splay out their limbs, slowing their descent and making them into graceful aerialists. Of course, having been punted four or five times and landing on the hard concrete of my patio didn't do much for their health, so I doubt that they were really appreciating the aesthetics of the situation. After each landing, I would check on the frog, as if somehow the creature would maybe give me a thumbs-up; "Everything OK here! Ready for another flight, sir!" No, usually they would land and bounce a little bit, then sit there opening and closing their mouths silently, as if gasping for air. One time, one of the frogs seemed to be regurgitating some kind of internal organ. I was tempted to pull on it, see what would happen, but then my dog Peppy came along and snatched him up.

Oh, well. Hope you enjoyed the snack, Peppy.

After a while, even the aerial exploits of the frogs got boring. I came up with a new game. First I would have to catch a suitable frog, of course. Then I would put it into a zip-loc bag for a while. The goal here wasn't to asphyxiate the frog; it was to watch as the frog tried to escape the bag, as panic set in and those little claws tried desperately to scratch open an exit from the bag. A few actually did manage to pull apart the zip-loc seal. Their swift reward was to join the ranks of Frog Skydivers. Many of them did eventually asphyxiate; having gills doesn't allow you to extract extra air from some hidden dimension, apparently.

The last phase of escalation with the frogs came a few years later. I had been building cheap snap-together model cars and airplanes for a while, and it occurred to me that some of the larger scale models might contain a small frog. So I'd catch a small frog and encase it in the model, usually a car because they have more room. I'd leave out the seats and interior altogether and trap the frog between the chassis and body shell. These frogs of course became crash test frogs; I'd take the frog-laden model outside and ram it full on into the side of the concrete steps leading to my front door. I'm sure that the frogs felt stressed, but after witnessing the panicked escape attempts of the zip-loc frogs, it wasn't quite entertaining enough. That's when it occurred to me that car crashes on TV usually ended up in explosions and fire; perfect! With Independence Day a long ways off, I had to settle for using hairspray and a lighter to torch the cars with froggy inside. Pretty stupid, I know. More than once the fire would come back to the can as I sprayed hot death into the models; nearly burned myself more than once that way. The frogs would start squirming as best they could, but it was pretty cramped in the models for most of them.

Hmm. Should have tried to eat the legs. I hear frog legs are pretty tasty.

...

OK. time out. You didn't sign up to read about frogs and the various ways they could suffer. I mean, we've ALL tortured frogs at some point, right? Or something like frogs, anyway. BORING. After that intro, I'm sure you were expecting something that would shock and disgust you. Or delight you. Depends on what kind of freak you are. The truth of the matter is, you wouldn't be reading this far unless you' re like me in some way. Chances are, you've read, seen, or imagined something far worse than anything I'm going to write about...and you probably got it on the evening fucking news. Hell, you've probably DONE worse than I have, just by VOTING. Asshole. I should leave you hanging right there for that kind of atrocity, the hell that America has been through because you were SO worried that the schools are teaching that we are biological organisms just like every other living thing on the fucking planet but oh, no, that can't be, The Lord God Almighty made you special and unique and you're not like these filthy animals that live to eat, fuck, shit, sleep and die. No, you can't be like THEM, you - sorry, getting carried away a bit there. Back on task. Again, if you are the kind that accepts your nature, you are just smiling and nodding right now. If not, you're feigning disgust and your inner monologue is insisting that you are NOT like this, even as you're aching to read the next chapter. Admit it. You want to know what I'm going to reveal when things get REALLY nasty. But first, a little fun...

jsgoddess

11-03-2008, 03:05 PM

You didn't say it had to be prose, so here are three nursery rhyme sonnets I did a few years back. There are others in the series, but I figured patience for poetry is probably low:

Sauce for the Goose

I. Three blind mice

The farmer’s wife is cruelty at rest
in calico, in reddened hands and brawn
that stem from wringing rooster necks at dawn
before they crow. She serves invited guests
with crumbled sage and dressing, second best
china for the preacher. In the lawn,
three sleeping mice lie still and dream of drawn
butter on the grains of grasses pressed
into the dirt; of tails still twitching warm;
of noses that would stay content with weeds
and never long for bread to feed their wives;
of ears that could detect the hens’ alarm;
of eyes that have more use than poppy seeds
in farmhouse kitchens filled with carving knives.

II. There was a crooked man

The house is crooked, and the siding gaps
enough to welcome in a mouse or vole
who hopes to find more shelter than a hole
in sod can offer it. The owner naps.
His cat curls like a furry sleeping-cap
around his head. But rodents on patrol
are not as silent as they think. Parole
is brief, then they find prison in the snap
of jaws. He calls her thirst for blood a vice,
disgusting him, if she makes the mistake
of asking him, with purrs, to share her meat.
So she learns secrecy; she kills the mice
with one quick bite before the man can take
them from her mouth and never let her eat.

III. Old Mother Hubbard

The mutt’s tail thumps against the parlor floor
but cannot stir his mistress from her chair.
She waits, as if some djinn will enter there
and grant three wishes. Both grow gaunt, and sore
from pressure on the bones that long before
were cushioned by their flesh. The shelves are bare.
This is no place for mice to feast; nowhere
for kin to step in unannounced and pour
their joys in friendly ears. The hall is grey
with dust and shells of some dead spider’s lunch,
without the track of butcher’s blood to brand
his passage, with a beef roast or filet
beneath his arm. The dog now dreams the crunch
of brittle bones that form his warden’s hand.

cmyk

11-03-2008, 05:29 PM

From a short thriller I'm in the midst of writing. The dialog needs some work, but I love that this is how the story begins:*

“Pffft!” He snorted outward, as some of the Mountain Dew he was drinking came out of his nose from the unexpected laugh.

“Aw, damn woman.” He snorted again while trying to keep the car from veering and wiping his nose with his sleeve at the same time.

“Ow, it fucking burns.” Now, she was laughing at him.

“You know you shouldn’t take a sip when I’m about to say something funny.”

“Yeh, but,” he snorted outward again, “your jokes usually aren’t funny.”

With that, she feigned shock and threw an almost empty bag of Combos at him. Some of the crumbs tinkled out of the bag and onto his lap, with some falling irretrievably down the crack between the seat and the center console.

“C’mon! Not funny.” But he was still smiling, and there was still some soda glinting off the stubble on his top lip.

“I was gonna give you some napkins until you said that.”

He looked down at his crotch, where he hastily nestled his bottle of soda, and saw some crumbs had even gotten into his drink. Shit, he thought.

“Shit!” she cried.

He glanced back up to see a deer about ten feet in front of the car. He slammed on his brakes, and hit the deer going over fifty miles per hour. It was the sound of crunching metal and glass and bone all at once. Daniel and Mindy heard it, but didn’t really comprehend it. Everything unreeled in slow motion, and they became more disconnected observers, than anyone in the midst of an event with any sort of control or thoughts of self-awareness.
The sounds, then spinning, gravel and dirt across their vision; the smell of burnt rubber and the rolling of the earth, all of it filled their senses.

Then nothing.

*please be kind concerning my grammar.

Paul in Qatar

11-03-2008, 05:41 PM

From my stub novel, Foresight America,

The room was far too warm in the Washington summer. But the tall windows had been closed to prevent eavesdroppers; inside it was stifling. Charles Lindbergh stood near a window, his white linen suit rumpled by the humidity, holding a digital watch, watching as the seconds rushed by.
“No noise at all.” He reported as he held the artifact to his ear.
“No moving parts,” General Marshall replied, “we took it apart and couldn’t make heads nor tails of it.” His soft voice carried authority. “It was made in Japan, by the way.”
Lindberg raised an eyebrow and shook the device gently. “This,” he pointed to the timepiece, “means it is all true, every word of it.”
Marshall stepped away “Yes, colonel, every word as far as we can tell. He is who he says he is and he as come from where he says he came.”
“Or came from when he will come,” Senator Taft corrected with a harrumph. “He is the genuine article, a throwback from the year 2000, a time traveler.”
The crowd in the room was generating a low buzz. Groups had formed around the watch, the “laptop computer” and a copy of the Washington Post dated sixty-four years in the future.
Taft straightened himself and rapped on the polished table. “Let us reconvene,” the men, they were all men, began to return to their seats.
“Can we agree, I presume, that the evidence is clear?” the senator from Ohio began. A gentle murmur of agreement went around the meeting.
“General, will you recap what we know?” Taft asked.
The heat did not seem to bother Marshall at all, “Gentlemen, in twenty years, the United States will be the world’s leading power. We will have influence at least as wide as the British do now. Our industry will lead the world. Our people will be the richest and arguably the happiest; our culture will dominate. In fact the world at large will be at peace, democracy and free trade will be the rule. But,” he paused to consider his next words, “between then and now is World War II.”

Chefguy

11-03-2008, 05:49 PM

Here's a screed inspired by some egregious act of religious zealotry I read in the paper some time ago:

God’s Mafia
Or, An Offering You Can’t Refuse

There is a striking resemblance between organized religion and organized crime. I mean other than the fact that both originated in Italy. On the one hand is the family Don, dispensing wisdom and advice, warnings and threats; a paternal figure, but not one without a certain amount of menace. A family member’s happiness depends upon how the Don views his activities. There is a certain amount of homage due, one must act within the laws of the family, and there is the periodic donation which insures protection, loyalty, and one’s continued good health.

In the case of organized religion, we have a paternalistic or maternalistic (although women in church hierarchy still seem somewhat paternal, don’t they?) leader who dispenses wisdom and advice, warnings and threats; in short, someone who exhibits all the traits of the Don, with the possible exception of a propensity to murder (although in the case of the Inquisition, the Crusades, jihads and various other purges perpetrated throughout history, this too is well within religion’s purview). We generally treat these people with deference, someone to turn to for solace and guidance. We make periodic donations to them which insure our places in heaven, insure God’s protection, loyalty, and our continued good health. The only difference here is that instead of calling it “protection money”, we call it an “offering”.

The other real difference is that the leader of a crime family doesn’t presume to be able to interpret the word of a supreme being. In some cases, I’m sure, the Don considers himself to be the Supreme Being, which can also be said for some religious leaders. But generally, this particular arrogance is reserved for popes, priests, ministers, imams, and other clergy.

My question is this: if our lives are already pre-ordained, if everything is set and our destination to a ‘heaven’ or ‘hell’ is also set, how then does placing money in a plate or mailing in one’s life savings to a monster like Jerry Falwell, or blowing up some hapless Jewish school children change anything? How does listening to some gasbag blathering on every Sunday about our immortal souls change one goddamn microscopic aspect of our lives? If God dwells within each of us, then don’t we all have our own on-board life tour guide? Aren’t all our clocks winding down at a pre-arranged rate? What possible difference does it make whether I hail Mary or hail a cab? At least I know that if I make an offering to a cabbie, I’m likely to get where I want to go, and he isn’t going to be looking for the vig.

PapSett

11-03-2008, 07:44 PM

Exerpt from one I am working on right now called Healing Hearts:

Jesse heard Alex moving about the living room early the next morning; he had slept little that night, his mind abuzz with thoughts that he knew were better off ignored, but he was unable to push them to the dark corners of his brain where they belonged. Coming back to California had served as a reminder of the life he had left behind, and awakened a homesickness deep inside him he could not deny. It had also caused him to begin questioning the feelings he had for Hannah, feelings that were becoming stronger with each passing day, of the likes he had never expected to have for her. Feelings that scared him senseless. There was nothing about her that he would have before found attractive in the least, but now… he wondered if he was falling in love with her. And with that particular thought in mind, he had made his decision- it was better to put as much distance between the two of them as he possibly could. He used the hand-held urinal first thing, and managed to drag himself out of the bed and into the wheelchair, wheeling out to the kitchen where Alex was poaching an egg for breakfast.

“Hey little brother, you hungry?” he asked with a smile. It was getting easier, seeing Jesse in the wheelchair, although he didn’t think he would ever get completely used to it.

Jesse shook his head, getting the orange juice out and pouring a glass. Truth be told, his stomach was in knots, and the thought of putting food in it caused it to roll unpleasantly. “I need to talk to you Alex.” He said quietly. “It’s kind of important.”

Alex used a slotted spoon to scoop the soft-cooked egg out of the water, depositing it onto a piece of waiting toast and sprinkling it with salt and pepper. “Shoot.” He encouraged, pouring them each a cup of coffee.

Jesse put his juice between his legs and wheeled closer to the table, hesitating before he spoke again. He licked his lips nervously. “I… I was just thinking last night…” he began haltingly, “Could I… I mean, would you mind if I stay here with you?” Alex had used the side of his fork to cut into the egg, letting the thick liquid yolk spread across his toast, and he snapped his head up to stare at Jesse. “Please… I won’t be any trouble, Alex, I can help out around here a little bit, I’m learning how to do more things every day. I even got in the chair by myself today…”

Alex pushed his breakfast aside without even taking a bite. “Jesse, you know I can’t do that.” He said softly. “No matter if I want to or not, I can’t. I’m taking time off work while you’re here, but this isn’t the norm. I’m never home, Jesse. I wouldn’t be here to help you do anything, and right now, I just can’t afford to hire a nurse.”

“There’ll be money when my house sells.” Jesse replied quietly. “I can pay for my own nurse…”

Alex rubbed his eyes wearily, shaking his head. “Not that much, Jesse. You still owe a huge chunk on it; the lion’s share is going to just be paying off your mortgage. And you have no idea if you are ever going to get out of that chair. It won’t work, I’m sorry…”

Jesse’s brow knitted in a deep frown, and he pushed away from the table. “Yeah, well so am I. I would hate to think that I’m a burden to you, Alex.”

Alex sprung from his seat and stopped the wheelchair half way across the kitchen, spinning him around so quickly that he almost knocked it over. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You act as if it’s my fault you got yourself into this! It isn’t! It wasn’t me that got behind the wheel of a car after I’d been drinking! It wasn’t me that tried to take a goddamned exit ramp doing sixty or seventy miles an hour! I’m doing everything I can to help you out, but you know what? I like my life the way it is Jesse! I don’t want a wheelchair ramp on my porch! I don’t want to have to worry every minute I’m away from home if you’ve managed to hurt yourself again! I don’t want to bring a girlfriend home for the night and have to explain, ‘yeah, that’s my little brother, he broke his back driving drunk, and now I have to change his diapers…’ Is that what you wanted to hear Jesse? It’s not just the money!”

Hannah had heard their voices in the kitchen and got up, slipping her robe on; as she got closer, the words became clearer to her. The realization of just what they were saying hit her hard, like a mule kick to her gut, and she stepped into the kitchen doorway unnoticed by either brother.

“You’re my brother Alex!” Jesse screamed, his eyes filling with tears, his face flushing deeply. “We’re family! I’d do it for you, but you can’t be bothered to help me? I have to depend on someone that was almost a total stranger to me to help? Mom and Dad would be so proud of you!” he snorted sarcastically

“Yeah, well I don’t exactly think they’d be calling you son of the year, either!” Alex yelled right back.

“You weren’t planning to come back with me?” Hannah’s soft voice floated across the kitchen, silencing both men at once. “I guess living with a total stranger wasn’t good enough for you.”

Jesse turned his chair around to stare at her, the pain on her face enough to make him forget his own pain. “I wasn’t planning it, Hannah.” He backpedaled. “I just thought…”

She held her hand up to silence him. “When were you going to tell me Jesse? When I rented the U Haul? Kinda… ‘oh, by the way, we need to take this stuff to Alex’s house; I’m not going back with you’? My God Jesse, do you have any idea what I’ve been through for you? Do you? How much money I’ve put out? What I’ve given up? It’s not bad for a total stranger.” Hot, stinging tears began to flow down her cheeks and she hastily swiped them away with the back of her hand.

Jesse had no idea how to handle the situation so he struck out blindly. “If you’re worried about your fuckin’ money, I’ll pay you off when I sell the house. There should be enough there. And I don’t want to be a problem for either one of you, surely there’s a homeless shelter somewhere that would take me in!” He began wheeling furiously toward the front door, left open from Alex bringing in the morning paper. Before either Hannah or Alex could react to stop him, Jesse pushed the storm door open, wheeling out onto the front stoop, with Alex and Hannah coming after him at a run. Jesse tried to wheel down the wide steps, but the wheel hit the second one wrong and the chair tipped, almost in slow motion, falling onto its left side, dumping Jesse out onto the walk. Hannah shoved Alex aside and came down the steps at a run, dropping to her knees beside him as he tried to crawl away, angry, frustrated tears spilling down his cheeks. As she touched his shoulder, he shrugged her off violently, his face contorted in anger. “Don’t touch me!” he hissed between gritted teeth. “Keep your fucking hands off of me! I can take care of myself!”

“Stop it!” Hannah gave him a shake, refusing to release him. “You’re bleeding, Jesse!” There was a thin trickle of blood running from a cut on his lip, and the side of his temple was already coloring with a bruise. “Alex, call an ambulance.”

“I don’t need a fucking ambulance!” Jesse growled, pushing Hannah away and trying to drag himself toward the overturned chair. “I’m fine! Just leave me the hell alone!”

Alex came down the steps and sat the chair upright. “C’mon, let’s get you back inside.” He said gently, taking hold of Jesse’s arm in an attempt to get him off the ground. Jesse was still struggling and took a swing at his brother with the other hand, but Alex was able to avoid contact easily. Any further punches were stopped when Hannah grabbed the other arm, and together she and Alex got him into the chair. Jesse slumped forward, the fight suddenly gone out of him. “Are you alright?” Alex squatted down in front of him, looking into his face. Jesse turned his head away and nodded stiffly.

“I’m fine.” He replied tersely. Alex shook his head, and he and Hannah got Jesse back inside the house. Hannah pushed the chair into the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and gently dabbing at the blood on his lip.

“What were you thinking?” she chided gently. “Are you sure you’re OK?” Jesse would not meet her eyes.

“Just that I wanted to get out of here.” He sighed, wincing as she wiped the cut. “And yes, I’m fine.”

She sat back on the closed toilet seat. “I don’t understand, Jesse. Why weren’t you going to tell me you wanted to stay here? Why didn’t you tell me before we came out here?”

(If anyone would like to read the whole thing, please let me know... I am hoping to get it published eventually and would love honest critique, I would be happy to e mail the Word document to you.)

XaMcQ

11-03-2008, 08:34 PM

Here's a little scene with one of my favorite characters. Hope you enjoy. :)

"How does that feel?"

"Good." Esteban was having some difficulty paying much attention to the fit
of the futuristic, streamlined running shoe, so distracting was the firm
grip of strong fingers around his ankle and calf.

"Not too tight anywhere? You know a good fit is so important." The
salesman looked up at him with laughter hiding in his warm brown eyes.
Somehow he seemed to be implying something completely unrelated to shoes.

~Either that or it's been too damned long.~ "No. It feels great," he
promised, detecting a slight breathiness to his voice.

"Would you like to try the other one, then?" The hand slid a few inches up
his leg before releasing him and reaching for his other foot, to ease the
loafer off.

"Absolutely," he couldn't help but grin as the clerk, who was beyond a doubt
the best looking shoe salesman on the planet, managed a whole foot caress in
the guise of smoothing a wrinkle out of Esteban's sock.

The returned smile was one of a boy getting away with something, and
devastatingly appealing. Of course the good hair, great body, cute butt and
movie star looks didn't hurt either.

~Please, God, don't let him just be into feet.~ Esteban wondered how many
pairs of shoes he could realistically buy.

"These look good on you." The beautiful man was drawing the laces snug and
then, with seeming reluctance, let him go and sat back on his fitting stool.
"You want to try them out? Walk around in them and see how they feel?"

"They feel pretty good," he said standing up to walk a few steps. "But I
bet you'd say that about all the shoes."

"And I think you'd look good in all of them." Okay, they had definitely
crossed the line into flirting.

"Maybe I should try on a few more pairs, just for comparison?" Esteban sat
back down.

The shoe salesman smiled with a touch of smugness. Just a touch. "We could
do that," he said, as he started removing the nifty white sneakers.
"Provided you've got no place else to be?"

Esteban smiled lazily. "No appointments."

Off came the second shoe. "Nobody waiting on you someplace?"

A sock-clad foot 'accidentally' brushed the leg it just happened to be next
to. "Not that I know of."

"Well then," his attentive customer service rep drawled, capturing the
straying appendage, "Maybe you'd like to have lunch with me?"

Esteban laughed, "Are you sure you want to do that? I was just gearing up
to buy three or four pairs of shoes. Think of your commission!"

That mischievous smile was back, squared. "To tell you the truth, I don't
actually work here. I talked Michael into letting me take care of you so I
could have an excuse to meet you."

"You're kidding." What a romantic, cute, sexy thing to do!

"I promised him I'd be really professional."

"You were great. I never would have guessed."

The faux shoe salesman grinned. "I also promised you would buy a pair of
shoes."

"Well, I was going to do that anyway," Esteban was just a little unsure,
now that they had moved from strangers anonymously flirting to an actual
date. "I'm not sure about lunch though."

"Please?" He laid on the charm. "I'm on my knees here." He indicated the
low seat.

"You are not."

"I will be if it'll get you to say yes. You said you didn't have anywhere
else to be."

The smaller, darker man gaped at him like an idiot as he started to get down
on his knees. "No!" The man looked up as Esteban hurriedly looked around
to see if they were attracting attention. "Don't do that!"

"If you'll have lunch with me."

"Can I at least know the name of the man blackmailing me into a date?"

"Ted Duncan." Ted was helping him back into his own shoes.

"Okay, Ted. What if I told you I was already in a relationship?"

"I would say that if you were happy with that, I'm glad for you, but if you
think maybe he's not 'the one' or it isn't going to work out, I'd like to to
get in the running."

"Ted, Ted, Ted," Esteban sighed, thinking about it. "I'm Esteban, by the
way." He considered Ted. And Connor. And the fact that he'd hadn't seen
hide nor hair of his vampire in nearly three weeks. He missed him terribly,
but it was not anything like a healthy relationship.
"I assume you are buying?"

Incensed

11-03-2008, 09:25 PM

Chopping time. Corn to be cut. As if some craggy and capricious and domineering god looked down upon a placid world and said ‘Let there be haste.’ Tractors pulling ensilage wagons full to brimming topping hills and rounding bends, wailing like things come down from orbit. Dump trucks similarly laden with their miscellaneous and multitudinous tickings like doomsday clocks overwound and ready to come unsprung, and the lot of them, all, leaving great spumes and rooster tails of chaff whorling surreally in their separate wakes as if the very air were abrasive, possessed a sentience of its own and was set against their passing.

The pilots piloting these crafts do so with the complete serenity known only to the abjectly mad, slightly atotter as if nodding in time to some unheard tinkling, chimes of their own imagining perhaps, raising a hand in passing to storefront watchers, porchbound watchers, who nod or wave them by in turn and say to those likewise, to themselves if there are no others, ‘There ought to be a law.’

So they pass, hell bent for the field, for the silo, for the boneyard-which? Leaving behind them silence made the greater by the din having passed, air ludicrously confettied, as if here has gone the lone sane absconder from some kinghell demented parade.

Bootis

11-03-2008, 10:27 PM

There was a time I served as an oarsman aboard The Moldy Kettle. If you've ever worked the oars you might know what I mean, but I should tell you the Kettle was a strange vessel. It was in truth a very large kettle, perfect in shape and scale.The rowing song was straight enough; "All aboard the Moldy Kettle! Iron oars and floors a' Metal! Shore to shore nowhere's t'settle! Forward go'ers the Moldy Kettle!"

True to that, she had iron oars, bane of all oarsmen consigned to the Kettle, being in those times, as now, that oarsmen's oars of choice should be wooden. All oarsmen I have known, I should say, all but Runkle. Forty stone to an oar and 2 men to work it, I held 3rd oar, portside, with Runkle. Runkle had one joke and he wasn't shy with it. "Iron oars of iron-ore!" he'd chort. "Bootis!" he'd call to me, upon which time I'd either look at him, or not. "Whaddya say 'bout these Iron Oars of iron-ore?" And then during those times that we'd sing the Moldy Kettle song, at the part where one is supposed to say "Iron Oars", Runkle would cry "iron-ORES", much louder than it is supposed to be sung, and then wink at me, or whoever might be looking at him, or to no one in particular. The oars being as heavy as they were, and the song being as short as it was (which gave Runkle cause for much winking and "iron-ORE"ing, as the one verse would be repeated and repeated endlessly from port to port), only led me to become increasingly conscious of the needless weight of those heavy, heavy oars. And that if they were made of wood, they would weigh 30 stone less, and the Kettle might then achieve 20 knots or more, instead of the 2 we could barely maintain, and that with wooden oars, Runkle would have no joke.

So while docked at a Cape, I inquired to the first mate about the chance of replacing the Kettle's Iron oars for those of wood, and he said he would check into it, but that probably not, since there were other repairs and refittings of higher priority which themselves had been waiting attention for several dockings. And he also pointed out the Moldy Kettle was an all-iron vessel. I noticed Runkle had overheard my inquiry, and had seemed quite disappointed , at which time, for some reason I did feel sorry for him.

And then that night I was assigned 12th oar, portside, with Bowers. Had Runkle requested the reassignment? I never found out.

threnodyangelfire

11-04-2008, 02:39 AM

ez2slip

11-04-2008, 12:45 PM

I put this together a few years ago.

Wednesday Evenings

I had purchased an old fieldstone farmhouse in need of serious repair. Having long
held a dream to live in a beautiful old house, the feeling of history, the charm, and the beautiful stature of a restored house. What had not
been considered was the amount of repair needed to turn my house into one of those
handsome homes. There was always a project going on inside or outside and I lived
with sawdust and dust and dodged around tools left out to finish a job.

I never had enough money to just hire someone with some experience for these jobs.
This was the first house I had owned and slowly I learned how to wire an electrical socket and sweat a joint. Every night after work as I drove home I would click off the
long list of things to do and try to remember that list so that when I got home I could
add it to the ever growing number of items that were posted on the refrigerator door.
Only occasionally I could go over and cross off something that had been completed.
The list grew and was at times a burden, slowly understanding how much time, energy
and money was needed to finish anything. As the children were born, I tried to finish projects so the house would be more comfortable and safe as the kids grew.

. When my oldest, a daughter, turned five years old, she started dance class at a studio about twenty-five minutes from our house. The class was one hour, so after making sure
she was settled in, it did not seem to be worth the time to go home and then turn around
and drive back again so soon afterward. Instead, leaving the car parked on the quiet
side street near the studio, I would walk up the long main street through the sparse business district and circle through the college campus just beyond the stores. The former teachers college was now a modern university but still had the charm of old academia. Then returning down the opposite side of the street, and arriving just in time as the class ended.

The dance class followed the school calendar, so my Wednesday evening walks were often in the long shadows and then fading light of autumn and spring when the sun was near the horizon. Beginning late in the fall, after the clocks were turned back to standard time, it was dark before we left the house. I would walk in the darkness, occasionally treading over a section of sidewalk bathed in a streetlight. On the way up the hill towards the shopping area there were older townhouses built up against the sidewalk. Passing by the windows lit with the bluish hues of a television or a reading lamp casting shades of yellow against the glass, I would be drawn to look into the window. Never breaking stride, feeling much the voyeur, seeing the safe comfortable life of the main street residents.

Returning to the studio and slipping out of the cold into the small waiting room to meet my daughter, my glasses fogging in the moist warm air as I joined other parents dropping
off or picking up the future ballerinas. The dancers donned their winter coats and mittens
over pink tights and ran off into the evening, giggling and smiling as they made their way to their parents vehicles.

Dave

jsgoddess

11-04-2008, 01:40 PM

If you don't mind me saying so, I loved this. Thanks for sharing :)

Who me? Mind? Are you crazy? :D

Little Plastic Ninja

11-04-2008, 03:40 PM

Here is what I have handy.

There wasn't much about the missing Carter girl in the papers, but Creeley had found the one article tucked away in a dusty corner of the Chronicle. It was tacked firmly to the wall now, and as he forked another mouthful of pot noodle into his mouth he looked into the grainy image of the Springdale High Homecoming Queen.

The fact that a white girl had gone missing without the usual hue and cry was surprising. She'd even hit the trifecta: blonde, pretty, and rich. Her family was close-knit, family-values, very Osmonds. The fact that the local police, the FBI, and every news station from here to Maine weren't on Janet-Watch Week Three was, in itself, odd. She hadn't even made the front page of the local paper, and Springdale didn't have much else to put on the front page. There had to be a reason.

It was elves, of course. It was perfectly obvious. Certainly there were other possible reasons to the uninitiated and the unimaginative, but Creeley could readily dismiss them.

Setting the noodle bowl on the counter of the sink next to him, he wound one end of the lime green yarn around her thumbtack and fastened it neatly at a nearby nexus. He stepped back to look at his work, gave a minute nod of satisfaction, and checked the door and windows for the seventh time today. The wards at the corners were intact. The ropes were unfrayed. The iron horseshoe nailed in the middle of it all, right above the door, was as iron and as horseshoe shaped as it had been the last six times he'd looked at it today and every day for two years. If iron could be worn by the pressure of staring, it would have been long gone.

Everything was set to his exacting satisfaction. The dusty floor and the occasional dead cricket crunching underfoot were incidental to the order of the room. He took his breakfast into the back room, pulling the curtain closed behind him and returning to his labor.

Cuckoorex

11-04-2008, 04:07 PM

Wow, now I wish I could read the rest of all of you guys' stuff.

Agreed; some serious talent on the Dope! Of course, by now that's not that big of a surprise, I guess. :)

Mister Rik

11-04-2008, 09:36 PM

Here's the beginning of what was probably my most well-received piece of spanking fiction. It's called "The House in the Woods". My original story idea was for more of a horror story, but it turned into a 50-year-old ghost story/romance/mystery, and also something of an anti-racism screed, and much better overall than what I'd had in mind. That's one of the "problems" with my stories - the characters sometimes take on a life of their own and practically write themselves, not always paying attention to what I intended for them :p

Brianna knew she shouldn't, but she was in a hurry. She'd overslept, again. One more tardy at school, and she would be in big trouble with Mom. So even though she knew better, she took a shortcut through the woods.

Oh, she'd heard all about these woods. All through her sixteen years she had heard the whispered stories about the 'stalker'. She'd heard those ridiculous tales of other girls getting snatched in these woods, and of the horrible things that had happened to them. "Silly rumors, that's all they are," Brianna reassured herself.

The story went back at least fifty years. "Some girl" would wander into these woods, and "something" would happen to her. Nobody ever said what that "something" was. Time had exaggerated the story, of course. To hear her parents' and grandparents' generations tell it, at least a hundred girls had been "snatched". And it was always the same story: the girl would come home, apparently unharmed, but terribly frightened and refusing to talk about it. The alleged incidents had become fewer and fewer in the last twenty years, though, and Brianna had never known anybody her own age who'd had a strange experience in the woods.

Still, she remembered hearing something about Becca Jackson, who was five years older than Brianna. Funny... in a town where most girls were married as soon as they finished high school (or within a couple of years, anyway) Becca was still single. She'd broken up with her boyfriend shortly before graduation, and since then she pretty much stayed on her parent's farm, rarely coming into town any more. Weird.

The rumors persisted, and Brianna's generation had grown up with the understanding that going into these woods was something a girl just didn't do. And so Brianna, a smart girl, had never cut through the woods before today. Not because she really believed the warnings, but because that was just the way things were done in her small town. The way they'd always been done.

So she ran. Silly rumors aside, there was still no need to linger. And she was still running late. She jogged as fast as she could across the leaf-strewn floor of the woods, slowing from time to time to hop a fallen, moss-covered log. The maples were nearly bare, though a few red leaves still clung stubbornly to the branches. She found herself wishing she had worn jeans and boots today. The slick soles of her saddle shoes didn't provide much traction on the damp ground, and her short skirt kept creeping up while she ran.

Brianna didn't even see the clearing until she was standing in the middle of it.

And since when was there a house in the middle of these woods? Brianna had ridden in her parents' car many times along the road that followed the crest of the nearby hills. In all the times she had stared out the window, across the trees, she had never seen any houses. The woods had always looked like virgin timber to her. Yet there was no denying the big, two-story, white farmhouse, with a covered porch that ran all the way across the front. Big as life, looking lived-in, if a bit run down. Brianna was familiar with the style, as there were many similar old farmhouses surrounding the town.

"Alice! I am glad you could come!" The accented male voice boomed behind her.

Brianna whirled in fright, and found herself face to face with a handsome young man. He had black hair that was cut in one of those old-fashioned styles that had come back into vogue recently, and brown skin, as well as the deepest brown eyes Brianna had ever seen. She guessed him to be about twenty-one, though having had no experience with dark-skinned people, she couldn't be sure. His accent was as unfamiliar as his appearance. Surely, Brianna would have noticed a man like him in her all-white farm town. He would have stood out like a sore thumb.

"Um hi," Brianna said, uncertainly. "Um, my name's not Alice..."

For those who may be interested, here's the full story (http://www.mister-rik.com/stories/the_house_in_the_woods.txt). (Plain text, main character 16 years old, no explicit sex)

And here's "Serendipitous (http://www.mister-rik.com/stories/serendipitous.txt)". (Plain text, all characters over 18, explicit sex)

HeyHomie

11-05-2008, 10:06 AM

From a novella I wrote about a guy who wins the lottery:

Money talks. And with the possible exception of Washington, in no city in the United States does money talk as loudly as it does in Las Vegas. Do you need eight front-row tickets to Cirque du Soleil? Try asking the concierge to swing that for you on a few hours’ notice, and see what response you get. Then go to the tables and, between you and your friends, put down four hundred thousand dollars in action. The pit boss notices. Some phone calls are made. And then those Cirque du Soleil tickets somehow make their way into your hands.

Frylock

11-05-2008, 10:23 AM

Here's two lines from a song. They are in reference to a deep friendship which now (in song time) seems to be fading.

Depth and width have disappeared,
and now we're only long, drawn out.

I dunno, you probably have to hear it in context. (And I'm not going to provide it because in the same song there are, to my chagrin, a couple of real howlers.)

-FrL-

Frylock

11-05-2008, 10:31 AM

Well, I just can't not post this one too. It's a tie, it really is.

I quantify over the domain of gazes,
and I define a relation over that domain such that
"they meet" is true if and only if they meet.

nootlin

11-05-2008, 11:13 AM

My character, a rip-off of James Bond, is stumbling out of the sea, a little tired from his bout with a shark. Onlookers are amazed at what they've just witnessed. He gazes coolly at a couple of young things as he walks passed.
"Plenty more fish in the sea," he says.

nootlin

11-05-2008, 11:15 AM

And from a song I'm working on:

I never met a girl before
Who made me such a part of her world
that when she went away
She left me floating in space

... I landed on the moon
Must have landed on the darkside
'cause I can't see the bright side
... and I'm looking for the sea
Of tranquility.

One day I'll dream up another couple of verses.

Duke

11-05-2008, 11:57 AM

If we non-fiction writers are allowed a minute...this is the conclusion of my doctoral dissertation. Maybe not my best ever, but it was a fitting if clumsy end to a long, long effort.

Notwithstanding scattered pockets of rural ignorance, the English Bible had by the turn of the seventeenth century attained a position of primacy in religious and social discourse. The text was almost universally recognised as the foundation of the English Church. An understanding of the Bible in English was a requirement not only for an understanding of the tenets of the Church but also for an understanding of political thought, literature and even science. If a household owned but one book, it would inevitably be the Bible; many persons learned to read solely in order to read the Bible. In brief, by 1600 the Bible had become by far the most important text in English that had ever been produced.

This was by no means a certain outcome, judging by the events of the mid-sixteenth century. Between 1525, the year of the publication of the first Tyndale New Testament, and the first licencing of the Bible in 1536, many Bibles were confiscated and burned, and there were consistent attacks on both those who distributed the book and those who read it. Even after the English Bible was made legal, its opponents remained strong, and laws such as the Act for Advancement of True Religion of 1543 restricted its readership. Although the vernacular scriptures enjoyed royal and clerical protection during the reign of Edward VI, this was merely a brief interlude before the Church under Mary made the English Bible illegal again, striking it from the service and eventually burning both the Bible and some of its readers. The fortunes of the vernacular scriptures were slow to recover under Elizabeth; it was not until 1561 that the English Bible went into print again.

The most notable achievement for the supporters of the English Bible was the installation of the text into the parish churches of England. Yet even this did not prove a total success. Although parishes were ordered to acquire the Bible in 1538, churchwardens’ accounts indicate that, taking East Anglia as an example, most churches did not purchase Bibles until 1541 at the earliest, and 1547/48 at the latest. Archidiaconal records prove that some East Anglian churches lacked the scriptures as late as 1552. Lastly, the church-plate certificates show that many parishes were slack in completing government injunctions to acquire religious items. The installation of the Bible in East Anglian parishes was thus less than complete even by the end of the reign of Edward, and therefore it is possible that some persons in the area may have had no contact with the Bible until the reign of Elizabeth.

Yet despite these setbacks there were some indications that the English Bible might succeed. Even by 1527 the Tyndale Bible was a familiar book in post-Lollard underground sects. Although access to the Bible in English was hindered during the later years of the reign of Henry, Protestant authors and preachers began to formulate a defence of the text. During the brief reign of Edward, additional propaganda was written in defence of the English Bible, and the Church integrated the scriptures into the service and official primer. This was to prove crucial during the Marian Reaction, when, although few at least in East Anglia specifically demanded the return of the English Bible, many of the prosecuted demanded a return to the Edwardian service.

Such optimism for the future of the English Bible must have even extended to the parish churches. Even though this dissertation must argue that the Bible failed to reach all of the parishes in East Anglia during the reigns of Henry and Edward, one must also conclude that this failure affected a relatively small portion of the laity. The church-plate certificates seem to demonstrate that parishes that failed to comply with the Injunctions were mostly in rural, thinly-populated areas. Churches in the city of Norwich and the large towns of East Anglia, as well as parishes in relatively well-populated areas, generally complied with the orders. It goes without saying that the bulk of the literate population lived in the latter sort of parishes. The certificates also suggest that parishes in areas dependent upon weaving and tanning, growing industries in East Anglia, also tended to comply with the Injunctions.

While most laypersons probably only encountered the English Bible passively—that is, through hearing it read at services, or by attending sermons—during this period, small but determined groups of active Bible readers prepared the way for later students of the text. The Colchester heretics detected in 1527, and their like-minded contemporaries in King’s Lynn, largely succeeded in establishing a network of illicit Bible sales. Henrician radicals such as Bale drew the curious to the Gospel, while moderates such as Becon attempted to place the vernacular scriptures within the context of mainstream religion. During the reign of Edward, the Ipswich publishers Scoloker and Oswen incorporated the reading of the Bible into popular theology, while the rebels at Kett’s camp made a fervent, albeit unsuccessful, call for the universal teaching of the English Bible. The scripture-studying of the Freewill-Men, radical in the early 1550’s, would have raised little concern fifty years later. Lastly, the readers of the English Bible who were detected during the Marian Reaction, assisted by the propaganda of John Foxe, served as heroic examples to their Protestant successors.

With hindsight one might claim that the success of the English Bible by 1600 was an inevitability. After all, the Bible was installed in a majority, most likely a large majority, of the parishes by the end of the reign of Edward. However, the installation of the Great Bible was not the last step for the acceptance of vernacular scripture, but rather the first. A Bible that, as Becon lamented, lay in dust in the parish church did nothing on its own: it had to be read, preached and understood by the clergy and the laity to have an impact. If even that first step, the introduction of the Bible into the church, did not occur in some parishes, in how many more did reading and understanding fail to occur? It may well be that both the active supporters of vernacular scripture and the active opponents of the text were outnumbered by a silent majority who allowed the dust to settle on the English Bible between 1525 and 1560.

DeadlyAccurate

11-05-2008, 12:06 PM

From Lethal Lies, the novel my agent is shopping at the moment. My heroine is talking to her hacker friend on the phone while he tries to talk her through bypassing an electronic lock:

I searched the green-board until I found a long alphanumeric string. "I see a sixteen-digit number. Would that be the serial?"

"Yeah, read that out to me." I did, and a little later he said, "Okay, I have the schematic. You need to find a blue-and-white twisted wire."

"Okay."

"Do you see the resistor it's attached to?"

"No, what's it look like?"

"Like a double-headed dildo."

"You know what that looks like?"

"I'm well read."

"Uh huh." I traced the wire until I saw the piece of plastic it hooked to. "Yeah, I see it."

"Guess I'm not the only one," he said. "What colors are the bands around it?"

It's a tie with this one (Wolf is her roommate):

Wolf met us at the door. "You look like crap. What happened?"

"I was tied to a chair and had the shit beat out of me."

"What's the other guy look like?"

"A corpse."

Sampiro

11-06-2008, 01:45 AM

It's not the best, but I had a sudden EUREKA!* moment today. It's very very rough, will be rewritten a thousand times over the next few days, but I found the last line of my book (not that it's finished, but I know how it ends, which is super important to me).

I won't go into the context as that would take forever, since it alludes to many other things. I will say it's set in 1987 Alabama and it's not a dream sequence (not exactly anyway) but a--- how to say--- explanation/fulfillment of events described. It will make sense and hopefully even be good with full context, but context would take many many pages.

First draft, end of my book (CASSEROLES FOR THE DEAD)-
Weokahatchee, Alabama
March 1987

She drains the small jug of whiskey, then looks silently at the columns through a veil of emotions I recognize but cannot quite name. She faces the team of mules, bites down as hard as she can on a rawhide belt, and with a barely muffled scream and no mercy on herself- she can't- she yanks the arrow from her own thigh. After a few moments of tears and sweat and blood come the oaths and expletives, but the wound has improved that she is able to drive.
She throws the rawhide belt away, then looking straight ahead she takes the reins, jerks them back and says "Hyah!". The mules begin to walk, the wheels begin to turn, the wagon moves, slow and southward. From where the dead children played you can see the living ones wave, and then the wagon is through the gates. She never looks back. She makes no further sound, though as we know such birds rarely sing.
The Indians let her pass and the highwaymen are nowhere to be found. By evening the wound has not healed but it has improved miraculously, so much that insists on helping me as I unload "the sacred cargo".

Too solipsistic for anyone else to appreciate, and will need a billion revisions, but trust me: once refined and with context, I honestly think it'll be fab-u-lous. I'm quite excited as I've been needing a closing to work towards.

*Yes nitpickers, I know it's more properly 'evreka'.

Sampiro

11-06-2008, 02:04 AM

And one other, semi-related to the above, but nowhere near the end of the book (also an actual quote of the person speaking):

"But remember this boy: when the neighborhood tomcat goes after the canary, and he will, you're gonna come home to find blood and feathers all over your floor. What you won't ever find... is the fuckin' canary. That same cat goes after the falcon, you're gonna come home and find blood and feathers all over your floor, but what you won't ever see again... is the fuckin' cat."

Rocketeer

11-06-2008, 12:24 PM

I'm no writer, but I was proud of this response to a friend who told me that I was always the last to know the company gossip:

"That's because I work in the Department of Past Sins, where, draped with cobwebs, eyes bulging with fear-induced adrenalin, we club the unholy zombie remnants of past problems frantically with our shovels, trying to beat them back into their graves. Nobody much comes here to visit."

Frylock

11-06-2008, 03:00 PM

*Yes nitpickers, I know it's more properly 'evreka'.

:confused:

Why do you think that? The greek letter is an upsilon.

-FrL-

ETA: On wikipedia investigation, I wonder whether you're saying it should be a 'v' because upsilon can stand for a 'v' sound in modern Greek?

If so, I'd say that's a mistake. The word was borrowed into English from ancient greek, not modern greek, and in any case, whatever kind of greek it was borrowed from, the English word is, standardly, spelled (and pronounced) "eureka".

Sampiro

11-06-2008, 03:17 PM

:confused:

Why do you think that? The greek letter is an upsilon.

-FrL-

ETA: On wikipedia investigation, I wonder whether you're saying it should be a 'v' because upsilon can stand for a 'v' sound in modern Greek?

If so, I'd say that's a mistake. The word was borrowed into English from ancient greek, not modern greek, and in any case, whatever kind of greek it was borrowed from, the English word is, standardly, spelled (and pronounced) "eureka".

Nitpickers: do away with one, three come to the fvneral.

lissener

11-06-2008, 05:20 PM

Oh and here's one (http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showpost.php?p=4609638&postcount=457), from these very boards, that I'm kinda proud of.

Silver Tyger

11-06-2008, 05:51 PM

This is what, my third bit to post? Anyway this the final story to a series I was writing (and will probably never finish), so there's all sorts of backstory I'm not going to bother to explain. And there's something of a heavy Narnia influence (or maybe it's just me...), but I feel it's quite good anyway.

Clythia sat wearily on her throne, her chin in one hand, her eyes half closed. She appeared to be in her sixties or older, with black hair gracefully silvering. A handsome black-haired man strode in - her son, Jeremitt.
“Mother, what’s happening?!”
She lifted her head only slightly. “Ourland is dying.”
He stood speechless for a moment. “What do you mean?!”
She smiled very faintly. “You’re still young and can’t imagine such things, but I’ve known for about 70 years now. Ourland is dying.”
He slumped on the stairs below her. “Can’t you do something?”
“Don’t you think I would have already?” she said fiercely. “I’ve told the people - some have already left. The young, I think, will all leave.”
“Why?!” he moaned.
She half-smiled again. “You know the saying; nothing that lives lasts forever.”
“Except you apparently,” he said bitterly.
She looked at one hand. “Not much longer, I don’t think. Perhaps another hundred years.”
“And how much longer for Ourland?”
“Twenty or thirty perhaps.”
He frowned bitterly.
“Go and gather your friends; go to a new world and be well, but remember this: there is no shame in dying.”
He closed his eyes, hid, possibly, a sob, and left.
The empress of a dying land continued to sit alone in the dark listening to the heartbeat of something she loved.

Clythia stood carefully. She had just buried the last of the men. She reflected carefully - the dragons were gone, had dove at last into the sea; the fawns had danced mournfully into the woodland shadows and disappeared, as was their way; the last centaur had built himself a cairn and watched the stars one last night. Soon the unspeaking animals would fade away and the plants would follow after.
“Mother?”
The old women turned slowly. “Yes Isabella?”
“Sslithre is leaving and I am leaving with him.”
The oldest of the trees, as old as the land, dying at last.
“Go, with my blessing.”
Her serene, wise daughter started to turn. “Mother,” Clythia lifted her head, “remember ‘areini winyo odeii.’”
Clythia closed her eyes, to stop tears. “Nothing good is gone forever.” When she opened her eyes, her daughter was gone.

“Mother!” A man’s cry, frightened. Clythia lifted her head slightly from the rock she was sitting against. Jeremitt ran up to her.
“I thought - I thought - “
“Not yet. The land, and I, live yet.”
He sat down next to her, his eyes drawn to a set of marker stones.
“Those are Isaac’s and David’s graves, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“I could hardly tell...” he said sadly.
She spoke slowly. “Momma, Thoreau and the Green Wolves, Rita, Davide, Isaac...”
He turned slowly.
“...’nothing that lives lasts forever.’”
He turned away.
“... ‘nothing good is gone forever,’” she finished very quietly, entreatingly.
She breathed a long sigh - and didn’t breathe again.
“Mother!” Jeremitt jumped to her side. He listened - her hearts had stopped. “Mother, no!” He laid her flat and started CPR. “Not yet, please!” A few moments later she shuddered. “Mother...”
She turned on her side and wept. “It’s dead, it’s dead...”
He held her until the final tear fell to a ground that no watering would ever cause to bloom again.
“Come with me,” Jeremitt asked. He helped her rise and opened a portal.
“Yes.”

* * * * *

Clythia wearily opened a teleportal to her dead home and walked through.
The corridor of light ended in a world green and shining with life.
“How - ? What - ?”
Her beloved husband walked from their castle and took her hands. “Areini winyo odenii, Clythia.”
Nothing good is gone forever.

I can only barely remember who Rita is... and I'm not telling because it was stupid. Oh, and 'hearts' is not a typo (although there may be others).

Glory

11-07-2008, 01:28 AM

“Mother!” Jeremitt jumped to her side. He listened - her hearts had stopped. “Mother, no!” He laid her flat and started CPR. “Not yet, please!” A few moments later she shuddered. “Mother...”

The very modern reference to CPR is exceptionally offputting. Seems like this guy would "desperately try to share his breath" or some such.

cmyk

11-07-2008, 08:11 AM

Martini Enfield

11-07-2008, 08:28 AM

This is a passage from very early in Tigershark, one of my many works in progress:

The Colt’s hammer struck the back of the slide, sending the firing pin charging forward into contact with the primer of the .45 calibre cartridge waiting in the pistol’s chamber.

Under normal circumstances, the firing pin striking the primer would cause the primer to ignite the powder contained within the cartridge’s dull brass case, at which point the heavy metal-jacketed bullet on the end would rocket down the Colt’s barrel and- assuming the shooter had a decent aim- into whatever it was they were aiming the gun at. The recoil generated by the cartridge being fired would push the slide back, and the next cartridge in the spring-loaded magazine would knock the spent brass case out of the gun as the slide fed the new round into the chamber again; all in only a fraction of a second.

Unfortunately, the powder in this particular cartridge failed to ignite; a not uncommon problem with WWII vintage ammunition that has been stored improperly.

So- instead of hearing a “Bang!” as the gun fired and feeling the recoil as the slide worked backwards and forwards, ejecting the spent cartridge and reloading a new one in the process, the shooter heard an audible “Click”- and nothing happened.

The sound was known as a “Dead Man’s Click” for a reason.

Cuckoorex

11-07-2008, 08:33 AM

"...And they killed Kenny again!"

I sat in stunned silence, listening to a group of Sixtysomethings describing how funny they thought that "new show" on Comedy Central was. Earlier they had been talking about mistakes in signage; "They left the "f" out, " said one of the women in the group, " and so it said "Now hiring all shits!" One of the men added his own favorite:"it was supposed to say that this gal was going to have her first public showing but instead it said pubic showing!"

At the table next to me, a middle-aged couple sat eating breakfast with their daughter, Christy, who was trying desperately to find something to talk about that her parents would be interested in, but wouldn't inspire tales of woe from the father about how hard it was for him when he was growing up. This girl sounded intelligent and funny, and relatively wise for her age. I knew her name was Christy because her mother kept on calling her "Christy, honey". She made the mistake of steering the conversation into dangerous territory when she brought up her latest misadventures on the yearbook staff at school. I was cheering for her all the way, but I had to wince when her father declared with all authority that in his day, they had to cut out and paste all of the photos by hand, and "you kids have the computers and you kids have it easy and you're all on "cruise control" with the computers and the digital stuff"....I could practically hear the poor girl tucking her legs and arms and head back into her shell while she weathered this little squall of inane self-important rambling from her old man.

Off in the corner, conversation had switched from South Park to Madonna: "Well, she never actually said she wasn't a lesbian..." I wondered if I had wandered onto the set of an MTV special.

My Eggs Benedict arrived, the eggs perfectly poached and resting on Canadian bacon atop a toasted croissant, drenched in Hollandaise sauce and partnered with perfectly cooked hash browns and toasted wheat bread....cold chocolate milk awaited me in the clear plastic cup to the right of my plate, and a bowl of fresh fruit filled a small bowl to the left. This was going to be a good breakfast...

The girl at the table next to me had successfully shifted the conversation to topics that her father couldn't possibly have any prior experience with; her relationships with her friends. Her mother seemed to be trying to listen to her, but whenever she tried to comment on her daughter's situation it became apparent that Christy had left her mom behind somewhere in yearbook land. Her father seemed to be fighting with his meal too much to show much interest in what Christy's friends were planning on studying in college...

"...I didn't see what was supposed to be so bad about Eminem, I mean he sang with Elton John, and we know he's gay..."

My meal finished, I gave one last smile to the cute waitress that kept glancing my way and took my check up to settle my debt.

cwthree

11-07-2008, 06:16 PM

I put this together a few years ago.

Wednesday Evenings

I had purchased an old fieldstone farmhouse in need of serious repair. ...

Dave

Very nice writing, indeed. Is there more?

koeeoaddi

11-07-2008, 08:28 PM

I like the end of a poem I wrote called Migraine. Too bad I don't like the rest of the poem nearly as much.

Outside a doe is frozen
to the weeds by the road.
She was killed by physics,
superstition's sullen brother
idiotic, relentless and sure.

The words that woke you last night were for her,
cried out in the shape of a prayer.

Paul in Qatar

11-08-2008, 06:39 AM

(I post this in order to sucker people into commenting on my writing and the technical accuracy of this passage.)

Chapter One: Prelude

Do you remember where you were on 31 December, 1999? Perhaps you do; it was an unusual day in many ways. That evening almost everyone had plans to celebrate the new year, and (prematurely) the new millennium. Still, it was a Friday, a work day for many, and so it had aspects of a normal day. Before we look at the first decade of the new century, let’s look at an average family on this last day of 1999.

The alarm went off at the usual time, both the husband and wife worked. Staying at home to raise the children was a luxury for families striving for the good life. The morning was a hectic scramble for breakfast and preparing for the day. There was no school in session most places, the Christmas break ran until Monday.

Across the nation it was a cool and clear day; thirty-five degrees in Manhattan, chillier in Chicago, warmer in Los Angeles.?

The newspaper was on the front stoop. Almost certainly the family did not check for e mail or look at an online newspaper.? Still a well-to-do family had a computer, maybe a nice one a Pentium II chip operating at something close to 300 megahertz with 96 megabytes of RAM connecting to the internet at 56 kilobytes per second over a dial-up modem. It may have had a CD drive, but usually used a 3.5 inch floppy disc drive for most purposes. It was running the Windows 95 operating system on a ten gigabyte hard drive.

The local paper probably had a story about readiness for any disruption caused by the Year 2000 computer bug. For a couple of years, experts had fretted that computer systems around the world would suffer from not realizing the year ‘00’ followed the year ’99.’ The Federal government spent 9 billion dollars ensuring systems were ready for the rollover.

Small numbers of troops had been called out in Washington, New York and other cities to increase readiness?. Mayors promised to man their emergency command centers during the night’s celebrations.

Some experts warned against flying at midnight for fear air traffic systems might fail. Few took such warnings seriously; and not a single one of those brave souls who did fly on the last day of 1999 encountered any trouble. Most of these travelers used a paper ticket, a cardboard envelope containing a flimsy coupon for each leg of the trip. Not a single one of these flyers had to take off their shoes for a federal security guard at the airport.

The comics page almost certainly featured Peanuts; Charlie Brown had a few more weeks to run until its end in February.? The crossword was a favorite among many readers, but few had ever seen a sudoku number puzzle.

The business section featured the year-in-review of the stock market (which was closed). The Dow Jones Industrial Average stood at 11,497, having risen a bit more than 25% in the year . Even more shocking was the 85.6% increase in the NASDAQ Composite Index, the best year for any stock index since 1915. Companies mentioned would include long-standing blue chips such as Chrysler, Eastman Kodak and General Motors. Perhaps an aggressive portfolio would have included the impressive but somewhat mysterious Enron.

Nobody owned shares in the stock exchange itself of course; it was a non-profit corporation?.

Due to the robust market, the Fed, under the leadership of Alan Greenspan, was in a long period of reducing interest rates?. The Dow started the new year at 11,497 and would peak at 11,908 two weeks later.

The morning news programs were focused on both the past year and the coming millennium. Perhaps there was a clip of President Bill Clinton and the First Lady, Hilary; they may have been crowing about the federal government’s record budget surplus.

Only now, looking back, would we notice that the television screen seemed oddly square. The curved glass screen would of course have been on the front of a cabinet that extended at least as far back as it was wide. Large flat screens were still an expensive specialty item and the conversion to wider, high-definition screen had not yet begun.

The drive into work was easier than usual. Like the schoolchildren, many adults were still on vacation. On the highway, our average family would see cars familiar to our eyes. Large Sport Utility Vehicles competed with minivans for space on the highway. Toyotas and Saturns were well-represented, an Oldsmobile or Plymouth would have attracted no comment. Nobody had heard of a Scion?. Nowhere to be seen was a hybrid car, or any vehicle made in China. Gasoline was at $1.31 a gallon?, a price so low that oil-producing nations were working to reduce output?.

The car would have had a radio that had both AM and FM bands. Nobody had a satellite radio, and nobody paid a monthly radio bill. Maybe our average commuter would have listened to a cassette, or more likely a compact disc. He almost certainly did not have an iPod or any other MP3 player?.

Britney Spears was at the peak of her career with “… Baby One More Time.” Madonna was still on the charts with Beautiful Stranger. Phil Collins was singing “You’ll Be in my Heart.”? Music critics opined that 1999 was the year of the Latin Invasion, with more and more Spanish-speaking artists releasing English-language tunes.

The family car had an airbag, or even two, but lacked a navigation system?.

Our average person might have stopped at a Starbuck’s for a cup of coffee, but of course not bought a sandwich or pastry. The food at Starbuck's was famously bad. Ideally one person brought the coffee at a coffee shop while a coworker went to McDonald’s for breakfast sandwiches.

Stopping at the supermarket for last-minute supplies, a shopper would have had his purchases scanned by a cashier. Nobody had seen a self-service checkout station yet.

On television, a little more than a week before New Year, the tenth anniversary episode of “The Simpsons” was aired. Other important new shows were “The West Wing” and the American edition of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”? If technically savvy, perhaps our typical family would have recorded their favorite shows on videotape cassettes. They did not have a hard-drive recorder and unless they were a bit well-off did not have a DVD player, although they were a popular Christmas gift that year?.

Many American families subscribed to a cable television service. There they could see the groundbreaking mafia drama “The Sopranos.”?

Movies would be a topic of discussion at the evening’s party no doubt. The top box office draw of the year was “Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace” with a take of almost 450 million dollars. Earning only 140 million was “The Blair Witch Project”?, perhaps the most influential movie of 1999.

No matter how well-connected a person was on the last day of 1999, he certainly would not know about Wikipedia, the abuse of children by Catholic priests, the marriage of homosexual couples, the question of torture by American law-enforcement or the use of cloned meat in the food supply.
If the name Arnold Schwarzenegger was mentioned, it would have been in a discussion of actors, not politicians. Joe the plumber was a name completely unknown to the public, as was Sara Palin.

A new decade lay ahead.