| Welcome to Fire Emblem Fusion. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
- Pages:
- 1
- 2
| Write-A-Song; Original stuffs. Whut? | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Sep 30 2008, 01:25 PM (351 Views) | |
| +Hollie | Sep 30 2008, 01:25 PM Post #1 |
Resident Brit
|
So, NaNoWriMo will be starting fairly soon and my fiction writing is more than a little rusty, so I decided to do this little project in order to get me up to writing again. I find songs to be very inspiring things. I have stories, characters and plots that were inspired, at least vaguely, by song lyrics. That's my goal here. Choose a random song (and I do mean random, no cheating) off my MP3 player, and write a short story based on that idea. These stories may all be totally different; some of them might be connected. Sometimes it may have the song's name as a title, other times something completely different. Maybe I won't even do more than a couple before I lose interest and this dies. Who knows? I'm just going to make it clear that I haven't taken song lyrics and constructed them into a story. I've used the impression the lyrics give me and molded that into some form of story. If some of these make you wtf, then that's your problem: they're just based off my own interpretation. In some cases, I might not even have listened to the song before writing. Anyway, here's my first try at this. [size=6]1. Love Me Dead.[/size] “The nut-case.” That’s what they called him. Oh, not to his face, sure, but he heard it whispered behind his back when they thought he couldn’t hear. Mostly he ignored it. He didn’t mind. Actually, he rather liked the title - it suggested there was something about him that was insane, completely and utterly out of control. Sometimes he turned and hit them anyway, just to prove it further. Of course, he wasn’t really proving it, because it was a lie. He was like a . . . what was it? A sharp knife or something. Honed to a point? Whatever. The point was, he was very good at what he did and what he did was obey orders from the top. The top of where? He didn’t know that; not even his Dad knew that and all the orders came through Pa. His old man used to say they were just two fish on the end of a line and that it didn’t really matter what they did, because in the end they didn’t really matter. Come to think of it, his Pa had stopped speaking like that. Actually he had stopped speaking like that a while ago . . . and the orders didn’t come through him any more. In fact, no orders came. If he had known who the “boss man” was he would’ve gone up and asked him what the fuck was up with that. But he didn’t know, so he didn’t go. His feet beat a rhythm on the path and the old gate whined as he pushed it open; he slammed it shut with a screech and a smash, deciding that he was annoyed with it today. An old man across the other side of the road jumped and gave him a questioning look. He sneered back as he gave the door a shove and forced it open. Blood. For a few seconds he just stood in the doorway, looking. Maybe it was because it was daylight, but blood had never seemed quite so crimson until now. It papered the hallway walls near to the door and coated the stairs like some sort of rug, straight out of a Hollywood awards ceremony. His Pa waltzed along the red carpet on his back, hung against the stairs in the crooked manner of a lopsided painting. His face was lopsided, too - carved open, in fact - and for the first time in his life he saw something on the old man’s face he’d never thought was possible: fear. Funny, how the first time can also be the last. “Jesus. Jesus.” A detached part of his mind thought that he sounded like a broken record. It seemed the only thing he was able to say - the only thing he could say, meeting a welcome mat like this. Jesus. Was there a sentence waiting there that wouldn’t quite leave his lips? It felt like there was something tugging at the back of his mind. Was he missing something, apart from a warm smile and a thump on the back? Faintly, he heard the whine of the gate again; only this time, it didn’t really seem like a whine. Almost like a cry: long, drawn out, and full of grief. Even though he heard the gate’s tears, it was a surprise when something tapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of kindness he’d only ever received from one person in his life. “Are you alright, lad?” The voice sounded as tired and worn-out as the body. It crackled and wrinkled like the old man’s skin. A dozen answers must’ve raced through his mind, and he could’ve given any of them, but it was only two that he really had trouble deciding between: ‘No.’ ‘Fuck off.’ In the end, it all came down to what the corpse in front of him wanted him to say. That sounded crazy, even in his own mind, but if anyone else had been there watching those displaced eyes, they would’ve thought the same thing. So he gave the only answer he could and was surprised to find his voice only a haunted whisper of the commands and demands he usually gave. “Best come away, son,” the old man said reassuringly, “We’ll call the police.” “Right. The police.” Like that would do anything other than waste time. He was lead away from centre-stage and the curtain fell behind him. The finale was over. Audience, applaud. Based very loosely on ‘Kill You’ by Eminem (read the lyrics). Why the hell do I have this song on my MP3 player? Anyway, interpret this as you will. But I’d like it if you told me what exactly your interpretation/impression was. Any criticism is also welcomed. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch.  Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
 |
 
|
| Dragon_Sniper | Sep 30 2008, 04:10 PM Post #2 |
mmmmmmmatt cassel
|
That was... really interesting. I liked it; the ending threw me off completely. I read about half of the lyrics before I closed the tab. Really fucked up. ._. Good stuff though, I think this is a really cool idea. I'll be reading all of these, I bet. 
|
 They like me! They really like me! (And Hakado! :D) | |
|
|
|
| Psiwri | Sep 30 2008, 05:25 PM Post #3 |
Too Many Words
|
 I'd almost try and do this myself sometime.  However I don't really get those sort of ideas from songs, for me songs just inspire situations, while images inspire scenes and characters.  I'll come back and read this later when I'm not half asleep. |
 Please support my efforts in creating writing~ | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 1 2008, 03:54 PM Post #4 |
|
Resident Brit
|
[size=6]2. Have We Met Before?[/size] “Ah, Paul. Have you met the lovely Lilly Tennessee?” The tall, blonde-haired man in question subconsciously stood a little straighter as he was introduced to yet another celebrity - although this one, he reminded himself, was not just any celebrity - and smiled warmly, revealing straight, white teeth. “I haven’t had the pleasure, though, of course, I know of Miss Tennessee.” “Oh, please. Call me Lilly.” The reply was given by one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, if not the most beautiful. Her skin was pale, almost to an unhealthy extent, and she had eyes of the brightest, purest blue Paul had ever seen. Warm brown hair floated towards her shoulders in a perfect, almost symmetrical cascade of ringlets and her lips, painted with pale pink lipstick, were full and inviting. Damn it Paul, eyes on the job. This could be really helpful, don’t blow it by flirting with the woman now . . . All the same, it was all too easy to melt when she smiled and asked, “So, handsome, do you have a name?” “Paul Damson. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he answered with a formal flourish, placing a kiss on the soft skin of Lilly’s hand. Immediately he was standing in the centre of a vast plain that stretched to the horizon on all sides. The earth was completely flat, not even the gentlest of rises breaking the monotony of the surrounding view. Dark, ominous clouds filled the sky, though the atmosphere lacked the crackling tension he felt from a lightning storm. There was not a speck of blue to be seen anywhere and everything felt cold and dark, at the same time not being either. Even the grass beneath his feet was dead; he could feel the remnants of it beneath him, somehow passing into a state of death beyond death; everything was dark but he could see quite clearly. There were no stars, he noticed. He wondered where he was. This vast plain of dead grass, broken by nothing, reminded him of a desert in its unending similarity - but even a desert had dunes and ever-shifting tides of sand to follow. Here it felt like nothing ever changed, that things remained always the same. The absolute certainty of this fact made him want to cry. Then suddenly things did change, without warning. He was sitting on a throne of clearest glass; the material smooth underneath this fingers, but somehow stealing the warmth from them. Cold flooded his whole body, but it wasn’t a worrying cold; it did not harbinger death, but all the same he felt his soul chill. His seat overlooked a landscape that was vastly different to what he had previously seen. A muddy field stretched out before him, bristling with hastily constructed machines that he could not even put a name to, much less guess their use. There was no grass, except a few brave clumps that shone like beacons against the ugly backdrop. Mostly these clustered around discarded pieces of machinery, hiding from the vague shapes that prowled this despairing land. He didn’t know what these shapes were, but even from his place at least a mile away they made him want to wretch. The strange beast-figures - he could not believe they were men - stamped the grass wherever they found it, ripping and grinding until it was swallowed by the filthy earth as though they wanted to extinguish life itself. Things abruptly transformed again and he was in a city. It was recognisable as a city - the skyscraper he stood upon even seemed vaguely familiar - but he did not know its name. He sensed, perhaps, that it did not have one, or that it had long fallen into disuse. Names belonged to another age in this place where the buildings all felt the same, regardless of size. Beneath him and stretching for miles, a network of roads, alleys and streets made a maze of bustling, cheerless life beneath him. In the centre - or what he assumed was the centre - of this busy place stood a building taller than any other, far taller than the one he had claimed as his own. It lorded over everything, omnipresent in every gloomy corner of the city. Even as he watched it seemed to grow taller whilst his own building shrank, until he was only metres above street level and it had disappeared into the clouds. He looked down, away from the foreboding presence of the skyscraper like a tower, and watched the people passing by. They were grouped together, struggling to stay on the pavement in the crush of human traffic. Despite their close proximity, they all seemed to be entirely separate from one another, going at the same marked, sombre pace without once glancing at another person. He wanted to shout to them but his throat was like dust; he couldn’t even whisper. The only thing he could do was watch their depressing, monotonous face pass by and wonder what had happened to all the joy in the world. Nobody smiled; nobody even brushed shoulders if they could help it. It was as though humanity had rejected itself. He recoiled from the edge in horror. Suddenly, the dreadful city disappeared and he was back where he started, in the unending plains. But now there wasn’t an uninterrupted view of the horizon; shapes, creatures he couldn’t even begin to describe, haunted his vision like some sort of black depression. He turned in a full circle, but they were everywhere and there was no possibility of getting away. All the while, the shapes grew larger, until he could make out the slavering jaws and feel the stench of death and decay that hung thick as a noose on the air. He closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. Paul awoke, practically sobbing, in his bed and rushed out of the room; as he slammed the door behind him, a light flicked on in the room next door, then in the hallway as his mother flicked a switch. Dressed in a pink night-gown, the woman with a hook-shaped nose sighed, but nonetheless she gathered the tiny child in her arms. “It’s alright, Paul.” She uttered soothing words in his ear. “It’s alright, it’s just a nightmare, it isn’t real.” “It felt real,” the seven-year-old boy told her, voice catching in his throat. He closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. “What, Damson, are my lessons so boring you can’t even stay awake?” The teenager awoke with a start to find Mr. Oliver standing over him, wearing his most severe frown. Still confused from his nightmare, it was a second or two before the boy realised what was going on. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered, feeling his face growing red as his classmates laughed - quietly, so as not to draw the wrath of Mr. Oliver themselves. “Not to worry,” the teacher said, smiling almost kindly. “You can stay behind for twenty minutes after school to make it up.” Paul swore under his breath as Mr. Oliver moved away, but the aging history teacher merely said, “And that’s another five, Damson!” It was too much for the rest of the class, who burst into fits of jeering laughter. Feeling angry with himself and the teacher, Paul cursed his lack of sleep the previous night. If it hadn’t have been for that, he surely wouldn’t have allowed himself to nod off. He closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. “Paul! You’re on in two minutes!” Somebody hissed. Jumping awake, the young actor quickly checked everything was in the right place and that nothing had gone wrong in his ‘short nap’. Nothing had: his make-up was still as perfect as it had been when Jenny put it on, his costume was a little ruffled but nothing that would be noticeable to make any great difference to the play. Fighting the sickening nerves in his stomach, Paul took deep breaths to calm himself down. It was his first major production with the company, or at least the first one he had had a speaking part in; he couldn’t screw this up, not now. To his indescribable relief, as quick mental run-through of his lines revealed no faults. He remembered every single word, and so he should to after nearly two months of struggling to learn them. “Paul!” The voice hissed again. “I’m coming,” he hissed back. He closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. Paul Damson raised his lips from Lilly Tennessee’s hand, still smiling pleasantly. The same could not be said for the woman standing opposite him: the smile slipped from the face immediately and she made a hasty excuse before drifting away, finding another group of party-goers to attach herself to. “What did you do?” Paul’s friend asked, slightly alarmed. The tall man watched the retreating back of Lilly Tennessee for a moment. Shrugging, he gave his answer, “I have no idea. Maybe she’s just temperamental.” “Shame. She’s a brilliant director . . .” “Hmm,” he mumbled non-committal response, “Personally, I think she’s hiding something. But . . . I can’t for the life of me think what it is.” The other man shook his head, giving a small chuckle. “You only just met the woman.” “I know, but . . .” Paul trailed off, wondering how to phrase his comment without sounding very creepy. “It almost seems like I could dream the answer, you know?” The song was ‘Have You Met Miss Jones?’ performed by Robbie Williams (read the lyrics). It was originally performed by Frank Sinatra . . . I think. This story took me a little by surprise. I don’t feel like it’s really finished, but . . . meh. I don’t really care either way. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 2 2008, 04:34 PM Post #5 |
|
Resident Brit
|
[size=6]3. My Dedication.[/size] 10th October 2009 My name is Katrina Harding. I was 18 years old last week. My ambition is to be a doctor. I’ve been in and out of hospital almost since before I can remember. It’s a part of my life now; I’ve grown used to it. I used to be frightened of the clean corridors, the busy staff that walk past without glancing at you - but mostly it was the ghostly atmosphere of the place that freaked me out. You know what I mean, don’t you? Hospitals always seem full of echoes and so silent and sombre. And it’s even more intimidating when you’re a little kid, although I’ve been told that the inner-cheerfulness of little kids usually overrides this - maybe I was a special case. In any case (ha ha!), I was scared of hospitals until age . . . 8 or 9? I got a new doctor then. Dr. Williams, her name was, though she always said “call me Andrea”. She was like . . . the perfect mother, even though she wasn’t. My mother, I mean. You probably know somebody like her. She was pretty and graceful, like a dancer. She always glided around whatever room she was in. But you know how sometimes those sorts of people can be aloof, or really big-headed? Dr. Williams wasn’t like that at all - she was the nicest person ever. She always spoke gently, which was just as well because doctors can be really scary no matter how old you are. Or, again, perhaps that’s just me. Anyway, Dr. Williams was a really nice person. She cared for all her patients, but I like to think she had a special soft-spot for me. One time, when I was in hospital for a broken leg, we got talking about books and reading. She told me she was a big reader herself, and that she’d always been disappointed that her daughter seemed more interested in boys and make-up. The next time I was in, she gave me her favourite book, her own copy of it that she’d had since she was little and adored. Black Beauty. Of course I’d heard of it, and even read it once, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was honoured to receive something she had probably been keeping for her own daughter. It made me feel loved and appreciated. The only bad thing you could say about Andrea was that she was a gossip. She loved to gossip. It seems a little contradictory when she found her own daughter’s interest in the subject too much, but she was forever asking me about boyfriends and soaps and celebs. I never really watched much television, or had any magazines, so I wasn’t exactly up-to-date with the latest news. This didn’t put her off, though. Oh no. Instead, she strove to educate me. I trusted Dr. Williams absolutely. She’s just one of those people you warm to instantly, and the feeling only grows over time. I told her all my secrets. I wish now, more than anything, that I hadn’t. Of course, being a gossip, she was a little curious as to why I was forever being admitted into hospital with broken legs, arms, ribs - a few times I even had internal bleeding, and on one occasion I came this close to puncturing a lung. There’s only so many times you can say “I’m just clumsy” before people start getting suspicious. I told her everything. I wish I hadn’t. Even if it stopped Dad, I really, really wish I hadn’t. She went round to our house whilst I was at the park. Dad had sent me to the shops to fetch tonight’s tea but I didn’t want to get home particularly fast, so a dawdled and stopped to chat to people along the way. Sometimes, I wonder: had I been that little bit faster, would it have saved her life? Or would it have just created another victim? The most agonising thing is that I can never know for sure. Dr. Williams gave me the courage to speak out. She made me feel better about myself when my self-esteem was at its lowest ebb. No matter what I did, she was always nice to me. She made me realise that I, too, am I person with feelings and a life worth doing something with. That’s why I’m going to be a doctor. I’m going to be just like her, or as close as I can get, and I’m going to do the same thing for other people. Andrea Williams the person is gone, but I’m going to make sure she’s never forgotten. And I’m going to make sure that the patients who come through the system too scared to speak out, like me, aren’t forgotten either. Katrina’s touching story follows the murder of Dr. Andrea Williams almost a year and a half ago, on April 14th 2008. After arriving home on that night, Katrina was shocked to find the body of Dr. Williams in her flat. She called the police immediately and later testified at the trial of her father, Stephen Harding, who was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Dr. Williams’ husband, Mark Williams, and their daughter Rebecca later invited Katrina to speak at the funeral, where a huge gathering of friends, former patients and colleagues assembled to say a final goodbye. Since writing this piece for us, Katrina has been accepted by Birmingham University for a place on their medical degree course and is well on the way to achieving her goal. ‘Suddenly I See’ by KT Tunstall (watch the video or read the lyrics). This is probably the most boring piece I have ever written, which is a shame because the song is really pretty cool and . . . cheerful. Why do I suddenly seem capable of only mildly depressing things? Is anyone actually reading these? Nevermind, I'll keep posting anyway. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 5 2008, 01:32 PM Post #6 |
|
Resident Brit
|
[size=6]4. Holiday Snapshots From 1940.[/size] We were being overrun. France was gone. The only bit of resistance left in the entire country belonged to the rearguard, and that was only to give the rest of us poor bastards some time. It was time we desperately needed, with Jerry hard on our tail. I don’t think many men thought we’d make it out of there alive. I heard later that the rescue operation was supposed to save perhaps 45,000 soldiers. There were over 350,000 of us. It was a miracle. There’s no other way to describe it. It had to be divine intervention. There was no way, otherwise, that Operation Dynamo could have been so successful. People say the ‘Miracle of Dunkirk’ epitomises the British spirit, our solidarity in the face of adversity. Personally, I think the fact that we were queuing on the beaches says more about us as a nation. It wasn’t all good, though. Lost a couple of Destroyers; I think most of the rearguard ended up being captured by Jerry, and we left nearly all of the equipment behind - the heavier stuff, really, and every single one of our vehicles of course. That jeep we left behind had served me and my friends during all our time on the continent - despite how short a period of time that turned out to be. Naturally, the Luftwaffe didn’t want to make things easy for us and those bloody RAF cowards didn’t help a damn thing. Mind you, couldn’t see who was who up in the sky, there were that many clouds - not the ideal conditions for an emergency evacuation. In the end they said there were just under 340,000 of us rescued in those nine days. I swear more than half of them were on fishing boats. I know one of the guys even had a lift from somebody who came from Glasgow. Scotland! Almost doesn’t seem worth the effort. Of course we had to rescue those French bastards too. Not the done thing, is it, really, leaving them behind? And they complain that we focused on getting the Brits out of there - like they would have done anything different. I swear, the next time I hear that from one of them I’m going to beat the merde out of the whiny idiot. Well, we didn’t leave him behind, did we? Operation Dynamo, also known as the ‘Miracle of Dunkirk’, was the official name for the evacuation - lasting from 26 May to 4 June 1940 - that followed the Allied defeat at the Battle of Dunkirk. Around 700 merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft and lifeboats, with civilian crews, helped to carry away the British and French soldiers. In total, 338, 226 soldiers were evacuated: 198,229 British and 139,997 French. In the original plans for the operation, it was expected that 45,000 troops would be rescued in two days, by which time it was assumed the Germans would have made further evacuation impossible. The RAF were, according to Winston Churchill, a vital part in the success of Operation Dynamo: they lost 145 planes - the Luftwaffe 132. St. George’s Cross flown from a jack staff has become known as a “Dunkirk jack” and is only flown by ships and boats that took part in the 1940 rescue operation. The exception to this rule is if an Admiral of the Fleet is on board: they’re that special, apparently. For every seven British men rescued from Dunkirk, one became a prisoner of war, a majority of whom were force-marched through Germany. These people eventually ended up in Trier or, after much travel, German POW camps. The two French divisions that remained to protect the evacuation managed to halt the German advance, but were captured. The remainder of the rearguard - largely French - surrendered on 3 June 1940. The ‘Miracle of Dunkirk’ was so celebrated by the British press that Churchill was forced to point out that “wars are not won by evacuations”. Here you were, expecting fiction, and instead you got a history lesson. Song was ‘Valkyrie Missle’ by Angels and Airwaves (read the lyrics). Information was largely from Wikipedia (Dunkirk Evacuation), where you can read what I’ve stated here in more detail if you so wish. Comments, please? Those 70+ views can’t ALL be mine. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 6 2008, 06:04 PM Post #7 |
|
Resident Brit
|
[size=6]5. Working 9 ‘Til 5[/size] “Don’t you think it’s a weird name?” I was on my way to board the ship when I just happened to overhear the phase. Stopping, I paused to listen: hurry momentarily forgotten in watching this all-too-human display of disapproval. “What do you mean?” The friend of the man who had posed the question glanced away from the ship, turning to the person beside him with a quizzical expression on his face. He didn’t notice me: people never do. “Well, it’s just strange, isn’t it?” His friend persisted, “What sort of person calls a ship Sleep?” “There have been stranger names.” “Oh yeah? Like what?” Sighing, I didn’t bother to listen to the rest of the conversation (which would have undoubtedly been filled with the pause that only comes when you’re racking your brains for some sort of answer). Instead, I simply carried on walking. The man had posed a good question. Why have such an odd name for a ship indeed? Humanity never ceased to amaze me. In all fairness, it was a nice ship. I peeked inside one of the cabins. It was almost lovingly upholstered, with sea-greens and blues. Even the beds were quite comfy and reasonably large - considering that it was a cruise ship. Of course, that was a 1st class cabin. As it turned out, I didn’t have time to look in the others. It had seemed to take hours to squeeze every living soul (or at leas the ones with tickets) onto the ship, but now that everybody was on it seemed only seconds and we were leaving port. Honestly: rush, rush, rush, all the time. Nobody ever paused to think nowadays. A few people - probably relatives of those one board - stood waving from the shore, which was already quickly receding from view. Now on the open deck, I watched with some measure of disappointment as the people became smaller and smaller, becoming little more than dots, and then nothing at all. I had been expecting something of a larger send-off. The Titanic had had a huge crowd waving from the shore. Back then, of course, the Titanic was a masterpiece of design: nobody had seen anything quite like it before (and then, in true irony, it sank). The same couldn’t be said for the Sleep which, although large, wasn’t nearly such a feat of engineering. Well, obviously, it would very well have been to a Victorian, but modern people are rarely awed by machines. There was Concorde - but then some idiot had the clever idea of getting rid of that. A fine example of evolution slowly working it’s way backwards. Several hours into the trip, I was still on deck - one of the few, now that there was nothing to view but sea and the weather was becoming cold - and whistling a low tune to myself. I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going and walked straight into somebody. “Oops - sorry,” I said, automatically. The man I had bumped into looked a little perplexed and moved slowly towards the door leading to the lower decks of the ship, glancing around him suspiciously as though somebody else might, at any time, catch him unawares. Poor man. Shrugging the incident off, I spent the next hour or two touring the ship, stopping to view a particularly interesting piece of machinery or some industrious worker. Once, I heard a couple arguing in their cabin, a heated discussion which sounded very interesting, but I kept my moral high ground and moved quickly on. You don’t want to remember the worst aspects of people, after all. It was 1:00am before anything happened. A little later than I had expected, but on reflection it made a great deal of sense: after all, by that time most passengers were asleep, or at least in their cabins, and a majority of the crew would have retired for the night as well. There was basically a skeleton crew left to run the ship, some sleepless passengers prowling the corridors in a way that was rather menacing (though unintentionally) and - of course - me. There was an ear-splitting bang and a violent lurch as the ship swung to the side before righting itself again. Caught off guard by the sheer ferocity, I was thrown against the wall before I hit the floor with a painful thud. But I ignored the dull ache in my shoulder. After all, things had started properly now. Soon, it would be time for me to get started. Until then, I just had to try and avoid people and to keep my feet. This was a lot easier than expected until a second explosion rocked the ship. By this time, many people had emerged from their cabins in various dress - some in pyjamas, some in everyday clothes, some it whatever had come to hand, leading to a few rather comical fashion statements. A lot of people remained calm - a fact that is worth remembering - but a heck of a lot more were panicking wildly and really, you couldn’t blame them. Everybody wanted to know what was going on, but the crew seemed to have disappeared when the information was most needed and nobody could give a satisfactory answer. Everybody agreed, though, that whatever it was seemed to be a very, very serious problem: probably the understatement of the century. I drifted listlessly between decks, the minutes now seeming to stretch into hours. By the time I had reached the top deck yet again - to be greeted by a strong wind and a chill in the air - the Sleep had already started to sink, rocked by yet another explosion. It beggared belief, really. Three on one ship like this? Apart from the obvious costs of it, how on earth did they get them on board? Human ingenuity put to its worst use. Things started to happen very quickly then. People who had had a similar idea to me started to appear on the deck now, a few jumping into the cold sea like a heated pool, ignoring the six crew-members struggling valiantly to get lifeboats into the water. I felt sorry for them and a part of me was compelled to stay and watch, but a greater part of me was compelled to get to work. The night ahead was going to be long enough. Mimicking the actions of the passengers, but for entirely different reasons, I dived into the water. The coldness of it was shocking: how could anybody survive in this? It was plain that many couldn’t. I found my first person only a few minutes after submerging. Ironically - if you want to call it irony - he was the man that I had bumped into earlier. Like I said then: poor guy. There were many people to be found like him over the next few hours. One woman must’ve have taken some very strong sleeping pills before going to bed, because I found her wrapped in sheets, a peaceful expression on her face. It really did look like she could have merely been sleeping. The most heart-wrenching moment was the child - perhaps 8 or 9, with his mother clinging to the same buoyancy aid. She must’ve spent nearly all of her energy helping him. I helped her out of her body as gently as I could, but it still made me want to cry when her soul gave a final, useless, jerk in the direction of her son. Quickly, I moved on, expending more energy to move against the power of her want to be back at his side, where she belonged. But she couldn’t go back. Once you leave, that’s impossible. Only a few minutes later I discovered somebody in a similar position. He was wearing the uniform of one of the crew, but he was very young, barely out of his teens. Despite his grey face, when I reached out, he shied away, clinging as desperately onto life as he did to his piece of driftwood. I smiled, the sort of smile you use when you receive one piece of good news amongst all the bad, or when somebody makes a joke at a funeral. “Good luck.” I don’t think he heard me. Plenty of other people heard me. Some practically flung themselves into my arms; others went a little more hesitantly, indecision still written across their freezing, motionless features. I lost track of the faces after a while. Despite my many years working in this lonely job, I still don’t understand humans - or at least, very rarely. What would possess people to do this? Obviously, it’s because they didn’t have my job. They didn’t have to see the people, living and dead. I think, one day, I’ll retire, and hand this job over to them. I’d like to see how they handle that one. This piece was, if you didn’t guess, supposed to be narrated by Death - heavily inspired by ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusak, so much so that I think his portrayal of Death’s character found it’s way into my writing. The song was ‘Letting The Cables Sleep’ by Bush (read the lyrics). By the way, whilst I’m mentioning The Book Thief, I urge you to read it. I can honestly say that it’s my favourite book ever, and when you’ve read as many books as I have that actually means something. ;-; I wish I didn't feel like I was talking to myself. People must LOOK at this. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| Dragon_Sniper | Oct 6 2008, 06:18 PM Post #8 |
|
mmmmmmmatt cassel
|
I like these a lot. They all seem very well written to me. Sexcellent work, darling. Keep it up. <3 |
|
They like me! They really like me! (And Hakado! :D) | |
|
|
|
| +Reaver | Oct 12 2008, 05:31 PM Post #9 |
Troll
|
[size=12]1r. New Year's Eve[/size] Main Street is beautiful during this time of the year. The snow falls lightly, the red and green lights from Christmas cast a lovely glow on the white ground, lovers talk at dimly lit tables despite the bitter cold, and all the brick buildings look warm and inviting right now. New Year's Eve on Main Street seems much more like heaven rather than Centerville, it almost makes me wish I were back in town and enjoying the playful nips of the brisk wind while strolling casually through my old home town. Fortunately, however, I am somewhere better right now. I am in the back of a truck. I can see the snow-covered buildings through the small barred window on the back of the truck; the yellow lights from the icy windowpanes mix with the green and red baubles hanging from the streetlights. No other light exists, only the darkness inside of the truck hiding the black abyss below. I am alone. I pull myself together for warmth on the frigid steel bench, blowing air into my scarf and jacket in hopes my clothing retains the heat from my breath. The sensation is heavenly, the plunge into the heaven below. A bump hits my truck; I fall off of my bench and remain curled on the filthy floor of the truck. I have no reason to stand and return to the bench, still curled up for warmth with my bruised knees tucked into my chest. However, I slide towards the wall separating myself from the driver's, the angels, and lie against the wall. The front of the truck is heated. The heat flows from their space into the wall and now runs into me. Bliss. The truck stops. Am I there? No. The engine grows to indicate she's running harder, the truck lurches forward in response and the two continue to tango. Now the green and red lights disappear from main street and only the moon shines in the distance, alone and divided by the bars. The man looks back on me, smiling. Does he smile for my ascension into heaven? Is his grin one of congratulations, impressed by my personal nirvana? Nevertheless, I am euphoric. Another bump hits the truck and I bounce from the floor, only to land once again with a heavy thud. Time rides alongside the truck and I forget how long I have been traveling in the back of the truck. I reach into my pocket and pull out and old photograph, a photo of my fair sister. Her pale and beautiful complexion is slightly yellowed by the aging of her picture, but her eyes and still sincere and ever so lovely. I decide I will miss her in heaven; maybe she will decide to join me in heaven, that would be nice. I consciously slip the photograph back in my pocket. I unconsciously slip my sister our of my mind. Suddenly I slide back towards the doors at the truck's rear, slamming against the frigid metal forcefully. I suppose the earth has slanted upwards and the truck decided to join it. Although the warmth is gone and I can no longer see the moon, I contine to grow more and more excited. I look into the darkness of the cell and miss the warmth of the far wall, now pressed against the cold door. But the door doesn't last long, as the earth moves to the right and I find myself thrust under the bench on the left side of the truck. This wall is cold as well, but now I can catch a small glimpse of the moon and stars. I think I like being under the bench best. I lay curled up again, without anyone but myself, and bask in my delightful happiness. I could not tell how just how long I sat under the bench, but I can describe to you the end of my journey. The earth stopped for the truck, her enging purring in the night, her doors slamming to shake the tranquil night, and the footsteps coming forward to release me from my cell. With a quick jingle, the sound of small gears turning, the opening of a lock, and soon the squeal of older hinges, the door opens and the angels greet me at the back. "Freak," one says, "huddled under the bench like a lunatic." "Nothing new for us." The other adds. I love the angels, and they love me. They grab me and walk me through the gates, a man checks me off his list and they walk me inside of the stone building before me. As if they know, the gothic arches and spires tower high into the sky, higher than the surrounding hills. They are lovely and inviting. The inside has white walls and a tile floor, she speaks to me with echoing footsteps and the beeping of massive machines. I feel wonderful, I feel at home. They walk me down the halls and each hall bleeds together with the last one, everything looks the same in heaven and I wouldn't change a thing about it. Now the men hold me in front of a door with a small window. They remove my brown, sooty jacket and hand me a pristine white one. I thank them, for this jacket holds my arms close to my body and keeps me warm without my consent. Now the door opens and they shove me in -- although they should both know I'd gleefully run in without their goading -- and fall to the soft padded floor of the room, pushing myself against the heated wall as well. They shut the door and although some light comes in from the hallway, the single bulb at the top of the room gives me all the light I could ever need. My splendid isolation in my lovely little home: Welcome to my heaven. The Well and the Lighthouse - Arcade Fire |
Favorite Staffer Summer 2008 -- Send me a Personal Message | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 13 2008, 01:40 PM Post #10 |
|
Resident Brit
|
That was brilliant, Reav. Very creepy.The only problem that really jumped out at me was that you said 'truck' far too often; use vehicle occasionally or something. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| +Reaver | Oct 13 2008, 03:58 PM Post #11 |
|
Troll
|
[size=12]2r. The Dry Kansas Plains on a Cloudy Day[/size] My Samantha and I had a brief conversation before she walked into the kitchen. From there, I could hear the screen door lightly shut and then the clacking of her heels on the wooden deck. Of course, everything went silent for a minute and then the sound of her Ford's engine filled the air. She drove off, left me, but I was alright. I tilted my head down towards my lap, my guitar. Maybe it was circumstance, but I felt like I wasn't seeing as clearly as I normally was and I felt like I wasn't playing guitar nearly as well as usual. I struggled, I really did, to play the ditties that won her over but my fingers clumsily refused. In the end I gave up and left my guitar, I went back to my ice house and brought out a bucket of ice for my whiskey. The sky opened a little bit, but it was only water and that's alright. I had a glass of liquor and had my old book of photographs open. That's when George, George from the Gas Station, walked up to my door and lightly tapped the door. I finished pouring myself a second glass of Danny's Whiskey - Danny always made the best whiskey - before I opened the door. "It's awful out, the rain's coming down hard." George mumbled, happy to be in my home. "How are you Bruce?" "I'm okay." I replied, taking a quick swig. "Where's that car of yours?" "The Ford?" "That's the one." And this is what I told him: "Samantha told me she was leaving, she raised her voice and told me I didn't love her enough. You'd think a house and a husband is enough for any woman, wouldn't you? She then stormed into the kitchen and that's I saw of her. She closed the door a little harder than usual, stomped a little bit louder on the porch, then started the engine and drove my Ford away." "Bruce..." he said. I wasn't finished. I took advantage of his interruption and raised the glass to my lips again. "Then I went back to playing my guitar. I suppose I was sad, a few tears coming up into my eyes, and maybe that's why I couldn't get any of the love songs right. I got mad, enraged, and put the guitar on the floor. Then I went to get some ice just as the storm started; the rain got me wet but not wet enough for me to change my jacket. Before you showed up, I was just looking at my photographs and drinking whiskey all by my lonesome." "I'm sorry." I poured him a glass of whiskey and we made idle chit chat for a bit. I, naturally, finished my glass and poured another. It was strong, real potent stuff, but I drank as if it was the cheapest stuff in Kansas. I thought I could just barely hear the trainwhistle in the background. I suddenly stopped listening to that before someone else came to my door. "I'll get it; take it easy Bruce." George insisted. He stood up from my table, stretched a little bit, then went to the door. I didn't catch who it was fully, but I knew it was a woman. I was only able to overhear George warning her that Samantha left me, Samantha drove away in my car and I wasn't taking it too well. They walked back into the kitchen, George and his wife Molly. "Oh Bruce!" She said, soothing my soul for a little bit. I took another sip from my drink. "That's awful, what happened?" And this is what I told her: "Samantha came in screaming at me. She knocked over a lamp, shattering the porcelain on my floor, and told me I had made her miserable and sick out in the West. She hated it here and now she hated me. She, furiously, stormed out of the lounge and into the kitchen. Almost immediately after, I heard the door slam like I had never heard it before, loud enough to rouse the dead and hard enough to shake the house. The stacatto of her heels on my wooden deck made me shiver with each and every footstep. Then silence, a reprieve, until the engire fired up with bangs and booms in one hell of a racket. She drove away, accelerated pretty damn fast away from me." "Oh..." She said, tears in her eyes. "I was weeping, absolutely weeping. Weeping so bad I couldn't see my guitar strings too well. I fumbled around too much trying to play the songs I had written for her back in high school, got so damn mad I smashed my guitar on the floor. Made another racket, but not as bad as the car. Then I went back towards my icehouse, decided a glass of whiskey would make me feel better. Outside the rain poured so hard I had to take off my shirt and change it, you'd think it's the second flood. Then... then... then..." I began to bawl again, crying profusely, and buried my face into my old photo album on the page with our wedding picture. Another Round - Foo Fighters |
Favorite Staffer Summer 2008 -- Send me a Personal Message | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 13 2008, 04:31 PM Post #12 |
|
Resident Brit
|
Hmm. I'm not sure what to make of that one . . . it seems very poetic. I think the guy's words could be a song themselves. Was that the intention? [size=6]6h. A World Apart.[/size] The rain poured down. It was almost like walking through a waterfall; it soaked me to the skin in seconds. Icy-cold, I continued walking. Feeling cold didn’t bother me. It made things easier. My feet barely made a ripple in the river-deep puddles, although I avoided them where I could. Most little children adore puddles; I don’t. Maybe I did once, but not any more. It’s like looking down into a bottomless pool - or what I imagine aidless flight to be like. Nothing but sky above you for miles and miles; even the clouds reject you. The thought terrifies me. Now, though, I would be hard-pressed to find my way through the clouds. Black and grey monsters coil themselves around the sun; it’s far darker than it normally is at this time of year. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. Pale as the whitest cloud, but about my height. The only white cloud I’ve seen in days. Pausing and turning, although I know I shouldn’t, I’m greeted with a pale, smirking face. I think her name is Melissa. I’m not sure, though. “Hello,” she says to me. I back away. I was never a believer in ghosts until I saw one. Pale figures drifting across the landscape, always present but never a part of their surroundings. I see people walk hurriedly past, not even looking at the ghosts, but spurred on nonetheless by their aura of discontent. That’s the only way to describe it. I’m sure that the ghosts don’t mean you harm, but they pass it along anyway. Ever since I’ve been able to see ghosts, they seem to follow me - I can’t get rid of them, and when I can, I swear something of them must hang about me. I don’t speak to Melissa. I haven’t spoken to any of them. If I speak to them, then I’ll been drawn forever into a crazy world in which I don’t belong. They have no right to be doing this to me! I’m not one of them - why are they trying to make me one? I’m already me! My feet barely make a sound as I dash away, my movement so light and instinctive I don’t know where I’m going and I doubt anybody else does either, for they would never hear me coming. I barely miss running into old Granny Hattie from across the road, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Poor Granny. She’s not my Granny, or anybody’s so far as I can tell, but that’s whatever everyone calls her and what everyone always has. I think she’s losing it a little. She never notices me nowadays; it’s like I’m not there. She ignores other people too, I’ve noticed. She’s been in and out of hospital a lot recently; maybe that’s the reason why. Goodness knows how old she is - maybe her time has finally come. Or maybe it’s a little late. I hope Granny Hattie doesn’t turn into a ghost. I would hate to see her, the nice old woman I knew throughout my life, as one of them. Her soul is nice, I’m sure of it, but the ghosts are cloaked in such badness I doubt she could strive against it. Briefly, as I am running, I consider the past few days. They have been strange. The children seem to have left. I haven’t seen Georgina, my best friend, in a while. She might be on holiday, but she would surely have said something. Suddenly I am forced to stop running. I don’t want to - I don’t feel the slightest bit out of breath - but I’ve reached the Wall and I know that I must turn back now. You can’t go past the Wall. It’s so horrible and dark; yet sometimes I see people through it. I can’t imagine how they live. It’s so dark there. For a moment I stand on the edge, peering into the darkness in the hope of glimpsing somebody. By chance, I do. I decide immediately that it must be Georgina’s mother. Maybe it’s just that the Wall prevents me from seeing everything properly, but she looks at least 10 years younger than the Georgina’s Mum I knew ever did. Why is Georgina’s mother on the other side of the Wall? Did they move? Why did they move past the Wall - and why didn’t Georgina tell me? For a moment I feel hurt, watching through the window with a frown filling my features. A little girl appears. Georgina’s mother smiles as she greets her; a brightness showing through the dark. For a second - like putting the wind-screen wipers on in a car, only to have the rain blur the world away again - I can see clearly. The little girl looks to be perhaps 5 years old - she looks a lot like Georgina, but subtly different, too. Her eyes are the wrong shade of blue. I am confused. Who is this girl? Georgina’s cousin, perhaps? She hasn’t mentioned her before. Besides, Georgina’s mother is staring at the child with the look of adoration that only passes between mother and offspring. Am I looking into the past, seeing things as they once were? Is this the Georgina that I couldn’t know? Yearning for some sort of answer, I find my hand pressing against the glassy texture of the Wall as though to break through it. Georgina’s mother smiles at her not-daughter. “Come to mummy, Lisa,” I hear, as though muffled by many blankets. For a moment I feel happy. That’s my name: Lisa. Lisa Barker. But then I wonder - how can this girl have my name? Who is she? The Other-Lisa looks up suddenly, staring directly into my eyes with such intensity that I feel I might faint. She seems so full of life, even at a glance. Now Other-Lisa’s mother seems worried. The smile falls from her face. “What is it?” Choosing not to answer immediately, the girl continues to stare at me. Reluctant to break the strange connection, I leave my hand pressed against the Wall. Maybe she is waiting for me to saying something. Can she hear me? I heard Georgina’s mother. Maybe she could. “Hello?” I try tentatively. There doesn’t seem any other word to choose. I feel like I’m speaking to a stranger on the phone. Both Other-Lisa and her mother react instantly, but the reactions are very different. The mother snaps her head in my direction, mouth agape as though I am some monster, whilst her daughter smiles and waves at me with an angelic grin. “. . . Lisa?” The hoarse whisper barely reaches my ears, but it gets there and the voice is familiar. It’s Georgina’s voice, not her mother’s. Georgina has the strange mix of accents from their move to the house next-door to mine; her mother never lost that North-London accent I would so ridicule. More importantly, I know that this word was meant for me. Not Other-Lisa. Me. “Lisa? Can you hear me?” Georgina’s eyes are scanning me now, me and the Wall, and I realise she can’t see me after all. But she can hear me and that’s all I need. “I can hear you,” I whisper. Her daughter is still smiling at me cheekily, as though expecting a sweet from a favourite relative. I feel like pushing through the Wall to give her a hug, but I can’t. Nobody can get through the Wall. “But you’re . . .” Georgina trails off. “Are you a ghost?” “No! I’m not one of them!” I insist, disgusted. “Then what?” She seems almost afraid to hear the answer. Other-Lisa answers. She is still smiling, looking up at me with something that I now recognise as adoration. I smile back. The five-year-old answers like it is the most natural and obvious thing in the world: “She’s my angel.” Nope. Don’t know where this one came from. I think I quite like it though . . . it kinda half-changed as I was writing it, so it may seem a bit weird, but hopefully it will make sense enough for you to enjoy it. Song was ‘To Them These Streets Belong’ by Rise Against (read the lyrics). If I’m honest, Reav provided inspiration for this too. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| +Reaver | Oct 13 2008, 04:39 PM Post #13 |
|
Troll
|
Very well done. Crazy narrators ftw. |
Favorite Staffer Summer 2008 -- Send me a Personal Message | |
|
|
|
| Dragon_Sniper | Oct 15 2008, 06:20 AM Post #14 |
|
mmmmmmmatt cassel
|
Good job, both of you. I love reading these. :D Also, Holly, I read The Book Thief this weekend. It was excellent. Any other book suggestions you might have? |
|
They like me! They really like me! (And Hakado! :D) | |
|
|
|
| +Hollie | Oct 15 2008, 04:40 PM Post #15 |
|
Resident Brit
|
See if you can find 'Private Peaceful' by Michael Morpurgo, 'The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas' by John Boyne or . . . bugger, I forgot. Er, 'Journey To The River Sea' by Eva Ibbotson is excellent, even though it's not related to those two other books at all. |
Known as Haar on Brand of Flame. Bitch. Formerly Margaret Thatcher, Aleksandr | |
|
|
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| Go to Next Page | |
| « Previous Topic · Fan Fiction · Next Topic » |
- Pages:
- 1
- 2
7:48 PM Nov 26
