Story Story Time

[Heartsteal]

So, as some members may know by now, I write short stories from time to time in the shoutbox, though they're often not much more than a fight scene. As a little hobby of mine, it seems like they're fairly appreciated, so I thought to start this thread.


I'm going to be posting the short stories I place in the shoutbox here, and I'd love to see other members take a stab at it, or just let me know what they think.


I hope that everyone will come to appreciate this thread, and come to share a little slice of their own work.


So, for the first story! (kinda)


There was blood on the dance floor, the thrum of the crowd made the air vibrate with tension as the music played. Lit by both the lights beneath it, and above it, the crimson fluid slipped up both the crowd, and the two their attention was so completely focused on.


No one really knew how it'd begun, nor did they particularly care, cheering for one or the other, breaking into their own little tussels here and there. Fighting for the best view, the crowd was as much a danger as the opponent as the formally dressed young man dodged back from yet another sweep of the knife. He looked terribly out of place in the venue, yet strangely at home, his feet practically gliding across the floor in his expensive leather shoes. A small cut had been made along his chin when the thug picked his fight, snapping over something infinitesmal, completely irrelevant to him. Attempting for a gash across the throat, it was as much his fumble as the visitor's reflexes that had only landed the blow mere inches away from a kill. Lunging in, the jewelry wearing street punk tried to stab with his hunting knife, no doubt bought at walmart. Sliding off to the side, the formal man almost made his foolish opponent stab a bystander, catching the knife-wielding wrist in mid lunge and redirecting it upward. Reaching up with his free hand, he grabbed the offending arm with both hands, and twisted himself to face the opposite direction. Hauling the arm down behind it's owner, the gentleman kicked backwards, taking out his opponent's footing as he drove the knife through a glass-panelled floor tile. Following his opponent to the floor, dropping to a knee on his ribs, the suited man pulled back on the arm he'd ust trapped, one under the elbow, and another holding the wrist, pulling the both of them to their feet, he hefted the punk over his shoulder, and flipped him, keeping the upward momentum as he tossed the fool right off the dancefloor.


The crowd was dumbfounded, they'd expected things to go in a very different direction, their jaws slack for a moment, it seemed like even the music stopped. There was an uproar, three more patrons stepped from the crowd, brandishing broken bottles; with blood on their minds, violence was an easy answer. The man in the suit pretended to brush some dust from his shoulder, as if they were little bother to him.


The man was a bodyguard, and his job was merely to dispose of any potential threat, as well as distract attention from his client. With the soon to be riot breaking out, he figured that was handled well enough. Rushing in his direction at roughly the same time, the bodyguard would have little time to react. Moving forward to meet them head-on, he assumed the best chance would be to pass, and return, taking down two opponents separately before he dealt with the third. The assailants hadn't expected the response they got, and hesitated. The first went down from one punch in the nose, and another in the teeth, mere instants behind it. Regaining their bearings, the remaining two readied themselves, moving closer together. That was just terrific... The taller of the two lashed out first, slashing wildly with the bottle at his opponent's face. Ducking beneath it, the suited man kicked outward while he stepped forward, his heel colliding with the locked knee of the untrained party-goer. Following through from the kick, he followed up with a right-handed punch to the diaphragm, blasting the wind from the man's lungs before he could even scream in pain at the bone-crunching agony of his leg. The second man had tried to stab the formally dressed newcomer, but the lunge had met where he'd been but a moment before, mid stride to his punch. Catching the other drunkard's wrist at full extension, he drove a fist into the back of his elbow, snapping it backwards with a sickening crunch. Without even batting an eye, he kicked savagely into the back of his knee, and finished with a full hammerfist to the collarbone, dislocating the man's arm at the shoulder with a wet sound that was barely audible over the rest of the club.


Straightening back up, the bodyguard brushed himself down again, as if to make a point; then looked at the gathered crowd, who were still staring, mouths wide from the first display. Waiting a moment to see if he'd get any more challengers, the suited man made his way back to the barstool, and sat as if nothing had happened. The bartender recoiled in terror, too afraid to serve the man that had just taken down four others in a standup fight without taking a hit. Putting a hand to his jaw and pulling it away red, gleaming under the strobe lights, the bodyguard chuckled a little, inaudible over the music and crowd's murmurs. Rapping his knuckles on the counter twice, he ordered a drink, a grin on his face at the scene he'd made.


What a perfect job...


And now the second.


In the modern age, aggression amongst the youth has been a drastic change. Bullying has changed, it was more like a war for information, what used to be a beating once every month or so, has become ceaseless psychological attacks, invading one's privacy. With communications technology at an all-time high, it has become incredibly easy to find and communicate with people. An entire subculture of 'bullies' has formed across the internet; it's become popular to act asinine. High school is nothing like adults think it to be, the popular kids, wearing their brand-name semi-formal clothes, are often the offenders. The things that make educators' alarms go off, are the signs of a victim, but they are misinterpreted. Wearing dark clothes, and often displeased expressions, they are labelled as the aggressor, and the real problem goes unsolved. There is no such thing as a bystander anymore; they choose sides. Almost never is that side the victim's. With hundreds of people against a few, and with the easy access to their personal information, there is no respite. To the offenders, this communication is no big deal, just one little message a week or two, but they don't take into account the quantity that that entails. When a single person receives hundreds of messages, each from different people, pointing out their flaws, when they can find websites dedicated to picking them to pieces, life can become quite bleak. During all this, the victim comes to accept it, and eventually believe what they hear; living their life on a cycle, the same routine until they snap. Some people break violently, others quietly, school shootings and suicides; every school gets one. Virtually every year, a school will lose a student to either crime or suicide; a student that anyone could ask about and get the same answers... "such a quiet kid..."


The moon was out, beautiful and full. Prom night, all the other grads were out partying, but not CJ. Clifford had never been in very good shape, and despite his intelligence, he didn't get very good grades. For years, since he'd come to this school he'd been mocked, ridiculed for every little thing. He'd had his social networking accounts reset several times, so full of hate messages he couldn't bring himself to sign in. With a small group of friends that took advantage of his kindness, he sat alone; at lunch, in class, and now. When he'd arrived to the graduation dance, the student council president had been at the door, allowing the students in; she was a pretty girl, Sherly, CJ had always liked her. The blonde was the stereotyped popular girl, a lot of friends, good grades, multi-talented, and even finding the time for extra-curricular activities. As soon as he'd stepped inside, Clifford was pushed back out by a couple guys from the rugby team. "You're not welcome here, go home fatty!" one of them had shouted, spitting on his suit, the one he'd just spent several hundred dollars to have tailored to his husky frame. No one did anything about it, they either went about their business, or took the time to stop and laugh, one stole his glasses and tossed them as hard as he could out to the middle of the parking lot.


So here he sat, on the edge of the school roof, gazing at the cold beauty of the full moon, writing a note for his family, apologizing, for everything, for being a loser, for being such a coward, for killing himself... Tears stained the slip of paper as the new grad tucked it into his shoe, and letting himself fall headfirst to the ground, as unforgiving as his peers had been.

 

[Heartsteal]

An unfinished little robot related story.


"Betty!" the mechanical click of the door's lock was his only response. Jonah slipped into his vehicle, and tossed his briefcase into the back seat. Checking himself over, he was satisfied that he'd forgotten nothing. "Start," he ordered, activating the company car by voice command. The light buzz of the engine, and the pleasant musical tone of the computer console starting made Jonah smile, he was quite pleased with his job, working in the newest robotics research labs in the country. For safety reasons, the lab was out in the middle of nowhere, about an hour's commute from his home, though he really didn't mind the drive.


"Hello Jonah. Will we be commuting to UltraFlux Laboratories again this morning?" asked the pleasant female voice of the car's computer, already calculating their route as she pulled out of the garage. "Where else?" the scientist joked, tapping the 'affirmative' button on the touch screen to be sure. "Of course sir. Was their anything you would like for the drive, or shall we commence?" she asked, a series of operations flashing across the touch screen. Jonah was one of the lead programmers for the recent machines from UltraFlux, and had personalized Betty immensely. The machine could express emotion, and often understood his attempts at humour, even laughing for him. Still though she didn't understand abbreviation, or senses beyond sound, and elementary sight. The self-driving car operated on a series of sonar, laser-scan, and GPS to navigate busy city streets filled with the manual automobiles of yesteryear. It was uncommon to see someone with an automatic vehicle for reasons beyond budget, although Jonah had never understood them.


"I would like to read today's paper," he replied after a moment's thought. A square of the windshield blacked out for a moment as the paper downloaded. "One moment please," Betty explained as she searched through the internet for the highest quality document of today's news for the area.


October twentieth, two thousand twenty four. Time certainly flew; it was almost Halloween, but it felt like Easter had been mere weeks ago. More reports of mechanical malfunctions with the JTXC-7 of course; the personal assistant robot had been glitchy all the way through production, the programming was shotty at best, and the quality of hardware was no better. There was a reason that some machines were cheaper than others, and it seemed offensive that people had the audacity to complain. There was a centuries old saying, "beggers can't be choosers"; if someone were to buy a cheap product, they can't expect top-notch quality from it. A few minutes flipping pages via touch, he was done.


"Thank you Betty, now can you tint the windows ninety-three percent and play some soothing music for me? I've had a rough night, and some rest would help me greatly," the programmer ordered, using his manners with the bot. Of course the nuances of his programming had been complicated enough that she could understand compliments enough to give and receive them. The amount of code tagged onto her system was astronomical, the data of already thirty terabytes was more than tripled with his work, replacing her original hard-drive early on.


"I will wake you on arrival," the car replied, complying. The touch screen carried a three dimensional human character meant to represent her, but it was quite stiff of expression still; he would need to find a way to make her feel emotion more believably. Lying back and shutting his eyes, Jonah caught some much needed shut-eye before he got to work, allowing his business suit to wrinkle a bit while he napped.


Light suddenly streamed in through the windows as the car rolled to a stop in it's parking place. "We have arrived Jonah, I will be here when you are done for the day. Good luck," the last bit seemed to leave Betty's mouth sideways, still awkward for her. The concept of luck was impossible to a machine that understood everything based on definite values, zeroes and ones. "I might be late tonight, they want me to finish off a program for the latest line of synths," the man in question replied, snatching up his case and stepping out of the car. Not waiting for a response, Jonah shut the door and went on to the building.

 

[Evangeline]

(Random Brainstorm ^^")


Kit was never one to speak of his past. He'd always find it rather ironic to have to live like the person he had always despite up to the moment of her death. He'd always found it funny how alike they'd turn out to be through the years. Becoming like the monster he had never thought he'd become was the last of his priorities, least of all, like his sister. One that drains life from the very lips that he'd kiss. One whose touch forces the victim to desire the fatal touch only he of his kind can provide. That that always brought disgust rising from the pit of his stomach whenever the thought would cross his mind.


His boots both clinked with the various buckles that fasten it to his foot and thumped with each step into the wet streets of Boston. The rain had recently brought about a slight chill. Which of course was nothing he was bothered about, seeing as he felt none of what a human of the norm would feel at this type of night. Instead of the cold, he felt the hunger. Instead of the humid air, he felt the soft nudges, urging him to burst into the homes of which he was not permitted to enter and feed on the humans which lay sleeping on their beds.


But not yet... Mistress must hunt first.


Whispers from the back of his mind brushed away his own desires, shoving back his needs. His instincts, as they all loved to call it, were not even his. A beast which hides within the every changing body of a man, hiding behind the mask which drew people in like fish to a bait. Pushed back only to allow a queen he can never accept as his superior to feed before he does... Mistress always did bring out his snarly side.


But the night was unusually quite for a Friday, a fact that roused his suspicions. Of course, a number of reasons had already came to mind, one of which was because Mistress decided to unleash her Hounds of Hell (as he described her Familiars) onto this side of town to drag them into her cave lair, so she can devour their brains like the monstrous alien she was.


Needless to say, Kit was often punished for his crude humor.


Though, as he lifted his nose into the air, there was no Incubus scent that lingered within the area. Just the exhaust of a nearby car, and the enticing aroma of potential prey. Which bothered him to say the least, seeing as despite the recent rain, people would've still have been up and about, running or walking to whatever business they had to attend to.

 

[Heartsteal]

In hindsight, I'm rather dissatisfied with this story, but here it is anyways.


The band played long and loud, jovial smiles on all their faces this night. The night of the full moon, and a band of weary travellers had taken up residence at the local inn for a night, joining the simple folk of the village in song and dance. In this town the full moon was a sign of great luck, and no matter how much the travellers protested, the farmers and hunters insisted that it was fate that brought them that night. Drinks were frothy and cheeks rosy, smiles playing across faces like feet across floorboards when one of the travellers looked to his companions and spoke:


"Something seems... wrong about this place. No village should be so jovial about so little."


The one that spoke had not even touched his flagon in the hours since their arrival, though he had retrieved a pipe from his pack, and smoked for festivity's sake. The group were more than travellers, in fact they were couriers to a certain guild in the capital, on their way to deliver a message to their sister guild many miles away.


"Quit your grumbling you old prune!" a mountain of a man replied more loudly than he intended. The heavily muscled mass that was Fyr, born of the great barbarian tribes to the north, had partaken in far more drink than could have been accounted for. With his armour stripped away, one had to admit that he was, if anything, more intimidating. Of course the man he referred to, Leif, was much more on in his years, his long braided beard long since turned white, and the hair atop his head fallen away.


A twitch at the eyebrow was Leif's only response, his eyes flaring with pent up magical energy, the subtlest threat he could give that further insults would be unwise.


Before the barbarian could piece together a response, their other party member, the lithe Myrrha strode back to their table with their room keys.


"Three rooms Fyr, no funny ideas," she stated, aware of what the man may say had she brought one or even two sets. Taking her seat, the elf set her pack on the floor, glad to be rid of it's weight at long last.


With the group gathered again, and the villagers making their way home, some still even upright, Leif produced their map so that the two sober ones could assure they hadn't strayed from the planned route. Or one sober person the mage thought to himself at the smell of their tracker's breath, and redness in her face.


With a sigh the elder fellow folded the map and put it away, shooing the others off to their respective rooms whilst he went about checking the map himself.


A couple hours later, with Fyr's snoring practically sputtering out his candles, Leif pored over the map, double and triple-checking that the trio had taken no wrong turn. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn't seem to find the little village on the map. Rubbing at his eyes with knotty old knuckles, Leif heard the floorboards creaking through the building, and the wind outside; he'd been up and about for so long it was hard to stay awake.


The inn was closed for the night, the floorboards shouldn't be creaking. Several sets of feet crept up the stairs, as if tip-toeing to the lodgings that housed only the travellers.


In a flash the old man was on his feet again, old joints creaking in protest while he hurriedly pulled his cloak about him, and grabbed for his spell tome.


"Aerindyr!" he bellowed, holding an open palm toward his door before it flew off it's hinges with a snap, crunching into the far wall with a terrible racket.


The sound roused the other two, and alerted the intruders to his presence. In a hurry, several of the villagers from before, ones that had drunk little or no liquor, rushed up the stairs, poorly maintained weapons and farming implements in hand.


"It's a mage, kill him first!" the one in lead called, running headlong into the first thrown spell.


"Xanatos!" Leif shouted once more, pointing in their direction, a beam of light coming forth before solidifying, searing a hole fully through three of the men.


It was at that moment Fyr's door flew open, and the barbarian himself strode out wearing little more than a loincloth. Grasping one of the villagers by the collar, he hurled the man back down the stairs they'd so carefully climbed. Though Fyr still showed signs of intoxication, it didn't show in the way he fought, barelling through the collected assassins with animal rage. Only two left standing, and they were clutching at their throats before falling into a before unseen puddle of mixed blood. Stepping from the shadows came Myrrha, clad in a simple cotton tunic, and wielding only a kitchen knife she'd no doubt retrieved from one of the would-be killers.


"You never leave any fun for me..." she joked, herself not sobered at all.


"The sooner we are rid of this place the better. I know now why this place was not on the map..." Leif replied, not touching on the elf's statement in the slightest.


"Gather your things, we leave immediately..."

 

[Vonny]

(This started out as a stream of consciousness. It took on its own mind and became this little essay for a scary character I ended up creating.)


Start from the beginning. Work it out. Don’t let it die. Never forget. Forgetting means letting go and that means becoming something new. Something different. Change is bad. Change makes things harder to deal with because you don’t understand what’s going on. Scars are supposed to be permanent. Even the ones in places you can’t see. “Out of sight out of mind” can’t work here. It cannot. It will not. I won’t let it because that’s not the person I want to become. I refuse to become anything. I am staying. Neverchanging. Always the broken. Always the dark. Always the one who hates them for doing this to me.


Their faces aren’t real anymore, but their memories are. The way they touched me, hurt me, tortured me. They rent my heart in two. Bodies made of clotted blood, smelling of feces and urine. Demons from a world I thought were only in nightmares. No horns, no hooves or tails. Just blank eyes, black flesh, sticky fingers and cold, dry tongues. Languages I’d never heard. Words I couldn’t fathom. Power that leaked into my skin and filled up my veins, tearing apart my energies and nerves and making me into something I couldn’t imagine.


Then it was over. It had been a nightmare. A horrible, terrible, smelly nightmare that I couldn’t shake. Until I saw the mark. Between my eyebrows. Dark, crimson, like the blood that had dripped off their black teeth. My blood. My flesh on their flesh. My bone exposed with their bone. All of it had happened and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t guess. Didn’t want to guess. Still to this day I don’t care to know why they chose me. Of all the children in the world, it was I who was picked to become this thing. A monster turned savior. I refused from the start to become something as deformed as they. I disobeyed the commands they whispered in my head. I broke my arms and legs in defiance of their control over my muscles. I made myself free of them.


Escape is futile. The mark upon my skin, covering the third eye that should have been held open at puberty, is a sign that I am, and shall always be, their property. Nothing can change what has been done. The past is always there, lurking over my shoulders. I do not ignore it. If I were to ignore it, I would fall prey to them. I will not change from what I am now. My refusal to become what they want keeps me alive. It keeps me whatever version of sane that I have chosen to be. Their darkness will not darken whatever soul I have left. They may have tried to take it all but I was a feisty, fiery, and ******* determined little shit. They scared me. They made me run from them and hide from them and ultimately fight them until I was torn from their nightmare and left, with only half a soul, in the world I thought was mine.


Now, I’m shadowed. Forever encased in a world that I will not let die. A world filled with shadow and fire. A world where I can exist as a human and a demon. A place where I can maintain balance in myself and in other realities. I keep the dangers from finding you. I haunt those that changed me with my unchanging free will. I run from them as they chase me and I protect you from having to run from them as well.


This world is wrought with magic and I intend on letting it flourish. I will reap the benefits of my defiance. I will reap the half eaten souls of the damned. I will reap those who dare to change me.


My name is Salazar.


I am the Reaper.

 

[Heartsteal]

A true story, one of a few that I've shared now. I hadn't planned on sharing this at first for safety reasons, but I've changed my mind about that now.


"I'm done with this, I want no more of it..." the words leave your lips, they feel alien, like they don't belong.


"It doesn't really matter what you want," the man across the fine oaken desk from you replies, "What matters is what you know. Letting you go endangers the entire circle."


You reply, your voice raising, hands slamming down to the desk, setting pens and papers afly,


"I don't give a shit about the circle, I want a life of my own! I want an education, and a real job, not just fights until I'm too crippled to continue!"


"Well that's just too bad," he repies, a smug grin as a sharp crack resounds and your vision spins... something is wrong. You fall to the side, hitting the wall of the tiny office, but before you can right yourself, the beating begins.


Three men kick at you, one draws a knife, the shattered remains of what was once an old wooden bat is scattered about the floor. As the pain starts to catch up with the ruckus, the words 'Louisville Slugger' flash into focus before fading again... what were the odds that a piece so perfect to leave the logo intact would land right in front of your eyes?


Anger, again, it tries to come out, unlike any time other than the arrow... why now? Right, you're dying again... the adrenaline was starting to kick in, the pain was muted.


A kick caught you in the teeth, and the knife finds it's way in, slashing across your upper arm. That hurt... the voice comes again,


"Why do you keep letting the world walk on you boy?" it asks, like some kind of demon, looking to make a trade,


"Let me loose, crush them like no one ever before, to finally hold nothing back... wouldn't it feel incredible?" A roar came from nowhere, and everywhere, it was yours. This has happened before, why was the world so unfair? You stand, a steel-toed boot meets your groin, one of the men from outside has come in then. The strike means nothing, you see it, but don't feel it.


The rage comes free, slips for a moment, you grab the knife by the blade; a crimson relief to the beating, drumming of flesh on flesh goes unheard beneath the fury of your bellow, your left hand lashes out, finding a face, the one with the knife, and seems to continue on forever, like punching clothes hanging on the line... there's no resistance at all.


The beating pauses, the three stand in awed silence for but a moment that seems like eternity, watching their friend leave his feet, pass over the desk, and hit the wall a few feet beyond it, crumpling like a half empty sack of potatoes.


"Death has come!" the voice shouts, your right hand travels almost lazily in a straight arc, breaking wood panelling too close to you, leaving the wall filled with splinters, smashes into another face, spins him from his feet as well, knocks over a third man, and the two go down in a knotted mass of limbs.


Steel toe, the only one left, he kicks at your shin, you kick back, the bottom of your foot colliding with such force the boot folded back, the plate hitting the foot inside, his leg snaps backward, pitching his body forward, slowly, too slowly. Your left hand comes back, up, and meets his chin in it's descent, snapping his head back with unnatural speed, your left foot comes up, meets his chest, and a splitting noise pleases your ears as his body blows through the thin wooden office door.


The one you hadn't hit yet, it was the one you'd been talking to.


"I'll let you reconsider," you say, more calm than ever, the tone almot terrifying to your own ears.


A hand grabs his belt, and you haul him out the empty doorway like a sack of garbage.


"No compromises." Only a few steps, and you stumble over nothing.


"What's wrong boy?" the demon laughed, "You should have let me out sooner..." it continued, a little chuckle ending off.


You can't stand straight, you keep fumbling, and the pain is catching up again, probably internal bleeding, a lot of it.


You probe at your sides, wincing in pain... it doesn't matter, pain is temporary... there's none. No internal bleeding, miraculously. The cut on your arm, and the side of your head the only things truly damaged.


"I bet you'll never get to again after this..." the voice said mockingly, you know what it means, clarity beyond what one would think possible in such a situation. "The equilibrium, you know what it does..."

 

[Heartsteal]

A little something to kill time.


The moon sat full and high in the night sky, casting a silver light over the world beneath. Rooftops, courtyards, streets of cobble; all caught in a slant so utterly different from the day's golden glow and the sounds of bustling city life everywhere.


"It's suicide!" Roth shouted, arms swinging through the air like they had a mind of their own. Roth was that way though, it was in his nature. The man had jumped from his seat, making the wooden floorboards creak suddenly, only drawing attention to the pair.


"Look Jules, I don't give a damn how fantastic you are, kidnapping a lady in her sleep from the richest family in all of Dracmarsh, is a terrible idea. You'll never make it out alive!" he went on, taking a seat again, though doing nothing to calm himself.


"It's not kidnapping if she wants to come along..." the young man replied, fingers drumming on the table's edge. Jules got twitchy when his hands weren't doing something, and it often bothered other people. Truly, this was not one who looked the part he played in life. A burglar and bandit by trade, Jules had pale skin, amber eyes, blonde hair, and not even the faintest of scars. Often he was teased that he could pass off as a woman, likely do well in a brothel, but he would have none of it. Now, the one girl that had ever cared anything for the street rat, was about to be married off tomorrow, something arranged by her parents to maintain wealth in the bloodline, to keep their name clean.


"You know what I mean..." Roth replied exasperatedly.


"There's not a soul alive that would approve of your pairing, and she'll live a far better life with that other guy anyways. He's got money, and a future, two things people like us are sorely lacking." It was true. Roth worked the quarry just outside the walls, making him very much the model example of a thug. Square jaw, perpetual stubble, and burly physique. One would never guess that the two were friends, or that Jules was the older for that matter. For nearly two decades now the two had been fast friends, standing aside one another through the toughest of times.


"Maybe I don't care that it's not what people want! For once I'll take what I want, and you can't stop me!" Jules shouted, storming out before his larger friend could compose a response. Stepping out of the tavern to the chill night air, the thief glanced skyward to what looked like dark stormclouds rolling in, threatening to cover their home's glorious satellite.


A heavy hand landed on the burglar's shoulder, a faint chuckle coming forth from between his friend's lips.


"If you feel so strongly, you can go. Just give me an hour, and I'll draw some of their guards off the property, fair?"


A hearty grin found it's home on Jules' face as he nodded emphatically.


"Be safe."


"Speak for yourself," Roth replied, heading off into the chill night, hurrying to their hideout where at least half the little gang probably waited.


This would be very much different from the small time robberies and holdups from before. In the day Jules worked in a library, certainly something that his small hands could handle. The chill of winter hung in the air ominously, despite it being at least a fortnight away, leaving the thief shivering in little time at all.


The Labelle estate, walled in with steel pickets, and stone pillar corners. The entire place took on a foreboding air so late, rapidly approaching midnight. Clattering near the gate let Jules know that his friends had arrived already, and were probably roughing the paid guards up a little. Quickly scrambling up one of the stone pillars in the rear, ignoring the biting cold of brick on flesh, the thief was in quickly. Crossing the rear garden was little trouble; only one guard was posted there, and he was fast asleep. Taking his coinpurse, just for good measure, Jules slipped inside through the servants' entrance. Passing by the sleeping quarters, the small bookkeeper was out of the servants' wing without even the slightest hint of trouble. The guard outside in the main hall was handily dispatched by a billy club to the back of the head, and from there he went up the smaller maintenance stairs.


In only moments the young man found himself just outside the room he'd come for. Opening the door slowly, silently, he slipped inside, shutting it yet more carefully than when he entered. Only Michelle was here, the girl of his dreams.


Gently shaking the girl awake, Jules' shadow was cast over her, his back to the window. Trying to ignore the rich furbishings, the thief glanced to the door again, where the light of a torch flickered beneath, no shadows passing by. Placing a hand gently over the girl's mouth, Jules lifted one finger to his lips, motioning her to remain quiet. When she didn't immediately scream or struggle, the thief backed away, letting the moonlight cast it's silver gleam across his face.


"I've come to spirit you away that you might not follow through your parents' plans!" he whispered excitedly, eager for them to be on their way.


"What for Jules?" Michelle asked, not softening her voice in the slightest.


Opening his mouth to protest, the noble girl spoke first...


"What, you thought I cared for you?" she laughed, once again not allowing the poor fellow to get a word in crosswise.


"You were an enigma, a hobby Jules! What would you offer me that I grant my hand in marriage?" Michelle asked, raising her voice a little.


"I want to marry Derrick!" she cackled, practically shouting now.


"But you said..." Jules replied, eyes downcast as he trailed off before he was interrupted yet again.


"Guards! Guards! A serf has broken into our estate!" Michelle screamed, voice piercing, no longer the soothing melody that Jules had come to love over the past several months in their time together in the library. The librarian was stunned to silence, staring slack-jawed at the monster he'd thought to be a caring, wonderful girl.


Two armed men burst in, and a crossbow bolt flew from it's home, the world painfully grinding to a halt. Michelle, once all smiles and songs, now sat upright in her bed, clutching at sheets worth more than the house Jules lived in, her manicured nails digging into them, probably making tears too small for him to see right now. The fire of torches glinted off the guard's pauldrons, giving them an almost spectral orange glow.


It was then that Jules realized the stormclouds had passed over the moon, blocking what was once a beautiful night from view, promises of icy rain in the air. Beneath their shingled roof, the Labelles wouldn't even rouse from their slumber to the bite of freezing water this night, that was reserved for those without futures, without hopes.


The bolt finally struck Jules in the heart, though strangely the pain was there since Michelle opened her mouth. The force threw the young man back off his feet, crashing through the lavish glass window to the ground below. The rain did nothing to the thief, his heart already ice, split in twain by the iron quarrel lodged in it so deeply. When Jules finally struck the gravel path, everything went black, his body sprawling gracelessly about, right before the sleeping guard, rousing him from his peaceful slumber in an instant.


Glancing about, the man made sure that no one was watching, and he took the coinpurse from the young man's belt, tying it onto his own.

 

[amdreams]

I did not see that coming. I liked it. And I felt bad for Jules. His heart was broken by a b*tch, he died and his money was stolen. Lovely tale though.

 

[Heartsteal]

I'm glad to finally get an actual response, and it sounds like I accomplished my goal fairly well. I'd love to see other members really come to use this thread rather than just posting their own threads all the time, but I won't push it if that's not what they want. Thanks again for your reply, and don't be nervous to post your own work here if it so pleases you.

 

[amdreams]

(This is still a working progress. Sorry if it's that bad.)


Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .





Each day I wake up to the same white walls and blindingly bright lights. The complete silence always puts me at unease, as I am reminded of where I am.


How long has it been since I have first arrived here? Days? Months? Maybe even years? I will never forget the snow that fell upon my arrival. Perhaps it is because this room is practically a blizzard, surrounding me in white and silence.


It isn’t all bad though. This bed is warm and soft. And each day, I can talk to her.


She talks to me, and plays with me each day. Even in this doldrums, I am happy because she is here with me. Because she is here with me, I can live.


Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .


Cough cough cough . . .


The attacks are starting again. The coughing, the convulsing, the shortness of breath, and the chest pains are all part of my daily routine. I fall to the floor though it doesn’t hurt much. The doctors and nurses flood into the room as always and hurry to help.


When it’s over, she helps me back to my bed. The doctors say that it’s getting worse. They start to talk about life support: tubes and machines that allow you to survive but prevent you to live. They say that the next attack might be the last.


Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .


Slowly but surely, the tubes are increasing. There are more machines in here now. It’s so noisy, I can’t sleep at night. This new bed is cold and hard. I don’t like it.


It seems I can’t move anymore. No matter how hard I try, I can’t lift up my arms or move my head. It’s really cold.








Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .


It’s lonely here. I can see her, but I can’t reach her. I want to talk to her. I want to play with her. I want to hug her. I want to run to her . . . but these plush legs won’t take me anywhere.


Those stupid nurses took me away from her. They think they’re all smart but they don’t know anything. They say I might give her another attack.


But why? Is she not the sole reason for my existence? Was she not the reason why I was taken here from that slave market? Sure, I’m not as young as I used to be. My fur is a bit scruffy and my red bow has faded in color, but I can help her. I protect her from nightmares at night. I cheer her up when she is sad. I make her warm when she gets cold. I can help.


Cough cough cough . . .


Another attack is starting. It seems really bad. I can see her eyes tearing up from the pain.


Get out of the way you stupid doctors! Can’t you see she needs me?! I can help! Let me get to her!


Beep . . . Beep . . . Beeeeeeeeeeeep . . . . . . . . .


Why didn’t you let me help her? Why did you idiots let her die? Why was I so useless this time?


My master, my friend, I won’t let your death be in vain! I promise to live for you. I’ll do all those things we talked about. I’ll see that big wall in China. I’ll hunt a lion in Africa. I’ll visit the big lady in New York. I’ll – wait. What are you doing? Put me down you stupid nurse. I have things to do.


Where are you taking me? Outside?! But it’s snowing out there. I don’t have anywhere to go. I need to get a job first.


Slam!


She put me in some metal box of some sort. It really smells in here. It’s cold too. I can’t see any light. Master, is this what a coffin is like? I guess this is good too. Sorry, I can’t do all those things we talked about. But this way I’ll die and meet you in that cloud place you talked about.


I just have to wait now, right?


I can meet you soon, right?


I can die, right?

 

[Esme]

I'll add my little share of things here as I gain up more (Per Heart's request that his threads get more love). I don't know if anyone has other of my things saved up or not, but I only have these two. So, without further a do, I give you tales from the Wasteland; Current Running Character: Honey Jackal.





Night was cool, and oddly refreshing in the wasteland. The sickish green water that gurgled next to her was lost in the darkness, only the sound and soft earth giving indication she was even near it. Though considerably more coverage than day, night travel was dangerous. One never knew what you couldn't see that could you. Or maybe that stone under foot was a pressure pad and you had only milliseconds left of your life?


Fun thoughts, if anyone bothered staying close enough to the water, that was. With something that glowed green in the day, and carried bodies at all hours, it was rare anyone went near. But, she wasn't just anyone, now was she? No, she was Honey Jackal, the Honey Jackal, the very one that the man from look out tower spouted so many stories about. Didn't know how he knew, but all of it had been true, to a point. She had claimed a town as her own, for no good reason, she had killed many a raiders, though she'd yet to come across any slavers, thank what ever fates even existed, and she did indeed know how to make explosive bullets.


As her thoughts turned to that, she paused for a moment, a tiny glow in the night coming from a lighter as she checked the burns that covered her left hand. She doubted she'd be shooting her best for a long while, the rifle she'd sacrificed her hand for even longer. It was a bad thing to do, in the wasteland, get hurt enough to lower your chances to survive attacks. But then again, she'd lived through worse, like the old flower bombs that some stupid creature had found and thought wouldn't work, now that was some painful singes.


Drawing in a slow breathe, the scent of decaying flesh almost pleasant the faintest glimpse of moonlight breaking through the grey clouds that had become a permanent part of the wasteland, Honey had smiled to herself. She wasn't doing to bad all on her own, and given where she was headed, and the increasing noises of aggressive life, it was a good way to jinx what ever chances she even held living...

367

​

Breathing came slow, sweat trickling down her brow. One eye was closed tightly, the other trained on a target through the scope of the rifle, silently praying the man didn't look up. This was...this was for Caleb and Marieh, for the unborn taken along with the latter. This man in the cross hairs had slaughtered so many innocents, hardly living in the wasteland as it stood. But why were the second thoughts flooding into gear now?


Because this wasn't just killing a raider.


She had been paid to kill this man. And that was before everything else came into light. She sold herself short for a chance at quick money and as she shifted to keep with him as he moved, she knew decency and morals in her were lost. But it was now or never, and she couldn't let the man kill another, not for all the money in the land.


Tightening her grip, she pulled back on the trigger, the rifle pushing back into her shoulder violently as the bullet left the barrel. The man's office errupted in flames assuring that even if the bullet missed anything vital, he would be dead. Turning back on the rock, looking away from the scene, she drew in another slow breath.


She'd left New Jackson at twenty. She'd held on as long as she could, and it was a hell of a battle. But, after three long years, the wasteland claimed her as one of it's own.

247

​

 

[BLADE MdM]

Hey Heartsteal! Nice work, I really liked some them.


Well, I suppose I might as well post something I wrote (It's basicallly unedited, so if you don't hate on it and point out the numerous errors, I'll assume you are just being polite) -


The party was in full swing. Past out drunks were strewn across the house, oblivious and in contrast to the swaying and screaming drunks that had yet to succumb to alcohols darker effects and were still frivolously enjoying its more pleasant ones. The school year was over, and so the whole towns teenage population had run over to Jackson Daly’s home, to celebrate another year over and done with. It was an unbelievable party. It was the kind that ended with a hangover if you were lucky, but for more than a few attending people it would end with a pregnancy or an arrest.


Hell, one kid wasn’t even going to leave the building alive.


But fortunately, they weren’t pregnant or arrested yet, and the boy who was desperately clinging on to his life in the upstairs bathroom would not be discovered by any living entity until morning, so the general consensus was not to stop until the tap ran dry.


Nobody noticed the fair haired child, as she dodged dancers and anarchy on her way to the stairs. This was to be expected, as no one could see her. Not unless she wanted them to. She returned the favour by hardly noticing them; someone was dying and it was her job to see him off, and guide him to his destination. Nobody else really mattered to her.


Alice felt, more so than heard, each wooden step creak under her weight as she walked upward. The wood had a nice tactile feel against her bare feet. An earthly warmth radiated from it, and flowed into her ethereal form, flushing her pale cheeks with a lively red. It filled her up like water filling a basin, and everywhere from her toes to the tips of her ears felt a dazzling energy that had long disappeared from her petite body. It was nice to be back, she decided. Even if it was only for the shortest while, coming back for macabre trips like this was always worthwhile. It wonderful, to join the ranks of the living again, even in this fake fashion, after spending so long as a casual observer to them.


She reached the second floor and found herself in a poorly lit hallway. Two doors were on the left side, and adjacent to those were to identical doors on the right side. Up here the music and noise of the chaos downstairs was gone, replaced by the heavy thumping of some dance song. Alice hated the auditory assault this generation called music, but appreciated the vibration of the bass, which entered her body through the floor and lightly traveled through her bones in what can only be described as a decadent sensation. It felt nice, to experience such an undervalued ability of human society; the ability to feel things, such as the beat rocking the house or the overbearing heat in the building. How quaint it was, to feel.


The bathroom was behind the first door to the left, so with a happy spring in her step she walked over to it and threw the door open, nonchalantly. Inside was an unseemly sight.


Nick Mason was sprawled across the bathrooms mint coloured tile floor, shivering in a cold sweat. He was naked, having stripped himself in an effort to escape the maddening heat radiating from his body. A yellowish muck—the contents of the teenage boys stomach-- was everywhere, from the floor to the sink and of course to the toilet, and the whole room reeked of it. A can of alcohol was clenched in his right hand, and he tightened his grip around it spastically with each shuddering breath he breathed. It wouldn`t be long now.


Alice hid her cheerful demeanor behind a mask of sorrow, not wanting to offend the boy. In her opinion, he had it coming. Nick was captain of the basketball team, and he was basically the prototypical high school jock; the kind of kid who didn`t work for anything, that slept with a different woman every day and that had a serious drinking problem. He wasn`t providing much to society, and therefore Alice didn`t see why his loss of life was so tragic. The idiot should have known alcohol and speed pills could kill when utilized together. Nevertheless, her job required delicacy, and so she attempted to appear as empathic as possible when she spoke to him. He would be judged by someone wiser than her soon, anyway. Her opinion did not truly matter.


``It’s not that bad, you know. Dying, I mean. It`s rather peaceful, for the first little while.``


Nick glanced up at the sound of her voice. He should have been able to see her, as Alice had no qualms with being seen by this particular individual, but his bloodshot eyes could not locate her.


``I know it hurts now. It hurt for everyone. But… but it`s worth it. Think of this as if it’s a basketball game. It hurts, your muscles are screaming at you to stop, and you feel like your legs will give out. But then the buzzer rings, and you`ve won the game, and relief floods your body, and when you get home that night your laying down, and you fall asleep so contentedly. It`s kinda like that. In a way. I guess.``


Alice walked over and grasped the boy`s unoccupied hand`s thumb in her hand. His hands were huge, she could scarcely believe it.


``I`m sorry it had to end this way. I`m sorry it had to end at all.``


The girl remembered her own death… the elderly man that had held her soft hand in his creased and wrinkled one. He had held a pitying look in his deep set eyes, and his gruff voice had been so hushed as he spoke. She was so scared then, and yet he had known all the right things to say; she hoped she was helping Nick as much as that man had helped her.


``You’re not alone, Nick. I`m here.``


``Don-… don`t leave,`` his voice was raspy, and tinged with an unimaginable fear. An undistinguishable fear, of losing something you never are prepared to lose.


``I won`t.``


Alice fell quiet then, simply counting the seconds ticking by, all the while watching Nick`s chest rise and fall. Eventually it stopped rising or falling.


The room had fallen deathly quiet. She sighed, realizing his time on this world was done, which meant she would have to leave this place, as well. She looked down at his glassy eyes, and saw her reflection in them. She had already lost her healthy blush and was now as pallid as she normally was.


She departed, shutting the door behind her, and quietly walked downstairs. She sneaked past the crowds before slipping out of the house, heading to a place all of the party-goers would eventually turn up, but couldn`t go to yet. Nick, now as pallid and as invisible as Alice, followed her without being told to. He simply knew what was expected of him. He was her sheep and she was his shepherd, guiding him to a new pasture in which he could graze.


-M.D.M

 

[amdreams]

I first wrote this with the intention of making a children's story . . . I failed.


On this this world there is a forest harder to find than Eden itself. This forest is said to be modeled after heaven, with no illness or suffering. And in this forest was a meadow, a beautiful green meadow filled with flowers that sprinkled the grass with all the colors of the rainbow.


Now this meadow was a very special place, for each day for longer than even God can remember a fight would take place between a wolf and a phoenix. From sun up to sun down, the two would battle with all they had. And each night, both would go home covered in wounds though no winner was ever declared. This tradition was passed down for generations as wolves would fight the immortal phoenix just like their forefathers did.


One day, after a tiring battle with the phoenix, the wolf came home to his wife and son. He felt extra hurt and tired that day, so he went straight to bed without his supper. And while lying in his bed of soft leaves he thought to himself.


Why was he fighting the phoenix? What problem did he have with the phoenix? Or what problem did the phoenix have with him? Why must he go and injure himself each day when there was to be no winner? Why would his son have to suffer the same fate when he had gotten too old to continue, just like the wolf did with his father?


After thinking up so many questions with no answer to a single one, the wolf decided that he would stop the senseless fighting. And so the next day, he stayed home with his family instead of meeting the phoenix for their daily battle. And that one day was bliss to the aging wolf. He got to play with his son, be with his wife, and at the end of the day, he was not feeling the pain or fatigue that he normally felt. This was the best decision the wolf had ever made.


The next day, however, was different. When the wolf had woken up, his wife and son weren't moving. Both stood in mid-action without even batting an eyelash. This concerned the wolf and he ran outside. Outside was no different. Every bird in the sky, every chipmunk in the trees, even the rabbits in the grass, every living creature was immobile. Not only that but the plant life was steadily dying and growing black.


Scared by what was happening, the wolf ran about trying to talk the animals back to life and water the plants to stop their death. After a few hours, he had given up and fell to the ground in despair. Nothing he was doing was working. Was he to be stuck in this nightmare for all eternity? Or just until his death? Could he even die in this world?


As he laid there, the phoenix appeared over him. The large bird looked down at the wolf and asked, "Are you ready to fight?"


The wolf began to fume with anger. He jumped up and yelled at the phoenix. "Is this your doing?! Did you do this because I wouldn't fight with you?!" He was so blinded by fear and shock that he laid the blame on his opponent.


The red bird simply shook his head. "It is not I who did this. It is you that has threatened our world when you refused to fight me."


"How is this my fault? I simply want to stop the endless fighting. I wanted to stop going home beaten and bruised. I wanted my son to not suffer the same fate of meaningless battles."


The phoenix helped the wolf up and looked up at the sky. "These are not meaningless battles. Life is full of struggles to survive, whether it be for food, shelter, or one's self worth. To live means to be constantly fighting these little battles against the world to survive. Once you have stopped fighting, you stay in the same place for as long as you've given up. You stop moving forward. To stop fighting is to die. Because all your life you fight with Death himself and each morning you wake up, you've won."


The wolf looked up at the phoenix who was now looking at him again. He smiled to his friend and the bird smiled back. Then both made way to the meadow to correct what the wolf had caused.