Or anyone interested in doing some writing based things - like showing off writing and what not? This is the art and literature corner after all.


So, I'll get the ball started with some random thing pulled from my writing folder.. it's not finished of course (ha! I never finish anything) and just want to show off the beginning of a story.

Of course critiques are welcome if you wanna give them, but then you should be prepared to put up your own work for critique too - that's only fair right? (not like anyone's gonna' hold you to it though - I'm certainly not).


So, here are the first 600+ words of my sci-fi story (in which things aren't very sci-fi at all).

----


Craig Johnson opened his eyes. He knew he blacked out, but was never quite certain for how long. Not sure of where he was, he blearily looked around the room. It was white, sterile, with beeps coming from a nearby machine at a constant, steady pace. It was, in all ways, reminiscent of a hospital room.
Something warm kept a pleasant reassuring pressure on his l right hand.
It was a woman’s left hand, a simple band of gold adorning her ring finger.
His wife.
He looked at her, leaning back into a chair, her black curls falling across her face, obscuring her features.
He squeezed her hand and smiled at the sleeping angel.
A small sigh came from her lips as she shifted slowly from asleep to awake. Green eyes stared down at his blue eyes. She smiled at him, relieved.
“Elise,” he said, memory clawing to take in every precious detail about the scene: Her pink lips, pale china-doll skill, silver earring and gray sweater.
~
He flipped though a photo album - just a random large brown volume of numerous ones Elise kept. He could never be sure if it was because she just had a horrible memory, or if she was horribly sentimental - but it never interfered with their life together. Most of them were of her family anyway. He never bothered to acquaint himself with them; being fairly sure they very much disliked him.
He smiled at a picture of Elise when she was younger. It was the typical picture every person keeps, but they don’t know why - probably because deep inside they all want to be embarrassed. She was twirling around in a pastel yellow summer dress... Or, rather, was caught in mid-twirl, with her back of her dress stuck in her underwear. Craig, having never taken many pictures in his life, found it odd that this moment should be captured, and not burned right away. Still, Elise was a sentimentalist, and he had no idea who took the picture.
He put the album down, and explored his house.
‘It’s amazing how many things you forget.’
He mused to himself that he must have been so accustomed to dreams, where memory plays no role, that he lost all of his - forgetting about the accident that pout him in a coma, and about his life before he woke up- though he could never forget her green eyes. He walked into their bedroom, the wood floors creaking, almost ghostlike, until he stepped on the red plush carpet of the room. He shook his head trying not to be disturbed by the fact that his house was as familiar to him as a new house, lived in only a week. He pushed open the closet door, which creaked slightly, and pulled out an old dress coat of his. Double breasted, and navy blue. He inhaled the old scents of a past he couldn’t remember, secretly hoping that the smells, of Aramis, and cigar smoke, of him, would trigger something, anything, a flash of a memory, or a voice. Instead there was only frustration. He put on the jacket, and buttoned it. He admired himself in the full length mirror inlaid in the closet door. He looked silly, he’d have to admit, in plaid flannel pajama pants, and a grey t-shit, with the dinner jacket over him, but he was pleased to see, as most people are, that the jacket wasn’t a perfect fit. It was bigger than it should have been for a man of his size, and he concluded that he must have lost weight.
The door to their apartment closed, and he heard keys clink together and land on the wooden table next to the door. Elise hummed a soft song to herself. It was old, and she had long forgotten the lyrics, but it was sweet and happy and always stuck with her. She placed two paper bags full of groceries on the kitchen counter, and pulled a small brown glass bottle from her pocket.
“Craig!” she called happily, letting the familiarly echo in the house.

0_o That story is completely strange. It is one of the wierdest things I've ever read. Utterly confusing to those who don't pay attention to what they're reading.

So, naturally, I like it. Awesome story!

OK, here's a horror short story I wrote once...

-----------------
IT CAME BY NIGHT
-----------------

She was dead.

Good ol' Minnie, one of our most healthy horses, now lay on the ground, dead. Her white fur had been stained red by the blood that had flown from her neck. She lay there, with two deep punctures in her flesh, lifeless.

She wasn't the first one, either. Every morning, we had woken up to find one of our animals dead. And every morning it was the same thing that had caused it, two holes on their necks. It was like something out of a twisted vampire story.

When we talked to the sheriff about it, he made it clear he didn't take it seriously. In fact, he jokingly suggested that the culprit was none other than a chupacabra. You know what a chupacabra is right? That lizard they say lives in Mexico and eats all the goats. The legend didn't start in Mexico, though. They've been supposedly spotted all over Latin America. And now maybe they were migrating to Mississippi.

At dinner that night, we joked and laughed about the idea. Ma suggested that no goat was safe from the mighty lizard, and Pa laughed, "Chupa� CABRA! Kind of just rolls off the tongue doesn't it?"

We all had a fun time laughing about it. The idea of a lizard coming in at night and attacking our livestock was just to absurd to accept. No. There had to be something else, like a rattlesnake or something.

I was determined to find out what it was, so, when my parents were asleep, I crept into their room and quietly took Pa's revolver. With it in my hand, I put on a jacket, tip-toed down the stairs, and snuck out the door.

The sky was full of stars, bright lights shining down on me from above. I paused, gazing at the hundreds of glowing specks, shining through the dark. The moon glowed brightest of all, its pale light reaching down to the earth like a ghost extending its hand. You can't see the sky like this in the city, you can see it out here in the country.

I leaned against the barn door, gazing up at the sky, and I slowly slid down the ground, until I was sitting against the wood of the barn. The night air was chilly, and the cold bit into my flesh, chilling me to the bone. I huddled in my jacket, looking out over the fields, waiting for the color to show up.

I was just about to doze off when I heard a twig snap. Instantly, I looked in the direction of the noise, drawing the revolver and pointing it toward the rustling bush. I felt my heart beat pick up the pace as anxiousness swept over my body. Then, the animal leapt out of the bush.

I chuckled to myself as I watched the little squirrel scamper off. To think I had gotten so worked up over it! I relaxed and began to nod off again.

Something smooth and scaly brushed against my face. I was still half asleep, and I tried to wave whatever was there away with my hand. Then I felt hot breath against my face and smelled sulfur all around me.

I opened my eyes and sat there, paralyzed.

A large black lizard with human-like limbs was crouching right in front of me. Its arms were noticeably longer than its legs and each had a clawed hand at the end. The beast's red eyes glowed in the night and multicolored spines ran down its back, almost like a rainbow. The creature snorted, it's nostrils moving as it breathed out.

Stiffly, I raised the revolver and pulled the trigger. Warm blood splashed over my face as the monster jumped backward, snarling in shock and pain, clutching its wounded chest.

All logic ceased in my brain. I was instantly consumed by a single need: survival. Mindlessly, I jumped up and opened the barn door. The creature removed one its hands from its chest and looked at it, examining the blood. I ran just inside the barn and pulled the door shut, firing off three more rounds as I did.

Outside, I heard the beast howl with rage. I sat there, listening as the creature clawed at the wooden door of the barn, snarling angrily as it tried to get in. My heart hammered in chest and I lay down, numb with terror.

I don't know how long I was in that barn, or when I fell asleep, all I know is that when I woke up, I was on the couch in the living room. My parents were there. Ma asked me how I was, and I told her I was OK. Then I asked what happened. Pa explained it to me.

When I fired at the beast, the sound had woken my parents up, and Pa had coming running out with a shotgun. He saw the monster clawing at the barn and fired at it. The beast howled again and ran off, whimpering with pain. Pa had then gone into the barn and found there, asleep, with the revolver lying on the ground nearby. He carried me inside, and put on the couch.

I never did see the beast again, but its memory has continued to haunt me. Even to this day, I fear the creature is still watching me, silently biding its time, awaiting its moment of revenge. I fear that when I turn off the lights, I will see those two red eyes there, glowing in the dark, ready to strike.

You may laugh. You may not believe this story. But I know what happened on my farm, and although the name brings smirks to the faces of many people, I will never again laugh at it. The name of the beast that slaughtered the livestock back home. The name of the nocturnal predator who attacked me that one, terrible night.

Chupacabra.

--------
THE END
--------

I have a blog that I write my short stories on.
http://subcultured2.blogspot.com/

Someone
Miller, that's what his father had named him before
he took off. It's safe to say that he wasn't name after
Henry Miller, the famous American writer and painter,
rather the type of beer his parents enjoyed the company of.

His mother was so enamoured with her bubly friend that
she didn't even stop drinking when Miller was growing in
her stomach.

Pickled with beer juices, he grew to be a man of below
average intellegence, but above average strength. He wasn't
depress about it, he always found something to do that help
entertain his simple mind. Recently he took the hobby
of taking apart clocks to see how they work.

It fascinated him how the gears interlock and work together.
If a clock is broken, he takes it apart and tries to fix it. Miller
lived with his mother and she was always mad at him for
reasons he was unable to understand.

One day the man realized that if he can take apart his mother,
he can fix her. With several utensils laying around the house
he began to partake in a painstaking effort of fixing his mother.

He used the dull kitchen knife to open up her casing. His mother
protested, but he knew he would be able to put her back together
better than ever.

After 5 hours he found the problem. Her heart was no longer beating.
----------------------------------------------------
(C) Jess Calcaben 3/15/2007
----------------------------------------------------

Didn't you mention that in the Creepy Villains thread, sub?

heh, yea
but i refined it some more

here are the first three pages of a 16-page story I wrote last year. it's probably still too long... -_- but if anyone wants to read the rest (it has sex! vague and brief.. but sex! yay!) The narrator is Cal and he's a boy. the rest of the story takes place in Argentina. ^^ enjoy?

me!
"Cal, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," Mrs. Russolesi moaned, enshrouding me in her soft, fluffy arms, holding me against her heaving melon breasts, my face full of her black mumu. She held me there for a few minutes, crying loudly on me.
"He was a good man, Cal," Mrs. Russolesi sniffed. "Your... father..." her voice broke like finest china crashing onto pavement. "...was a good man."
I nodded noncommittally. She waited for me to say something. I stared at the pleats and wrinkles of her black mumu. It looked like a folded umbrella. Long silence.
"How's college, Cal?" Mrs. Russolesi asked, quivering, jagged teeth piercing the soft, trembling flesh of her lip. "Are you on the newspaper? Writing columns?"
I shook my head no, and smiled apologetically.
"I always show off your old op-ed columns, they were everyone's favorites. 'Rebel with a Cause.' Your father... used to love them too..." her eyes clouded in tears, and she went over to talk to my mother, who was having a positive shitfit. I doubt my mom would recognize my high school Journalism advisor, especially at such a time, but oh well.
I watched the procession, semi-strangers entering the room, clutching each other for support and tearily marveling at all the floral arrangements. Kneeling at the coffin for an appropriate 16 seconds, then joining the rest of the sniveling room, saying over and over again, "He was a good man" like a mantra. Communally remembering jolly anecdotes, that Christmas when he dressed up like Santa Claus, the barbecue when he pushed Aunt Estelle into the pool, and she pulled him in and the food burned because everyone jumped in, splashing and laughing. Forcing stubborn tears into their eyes, like the last centimeter of toothpaste.
I looked at my cell phone. I had a text message from my friend Arianna. "Sooo excited 4 Argentina r u? c u tomorrow!!!" I smiled a little, and started punching in a response when I was interrupted by yet another icon from my past. This time it was my ex girlfriend Sherri. She wasn't crying, but she had wetness around her face, which made me wonder if maybe she just smeared her makeup and splashed water on herself for effect. I wished I had had the foresight. My complete numbness was hardly better than feigned tears; it wasn't that I wasn't sad, because I was. But it was like the sadness was floating in a fragile, glossy bubble. It was only a matter of time before I breathed on it the wrong way and shattered the weak barrier. But in the meantime, I was unwillingly playing the part of the hateful, spoiled son.
Soon Monsignor Whalen came in, smelling slightly of stale booze, and began the wake ceremony. He blah blah blahhed for a while about God or something, and my eyes wandered around the room. The lighting was rather dim, and everything seemed to have an amber glow. All of the light seemed to congregate around my father, who glowed like a saint. Propped in his coffin, sitting up just enough that we could see his well-manicured face, but not so much that he looked ready to get out again. He wore his best suit, so starched that even at the armpits the fabric hardly wrinkled. A silver rosary with onyx beads slithered attractively around his hand. It was like looking at a mannequin. I tried telling myself, That's Dad, Cal, your father is gone forever. But forever didn't seem to register in me, and part of me wondered if perhaps Dad was waiting in the next room, wearing his customary half-pained smile. A loving smile, tinged with disapproval.
My mom started wailing hysterically, drowning out the priest's sermon, and I saw Aunt Estelle give her some Valium. My mom made a show of not wanting the Valium, moaned gibberish for a while, and finally took two tablets. She quieted down pretty soon afterwards, and had konked out on the plushy funeral home chairs by the end of Whalen's speech.
I resumed my texting at one of the more dogmatic parts, and wrote, "Yeah Im siked c ya." The less of the mourning process I could experience, the better. I mean, sure I was sad; that was my father in the box they were going to bury forever. But I wasn't really mournful. I didn't really know what I was feeling; some sort of selfish pain, I guess. I didn't understand; I had loved my father. But instead of crying like any normal son, I was being a bastard. I didn't want to be a bastard. I tried to cry. I wrenched my face. Nothing.

Aunt Estelle drove me and my semiconscious mother home. At a particularly long red light, she looked at me and said, "It's a shame about your plane tickets going to waste."
I arranged my face to portray as much shock and anguish as I could muster. I had anticipated this and had planned a beautiful rebuttal. "I'm still going."
"You can't miss your own father's funeral," Aunt Estelle said rather levelly.
"I'm going with my friend Arianna. If I back out now, she'll be stranded in South America, alone. I can't do that to her." I wrung my hands on my lap. "And now, with Dad dead, we're going to be poor. This has chopped the family income more than in half. The tickets are non-refundable; it would be such a waste to not go. I'm sure Dad would have wanted it. He wanted me to go."
Aunt Estelle looked at me incredulously. "I hope my kids never, ever turn out like you."
"Good for you. Have fun at the funeral." And I stubbornly looked out the car window, at the fresh green foliage reaching towards a calm blue sky. Bubbles of light caught on the glass, and I lost myself in thought for a while. I didn't think I could stomach any more of the mourning process. Hearing my mom cry herself into a stupor was horrible enough; I didn't think I could stand a whole room full of crying people. Especially if I couldn't cry with them. If I could cry, I might enjoy the feeling of solidarity, and lose myself in the mob mentality of mourning. But instead, I felt like a distant gargoyle, observing detachedly from a rooftop. It only made me lonelier. I couldn't go.
Mom groaned pitifully in the back seat, her eyelids heavy and her makeup smeared erratically. She looked like she had been beaten up. Her gentle brow was contorted, and seeing her so completely lost made me want to jump out of the moving car. Parents are supposed to be in control. Mothers are supposed to soothe their sobbing children.
"Cal, you're going to the funeral and that's final," Aunt Estelle said stiffly.
"Mom, can I still go to South America?" I asked, mainly to piss off Aunt Estelle. She mumbled something.

another from my blog http://subcultured2.blogspot.com/


The day I loved her
The curtain split as the wind swept through the bedroom.
The breeze advertises the cool Sunday morning
and offers the scent of the leaves and flowers.

Sampling the air I awoke with my arms around her back.
Her long blond hair webbed across the pillow.

I intertwined my fingers into her palm and wonder how long
until she wakes up. I'm in no hurry, after all, the day is just
beginning.

She moans herself to reality.
A warm breath escaping between her lips.
I drown myself in her deep blue eyes
Today is the day, that I realized I am in love with her.
----------------------------------------------------
(C) Jess Calcaben 3/16/2007
----------------------------------------------------

the botfly device , my poetry archive. A few poems on there are actually going to be published <3

I write a lot of "flash fiction" too, but not much of it is online. There's some on my DA account...let's see...

eternity on , an idea I want to turn into a comic someday

Yeah, not really much else online. but I like that thing.

Here's a prologue to a horror story...


Dr. Sa'Miel sat in front of the wide monitor. He was gazing into a large, empty, white room. There was a door on one wall, and various glass capsules lined the room. Ten of them had occupants sleeping soundly within. The experiments. The mutations.

The doctor was not a young man, but he was not an old one either. He was 52. There were some wrinkles on his face and his black hair had numerous streaks of grey running through it. His blue eyes stared at the room on the screen, waiting. On top of his head, his hair sat in a tangled mess. He hadn't combed it for months, as he saw no reason to. Hair was merely patch of fur. It kept one's head warm in the cold and shaded in the sun, but other than that, it was useless. In a job, in a community, that did not place importance on physical appearance, combing one's hair was a waste of valuable time.

Today had been a long day, the mutations were ready for field testing, and they had just acquired new test subjects. A naval ship had strayed too close to them and had to be taken. Luckily, the ship was holding a recreational event of some sort, and the families of the seamen were enjoying a cruise. The Society had stumbled across a large portion of test subjects. All they had to do was jam the radio, lure them to the Isle with a false distress signal, and release the Hydras.

Who tore apart most of the subjects.

A flash of rage ran through Sa'Miel's being, but he quickly shoved it away. The hydras had proved more difficult to control than he had first immagined. However, one could not dwell on such mistakes. In the long run, it didn't matter, they were getting closer to achieving their goal.

A light below the monitor turned on. The doctor pushed his thoughts away and leaned forward, watching the screen as the capsules opened up, their occupants stepping out. He quickly examined the experiments. Mutations 1 through 3 seemed to be no different than the other creatures created with FV-29, however, Mutation 4 seemed to be looking around curiously, as if he were judging his surroundings. Mutations 5 and 6 were just like the first three, as were 8, 9, and 10. Number 7 was moving around the room at almost superhuman speed. It seemed that the modifications made of four and seven were only ones that had had any effect, though to what degree he was uncertain.

"Begin test one," Sa'Miel ordered no one in particular. Who ever was at the control was listening to him through a microphone, and promptly obeyed his directions. The floor in the center of the room opened up and a platform raised a ram from the floor into the room. The ram was not held down by anything, and this particular ram was quite an agressive one, which was why it had been chosen for this test.

The ram rushed at the closest experiment, Mutation 2, and barreled into the creature. It fell on the ground and mindlessly reached out at the goat, hungry. Nothing more than some zombie. The other mutations were coming for the ram as well. Mutation 7 darted at the creature lightning fast, and bit into it's neck. The others all crowded around the goat, eager to feed.

Except for Mutation 4, who stood and watched the others intently.

Sa'Miel blinked and leaned in closer, his gaze fixed on the experiment. Why was it just standing there? Why wasn't it attacking? Sa'Miel determined that Mutation 7 was clearly the optimal being. Even after one test. He was about to give the order to have the other experiments destroyed when something quite unexpected happened.

The creatures had finished eating their meal and had dispersed, wandering aimlessly around the room. All that was left of the animal were a few bits of meat and the bones. Mutation 4 walked toward the remains and bent down, examining the skeleon. He then picked up a bone and thrust it into the neck of the Mutation 6. The experiment squirmed a little and Mutation 4 forced the bone through Six's entire neck. He then slammed the pojnted edge of the bone into Mutation 6's forehead. The experiment crumbled and the other 8 mutations came at number 4.

But 4 was ready for them. He grabbed one of the closest experiments (10) and bit into his head, chewing his face off. For then threw 10's body at the oncomeing attackers. (Sa'Miel quickly made a mental note about how quickly Mutation 10 had fallen) Mutation 7 then ran at Mutation 4, and at first the doctor was certain that number 4 would be killed. But 4 merely hopped to the side, turning around in midair and reaching out to number 7. His hand clenched the collar of Mutation 7's shirt, and he pulled the creature close, tearing into his flesh.

The others slowly moved toward Mutation 4, who was devouring 7, struggling to get free. By the time the creatures reached their target, Mutation 7 had stopped moving, his mutilated body hanging limply from Mutation 4's hands. The experiment threw the body at his attackers, and then tore into them.

In a few minutes, Mutation 4 had succeeded in slaughtering every experiment in the room.

The doctor gazed in amazement. The mutations shouldn't have fought like that. Nine of them had worked together, but...

He felt his muscles tense momentarily. Then he spoke. "Send in armed guards to destroy Mutation 4. He is free of the hive mind, and we therefore cannot allow him to survive." As he finished speaking, he reached out and tapped the monitor, ending the communications link, though he still received the video feed. The man who had been patiently standing behind him stepped forward.

"Now," Dr. Sa'Miel said. "What is it that you feel I must know?"

"The United States is sending a team here, they should arrive within the hour," the man answered. He had tried to keep his voice level, but Sa'Miel could hear the panic in the words.

"How do they know our location?" he asked.

"It seems that the carrier was able to send a signal just before we jammed the radio," the man explained. "They had picked us up on their radar. The government is sending in a team of specialy trained elite soldiers to investgate."

"This has been confirmed?"

"Our contacts in the Pentagon have sent us all the confirmation we need."

Sa'Miel sighed. "We're not ready to dive," he muttered. "So, I guess we'll just have to deal with them. Get to it."

"Yes sir."

A minor setback, nothing to worry about. As the man exited the observation room, Sa'Miel turned his attention back to the monitor and stared in shock.

The door of the large room was open. One of the guards was lying on the ground with his throat torn out. The other was missing. There was a trail of blood leading out of the room, but what disturbed Sa'Miel the most was that Mutation 4 wasn't in the room.

He had escaped.

A rough bit of mostly unedited whatnot. This is only about a quarter of the piece though:

R
Shockwaves from the blasts half a city away fractured the weathered old cathedral walls, transported in blocks from Earth on the colony ship during the Leaving. The air from the wash was hot and round, not abrupt, not sharp; it shattered the windows and rolled through the building, kicking up dust in little whirlwinds that twirled across the room and between the pews around her, lifting from her shoulders the heavy locks of red hair and flipping them about her round and ashen face. There as she peered over the back of the pew he found her, slamming the door behind him and moving in on her, every step the metallic jingling of a hardware store tilted on end; buckles, zippers, and chains rattling against each other every time the heel of his boot struck hard the marble floor. When it stopped, with his good eye, the other long since covered by a patch, he stared down at her and she up towards him, reaching outward with small soft fingers when the doors burst wide.

Vic spun around, pulling his nickel-plated forty-five from his waistband and tight across his chest, the light through the broken stained glass windows glinting off of the housing. For an instant it looked to her as if it should have been a painting. Beautiful and horrible all at once, half-thoughts no child should have about her father. Things no daughter should see. This she felt, even at eight. Even after all the other things she had seen over the years, there in the cathedral that day, on the failed colony world turned Allied Families outpost of Curve, Quill Storms knew this thing, and she knew part of it was within her.

Without blinking, without pause, he fired round after round as the K'Raigan soldiers stormed the cathedral, knowing full well that the heavyworlders could take far more punishment than that, but it would hurt them. Most certainly it would hurt them, even if for some it did not even puncture their tough skin to get to the dense weave of muscles and thick bone structure beneath. But their eyes were vulnerable, and the sensory tendrils -- the thick meaty appendages that that hung from the sides of their bald mocha-toned heads -- those were obscenely sensitive.

On their own world the K'Raigans used edged weapons, a law established in the early years of the industrial age when their warring nature, with slug-throwers and bombs in hand, nearly destroyed them as a people, but as a space-faring race the energy weapons they used off-homeworld were second perhaps only to the Prath, for whom violence and sex had been elevated to a religion, and an art form. These hulking figures she'd once thought comforting, as there on Curve her father had employed one as captain of his warship, the Richmond, while another, a half-breed named K'Nitra, had been a frequent visitor on behalf of the Sainin Hunter's Guild. These ones, though, terrified Quill. They, for the first time, showed her what an overwhelming force the species presented. Never before had she thought of the two she knew as frightening people until that very moment when others of their kind were sweeping the streets in armed detachments and bombing the city.

C'mon folks, it's a writing thread. Even if it's a paragraph, just a piece of a scene, a prose version of something that fits before, after, or between something you're working on as a comic...or you just describing a slice of your day as if you were telling a story about someone else...exercise that muscle.

Otherwise I'll subject you to the rest of this unedited monstrosity ;)

R.
The replication clip did him well, but five hours of constant fighting had just about run down the power core and he knew that soon he would be out of ammunition. In the meantime he used it for all it was worth as he yanked his daughter up from the floor between the pews and against his chest. Low and fast he went, paying no heed the course ahead as down through the center of the nave he went, firing back over his shoulder and catching an only briefly surprised K'Raigan officer in the eye. Sweet spot; the bullet ricocheted around inside the thick cranium, burning holes across his brain this way and that until he crumpled sideways, making the troopers with him pause long enough for Vic to be up over the stairs and to the Southern door of the Sacristy.

Eyeing down the length of his forearm behind him, he gave his wrist a quick flip to check the charge at the base of the clip before bringing it around against his back as he shoved Quill through the door with his free hand. Sternly he stared into her eyes, blue like his, unlike her older sister or her brothers whose eyes matched the brilliant green of their mother. "Stay down." The K'Raigans sprayed the crossing with weapons fire, the ambo exploding in fine splinters of wood, striking the chancel floor and sliding across towards the altar as he closed the door.

Short seconds passed before even with the heavy slab of wood between them she heard her father inhale deeply and then exhale with twice as much force as he pushed upright. Cracking the door she peered through the sliver of space in time to see him turn on his heels and draw forth the blued forty-five from his leg holster whilst he stalked across the chancel and stopped before the stairs down to the nave. "Your Alcitt Xirrae masters have led your houses astray." Two plasma rounds ripped through his chest, the heat cauterizing the wounds as they went through his body and out the back, ripping to shreds his navy blue leather jacket and lifting him from his feet.

He lay there crumpled, the fabric of his shirt burning, smoking off of the little embers as the K'Raigans made their way in, checking down rows of pews for others as they went. And then onto his back he rolled, and sat upright. In a strained oldworld dialect of K'Raigan he had picked up a couple of centuries before, he cut his one good eye in their direction and rasped without the benefit of lungs. "Okay, now I'm gonna fucking kill the lot of you." Grabbing hold of his pistols he stood up and shook himself off in the moments of shock the K'Raigans took to try and figure what was happening. The chattering went back and forth in their native tongue as they debated genetic engineering, androids, even medical nanotechnology, all in the twenty seconds it took him to reach his feet. Had he not seen it enough over the years for it to become monotonous, he might have pitied them the waste of time. "You people drop your hardware and I'll just kill you. You, your troops, the crews on your ships in orbit, the fighters in my skies, you're all walking, talking dead."

Should be noted that this takes place in the same universe and using some of the same characters as in my comic Sune.

R.
"But," her voice came from behind them, the doorway, and the word itself was like a beautiful note, delicate to be heard; a child's joy in essence, light and devoid of dark things that come with the stealing of innocence. Her ashen face and form fell no more than partway into her teens, not seemingly old enough to have birthed a child of Quill's age, and yet it was as much so as the weapons that had been brought to bear on her.

"Hey," his voice boomed. "Trust me, if you shoot my wife with your happy little energy beams, I'm so gonna rain all sorts of hell down on you." The K'Raigans turned back and forth with rifles in hand for a moment before half of them stayed focused on him, and the other half took aim on her.

From between pale lips she continued, "should you wish to maintain this foolhardy path, killing the pets my dearest husband considers friends, upsetting him and thus me, we will take a classic page from your book and when we are done here purging our space of your kind, we will travel to your world in hundreds upon thousands of ships, and we will walk upon your streets, and we will enter your dwellings. Every home of every individual who has taken part in this affront, every relative you have, every brother, every sister, your parents, your children." A thin smile crept forth and her brilliant green eyes came alive with a sort of giddiness that brought out nothing but unease. "Even the smallest of babies I shall tear from their mothers' wombs and take them by leg to beat upon the walls."

And then it happened. One of the K'Raigans fired his weapon and laid low the woman at the door, and for Quill's father, all bets were off. His wife too would rise as he had, this he knew, but there were lines with him, lines that in his own hypocrisy he demanded not be crossed by others, though in the case of those poor damned souls, both he and his wife possessed the ability to force the point, fair though it may not have been.

It was a poetic dance, even to Quill, as she watched from the room as her mother came upright and her father sprung from the chancel almost in unison. Luminescent, distended ovoid shapes of superheated plasma bursting forth from the gunmetal gray housing wrapped about the barrels of the K'Raigan rifles, blowing through the tops of pews and pulverizing marble columns on impact into fine white clouds of dust. Vic's muscular form moved with a grace developed only by years of such battles during which time a style of motion, a martial art in its own right and unto he alone, had been given birth. He ducked and spun, the end of every motion the start of another, with gunfire accenting the arcs in which his hands traveled.

His love, the woman known as Pandora, was more direct in action. For him it was a game, and so too for her, but for lackeys such as these, she had little tolerance. Shot after shot she received upon approach to the K'Raigans, never falling after the one that first laid her low had prepared her for the impact.

Together they were upon them at nearly the same time, and from the large forms came distinctly K'Raigan screams. Howls that even across the cathedral seemed to send weighty vibrations through the organs wrapped within Quill's chest. These things that so frightened her, so changed her youthful perception of K'Nitra and the captain, seemed so unbeatable as they marched through the streets, yet broke so easily in the hands of her parents. A collision and ensuing collapse of so many bodies behind the pews, from her angle cut from view save for a flailing arm here and there.

Then came the scratching skittering music of a million rats trying to scramble up sheet metal and the shadows came alive with twisted forms of deep black wrongness. Sometimes she recognized the parts, sometimes she didn't. So many screams and so much blood, and sounds not unlike that of an egg with a thick-thick shell slowly cracking.

And then from over the tops of the pews came a crest of red-spiked hair, red like hers, and Vic stood, his face cross-splattered with fluids. In the fight the remains of his jacket had been shredded and there he was in his tattered sleeveless shirt, and a pair of long red gloves she didn't remember him putting on that morning. It took her long enough to complete the thought before she realized that what she believed to be gloves ran nearly to his shoulders, and dripped at the fingers.

I
With that jarred smile
As your pupils contract
Little ink-splotches in the blue sky
Of your irises

With those raised eyebrows
Asking the silence, 'why?'
Your shoulders folding in, like dove wings
Protecting your broken heart

With those pain(t)-soaked fingers
I'd like to touch once more
Though I hate to see you so frenzied,
You look like a dear, in headlights

This is a random poem I wrote, I just liked the pun ~_~

oohhh my bad poetry killed this thread. my sincerest apologies.

Your poetry didn't kill the thread, don't be silly. (I think my threadjacking did.)

I liked the piece, especially the description of the eyes.

I would have commented earlier, myself, but I've just been incredibly busy the last few days. S'why I've only managed a couple posts.

First few pages from my story "Strange Creatures"

I
Upon kicking open the front door, the team was bombarded by a powerful stench. The odor seemed primarily organic. The smell of urine and rotting flesh had a rusty, metallic undertone. The men rubbed their watery eyes and covered their mouths and noses. Such smells were unfitting for the small house. Aside from a light powdering of dust, no trash, dirt, or clutter marred the interior. Actually, the lack of clutter made the home seem far more unsettling. While the rooms were fully furnished with every usual item including tables, lamps, seating, and a television and
DVD player, they were not lived in. There were no DVDs, no keys, no coat or shoes, no pieces of mail, no combs or brushes, no art or photos, not a single hint of life only the pungent smell of death.

Rumors whispered among neighbors and drunken tales recounted in bars told of the madman on Pinecone Drive. They called him the local Frankenstein because something had driven him to create a monster. The creatures design and purpose were known only in theory and conjecture around the town. One person claimed his dog had been stolen for components for the creature; others believed lost pets were its meals. Shrill screams heard some nights were thought to be the either the creature's victims or the beast itself, outraged by its own existence. No two descriptions of the beast matched exactly. A giant crocodile in one tale, a humanoid wolf in another, the beast existed more in the realm of imagination than reality. The neighbors' fears were real, though, and that fear smothered their curiosity, making them leave the man alone in his madness. He ventured from his home only once a week to purchase a half gallon of milk, a pound of ground beef, a loaf of bread, a 30 pound bag of dog food, and a single apple.

Several weeks had passed since the bagboys at the grocery store had last seen their eccentric customer. Had he moved? Had he died? What of his monster? A town hungry for news had printed a story about the man, and lore lovers from neighboring and equally dull towns all wanted to know more. The local authorities decided it was time to check on the man and enlisted the help of a few volunteers, mostly family and friends. They expected to find an empty home. Whether the man had moved or died, there was little likelihood of finding a living creature within the home. If its master hadn't taken it with him, the creature would have starved to death or at least be close to death.

***

The young blond man flipped to the next page of the coffee-stained, torn, and wrinkled form. "Boxer shorts, no. Apple sauce, no. Movie rental -- what movies?"

The older man propped his feet on the battered wooden desk. "Twister, The Jerk, The Relic, Sandlot -- Have you seen Sandlot? Good movie. I used to own a copy, but it fell out of a box when I was moving, and the moving van -- "

The younger man continued "No. Dice, no. Blue ink, no. 500 pounds of coffee beans? What did you do with 500 pounds of coffee beans?"

"Made coffee."

"And how is that a business expense?"

The older man's face grew stern. He set his feet on the floor and peered across the desk. "When you go to the house of a grieving family and try to figure out why their seven year old daughter turned up inside out on the roof, we'll see how much coffee you need to escape the nightmares."

The young man set the form down and stood up. "Grant, I want to help out, but you can't write off any of this stuff! And you never saw an inside-out child."

"Well, no, not directly, but I've seen signs. Besides, I wrote this stuff off last year."

"How did you get this outrageous stunt past the IRS?"

"List the legit stuff first. After I give perfectly logical explanations for the infrared goggles, the funnel traps, the Plaster of Paris, the taser, and all those other things, they figure the other stuff must have simple explanations too and don't want to waste their time or mine."

The young man walked to the door and slid an arm into the sleeve of his jacket. "I can't be an accomplice to this felony."

Grant stood up. "Don't leave, Tucker. At least, don't leave angry. It's just been hard for me to make ends meet. I don't like asking for help. I wouldn't have if you hadn't offered."

"You're my friend. I won't be angry just because we disagree. I will visit you as often as I can in the federal prison. I can sympathize with your financial concerns, and as your friend, I will give you some advice. Look for a real job."

Grant closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and chuckled. "I'm being lectured by a kid half my age."

"I am not 'half your age.' I'm at least twice your wisdom. Listen, Grant. Everything I know about cryptozoology, I learned from you. You are great at that stuff, and it is fascinating, but it isn't a job. We might have a lot in common, but my infrared goggles are a personal expense."

"What exactly are you trying to say?"

"This is no job. If it was, I'd write up my resignation and do it full time. If you keep this up, the eating instant noodles and secluding yourself in your own thoughts, you're going to kill yourself."

"Thanks for your concern," Grant growled, "but I can take care of myself."

"Okay. See you at the meeting Saturday?"

"Sure."

After Tucker left, Grant set his tax forms aside. The kid just didn't get it. This was never just a hobby for Grant. It was a passion -- or it used to be. He didn't make money at it, that much the boy had gotten right, and it stung to have this truth revealed to him by some smart-ass kid. Grant wasn't angry at the boy's deadly accurate remarks; he was worried Tucker would pinpoint the real underlying truth. Grant didn't care anymore. Tucker saw him as a middle-aged cynic leading a dull existence, refusing to do anything worthwhile with his time. And this really was the truth. Grant didn't look for work. He didn't have a hobby. He had no real identity or talent at all. There had been a point in his life when Grant truly did believe in the paranormal, when he had passion. He would've taken real physical risks for the sake of the search and a day hadn't gone by without some exciting new discovery. If only Tucker had known him 15 years ago, he would have known that passion; Grant might have even inspired the arrogant upstart. But he didn't know that Grant. He only knew the middle-aged, dreamless man with memories and knowledge, but barely enough drive to cheat the IRS out of a little money with the vague job title of cryptozoologist.

Grant looked at a couple of the tabloids Tucker had brought him the day before. People were imaginative, he could give them that. At least they could con a few bucks out of "believers" like Tucker. That would have been a good field to pursue.

***

The stinging pain radiated through Connie's lower arm as she peeled away the bandage. The skin around the wound had turned several lovely shades of blue and green, like the palette of a painter of seascapes. She smiled to see it, the punishment of her carelessness. She should have learned better by now. Every day of her adult life was spent recovering from a semi-debilitating injury, and all of those could have been avoided. Connie rubbed ointment into the wound and then wrapped her arm with a fresh bandage. She washed her hands thoroughly as a silver-colored tabby cat circled her ankles. "Not now, Oberon. Mommy has to do some chores."

She removed a package of ground turkey the large fridge that stood in the corner of what she affectionately called her utility room. The room was nothing more a cement box in the back of her home that contained a hose, a sink, a microwave, and dozens of plastic drawers, boxes, and bins along with several empty bird and ferret cages. Connie dropped the chicken into a bucket and added to it some kibble from one of the plastic bins. There was a time when she mixed the food with her bare hands. She figured that people who were afraid to touch meat were wimps and whiners. But now, Connie used a wooden spoon. A week in bed with a fever had awarded her some caution in her habits, and she had pets to care for and couldn't risk getting sick again.

The stone path behind her house led past kennels and enclosures. She stopped in front of one and set the bucket on the frost-dusted grass. The small bronze-colored keys on the bracelet-sized loop were each labeled with a number or a name. This was Bobby's cage.

"I'm comin' in, Bobby." The bobcat's fur fluffed up, and he hissed and darted from his sunlit spot and was glaring down from a branch in half a second. "Awe, you are such a friendly half-wild psycho kitty. I brought you a delicious gourmet dinner."

"Great," a man said behind her. "I'm starved."

Connie set the bucket down and turned. The man standing behind her looked a little sweaty and was still wearing his scrubs. "Hi, Sean. What's the good word?"

"You're on the team."

"Really? I didn't think the good ol'boys network was going to let me go."

"I'm sure they didn't want to, but I spoke with Jeff and convinced him that they needed you and then I went into some legal stuff, about how you are the only one qualified in case there is a wild animal of some sort on the premises, so they begrudgingly agreed to tolerate you."

"I'm flattered."

"How's your arm?"

"As painful as I deserve." Connie sighed. "Lesson learned once again. Cats without claws still have teeth."

"Bobby doesn't seem to feel any remorse." Sean laughed.

"I think he likes being a bobcat more than a housecat."

They left together, and Connie locked the cage. "Now, for the other reason I came here." Sean reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a black velvet ring box. "I'm going to propose."

Connie smiled but she felt like she had swallowed a handful of rocks. She wanted to comment but was physically unable to speak.

"What? No comment? Come on Connie. I would love a pointer or two or at least a word of encouragement." He laughed nervously and opened the box. "It was the best I could afford. I'm no good at the romance stuff."

Connie glanced briefly at the ring. "Pointers? Well, don't mention the price of the ring."

Sean put the ring back into his pocket. "Yeah, I'm just nervous. I know I'm ready for this. I've been waiting a long time to meet someone, and I --" He blushed.

"You what?" Connie laughed.

"Nothing."

"Come on."

"I always wanted to get married someday." His voice drifted off whistfully and then he blurted, "I don't want to mess this up. I've got reservations at one of those fancy places -- I forget the name, but they have meals that are like $30 a plate or something. I'm going to shower and shave. I have a new cologne, but I'm not sure --"

Connie put her hand on his shoulder. "Becky is lucky to have you, and there is no way you could possibly mess up. If she really loves you, she would be as enchanted to receive a proposal from you in your dirty scrubs."

Sean hugged her, and Connie smiled and blushed at the touch. He smelled like antiseptic, and it was making her a little dizzy, but she didn't want him to let go.

"Thanks for that. I feel better, Connie. We'll have a big wedding. It'll be so great, and you have to come. I have to get home now."

"Good luck!" Connie called, as Sean left through the front gate.
Connie went inside, and her three-legged German Shepherd Dog mix followed her to her room. She sat on the foot of her bed and looked into the mirror on the vanity in front of her.

Damn him for making her feel that way! In a way, she was glad it was over. She had wasted so many years on childish infatuation, on hoping and wondering, on emotions distracting her from her purpose. And yet, "purpose" is self-defined. Why couldn't love and romance be a worthwhile purpose in life? God Himself had never appeared to Connie and said "This is your purpose. Do not stray." No, Connie had decided in childhood the sequence of events in her life. School, then college, grad school, a job helping animals, owning a home, being independent. That was all she really planned for. There was no next step and she had already accomplished her list. Maybe Sean should have been on the list somewhere.

Connie enjoyed helping animals and being independent. She had never felt unfulfilled. But when Sean was around, there was a different feeling altogether, a happy comfort. A comfort that had her so serene that she feared anything that could cause that sensation to end. But it always did end. Sean would have to leave, and she would miss him a moment, and then start working on something to push that memory to the back of her mind and heart. Damn that feeling! Without it, maybe Connie would have been able to tell Sean that she was interested in more than a friendship. She could have told him that day they met seven years ago in the vet clinic waiting room, when she had felt something familiar about him and had been instantly enchanted by his smile. She could have told him a few years later, on that stormy night when they had sat alone together in her garage while watching a fox recover from shock. She could have told him when they first met Becky, who was then no more than an acquaintance. All those times she could have said something, but was hushed by the fear of ruining a moment of that feeling. Now it was too late.

Connie stood up and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She had been coy for seven years, but surely if Sean felt some kind of attraction to her, he would have said something. If Connie had spoken up, she would have been rejected. Instead of having a romantic relationship, she could have lost a wonderful friendship. And there was no way Sean could have felt for her what she felt for him. He was always attractive and kind, and sensible, and Connie was just the crazy animal lady in town, sobbing over injured birds and wayward turtles. If a relationship was "meant to be," it would have come to her. She didn't need to be fantasizing about or seeking out a husband; she had her own life to live. Besides, with the two dogs and four cats, there simply was no room in her bed.

***

The red-haired girl jumped from the couch to her feet and let out a shrill shriek. "Kill it! Killitkillitkillitkillit!" In tears, she plastered herself against a wall.

Sean smiled, set down the light green serving plate he was drying, and wiped his hands on the dish towel. "I'm coming to the rescue, Becky." He dropped the damp towel and rushed to the couch where he set his hand flat in front of a small brown spider, nudging it with the other hand. Holding the spider, he walked to the door, opened it, and set the little critter on the ground.

Becky hugged him. "My hero!" She smiled, the light from the kitchen reflected off her sea green eyes. Sean blushed. She was so beautiful even though she was melodramatic sometimes. A car horn sounded outside, and Becky took her jacket off the hook by the door.

"Where are you going?" Sean asked, frowning.

"Out with some friends. Natalie got her first paycheck, and we have a whole night planned."

"But I had a night planned for the two of us. A romantic dinner, a walk in the park."

"We can do it later, can't we?"

"No, not really. I had to make reservations, and I might not have the nerve later to -- "

"Yo, Becks!" a guy outside yelled. "You comin'? Happy hour waits for no man."

As Becky turned to leave, Sean grabbed her wrist. "Marry me."

Becky froze; the color left her face. "What?"

Sean dropped to his knee. "Becky, I love you. Would you marry me?"

The horn sounded again. Becky pulled her hand away from Sean and grabbed her purse. "Sean, I -- "

Another loud honk come from outside. "Becks! What's the hold-up?"
Becky leaned down and kissed Sean on the cheek. "Of course I'll marry you, Sean. We'll talk about it when I get back." With that, she left and closed the door behind her.

Sean was a statue, kneeling unmoving on his matted orange carpet. She had said yes. He was engaged. It was what he had been wanting. He was going to be a groom. Where was that feeling he was anticipating? The floating? The bells? Shouldn't he feel differently now? Sean laughed at himself. "Silly romantic. Did I really expect music and magic?" He had expected music at least, soft lighting, wine. It would have been a special evening, but how trite and predictable! Surely, this was a fine moment too. After all, Sean didn't have to break the bank. Connie had been right. Becky didn't need blown away with romance. She accepted without a fancy suit, a nice dinner, wine, music, or even the ring. It was an outdated proposal design anyway.

His left calf suddenly knotted itself and he fell over in pain. As he went down, he reached for the coffee table to prevent the fall, but instead of holding himself up, Sean pulled a glass candy dish down with him. The dish landed with a loud crack on Sean's ankle, while the year-old peppermints scattered across the room. He lay still a moment. Death by engagement, that would be quite a headline. Surely he couldn't be getting as clumsy as Connie! "Connie would never forgive me if that happened," he chuckled. "She would pile heavy candy dishes on my grave as a reminder of my final stupidity."

Sean stood up on his uninjured leg and propped the other on the couch. He rubbed the tight muscle of his calf. "Kneeling is for young guys. Why did I do that?" His ankle was bright red with an indentation from the dish. It would be all kinds of colors in the morning, and swollen badly too if he didn't get ice on it right away. He had promised Connie to be outside cheering her on when she entered the house on Pinecone Drive, and he didn't want to let her down.

Sean hopped into the kitchen and got a plastic baggie from a top drawer. He then went for ice from the fridge. His one good foot, however, landed on a wet rag, and Sean slid across the slick linoleum. He reached for the handle of the fridge to stop his fall but missed and went backward, his head landing on a peppermint candy, the shards sticking fast to his short hair. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A small brown spider scampered across his nose.

gees!! poor sean!! he fell, and then fell again, and then again, and there were peppermints everywhere...
he's probably scarred for life now!!

Wow. Some good stuff going on here. Maybe we could get some kind of writing group together, a thinktank of sorts. I don't know. Just a thought.

Anyway, this a short prose work I penned after attending the funeral of a friend's father. Or rather, sitting outside the church that the friend's father's funeral was at-- I was too ashamed of myself to actually go in.

sovietturkey
Requiem. Sparrow.

As expected, the day was cloudy, but enough sunshine broke through the cover so as to imbue the air with an ambience of inauthenticity. Had the church been amiable to archetypes or even able to afford a steeple, bells surely would have hallowed the service and the cemetery with their hollow reverberations. Had miracles been worked, the dead would have walked, but neither bells nor miracles nor Christ were in attendance-- only the comers, some with cigarettes, others in suits, were present. They filled the sanctuary like the to-be-remembered filled his coffin, but one with purpose, and the other with... impatience. Words were said, words were spoken, and the pastor said and spoke words, but no one cared and fewer listened, either hoping the ember on the end of their nicotine sticks wouldn't singe their fingers or measuring the piles of ash at their feet--best described as their state of affairs and comparable to the dirt that mounted either side of the grave that was to be filled. Since no one listened, no one heard the stained glass windows, with the mouths of the figures in their frames open so as to promulgate a numerical value based on the quality of--judging them-- the requiem. Outside, a sparrow, appreciative, for having once been fed by the to-be-honored-but-ultimately-disrespected, and though already sated because of that, ate worms so as to combat the vacancy that eventually overcomes all graves. The bird provided a second viewing of sorts, but the observer, aghast, understood nothing of a funeral's nature.

Not the best, but thanks for reading it nonetheless.

Shaun

wow, nice sovietturkey! Very elegant voice, and I especially liked the syntax here:

sovietturkey
Words were said, words were spoken, and the pastor said and spoke words

for some reason that really struck me; it seemed to hint at the futility of verbal communication and stuff. by any chance did you read my first post on this thread? cause it's about a funeral too, coincidentally! it's only half of the story though-- it was a long-short-story for intermediate fiction.

heh, here's a poem I wrote... hm... apparently 5 days ago. As you can probably tell, it was a spur-of-the-moment poem, completely and utterly stream-of-consciousness. It's called Married!, but I assure you... I am not getting married. here's the description I wrote for it:

"I'm not really getting married. I was just listening to this awesome song called je t'aime and it was so impossibly romantic that for an instant I thought, maybe I am getting married..
and this poem is just me being like,
"my mind is so much more interesting than the real world! screw the real world!""

yeah.
here it is:

I
how can I write my paper
when I'm getting married?
there's a wedding to plan,
well, not too much planning-
we'll drive to the beach and
declare ourselves married
and not tell anyone.
it can be our secret

a glorious secret that itches to be told
like a plaster cast on a healthy arm

how can I focus on something
so mundane as literary analysis
when there's an orange sunset to run off toward?
pale sand cleaving to the soles of our feet,
and seashells, and buzzing radios,
seagulls sifting through trashcans nearby
and the rank stench of dead clams coming from the jagged rocks
their cracked clam-shells dotting the dark.

how can I pay attention to this silly boring world
when I'm getting married?

except I'm not. haha people on my poetry website didn't quite get it, apparently, because I got stuff like "...And weddings, what an event to plan. I understand, everything must be perfect. Afterall, this is your day is it not. " I was like, noo! it's not my day!! I'm NOT getting married!!! grr!! that's the whole point, is that I will never find happiness in external things! I am doomed to a depressing outward life, because nothing compares to the awesomeness of my daydreams!"

Cool poetry...

Since we continue sharing. Here's an piece (in Chapter 5 actually...) of a novel I've been slowly adding to for ten years. It is called Terra Serenity, which is the original name of the narrator (she was adopted and renamed).

To preface the passage:
Setting: Earth in the FUTURE...
Characters:
~The narrator is Terra Watson. Teenager. She's an orphan.
~Satellite is Terra's cat.
~Carmen McBride is her roommate, sucked into this whole thing because their apartment was broken into by guys with (future-y) guns looking for Terra. Another teen. No tragedy in her life or anything.
~Patrick Defender is a sworn protector for Terra's family (some sort of prophesy thingy). Also, a (very recent) orphaned teen.
Setup:
The girls visited Pat after finding his dad dying (and then, you know, dead) in an alley, which was after being chased from their apartment by murderous villains. Pat is taking them to his ship so they can start a long crazy journey. Terra refused to leave without both roommate and cat.

I
Young Mister Defender took us to the end of the hall, warning us to keep still, because his neighbors weren't the most understanding people, and his landlord was a monster. We tiptoed through the halls. Pat had me by the wrist with his right hand and held a handgun in the other. Carmen followed closely with Satellite in her arms.

The length of the silent walk was driving me crazy, and it felt like Pat's grip was cutting off the circulation to my fingers. It was a fairly large building, and the motorized walks had been turned off for the night. Thankfully, Carmen broke the awkwardness. "Why do we have to be so quiet? A lot of people have obnoxious landlords. How bad could he be?"

Pat stopped walking and turned to face her. "You misunderstood me. My landlord is a literal monster. He's an alien."

"From another planet?" asked Carm.

"No, he's not a resident of this dimension. He's an ALIEN. I think he had spies that watched Dad, and he never liked me much. Plus, he HATES strangers, so I suggest we stay quiet."

We turned and continued. I didn't like it, not at all. I wished I were back at the apartment, taking a nap. We sped up our pace, though almost unconsciously. Suddenly, Pat stopped.

"What's wrong?" I whispered.

He put his finger to his lips. Behind us, I heard the fleeting sound of footsteps that came to an abrupt halt when their producer realized we had stopped. Pat called down the dark hall, "Mr. Serpent?"

Suddenly, our pursuer hastened his gait. Pat lifted me up on his shoulders. "Quickly!" he exclaimed. "The ceiling panels open up. Climb up inside." I slid the panel aside, and Pat hoisted me up. Then, I took Pat by the arms and pulled him beside me. As I reached down to get Carmen, Pat said, "He's coming!" and pulled me back into the ceiling. Pat slid the panel back into place just as the white beam of a flashlight came into view down the hallway.

I squinted and watched between the panels. I was nauseous and sweating, fearful for my companion's well-being. On top of that, I could swear I had a sneeze coming on. The flashlight's glow played eerily on the man's stocky build and unshaven features. There was an unpleasant atmosphere about that man, a haunted, surreal feeling. The skin on his face was drawn tightly against his skull. Not a single wrinkle from laughter or worry or blemish showed on the man's pale complexion. He seemed heartless, emotionless, like a statue or robot. The man carried a thin, black flashlight in one hand and a high tech pistol in the other. When he noticed Carmen standing alone in the middle of the corridor, holding Satellite, twisting and wriggling in her arms, he lowered his gun.

"You're not a tenant," the man said in monotone. "What are you doing here? In your nightshirt no less?"

"I'm, uh-"

Think, Carmen, I thought.

"I'm visiting a resident."

"DEFENDER?" the man demanded.

"No!" Carmen made a short pause and said, "Moore." I let out an inaudible sigh. Good thinking. There was always a Moore.

"You're on the wrong floor."

"I was wondering why everything looks so unfamiliar."

"The curfew is midnight."

"I was unaware of that," replied Carmen, keeping calm.

They stood staring at each other for several seconds. Then, the landlord spoke again. "I heard the voice of one of my tenants coming from this hall. Did you happen to see a teenage boy? He's about five foot nine, one hundred and fifty pounds, dark hair, brown...

"No, sir," Carmen interrupted. "I'm the only one here, and I haven't heard or seen anything aside from a handful of rats and spiders."

"YOU LIE!" the man hissed.

Carmen took a step back and tightened her hold on Satellite who let out a short, high-pitched meow. The man loomed over my companion, threateningly, but Carmen stood her ground. "Listen to me, overweight guy with dragon breath. I don't lie. Either you are lying or one of us needs our hearing checked. With all due respect, it's late, and Mr. Moore is expecting me." Carmen turned away, but the landlord grabbed her shoulder.

"MISS Moore," he corrected, tightening his grip. The man's grimy nails dug into Carmen's shoulder and drew blood. Carm winced under the pain, and Satellite hissed at the villain. "I HATE intruders, especially liars, and pets are FORBIDDEN in this building!" The landlord's hold became even tighter until Carmen could no longer stand it. She released Satellite and collapsed to the floor. Hissing and spitting, the cat leapt upon the man's face. He, in turn, let go of Carmen to pry the feline off.

My heart nearly stopped. I saw the man reaching for his weapon. Pat saw my rage and tried to stop me, but it was too late. I knocked out the panel and tackled the landlord. Pat quickly followed. The boy pulled out his gun, and I heard the shot. Then, his landlord was motionless.

Oh, and Kristen, I'm rather cruel to all my characters. Nothing ever goes smoothly. And the nicer the person is, the worse luck they have. "Good guys" drop guns, trip over their feet, miss taxis, and every other thing that can happen. I have a story (alas, on notebook paper!) where a British guy rescues a kid from a facility in the USA, but in his gallant escape, enters the passenger side of the car -- the eight-year-old has to start the engine.

Kristen Gudsnuk
wow, nice sovietturkey! Very elegant voice...

Thanks!

Kristen Gudsnuk
by any chance did you read my first post on this thread? cause it's about a funeral too, coincidentally! it's only half of the story though-- it was a long-short-story for intermediate fiction.

I did. I really like your descriptions-- they're unexpected, if not unusual. Very original.

Nice work!

Here are three stories of mine. Feel free to offer criticism.

http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/user_id/lizardbite

I just stumbled across this poem I wrote a year ago... I like it though, even though it's old! and so morbid!! oh and the use of "ne'er" isn't me being snobby... it's just I needed one less syllable in those lines, and figured it was not much of a big deal. it's called "Never Fall in Love with a Trapeze Artist".

I
Never fall in love with a trapeze artist
She'll break her legs, and break your heart
She'll snap her neck like old, dried straw
Tear tendons all apart

Never fall in love with a trapeze artist
She'll soar and miss and die
If you're in love with a circus girl
She should have wings to fly

Or else she'll fall, oh, very young
And you'll be dragged down too
And all those songs shall ne'er be sung
And words, ne'er said to you.

oh ps: it's not supposed to be literal. XD