10/12/09 5:17pm

It's not done but here is a story I'm going to let some people read. If anyone else would like to post theirs too I would love to read them. I may actually make this into a comic. >:D

A Freaky Story About Butter (Butter?, An Attempt at Being Stephen King, etc.) by I am the 1337 Master (C)

A man walks into his house through the kitchen door with a large, dripping, red stain on his white dress shirt. He has had a long day at his work, a lawyer firm in the West Village of New York City-and at this work of his he was forced to fire his idiot secretary, a young woman, probably no older than twenty-three-he hadn't really checked her resume, just hired her on the spot, who had only desperately batted her eyes at his clients or had done that more than she ever filed any paperwork. He is stressed and needs some relaxation or something to take his stress out on. He could hear his wife in his study, loud music playing in the background, some kind of soft rock, a love mood inducer. Constantly he had told his wife not to go in his study, telling her that it was his room, but she would not listen, taking her own belongings in there and disorganizing his space. He is angry at her, the stress that came had come from that day's work is increasing his anger to a dangerous level. And the music-that loud, hated music that is blasting loudly from the speakers of his computer, a five thousand dollar laptop that she had already loaded up with worthless pictures of cats and multiple viruses pissed him off. Also, the fact that he was paying for everything in the house, including the house itself, started to come to his mind. He goes into his refrigerator, sorting through Wednesday's leftovers and a half gallon of slightly spoiled, whole milk-only spoiled by three or so days. He eventually finds what he is looking for next to a slice of molding American cheese. From the breadbox he grabs a loaf of whole grain Wonder bread, the type that he loves but his wife dreads. His wife is a lover of fatty white bread but he won't buy it, saying that it will eventually end up making her fat and miserable-a waste indeed, for his wife's body was one to die for, the lust of all the men in her workplace and of all his friends. He takes a butcher knife from the set his wife had gotten at the Pampered Chef meeting that one of her friends had had half a year ago. She had never used the knives; another waste of his money since her bills pays for nothing but the credit card debt from previous years. As he raises the knife to the light it glistens, a ray of light bouncing off his eye's pupil. He starts to walk to his study the shiny knife hidden behind his left arm, the blade against his flesh, almost cutting into it. He holds the package of bread in his other hand and the thing he got from the refrigerator in the pocket of his black dress pants. It begins to soften in his pocket as he opens the door. His wife looks up from her spot at his desk, her long legs in a pair of heart spotted pajama bottoms and one of his t-shirts that was much too big for her on her torso.
"Oh, hello Jason. How was your day?" He keeps his straight face but is furious at her carelessness. He would have to make her understand what she had done was wrong.
"Good, good, good," He holds up the bread, taking the butter out of his pocket. "Would you like some bread and butter?" He brings the knife up and down chopping off a few tablespoons of the butter and his wife's raised hand. His wife screams.

Those worthless cat pictures, I swear...

Sea_Cow
Those worthless cat pictures, I swear...

You like it?

I Am The 1337 Master

Sea_Cow
Those worthless cat pictures, I swear...

You like it?

It could have ended better, but it builds up pretty well and appeals to my un-fulfilled desire to rage at everyone around me.

Someone
It could have ended better, but it builds up pretty well and appeals to my un-fulfilled desire to rage at everyone around me.

Well it's not over yet. that's just the beginning of maybe 12 more pages. I haven't finished yet so...

Want another-got any of your own?

I think it could use more edits to eliminate redundancy, and maybe a funny punchline for an ending. It'd be a lot more effective if you build our expectations toward "he's gonna kill his wife" and then have him do something else as a twist.

This was a writing exercise from my last year in college. We chose one out of several vague scenarios and fleshed them out as short stories no longer than a couple pages. I think mine is a nice example of how to write dialogue (from one end of a conversation, anyway), so it could be helpful to fellow comic authors. I called it "One Hot Friday Morning", but I can't remember if that was my title or the scenario's title.

---------


“…Jim, it’s Helen. I need to talk to Maris.

“It’s urgent. I need to talk to Maris.

“Look, I’m serious! It’s really urgent, and it’s fuckin’ a hundred and ten outside and I’m in a real bad fuckin’ mood! Put her on right now or I’m gonna tell her why you were late to your anniversary, you punk!

“…Maris, it’s Helen. I got a problem.

“Yeah, I’m at the bank now and I’m waiting for you and the others. Everything’s set, but I have a problem over here. This…This guy keeps following me.

“I dunno, some fatass old gypsy and three grubby kids.

“He’s lookin’ for his cokehead wife, says she runs off two, three times a year and she always comes to Phoenix. She’s got an old boyfriend livin’ here or some shit. Their car broke down, and he’s fed up with the bitch, and the kids are hot and hungry and they all wanna go home.

“They’re only a few feet away. I can’t speak up or they’ll hear me.

“Yeah, three. Oldest looks like he’s about thirteen. All dressed like they shop at Hippies-R-Us. They follow him around like a flock o’ dirt-caked goslings.

“I was tryin’ to find a way to help out so they’d go away, y’know? How fuckin’ inconspicuous do I look sittin’ out here with a herd o’ gypsies followin’ me everywhere? But the oldest boy says his dad has a heart condition and the heat is agitatin’ it, and he and his brothers keep pesterin’ me about it ‘cos there ain’t nobody else out here yet. There’s two apartment complexes nearby and nobody’ll even open their doors for ‘em. The guy asked me for a lift but I ain’t drivin’ him and his spawn all the way to California spur o’ the moment, and I don’t have any cash to donate for a bus ride. I tried callin’ social services but they couldn’t do shit to help.

“No, they won’t leave. There ain’t another helpful soul for at least a mile ‘til that armored car shows up, and the ol’ goat won’t survive long in his condition. Miracle he’s alive now.

“Yes, they got a good look. Been pesterin’ me all fuckin’ morning. They could pick me out of a lineup, no sweat.

“You’re damn right we’re not calling it off. Ten fuckin’ million, Maris.

“Yeah, I know! I’m gonna, but somebody’ll hear the shots, and then there’ll be cops everywhere!

“Look, I’m gonna tell the kids my friend’s coming to help their dad. You show up a little early, and we’ll drive ‘em a coupla blocks and do it quiet. Dump ‘em anywhere — hell, leave ‘em in the van, as long as we’re ditchin’ it — then come back and do the rest.

“I know it’ll queer our timing, but it’s all we got. Car won’t be here for another twenty minutes.

“Okay. Hurry the fuck up.”

I like it. It's interesting that you can tell him or her are on the phone and that after every bit of quotation someone is responding. The gypsy part reminds me of Stephen King's (writing as Richard Bachman) Thinner. Probably because I finished reading it just a few days ago.

Butter is in it's first draft right now so I knew it'd have some flaws. I needed some peer editing to see it. This is probably my first horror short story and now because I've obviously become addicted to Stephen King, I'll probably be writing more. I've only been writing for about two years and compared to most people on this site I'm also pretty young-still a high schooler!

I guess I'll send out another story because I like how this forum is going and hope it will continue on a regular basis.

This is the 2nd chapter of a graphic novel I'm writing-only at its planning stage-and the only reason I'm not sending the first is because I don't know where it is.


There is a couch with a T.V. on and a man lying in front of it. The T.V. blasts out “Reports from our local authorities warn us all to look out for the mad professor and his unknown assistant with the metal arm…”

“Damn idiot,” the man on the couch says as he shifts his position. “Should just go up and fucking die,”

He enters his bathroom and puts on and puts shaving cream over the 5 o’clock shadow he has worn. Something moves in the background.

There is a reflection of a man holding a pistol in his right hand but a metallic one being his left.

“Where’s the money, Carl?” The man turns to face him.
“Oh fuck,”

A gunshot and a sound of metal cutting through flesh happen. A disembodied head rolls out of the bathroom. The person who shot him grabs the disembodied head grabs it with his blood red metal head.

The hand starts to morph into a shell around the head. He lets go and the head falls to the floor. “Damn,”

He picks up it with his right and there’s a knock on the door. He freezes. “Carl? Are you here?” It is a woman’s voice.

He drops the head on a table next to a roll of duct tape he pockets. He opens the peephole.

There is a…25 year old woman standing outside. He chuckles and licks his lips. “Yeah, I’m here,” he gruffly imitates.

“What was that noise” she asks intently. He opens the door and hides behind it. “Carl?” She steps in.

He blasts out from behind the door and locks it. “Hello.” he says with a sneer grin appearing on his face.

He knocks her down and rips off her shirt. She tries to fight but she cannot break free.

It gets late and all her ‘puny’ attempts have stopped. He moves off her cold, limp body to check his watch. He’s late.
“Sorry babe, I gotta’ go,” He zips his pants and plants his shirt on. “Nice raping you,” He grabs the head with his right hand and then exits the room.

Her duct-taped face loses all that’s left of the color and her eyes scream in total agony.


Once again this is only at the 1st draft stage but oh well-it's the first thing I found.

Ah, then it looks like your next step will be reading stuff written about Stephen King's work -- dissecting his themes and whatnot. That'll help you understand what he's doing and give you something to think about when you do your next writing project. Most people dismiss him as just a horror writer when he actually writes detailed character studies that just happen to be spooky half the time.

You shouldn't necessarily over-think your writing, but it helps to ask "so what?" when you're putting a story or a character together. Good horror is like good sci-fi: it serves a purpose, whether it's to act as a complex metaphor or just to show a situation that changes a character's worldview (or fails to). Another way to strengthen Butter (and keep it a straight horror story) could be to give us more depth to his rage build-up: maybe the protagonist is the sort who's always let everyone walk all over him, and has come away with crippling confidence issues, and the point of the story could be to show him finally snapping over something ultra-petty -- the feather that breaks the donkey's back.

The big thing about Butter is that I came up with it on the spot and didn't really think about details. I can hopefully fix it and make everything fit together.

I love the Characters that King creates because they always make you think that the most civilized of beings are not at all civilized. So far my favorite book by him is Needful Things, my favorite short story is Children of the Corn, and my favorite characters are Nettie Cobb (Needful Things) and Pennywise (IT).

I'll send another story later and I really appreciate that some people are using this thread. :)

I've noticed King's favorite things to do are have lots of flashbacks to when the characters were younger and something happened, but you never know what it was until late in the story when the present starts to unravel as well. He also likes to put little italicized parenthesized words to show what somebody is really thinking. An example from "It" that I remember pretty well went something like this:

She didn't have any problem with the blacks just as long as they didn't bother white
(women)
people.

Yeah, he does that all the time, making his style easy to see-thus the Bachman books didn't stay unknown under the penname. Sea Cow, if you have any you'd like to share-I know there's a difference between the ones you want to show and don't want to, believe me I have tons-then go ahead and share them. If you haven't noticed I love to use dashes.
I'm sending another story and guess what-it's st the first draft stage. This one's the first chapter of more of a fantasy story rather than a horror story. I guess I'm good with first chapters cus I don't have a ton of chapter two's. Would you guy's like to read a whole story-one I may publish some day?



He stood over a town of corpses, his blade glistening in dark scarlet and a heavy feeling on his shoulders. He hadn’t ever felt upset over one of his mass killings before but the frozen screams on his victim’s faces and the misshapen places the corpses were in displeased him greatly. He liked to do his work cleanly, not so there would be a mess to clean up. He took a few minutes to wonder if he’d leave the bodies as evidence. While looking into the distance, he realized that there were too many towns nearby and too much to leave behind that someone could trace back to him.
He was still clueless as to what he could do instead. Then he spotted the sanctuary candles lit brightly next to the church and smiled. He walked over to them and stared at the red and yellow lighting. Many were lit which meant many had come to pray that Sunday morning. The candles let out a strange smell; the heavenly aroma was disguising the hellish situation.
A sound of a door creaking rung out in the silence, making his ears perk, an interesting sound. He heard the patter of feet running away, so light a sound that a normal mortal would not have heard it. He heard because he wasn’t a normal mortal and his eyes spied the runner. It was a young girl, most likely one of the orphans the nuns there had looked after for she was too young to be a nun herself but wore the clothing they wore in a better looking fashion. In the moment he moved out of the shadows she turned around, saw him, and with fear obviously in her eyes, ran faster.
He was now angry; no one had ever made him have this much of a problem on his jobs before. By magic, he appeared in front of her, in front of her escape route. With one large slash of his sword he cut open her clothing, revealing her bear skin and knocking her back into the wall next to the church door and the candles. The attack hadn’t killed her and she began to rise, showing even more skin. The girl’s nakedness did not faze him, nor did it disturb his anger, he had learned to remove almost all of his emotions towards all. She was levitated into the air by his merciless, divine powers. He drew back his sword to plunge it into her heart a caught a glimpse of her face. A few strands of light brown hair hung over her face while dirt mixed with a small amount of blood smeared against her forehead. Her eyes were a tinted blue and her pupils were growing even larger than before. One actually might have called her a beautiful human. A small noise, almost so soft that he couldn’t understand it, escaped from her lips.
“Why?” She asked. “Why did you kill them? Why are you going to bring the same fate to me? I need to understand this,” She said it with a smile that accepted her death.
“I am being paid,” He told her and asked himself why he was telling her it. “There are no such things as Mercy and Love in this world anymore so I am being paid to induce the Fear and Destruction that are coming to power,”
“Do you know that there may be hope yet? Not for me, of course. If there was any hope for me then you would not be paid now would you, Ksoneal?”
She had known his name. He was scared to kill her now because not even his employers knew his name. Since they didn’t know and neither did the law even know of his existence, how could she? He took a step back, lowered her to the ground and yet she still smiled, maybe harder than before. Ksoneal took the girl and her smile as a threat. He threw her into the candles and the wooden church but not with a joy in his heart. Instead, his heart felt rage and discontentment.
“To the pits of Hell with you!” he muttered as her body was engulfed by flames.
Ksoneal turned away from the blazing inferno of what had used to be the church and sighed. The work had not been what he had expected. It had been exhausting, humiliating, and even a test of his skill over killing a young, harmless girl. In the end he had killed his enemy and thought that that was that. He realized how thirsty he had gotten and turned back to go raid the tavern but it was too late, the flames had set it on fire, not only from the candles but also the stoves in the old local’s houses had been left on making a giant crematorium. He thought of it as a pity, reminding himself to pick up rations before burning a village. Too bad, he thought. I could have used a drink at a time like this. He walked into the forest and his figure disappeared from sight. The Hell behind him burned on.

i sense Anger in you .

I don't have any anger to extremities but I look on the world in a pessimistic view every now and then. Love the fact that people are using this forum. To add to my love of horror-I'm reading Stephen King's (go figure) The Green Mile and I've also just finished a novel called the Ruins by Scott Smith. It's about a killer vine that thinks and the way a group of 20 year olds react to it. To add to the creepiness of my personality, I laughed numerous times while reading it. Especially when one cut herself to death and when the vine began to mimic their voices-"N4zi...Slvt...B1tch". GOOD BOOK.

Aw...people stopped using the thread. :(