The Short Story Thread.

[SamuelT]

I've got an action sequence, but don't expect much of it:

Spoiler: snip

The two warriors stood to face each other amidst a sea of chaos. Around them men fought and died. But Glenn could see her rival. The moment they locked eyes, she had known. This was their final confrontation. A soldier clad in red stormed at Glenn. She ducked under the blow and sliced open his chest. He sagged to the ground. Suddenly some smoke engulfed her, probably from the siege-fires. For a few moments, she couldn't see for two meters. When a gust of wind blew it away, she could see her rival storm at her, her sword held high and a dagger held low. Glenn smiled. Irene had always preferred fighting with two weapons. She carved a way through the soldiers. Glenn waited for her.

When Irene reached her she raised her blade and stabbed at her, trying to end this with a first and final blow. Irene sidestepped and hacked at her with the broadsword. Glenn parried and attacked at her left side. Irene didn't parry, but tackled Glenn instead. They fell to the ground, and Glenn got kicked by someone, probably another fighter. She threw Irene off her and stood. She drew a sharp breath when she couldn't find her sword anywhere. Irene advanced on her, grinning. Glenn looked around frantically, trying to find a weapon. any weapon

She saw a spear a few meters away, and she made a wild dash for it. Another red-clad soldier barred her way, but she punched him in the face with her armored fist. She picked up the spear and turned around, only to recieve a blow to the stomach. Glenn gasped for air and let the spear slip from her hands. Irene's dagger didn't penetrate her mail, but it still hurt. Irene stepped back to finish this with her sword, but Glenn didn't allow that. She stepped forward, grabbed Irene's wrist with one hand and wrested out the dagger with the other. While still holding Irene's wrist, she pulled her forward. Irene stumbled.

Glenn sank the dagger in her exposed throat.

Irene made a gurgeling sound before she fell to the earth. Glenn looked at her with a heavy heart. She didn't have time to mourn Irene's passing though...

She had some gods to overthrow.

(It's a part of something larger.)

Quite nice, I like it, but I think the general use of language could be slightly better. I won't go into specifics, save for the final paragraph. I think that could probably be got rid of, you could just say something like "She died", although obviously not that simple. That exact sentence I suggested would make it worse, but something along those lines. I think "gurgling" is a pretty odd use of language at that point given the style so far. Overall, pretty impressive though, just needs tweaking a little bit.

Actually, I just made it up right now. But since you 'like it' I'll try to fit it into my story..

 

[Trivun]

Spoiler: Here's my short story

The end

That was indeed a short story.

I already posted a short story in another thread, am I allowed to repost it here?

EDIT: That is a yes! Anyway, this is a fable. I think.

Spoiler: snip

Gather around. There is a story to be a told. It is about a turtle.

Not just any turtle, a red turtle. Or to you colorblind people a green turtle. I don't care about your problems. Anyway, the red/green turtle was doing turtely things in a turtle-like fashion when he noticed something odd.

There was a plant in the middle of a white room. The plant wasn't odd, the room was. He had never been inside of a room before. But he quickly forgot this, as he is a turtle, and slowly creeped up to the plant.

"Hello", said the turtle.
The plant didn't reply.
"Hello", said the turtle.
The plant stared at him.
"Why are you staring Mr. Plant?"
Wind chimes outside the white room began their song, and the plant waved.
"Hello", said the turtle.

The turtle then ate the plant. And the room. And the wind chimes. Soon he came to be a size that rivaled that of other large things that people usually think about it such as elephants or those large exercise balls that people claim to use for "fixing their back" but we all know they just want to bounce on them because they are possibly the best most bounciest items to bounce on ever.

Turtles don't bounce. I've tried.

The turtle knew this, without thinking about it. He has no knees, so he cannot jump and thus cannot find himselve in the situation that neccesitates bouncing.

No knees. Like an elephant.
The elephant that challenged him. He was a pink elephant, and looked like the turtle if the turtle was an elephant. And pink. But the turtle wasn't. So he didn't look like the elephant. The elephant knew this, and this enraged him.

But he did nothing. The turtle too, did nothing.

And that is why we water our plants. To avoid feeding them to the turtle in the white room. Fin.

Haha, that is really good Absolutely loved it, it's strange and surreal yet oddly compelling. Very well written with a distinctively unique style, very good Well done.

 

[Delicious]

Spoiler: Here's my short story

The end

That was indeed a short story.

I already posted a short story in another thread, am I allowed to repost it here?

EDIT: That is a yes! Anyway, this is a fable. I think.

Spoiler: snip

Gather around. There is a story to be a told. It is about a turtle.

Not just any turtle, a red turtle. Or to you colorblind people a green turtle. I don't care about your problems. Anyway, the red/green turtle was doing turtely things in a turtle-like fashion when he noticed something odd.

There was a plant in the middle of a white room. The plant wasn't odd, the room was. He had never been inside of a room before. But he quickly forgot this, as he is a turtle, and slowly creeped up to the plant.

"Hello", said the turtle.
The plant didn't reply.
"Hello", said the turtle.
The plant stared at him.
"Why are you staring Mr. Plant?"
Wind chimes outside the white room began their song, and the plant waved.
"Hello", said the turtle.

The turtle then ate the plant. And the room. And the wind chimes. Soon he came to be a size that rivaled that of other large things that people usually think about it such as elephants or those large exercise balls that people claim to use for "fixing their back" but we all know they just want to bounce on them because they are possibly the best most bounciest items to bounce on ever.

Turtles don't bounce. I've tried.

The turtle knew this, without thinking about it. He has no knees, so he cannot jump and thus cannot find himselve in the situation that neccesitates bouncing.

No knees. Like an elephant.
The elephant that challenged him. He was a pink elephant, and looked like the turtle if the turtle was an elephant. And pink. But the turtle wasn't. So he didn't look like the elephant. The elephant knew this, and this enraged him.

But he did nothing. The turtle too, did nothing.

And that is why we water our plants. To avoid feeding them to the turtle in the white room. Fin.

Haha, that is really good Absolutely loved it, it's strange and surreal yet oddly compelling. Very well written with a distinctively unique style, very good Well done.

Thanks! It was originally apart of http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/18.107104?page=1 , which was a "Make up a story on the spot" thread. Kinda odd when you technically have unlimited time to write, it being on a forum and all.

 

[Baby Tea]

Well to join in, and to also add little self plugging, I've started an episodic short story based on a character of mine in Oblivion!
You can see them all here!

Any feed back here, or in the story thread, would be great! I'm always looking to get better!

 

[Flying-Emu]

This was my submission for the Escapists' Fiction Issue. Since I sent it in almost a month ago and have not received so much as a "Thank you, your submission has been received", I figure it's safe to post here.

Enjoy. I'm always on the lookout for critique of my work; please, if you have the time, give me what you can.

Spoiler: Obedience: A short story by Tyler J. Morgan

Spoiler: Disclaimer:

This piece is the intellectual property of Tyler J. Morgan (Also known as Flying-Emu on www.escapistmagazine.com and www.deviantart.com) and may not be reproduced or altered in any way without the explicit written permission of the author.

"Mr. Martin, the news shall be on soon!?

Mr. Martin woke from his half-sleep to his wife?s call. Mrs. Martin always made sure to view the news when Martin was awake. With a thick yawn, he stood from his rough cot and wearily trudged to the Information Wing.

Mrs. Martin nodded casually as Mr. Martin walked beside her down the blank, gray-walled hallways to the Wing. They did not speak as they walked. The hallway soon opened into a wide foyer, filled with rows of rickety wooden chairs. Mr. Martin strode off towards the men?s seating, Mrs. Martin towards the women?s. The room quickly filled with skeletal men and women. They did not speak. They sat silent, still, staring at the massive screen before them.

All at once, a great buzzing filled the room. As one, the men lifted their heads, opening their jaws and letting loose a low hum. As the sound reached its peak, the women?s higher voices rose in staccato bursts, filling the hall with a piercing howl. The floor shook and chairs creaked with the force of the roar.

The lights flashed wildly and the wild call abated. The great screen came to life, sending bolts of fire into the enraptured crowd. The light singed their clothing, the jets of fire fried away their hair. Once again the hum grew.

Slowly, the screen filled with a man seated at an oaken desk. The sight of his rumpled clothes and bulbous face drew elated gasps from several of the attendees. His disarrayed hair, stained and broken teeth and his boil-ridden face were known well to the Martins and their companions.

A rough cough from the blemished man silenced the group. Their eyes widened in awe, their mouths dropped. Several drooled into thick pools along the floor. A sense of unease flicked across Mr. Martin?s mind, quickly brushed away by the man?s commanding voice.

?Good day, Citizens.?

The men and women chorused ?Good day, O great Informer!?
Shifting sheets of paper, the Informer clasped his hands together upon the table as he said ?Citizens, a tragedy has befallen us. Performer Tasha was found slain over the night,? Wails of despair from the women nearly overrode the Informer?s amplified voice. ?beaten, mutilated, and beheaded. Her assaulter is described as a small woman with auburn hair. All fitting this description are to be disposed of.?

The doors clanked open and a pair of men entered. Shining helmets hid their eyes from the ignorant crowd. They hefted heavy clubs upon their shoulders, electric pulsers rested at their hips. They stood motionless by the doors, seemingly oblivious of the actions of the group.

The Informer nodded towards them. ?The Leader has asked me to convey a message. Unit Martin-six-eight-seventy-three is to report to Dome Primus for a meeting with the Leader.?

Mr. Martin blinked. Six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three was his designation. He was to meet with the Leader; the man who commanded their lives and held the Informer and the world in his sway.

The Informer?s body was wracked with coughs, wrenching Martin from his thoughts. Doubled over amidst the cries from the group, the Informer quickly recovered, returning to his previous position without flourish. His voice, in a bare monotone called forth. ?We are legion, for We are Many. None stand before Us. We are legion, for We are Many. None stand before Us.?

The crowd took up the chant with fervor, screaming until their faces grew red with effort. As the walls reverberated with their worship, the armored men filtered between the hard wooden seats. They mercilessly beat four women. All small, with auburn hair. Their screams were inaudible against their companion?s fanatic cries.

Suddenly, the screen flickered to black against the lamented cries of the crowd. Mr. Martin watched as his brothers and sisters rushed forward and beat their heads and fists against the wall. They desperately begged for the Informer to return, for the chant to begin anew. The women soon joined, swelling against the wall. The wave rolled back and forth, sending vibrations through Mr. Martin?s body. Men and women were left unmoving when the ocean of men retreated.

The crowd slowly filtered from the great foyer. Tears flowed freely from several eyes, including Mrs. Martin?s. She and Mr. Martin trudged with a group of men to the Dormitory Wing. Slipping into his cot, Mr. Martin was soon fast asleep.

The morning bell drew Mr. Martin to consciousness. He walked with the other men to the Energy Hall, where they each were delivered a shot. They were informed that it was a serum of nutrients vital to life. They pressed onwards to Dressing and were soon donned in their colourless smocks.

As the other men trudged to their respective labor room, Mr. Martin walked quickly down a black hall adjacent to the Dormitory Wing. As he walked, jets of steam and blasts of hot water speckled his face until he came to a black metal door. Bracing his shoulder against the steel, Mr. Martin pressed with all of his might.

The door creaked open and Mr. Martin was slammed with boiling hot air. He raised his arm as a shield against the dust-laden air and pressed forward, digging his heels into the craggy earth. Flecks of stone tore at his emaciated body and thin smock as he walked, his grimy hair flying wildly behind him.

Mr. Martin walked for what seemed like eternity. The storm at last abated, leaving his skin raw and his legs sore. He lowered his arm and saw nothing but desolated earth and the shining steel of domes. Orange dunes surrounded him, rising higher than even the dome he had left. Sand whipped off their crests into a dance with the wind.

At length Mr. Martin reached his destination. The sun beat white-hot against his bare neck as he rapped his knuckles against the steel door. He inhaled deeply, bellowing ?Unit, Martin-6873, requesting entrance to Dome Primus!?

A thin rod darted forward, injecting a long needle into Mr. Martin?s arm. He focused on keeping his face blank; a single wince and he would not be admitted. The injection filled his body as an automated voice spoke, its dulcet tone both calming and chilling Mr. Martin?s bones. ?Unit, Martin-6873. Admitted for counsel with Leader. You may proceed.?

Mr. Martin grimaced as the needle slowly withdrew. He bowed to the rod as the door ground open. He stepped swiftly through as a zephyr of wind heralded the storm?s renewed fury.

He stood before a great door, gilded in gold and symbols unknown to Mr. Martin?s eye. His heart raced as he slowly advanced and placed his hand against the steel. A rasping voice was faintly heard through the door. ?Enter? my child.?

Pushing wide the door, Mr. Martin was assaulted with splashes of purple and green. The room was laden with objects of gold and silver, drapes of the brightest colour upon the wall. Centered in the room was a bed gilded with gold, weighed down with a corpse.

A chill ran across Mr. Martin?s spine as a voice like sandpaper echoed ?Come? my son.? He advanced warily, noting the corpse?s slowly rising chest and creakingly slow movements. Mr. Martin kneeled by the bed, placing his palm over the Leader?s. ?My son?? the Leader gasped, his sunken eyes rolling to regard Mr. Martin. ?You? have come. I?ve? not much time? to tell you. You are? my heir, child? you must? overcome? the??

A crash signaled a familiar man?s entrance to the room. His blemished face and broken teeth were known well to Mr. Martin. The man towered over the bed with hunger in his eyes as he said ?Well, great Leader. It?s time to name your heir.?

The Leader?s face contorted in pain as he leaned upwards and grasped towards the Informer. His breath was ragged as he rasped ?You?ll never? have my place? traitor!?

The Informer laughed as the Leader fell back against the bed, breath whispering past his lips no longer. Mr. Martin sat silently, watching the Informer?s laughter. At last, the man turned and regarded Mr. Martin. ?Oh. I suppose you have been named his heir. Am I incorrect??

Mr. Martin shook his head blankly as the Informer crossed the room. He kneeled beside Mr. Martin, wrapping his arm around Mr. Martin?s shoulders. Martin felt a spasm of cold across the nape of his neck as the man hissed. ?That was to be my title, Citizen.?

Mr. Martin gulped. ?I apologize, great Informer. It was not my -?

?No,? the Informer interjected ?It was not your fault.? Mr. Martin felt steel press against his ear. ?Neither was this.?

A click, a band, and a splatter of blood.

The Informer stood, brushing gore from his face. ?I?m sorry you got in the crossfire, child. But I?ll not be ruled by one who is not loved by the people. At last I, knowledge, the giver of life, the lens the world is perceived through, at last I rule.?

Mrs. Martin had begun to worry. Her husband had not returned from labor that day. Deeply troubled, she hardly noticed as she was shepherded into the Information Wing. She looked up to the screen as the Informer began.

?The Leader has passed, my children.? His voice carried grief unshared by the people below him. ?He has been slain by a man known as Martin as the Leader named me heir.? Eyes shot towards Mrs. Martin as the Informer continued. ?Henceforth, in honor of our great Leader, I decree that bearing the name of Martin shall be an offense punishable by death.?

Hands tore at Mrs. Martin, her screams drowned by the rising chant. ?We are legion, for We are Many. None may stand before Us.?

 

[Lord_Ascendant]

My short stories are about 20-25 pages long and I would hate to wall-o-text you guys to death. Request my stories via PM. thx.

 

[Fairee]

I wrote this about three years ago now. Its still pretty good I think.

I call this short story: The Beast

Spoiler

Peter looked lovingly into her eyes. Her name was Hannah, and she has been with him all his life. But she was not his, she never was. Like a possessed monster he could not stop himself looking deeply into the cavernous eyes, as if he was searching for something in the dark he did not want to miss a single detail. He leaned his head closer to hers and gently kissed her right cheek. She did not respond, nor did she even breathe, she remained as motionless and as unknowingly happy as before. In a deep rage he threw the photograph to the floor.

In all his achievements up to his current age, he was defeated by himself. A shy man embarrassed by the feelings he had for his colleague, he would never approach her, for fear of rejection, a fear greater then the terrible beast which made him famous. A strong man of thirty five, he was always one for adventure; the prospect of it excited him. At the age of twenty seven he joined a group of adventurous people, such as himself on an expedition which brought him his fortune.

The letter which accompanied the picture was reason enough for any man to be nervous. There was going to be a press conference and party celebrating the find of the century, his find. As much as he tried to convince himself as he got dressed into his best suit that it was not Hannah, but the public which brought him to New York, he could not stop the scene playing out in his head. He would go up to her and ask her for a dance and she would take his hand. He grabbed his expensive aftershave and slapped it on. More of the film began to play in front of him. The fearless man and his team were scouting the woodlands, searching for the beast of legends, the Unicorn. He recalled one time when he was alone with her. He laughed at himself for being the spineless coward. When it came down to it the lion was no more than a cat.
?When I came on this treasure hunt I was expecting something more productive to be happening.?
?Surely the prospect of finding the great stallion of legends, the one who matches the strands of hair we found is productive!?
?It has been almost a year; we cannot simply find this beast with our eyes.?
?Then why are you here? Like me is it the prospect of finding such a beauty and sharing it with the world??
?I do not wish to profit from this experience, I value the company you have given me during this time.?
?The constant bickering??

Calling for his limo he viewed the sacrifice he made for what he thought was true happiness. The glorious prison he called home, it was dark so the delicious marble and brick was not quite visible as he climbed into his chariot. The warm glow of love emitting from the windows calmed him slightly as his driver took him towards the press conference. Referring back to his pre-written speech, he now began to see the knife sticking out of his dead body. He had plenty of chances to ask her out, why would this time be different? They may not have seen each other for six years, but he was the same old mute wanting to express his feelings through speech. His brow began to sweat and his leather seat began to feel uncomfortable, he was shaking more than a pair of maracas.
?Marcus pull over!? He shouted with all his might and his driver did as he was told.

Peter began to open his door, the child lock prevented him from doing so. He bashed and roared at his new prison, doing his best to break free, like the creature he captured. After what seemed like an eternity Marcus opened the door and the free man clambered out. He knelt on the cold pavement and cried. Muttering ?I cannot go on? over and over. Marcus placed his hand on his master's shoulder. As much as he wanted to accept the comfort he could not. Marcus' love was not real, like Hannah's might be, he was but a man earning his money as best as possible.
?Sir, we are making good time, please tell me what ails you, so that we may continue your ride!?

?It told me Marcus! As much as I want to forget the voice... it told me!?
Marcus lifted him up to his feet and led him back to the limo.
?Sir, as you know there is your stash of Whisky in your compartment. Please drink some and calm yourself before your big night in front of the press!?

The limo began its journey once more as Peter hunted for his drink. He pounced and sucked as much of it dry as possible, gasping only for short breaths. He ordered Marcus to stop once more and he let as much of the demon to leave his stomach as he could. The final installment of the journey did not last long, and soon he reached the red carpet he sought all his life. Marcus wished him good luck as he stepped out to the cheering crowds. Their love for him made him feel better. The Unicorn however, did not.

He waved to them and signed autographs, the one who captured the Unicorn, thus proving its existence to the world. Finally making it to the press conference he halted; hunters were everywhere. The paparazzi where everywhere, and in the centre of the camp was his game. A white mare with a diamond horn, glittering on her right hand.

Just like the chilling voice told him as he captured the poor beast.
?To capture a grace as me is a terrible thing. I curse you in that you will become rich from me, but thou art lonely in a life only of riches. The person you care for shall find new love and live on!?
He laughed and spat at the beast then, but now as he saw Hannah, she had indeed moved on and was married to another man, he realised the truth now. He never hunted the Beast, for the beast was him.

First of all, I'll just say that normally I read something, go yay or nay, and move on. So sorry if this critique isn't as well thought out and explained as some of the others....

I think the way you brought the main character to life was brilliant. The descriptions helped the idea of him being the beast, phrases like him pouncing on the drink, and considering his home a prison, showed the animal side, and yet there was the sensitive side, and his love for Hannah. You also used descriptions well generally, and they added to the story, rather than detracting from it. The ending was well thought out, and reading back through a second time it still made sense and linked back with what he said earlier to the driver.

At this point, I'd like to offer some constructive crticism, but the most I could find was one "h" added in were. So overall, well done, and maybe we could see something else, a bit more recent?

Ok, seeing as no one was interested in this thread, I'll use it to unleash some of my darker thoughts. I'll even spoiler it so that those who thinks "oh great, she's depressed again" can completely ignore it.

Spoiler: My story. Hope it's not too dark.

Sat here, all alone once again. Dreaming, remembering, how long it seems to have been. Lonely, desperate, longing to move on....
It's all his fault really. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. This time, I can blame him, say it's all his fault and otherwise I wouldn't be here. I told him to drop it, to leave me alone. He just kept pushing, what's wrong, tell me about it. He can be so persuasive at times. Or maybe I'm just weak....
Sadly tonight no one will notice. The parents are in bed, and I never know whether Joe's around or not. He could be in his room, avoiding us again, engrossed in his games. Or he could be at a mates house. A late gig, or hanging out at the pub, any excuse at all....
Stroking the metal gives me a strange thrill. It's terrifying, the thought of what I'm about to do. But also such a brave leap, a decision which takes determination and courage. I'm shaking with nerves, but I'm going to do it. There's no other option....
The knock on the door scares the life out of me. I stuff my precious possession under the blankets, and move to the edge of the bed. "Hello?"
"It's me, sis. Mind if I come in?"
Joe may have asked, but I don't have a choice. He walks in before I can answer, we always do. The light floods in from the hallway, his tall broad figure casting a shadow across my room. "What?"
He kneels before me, tears glistening from the candles I always light. He takes my hands in his, and seems to hold on for dear life. Like somehow he knows....
After a moment, he regains his composure. "I know what today is, Sam. I know what you're planning to do."
I snorted with laughter. "You know, do you? You know what it's like, losing the one person who means everything to you? You know how much it hurts, that they were betrayed by your own brother?"
He's nervous now. He only ever stutters when he's nervous. "I-I-I'm sorry, Sam, really I am. You-you never told me. A-and nei-either did he...."
"This isn't about me," I told him, cold and heartless.
He sniffed. "It isn't? I thought, well, it's j-just you...."
"You thought I fell apart, didn't you? You thought I couldn't cope with him going. You thought that I was going to do the same."
He nods, and looks down, too ashamed to even look me in the eye. But I grab his face and make him. The tears are falling, thick and fast, but I don't care. I never cared.
"He was your best mate, Joe. He trusted you. He always did exactly what you said. You knew he couldn't cope without you. And still, you played with him like a puppet."
He sniffs. "That knife isn't for me. It isn't because I can't cope with what he did." I draw it out from under the covers, and pull him towards me. I drop my voice to a whisper, so he barely hears me say, "It's because I can't cope with what you did." Then before he can work it out, the knife is across his neck and he's gone.
I grab the bag from my bed and run. Down the stairs, out the door, then keep on going. Finally, I'm free.

I have to say I really like this. It's interesting and draws you in, and I like that we never find out the true backstory, it gives a great hint of mystery and adds to the darkness surrounding the rest of the plot. Well written, realistic language and great characters. Given it's a short story, it's good that it focuses on one particular part of these events. It's like, I do film-making as a hobby and I've learned through the society at university that a short film needs to be like a single scene or cutaway part of events. It needs to get to the point straight away and not waste time making the characters or the backstory more evident, as this wastes time. It's OK in a proper feature length production, but not for a short movie. And the same goes for short stories. You definitely hit the nail on the head with this one and I was really impressed by the tone and the mood, as well as the writing in general. Very good work, keep it up .

EDIT: I'll probably come up with my own short story for this thread eventually, but I don't have time yet as I need to do my coursework now (Half past eleven and I still haven't done most of it, and it's due tomorrow afternoon - damn...).

Having read this, I have to be honest and admit that the story got written in about ten minutes when I was depressed. Normally, I would overdo it with the back story and I was really surprised how this turned out. I think the idea of a 2000 word limit was on my mind the whole time, so I just got to the point. Also I just typed it straight out, normally I re-read and over analyze my work and make so many changes that it ends up totally different.

As for some of your work, it would be good to read as you sound like you understand about stories and writing. No rush, coursework is more important. But when you're ready....

 

[JC175]

I could paste in my 8000 word major work that I toiled on for over a year (final school exams) if anyone's interested. But it'd be damn hefty.

I'm quite proud of it though. It's about a paramedic and a police officer, and how their lives intertwine through their meeting in a horrendous event.

EDIT: Actually, fuck it, I'm doing it. A PDF link is on its way, anyone that's dedicated enough to read it all gets a cookie.

EDIT 2: Here [http://www.fileden.com/files/2008/11/22/2197020/Mirror%20Sessions.pdf] we go. Let me know if you get through it, or get any enjoyment whatsoever from it.

 

[Trivun]

Spoiler: Massive Snip

I wrote this about three years ago now. Its still pretty good I think.

I call this short story: The Beast

Spoiler

Peter looked lovingly into her eyes. Her name was Hannah, and she has been with him all his life. But she was not his, she never was. Like a possessed monster he could not stop himself looking deeply into the cavernous eyes, as if he was searching for something in the dark he did not want to miss a single detail. He leaned his head closer to hers and gently kissed her right cheek. She did not respond, nor did she even breathe, she remained as motionless and as unknowingly happy as before. In a deep rage he threw the photograph to the floor.

In all his achievements up to his current age, he was defeated by himself. A shy man embarrassed by the feelings he had for his colleague, he would never approach her, for fear of rejection, a fear greater then the terrible beast which made him famous. A strong man of thirty five, he was always one for adventure; the prospect of it excited him. At the age of twenty seven he joined a group of adventurous people, such as himself on an expedition which brought him his fortune.

The letter which accompanied the picture was reason enough for any man to be nervous. There was going to be a press conference and party celebrating the find of the century, his find. As much as he tried to convince himself as he got dressed into his best suit that it was not Hannah, but the public which brought him to New York, he could not stop the scene playing out in his head. He would go up to her and ask her for a dance and she would take his hand. He grabbed his expensive aftershave and slapped it on. More of the film began to play in front of him. The fearless man and his team were scouting the woodlands, searching for the beast of legends, the Unicorn. He recalled one time when he was alone with her. He laughed at himself for being the spineless coward. When it came down to it the lion was no more than a cat.
?When I came on this treasure hunt I was expecting something more productive to be happening.?
?Surely the prospect of finding the great stallion of legends, the one who matches the strands of hair we found is productive!?
?It has been almost a year; we cannot simply find this beast with our eyes.?
?Then why are you here? Like me is it the prospect of finding such a beauty and sharing it with the world??
?I do not wish to profit from this experience, I value the company you have given me during this time.?
?The constant bickering??

Calling for his limo he viewed the sacrifice he made for what he thought was true happiness. The glorious prison he called home, it was dark so the delicious marble and brick was not quite visible as he climbed into his chariot. The warm glow of love emitting from the windows calmed him slightly as his driver took him towards the press conference. Referring back to his pre-written speech, he now began to see the knife sticking out of his dead body. He had plenty of chances to ask her out, why would this time be different? They may not have seen each other for six years, but he was the same old mute wanting to express his feelings through speech. His brow began to sweat and his leather seat began to feel uncomfortable, he was shaking more than a pair of maracas.
?Marcus pull over!? He shouted with all his might and his driver did as he was told.

Peter began to open his door, the child lock prevented him from doing so. He bashed and roared at his new prison, doing his best to break free, like the creature he captured. After what seemed like an eternity Marcus opened the door and the free man clambered out. He knelt on the cold pavement and cried. Muttering ?I cannot go on? over and over. Marcus placed his hand on his master's shoulder. As much as he wanted to accept the comfort he could not. Marcus' love was not real, like Hannah's might be, he was but a man earning his money as best as possible.
?Sir, we are making good time, please tell me what ails you, so that we may continue your ride!?

?It told me Marcus! As much as I want to forget the voice... it told me!?
Marcus lifted him up to his feet and led him back to the limo.
?Sir, as you know there is your stash of Whisky in your compartment. Please drink some and calm yourself before your big night in front of the press!?

The limo began its journey once more as Peter hunted for his drink. He pounced and sucked as much of it dry as possible, gasping only for short breaths. He ordered Marcus to stop once more and he let as much of the demon to leave his stomach as he could. The final installment of the journey did not last long, and soon he reached the red carpet he sought all his life. Marcus wished him good luck as he stepped out to the cheering crowds. Their love for him made him feel better. The Unicorn however, did not.

He waved to them and signed autographs, the one who captured the Unicorn, thus proving its existence to the world. Finally making it to the press conference he halted; hunters were everywhere. The paparazzi where everywhere, and in the centre of the camp was his game. A white mare with a diamond horn, glittering on her right hand.

Just like the chilling voice told him as he captured the poor beast.
?To capture a grace as me is a terrible thing. I curse you in that you will become rich from me, but thou art lonely in a life only of riches. The person you care for shall find new love and live on!?
He laughed and spat at the beast then, but now as he saw Hannah, she had indeed moved on and was married to another man, he realised the truth now. He never hunted the Beast, for the beast was him.

First of all, I'll just say that normally I read something, go yay or nay, and move on. So sorry if this critique isn't as well thought out and explained as some of the others....

I think the way you brought the main character to life was brilliant. The descriptions helped the idea of him being the beast, phrases like him pouncing on the drink, and considering his home a prison, showed the animal side, and yet there was the sensitive side, and his love for Hannah. You also used descriptions well generally, and they added to the story, rather than detracting from it. The ending was well thought out, and reading back through a second time it still made sense and linked back with what he said earlier to the driver.

At this point, I'd like to offer some constructive crticism, but the most I could find was one "h" added in were. So overall, well done, and maybe we could see something else, a bit more recent?

Ok, seeing as no one was interested in this thread, I'll use it to unleash some of my darker thoughts. I'll even spoiler it so that those who thinks "oh great, she's depressed again" can completely ignore it.

Spoiler: My story. Hope it's not too dark.

Sat here, all alone once again. Dreaming, remembering, how long it seems to have been. Lonely, desperate, longing to move on....
It's all his fault really. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. This time, I can blame him, say it's all his fault and otherwise I wouldn't be here. I told him to drop it, to leave me alone. He just kept pushing, what's wrong, tell me about it. He can be so persuasive at times. Or maybe I'm just weak....
Sadly tonight no one will notice. The parents are in bed, and I never know whether Joe's around or not. He could be in his room, avoiding us again, engrossed in his games. Or he could be at a mates house. A late gig, or hanging out at the pub, any excuse at all....
Stroking the metal gives me a strange thrill. It's terrifying, the thought of what I'm about to do. But also such a brave leap, a decision which takes determination and courage. I'm shaking with nerves, but I'm going to do it. There's no other option....
The knock on the door scares the life out of me. I stuff my precious possession under the blankets, and move to the edge of the bed. "Hello?"
"It's me, sis. Mind if I come in?"
Joe may have asked, but I don't have a choice. He walks in before I can answer, we always do. The light floods in from the hallway, his tall broad figure casting a shadow across my room. "What?"
He kneels before me, tears glistening from the candles I always light. He takes my hands in his, and seems to hold on for dear life. Like somehow he knows....
After a moment, he regains his composure. "I know what today is, Sam. I know what you're planning to do."
I snorted with laughter. "You know, do you? You know what it's like, losing the one person who means everything to you? You know how much it hurts, that they were betrayed by your own brother?"
He's nervous now. He only ever stutters when he's nervous. "I-I-I'm sorry, Sam, really I am. You-you never told me. A-and nei-either did he...."
"This isn't about me," I told him, cold and heartless.
He sniffed. "It isn't? I thought, well, it's j-just you...."
"You thought I fell apart, didn't you? You thought I couldn't cope with him going. You thought that I was going to do the same."
He nods, and looks down, too ashamed to even look me in the eye. But I grab his face and make him. The tears are falling, thick and fast, but I don't care. I never cared.
"He was your best mate, Joe. He trusted you. He always did exactly what you said. You knew he couldn't cope without you. And still, you played with him like a puppet."
He sniffs. "That knife isn't for me. It isn't because I can't cope with what he did." I draw it out from under the covers, and pull him towards me. I drop my voice to a whisper, so he barely hears me say, "It's because I can't cope with what you did." Then before he can work it out, the knife is across his neck and he's gone.
I grab the bag from my bed and run. Down the stairs, out the door, then keep on going. Finally, I'm free.

I have to say I really like this. It's interesting and draws you in, and I like that we never find out the true backstory, it gives a great hint of mystery and adds to the darkness surrounding the rest of the plot. Well written, realistic language and great characters. Given it's a short story, it's good that it focuses on one particular part of these events. It's like, I do film-making as a hobby and I've learned through the society at university that a short film needs to be like a single scene or cutaway part of events. It needs to get to the point straight away and not waste time making the characters or the backstory more evident, as this wastes time. It's OK in a proper feature length production, but not for a short movie. And the same goes for short stories. You definitely hit the nail on the head with this one and I was really impressed by the tone and the mood, as well as the writing in general. Very good work, keep it up .

EDIT: I'll probably come up with my own short story for this thread eventually, but I don't have time yet as I need to do my coursework now (Half past eleven and I still haven't done most of it, and it's due tomorrow afternoon - damn...).

Having read this, I have to be honest and admit that the story got written in about ten minutes when I was depressed. Normally, I would overdo it with the back story and I was really surprised how this turned out. I think the idea of a 2000 word limit was on my mind the whole time, so I just got to the point. Also I just typed it straight out, normally I re-read and over analyze my work and make so many changes that it ends up totally different.

As for some of your work, it would be good to read as you sound like you understand about stories and writing. No rush, coursework is more important. But when you're ready....

Thanks for the reply I don't actually know too much about writing, but I read a hell of a lot so I've picked up a few things about what's good and what's bad. However, don't take my words too literally since I'm a guy who actually read and liked Twilight... Seriously though, I do read a lot so I can usually tell a good or bad piece of work, and yours was definitely good. I'm not much of a writer to be honest, which is probably why I'm doing a Maths degree, but I did English Literature at A-Level so again I'm not that bad a critic. I just wish I could actually write better... I'll definitely give it a try later though, I've already come up with an idea for a short story (based mainly on a larger idea I had ages ago for a full novel, I was just too lazy to actually write it all...).

 

[Fairee]

However, don't take my words too literally since I'm a guy who actually read and liked Twilight...

I would never judge anyone based on their opinion of Twilight. I have never read it myself anyway, but it's just a book. People have different tastes, and surely the Escapist is meant to be inclusive and not segregate out those of a different opinion, just because there's some crazy obsessive teenage girls. Because having been a teenage girl, I know they all find something to be crazy and obsessive about at some point.

 

[Fairee]

I could paste in my 8000 word major work that I toiled on for over a year (final school exams) if anyone's interested. But it'd be damn hefty.

I'm quite proud of it though. It's about a paramedic and a police officer, and how their lives intertwine through their meeting in a horrendous event.

EDIT: Actually, fuck it, I'm doing it. A PDF link is on its way, anyone that's dedicated enough to read it all gets a cookie.

EDIT 2: Here [http://www.fileden.com/files/2008/11/22/2197020/Mirror%20Sessions.pdf] we go. Let me know if you get through it, or get any enjoyment whatsoever from it.

Wow, that was really moving. I don't think enjoyment's the right word, but I'm certainly glad I read it.

Difficult choice at the end.... But I'm not sure you could blame the paramedic for whatever he decied to do.

 

[Trivun]

I could paste in my 8000 word major work that I toiled on for over a year (final school exams) if anyone's interested. But it'd be damn hefty.

I'm quite proud of it though. It's about a paramedic and a police officer, and how their lives intertwine through their meeting in a horrendous event.

EDIT: Actually, fuck it, I'm doing it. A PDF link is on its way, anyone that's dedicated enough to read it all gets a cookie.

EDIT 2: Here [http://www.fileden.com/files/2008/11/22/2197020/Mirror%20Sessions.pdf] we go. Let me know if you get through it, or get any enjoyment whatsoever from it.

I haven't had time to read it yet as I'm at a PC on campus, but be assured I will read it all before the day is out. What little I have read has impressed me so far though, so well done, I look forward to reading the rest of it

 

[Amarok]

Ok Ok I've got one, a short story I did for college, exploring the theme of Death, more specifically, the fear of Death

Spoiler

My killer comes for me today.
He has been coming for me for thirty years, and today is the day he finds me. Today is the day I die.
I sit alone in this room, locked down, barred, secured in every way imaginable, but I know it makes no difference, I know it will not work, he will find me and he will kill me. I glance nervously over at the clock on my wall, 15:52 it reads. A fresh cold sweat washes over me as I remember I have less than a minute to live. Each second ticks away, stabbing at my mind like a knife, pounding through my ears like a drum, a second more of my life slips away.
I get up from my chair, I pace around the small, dark enclosure. In frustration I kick the table, scream at the window. I toy with the idea of finding a weapon, hiding behind the door and striking him when he comes running in, but I know it will do no good. Less than thirty seconds I have to live.
My name is Andrew Bates, and I have not lead what one would consider a normal life. I was, for all intents and purposes, a "secret agent", a monkey for the government, running around and doing their bidding. Thirty years ago I embarked on the mission which sealed my doom.
The year was 2018, I was young, fresh and still filled with that inate hope some people are fortunate enough to carry with them through life. By this time I had seen a few skulls smashed, a few men poisoned and swept under the rug; it was never the nicest of worlds, but it was a pay cheque. It was a Saturday in August when I walked into that compound, lead by two hulking men with stone-set faces. I was lead right to a machine I thought would only ever exist in fantasy. A Time-Machine. As the boss explained its mechanics, its logistics, its purpose, I stared at it in awe. It was a huge metal box made seemingly entirely out of pipes, wires and gears, it had no casing it seemed (there was a reason for this I think; I paid little attention to my brief) and sitting there, with its gears moving and cogs twisting, it seemed to pulsate like some ghastly creature. It repulsed me, terrified me, and this was before I knew of the horrendous damage it would bring upon the world.
I, along with six other men, was to use this machine and go forwards. I wasn't given all the details, I don't think any of us seven were, we were just told to go forwards and kill a few men, men whom, if left alive, would ruin the world.
I can barely describe what it felt like to actually travel through time, we all stood inside this box of moving gears and parts. It pulsated unpleasantly from the inside aswell, and it was dark, with only the sinister hue of dull red lights to illuminate the space. I remember having the most awful feeling that I was inside the belly of a beast. There was a whirring, a clanking, a whooshing, and the whole world lurched, there was a bright, terrible light, it swallowed me up whole, I felt the most horrifying sensation of non-existance and then... I landed to Earth with a dull thud, shaking, petrified.
I stepped out into the pale dawn of a day Thirty years beyond my own. The world seemed grey, lifeless... wrong. I'll never be sure whether the other men felt the same hollow sense of dread that I did stepping onto that dew-soaked grass, but it sure as hell affected me so. Stepping onto a lawn which has yet to be born, it was wrong, it was more wrong than anything imaginable. However, like proffessionals, me and the group got to work, we went where we were told to go, did what we were told to do, stalked who we were supposed to stalk, killed who we were supposed to kill.
It was thirty years ago today that I snuck into a tower block as instructed. It was dark and hostile, as though it had been turned into a fortress; someone must have been expecting me, I thought. The defenses, however, were peculiarly poor; the occasional chained gate established in the corridors, the occasional camera, scrutinising me with its red eye, but no actual resistance. Fair enough, I thought. All the better. I reached the top floor of the tower, and saw the door at the end. 28, was its number. It was steel, barred, and dust had settled on its face. It was no trouble getting it open, a small explosive blew it off its hinges, I ran in and took my gun to the cowering mess before me. His brains hit the wall, my job was done.
Then I read his note.
The note I have just finished writing, I sign it. I place it on the counter next to me, and stand to stare at the door. Trembling, I look over at the clock which is busy tearing the last ten seconds of my life out of existance. I should be striding across the hall by now, eyeing my own door with confidence and just a small amount of puzzlement. I am more aware of the situation now than I was then; I know why this building is so easy to enter. It is not a fortress, it is a prison; the very government I worked for and remained fiercely loyal to had taken me and locked me up here, waiting for me to die by my own hand.
Five
I feel resentment at my government, why had they done this to me? I would never have gone against them!
Four
My resentment turns to anger. The paranoid fools plucked me away from the life I so greatly deserved and left me here to rot in this fetid cell, and for what? Because they disapproved of the people I acquainted with?
Three
My anger turns to sheer fury. Just because my circle of friends comprised of people not exactly known for their kindness towards the west, I had a right to know them! They said they could help me avoid this fate! Surely it is a man's right to avoid death for however long he can?
Two
I am overcome with a blinding headache; how did they know thirty years ago that they wanted me dead? The cerebral nature of the secret services boggles my mind for a split second when
One
the door blows open with the bang. The force of it knocks my off my feet, I fall on my back, I push myself into some sort of sitting position, I see myself pointing a gun in my face, I open my mouth to deliver a pleading scream --
Zero.

The body before me slumps to the ground and I observe without passion the blood and brains splattered against the grimy wall. My job is done, excellent, I will be able to go home, away from this future; I don't want to set foot in this year until mother nature leads me here. I step over to the body, is it rigor mortis that keeps him frozen in such a dramatic pose? Or is it simply fear? I stop such thoughts, slightly repulsed with myself. This job is messing up my mind, making me colder, I know it. Still, I shall retire one day, perhaps then I can reacquaint with human feeling. A slip of paper catches my eye, I pick it up, I read it.

I feel sick.

Enjoy!

 

[JC175]

Wow, that was really moving. I don't think enjoyment's the right word, but I'm certainly glad I read it.

Difficult choice at the end.... But I'm not sure you could blame the paramedic for whatever he decied to do.

It was strange actually, because I started knowing I wanted to get to that ending without knowing how I was going to get there. It's not perfect, I reached a stage where I had to lower the quality of my editing and rewriting a little to get it done in time, but overall I'm happy with how it turned out. Thanks for reading, and being moved.

I haven't had time to read it yet as I'm at a PC on campus, but be assured I will read it all before the day is out. What little I have read has impressed me so far though, so well done, I look forward to reading the rest of it

Thanks for the interest! I hope you get something out of it when you're done, even if it's only a quote from a great band.

EDIT:

Ok Ok I've got one, a short story I did for college, exploring the theme of Death, more specifically, the fear of Death

Spoiler

My killer comes for me today.
He has been coming for me for thirty years, and today is the day he finds me. Today is the day I die.
I sit alone in this room, locked down, barred, secured in every way imaginable, but I know it makes no difference, I know it will not work, he will find me and he will kill me. I glance nervously over at the clock on my wall, 15:52 it reads. A fresh cold sweat washes over me as I remember I have less than a minute to live. Each second ticks away, stabbing at my mind like a knife, pounding through my ears like a drum, a second more of my life slips away.
I get up from my chair, I pace around the small, dark enclosure. In frustration I kick the table, scream at the window. I toy with the idea of finding a weapon, hiding behind the door and striking him when he comes running in, but I know it will do no good. Less than thirty seconds I have to live.
My name is Andrew Bates, and I have not lead what one would consider a normal life. I was, for all intents and purposes, a "secret agent", a monkey for the government, running around and doing their bidding. Thirty years ago I embarked on the mission which sealed my doom.
The year was 2018, I was young, fresh and still filled with that inate hope some people are fortunate enough to carry with them through life. By this time I had seen a few skulls smashed, a few men poisoned and swept under the rug; it was never the nicest of worlds, but it was a pay cheque. It was a Saturday in August when I walked into that compound, lead by two hulking men with stone-set faces. I was lead right to a machine I thought would only ever exist in fantasy. A Time-Machine. As the boss explained its mechanics, its logistics, its purpose, I stared at it in awe. It was a huge metal box made seemingly entirely out of pipes, wires and gears, it had no casing it seemed (there was a reason for this I think; I paid little attention to my brief) and sitting there, with its gears moving and cogs twisting, it seemed to pulsate like some ghastly creature. It repulsed me, terrified me, and this was before I knew of the horrendous damage it would bring upon the world.
I, along with six other men, was to use this machine and go forwards. I wasn't given all the details, I don't think any of us seven were, we were just told to go forwards and kill a few men, men whom, if left alive, would ruin the world.
I can barely describe what it felt like to actually travel through time, we all stood inside this box of moving gears and parts. It pulsated unpleasantly from the inside aswell, and it was dark, with only the sinister hue of dull red lights to illuminate the space. I remember having the most awful feeling that I was inside the belly of a beast. There was a whirring, a clanking, a whooshing, and the whole world lurched, there was a bright, terrible light, it swallowed me up whole, I felt the most horrifying sensation of non-existance and then... I landed to Earth with a dull thud, shaking, petrified.
I stepped out into the pale dawn of a day Thirty years beyond my own. The world seemed grey, lifeless... wrong. I'll never be sure whether the other men felt the same hollow sense of dread that I did stepping onto that dew-soaked grass, but it sure as hell affected me so. Stepping onto a lawn which has yet to be born, it was wrong, it was more wrong than anything imaginable. However, like proffessionals, me and the group got to work, we went where we were told to go, did what we were told to do, stalked who we were supposed to stalk, killed who we were supposed to kill.
It was thirty years ago today that I snuck into a tower block as instructed. It was dark and hostile, as though it had been turned into a fortress; someone must have been expecting me, I thought. The defenses, however, were peculiarly poor; the occasional chained gate established in the corridors, the occasional camera, scrutinising me with its red eye, but no actual resistance. Fair enough, I thought. All the better. I reached the top floor of the tower, and saw the door at the end. 28, was its number. It was steel, barred, and dust had settled on its face. It was no trouble getting it open, a small explosive blew it off its hinges, I ran in and took my gun to the cowering mess before me. His brains hit the wall, my job was done.
Then I read his note.
The note I have just finished writing, I sign it. I place it on the counter next to me, and stand to stare at the door. Trembling, I look over at the clock which is busy tearing the last ten seconds of my life out of existance. I should be striding across the hall by now, eyeing my own door with confidence and just a small amount of puzzlement. I am more aware of the situation now than I was then; I know why this building is so easy to enter. It is not a fortress, it is a prison; the very government I worked for and remained fiercely loyal to had taken me and locked me up here, waiting for me to die by my own hand.
Five
I feel resentment at my government, why had they done this to me? I would never have gone against them!
Four
My resentment turns to anger. The paranoid fools plucked me away from the life I so greatly deserved and left me here to rot in this fetid cell, and for what? Because they disapproved of the people I acquainted with?
Three
My anger turns to sheer fury. Just because my circle of friends comprised of people not exactly known for their kindness towards the west, I had a right to know them! They said they could help me avoid this fate! Surely it is a man's right to avoid death for however long he can?
Two
I am overcome with a blinding headache; how did they know thirty years ago that they wanted me dead? The cerebral nature of the secret services boggles my mind for a split second when
One
the door blows open with the bang. The force of it knocks my off my feet, I fall on my back, I push myself into some sort of sitting position, I see myself pointing a gun in my face, I open my mouth to deliver a pleading scream --
Zero.

The body before me slumps to the ground and I observe without passion the blood and brains splattered against the grimy wall. My job is done, excellent, I will be able to go home, away from this future; I don't want to set foot in this year until mother nature leads me here. I step over to the body, is it rigor mortis that keeps him frozen in such a dramatic pose? Or is it simply fear? I stop such thoughts, slightly repulsed with myself. This job is messing up my mind, making me colder, I know it. Still, I shall retire one day, perhaps then I can reacquaint with human feeling. A slip of paper catches my eye, I pick it up, I read it.

I feel sick.

Enjoy!

Wow, I really enjoyed how arresting the opening was, it really managed to get you instantly interested.

Although when I tried to think about what would happen when your future self shoots your younger self, my brain exploded against the wall behind me.

 

[Trivun]

Ok Ok I've got one, a short story I did for college, exploring the theme of Death, more specifically, the fear of Death

Spoiler

My killer comes for me today.
He has been coming for me for thirty years, and today is the day he finds me. Today is the day I die.
I sit alone in this room, locked down, barred, secured in every way imaginable, but I know it makes no difference, I know it will not work, he will find me and he will kill me. I glance nervously over at the clock on my wall, 15:52 it reads. A fresh cold sweat washes over me as I remember I have less than a minute to live. Each second ticks away, stabbing at my mind like a knife, pounding through my ears like a drum, a second more of my life slips away.
I get up from my chair, I pace around the small, dark enclosure. In frustration I kick the table, scream at the window. I toy with the idea of finding a weapon, hiding behind the door and striking him when he comes running in, but I know it will do no good. Less than thirty seconds I have to live.
My name is Andrew Bates, and I have not lead what one would consider a normal life. I was, for all intents and purposes, a "secret agent", a monkey for the government, running around and doing their bidding. Thirty years ago I embarked on the mission which sealed my doom.
The year was 2018, I was young, fresh and still filled with that inate hope some people are fortunate enough to carry with them through life. By this time I had seen a few skulls smashed, a few men poisoned and swept under the rug; it was never the nicest of worlds, but it was a pay cheque. It was a Saturday in August when I walked into that compound, lead by two hulking men with stone-set faces. I was lead right to a machine I thought would only ever exist in fantasy. A Time-Machine. As the boss explained its mechanics, its logistics, its purpose, I stared at it in awe. It was a huge metal box made seemingly entirely out of pipes, wires and gears, it had no casing it seemed (there was a reason for this I think; I paid little attention to my brief) and sitting there, with its gears moving and cogs twisting, it seemed to pulsate like some ghastly creature. It repulsed me, terrified me, and this was before I knew of the horrendous damage it would bring upon the world.
I, along with six other men, was to use this machine and go forwards. I wasn't given all the details, I don't think any of us seven were, we were just told to go forwards and kill a few men, men whom, if left alive, would ruin the world.
I can barely describe what it felt like to actually travel through time, we all stood inside this box of moving gears and parts. It pulsated unpleasantly from the inside aswell, and it was dark, with only the sinister hue of dull red lights to illuminate the space. I remember having the most awful feeling that I was inside the belly of a beast. There was a whirring, a clanking, a whooshing, and the whole world lurched, there was a bright, terrible light, it swallowed me up whole, I felt the most horrifying sensation of non-existance and then... I landed to Earth with a dull thud, shaking, petrified.
I stepped out into the pale dawn of a day Thirty years beyond my own. The world seemed grey, lifeless... wrong. I'll never be sure whether the other men felt the same hollow sense of dread that I did stepping onto that dew-soaked grass, but it sure as hell affected me so. Stepping onto a lawn which has yet to be born, it was wrong, it was more wrong than anything imaginable. However, like proffessionals, me and the group got to work, we went where we were told to go, did what we were told to do, stalked who we were supposed to stalk, killed who we were supposed to kill.
It was thirty years ago today that I snuck into a tower block as instructed. It was dark and hostile, as though it had been turned into a fortress; someone must have been expecting me, I thought. The defenses, however, were peculiarly poor; the occasional chained gate established in the corridors, the occasional camera, scrutinising me with its red eye, but no actual resistance. Fair enough, I thought. All the better. I reached the top floor of the tower, and saw the door at the end. 28, was its number. It was steel, barred, and dust had settled on its face. It was no trouble getting it open, a small explosive blew it off its hinges, I ran in and took my gun to the cowering mess before me. His brains hit the wall, my job was done.
Then I read his note.
The note I have just finished writing, I sign it. I place it on the counter next to me, and stand to stare at the door. Trembling, I look over at the clock which is busy tearing the last ten seconds of my life out of existance. I should be striding across the hall by now, eyeing my own door with confidence and just a small amount of puzzlement. I am more aware of the situation now than I was then; I know why this building is so easy to enter. It is not a fortress, it is a prison; the very government I worked for and remained fiercely loyal to had taken me and locked me up here, waiting for me to die by my own hand.
Five
I feel resentment at my government, why had they done this to me? I would never have gone against them!
Four
My resentment turns to anger. The paranoid fools plucked me away from the life I so greatly deserved and left me here to rot in this fetid cell, and for what? Because they disapproved of the people I acquainted with?
Three
My anger turns to sheer fury. Just because my circle of friends comprised of people not exactly known for their kindness towards the west, I had a right to know them! They said they could help me avoid this fate! Surely it is a man's right to avoid death for however long he can?
Two
I am overcome with a blinding headache; how did they know thirty years ago that they wanted me dead? The cerebral nature of the secret services boggles my mind for a split second when
One
the door blows open with the bang. The force of it knocks my off my feet, I fall on my back, I push myself into some sort of sitting position, I see myself pointing a gun in my face, I open my mouth to deliver a pleading scream --
Zero.

The body before me slumps to the ground and I observe without passion the blood and brains splattered against the grimy wall. My job is done, excellent, I will be able to go home, away from this future; I don't want to set foot in this year until mother nature leads me here. I step over to the body, is it rigor mortis that keeps him frozen in such a dramatic pose? Or is it simply fear? I stop such thoughts, slightly repulsed with myself. This job is messing up my mind, making me colder, I know it. Still, I shall retire one day, perhaps then I can reacquaint with human feeling. A slip of paper catches my eye, I pick it up, I read it.

I feel sick.

Enjoy!

Quite interesting, needs tweaking a bit, but on the whole I thought it was very good. Just needs a bit more refinement of l;anguage use, and I think it needs to be a bit more subtle. The twist in the story was far too evident near the start, it maybe should have been a bit further on that we found the twist out? Anyway, good effort, just those few minor points I think need to be sorted

 

[Fairee]

Ok Ok I've got one, a short story I did for college, exploring the theme of Death, more specifically, the fear of Death

Spoiler

My killer comes for me today.
He has been coming for me for thirty years, and today is the day he finds me. Today is the day I die.
I sit alone in this room, locked down, barred, secured in every way imaginable, but I know it makes no difference, I know it will not work, he will find me and he will kill me. I glance nervously over at the clock on my wall, 15:52 it reads. A fresh cold sweat washes over me as I remember I have less than a minute to live. Each second ticks away, stabbing at my mind like a knife, pounding through my ears like a drum, a second more of my life slips away.
I get up from my chair, I pace around the small, dark enclosure. In frustration I kick the table, scream at the window. I toy with the idea of finding a weapon, hiding behind the door and striking him when he comes running in, but I know it will do no good. Less than thirty seconds I have to live.
My name is Andrew Bates, and I have not lead what one would consider a normal life. I was, for all intents and purposes, a "secret agent", a monkey for the government, running around and doing their bidding. Thirty years ago I embarked on the mission which sealed my doom.
The year was 2018, I was young, fresh and still filled with that inate hope some people are fortunate enough to carry with them through life. By this time I had seen a few skulls smashed, a few men poisoned and swept under the rug; it was never the nicest of worlds, but it was a pay cheque. It was a Saturday in August when I walked into that compound, lead by two hulking men with stone-set faces. I was lead right to a machine I thought would only ever exist in fantasy. A Time-Machine. As the boss explained its mechanics, its logistics, its purpose, I stared at it in awe. It was a huge metal box made seemingly entirely out of pipes, wires and gears, it had no casing it seemed (there was a reason for this I think; I paid little attention to my brief) and sitting there, with its gears moving and cogs twisting, it seemed to pulsate like some ghastly creature. It repulsed me, terrified me, and this was before I knew of the horrendous damage it would bring upon the world.
I, along with six other men, was to use this machine and go forwards. I wasn't given all the details, I don't think any of us seven were, we were just told to go forwards and kill a few men, men whom, if left alive, would ruin the world.
I can barely describe what it felt like to actually travel through time, we all stood inside this box of moving gears and parts. It pulsated unpleasantly from the inside aswell, and it was dark, with only the sinister hue of dull red lights to illuminate the space. I remember having the most awful feeling that I was inside the belly of a beast. There was a whirring, a clanking, a whooshing, and the whole world lurched, there was a bright, terrible light, it swallowed me up whole, I felt the most horrifying sensation of non-existance and then... I landed to Earth with a dull thud, shaking, petrified.
I stepped out into the pale dawn of a day Thirty years beyond my own. The world seemed grey, lifeless... wrong. I'll never be sure whether the other men felt the same hollow sense of dread that I did stepping onto that dew-soaked grass, but it sure as hell affected me so. Stepping onto a lawn which has yet to be born, it was wrong, it was more wrong than anything imaginable. However, like proffessionals, me and the group got to work, we went where we were told to go, did what we were told to do, stalked who we were supposed to stalk, killed who we were supposed to kill.
It was thirty years ago today that I snuck into a tower block as instructed. It was dark and hostile, as though it had been turned into a fortress; someone must have been expecting me, I thought. The defenses, however, were peculiarly poor; the occasional chained gate established in the corridors, the occasional camera, scrutinising me with its red eye, but no actual resistance. Fair enough, I thought. All the better. I reached the top floor of the tower, and saw the door at the end. 28, was its number. It was steel, barred, and dust had settled on its face. It was no trouble getting it open, a small explosive blew it off its hinges, I ran in and took my gun to the cowering mess before me. His brains hit the wall, my job was done.
Then I read his note.
The note I have just finished writing, I sign it. I place it on the counter next to me, and stand to stare at the door. Trembling, I look over at the clock which is busy tearing the last ten seconds of my life out of existance. I should be striding across the hall by now, eyeing my own door with confidence and just a small amount of puzzlement. I am more aware of the situation now than I was then; I know why this building is so easy to enter. It is not a fortress, it is a prison; the very government I worked for and remained fiercely loyal to had taken me and locked me up here, waiting for me to die by my own hand.
Five
I feel resentment at my government, why had they done this to me? I would never have gone against them!
Four
My resentment turns to anger. The paranoid fools plucked me away from the life I so greatly deserved and left me here to rot in this fetid cell, and for what? Because they disapproved of the people I acquainted with?
Three
My anger turns to sheer fury. Just because my circle of friends comprised of people not exactly known for their kindness towards the west, I had a right to know them! They said they could help me avoid this fate! Surely it is a man's right to avoid death for however long he can?
Two
I am overcome with a blinding headache; how did they know thirty years ago that they wanted me dead? The cerebral nature of the secret services boggles my mind for a split second when
One
the door blows open with the bang. The force of it knocks my off my feet, I fall on my back, I push myself into some sort of sitting position, I see myself pointing a gun in my face, I open my mouth to deliver a pleading scream --
Zero.

The body before me slumps to the ground and I observe without passion the blood and brains splattered against the grimy wall. My job is done, excellent, I will be able to go home, away from this future; I don't want to set foot in this year until mother nature leads me here. I step over to the body, is it rigor mortis that keeps him frozen in such a dramatic pose? Or is it simply fear? I stop such thoughts, slightly repulsed with myself. This job is messing up my mind, making me colder, I know it. Still, I shall retire one day, perhaps then I can reacquaint with human feeling. A slip of paper catches my eye, I pick it up, I read it.

I feel sick.

Enjoy!

It could be my general wimpiness, but I couldn't exactly enjoy that. A brilliant piece of writing, cleverly thought out, well written, and with exactly the right suspense and atmosphere? Definitely. Enjoyable? Sorry, but I didn't.

 

[Amarok]

Thanks I wrote this two years ago and posted on deviantart specifically asking for critique. Got nothin'! Looks like the Escapist is the way to go

 

[Fairee]

Seeing as everyone's been so positive and constructive thus far I feel like posting a second story, hopefully a little more upbeat that the last (but also not as good).

Spoiler: My Second story - sorry they don't have titles yet

"Hey, is this the one?" My boyfriend asked. I peered at the tiny screen, barely able to make out the words, and then groaned as I realised what it was. "Evidently that's a yes. C'mon then, get up here and show me."
I groaned again as Pete grabbed my arm and pulled me up off the bed. I didn't bother complaining, there's no way I can change his mind.
The upbeat intro to a cheesy 90's tune filled the room. I struck the first pose, and felt stupid. Why had I told him about this?
Even after all that time, I still had the moves. They felt so natural, I didn't even have to think. The energy from the song flowed through the air, through my body and it felt good. How we made this song sexy I have no idea, but shaking my hips in front of Pete, how could I feel anything else?
At first, I was merely repeating what we'd choreographed all those years before, but slowly I changed the routine. The childish moves copied from the boyband were ditched, and replaced with something more sultry, more feminine. The inane grin gone, I gave Pete a smouldering look, drawing him in.
Gradually the song ended, and I stopped still, breathing heavily, to take in him reaction. "Please tell me you didn't dance like that as a ten-year-old...."

Okay, I know it's a bit short on the description, but I've never been very good at it. And again, that was just typed in a bored 10 mins.

 

[Bunnymarn]

Yes, I've already posted it before.

Spoiler: Here it is.

Hot Chocolate

Taking a sip of the creamy hot chocolate he could feel the warmth of it in his throat, tantilising his senses as it ran down into his stomach. The rich, sweet aroma drifted from the top of the mug to his nose, making him feel light headed.

He took another sip, his muscles relaxing as the smooth milk ran over them, oozing delight, causing him to go into a state of orgasmic shock. Placing the mug down, he let out a loud moan of pleasure as he felt an amazing sensation throughout his whole body. His body convulsed and his fingers and toes tingled with satisfaction.

After he had stopped shaking, he extended his arm, placed his hand around the mug, and brought it to his lips. He opened his mouth and greedily took a large gulp of the thick, malty liquid. Every sense he had, every feeling, was bliss. He had never felt like this before; he wanted to drink it endlessly. Then he realised, this was it, he was in love.

His wife came into the room and he withdrew the mug from his lips. Watching her from across the room, he said to her casually, yet in a stern tone “It’s over, we’re finished, I have a new love now.” He started stroking the mug and diverted his full attention to it. He did not hear his wife repeatedly asking why, he did not see her storm out of the room, nor did he hear the door slam. He was deaf and blind to his surroundings. The hot chocolate had consumed him.

Just before he was about to take another sip of the liquid ecstasy, the phone rang. He placed the mug down on the table in front of him and reached over it, to get the phone. As he was reaching over, his wallet fell out of his pocket and knocked the side of the mug. It toppled from the table and shattered as it hit the floor; the remaining contents sprayed all over the place. Tears began forming in his eyes and his heart sank. His love affair was over.

Thus this ends a truly orgasmic tale, which failed to reach it’s climax. It turned into an anti-climax.

Eulogy:

R.I.P. Hot chocolate. How I am completely shattered by your passing. You will always have a place in my heart and in my mouth. The fact that our climax was not reached is undeniably despairing. You shall be in my fantasies every day and every night, but for now, rest in peace, my friend.

 

[JC175]

Yes, I've already posted it before.

Spoiler: Here it is.

Hot Chocolate

Taking a sip of the creamy hot chocolate he could feel the warmth of it in his throat, tantilising his senses as it ran down into his stomach. The rich, sweet aroma drifted from the top of the mug to his nose, making him feel light headed.

He took another sip, his muscles relaxing as the smooth milk ran over them, oozing delight, causing him to go into a state of orgasmic shock. Placing the mug down, he let out a loud moan of pleasure as he felt an amazing sensation throughout his whole body. His body convulsed and his fingers and toes tingled with satisfaction.

After he had stopped shaking, he extended his arm, placed his hand around the mug, and brought it to his lips. He opened his mouth and greedily took a large gulp of the thick, malty liquid. Every sense he had, every feeling, was bliss. He had never felt like this before; he wanted to drink it endlessly. Then he realised, this was it, he was in love.

His wife came into the room and he withdrew the mug from his lips. Watching her from across the room, he said to her casually, yet in a stern tone “It’s over, we’re finished, I have a new love now.” He started stroking the mug and diverted his full attention to it. He did not hear his wife repeatedly asking why, he did not see her storm out of the room, nor did he hear the door slam. He was deaf and blind to his surroundings. The hot chocolate had consumed him.

Just before he was about to take another sip of the liquid ecstasy, the phone rang. He placed the mug down on the table in front of him and reached over it, to get the phone. As he was reaching over, his wallet fell out of his pocket and knocked the side of the mug. It toppled from the table and shattered as it hit the floor; the remaining contents sprayed all over the place. Tears began forming in his eyes and his heart sank. His love affair was over.

Thus this ends a truly orgasmic tale, which failed to reach it’s climax. It turned into an anti-climax.

Eulogy:

R.I.P. Hot chocolate. How I am completely shattered by your passing. You will always have a place in my heart and in my mouth. The fact that our climax was not reached is undeniably despairing. You shall be in my fantasies every day and every night, but for now, rest in peace, my friend.

Haha, I remember this one. And again it's managed to creep me out in a satisfyingly perverted fashion.