The Hunting Trip It started to snow; slowly the ground was covered in white, powdery snow. It was beautiful, but chilling, as I wasn’t dressed for such weather. I looked across the treetops and saw a forest that reached for miles, and miles across. It looked like a fairy tale. But so soon was the magical moment destroyed. A second of unthoughtfulness, and the snow was no longer white. Blood red, spreading out, with little red dots, splattering over the tree roots. I had pulled the trigger. I didn’t mean to, in fact, I had intended to not shot at all this trip. But I did. I guess it was just a reflex. I saw a brown flurry thing bending over to lick on the salt my father had put down, a long time ago, to lure animals in to the treeless hole, which I was looking down on now. It really looked like something out of a nightmare. The dark brown trees that looked like crippled skeletons were bending over the blending white snow. The dark red blood was spreading out faster and some of the blood on the trees was travelling down like small rivers. And in the middle of it all, spread out like a butterfly, lay the deer. It was just a young one, a calf, still with its spots. It looked like an angel, if they existed in animal form. The big, dark eyes were glistening with fear. It was still alive. I looked down, right in its eyes, and turned away. I couldn’t stand to watch. And then I climbed down from the tree, gun still in my hand. I threw it away. It hit something on the ground, and I heard a metallic sound. The little deer was just breathing as it lay there. Slowly… and then it stopped. It had walked towards the light, over to the other world. I had killed it. I bended over, shutting its eyes with my fingertips, the last thing it saw, was a bloodshed world. I removed my glove and touched its fur. It was soft, and fluffy. I cuddled with it for a bit. Twinned some of it, and made curls. After a minute, when I realized what I was doing, I threw myself away from the dead animal, and spent a while breathing heavily and washing my fingers in the snow. Why did I do that? I was standing next to it, the angel, he was just hanging there, foot down. And foot up. The rope it hanged in looked as if it was going to snap any minute. Knife in the hand, vomit in the back of the throat. As the knife was closing in on the soft skin of my angel, I knew I shouldn’t have named him. The sharp knife cut the soft flesh, and cut down. I puked. The sharp smell of vomit and last night’s dinner hit my nose, disgusting. And I started running. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. I don’t know why I started running, instinct perhaps? As I was running, in which direction I do not remember. What I remembered however, was that I started thinking of my father. The drunken bastard. He who never did anyone good, in his entire life. Not even himself. Its kinda sad, I guess. My father died last week, and I’m already talking behind his dead, stiff back. It was a hunting accident, poor old buggar shot himself in the stomach. Would have hurt like hell, if he had been sober enough to feel. Which he wasn’t. He was found sitting up against a tree, bullet in his belly, Jack Daniels in his hand. Only three persons came to the funeral. The priest, the old devil himself, and the digger. Almost half of the village came later, to dance, and spit on his grave. As you may understand, he wasn’t a pleasant, nor a loved man. Your mother? What about your mother then? You may ask, well. I never knew my mother, she died the day I was born. Maybe it was of grief, fear, or sorrow? When she saw that I was a girl, not a boy. They wanted a boy that was clear. My father never told me anything, never spoke to me at all. Except when he was shouting orders at me. But I couldn’t help but notice that all the baby toys, blankets, pillows, they were all blue, there were small guns, made out of wood, a car, a little miniature axe. Maybe if I was born boy, everything would have been simpler, mom would still be alive, dad would be a happy sober man. And we would all live together. A happy family. I was quickly dragged out of my thoughts, as I tripped over a root, and fell to the ground. And hit my head. Hard. The ground was a little downhill here, and I started rolling. It took a while, but I finally reached the bottom of this valley. I could barely stand up straight, I was dizzy, and every limb in my body hurt like I had been stomped down by a massive amount of grizzly bears, and then jumped on, by the same amount. As I looked around, I realized that I wasn’t familiar with this place, which was strange. All of my 17 years in life, I had lived in the village, and the forest was like my back yard, why had I never been here before? I started brushing of the leaves, and the needles from the trees, off my coat. I took up from my inner pocket, a medallion. I opened it, and a black and white picture shone up, the picture of my mother. She was beautiful. White hair, a dark grey dress, and shining eyes. Since it was in black and white, I could only guess what the real colors were, the white hair, must have been a blond, goldish sort of color, the dress, maybe blue. But the really wonderful thing about this picture was her expression, a merciful, motherly look that looked down on the growing belly. My father was supposed to be in the picture to, but I had cut him out, slowly, so that I wouldn’t ruin my mother. I had been walking for several hours now. And yet, I felt that I hadn’t moved an inch. The mist was as thick as the bishop, whom I only had seen once, but only that single look, was enough to know that he was thicker than four of Mr. Oleasons pigs.
My feet, my arms, my body, did not hurt anymore, and my head wasn’t dizzy, but clear as the mountain air. It was then I realized there was something was in front of me, a silhouette; quickly I ran towards it, I wasn’t alone in this hellhole! The person did not move, just stood there, stiff as a rock. I could now see that it was a woman, the long hair, and the dress, was not to be mistaken of. “Excuse me! Miss!” I got closer, and then I saw it. “Mama!? Mama!” My father? My father was also there, he stood holding over my mother with a strong arm, his dark beard was in great contrast to the light hair of my mother. “But you’re dead! You’re supposed to be dead!” I cried out, fear and desperation was making my voice tremble. More persons turned up, Mrs. Willow, the tailor, little Annie Trench, the vicars wife. They were all there. It was then I realized, I was no longer among the living. I had taken the step down, down to the valley of the dead.
I would like your honest opinion on this, and hopefully some constructive criticism, I apologize for any grammatical, misspelling, and other errors, but english is not my main language
You are a rich man entering heaven
have you felt the rush of a woman's touch?
With hands like velvet and hair like silk
she can soften the greatest pain
make you whisper her name while laying
tangled together, with the moon high above
If you ever capture the love your after
treasure and cherish for long hereafter
for to feel the touch of a woman
is to surely know deep in your soul
she was for you and you alone
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
GIEV D3 INFOZ NAO!( <---Poster from the official Bnet Forums) "I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."-Secret Window
You are a rich man entering heaven
have you felt the rush of a woman's touch?
With hands like velvet and hair like silk
she can soften the greatest pain
make you whisper her name while laying
tangled together, with the moon high above
If you ever capture the love your after
treasure and cherish for long hereafter
for to feel the touch of a woman
is to surely know deep in your soul
she was for you and you alone
awwww thats sweet...but it feels incomplete. whats with the opening line, is he rich in terms of money, or that he has the perfect woman for him? it ends nicely and the beginning is vivid. overall very sweet, something that might be in a poetry book :thumbsup:
gosh i cant ever finish that big story that guy wrote...gotta concentrate.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Remember the String of Ears
"to the worm in horseradish, the world is horseradish."
awwww thats sweet...but it feels incomplete. whats with the opening line, is he rich in terms of money, or that he has the perfect woman for him? it ends nicely and the beginning is vivid. overall very sweet, something that might be in a poetry book :thumbsup:
Haha... thanks man... But the opening line is supposed to be a rich man entering heaven who has never experienced what I described, and he begins to regret it.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
GIEV D3 INFOZ NAO!( <---Poster from the official Bnet Forums) "I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."-Secret Window
Here is the start of something I've been working on for a while. I started before I went away to training, and have only recently begun to continue. I like short stories the best, and that is what I write. It will come out terribly misshapen
“I fixed myself up nice, but you never came again.”
The resounding footsteps of refugees clambered down iron and concrete steps. Scrapes had formed in the rough surfaces, and repaid the misfortune to each layer of skin they could. Hustled murmurs of children and mothers faded in and out as the men carried them further down the halls of the beaten structure. The crowds passed walls of splattered, sapient warnings. Graffiti climbed across the building, most of it recent. Through an unlocked door which read in scattered black lettering: “DIS-FUCKING-REGARD THE EVER CHEATING SUN, FIND YOUR WAY UNDERNEATH”, laid Riona Keane, hardly breathing.
Riona’s threatening door eased open, letting in the light only found on such an overcast day. A child’s eager eyes and fingers inched across the frame, peering around the room. The light flooded in as the child stepped into the room fully, hitting Riona’s eyes. She rolled away and a sigh escaped her lips. The rushing voices of the refugees could be heard much easier now, and Riona had no choice but to get up. She lifted a needle out of her arm in front of the small child, who was a young boy appropriately dressed in winter clothing. His eyes opened wide, but not before his mother came running and panting to the door. She shot Riona a look of sympathy as she scooped him up into her ragged coat, and dashed back out down the stairs.
The shouts turned to screams from the city streets below, prompting Riona in her matted clothes to step close to the windowsill. Outside, the ground teemed with people, a tragic face on each. She continued to stare through the dusty glass, with her hands pressing up against the wooden frame. Groups entered the buildings around the town square, while even more flooded down the road. Suspended panting came rushing up the stairs, as some of the people from the streets decided to stay instead of go. Riona turned her head, and figured it best to leave.
She seemed to be pushing against a rising surge of panicked families, and the pathways through her originally quiet building were choking up. Riona found a rickety metal set of stairs on a lonely corner of her hall, and leapt down two stairs at a time. Eventually, she lifted herself over the side, and fell to the ground. Immediately, she found herself in a maelstrom.
“A dark wind blows through these streets! Push back your curtains and see, the flags sag limp and dead at the top of they’re poles!” bellowed a man sitting in a tree in the center of the chaos.
Riona stayed rigid minute after minute, watching the latest capital fracture. More running bodies passed her like sirens, some bumping Riona’s shoulders, others feebly watching her. Her legs had grown stiff, almost numb before she started to function within the scene. The haze of her disturbed, reckless sleep was still beset in her eyes. The preaching man climbed higher as rocks sailed past his head, ricocheting off branches or falling heavy on the roots and dirt. A short cry of pain was let out, and the man fell limp to the ground, his face bloodied and misshapen. A stone had found its mark.
GIEV D3 INFOZ NAO!( <---Poster from the official Bnet Forums) "I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."-Secret Window
ok i now feel bad about reading all these wonderfully creative pieces without contributing. this is just something i just wrote in about 20 mins. its not good and needs revision but hey, im no Hemingway. i like stories of the past, with alot of historical reference, like the stories of days when trains were the main form of transportation...the American dream...also like love stories and some science thrillers like Dan Browns novels. i hate cheesy epics and legends and sci-fi
its not even close to done, its gonna be a short story sometime i guess please feel free to criticize and review!!
its called story of the clock, but thats just a working title.
8:46. The ruby red numbers and letters in their blocky efficient shape reminded me of a digital clock I recall being in my room. I tried not to look at it, but it was all I could think of. In the background I could hear televisions coolly advertise products of various worth; internet connections, cell phones, and an assortment of soft drinks. 8:47. The footsteps and noises of rolling plastic wheels began to fill my ears. Chatter and random beginnings and endings of sentences drifted to me; “…is our flight?” “…gate 22…22.” “Would you like to…bathroom?” The PA announces something neither audible or of importance; something about luggage and size. I could still only think about one subject. 8:48. My actions. Had I always been careful? Of course! I was never that reckless with myself, let alone others. But for some reason I could not put words to, I could not stop thinking about my actions, my mind was polluted with those thoughts I could never comprehend. When did this transformation happen? I was only here for a month give-or-take 2 days. Does one change his entire outlook on life this fast? 8:49. Time to board. My breathing steadies as I rise and follow a crowd unaware of me or, thankfully my thoughts. When did something as simple as my life become so apparently complicated and intricate? Had I made the right decision? Hadn’t I been sure at that moment that leaving was all I could do? Was there another choice I had? Of course not, remember who you are! You are always right; you can't have made a mistake while planning this very day out. But even as I held out my ticket I was still running through all the motions, all the calculations and inner dialogs that I had at my disposal. None of it would have worked! Would it have? Stepping through iron gates and into a small hallway was what my eyes registered; carpet flooring, windows every so often that were small squares, thick glass. The noise of feet and shoes on padded yet hollow floors, those damn rolling plastic wheels again! Unexplained eruptions of jabber from high pitched voices; “Wow! Is that our…” “…window…see the clouds…” “…good in flight movie this time…” My feet felt as if lead was the material they were constructed of. What started as a favorable escape from the ironclad conventions of everyday life became heaven, but now it feels as if the blissful and swift taste of it corrupted all thoughts, alluring me to desire what I had found with inspired urgency. The feeling of solid ground again, but surely this was just a trick played to ease the senses. Is there an unholy beast that could make a man feel as if he was a common theater of entertainment for him and his court? The sound of welcoming and loud air reached me. The taste of stale air filled my mouth. Or is there a supreme watcher that constructs these star-crossed stories of fate to see the nature of man? Thin aisles and packed lines pushing me onward had control of my motor now, I no longer moved freely, but as a group hungry for the same prey: a felt covered, cotton and foam gutted species.
hopefully u can interpret the setting, but not the plot. and i know im not good at describing settings >.<
oh and if anyone wants comments on their pieces id gladly give some thought!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Remember the String of Ears
"to the worm in horseradish, the world is horseradish."
Here's my wall of text to contribute here.:P It's no poem, it's actually part of my novel, but for the sake of practicality, I'll post only a portion of page 1.
A thin fifteen year old boy wandered through the streets of a silent neighborhood in Mississippi, searching for a place to safely sleep, though found nowhere suitably sheltered in the hot, humid night, much to his displeasure, and decided to search outside the neighborhood for a place of rest. He heard a sound, like that of thunder, and looked around, noticing a strange, glowing yellow object, and when he approached it, the object’s randomized brightening hurt his sensitive, photophobic eyes. Although it was hard for him to look at it, he could see that it was an Orb, filled with sparks of lightning, much to his amazement. He slowly moved his right-hand toward the strange Orb, afraid that it might hurt him, though was surprised when he found that he was able to hold the Orb in his hand without injury. The boy examined it closely, and saw the sparks of electricity, which was the most wondrous and awe inspiring thing he had ever seen in his life.
“What is this thing?” He asked himself, and soon afterwards, his question was answered in a shocking manner, for the Orb released a portal, full of static electricity, which took the boy into it, and spat him out into mysterious grassland, now in the middle of a cold, violent storm. At first, he was frightened by the change of scenery, but eventually, it became almost enjoyable, even if he was cold and soaking wet. He even began to explore this strange new world, hoping that there was a small chance of finding someone who would explain this phenomenon to him, and possibly reverse the effects of this absurd teleportation, or teach him to do so. As he explored the drenched grassland, he heard the sound of thunder, but sounded quite different from the thunder he had was accustomed to hearing on Earth.
Jetrall, Im not positive about this but if this is your book, in the sin war it wasnt trang oul, it was trag oul. But again correct me if im wrong,
Phoenix
It can be either, really. In the game it's Trang Oul, in the books it's Trag Oul. Some people just consider the books better cannon than the games, and vise versa. It's really just preference. I would be on the Trag Oul side, though.
It started to snow; slowly the ground was covered in white, powdery snow. It was beautiful, but chilling, as I wasn’t dressed for such weather. I looked across the treetops and saw a forest that reached for miles, and miles across. It looked like a fairy tale.
But so soon was the magical moment destroyed. A second of unthoughtfulness, and the snow was no longer white. Blood red, spreading out, with little red dots, splattering over the tree roots. I had pulled the trigger. I didn’t mean to, in fact, I had intended to not shot at all this trip. But I did. I guess it was just a reflex. I saw a brown flurry thing bending over to lick on the salt my father had put down, a long time ago, to lure animals in to the treeless hole, which I was looking down on now. It really looked like something out of a nightmare. The dark brown trees that looked like crippled skeletons were bending over the blending white snow. The dark red blood was spreading out faster and some of the blood on the trees was travelling down like small rivers. And in the middle of it all, spread out like a butterfly, lay the deer. It was just a young one, a calf, still with its spots. It looked like an angel, if they existed in animal form. The big, dark eyes were glistening with fear. It was still alive. I looked down, right in its eyes, and turned away. I couldn’t stand to watch. And then I climbed down from the tree, gun still in my hand. I threw it away. It hit something on the ground, and I heard a metallic sound. The little deer was just breathing as it lay there. Slowly… and then it stopped. It had walked towards the light, over to the other world. I had killed it. I bended over, shutting its eyes with my fingertips, the last thing it saw, was a bloodshed world. I removed my glove and touched its fur. It was soft, and fluffy. I cuddled with it for a bit. Twinned some of it, and made curls. After a minute, when I realized what I was doing, I threw myself away from the dead animal, and spent a while breathing heavily and washing my fingers in the snow. Why did I do that?
I was standing next to it, the angel, he was just hanging there, foot down. And foot up. The rope it hanged in looked as if it was going to snap any minute. Knife in the hand, vomit in the back of the throat. As the knife was closing in on the soft skin of my angel, I knew I shouldn’t have named him. The sharp knife cut the soft flesh, and cut down. I puked. The sharp smell of vomit and last night’s dinner hit my nose, disgusting. And I started running. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. I don’t know why I started running, instinct perhaps?
As I was running, in which direction I do not remember. What I remembered however, was that I started thinking of my father. The drunken bastard. He who never did anyone good, in his entire life. Not even himself. Its kinda sad, I guess. My father died last week, and I’m already talking behind his dead, stiff back. It was a hunting accident, poor old buggar shot himself in the stomach. Would have hurt like hell, if he had been sober enough to feel. Which he wasn’t. He was found sitting up against a tree, bullet in his belly, Jack Daniels in his hand. Only three persons came to the funeral. The priest, the old devil himself, and the digger. Almost half of the village came later, to dance, and spit on his grave. As you may understand, he wasn’t a pleasant, nor a loved man.
Your mother? What about your mother then? You may ask, well. I never knew my mother, she died the day I was born. Maybe it was of grief, fear, or sorrow? When she saw that I was a girl, not a boy. They wanted a boy that was clear. My father never told me anything, never spoke to me at all. Except when he was shouting orders at me. But I couldn’t help but notice that all the baby toys, blankets, pillows, they were all blue, there were small guns, made out of wood, a car, a little miniature axe. Maybe if I was born boy, everything would have been simpler, mom would still be alive, dad would be a happy sober man. And we would all live together. A happy family.
I was quickly dragged out of my thoughts, as I tripped over a root, and fell to the ground. And hit my head. Hard. The ground was a little downhill here, and I started rolling. It took a while, but I finally reached the bottom of this valley. I could barely stand up straight, I was dizzy, and every limb in my body hurt like I had been stomped down by a massive amount of grizzly bears, and then jumped on, by the same amount.
As I looked around, I realized that I wasn’t familiar with this place, which was strange. All of my 17 years in life, I had lived in the village, and the forest was like my back yard, why had I never been here before? I started brushing of the leaves, and the needles from the trees, off my coat. I took up from my inner pocket, a medallion. I opened it, and a black and white picture shone up, the picture of my mother. She was beautiful. White hair, a dark grey dress, and shining eyes. Since it was in black and white, I could only guess what the real colors were, the white hair, must have been a blond, goldish sort of color, the dress, maybe blue. But the really wonderful thing about this picture was her expression, a merciful, motherly look that looked down on the growing belly. My father was supposed to be in the picture to, but I had cut him out, slowly, so that I wouldn’t ruin my mother.
I had been walking for several hours now. And yet, I felt that I hadn’t moved an inch. The mist was as thick as the bishop, whom I only had seen once, but only that single look, was enough to know that he was thicker than four of Mr. Oleasons pigs.
My feet, my arms, my body, did not hurt anymore, and my head wasn’t dizzy, but clear as the mountain air. It was then I realized there was something was in front of me, a silhouette; quickly I ran towards it, I wasn’t alone in this hellhole! The person did not move, just stood there, stiff as a rock. I could now see that it was a woman, the long hair, and the dress, was not to be mistaken of. “Excuse me! Miss!” I got closer, and then I saw it. “Mama!? Mama!” My father? My father was also there, he stood holding over my mother with a strong arm, his dark beard was in great contrast to the light hair of my mother. “But you’re dead! You’re supposed to be dead!” I cried out, fear and desperation was making my voice tremble. More persons turned up, Mrs. Willow, the tailor, little Annie Trench, the vicars wife. They were all there. It was then I realized, I was no longer among the living. I had taken the step down, down to the valley of the dead.
I would like your honest opinion on this, and hopefully some constructive criticism, I apologize for any grammatical, misspelling, and other errors, but english is not my main language
And with strange aeons even death may die.
Touch
You are a rich man entering heaven
have you felt the rush of a woman's touch?
With hands like velvet and hair like silk
she can soften the greatest pain
make you whisper her name while laying
tangled together, with the moon high above
If you ever capture the love your after
treasure and cherish for long hereafter
for to feel the touch of a woman
is to surely know deep in your soul
she was for you and you alone
GIEV D3 INFOZ NAO! ( <---Poster from the official Bnet Forums)
"I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."-Secret Window
awwww thats sweet...but it feels incomplete. whats with the opening line, is he rich in terms of money, or that he has the perfect woman for him? it ends nicely and the beginning is vivid. overall very sweet, something that might be in a poetry book :thumbsup:
gosh i cant ever finish that big story that guy wrote...gotta concentrate.
"to the worm in horseradish, the world is horseradish."
Haha... thanks man... But the opening line is supposed to be a rich man entering heaven who has never experienced what I described, and he begins to regret it.
GIEV D3 INFOZ NAO! ( <---Poster from the official Bnet Forums)
"I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."-Secret Window
The resounding footsteps of refugees clambered down iron and concrete steps. Scrapes had formed in the rough surfaces, and repaid the misfortune to each layer of skin they could. Hustled murmurs of children and mothers faded in and out as the men carried them further down the halls of the beaten structure. The crowds passed walls of splattered, sapient warnings. Graffiti climbed across the building, most of it recent. Through an unlocked door which read in scattered black lettering: “DIS-FUCKING-REGARD THE EVER CHEATING SUN, FIND YOUR WAY UNDERNEATH”, laid Riona Keane, hardly breathing.
Riona’s threatening door eased open, letting in the light only found on such an overcast day. A child’s eager eyes and fingers inched across the frame, peering around the room. The light flooded in as the child stepped into the room fully, hitting Riona’s eyes. She rolled away and a sigh escaped her lips. The rushing voices of the refugees could be heard much easier now, and Riona had no choice but to get up. She lifted a needle out of her arm in front of the small child, who was a young boy appropriately dressed in winter clothing. His eyes opened wide, but not before his mother came running and panting to the door. She shot Riona a look of sympathy as she scooped him up into her ragged coat, and dashed back out down the stairs.
The shouts turned to screams from the city streets below, prompting Riona in her matted clothes to step close to the windowsill. Outside, the ground teemed with people, a tragic face on each. She continued to stare through the dusty glass, with her hands pressing up against the wooden frame. Groups entered the buildings around the town square, while even more flooded down the road. Suspended panting came rushing up the stairs, as some of the people from the streets decided to stay instead of go. Riona turned her head, and figured it best to leave.
She seemed to be pushing against a rising surge of panicked families, and the pathways through her originally quiet building were choking up. Riona found a rickety metal set of stairs on a lonely corner of her hall, and leapt down two stairs at a time. Eventually, she lifted herself over the side, and fell to the ground. Immediately, she found herself in a maelstrom.
“A dark wind blows through these streets! Push back your curtains and see, the flags sag limp and dead at the top of they’re poles!” bellowed a man sitting in a tree in the center of the chaos.
Riona stayed rigid minute after minute, watching the latest capital fracture. More running bodies passed her like sirens, some bumping Riona’s shoulders, others feebly watching her. Her legs had grown stiff, almost numb before she started to function within the scene. The haze of her disturbed, reckless sleep was still beset in her eyes. The preaching man climbed higher as rocks sailed past his head, ricocheting off branches or falling heavy on the roots and dirt. A short cry of pain was let out, and the man fell limp to the ground, his face bloodied and misshapen. A stone had found its mark.
GIEV D3 INFOZ NAO! ( <---Poster from the official Bnet Forums)
"I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."-Secret Window
its not even close to done, its gonna be a short story sometime i guess please feel free to criticize and review!!
its called story of the clock, but thats just a working title.
8:46. The ruby red numbers and letters in their blocky efficient shape reminded me of a digital clock I recall being in my room. I tried not to look at it, but it was all I could think of. In the background I could hear televisions coolly advertise products of various worth; internet connections, cell phones, and an assortment of soft drinks. 8:47. The footsteps and noises of rolling plastic wheels began to fill my ears. Chatter and random beginnings and endings of sentences drifted to me; “…is our flight?” “…gate 22…22.” “Would you like to…bathroom?” The PA announces something neither audible or of importance; something about luggage and size. I could still only think about one subject. 8:48. My actions. Had I always been careful? Of course! I was never that reckless with myself, let alone others. But for some reason I could not put words to, I could not stop thinking about my actions, my mind was polluted with those thoughts I could never comprehend. When did this transformation happen? I was only here for a month give-or-take 2 days. Does one change his entire outlook on life this fast? 8:49. Time to board. My breathing steadies as I rise and follow a crowd unaware of me or, thankfully my thoughts. When did something as simple as my life become so apparently complicated and intricate? Had I made the right decision? Hadn’t I been sure at that moment that leaving was all I could do? Was there another choice I had? Of course not, remember who you are! You are always right; you can't have made a mistake while planning this very day out. But even as I held out my ticket I was still running through all the motions, all the calculations and inner dialogs that I had at my disposal. None of it would have worked! Would it have? Stepping through iron gates and into a small hallway was what my eyes registered; carpet flooring, windows every so often that were small squares, thick glass. The noise of feet and shoes on padded yet hollow floors, those damn rolling plastic wheels again! Unexplained eruptions of jabber from high pitched voices; “Wow! Is that our…” “…window…see the clouds…” “…good in flight movie this time…” My feet felt as if lead was the material they were constructed of. What started as a favorable escape from the ironclad conventions of everyday life became heaven, but now it feels as if the blissful and swift taste of it corrupted all thoughts, alluring me to desire what I had found with inspired urgency. The feeling of solid ground again, but surely this was just a trick played to ease the senses. Is there an unholy beast that could make a man feel as if he was a common theater of entertainment for him and his court? The sound of welcoming and loud air reached me. The taste of stale air filled my mouth. Or is there a supreme watcher that constructs these star-crossed stories of fate to see the nature of man? Thin aisles and packed lines pushing me onward had control of my motor now, I no longer moved freely, but as a group hungry for the same prey: a felt covered, cotton and foam gutted species.
hopefully u can interpret the setting, but not the plot. and i know im not good at describing settings >.<
oh and if anyone wants comments on their pieces id gladly give some thought!
"to the worm in horseradish, the world is horseradish."
A thin fifteen year old boy wandered through the streets of a silent neighborhood in Mississippi, searching for a place to safely sleep, though found nowhere suitably sheltered in the hot, humid night, much to his displeasure, and decided to search outside the neighborhood for a place of rest. He heard a sound, like that of thunder, and looked around, noticing a strange, glowing yellow object, and when he approached it, the object’s randomized brightening hurt his sensitive, photophobic eyes. Although it was hard for him to look at it, he could see that it was an Orb, filled with sparks of lightning, much to his amazement. He slowly moved his right-hand toward the strange Orb, afraid that it might hurt him, though was surprised when he found that he was able to hold the Orb in his hand without injury. The boy examined it closely, and saw the sparks of electricity, which was the most wondrous and awe inspiring thing he had ever seen in his life.
“What is this thing?” He asked himself, and soon afterwards, his question was answered in a shocking manner, for the Orb released a portal, full of static electricity, which took the boy into it, and spat him out into mysterious grassland, now in the middle of a cold, violent storm. At first, he was frightened by the change of scenery, but eventually, it became almost enjoyable, even if he was cold and soaking wet. He even began to explore this strange new world, hoping that there was a small chance of finding someone who would explain this phenomenon to him, and possibly reverse the effects of this absurd teleportation, or teach him to do so. As he explored the drenched grassland, he heard the sound of thunder, but sounded quite different from the thunder he had was accustomed to hearing on Earth.
(The rest I'll let you people guess at.)
I do not mean an unnatural calmness.
leaves a country grieving more
than ever before
Where there is truth, he must find.
Where there is destruction, he must rebuild.
Where there is love, he must protect."
World's Fair Exhibit
"God gave us memories, that in life's garden we may have June roses in December."
John Barrie
It can be either, really. In the game it's Trang Oul, in the books it's Trag Oul. Some people just consider the books better cannon than the games, and vise versa. It's really just preference. I would be on the Trag Oul side, though.