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Thread: Writer's Haven

  1. - Top - End - #31
    Pixie in the Playground
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    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    Quote Originally Posted by Vaynor
    That pigeon story is awesome. :P
    Thanks alot!
    :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

    ((oh wait, I've jut realised I'm on the wrong account))
    And no... He has no name.&&

  2. - Top - End - #32
    Orc in the Playground
     
    Aereshaa_the_2nd's Avatar

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    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    Quote Originally Posted by Eighth_Seraph
    Iames. You are an awesome friggin' writer. I'm enjoy fantasy writing as an enthusiast, but I also greatly enjoy a good combination of action and suspense as well as a dash of psychology. Your story is the best thing since LotR as far as fanatsy writing goes in my book. Is there more than you've shown us here? and if so, where can I find it?
    Seconded!
    Aereshaa: Ubuntu user, C programmer, incompetent student.

  3. - Top - End - #33
    Troll in the Playground
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    Death in a Coffee Shop

    Parts One & Two
    “I don’t think anybody gets it; most of the people I deal with want things that seem to make sense. You spend pages creating believable characters, show them interacting with their environment, get the reader to feel empathy for them, and then you abruptly kill them off in ways that usually have no meaningful connection to the ways the audience expects the character to develop. Readers want the chain smoker to die in a fire or from lung cancer, not from drowning.”

    Death sighed loudly and put down his cup of cafe latte. “But that’s the way it is! People want realism and I show them the world exactly the way things happen. I should know; I spent the better part of every day dealing with the people I write about.”

    On his off-hours he wrote prose, lots of it. And he painted. I’m the lucky guy stuck as his agent and critic.

    “I’m not saying it’s not believable. The readers live in this world and they know how it goes. Perhaps it’s a bit too much reality and that's what people don't like. Reality doesn't always make for a good story.”

    “Fine, fine. Well, what about my paintings, then? Do you think I could get them displayed somewhere, maybe make a few bucks?”

    “Listen, I know you’ve told me that there’s 47 shades of the color black. The problem is that the human eye can only recognize a few of them. Black mostly looks like black to us. Maybe if you tried to get them sold as minimalist compositions.”

    Death’s mandible dropped. “I am not a minimalist!”

    “I know, I know! But everyone else just looks at me funny and asks if you are.” I had been showing Death’s paintings around for a couple months now, under the assumed name “Big D” and precious few of his paintings seemed to invoke any sort of response except questions about his accused state as a minimalist.

    “Philistines, all of them,” Big D said, “I guess I should have expected as much. They’ll never appreciate the work of a true artist like myself.”

    “Well, it’s been said that the great ones are only recognized after they’re dead.”

    My companion shot me a glance from his eye sockets; a small spark gleamed within them. I looked down and took a drink of my iced mocha. We both knew that, being the Grim Reaper, Big D could never die.

    “Basically what you’re telling me,” He said, “is that my work will never be appreciated.”

    “I appreciate it.” It was true. Besides that, in any circumstance, Big D probably isn’t someone you want pissed at you.

    “You’d think that I’d be able to get at least something published or purchased. I have met all the great authors and artists. Every last one of them.”

    “I guess talent isn’t contagious. The majority of them had spent most of their lifetimes working before they become famous or struck it rich. I think a lot of them never lived to see their work succeed. You can’t expect success overnight, you know.”

    Big D shot me another glance. I was being preachy: I do that sometimes.

    “Sorry.”

    He waved it off with a skeletal hand. “I suppose that it’s not your fault. My genius is simply misunderstood, ahead of its time. We could let it sit for a while and then show some of it off in a couple decades. Maybe say that I died or something to attract attention. Or fake my death.”

    I shrugged. “Sounds like a plan. Say, though, have you thought about expanding into other media? Maybe use some other colors, or try your luck with sculpture.” Too late, I realized how horrible the idea was. Something told me that a dark red would be his color of choice. And figures twisted in the agony of death would be exactly the type of sculpture he would take a stab at. Big D couldn’t help but be morbid - He had been conditioned by an eternity of reaping souls. It would probably be a requirement in his formal job description, if he had one.

    “No thanks,” Death said, much to my relief. “I’ll just stick to what I know for now, maybe take a break to recharge and come up with some new ideas. I don’t know.”

    I shrugged helplessly.

    After a while he downed the remainder of his latte and then stood. “Well, I suppose it’s time to go. Same time Thursday?”

    “Sure thing,” I replied, wondering for the billionth time where the stuff he drank went. He wasn’t saying and I was afraid to ask.

    With our next meeting scheduled, the reaper of souls hefted his scythe and headed for the door.

    ******

    How I came to be Death’s friend, critic, and would-be agent is still confusing to me. There was no dramatic, life-changing event. No fireworks or trauma. He just showed up one day at one of the coffee shops I frequented and asked if the seat across from me was taken. I have to admit I was a bit startled by this, but decided it would probably be good policy to just let the robed skeleton with the scythe do whatever made it happy. If it could even be happy.

    So he sat down across from me and ordered a cafe latte. Surprisingly, the waitress was apparently unaffected by the fact that Death was here on her shift. Maybe she thought he was a Goth or something.

    “You’re Death, right?” I finally asked.

    "Yes.” He replied.

    I decided that he would eventually explain what he wanted, jab me with that scythe, or simply finish his drink and leave. Even mythological figures could enjoy a cup of cappuccino every once in a while, I figured.

    Eventually, though, I cracked.

    “So,” I started but couldn’t really think of anything to say. What kind of conversation does one have with the reaper? Reap anyone interesting lately? How many children died in Africa today? For some reason, questions about the departed seemed kind of off-limits, taboo, or even rude. Finally, I settled on what I figured would be a somewhat safe question: “What do you do with your free time?”

    He looked up at me, his lip-less jaws seeming to grin. “I was wondering how long I’d have to sit here before you asked.”

    That’s how I was introduced to mountains of prose and narrative poetry written by the Being most deserving of the pen name "Grim." The angel of death has a computer and Microsoft Word. That’s what he uses to write his stories, anymore. It’s a lot easier than writing everything longhand with a quill pen or a typewriter, especially when it came to revision. His keyboard skills could still use a bit of work, but he doesn’t have to worry about carpal tunnel syndrome. After all, he doesn’t even have a carpal tunnel. His prose was grammatically perfect, honest, insightful, and utterly gruesome. His scenes and images were vivid and picturesque. It was unsettling.

    Later, he revealed his painting skills, letting me get adjusted to the idea that Death thinks of himself as an artist, a creator. Fortunately for my stomach, most of his paintings were nighttime landscapes or supposedly elaborate paintings of shadows. To me at first, and to everyone else who saw them, the paintings simply looked like black and dark gray canvases. Eventually, though, my eyes adjusted to the myriad shades of black and gray until I could clearly decipher the forms captured on his canvases. I considered seeing a therapist.

    I tried to get some of his work sold and published, as he requested, but I continually met opposition. Magazine editors turned down his short stories because they felt the stories would upset readers. Book companies didn’t see a market for a small collection of death scenes, let alone multiple books of such stories. I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell Stephen King got started.

    Painters and art critics, or course, just thought he was a minimalist. He utterly despised this.
    Last edited by ghost_warlock; 2008-10-03 at 05:51 AM.

  4. - Top - End - #34
    Troll in the Playground
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    Death in a Coffee Shop

    Parts Three & Four
    Big D didn’t show for our appointment on Thursday. It was the first time this had happened, leaving me to sitting alone and feeling awkward. Eventually, I decided to have a chat with a dark-haired waitress in the otherwise empty coffee shop.

    “Where’s you friend?” She asked.

    “Search me, I haven’t the slightest. This is the first time he’s skipped out on me.”

    “Yeah, you guys are always here together.”

    I raised an eyebrow and looked at her curiously. I thought she could have been the same waitress who had served us for some of our other meetings, but I didn’t know for sure. I also didn’t figure that we stood out that much. I guess that sounds kind of stupid, though: Death is sitting in a coffee shop and no one’s supposed to notice?

    “You’ve been keeping tabs on us?” I asked, finally.

    A slight grin crossed her lips and she glanced quickly at the tabletop. “I guess so. You two always order the same drinks, sit at the same table, and talk about stories and paintings.”

    “So, you’ve been listening in, too?”

    Her grin turned into a full smile. “I have been listening in a little, I guess.”

    I didn’t figure this could come to any possible good.

    “So his pen-name’s Big D?” She asked.

    “Yeah,” I said, deciding there was nothing I could do to dissuade the somewhat nosy waitress so I may as well answer her questions. Besides, she was pretty and the place was empty anyway, so what could it hurt? Maybe she’d buy something.

    “I haven’t seen any of his stuff around, where does he show it?”

    “In all honesty, he doesn’t do a whole lot of showing. No one seems to like it much. It requires specific, acquired tastes.”

    “Does he write horror or gore or something like that?”

    “You could say that, I guess.”

    “I think I’d like to read some of it and see some of his paintings.”

    I looked at her, trying to see if she was for real. She stared back at me looking totally serious.

    “Um, am I changing colors or something?” She asked after I’d stared too long.

    “No, I’m just a little shocked. I suppose there's no harm in it if you want to see some of his work.” I decided there was a chance she’d like Big D’s stuff, but it wasn't something I was counting on.

    “My shift is over in two hours, why don’t we go and look at some of it when I’m done. My name’s Larissa.”

    “I’m Cory. I’ll be here.”

    “Good, it’s a date,” she said.

    ******

    “How long have you been his agent?” Larissa asked me, lightly running her fingers across a stack of his papers. The stack was at least a foot tall off my coffee table, with several stacks like it in various places around the room. My meager apartment was full of Big D’s literature, as well as a few canvases. With no one to thin my collection things kept piling up.

    “I’ve been meeting with him for a little over two months now, about once each week. But I guess you already knew that. He’s a decent enough guy. Doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends, though.” As if I was Mr. Popularity.

    “He sure writes enough, prolific. Is this one of his paintings?” She asked, indicating one of two portraits that hung on the walls of my sitting room.

    “Yeah, it’s my favorite.” I replied.

    “Likes black doesn’t he? Is he a minimalist?”

    “No, it just seems that way at first. And don't let him catch you saying that, he hates it! There’s actually more there, you just have to get adjusted to it. Like those 3-D picture that you have to get your eyes out of focus to see the image. It takes a while, but eventually you can sort things out.”

    I was proud of my diligence; I had puzzled out the forms buried within the black. No one else had been able to do that. Strangely enough, though, I found myself wishing that someone else would eventually see the images. I could compare thoughts, argue meanings, and pick favorites with another person for once.

    “Interesting, I haven’t heard of many people burying their images quite like that. Some painters seem just a little too anxious to make it all obvious. Maybe they do it so other people will get it, feel smart for figuring it out, and maybe buy the painting.”

    I nodded. My recent experiences in the art world and trying to sell the paintings seemed pretty much as she had explained it. Not all artists were like that, but there were more than a few.

    “I can’t see whatever it is he’s hiding in there,” she said, “but I’m sure it must be intriguing. I hope I’ll figure it out someday.” She moved back to the stack of stories and pulled one off the top. It was about a gardener, I remembered.

    Sitting down in my sofa and getting comfortable, she pulled a small, black-rimmed pair of reading glasses out of her purse. They made her look more like a librarian than a coffee shop waitress. I clicked on the reading lamp. “You want something to drink?”

    “What do you have?” She asked, looking up from the story.

    “In truth, I’ve got some cottage cheese that used to be milk, eggnog from last Christmas, and coffee.”

    “Coffee.” She didn’t hesitate.

    “What kind?”

    “What do you have?”

    “Name it.” My collection of instant coffee mixes was a matter of pride for me. Whenever I found a new taste I hurriedly bought and tried it, adding its small, rectangular container to many more just like it in my cupboard. I even alphabetized them every month or so and checked that there was no unwanted fungi amongst the granules.

    Larissa finally decided upon French Vanilla and I headed for my kitchen.

    After a few minutes, she came into the kitchen behind me, carrying the gardener story. I couldn’t blame her, no matter how great the author, the smell of coffee brewing grabs the attention in ways words simply can’t. I’m sure it wasn’t a conscious decision for her to follow me into the kitchen. Much more likely it was some primitive, instinctual reflex. “That smells great,” she said.

    I couldn’t help but grin at her.

    “What on earth?” She nudged open the cupboard door, which was permanently ajar, and admired my coffee collection. “Where did you get all these?”

    “Grocery stores, convenience stores, specialty shops, new age bookstores; pretty much you name it. I have a contact that’s in good with a manufacturer and he tells me when to watch for something new. That hand-painted tin I got from a Romany family I met while touring Europe back in college. The one that’s wrapped in fur I got from a South American trader I met a few years back. That’s real llama fur.”

    She looked at me through her scholar glasses and laughed. “If you have all of these coffees, why do you come to the store at all? And why always get the same thing?”

    “The environment. It’s different drinking a cup in a shop than in your house. Each shop has it’s own feel, its own energy. I try to go with that energy to strengthen the experience. Everybody who comes interprets the energy a little different. The shop you work at feels like iced mocha to me, cafe latte to Big D. The reason there’s so many variations of tastes in coffee is because so many people interpret the energies in different ways. It ruins the whole experience if a place sets you up for pecan and you get hazelnut. Businesses can fail because they don’t have the flavors to match their energies.”

    She laughed again. “Where did you come up with that?”

    “About two in the morning over at Gengo’s All-Night Coffee.”

    “You sure get around, don’t you?”

    “Yeah, I’ve been in the coffee circuit since early high school.”

    “Where do you get the money to support your fix?” She was grinning broadly.

    “I majored in art education at college and ended up a talent scout and critic for the museum and gallery. They charge a pretty steep commission to the artists for what gets sold. It’s harsh, but it keeps the agents employed and none of the artists are complaining, not with the pretty hefty checks that get handed around over there when something does sell. I guess the thrill of being marketed for big cash every once in a while is enough to keep them from forming a union and striking.”

    “That’s it?”

    “Well, no actually. I have to admit that I’ve got an investment in Coffee Quickie and I’ve got some stock in the franchise that supports the place you work. It all keeps me comfortable.”

    With that, she smiled and went back to the couch, sipping as she went.
    Last edited by ghost_warlock; 2008-10-03 at 06:04 AM.

  5. - Top - End - #35
    Troll in the Playground
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    Death in a Coffee Shop

    Parts Five & Six
    “Where were you last week?” I asked the skeleton in the robes.

    “Oh, it was horrible, a complete mess. A boat of about forty refugees tipped over out in the Atlantic. I had to sort out the drowning victims from the shark attacks, and then some of them weren’t due yet. I had to be careful, there are rules about this sort of thing, after all. Destinies to consider.”

    We stared at each other, both aware that the boundary had been crossed.

    “Anyway,” He said at last, “I’ve decided something.”

    “What’s that?” I asked.

    “I’m taking a break, going on sabbatical.”

    “What? What happens then? Do people just not die or something?”

    He shrugged. “I don’t know, never done it before. I would assume so, I haven’t worked in a couple days and that’s how things seem to be going.”

    “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What are you doing instead, then?”

    “I’m doing like you said, trying my hand at some other media. Sculpture seems quite nice so far and I’ve grown a bit fond of ceramics.”

    “You’ve got to be kidding.”

    He wasn’t.

    ******

    As it turned out, Larissa had actually liked Big D’s prose and started spending a substantial amount of time at my apartment. She would come over, I’d make her coffee, and then she’d read. When she was finished with a story we would joke around for awhile, lighten the mood. It was a little odd, though. I wasn’t used to visitors.

    She said that the stories made her cry, though, and I made her laugh. I didn’t know how to take that but it was nice to have someone friendly stopping by. Someone who actually enjoyed the same literature as I did.

    She was smart, as much as her glasses made her seem. When she read the stories she didn’t need to look up the words that were unfamiliar to me. Against my better judgment, I started feeling attracted to Larissa and looking forward to her visits.

    During my meetings with Death she kept herself as faceless and silent as before. She didn’t intrude on us and I commonly caught myself forgetting she was even around, like I had before we met. When we were alone, however, her glasses caught my attention and I loved to watch her read. I knew the stories so well that I could gauge her place in any of them by her facial expressions: a grin during a humorous section, a frown when trouble was brewing. I always had tissues waiting to catch her tears at the end.

    It went like that for the next couple weeks, Death was taking his time off and I was falling for our waitress. Whenever Big D finished his latest creation he would bring it to me and I would keep it on display in my apartment to be admired by Larissa.

    To my surprise, Death’s pottery resembled tribal relics more than it did the twisted and tortured souls I had imagined. The sculpture, however, met my expectations and I finally decided to drape a towel over a particular piece rather than face any more nightmares.
    Last edited by ghost_warlock; 2008-10-03 at 11:46 PM.

  6. - Top - End - #36
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    Mattaeu's Avatar

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    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    ;D

    This was just completed, and I must say, I am in a good deal of awe...of myself. Which is awkward, to say the least. :P

    Yes, it is based off another fiction.


    Anthony

    Break swift and carry her away
    in the night. Empty her kiss
    into the deep, the keep of the spray

    painted feint. With a past-sized fey
    on the winglets of your toes;
    break swift and carry her away.

    Turn to the desperate side-street way,
    as your heart beats the frantic footfalls
    to the deep, the keep of the spray

    and rumbling. Intent to stay
    the bloodless fight, yet Nardo kills:
    break swift and carry him away.

    Cry! Cry for her, wear the lover’s fray
    and pant–and shocked, she kneels
    into the deep, the keep of the spray.

    Tony!
    Please,
    Break swift and carry me away
    From this deep, this keep of the spray



    ...but I tell you, villanelles are THE DEVIL. ;)
    Mercy is the mark of a great man.
    *stab*
    Guess I'm just a good man.
    *stab*
    Well, I'm alright.

  7. - Top - End - #37
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    InaVegt's Avatar

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    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    'Goodmorning, ser Erion.' Astra said as she walked into the common room. 'How are you doing today?'

    'I'm fine, Astra. Have you finished my meal?'

    'Not yet, but I'm working on it. How is your research going on?'

    'Great, absolutely perfect, I managed to summon a fiendish toad today. It's easy once you know how.'

    'Be carefull, summoning is, like all magic, a field we know relatively nothing about.'

    'But Astra, if you don't try things out you'll never learn anything.'

    'But what if it attacked you? You have absolutely no defenses against fiendish creatures.'

    'It didn't, so it's a worry about nothing.'

    'Still, you should be more carefull, what would you have done if it did attack you?'

    'I guess I would flee, but you're worrying to much, as always.'

    'I just don't want anyone of our village to die, is that to much to ask?'

    'Death is a new and recent discovery, it's normal to be afraid yet we know absolutely nothing about it.'

    'But Fera never returned, her body went limp and performed none of the signs like breathing or a heartbeat, and it was because of a fiendish creature.'

    'I know, and it is a fearsome sight but fear should not stop the quest for knowledge, if we wish to be save from those creatures we need to have the means to fight them.'

    'But why summon them, won't spells of fire or similar be safer to use?'

    'Magic is difficult and we have yet to grasp the basics, for the moment all we do is try things out and hope it has some effect, I'm hoping there is a deeper system yet I do not know it yet.'
    The start of my newest story
    ٩๏̯͡๏
    New found land. It's like Untitled Document, for places - Flickerdart
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  8. - Top - End - #38
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    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    Ghost_Warlock, may I just say... WOW!


    Keep em coming!
    Groom to the Haberdasher's Daughter.



    Freddy Krueger by Ink, Flabbicus by Lord Herman, Rilik by Ceika.

  9. - Top - End - #39
    Troll in the Playground
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    Death in a Coffee Shop

    Parts Seven & Eight
    “Cory!” Larissa called from the couch.

    “Yeah?” I asked as I stepped out of the kitchen. She was standing in front of the painting we had admired the first evening she came to visit, Big D’s latest prose tragedy in her hands. I walked over and stood beside her.

    “I can see it! I can see it! There’s a rocky beach with crashing waves,” she explained, “There’s a large spire of rock shooting straight up from the water towards the sky like Devil’s Tower at sea. There are trees and all kinds of plants growing on top of it. It’s all painted in shades of black like everything is late at night when there’s no moon or stars. I can’t believe it, is this a real place?”

    I didn’t know, but I showed her some of the other paintings I had stored away. Buildings, trees, lakes, marshes; she saw them all and was shocked by the details. “It’s like he's training our eyes to see in complete darkness,” she said, gazing at the landscapes in awe.

    That night she didn’t leave my apartment.

    ******

    “I take it that your sabbatical’s over.”

    Big D nodded, seeming especially grim.

    It was Thursday again and I was sitting in the coffee shop with Death for what I had decided would be the last time. There was no iced mocha in my hands and some skinny, red-haired boy was waiting tables.

    “I guess I should have expected it,” I said, “I’ve read enough to know how it happens: just like that.”

    “I never completely stopped working, it would have been hell coming back with it all piling up.”

    An image of stacked corpses, like in holocaust pictures, invaded my mind.

    “Anyway,” I said, brushing the thought away, “I can’t keep up this partnership. It’s personal, now.”

    Death nodded his skull. “I expected this.”

    Larissa had not awakened after spending the night at my apartment. Death had taken her in her sleep, for reasons unknown to me. I didn’t want to read what words he would write about her. I told myself that I probably shouldn’t be angry with him but I was furious anyway, and hurt. After reading all of his stories I knew that the scythe had to be a heavy burden to bear. But it was his duty, I knew. “I want out, you’ll have find someone else.” I stood and started to leave.

    “Actually, I have a proposition for you. Maybe you’ll find it interesting.”

    I turned and looked at him, puzzled.

    “You are aware that I have become somewhat listless, perhaps unreliable or sporadic, in my duties.”

    No kidding.

    “When mortals die it’s obvious that they cross over to a different place, you know that. Sometimes I can visit them. That’s how I learned to write and to paint.”

    "Yeah, so?" I was still pissed, but curious, too.

    “In reality, Cory, your time was up months ago. You see, I first visited you a few days before I was supposed to reap you. Do you remember when you could first see the images in my paintings?”

    "Yes, look..." I started.

    “You were supposed to die that day. Instead, I broke the rules and recruited you as my representative. Larissa was to be taken the day before she stayed in your apartment. That is why she could see the images in my paintings. I altered circumstances for you. Twice. Your time was up but you continued on because I allowed you to. The only reason either of you could see the images in my paintings was because you were already, technically, dead. You simply hadn’t left your bodies yet.”

    Completely at a loss, I gaped, trying to put my feelings into words; trying to figure out just how I felt. "Why are you telling me this?"

    "I thought you should know," he replied. “If I hadn’t done what I did, the two of you would never have met."

    I glanced at the scythe, resting against the wall. I could only come up with one question. “How was she supposed to go?”

    “Car accident,” he said casually. “All of her relatives are out of town and, like you, she didn’t have much in the way of friends. She would have died alone, with only busy hospital orderlies nearby. Instead, she passed on painlessly in her sleep without so much as a nightmare. And all the while you were there, holding her in your sleep.”

    Death giveth, and Death taketh way. I sat back down and stared at the table. "So, what now, then?"

    “Now that you know how things could have gone, perhaps my offer will be more interesting to you. I have grown tired of the scythe, so I am offering you the job. It has occurred before, you see. A single soul can’t handle the burden of being the reaper for all of eternity. I myself am not even among the first hundred. I think you are more than qualified to be my replacement. You take over the job and I gain another chance at life until my time’s up. Meanwhile, you are free to visit Larissa, or any other amongst the deceased. That’s one of the perks.”

    “How will I find her? How do I know who to take, when to do it, and where they are?”

    “The scythe imparts the knowledge upon its owner,” he said, “It’s actually fairly simple, most deaths occur without you needing to be there. Just show up for the ones the scythe tells you; keep the ball rolling.”

    “How long do I have to do it?”

    “Until you get tired of it and find an appropriate replacement. After that, you can live again for a while, even though you should have died weeks ago. It’s part of the bargain – probably meant to re-humanize you or something. Eventually, though, you’ll die and pass on to the next world, too. I’ll be there by then, and so will Larissa.”

    I felt like a toy played with and cast away, but I nodded anyway. Now that I understood the nature of Death’s game it’d be hard to continue life as usual. And I could see Larissa again. Even at the cost of my life, it was a bargain Death offered.

    “So, what do I do?” I asked.

    He held out the scythe to me and I grasped it. I felt the smooth, worn wood of the handle for a split-second before I felt the quick, searing pain of my flesh being torn from my bones and transplanted onto him. And then I felt absolutely nothing - the sensuality of nada.

    “Ah, to be human again!” Big D/Cory said, smiling with what used to be my lips. He sucked down the remainder of his cafe latte and made a face. “You know, I’ve never been able to taste these. I don’t think coffee's for me.”

    I shrugged a skeletal shoulder, uninteresed.

    "Well, I hope I don't see you for a while," he said with what used to be my voice.

    "Yes, have a nice life, Cory." I said, heading for the door. After I met with Larissa there was much work to be done and I'd have to freshen up on my writing skills: I had a story in mind that was simply dying to be told.

    End
    Last edited by ghost_warlock; 2008-10-04 at 12:14 AM.

  10. - Top - End - #40
    Troll in the Playground
    Join Date
    Jun 2006
    Location
    Unfriend Zone

    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    Reflection of My Father

    I never knew my father; it’s likely I never will. He left before I was born.

    I can only assume he’s in prison – it seems to fit with what I know of him. He didn’t leave me much of a legacy to trace – no footsteps of family to question. He just skipped town when he found out what he’d done; left my mother to bear a swelling burden alone. Still, when I look in the mirror, I wonder what features he’s passed on to me. I imagine him the only way I know how – behind the visitation glass at some prison.

    My mother hated it when I grew my ponytail. Looking at the man on the other side of the glass, I can see why. My father bears the same ponytail. Its blonde has somewhat turned to gray. His hair is pulled back tight against his scalp, pulled into a ponytail that drapes down over his shoulder, white-gray against the orange jumpsuit. His shoulders are broad – more so than mine. I was always a slight child and I’ve grown into a slight adult. My shirts never fit right. I’ve got too-narrow shoulders and too-long arms – my father fills his shirt, the breadth of his shoulders match the length of his arms.

    His forearms are tattooed, the confederate flag and a serpent of thirteen parts on his left. It strikes me odd to consider him a patriot – even if it’s a patriot of revolutions, successful or not. I remember growing up watching The Dukes, that orange car with the red, white, and blue flag. That car is now etched into the flesh of my father’s right forearm. Why would someone get a tattoo of a car from an ‘80’s sitcom? But my imagination tells me it must be true.

    In my reverie I skip back up to his face; his grayish-blonde beard doesn’t grow quite right, places on his face where hair simply won’t grow. I’ve got a few patches like that myself, a courtesy of his genes – a thin line on either side of my chin that stays smooth and never gets stubble-rough.

    His eyes are hazel, just like mine. His irises dark spots in the white and pink of his eyes, bits of green and brown dotted and swirled together like a poorly kept lawn. In my mind’s eye, the eyes are watery and bloodshot. Is it because of this, our first father-son moment? Or is it because of some narcotic he managed to score behind the bars and glass? I don’t know, and I can’t figure out, why.

    The wrinkles on his forehead look like years-faint remnants of stitches-scars. They run parallel to each other but, occasionally, one breaks the trend and heads upwards, cutting across and through the others. I raise my eyebrows; creating ridges across my brow, deepening the trenches that I imagine are wrinkles on my father’s forehead. In the mirror, I trace the wrinkles through the reflection of my own face.

    But the cold feel of the glass brings me out of my daydream, dispels my father and brings me back solely to my reflection in the mirror. And it’s just as well – he didn’t care enough to wait and find out who I would be, who I now am. Why shouldn’t I also abandon him?

    Tracing the glass at the edge of the mirror, I let my hand fall away from it. My fingers smudge the glass.
    Last edited by ghost_warlock; 2008-10-03 at 02:09 AM.

  11. - Top - End - #41
    Ettin in the Playground
     
    Jibar's Avatar

    Join Date
    Jun 2005
    Location
    Everywhere

    Default Re: Writer's Haven

    Looking for an Angel

    “How wonderful life is”
    And “Love is a many splendid thing”
    Are just a small selection,
    Of the songs we would sing,
    With a face from the heavens,
    And a complexion like snow,
    The purest creation,
    I shall ever know,
    She would be my angel,
    One of God’s greatest creations,
    My one and my only,
    The centre of my affections,
    My stars and my heavens,
    My sun and my moon,
    But first I must find her,
    And that can’t come too soon,
    I don’t have much money,
    I’m not the best looking man,
    But she’ll be my angel,
    And I won’t give a damn,
    I’ll run round the Earth,
    Over mountain and sea,
    If it will bring my angel,
    Any closer to me,
    I’ll beg to the Lord,
    That he’ll answer my prayer,
    By my angel’s side no matter what,
    I want to be there,
    I’ll laugh with the good,
    And I’ll cry with the bad,
    I’ll celebrate the successes,
    I’ll comfort her when she’s sad,
    But first I must find her,
    She’s out beyond my sight,
    But through the blinding darkness,
    She’ll be my guiding light,
    But perhaps she’s closer than I think,
    Sitting beside me,
    But how can I be certain,
    I’m willing to wait and see,
    So wait for me my angel,
    And whatever you may do,
    Never leave me angel,
    Because I love you.
    Nothing but a Nobody

    Quote Originally Posted by Cogwheel View Post
    Also, are you even human any more, or did you just transcend into some sort of in-joke singularity?

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