![]()
|
|||||||||||||||
| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| The Road Not Traveled; Writing Excercise #1 | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Tuesday, 18. June 2013, 05:57 (1,030 Views) | |
| Caston Kane | Tuesday, 18. June 2013, 05:57 Post #1 |
|
Don't Be Jealous.
|
Here's a short writing excercise! No. 1: The Road Not Traveled Prompt: Do one post, however long or short you desire and in whatever format suits you, centering around what would have become of your character had s/he not entered the World of Darkness (In other words, if you play a Kindred, what if your character had not been Embraced, or If you play a ghoul, what if your character had not met a vampire, etc, etc). What would have been their fate? What would have happened to them? Tell us a story and allow us a peek down the Road Not Traveled. |
|
-------------------------------------- Caston's Battle Music ![]() English Spanish American Sign Language | |
![]() |
|
| Espen Schroeder | Friday, 21. June 2013, 17:56 Post #2 |
![]()
Blue Blood Rebel
|
Espen leaned back in her chair and sighed heavily. She looked down at the pile of files on her desk and began to slowly sort through them finally settling on one. She flicked it open and stared at the list of numbers inside. She looked up as the door opened and smiled at the woman's silhouette in the doorway. "Come on, sweetheart, you need to stop working and get ready." Espen smirked and looked back down at the files as she shook her head, "I can't yet. I've only got a few more proposals to look through." The woman laughed as she went across the room and laid an arm across her shoulders and laid her chin on the business woman's shoulder, "You're a workaholic, you know that?" Her hand reached across the woman's body for her left hand and gently pulled it up so it crossed up to Espen's shoulder and began to massage the stiff appendage. "How's your hand?" Espen smiled as she gently removed it from the other woman's grasp, "It's fine, Brook." "I know you, you know. I've been practically married to you for 50 years." Espen gave a small chuckle of amusement as she looked down at her flexing hand. "Has it been 50 years already?" Brook ran her hand through the short white locks of her lover, "Mmm...yes it has. Time's flown by hasn't it." "Hard to imagine we built this relationship out of a gay bar in the Village, right?" Espen chuckled and looked up into the light brown eyes of her partner. "I mean look where we've gone, Brook!" "Yeah, from a gay bar in lower Manhattan to Wall Street's best lesbian business exec. You've come a mighty long way lover." Espen turned her chair and took both of the frail hands in hers, "And if not for you I'd still be chasing women like the mysterious Ms. Kingsley." She smiled as Brook shuddered at the memory of the chilling and unobtainable woman and interjected softly, "I never understood what you saw in that woman." Espen cupped the other woman's cheeks in her hands, "My point is, that you? You took me off a path that I had settled for, Brook; moderate success in a small time financial firm, and chasing pretty young things. You gave me a life that makes me the happiest woman alive, I could've reached this point without you, Brook." "You're flatterer that's for sure." Brook slipped away and whispered, "It's almost 5." Espen sighed and looked down unhappily at the files on her desk, "Alright...I'll send them to Ted, let him sort all this out." Brook smiled and helped the other woman up, "Come on. Everyone's already ready to go. You're the last one." "Alright, alright. I'm coming. For fanden!" She cursed loudly in danish as she clutched at her chest, coughing loudly as she went back down to her chair. Brook's features contorted in fear, "Espen? Love?" The business woman shook her head taking deep, slow breaths as the coughing fit subsided. She shook her head, "The curses of age, I suppose." "You need to go to a doctor, soon." "I'll get an appointment tomorrow, but for now? Stop worrying about it. It's a special night after all." Brook nodded and helped her partner back up and threaded an arm through hers as they walked to the door and headed out into the large open living room where a majority of their friends and family were waiting for them, all dressed in their best. Espen and Brook stopped giving themselves some space from the majority of the room. Espen smiled widely as she addressed them, "I'm so happy, you could all join us today for this celebration. I think it's appropriate that on this day 50 years ago I asked Brook to marry me, and today after being engaged for 50 whole years I will finally be able to put a band on my fiance's finger and call her my wife." Brook smiled, "It's been a long road for my fiance and I. It all started in a bar, and it became a few of the most extravagantly planned dates I've ever seen, then it was a few whispered declarations of true love, our first apartment together, an engagement, our daughter and a business firm born in the same week, two years later our son, a few shocks and scares with our health and our business, lost loved ones, a rise in the strength of my wife's business, a move to Denmark for a year, two marriages and five grand children, and today we've gathered you here for a milestone not in our lives, but one our friends and family as well. You've watched us fight this battle for our marriage, and you've supported us in all of our endeavors and tonight we'll see the fruition of all this. Tonight I'm going to marry the love of my life and we're going to take our vows and most importantly I'm going to officially be a Schroeder!" Espen smiled as she sat next to her newly titled wife and flipped through the many photo albums they'd complied over the years together, their grandchildren standing around them listening as they told the stories behind every picture. "This one was our first date." "That was when we visited Denmark for the first time." "This was my first family dinner with your mother's family; I was terrified." "This is the first time your grandmother held your mother; she was terrified then too, but she got over it pretty quickly." The couple looked up when they heard called across the room, "Mom! Mama!" Espen stood up and smiled at her son, Rob, approaching with a wrapped gift. She leaned across the table and he smiled, "I found something at the old house." Brook smiled, "Really? I thought we got everything." She quickly drew him closely and kissed his cheek before slipping the package out of his hands and ripping into the gift wrap. She frowned, "I don't remember this one." It was an old photo album and Espen's brow immediately furrowed, "No...I don't remember this one." She opened it slowly and sat down as she saw the first pictures. Her mother and father... She flipped the pages slowly and stopped when she found pictures of a bright and smiling young woman standing with several others in front of a large mural, her clothes splattered in paint. Under it was written in a strange long forgotten handwriting, First Mural Job! "I didn't know you painted, Mama." Charlotte, their daughter, said as she leaned in to see the picture. Brook smiled, "You never told me you painted the church mural!" Espen abruptly closed the book and growled, "I didn't." "But..." Espen's soft gray eyes turned to steel and she bared her teeth, "Never bring that to me again!" She strode away leaving her family confused and slightly hurt at her aggressive response. She stopped at a balcony and breathed in the cool air as she tried to ignore the wave of guilt from her past. Was it her fault? She'd snuffed out Beth's very existence for her own selfish desires...she'd met Brook...she'd tried to juggle the condition for awhile, but she had to make a decision and she'd been so young... She kept a list of all Beth's murals and paintings around the city, and paid to have them restored through the years. Safety deposit boxes filled with sketch books and portfolios that Beth had assembled to join art school, all of it kept safe from the elements so Elisabeth Mills would never truly fade away. Her breath came in unsteady gasps as she sobbed out as her chest and throat tightened in the overwhelming pain and guilt. She felt Brook's arms wrap around her and she gasped into her shoulder, "I love you..." "I love you too...and I know..." Watery gray eyes met brown and she frowned as Brook nodded, "I told you...I've been engaged to you for 50 years. I know exactly who you. I knew there was something there...something you didn't understand, and that's okay, Espen. I'm your wife and whether you realize it or not, we share a bank account, sweetheart, and I can see the strange transactions between your private painting crew that restores those murals. I know there's safety deposit boxes. I left them alone because there was something there and it was a wound that was eating you up and this is how you how you have dealt with it for 50 years, but maybe now...this is sign that you need to talk about it..." "I don't like talking about it...I've never told anyone." "You're the love of my life and I'm the love of yours. We can share anything you want to share and I'll be secret keeper. Tell me about it Espen. Don't let it eat you up anymore." The gray eyes eyes turned to the view of the buildings and the river, her jaw shook as she whispered, "Her name was Beth..." |
![]() "If the day ever comes when you're tempted to sell me out, remember this: Whatever their price, I'll beat it. I like living." -- Tyrion Lannister Espen: #6699CC - Beth: #CC0099 | |
![]() |
|
| Dawid Prazmowski | Friday, 21. June 2013, 20:56 Post #3 |
![]()
Ancilla
|
((Many thanks to Renard for this post, as I could draw upon his knowledge to help me determine Dawid's ultimate fate in alternate history.))![]() Graventafel, Kingdom of Belgium 1700 hours, April 22nd, 1915 I'm getting too old for this, thought First Lieutenant Prazmowski, who was by now in his mid-forties. He relaxed his elbows against a snugly dug ridge of dried mud that lay just behind the parapet of the secondary trench. Though the promised offensive had not yet begun, sweat was pouring down from under his spiked helmet, along with messy bangs of pale blonde hair. His eyes were heavy, too, and his body ached and demanded rest. Prazmowski and his fellow pioneers of the 104th Reserve Infantry Brigade had hauled thousands of heavy cylinders towards their battlefield positions, placing them in exposed positions, from where the prevailing winds would carry their poisonous contents towards the enemy lines. It was hard work, and dangerous too, as the cylinders weighed 90 pounds each and had to be opened entirely by hand. Though Prazmowski was a chemist by trade, he could still not help but to be fearful of this 'wonder weapon'. When he'd ventured forward to assist the soldiers with their first haul he'd gotten a whiff the stuff, a distinctive mixture between pepper and pineapple. It had tasted metallic, sticking at the back of his throat even though he had taken all the available safety precautions. Rubber coats and gloves were augmented with a cloth that had been bound in front of his mouth and nose. He was told that it would work as a filter against the perfidious effect of the poison, though it's efficacy seemed limited at best. As an officer, he lacked the time to worry about possible long-term effects of chlorine exposure, as his work required the use of all his mental faculties. He had to make sure that the speed and direction of the wind was being monitored being at all times, that the equipment was being transported within the set time-table and that the men would behave themselves in accordance with all the established safety protocols. Now, though, he could at least lie down and enjoy a front row seat on what promised to be the turning point in the war. From the dug-out he could use a set of binoculars to peer at the battlefield. The view did not disappoint, and Prazmowski was thrilled as a strange green cloud of death was wafted towards the French and Algerian lines by the light north-easterly breeze. The wind didn't change, and death gripped the allies by the throat. Prazmowski could hardly blame them as he watched how they broke and fled. In the gathering dark the Frenchmen in their bright blue uniforms and the dark-skinned Algerian Colonials beside them fought with the terror, running blindly in the gas-cloud, dropping with breasts heaving in agony. Hundreds of them fell and died; others lay helpless, froth upon their agonized lips and their racked bodies powerfully sick, with tearing nausea at short intervals. They too would die later – a slow, painful and lingering death. A whistle blew in the distance and the first charge of his fellow Germans surged forward from their trenches, meeting little resistance as they poured over the allied lines. They gained one kilometre... two... three. Conquests that were almost unheard of on the Western Front. Glorious. Though the battle was far from over, Prazmowski felt like celebrating. He rose to his full feet and strolled towards the nearby underground bunker that had been designated as the 'Officers Mess', where his comrades would no doubt want to share a drink or two as he told stories of ghosts and all manner of monsters. Most of these stories were adaptations from the wild theories he had heard while writing for the German Theosophical Society and their publication, Lotusblüten. Even as war, death and cruelty raged all about them, the men still cared to hear these silly tales about the supernatural, which provided an escape from the world they actually lived in. One year into the war Prazmowski knew better than to take those stories seriously. Plainly it was men, not monsters, who were the real cause of human suffering. The last thing Prazmowski heard was the whistle of a bullet hurtling in his direction. Though it seemed no different from any of the strays that flung about the battlefield this one had his name on it, courtesy of an Algerian sniper who had been trained to target officers and left behind in a crater in no-man's-land, behind the German line of advance. The metal crushed and splintered in Prazmowski brain, allowing no last words, no last thoughts. On the road not travelled, there was only death. Edited by Dawid Prazmowski, Friday, 21. June 2013, 20:58.
|
| |
![]() |
|
| Aguirre Efrain Maddox | Sunday, 21. July 2013, 17:49 Post #4 |
![]()
Mouse
|
Spoiler: click to toggle When I was a kid, I used to have these real vivid dreams; dreams of horror sometimes because of the fear my brothers instilled in me, but more often, I dreamed of what the future would be like. At first, the dreams started out like any other little girl's might, with castles, fairies, and knight in shinin' armor. As I got a little older, fantasy lost it's appeal, and I developed what others felt was all-consumin' wanderlust, I just want to escape from Southeast Texas and experience some place else. I focused on school--and only school--for this very reason. My intent originally was to go to a West Coast college, but then I ended up gettin' an offer from a small college in London, and frankly, who in their right mind wouldn't take advantage of that opportunity? The way I saw it back then, life was too short to waste time, especially the way I lived it. I drank like I had a steel liver, snorted anything I could get for free, and did everything I could to shit on the education I was offered. Within my first two years at university, I had thrown everything away. I met these guys at a party who preached about anarchy, and my daddy had raised me to believe that anarchy was just another word for freedom. They were part of this livin', breathin' punk scene, the same scene that introduced me to the pipes, powders, pills.. But they never put a gun to my head. No, I played Russian roulette on my own time. I used to party at this club, this underground basement bar sort of place, where the bands were shit and the mosh pits were painful; an agonizing mosh pit, a fist to the jaw, a foot to the gut, these were things that gave me momentary clarity. Y'see, my youth was set in front of me, but someone took it and put it behind a wall of frosted windows. I experienced it second hand, like I was only observin' instead of participatin'. Every knock I took in the pit, every bruise, sprain, broken bone... They brought me to a state of sobriety that I had never felt before, and it was worth it. Even if it was only for a second, the pain was worth it. Had I not met Luke when I did, I woulda died a whole lot more permanently. The night he took me home, he took me away from the bottle of Seconal and cheap whiskey that lay in my side table drawer, took me away from the peace it would have given me. When he told me, in such vague words and little explanation of what was goin' on.. It was like a cruel joke, like he had known what I was plannin'. Sometimes I picture what might have happened if I had told that dead beat to hit the fuckin' road, if I had just gone back to my dorm-cell and swallowed those little chalky bastards, fallen into a permanent sleep like I should have. I did try after the embrace, I ate every single pill in that bottle and downed a fifth of whiskey in two hours. When I threw it all up, all the blood, the only thing it accomplished was a frenzy.. Which resulted in the death of the girl next door. I killed a nineteen year old college girl, torn her to unrecognizable shreds that would have otherwise someday been a Latin teacher. If Luke had left me where I was, had left me the pathetic addict, let me die.. Well, I imagine I would have died, anyway. I had no other solution for the fog that clouded my vision. I had known since elementary school that I was gonna die young, I never planned a life besides the one of an addled vagrant. Had I gone through with it, I would have been the 'one that didn't make it'. The girl they talked about at high school reunions, who they all forgot about until she died. "Ted, you remember that girl? The weird one with the frizzy hair, the one the cheerleaders made fun of.." "Yuh. Her name was... Angie? Aggie?" "Naw, man, her name was Aguirre." "Ah, you're right. Weird name for a weird chick. The girls used to call her a lesbo. Remember that time they put her in a locker for the long weekend? Heh.." "Hey, man, don't talk like that! She committed suicide back in '84, you know." "We all saw it comin'. She never had a fuckin' chance. Those nerds never do." "Don't you think that's a little harsh...?" Just like that. Inconsequential. I was a blip, not even worthy of a "rest in peace". The only people who would have cared were my brothers, but there were too many of us anyway. Our parents contributed to overpopulation. Nobody wanted four of us. Edited by Aguirre Efrain Maddox, Friday, 13. September 2013, 16:56.
|
![]() We are all museums of fear. Font color: #FFDAB9 | |
![]() |
|
| Raposa | Sunday, 21. July 2013, 22:59 Post #5 |
|
Walking indifference
|
Catherine flipped through the pages of the notebooks she had found while cleaning up, skimming most of them and lingering only on the ones that jumped to her eye. August 22nd 1957. Catherine checked her watch. 7:20, still some time until the first lesson started. Seeing as she only had her little talk with the headmaster in the period after that, but still... There wasn't something like being too early on the first day of the first job. After her application to a fund that supported people for academic excellence had turned her down with some flimsy arguments, she had resumed her studies and had ended up falling back on her initial plan and continue her teacher training. A few months ago, her probationary period had ended and she had been employed as a teacher for maths and chemistry at a grammar school near the danish border. She wondered how she would fare with the new colleagues and of course - the children. She was nervous, and she hated that. She entered the building through the front door and took in the air that would have cleared the last doubt about what kind of institution she was entering. Some children passed her and greeted her, she didn't reply and made her way to the teacher's room to see what would expect her there. The next item that fell into her hands was an old photograph, showing three people standing in front of a old house. The two young men on the picture with their more casual clothing and cheerful expressions were a stark contrast to the woman in their midst who appeared to be more formally dressed and had a somewhat strict air about her, the hands claped behind her back and standing upright as if she had swallowed a stick. Thus, she dominated the picture, and the casual observer would immediately assume that it was her house and the men her charges or servants. Although she was also wearing a small smile, it looked fake, not really fitting her and clearly not something she did often. The feint writing on the back of the photo dated it to May 12th 1961 and adding the lines 'To our beloved sister Catherine on the occasion of her 30th anniversary. All the best, your brothers Rolf and Heinrich.' Some pages later, she was leaving the GPs rooms. She had gone there to check up on the issues her lungs seemed to have and that had cost her a lot of working days already. After waiting in the cold, sterile rooms for some time, she had been diagnosed with chronic bronchitis and received a slip of paper that made it official. She was kind of miffed because this also interfered with her private projects and threw back her schedule a lot. She expected to be forcibly reduced to part time or being offered early retirement. This upset her a lot, after all, she liked her job a lot, was kind of able to stand the children, although some of them were a pest and most importantly, what would she do all day when there was no job ? After all, she was only 38 years old ! It was now Summer 1978. She had been right about her job prospects as she had found out and had settled for a part time position. She was not happy with it, but it kept her going. Her health had been improving to some degree and she had found other endeavours to fill her free time, writing articles for scientific pubications and also publishing a concise history of the city she was living and working in. At times she thought she shouldn't have missed out on stuff in her youth so much, kind of fearing ending up as a lonely old woman, but then, she reminded herself that she had missed that train some time ago. At this point, she was too old to expect too much to come out of a relationship and children ? Well, that door was locked and chained now. She regretted it, partly at least, but then, she had had lots of kids, even if they hadn't been her own. That and she loved her job. She wasn't too sure if she wouldn't make the same descisions again when presented with the choice. After all, thinking about what could have been was in the end not befitting her, she hated it when she became sentimental. Catherine looked at the crumpled piece of paper in the corner again. She had thrown it there about two hours ago when she had returned from her general check-up. A few new tests had offered a new peak into her condition and had allowed the doctor to reclassify her health issues. Chronic bronchitis was out of the window, the final verdict was lung cancer. The irony hadn't been lost on her, but she had taken it well. No need to get sentimental just for something like that. She had bestowed her most ironic grin at the doctor when he had told her and looked at her as if he awaited some great emotional outburst. She had been past those at the age of twelve after being forcibly turned into a lefty due to a conflict that had never been her own but that had continued to influence her life long after it was gone, popping up once in a while to check on her in the nighttime. In any case she attributed the whole mess to the chromates and other stuff she had been inhaling at work. Sitting on her bench on the veranda, she had pondered what it felt like to be handed the death sentence at the age of 51, chances she'd live to see 60 rather slim, as the quacksalver had put it. After some severe relapses and a first operation, she had reluctantly accepted early retirement in 1987. If the doctors were to be believed, there was still enough that could be done, although it would kind of mess with the life she was used to. She didn't believe them, after all, she still functioned and that was what was important. Why mess with that just to buy some time she didn't need ? However, her brothers had talked her into at least considering it and so she had agreed to give it a try to get rid of them. At least that was what she told them, in fact she was rather touched by their concern, but there was no way in hell she would tell that to their faces. At this point she was lying in a hospital bed, which she didn't like much because it reminded her of her childhood. She just felt weird when in those rooms that reminded her of the days back then. There was another photo, glued to the page this time. It showed Catherine and the two men, all looking older, her still appearing somewhat distant, the expression on her face forced, if not as much as on the photo that had been taken 26 years ago. Next to the bed there were three young adults, two girls and a young man, smiling at the camera not as forcedly, but still they were clearly somewhat uncomfortable. The family resemblance was clearly visible between all six, even if the degrees of it were rather diverse. The small dedication below the picture simply read: "We hope you'll get better soon and look forward to see you out of hospital once more, hopefully for good. Heinrich, Rolf, Catherine, Ernest and Louise." The next page held the last entry in the book. '14th June 1987, Big day today. Theothers made quite a fuss about it, don't know why. They seem to expect some kind of miracle to happen as it seems. I don't. I can see their point from a family perspective, but then, they should stay realistic. Perhaps I should put down some other things as well, things that need to be said, just in case. But then, this will have to wait... I hear them coming down the aisle to get me. Will add to this later then, I guess... Clock says its 7:20. They're early, as if they wanted to make sure Im on time. Hah, not that they could start without me, right ?' That entry had been made three days ago. Catherine had outlived that diary by two days before 'complications' arose that caused her to pass away in hospital without regaining consciousness. Catherine had never been close to her fathers sister, although she was carrying her name, but then, she couldn't think of any people that would define as having a close relationship to Catherine sr., apart from her brothers. She closed the diary and put it into the box together with the others and the old photo albums. She was curious and would see what else came from a closer reading. Would her dad have any objections if she asked him if she could keep those ? A smirk played around the younger woman's mouth shortly. One not too different from the one the other Catherine had had in certain situations, even if the younger Catherine couldn't see it... |
|
I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord make my enemies ridiculous.' And God granted it. German, French, Latin, Arabic | |
![]() |
|
| Caston Kane | Monday, 22. July 2013, 01:18 Post #6 |
|
Don't Be Jealous.
|
June 6, 1944 - "D-Day" The waves rocked the boat, splashing droplets of water and mist in his eyes. It made him squint. As he and his company barrelled toward the shore, wind whipped across the waters, and it froze his lips and his face. It was uncomfortably cold, even for a summer day. He lowered his head so his hard, green helmet could take most of the splashing. He checked his gun one more time: fully loaded. His dog tags clinked against one another; oddly enough, it would be the only pleasing sound he'd hear that day. He was trying to focus on the sound - the gentleness of it. Like a small instrument he wore around his neck. There was an innocence about the soft noise they made that was helping him center himself, and he could hear it above the roar of the boat engine, the locking of the weapons around him as they prepared for the invasion, and the orders that were being shouted from the commander's mouth. His hand grasped the small metal handle to his right, trying to steady himself and prevent himself from leaning over the side and retching into the water. "KANE!" His head shot back up. "Sir!" "PAY ATTENTION!" Caston normally would have responded with a hearty "yes, sir!" as he'd been taught in his drills. But not today. A scared but solemn nod was all he could manage to reply with. A thousand thoughts were racing through his head. Faces of people he knew, dreams he once had for himself, memories from his childhood. Before they left for the mission - what the commander said would be a day that the world would never forget, others started calling it 'D-Day' - he heard one of his fellow soldiers tell another who was frightened out of his wits that it helped to think about what you were going to do when this was all over. That thought provided no help to Caston, because every time he tried to imagine something better than his present reality, it begged the natural question: How could he imagine a better day tomorrow when he may not survive today? "That goes for all of you!" The commander shouted as a wave rocked the boat again. "Stay sharp, stay alert. No matter who falls around you, you pick him up and you keep ongoing. No matter how many Krauts you see, you shoot their asses, and then you keep on going. This is it, gentlemen." The speech wasn't very assuring. Patton, he was not. Caston surmised that he was probably just as scared as he was. "God be with us!" Someone in the boat shouted, and many heartily replied with the same. A few stayed silent. Caston only mumbled it. Some said that their generation would be called 'the greatest generation', but he felt that they were embellishing, trying to rally their hopes and spirits to some feeling of greater purpose and glory to mask the cold, hard realness that they existed in. Three years ago, he was a young man from Brooklyn, New York. Raised right under the shadow of the still brand-new Empire State Building. Happy, hard working... now, the only thing that made him who he was was the name and service number on his dog tags. He tried to muster as much courage as he could. He tried to turn his fear into strength. "Fuck Hitler!" He shouted. "Fuck Hitler!", most of the company replied. He didn't swear very often, and when he did, he knew things were bad. "INCOMING!!" Someone called out. His head snapped up. Loud splashes started hitting the water around them. They were already under attack. His eyes looked out to the other boats around them. One was hit, but it was still going. Another had its engine blow apart, and he saw a man's arm blown off from his body. In their boat, Caston's ears pained to hear the loudness of the gunner as he fired back. No more was he praying that he'd survive the day; he was now simply asking God just to let him get to shore. With a slowing and a thud, the boat eventually landed, and Caston jumped out with his company, his fingers gripping his gun as he started running across the beach in Normandy, France. His boots weren't as good for running in wet sand and rock as he'd hoped they would be. His eyes spotted men in uniform; not U.S. or British. Krauts. How did they make it this far out? They had guns, and they were shooting at American troops from the boat that landed beside theirs. He fired at two rounds at the first, missing him until he got a shot to his stomach with the third round. He shot the second German through his nasal cavity with only one round. Lucky hit. A loud noise happened to his right, and shrapnel and sand blasted up into their air. Suddenly he found himself falling. Confusion started to overtake him as he hit the ground, his helmet landing on his side. That's when he saw what was happening behind him and in his periphery while he was running: shored boats on fire, smoke filling the air, and the bodies of dead British and American soldiers laying dead on the ground. He recognized a few. John, Martin, Patrick Sam. A high pitched ringing filled his ears. His eyes were out of focus and things looked fozzy for a moment or two as he laid there, wide eyed and shell shocked. "You're gonna be alright!" A man shouted overhead, who turned Caston up to look at him. It was a U.S. soldier he didn't recognize. Must have been from another boat. The soldier lifted Caston by his shoulders and dragged him forward along the beach. "You took a hit to your head, but your helmet got it. Let's get you over here and give you--" The soldier was shot twice in the chest and fell backward, hitting the ground and dropping Caston back down. He landed with a thud. Taking a deep breath, and his senses coming back to him, Caston got back up, started running back up the beach, rejoining the soldiers still up and moving. Shouting and gunfire filled the air. He took cover behind a boulder next to a British officer and aimed his gun at the rocky hill in front of them. His scope spotted a Nazi soldier - he fired twice and took him out. He saw another through the lens. He fired and took him out. He tried to block out as much of the noise around him as he could. His heart was pounding like drum in his chest, and his pulse was pounding in his ears. Despite the cold, his brow was beaded with sweat, his face smeared with dirt and water. Drops of blood from the soldier that tried to help him to safety stained his U.S. Army jacket. He wished he'd known his name. He turned out from behind his cover and started running up the rocky hill, following the other troops, bullets whizzing by his face and body in both directions. He gripped the rope that lined the rocks that the other soldiers were using to help climb up. An explosion at the peak of the hill sent rocks and debris into the air, and two men who were climbing ahead of him were blown back. He had to dodge one of them as they fell back down the rocks, their bodies almost bouncing along the way. He climbed uptil he reached the top, and started running again past the barbed wire x-shaped fences, into the trenches of the Battle of Normandy. The coastal guns that they were supposed to take out at the peak were gone. Caston heard someone ordering them to press forward. They were sitting ducks if they stayed there. Explosions rocked the path in front of him. He kept moving forward, determined to keep pressing forward toward the rally point. He didn't see them. Three German soldiers, firing in his direction. He raised his gun and fired back. He got one... He got the other... Caston fell to his knees. He felt the pressure first as a bullet went straight through his chest. His hand grasped the wound, his face wincing with the pain that immediately followed. Another bullet went through his stomach. He could feel the damage. His insides didn't feel right. It felt like something was wrong. He'd been grazed with a bullet at their last skirmish, but he'd never been shot before. It was a strange sensation, and far more painful than he imagined it would be. He twisted around, falling on his back. His hand dropped his weapon and his hands felt the entry points... he was hoping that they would be superficial places; wounds that wouldn't be life threatening. It didn't appear that he was so lucky. He breathed heavily, and with each breath, it seemed like more and more of a difficult task to do. The cloudy sky above him seemed to be getting brighter. He let his arms fall to their sides. He knew what was coming. There was nothing he could do. He thought that dying would terrify him; that his heart would beat itself right out of his chest in fear. He thought he'd be praying to God to take his soul and to watch over the people he loved, now that he couldn't any longer. But he surprised himself at how calm he was. His breathing slowed down... he couldn't help it... He legs didn't want to move, but he was able to adjust himself so that laying on the top of the hill was more comfortable than it was when he'd first hit the ground. He wondered what the point of hate was. He wondered why Hitler hated so many people that were different. He'd heard the stories. Caston wasn't a Jew, but he was what the doctors back in America were calling "homosexual". He never told anyone. He never expressed it. If he were a German citizen, the Nazis would have thrown him into one of those camps he'd been briefed about. He supposed that would have been a worse fate than the one he was about to receive. Still, his mind couldn't comprehend why Adolph Hitler forced him and thousands of other young men, from his country and others, to take up arms against him. Maybe it was for someone much smarter than him to decide. He'd never gone on to college like he'd wanted to. He never had the chance. If he had, he might have answers to these questions that he was asking himself in his final moments. He wondered what his life would have been like had he not enlisted like every other man his age did. He pondered with intense curiosity what would have become of him had he not gone to war... Dying wasn't as bad as he thought it was going to be. He actually felt rather peaceful. His eyes watched other soldiers running the same path he was on. Perhaps one of them took out the Kraut that shot him? The sky above him was getting brighter, still. It was turning an intense white. That white started to cloud everything else in his field of vision... the soldiers... the barbed wire fencing... He felt calmer than he'd felt in a long while. His worries started to slip away. His concerns started to melt away from him. He'd thought of his family. He thought of his mother and father, his sisters, his late grandfather that was killed while serving when Caston was very, vrey young; Howard Caston Albert Kane. He was the man after whom Caston was named. He was his namesake. Howard Kane died in the First World War - it was a fateful coincidence that his grandson, whom carried his name and the legacy that came along with it, should die in the Second. The brightness of the white light from the sky was so intense now that it was all Caston could see. His body felt unimportant, somehow. He felt sleepy and comfortable. The pain dulled and dissipated. A small smile curved his lips. "It..." He whispered to himself, unaware that his voice and his lungs struggled to put his last words together. "It's a hell of a thing." Life. Life was a hell of a thing... |
|
-------------------------------------- Caston's Battle Music ![]() English Spanish American Sign Language | |
![]() |
|
| Tzippy | Monday, 22. July 2013, 05:13 Post #7 |
![]()
Ancilla
|
"Mr. Mulualem... Mr. Mulualem..." He couldn't help but smile softly as he regarded the little girl who tugged at his shirt sleeve, brown eyes wide as she indicated the exhibit they and the rest of his small class was standing in front of. Overhead, the massive bones of some long dead beast hung, the first graders staring in awe under the watchful eyes of their teacher and parental chaperones. "What is it, Sherise?," he spoke slowly, mindful of his pronunciation. Despite losing most of his native accent, that particular verbal tic had become a permanent part of Moshe's speech patterns. Absently, he ran his fingers over the handle of his cane, tapping a rapid fire beat as he waited patiently on the little girl, who had been placed deliberately in his class due to her own issues, which thankfully seemed to be more extreme shyness than anything else. There were several false starts, Sherise ducking her head, half hanging off his sleeve. Finally though, there was a tiny voice, tight with its own small anxieties. "Can we go see the whales next? We are still seeing them, Mr. Mulualem? Right?" He couldn't help it. His smile turned to a grin, freckled features lighting up as he replied soothingly. "Of course. We just have to wait, remember? We have to go to two more exhibits and then we're going to see the whales." In fact, the whale exhibit as the Museum of Natural History had been the entire reason he had planned and advocated for this field trip. One of his other students having found out about it during the projects he had assigned on the ocean, telling Mr. Mulualem all about it and infecting the entire class with the sort of feverish excitement most children seemed able to pull up at a moment's notice. He had finally calmed the class by suggesting that maybe if they met their reading goal for the month, he would ask administration about such a field trip. Not only had his class risen spectacularly to the challenge but it had blown up enough that the entire first grade of PS 137 had ended up on the outing. Moshe had quite honestly been shocked by the enthusiastic response. It was only his second year teaching after all and he wasn't sure he'd be able to secure the clout or respect for such a thing to happen. The year before had been a mess of blunders and mistakes to his eyes. The children staring at him. At the cane that was now a constant companion. And he worried about his funny accent and his funny name and really, he was terrified of a bunch of seven year olds. The confession of his insecurities had made Robert laugh, adding further injury to Moshe's bruised dignity. But then the other man had smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of his curls. Which really ought to annoy Moshe but he never could bring himself to be so. Robert was over a foot taller than him and even when trying to placate his lover, he couldn't help but lord it over him. Which had led to a few swats with the cane that were more for show than to inflict pain. It was funny, how the man had come into his life when it was at its worst. A physical therapist at the hospital that Moshe had gone to after the car accident. A constant, encouraging presence during the slow months of painful recovery that came with learning to walk again. A warm smile and teasing flirtation that had slowly brought the younger man out of his shell. Gotten him talking again. Robert had even encouraged him to get his GED. Apply for colleges. Get the fuck out of the downward spiral of dead end jobs and series of evictions that had been his life since running away from his father's home. Had gently pointed out that maybe he should get the testing that had finally diagnosed the autism. Had been there when Moshe had graduated and gotten his teaching certification. He owed Robert everything good that had happened in the last eight years or so. And often, he would pull out the ring he had hidden in his desk and stare at it before deciding not quite yet. Maybe tonight, Moshe decided, cane tapping lightly along the marble floor as he followed after the tour guide, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to take a silent count of his students. And he smiled at the idea. Tonight. For some reason, that just seemed right. Tonight, he'd go home with that ring, to the little apartment and the man who made it home, to the dogs that made him both laugh and sigh in exasperation, and then would come the next step. And, in that other life, Moshe Mulualem was content. Edited by Tzippy, Monday, 22. July 2013, 18:55.
|
| |
![]() |
|
| Iscariot | Monday, 22. July 2013, 06:36 Post #8 |
![]()
Childe
|
If there was anything he liked about this place, it was the view. When the rising sun hit the water of that murky little pond just right- magic. The dew droplets that clung to the flower petals in the garden turned each rose, tulip and daffodil into colored diamonds, sparkling and soft. And the lilies. Always, the lilies. The trees became living, moving things. Undulating like graceful dancers, spirits of the wood coming to life in the morning light as the breeze beckons them out to play. This view was one of the few things that still made him yearn for his beloved typewriter. But the sun was destined to continue rising and that moment would pass before he could form enough cobwebbed thoughts together. An ordinary garden it would become, with brown dried patches in the grass, concrete sidewalks littering the expanse of green, the dying pushed about in wheelchairs to enjoy it's mediocrity. "Mr. Alexander? You spend any more time lurking by that window and you'll become a permanent fixture." Ah. Yes. The hulking mass of Miss Spritz to ruin the day once again. There was nothing story worthy about this cantankerous cow. Her many chins perhaps, but not her. "Your hair is a mess Mr. Alexander. You really should let Miss Connie give it a trim. Let's get it under control and then you'll go to breakfast, hmm?" Her grip on his elbow was none too gentle as she steered him towards the miniscule bathroom in his room. Another bruise no doubt. It didn't take much anymore. As she attacked him with water and comb to get his wispy white locks to lie flat, William stared at himself in the mirror. When did my nose get so big? He frowned and squinted through his thick glasses, the action making the jowls of his cheeks quiver. Wrinkles made him think of water lines, woven into the earth after a hard rain, creating patchworks in the dirt. Like a good scrubbing would wash them away and reveal his handsome youth. And liver spots.. giant freckle blemishes to pockmark what little was left of the man he once was. If she stabbed his scalp with that comb any harder his skin would tear. Like wet paper, pulling apart at the easiest pressure. Between the bruises and the open gashes he constantly accumulated he was surprised he hadn't dropped dead from blood loss. Shuffling to breakfast, house shoes wearing lines into the carpets on the way to the dining room. Cold eggs. Dry toast. Lukewarm coffee. And zero bacon. He looked around to grumble bitterly at someone about it, foggily remembering the doctor saying he needed to lower his sodium intake. Fuck him. I want bacon. In a sea of grey hair he caught a glimpse of crimson, bobbing along. ... Long delicate fingers wrapped securely around her coffee cup, lips forming a perfect pink lacquered O as she blew across the top, sending the swirls of steam in a whirling dance. Her eyes were the color of fresh picked mint, large and guileless as they caught his. He stared, mouth slack, walking thoughtlessly towards her. Charm and grace does little to make up for tripping over a curb and landing flat on your face. Lily was her name. She rushed out to make sure he was not hurt. ... "You're a daddy, Will." The softest thing he had ever touched, the skin of his son. All chubby cheeks and tiny digits, fingernails the size of rain drops. The wonder of creating something so fragile, innocent and loved. Small tuft of red hair on his crown, blue eyes staring up at him as if he were the center of the universe. The beaming smile on her face brighter than any star that ever blessed the night sky, looking at him holding their child. ... "What the fuck do you mean, it doesn't matter!? You don't ever show any interest in them anymore William. They're your children! They love you unconditionally and all you care about are your damned books. You don't show any interest in me anymore. What I fell in love with isn't you. So stay with your fucking typewriter." The push was enough, just barely, to sweep it off the edge of the desk. The descent to the floor was not far but he could measure each second, like an echoing beat of his heart, as it fell. Keys scattered on impact, dusting the floor with his memories. The one thing he had that his mother had given him. His life. Broken. Like his marriage. He doesn't recall striding across the room. Or lifting his hand. All that registers is the resounding crack that hung in the air, the stinging pain on the back of his hand and the look on her face. ... No amount of pleading would fix this. This broken husk of a man. Without his Lily, without his typewriter, no words would come. Painfully forced visits with his offspring, their animosity evident. With a broken heart, you would think that a heart attack wouldn't hurt as much as it did. "Lily!" His hand reached out, knuckles like walnuts, fingers cursed by a constant tremor. But no. This was not his Lily. "Naw, Mr. Will. I'm Mary Louise. You know that." Pretty little thing, even with a hair net covering her red locks. He forced a smile, tongue shoving his dentures back into place. "I hear it's your birthday Mr. Will." She had leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, causing him to strain his ailing ears even more than usual. She slid a couple pieces of bacon onto his plate and patted his arm before walking away. Nice girl... Oh. Bacon. Edited by Iscariot, Monday, 22. July 2013, 07:08.
|
| |
![]() |
|
| Nora Penvellyn | Tuesday, 23. July 2013, 03:21 Post #9 |
![]()
Rebel With a Cause
|
As I sit and scribe my final testament these sentimental thoughts keep me reflecting on the love that I had lost, when all I sought was love, I'm lost... I'm trapped between dirty ass walls, surrounded by dirty ass people, breathing in this dirty ass air and hating every tiny little fucking shred of myself for ending up here. I can hear my heart beating like fuckin' drums in my ears as I look down at the spike in my hand, leaning against a wall with wallpaper peeling, stained a nasty color of yellow from all the cigarette smoke that's seeped into my lungs, into my pores, and in the plaster. My daddy's in the back of my head, telling me how much of a fuck up I am as I slide to the floor and fuckin' cry. He doesn't love me. He never did. And now I take my final bow and how I got up in this mess and loneliness is something that I felt in crowds. Momma can you see me now? I hold my hand up to the sky and Lord could you please grant me this one wish for Nora's last caress and then I will finally be blessed.... Do you know what an itch feels like? I can feel it... It's like I've got roaches crawling under my skin, tickling my muscles and bones with their freaky little feelers as they skitter all over me. Anywhere a needle could bang into a vein, they congregate and tickle the shit out of me. I can feel 'em in my arms, on my thighs, and between my toes, and it's driving me fucking crazy! Goddamn that fucking itch...those fucking bugs... Smack's like a motherfucking bug bomb, you know. On this page lies smears of my blood all I ever was is now my last remains of my life in vain... All I ever was... I want it. I have it. I gotta slam it. I can't just stare at it. It's calling to me, taunting me, haunting me, and testing me. Ingesting me. Caressing me. Infesting me. I can't fuckin' breathe without it. I can't see without it. I can't think without it. It's my everything... My only hope... My escape... Fuck me, I'm running out of room. As I dream of open wrists my time no longer exists. I reminisce of this addictive shit that lead me back to this. Unenchanting winding road and I can see the gallows; cutting lines of blow I'm shallow, but I'm numb and my time here is becoming insignificant. The track marks are like a dotted line on a map. You can see where I started... but I still haven't stopped. I can't. I won't. I'm not gonna let this fucking disease beat my ass into a pulp? I'm not gonna be my mom. I'm not gonna be my miserable fuck of a father. I'm gonna be me. Even if it's in a gutter. Fuck me. It's all I'm good for. Get me high as fuck and fuck me while I'm out. I won't fucking care. I never have and I never will. Some people say this shit brings them closer to God. It just takes me higher and higher until there's no more air to breathe and I'm floating... Gravity is for fucking pussies... I needed discipline or maybe it was lack of love that made it so I had enough. As I take my final bow watch me fly off into the clouds as I finally say goodbye for now. |
![]() We Salute You | |
![]() |
|
| TapestryofShame | Tuesday, 23. July 2013, 04:38 Post #10 |
|
Queen of Love (wut?)
|
This life I've lived good and long, Built me up and made me Strong. When I was young I lived so well, There was just one time I fell. My dearest love, my hearts desire, He loved me through the thick and mire. From the madness his hands lifted me, His gentle touch made me see. Not broken, bent, or made of glass, I crawled, I stood, I ran so fast. At twenty four I married young, Silence still upon my tongue. My beautiful daughter born so free, Her brother following when she was three. Though the years would fly on by, I'd watch them with a careful eye, Every night when he came home, We'd sit and sign our love in Rome. My fathers legacy passed to me, My daughter picking it up with glee. Magazines they called us pearls, The top Ferarri engineers were girls. The mechanics shop around us flourished, Ours hearts and souls fully nourished. My heart was blessed with gentle tide, But the years are long between deaths divide. My husband passed on some years ago, I await my time for heavens glow. Raise my withered body to your light, My line carries on the mortal fight. His smile waits for me above, He will be there, my one true love. |
![]() "I thought... I thought that Mexico had chased such grand musings from my heart. That I wouldn't attempt to live so bold and that I would slide away into shadows. Standing here... the silence is so loud with potential I am deafened." - Upon entering the concrete shell that would become, Muse. | |
![]() |
|
| Soulsteel | Tuesday, 30. July 2013, 01:27 Post #11 |
|
Dapper Scorpion
|
Almost thirty. The sun was setting by the time she made it home from yoga. Yoga today, porn shoot tomorrow, spin class and full-body seaweed wrap Thursday, bondage shoot Friday, podcast recording and party on Saturday. Busy busy, felt like everyone wanted a piece of Cynara nowadays. Almost thirty. Her computer glowed at her as she walked into the apartment. Even from here she could see that CNC'd messaged her while she was out. God, she had such a crush on that man, and she didn't even know what he looked like. He'd asked her to come visit him once, and she'd had the money in hand at the time too...and she'd spent it on plastic surgery in Tijuana instead, fixing her too-wide nose, her receding chin, and her non-existent cheekbones so that she finally (finally!) looked like a princess instead of a frog. After she healed, chemical peels and the right foundation took care of her acne scars. She looked like Cynara, not Vivian, no Photoshop required. She'd come back from her little vacation from porn and started doing video as well as still shoots, and it felt like she'd found a magic key that opened every door she ever wanted. Almost overnight she became a porn sensation, her web presence rapidly expanding, her new storebought face and her pretty, perfect, natural tits the subject of many a masturbation session. She'd been a Hustler Honey just four months ago, and it felt like the long, slow fuse on her career had finally burned its way to the gunpowder. She was red-hot and everyone wanted Cynara. Almost thirty. She dropped her purse and keys on the table next to the door, walking towards her computer. She ought to shower...but right now, she just wanted to chat with the weird, darkly funny British man she'd come to love over the last six years. She felt the usual pang of regret that she hadn't taken advantage of his offer to come see him...but first her face had been too sore, and then she'd been too busy - always too damn busy, especially lately. The pang was a little sharper than normal tonight. Almost thirty. Hey Cynny, saw this and thought of you. She laughed at the parody article linked - "Male Scientists Say No Conclusive Evidence of Female Higher Brain Functions Found, Demand Sandwiches and Blowjobs" - and typed back to CNC. You'd think so from how astounded people are that I'm literate but still choose to take it up the ass for a living. Not like working in an office is much different, I'd still be taking it up the ass and I'd be getting paid less! Amen, love. Speaking of, little bird told me your next shoot's going to be hot enough to give the Pope a boner. You know it. You also know I'll slip you a few special shots. <3 Always knew I was your favourite. By the by, your least favourite's back too - he's been on my blog claiming he found your address. Probably bullshit, but lock up anyway, eh? Vivian felt a chill slide its way up her spine before settling around her throat in a lump she couldn't quite swallow away. That was the worst part of her career going nuclear - she'd picked up a stalker who was a bit more persistent than the ones who occasionally sent her flowers or showed up at every single event she was at. He scared her, honest to god scared her, and she'd had to block him from her blog more than once. The last time, he'd gotten one of her personal emails and had flooded her with messages. She'd gotten mad and told him off rather nastily before blocking him. Ug. I will. Maybe I should get a dog. AFK a mo. Maybe you should. Fond of pets myself. She stood up and walked over to throw the deadbolt on the door, ballet flats slapping on the hardwood floor of her front hallway. Lock the door, check the windows, and remember to be careful going to and from her car for the next month or two. It'd pass. She hoped. The deadbolt thumped home with a satisfying clunk. Now just to check the windows. The computer pinged in the next room, and she thought about CNC. He was her best friend, really. Maybe she could tell him... Almost thirty. ...tell him she was thinking about retiring from making porn. Female porn stars came with a definite expiration date, and she didn't want to be one of the ones who went past theirs while still in the public eye. She was hot now, yeah...but she couldn't fight time forever, and she wasn't one of the almost-ageless ones like Jenna Jameson. She didn't want to wind up like the women who needed a paycheck so bad that they did porn that left them with permanent scars or that was illegal in most countries. That's why she still lived in a small apartment and her biggest splurges were the occasional pair of nice heels. She'd been squirreling her money away for the last three years. She had a few hundred thousand in the bank now. She'd make royalties from her vids for a bit, and she still had a very popular blog and podcast. A few careful investments, maybe put out a line of sex toys. She'd be all right. Maybe Vivian could come back out from under Cynara's shadow. Maybe she could finally go to Manchester. She checked the windows in the living room (securely latched) and then stepped into her bedroom to check the windows in there. Even though she was checking, she hadn't actually expected anything bad to happen - it was just paranoia. So when her closet door flew open and a large man slammed her into the wall, she was too shocked to scream. "It's me, Cynara. It's Larry. I love you, you know that right? I love you. And when you write things like that last email you sent me and then block me, it hurts my feelings." His hand was over her mouth, her lipstick smeared on his fingers. Tears melted her mascara and sent it trickling down her cheeks. He'd hit her so hard the clip holding her hair back had broken, and her dark curls were in her face. "I know you'll love me if you just spend enough time with me. I love you so much." His breath was hot on the back of her neck, and she couldn't make more than a tiny whine through her nose, he had her face held so tight. "Tell me you love me." His hand moved, easing the vice-grip on her mouth, and she screamed. The neighbors would hear. They'd call 911. Please let them call 911. He backhanded her so hard she felt the plasterboard of the wall crack, and she sprawled bonelessly on the floor, dazed and watching blood drip from her forehead onto her favorite rug, the one she'd had since she was in college. "You don't love me, do you." It wasn't a question. She tried to lift her head and couldn't. Her head screamed in agony and her body wasn't working right. She didn't think she could have answered him if she wanted to. "If I can't have you, Cynara, no one can." In the other room, the computer chimed again. Vivian closed her eyes and thought of England. |
|
When men discuss the things which are to be, the rats laugh in the rafters. - Chinese proverb Spoiler: click to toggle
| |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
![]() Join the millions that use us for their forum communities. Create your own forum today. Learn More · Register Now |
|
| « Previous Topic · Other Works of Fiction · Next Topic » |






















3:26 PM Jul 11