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| Thread: Short Stories |  This thread is pages long: 1 2 · NEXT» |
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted July 19, 2015 03:50 PM |
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Edited by fred79 at 16:18, 19 Jul 2015.
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Short Stories
i initially titled this thread "stories of fun-loving lunatics", but since nobody else really took to that idea, i'm broadening the horizons. now, any short story can be posted. it doesn't have to be about any subject whatsoever; just short stories. kind of an extension of the poetry thread; you just pour your words out to form an idea. first, i'll post my 3 older stories, and then follow them with my latest one, from july 15th.
Tale Number One
"Dark Hilarity: A Tale of Fred's Friend, Mr. Kink"
We were in a restaurant, that much I remember. I had just turned some waiter named Alex into a Pez-Dispenser, and for good reason. My buddy Fred had had enough of his mistakes. I have no idea who this guy "Alex" was to Fred; I don't think Fred even knew who the hell he was. "Just another two-legged cockroach", is how the F-meister would say it.
Fred and me's been friends since way back in the more "active" days. He's become much calmer as the years have gone by; much more level-headed, or "centered", however the bozo's say it. To tell the truth, I miss the old F.
Old Fred would have me cleavin' four to five guys a week, depending on how frequently he was out and about. Some times, three or four a night. Man, the things I could tell you...
These scars don't come from me getting intimate with soft human beings, no sirree. They come from going through auto-glass; through reinforced front doors; through sheet metal, and the like. Fred once had to replace my haft after he broke it with an overstrike. That one hurt, you better ****in' believe it. But now I got a nice fiberglass handle. Yeah, baby, a few scratches is all it ever gets. You'd have to put my haft through a woodchipper to do it damage now. My head, well, I'm missing a piece of heel, but that's a battle scar I wear proudly. That was one hell of a night.
But enough about my rugged good looks. Back to the story. Back to what happened at that restaurant.
So, I had just been pried out of some guy's face, nothing new, and laid in F's lap as he sits on the guy, waiting for him to die. You know, helping him along. Meanwhile, I'm on my side, thinking: "Come ONNNN, one more time, at least. I need more than one ****in' chop to slake my thirst." But Fred is elsewhere, you know, listenin' to some tune he heard on the radio, only in his head. His foot-tappin' is actually startin' to piss me off; each tap is an eon, where I could be seperatin' pieces of the guy, for ****'s sake. Finally, the meatbag chair ol' Freddy's sittin' on, croaks. F sighs, gets up, and holsters me. At this point, I know the fun is over. I go back to daydreamin' about mountains of flesh, forests of bone, and rivers of blood. F, of course, probably drained what he could of the guy, and made the blood pudding he's so freakin' fond of. I'd probably like it myself, if I had taste buds.
But I can only feel what I'm into, you know? And sad to say, as time keeps on tickin' by, I ain't gettin' much feelin' time, dig?
I have faith, though. Fred'll stop tryin' to keep himself under some sort of control. Fred'll turn the dial back up again. And when he does, baby, WATCH OUT. 'Cause I'll be gettin' busy again. And when that happens, there's gonna be a lot more puzzle pieces to put all the Humpty's back together again. You better ****in' believe it.
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Tale Number Two
"Jack (Part One)"
Jack came back, slowly. He had been gone for a while, dreaming on his feet again. Not remembering what the dream was about. He never did. He came back slowly, and he waited for the voice. The commanding voice. The soothing voice. The voice that told him everything was going to be ok, that nothing was going to hurt him. Jack became gradually aware of his surroundings. He was standing in a room. In a house. Tan carpet, with funny streaky patterns. Splotches. Little Spatters. Spots. So many spots, that they converged, and blended with one another. Inkblot after inkblot, just like at the hospital. That was a long time ago.
The spots, Jack was noticing more and more, were shades of red, and not the black of the hospital inkblots. Not a complex and eccentric carpet pattern, as his awakening mind had first thought. It appeared he had done it again. His sense of smell came creeping back, and he got a whiff of what he had done. He could taste the metal in the back of his throat. So pungent. The walls had similar patterns, only more lengthly. They ran, and overlaid one another, here and there. They mixed, to form little soak spots on the carpet at it's base. Jack trembled. He was going to get caught. He was going back to the bad place with the straps. Where the faces laughed at him, scowled at him. Where they hurt him. Jack started to cry.
"Stop that, Jack."
Jack immediately stopped crying. Now smiling, he clapped his hands like a little kid. He made a noise, a short squeal. A squeal of delight.
"Jack. Look at yourself. You are filthy. You have to get clean."
Jack looked down at himself, and discovered that he was indeed filthy, and naked. He covered his genitals, embarrassed. His pale face took on the color of his hair, almost.
"Jack, stop being bashful. No one is going to see you. Stop fooling around and go get cleaned up."
Jack turned from where he stood, his knees a little wobbly. He left the room, and went out into the hallway. He could see a bannister, and the beginnings of a staircase. He wasn't on the first floor of this house. He saw a door that was cracked, with the light on. He could see white tile. The bathroom. He opened the door.
He was greeted by more blood. All over the walls. All over the floor. The shower was occupied. A huddled form in pajama bottoms; it appeared to be a teenage male. It wasn't moving. Jack became frightened anyway. IT could be pretending. Waiting for Jack to get close enough. Close enough to hurt him. Jack backed away.
"Jack, the boy isn't alive. He's not going to hurt you. It's ok."
Jack halted his retreat from the carcass.
"You have to remove him from the shower, Jack. He's in your way. You have to get clean, remember?"
Jack remembered. He had forgotten already. He grabbed the slippery-sticky arms, and pulled. There was resistance at first, then the body started to slide. Jack hauled the boy out into the hallway, and left him against a wall. He went back into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
"Check the temperature, Jack. You don't want to burn yourself."
Jack did. He adjusted the knobs until the water was warm, but not hot. He climbed in, and started using his hands to clean himself.
"Use soap, Jack. Get a washcloth."
Jack did as he was told. He scoured and scoured, re-soaping the washcloth, wringing it when told to do so; and after a little time, he came clean. He dried off, as instructed. He put on a pair of slippers from the hallway closet. The voice told him they were there. Jack had no idea how the voice knew all the things it did.
Jack walked back to the room he had "awakened" in, padding along in his new slippers. There were two bodies in this one. One on the bed, and one on the floor. Bigger bodies. The parents.
"Jack, the drawers. Use the towel to open the middle drawer."
Jack did. He put on a pair of pants belonging to the man on the bed. He put on a shirt from the drawer below it, as instructed. He took a pair of socks out of a top drawer, and a pair of sneakers from a closet. He carried the socks and the shoes out of the room, as he was told.
"Jack. Do you hear the siren?"
Jack did. It was far, but getting closer.
"Time to go, Jack. Leave out the back. Watch where you step."
Jack did. He opened a back door that led out into a field. A dog started barking. Coming from next door. Not far, but at least there was a fence. Jack stepped out into the night in his slippers. He took a few steps out into the grass, then carefully put the socks and shoes on. He left the slippers in the grass. He looked up at the bright moon; his special friend.
"Walk, Jack. To the back of the fence. To the woods. Go now."
Jack did what he was told. The moon followed him, peeking through the trees. Jack was gone in the night.
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Tale Number Three
"Diary of a Madman(Saturday the 9th)"
I went for a walk today. Out in the woods. As I walked further and further away from civilization, I could hear the whispers getting louder. The birds were at it again. The big black birds. They were following me, landing from tree to tree. These damn crows think I'm the Antichrist. But I'm not. Maybe. I don't know. I stop walking, and they stop fluttering. All is silent. They stare down at me, at the top of my head, probably. I'm not looking, not even moving. I extend my fingertips towards the ground, towards the dirt. Blood starts seeping up like bubbling crude. I'm grinning. Looking down at the blood, avoiding the stares, and grinning. At the blood. The blood is a joke. It's not real. That's what the doctors said. Therapy, my ass. The main doc was so stupid. I used to say, "What's up, doc?", just like that damn cartoon rabbit. I say, "What's up, doc?", every time I pass his head in my hallway. He's a prize. He has horns and everything, Ha Ha. Meds sure saved his ass, didn't they. Ha Ha. Now he's a deer. The blood is smiling up at me. I can feel the sun smiling down at me. Oh god, it's about to turn into a musical. I can feel it. A bloody musical, dedicated to me, their Antichrist. Of all the vagina's in all the world, they have to give birth into my ears. The laughter is so loud, it's deafening. Screaming laughter. God, make it stop! I slam my fist into my forehead. My vision is blurry for a minute, and the laughter dies down to a low hum. Like machinery. That cold, cold sound. The humming of electricity. I detach, and go elsewhere...
I'm running through a house. It's nighttime. Nighttime is my time. Everyone and everything else are now intruders. Get the **** out of my time! You're stealing my air! You're stealing my thoughts! You're stealing my ****ing BRAIN! Parasitic hyena's. I'll have your beating hearts in my hand, all of you. The moon is shining through the windows, painting my shadow on the wall. My shadow has holes in it. Eyes and a mouth. They laugh at me, tell me I'm not good enough. **** you. You don't know me. You don't know **** but what I tell you, shadow. You are my child, I give birth to you. You will do what you are ****ing told. My shadow sneers for a minute, and my mind swims. Then all is calm and still. My shadow obeys. I feel lifeless, like something has left me. The child is gone. The shadow is back inside, where it belongs. Crawling inside, scurrying like a thousand cockroaches with a thousand wings. Filling me up. Cracking my skin. A head appears through a crack. A scout. It wriggles free, and marches up my arm, dutifully. I watch as the bugs start slipping out of my arm crack, and up towards my outstetched hand. Tickling in my mouth. I open my black beetle mouth, and Brown Recluse spiders come pouring out. Dancing over my festive skull face. I am one, in the moon. I am the furthest distance from a baby's cries. My eyes crawl white with beetle grubs that eat my sight. My pores breathe like blowholes, a million screaming mouths of death. I am the End of all Living Things. Death made flesh. The sky is turning fast towards tomorrow, and I've got hooves for feet, and horns on my head. Open your legs, mother earth. I am the Devil, reborn...
I blink, and I'm back in the woods. The sun is so hot. My mouth is bone dry, my tongue feels like leather. My legs are shaking; my neck and back hurt. It feels like a different day. Where was I? It doesn't matter. The crows are gone. That's all that counts. I try to walk, and I fall down. How long have I been standing? After 10 minutes of my letting my muscles relax, I stand up, shakily. I can do this. I lean against a tree trunk, and look around. Birds are chirping. Not the bad ones. Bugs are buzzing. Not the ones inside me, these ones are on the trees. I hear water trickling. There's the creek. Using the creek as a guide, I make my way back to civilization.
When I get back, I drink a lot of water, before throwing it all back up. My stomach cramped. I drank too fast. Little sips. Little sips. My body starts to come alive again. I can feel the cells in my body absorbing the moisture, I feel like a dry sponge, filling back up again. Ahhhhhhhh...
I sit down, turn on the T.V., and find out what day it is. I had been gone for 2 days. This goddamn heat, it does things to me. I look up at the ceiling. The hand is still there. I nailed it, but I wasn't sure about the spot. I didn't check for a beam beforehand. HA HA, beforeHAND, get it? WHO THE HELL SAID THAT?! Goddamn, my head... Scratching at the windows. Pecking. The crows are back again. Peering in at me. I can't leave, I just got rehydrated. They'll leave. They'll leave. I can sit tight, and watch my T.V. The eyeless head. My old elementary school teacher, that *****. She puts out so much more USEABLE information in this form, than she ever did in class, and whole. The only problem is, she never gets the weather.
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Tale Number Four
"House Sitting"
Part 1
Home, for me, is an abandoned house in an abandoned neighborhood in Detroit, Michigan. I've lived here since the previous owners moved out. My room is downstairs, in the basement. You go through a big hole in a wall in the darkest part of the basement, furthest from the stairs, and there I'll be; all 7 feet of me. I spend my days in the pitch darkness of the hole, and I only venture out at night. Night time is my time, and my home and time keeps getting invaded by people. Sometimes, it's delinquent kids wanting to tag up my house. Other times, it's junkies, crackheads, or other assorted drug users wanting to find a nice place to get high, in private. I'll get the occasional group of rapists who bring some squalling woman or little girl into my home to have their fun; and I'll get a couple of guys seeing somebody off to the afterlife from time to time.
Understand, that none of this, I allow. This is my home, and I won't tolerate trespassers. Night time is my time, and my home is my castle. I get so angry, when people cross those lines. It's a blatant and wanton disregard for my rules. But like I said, I don't allow it. Everyone who breaks my rules, get broke. Everyone; not even the squalling women or the little girls(sometimes boys) get away. Not even those intended to be wormfood. I'll be damned if I'll let anything slide. I have standards.
You would think they would have learned by now to stay away. Maybe the fact that my house is just one of hundreds(or thousands) that lie abandoned in Detroit, is the reason they keep coming. Maybe, they don't recognize the warning I put on the threshold. The front door stopped being there years ago. But the warning could have been sprayed over, or faded by now. I really wouldn't know, because I don't venture out. I stay indoors. And I keep this place empty, except for myself. You probably don't want to know what I do with the bodies.
Part 2
This clown. He thinks he owns this house. He thinks, because he moved in a decade or so ago, that this house is his and his alone. Well, I've lived here since before this house was a house. Since before this neighborhood was a neighborhood, and still a forest. Since the 1800's, I've been here, and this arrogant clown thinks he can just shack up at will, and claim this space for his own. Sure, he takes care of the others who venture here; but if he would back off and let me take care of them, then I could regain my strength. Get back to my old self. The thing is, I need a near-constant flow of screaming bodies to keep myself strong. To stay on this side of the world, where everyone else is. Now, I am only a shadow of my former self. Just a shadow, and it takes a lot of fear to make me more than that. Things get hazy; I haven't had a chance to feed on the terror I need to sustain myself for a year or so now. So that I can be more solid. I need that solidity to venture further out. As it is, I'm stuck here with Bozo. Doesn't help that I can't even exist as but an afterthought in the daytime. People come here during the day(which means, I have virtually no influence), and are safe from Bozo then, as long as they don't venture downstairs. Since it's pretty dark down there, most people don't go down there during the day. None do, at night. They never get that far, because then, the clown's awake. Nobody ever gets that far, and nobody ever escapes. And of course, Bozo doesn't leave me anyone to play with. He doesn't take his time, like I would. He doesn't savor anything, except maybe the way they tasted. Such a waste of good terror.
But enough about that freakshow. He steals enough of what should be mine; he doesn't need to steal my story, too. Hell, I've done my own thing for a couple hundred years. I'm ultimately why most of this neighborhood "moved out", ha ha. I had so many to feed on back then. For years, I fed on this neighborhood. I was so strong, that my little gravesite here couldn't hold me in it's ethereal chains. I could, "extend my reach", if you get my drift. And extend I did, all over the place. But when this place started becoming a ghost town, I found myself getting weaker and weaker. Too late, too bad, the damage had already been done. Whoever I didn't get ahold of, moved away, if they had any sense. I'm guessing the media blamed it on the failing economy, something to do with automobile businesses. Some bull**** story so as to not frighten any other potentially prospective homeowners. Or maybe not; I haven't seen anything but the rancid underbelly of this city since. Not that I'm a rose, myself, or anything. But one day, I'm sure Bozo will move on, and I'll be able to get back to my old self again. Here's hoping.
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted July 25, 2015 01:19 PM |
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damn. nobody's got anything? looks like i'll end up filling this thread myself.
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Herry
Bad-mannered
Famous Hero
100% Devil
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posted July 25, 2015 02:15 PM |
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Edited by Herry at 09:31, 26 Jul 2015.
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My post's mission was accomplished, there are some people who actually post here now.
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Neraus
Promising
Legendary Hero
Pain relief cream seller
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posted July 25, 2015 03:16 PM |
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Edited by Neraus at 15:17, 25 Jul 2015.
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We need some quality here, immediately!
My writing would lower the level though, but I will write nonetheless...
VIVA LA REVOLUCIÒN!
A brief story of comrade Pablo.
The sun was up, a brief moment of respite after the incessant rain of the last three days, the rays passed through the sheets of paper in the windows.
Lying on his bed was a young man, Pablo was his name, he loved the sound of rain, but ultimately hated being wet, waking up because of the sudden arrival of the morning he exclaimed: "Dammit! I should use something else to cover the windows!".
Pablo was a young'un of 24 years of age and traveled from Guyana to the US, to take some money for his family, and indeed he found work as a clerk of a music shop and made lasting friendships with his coworkers.
A peculiar thing of this man was his room, he lived in a small apartment, and his bed was a ragged sofa, and on the walls there were posters of Lenin and Marx, while he kept a little photo of Che Guevara on a box he used to hold his lamp and his copy of the communist manifesto.
Once he woke up he went to his usual bar to get his breakfast, and after that he walked to go to "Mike's Guitars", a small music shop at a crossroad, once there he greeted his boss, Mike, a man of Jamaican origins.
The two went along very well, the only problem were the constant rants of Pablo at every single problem and Mike's little addiction to smoking.
The days passed all in a similar way, a teen comes to the shop, he wants a guitar or a drum kit, Pablo sells it and slips a little pamphlet he wrote himself, two hours later the customer comes back to shout at his failed attempts to instruct people on communism; or a dad comes by, he notices the Che shirt of Pablo and strikes an heated conversation regarding communism and its evils.
At the end of the day he goes to the local pub with his friends and drunkendly rambles about communism, while they laugh and applaud him, at the end of their discussion Yuri, a Russian immigrate, always brought all of his friends to their respective homes, as they were too drunk either to drive or to walk while Yuri would only take some water.
And so Yuri put Pablo to bed in his house and continues his job.
The sun was up, another day after the rain of the last days, the rays passed through the sheets of paper in the windows.
Lying on his bed was a young man, Pablo was his name, he got drunk every night, but ultimately managed to recover before waking up, waking up because of the sudden arrival of the morning he exclaimed: "Dammit! I should use something else to cover the windows!".
But it was Saturday, and a new adventure waited him...
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Noli offendere Patriam Agathae quia ultrix iniuriarum est.
ANTUDO
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NoobX
Undefeatable Hero
Now, this is a paradox...
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posted July 26, 2015 12:45 AM |
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Keep 'em coming.
Letter
He was sitting there for hours staring at that blasted piece of paper. The maid would check on him from time to time, but she'd always find him sitting in the same spot, in the same manner always breathing heavily while keeping his focus on the letter.
One could only guess what was written in the letter, but it was of great importance it would appear.
Around midnight, he rushed out of the house, got into his car and drove away. No one has seen him ever since then.
Years have gone by, he hasn't returned. The house was sold to an elderly couple who moved out of the capital. The maid found a new employer and lived an uninteresting life.
After the case was reopened, an officer reported that they did a throughout examination of the house and found a piece of blank paper standing on the desk in the study along with a letter opener and a broken shard of glass.
The said officer was reported missing the next day.
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Ghost said:
Door knob resembles anus tap.
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Galaad
Hero of Order
Li mort as morz, li vif as vis
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posted August 11, 2015 02:25 AM |
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Nice thread, Fred. 
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted August 11, 2015 02:40 AM |
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thanks, it gives me the warm fuzzies. write something. short stories aren't hard at all; you only need an idea to begin. from there, go anywhere. 
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted September 02, 2015 01:38 PM |
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Edited by fred79 at 13:44, 02 Sep 2015.
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Disclaimer: The following may be a little hard on some people's sensitivities. If you are squeamish about violence, I suggest not reading this.
Tale Number Five
"Jack (Part Two)"
Veronica was sitting at her window, waiting for the LSD to kick in. She had taken it 40 minutes ago, and it wasn't coming on yet; not even slightly. She checked her pupils in her hand-mirror, for the 4th time. No dilation. Either it was a bad batch, or the guy at the mall had screwed her over. Craig, she thought his name was. She was just about to give her girlfriend a call to see if she could contact the snow, when she decided to check again. Her pupils were slowly starting to pulse. It was coming on.
Downstairs, Veronica's mother and father were arguing again. She could hear them. So, she got her iPod, put on her headphones, and turned some music on. She could still hear them *****ing at each other, so she turned up the volume.
An hour passed.
Veronica was sitting at her window, peering out into the night. The LSD was running strong now. She opened the window and took in the air and the atmosphere. She peered up at the stars. She could see where the sky ended, and where space began. She was zooming along, feeling the cosmic connection of everything, the atoms and molecules of the universe. It settled on her inner self like a good scarf, repeatedly, coating her in a feeling of ease and peacefulness. She watched the stars start to dart about; she watched the grass in the fields wave with the wind; she watched as she saw a pale younger man with red hair emerge from the woods and make his way toward her house; she watched as a horse darted by him, streaming colors behind it. Her attention was drawn to the sky again, where she could see constellations swirling around each other, in a galactic dance out in the void. She stared on, smiling beautifically.
Beneath her, outside the house, Jack stopped. He had not seen the girl; as he had been watching the couple inside the house, who were still yelling at each other. It was all very animated, and it had drawn him to them. Their voices had carried on the wind, and Jack had come to see. He was fascinated by their animosity, but he was also afraid. Maybe they were arguing over who would be the one to hurt him.
"JaaAAAaacccckkkkkkk..."
Jack felt his body turn cold, freezing cold. But not before he felt warmth at his crotch. It was the OTHER.
"Here I ****ing come, Jaaaaaaaaaccccckkkkk. You better get the GOD DAMN **** OUT OF MY MOTHER ****-ING WAYYYYYY, JAAAACCCCKKKKKK..."
Jack disappeared behind his eyes. He crawled away from the darkness, away from the OTHER. He watched as the OTHER strolled past him, and put it's eyes up to his inner face. It started screaming and vibrating, a black swirling tornado with ripping claws and chomping rows of shark teeth, and Jack fainted.
In his dreams, Jack saw and heard terrible things. He cried, and trembled, and fought to get away; but the sounds and images were relentless.
Jack watched as a person got into a house via an unlocked window; and found it's way toward two people who looked angry and were pointing fingers at each other and making wild gestures. It was a man and a woman, and the man looked like he was about to hit the woman. They were in a kitchen. Jack watched as the intruder pulled a chef's knife out of a knife block smoothly, and without breaking stride, jammed the knife into the man's back; punching it in and pulling it out faster than either of the couple could react to the intruder's presence.
The people in the scene appeared stunned: the woman still had a sneer on her face, but it was sliding off now. Jack couldn't see any fear in her eyes yet; merely confusion. The man slowly turned, grabbing at his back, wondering why his hand came away wet. Not understanding. Not understanding too late. The face that greeted him was drawn up into a mask of pure hatred that hardly bore any resemblance to anything other than a botched photoshop job. Something some teen would make to try and scare people over the internet.
For a second, the husband, Jeremy, crazily thought that this man was the man who his wife was having an affair with, and had punched him in the back.
For a second, the wife, Linda, believed that the man that had came up behind her husband looked familiar. The sketched face from that news story? Her anger at her husband that had been replaced by confusion, was now replaced with scant seconds of concentration; trying to remember if this man was who the sketch was of. She saw disconcertingly that the man had pissed his pants. Then she saw the knife in his hand, and that it was had a little red on it. Her hand went to her mouth in realization, but not before a short scream made it's way past her teeth.
Upstairs, Veronica climbed out onto her windowsill and sat on it, with her legs swinging. The headphones were blaring the speedy crescendo of The Doors' "The End". Focused on the stars, and feeling all of her worry over her parent's impending divorce and her almost certain subsequent move out of state and away from her friends, all of her hatred towards her parents, disappear in an immense feeling of calmness and serenity. She was a part of the universe. She was one with it all; with everything. It accepted her, despite her own flaws. Even her flaws were part of the cosmic design.
Downstairs, Jack was watching; listening. To the screams. The once-arguing man was now the man fighting for his life; fighting the intruder. But it was no use. The intruder was overpowering him, and slashing, and stabbing, and hacking. Through it all, Jack could hear a deafening voice:
"-OTHER****ER IN YOUR FACE IN YOUR GODDAMN MOTHER**** FACE YOU PIECE OF ****SUCKING WORTHLESS GARBAGE SCREAM MOTHER****ER SCREAM YOU USELESS PILE OF GUTS ****ING **** IN YOUR ****ING GUTS IN YOUR ****ING **** GUTS SCREAM YOU B-"
The voice was accompanied by a horrible display of violent fury; and all of it ending on the edge of a stainless steel chef's knife, part of a set that the couple had gotten as a wedding gift from a bad-humored friend, who drunkenly said in his toast, that they would "use those knives on each other some day".
Jack watched as flesh parted, blood flew, the hands trying to defend the body from the blade; the hands that were being cut to pieces, the skin parting like the body was wrapped around and around in a mummy's cloth, only the cloth was skin. The intruder chopped and hacked, sliced and stabbed, punched and kicked and bit the fighting bodies to the floor; and he never slowed his attack, absolutely destroying the people who were fighting to stay alive. The blade went into the mans face, and out came an eye, severed, onto the floor. The blade went into the man's cheek, severing his tongue to hang by a thread of flesh, and blood poured out of his mouth as he continued screaming, only now out of tune; more of a garble, because the screams had to get past the blood that was now filling his mouth.
Jack watched as the carnage continued. Eventually, the couple stopped moving. The intruder kept at them, now flinging pieces of them around. Jack watched as the intruder was cutting pieces and chunks and tossing them every which way to splat against whatever smooth kitchen surface they landed on. He watched as ears were removed and flung, fingers were hacked at and bit or chewed off and spat out; the intruder now finding intestines through some wounds, and snaking them up and out, pulling and pulling and tossing over his shoulder, severing the ends and throwing those too. Jack watched as the man put his hands inside wounds and ripped, opening the bellies and fishing around for the organs, severing them too and tossing. Jack was both fascinated and horrified; he couldn't turn away, even if he desperately wanted to. He heard everything; the wet sounds, the snapping of ribs, the tearing and rending of flesh and viscera. Jack gagged, and through it all, the voice was still booming:
"RIPPPPP THE SKINNNNNNN... SQUEEEEEEEEEEZE THE FLESSSSSSHHHH... BRRRRRRREAAAAAAAK THE BONE... CRUSSSSSSHHHHH IT ALLLLLL... GRRRRRRINNNNND IT UHHHHP... CUHHHHT IT UUUUHHHHHHP... CUHHHHHT IT UUUUHHHHHHHP... SQUEEEEEEEEEEZE... PUUUUULLLL IT ALLLLLLLLL APAAAAAAARRRRRRRRT.."
Jack heard the voice laughing, and could actually feel the intruder's wide and toothy grin on his own face, which helped to make the dream even more surreal. Apparently, the intruder's rage was gone. Now, he was only enjoying himself. "Must be his favorite part of this", Jack thought, and gagged some more. Then he watched as the man looked around at his work, seemingly not satisfied. He got to his feet, and left the kitchen.
Jack watched the intruder as he searched from room to room downstairs, leaving bloody shoeprints everywhere. Jack recognized the clothes the man was wearing, but he couldn't remember where he had seen them before. Jack watched as the intruder finished his search of the house's first floor, and stopped at the stairs; looking up. The sneer was coming back onto his face, and oddly, Jack felt that too. The intruder started up the stairs.
Upstairs, Veronica was swinging her legs out gradually, and bringing them back in; stretching and wiggling her toes, while watching the night sky. The stars were so colorful, they were like a thousand Northern Lights, all waving in different directions, all different colors, all different shapes; amorphous blobs continously changing shape. She thought she heard what sounded like sirens off in the distance. She climbed out onto the roof, and made her way above her window, sitting down at it's precipice. She lay back, crossed her arms on her stomach, and watched as the universe gave her a show. She smiled.
Below her, her door opened, and a man came into her room. The same man she had seen in the fields behind her house, but much different in appearance now. The man looked in the closet, under the bed, and briefly, out the open window, where the fresh air was blowing in. He cocked his head and sniffed the air, like a dog would.
Then he left.
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Herry
Bad-mannered
Famous Hero
100% Devil
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posted September 10, 2015 01:23 PM |
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//I have no title for this story, so meh, I'll call it Unnamed//
Herry has had enough for the day, so he went to sleep...
...
..
.
...
..
"My head... What is this.."
He wasn't feeling good. He felt like his brain was going to melt... And he was hearing this strange noise...
*Tchhst* *scrrrrshhhchh* *beessssh*
The more he heard, the more he felt he was going insane...
He grabbed his head. His vision wasn't doing any good, either. He was slowly losing control over his actions...
"Human, this is your last chance to leave..."
"What- WHO ARE YOU?"
He screamed. But nothing. He was being under sheer pressure, and he had to run, but he couldn't move. He was terrified, yet something kept him there. He wasn't able to think clearly.
"I-I nee-ed to kno-ww what-t's go-inng onnnnnnnn"
He walked, he opened the door... He continued walking heavily...
*step*
...
*step*
"Human, get out of here while you are still alive!"
*step*
Before he could he reach the stairs, Herry tripped and fell...
"Uarghhg!"
He slowly looked up... There was something wrong with his vision. Everything. It looked eerie, and dim... Even all the colors became shades of dark-blue...
He couldn't hold it for much longer. He couldn't even feel his head, all he knew was, he was in great danger...
By now, he was wondering, what happened to his family...
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Sorry if that was bad, it's my first time making a story, my writing skills are ****. Any tips for improvement or general rules to stick by for short stories are welcome.
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markkur
Honorable
Legendary Hero
Once upon a time
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posted September 15, 2015 12:47 AM |
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Edited by markkur at 00:51, 15 Sep 2015.
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Sorry for a late response, I do think this thread is a fine idea, so I too a walk. <S>
Out for a Walk
I walk the street of the city as a seer of sights but it is no vista for my eyes. I see before me a silent parade of men and women tramping under metal, plaster and plastic. Every face wears the same blank mask that hides humanity and each is adorned with a pair of vacant eyes staring ahead under some zombie spell quite unknown to me. One by one in a procession they come and go and the size of the human-snake remains the same for an hour. But the chain is only one small vein throbbing in the heart of the city; for just off the side-walks winds a long line of metal boxes, erratically pulsing in unsteady rhythm, caging hidden tempest-emotions behind silent grim faces.
Green color flashes inside the foggy curtain and the train moves a bit but then a red light halts the brief movement and on down the line, sneers fall on the line of faces like dominoes making the chain of heads look left and right in front of hive-like structures bearing many dark windows before disgusted hands raise in questioning movements, heads pop out of car windows to yell at the metal boxes in front, while some fists pound bemoaning dashboards that have no dash. Then the scene mellows in tapping fingers under anxious eyes looking at wrist-watches or radio-clocks.
Everyone around me seems entrapped or entranced in some other world I cannot see, for none appear to smell the present pungent odors about their heads nor can they see the misery in each others eyes. A pressing fog hovers just over their heads that nearly strangles me but they do not reject the vile air or if they do, it must not be bad enough to cause alarm, nor flee the danger my body detects.
While I witness this horror which must be life in the modern city, a new evil beats my ear-drums, for there approaches another loosed monster invading these streets. I cannot make out the intruder’s form but it is a loud brute that constantly bangs and crashes, playing an unending tune of horrible notes. There is no harmony in this noise for it is an erratic collision of sound with no orchestration. It plays gross off-key notes of low thumping earthquakes, stomping a grisly beat amid cascades of various horns and organs, never in tune and irrationally combining into a single din without care for the human ear. I flee this metallic ogre piper. I must or my hearing will perish, if I don‘t go mad first.
Shortly I escape to a suburb street and the concrete way from that awful scene becomes cleaner and wider. The fog fades and the stench ebbs. The assaults on my senses lessen and my body relaxes a bit. But step after step after step I discover I am not yet free, for I sense something deadly is still about me.
I ignore the smaller dose of interference for now and focus on my new surroundings. I see no hives, no tall ant-mounds but now long rows of boxes line each side of the tarred road I travel. The dwellings appear to have been built by a government court order, for other than color they are fashioned exactly the same. Other than a rail added here, a different style of light-fixture there, I see very little to truly alter these blocks of bland sterile uniformity.
I now notice something else different around me, where are human faces? There are none at all on the side-walks with me but then I notice there are some human-heads that peer at me from windows, looking much like the mannequins I saw in some of the bigger city windows. I took a chance and waved at a face, though I could not see its mouth but it didn't wave back and the face disappeared leaving the spread curtains to rejoin after a few wiggles. I think a lone eye was still peeping at me from between the drapes, so I stuck out my tongue and made a not so scary face.
Suddenly a roar like a flagellant beast came from behind me and a large bus came down the street. It stopped on a distant corner and a person walked out to the street corner before the bus moved on. I watched the figure quickly dart to a nearby house and hurry inside. A lone car came down the street pulled in a drive as a large door went up and back down after the car and driver vanished inside the smaller box on the end of the larger box called a house. That made me wonder and I noticed that while many houses had front-porches, not one had a human-being actually sitting on the porch. Then I noticed the solid fences at the back of these sanctuaries. Some were wood and some were stone but all blocked the wind and any mortal conversation below half a human yell. I fled this sterile scene. I yet vowed to survive this walk.
The way out soon became road only and I had to walk on grass. My feet instantly welcomed the change from the previous hard step. Those people back there in the city seem hard and if they have the money, they must certainly buy and wear deep cushy shoes to keep their feet from becoming flat plates of iron-bone.
Now, I notice that empty green fields stretch out from the road and I can feel the wind again. It blows against my face and cools the sweat on my brow. I'd heard a few birds in the previous place but now I hear lots of them and their songs wing all around me. Unlike the city noise, these different songs naturally harmonize into one melody.
I look up, the sky has grown to an incredible size again and the horizon is only edged by trees. The clouds above are doing a wispy dance on a beautiful blue stage.
I stopped walking to smell this place, not caring what anyone might think. The aroma was very rich and it changed as I walked along side the road. Sometimes it was the rich loam of the earth that I recognized, sometimes the strong scent of a plant, green and pungent and when I came upon flowers, they each cast a different sweet scent into the air that only the hovering bees liked better than I. Some smells I knew well but others seemed mysterious and exotic, as if I'd stepped into another land.
Next I walked past a farm and saw long rows of tilled earth. I’m sure the lines I saw held seeds waiting to emerge and slowly become tall plants.
Further down the road, I stood under a lone sweetgum tree that grew on a small hill and on it’s deep brown barked branches clung countless starry-leaves spread above me as if a wizard had cast a deep-green heaven. Trailing back from the magical tree, tracks of yellow and purple wildflowers bounded across the waving green expanse until halting at the edge of a large forest with giants standing just inside the shadows.
Going that way looked inviting but I stayed to road as it rose and dipped with the next series of hills. I continued on, looking back at times and seeing the city below grow smaller and the clamor of the throng slowly fading from my hearing.
Upon a hill-crest stood a rock wall. From a distance it looked as if it had been made yesterday but the nearer I came I saw many areas were long broken and the growth of nature within revealed the old defense was of great age. Where the trees stood near the stones, lichen, moss and vine and made natural walls and bridges that crisscrossed the ancient stonework. I was far from the road now and rounded the ruins, going in and out of a moat that had not held water for centuries till I came to a sharp drop. Looking down from the castle mount I could see a river far below from the cliff-face where I stood.
I found a good bit of thick grass that covered the roots of a large oak tree and sat down with my back to the tree and the ruins and shut my eyes and listened.
I could not hear the city sounds anymore and while I sat there no motor came down the road I’d left back on the hills. The only sounds around me where birds, the wind at times blowing across the river valley and the occasional forest creature not within my line of sight. I could only faintly hear the sound of the water below rippling, swirling and splashing around and against larger rocks in-stream that had tumbled down from the side of the cliff who knows how long ago.
I was about ready to leave the idyllic scene when I heard voices coming along the riverbank. Before long I knew it was two young folks, a boy and girl in playful conversation. As they drew closer to where I rested, I could tell from their rivalry of words that they were brother and sister. The boy was giving some sort of guardian instruction and the girl was rolling her eyes and smiling before she said; “Yes, yes, I know” before she said else something I could not hear (probably a tease)and kicked off her shoes and ran splashing out into the water. A moment later, the brother was sprayed by his giggling sibling and off went his shoes and he into the water; the chase was on.
Fairly quickly they were both drenched and laughing to high heaven. Soon they were back on the riverbank putting on their shoes and walking carefree and lightheartedly talking on their way to wherever. All I could think for a moment after, was how fortunate the three of us were that day.
Markkur
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"Do your own research"
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted February 11, 2016 09:59 PM |
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i think i much prefer the above format to traditional poetry format for your writings, markkur.
and, very nice indeed, both style and content. your writing style reminds me of burroughs' "naked lunch". 
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Drakon-Deus
Undefeatable Hero
Qapla'
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posted February 11, 2016 10:06 PM |
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Thank you Markkur.
And thank you Fred for the bump.
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kiryu133
Responsible
Legendary Hero
Highly illogical
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posted March 03, 2016 08:21 PM |
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Day 1
I don't know what it was about her as she rode past our cottage but it captured me. The way she held herself high with confidence without loosing focus. The way she held command of several soldiers without a word. The way she demanded respect from everyone going out to catch a look of the proceedings. The way she scanned her surroundings, hinting at a great deal of experience despite her relatively young age.
I can't say for sure, but she felt regal in a way.
I knew already then she wasn't. I knew that she had earned her position as captain and I knew she would rise higher.
I knew I had to follow her the moment I set my eyes on her.
"Attention!" some man following her shouted. "Your chief is in need of soldiers. If you wish to take up arms and follow him into battle in search of riches and glory, now is your chance!"
At this, she moved forward on that majestic bird of hers- I hadn't seen anything like that either. It's muscular legs with the large claws able to rip a person in two. It's beak curved and sharp and its eyes sharp and observing. Slick-black with a deep-red for its crest and parts of its wings. It made any of the birds in the village look like wrecks.
"I am Captain Helga and I will be your commander until we meet up with Chief Raul. If you have trouble deciding, we will remain here until tomorrow" she shouted with the most commanding voice I had ever heard. It inspired me to no end: I wanted this woman to lead me, to show me where to go, where to be and what to do. I wanted her to look over me and protect me and I wanted to help her succeed and realize her goals. My heart pumped as I ran indoors and got my bow before running back out.
~~~~~~
They had set up a small table and chair in front of the fountain with the man who had began the announcement sitting on with parchments in front of him, holding a giant quill. To his left stood she in front of her bird overlooking the proceedings as a small line had formed. Standing there, slowly moving forward to what would likely be the rest of my life...
I would like to say that it was no big deal. That I wasn't scared or that it was something i was absolutely certain off but that would be a lie. I was terrified. My heart was pumping, adrenaline flowed through my body and I considered leaving right then and there but whenever I felt the need to quit I looked over to her and I was calmed and filled with confidence that my now chosen path was the right one.
"Name please" The scribe asked and I gave it. She looked town to me and our eyes met for just a second. Her deep, brown eyes with their unreadable look that signaled confidence, wisdom and experience. Eyes that pierced through my soul. I immediately looked away and stuttered out my name.
"Are you sure this is the path you want to go on?" she asked me. It was impossible to not look up at her.
"I have never been this certain of anything in my life, sir" I said, looking right into her eyes. She was a head taller than me but I stood firm.
"Very well" She answered.
~~~~~~
I was a solder that evening and I haven't regretted that decision since.
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted March 03, 2016 10:24 PM |
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Edited by fred79 at 22:29, 03 Mar 2016.
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Tale Number Six
"The Feathered Tavern: Part 1"
A man who had a duck for a hat sat morosely, peering out the dirty window at the pouring rain. It had been raining, more or less, for four days. And the duck, although a waterfowl, wasn't fond of continually being pelted by rain. And so he sat on the crusty old coot's head. Nevermind that the old geezer had dementia; many people had ducks for hats nowadays. Four days? Might as well have been four centuries. This whole damn town was losing it's marbles, with this godforsaken rain. Aunt Morelda was serving drinks in the tavern like always, and the regulars were still attempting to keep their cabin fever at bay by drinking the local brew. With a feather here and there floating in a mug, and the occasional duck-dropping. Aunt Morelda's own noggin held a marvellous mallard, much more dignified than the old grey duck that sat on Wilbur's dome, who was peering out at the gloomy, rainy day. Nobody knew, of course, that that old grey duck was actually a great and powerful wizard in disguise. A wizard named Fakyoo the Disdainful. But we'll get back to him later.
For now, let us bask in the surroundings of the tavern. The aroma of ale and sweat, pipe smoke and flatulence, permeates the town pub. Usually, there would be laughing, story telling, and clinking mugs; toasting those lost in violent and drunken battle over muddy and stinking land. But not tonight. And not yesternight either; nor the night before that. No, once a half-dozen houses filled full of flood and landslide, most had moved for higher ground in an ill mood; on which sat the tavern, surrounded by nothing. Lonesome on it's rocky and malignant lump of a hill. But at least the rain flowed off it, rather than onto it. Rain hasn't yet learned to flow uphill; at least not in these parts.
The tavern door creaked open, and in strode a mangy black crow, clicking it's toenails on the wood floor in the issuing silence, once the door was closed to hush the sound of downpour. The head ducks were nonplussed. They hadn't seen a crow this far into the nether regions of The Brown Hills before. The crow hopped up onto a stool; and to the barkeep's dismay, called out:
"Ale! Fetch me ale, wench! Make it snappy!"
The barkeep was taken aback. "A talking crow!", she thought. "A crow at all, in this area, is something out of the ordinary; but a talking one to boot..." Her brow furrowed in puzzling thought.
Her hesitation sparked the crow's anger.
"Hag, I don't have all day! Give me a mug with your local pisswater in it, so that I may quench my godawful thirst!"
This brought the barkeep's backbone into play.
"My name is Gretchin. Gretchin Morelda. And you would be wise, little crow, to find your manners, before I find my fillet knife", the barkeep said with a stony face.
Once again to her surprise, the crow laughed:
"Cawwww! Cawwww! Cawwwww! Forgive me, your highness! Cawwww! I have yet to learn my place here amongst such - cawwwww - refined featherless beasts such as yourselves!"
Aunt Morelda's face hardened further into a mask, and she began to make her way to the kitchen for the knife, when the crow suddenly flipped a piece of silver onto the serving counter. She stopped in her tracks, and swooped down on the piece of silver before the other patrons could think of taking it. She bit it quickly, then, after smartly observing the mark it made on the soft metal, pocketed it and went to pour a drought for the nasty bird. Talking bird with ill manners or no, this bird had silver; which is more than she could say for the rest of these losers.
After pouring a drought from the finest local ale in town(the only one that didn't taste like straight piss), she set the drink before the bird; and watched as it dipped it's worn beak into the froth, past the head, and down into the amber liquid. It gathered some in it's beak, then tilted it's head back to drink it. The barkeep almost laughed; the crow was now adorned with a foam moustache. The crow noticed her amusement, and waved her away with a wing. She did, and the crow went back to drinking.
The head ducks were suspicious. They didn't cotton to the newcomer. In fact, they silently plotted against him; using their duck-telepathy to hatch a plan. And while they were oblivious that one of their kind was actually a wizard, that very wizard nonetheless picked up on their thoughtwaves; as wizards are prone to do. Even morally vile and malodorous swamp wizards like Fakyoo. Seeing a chance at entertainment, the wizard sent out a thoughtwave to the crow.
The crow's mind wasn't worried, and it's thought patterns didn't even change; like it noticed nothing the wizard thought at him. It was deep in it's glass, filling it's beak repeatedly. The wizard got back a slurred and nonsensical word: "Sprrragund". The crow was already drunk. It could not be reached for comment, at least not telepathically. The old and decrepit grey duck rose from it's roost, and flapped itself to the floor, leaving the old man's hair a mess of feathers, sweat, and duck spoor. Then it strode toward the counter, waddling it's little awkward steps; like a drunken baby.
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markkur
Honorable
Legendary Hero
Once upon a time
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posted March 09, 2016 03:25 PM |
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Edited by markkur at 15:27, 09 Mar 2016.
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Don't forget Animal Farm was a huge success, you could have just left out the humans unless they will become more than nesting-sites <LOL> One wee criticism..."the taste like piss"; since maybe one rule survives in this world yet "readers relating to writers" who will know how piss tastes in any fashion? Just saying, I know you're always wanting to push the bounds but <imvho> that's a step too far.
Anyway, good description of a dreary place clinging to a bleak spot. This story is "for the birds" in a good way. <L>
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fred79
Disgraceful
Undefeatable Hero
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posted March 09, 2016 04:11 PM |
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most things taste how they smell; i only assume that piss tastes however it smells. for instance, i'm positive that the workers at blue moon brewery drink real beer before pissing into empty blue moon beer bottles(that stuff tastes how piss smells).
as for the story's content, i've just been wanting to do a story that was a little lighter in nature. came up with that one off the top of my head, and went from there(took an hour or less? can't remember). months ago, i was thinking of doing a story about a satanic kitten that killed whole families, done in a cutesy way; but i figured it was too close to the rampant violence i tend to post here. i wanted to break out of that with something more along the lines of my sense of humor. which is ridiculous. 
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markkur
Honorable
Legendary Hero
Once upon a time
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posted December 01, 2016 07:03 PM |
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“Instructions”
{A Short Story}
Human walks into room.
Human sits down at desk.
Human looks at Screen.
Human selects “Command.”
Machine transmits; “Follow.”
Human replies; “Yes Master.”
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yogi
Promising
Famous Hero
of picnics
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posted December 01, 2016 07:19 PM |
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reminds me of "black mirror", good watching if you havent yet
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artu
Promising
Undefeatable Hero
My BS sensor is tingling again
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posted December 01, 2016 08:19 PM |
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markkur said:
One wee criticism..."the taste like piss"; since maybe one rule survives in this world yet "readers relating to writers" who will know how piss tastes in any fashion? Just saying, I know you're always wanting to push the bounds but <imvho> that's a step too far.
Now, why do you always imagine the bad, Markkur. While as a dedicated patriot serving his country in Iraq, fred's platoon was surrounded by the Republican guard in the middle of the desert for weeks, so he had to drink his own piss in order to survive. Shame on you for thinking anything else!
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Are you pretty? This is my occasion. - Ghost
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Neraus
Promising
Legendary Hero
Pain relief cream seller
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posted December 01, 2016 09:18 PM |
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I tried Hearts of Iron IV.
That's what ensues.
7 December 1941 - 5 km from Rozsypne
Ma veramente - I can't think that we managed to beat off those commies, Marco has always had doubts on this, come to think of it he's celebrating too much now. Fighting in the cold isn't what I signed up for in the Balilla, but hey, the Duce trusts our prowess, and we made a good show today.
I swear though, this cold is killing me slowly, I can't remember the day I didn't feel my throat so sore, and my elbow is acting funny, embracing the rifle is becoming more and more difficult.
Here's to hoping this will end soon, I want to return back home, I want to experience again the festival of Ricotta.
What am I saying, of course it's going to end soon, we made it, we won, our German brothers have reached Moscow, these filthy commies will surrender and we will finally return to hotter days.
In the mean time my boot broke, my foot's going to suffer for this...
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Noli offendere Patriam Agathae quia ultrix iniuriarum est.
ANTUDO
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