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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:37 PM
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I'm going to put afew of the short stories I have written in my freetime. Remember I am 16, and not a proffesional like some of you smile.gif I love constructive critismsmsmsmsm though! tongue.gif


--------------------
"Men at some time are masters of their fate"
Jul Caesar, Act i, Sc.2

"When sorrow comes, they come not single spies, but in battalions"
Hamlet, Act iv, Sc.5

"All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity"
Hamlet, Act i, Sc.2
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:38 PM
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Thicket Dragon

These people are destroying their world. The huge villages they make litter the land, black smoke come out of them constantly. The dragons homelands are being destroyed, to be used wastefully, for human luxury.

The dragon stretched it's wings starring out into a city in the distance...

The water has turned sour, it's color gone dark. They travel in noisy huts that emit smoke and leak a slick liquid that never seems to go away.

The green dragons eyes teared over in the thicket of the woods...

My lungs burn breathing this air, my nose hurts from the smell. The fish apon which I feed have been all but depleted, the sharks have gotten more aggressive. I am afraid for I am close to the last and I feel death approaching.
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:39 PM
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Starve

Todd scooped himself a huge serving of icecream, not really noticing he wasn't that hungry. He flicked the tv to cartoons and sat down to watch. After two spoonfulls he decided he was done and got up off of his fuzzy blue living room couch to throw it out. It landed in the garbage with a crash.

~ ~

The sun was baking the garbage heap, cooking it as you would a pie. The stench was incredibly nasiating at just a whiff, but a 14 year old indonesian boy was rummaging through it, looking for scraps. His mother had come down with a fever, she couldn't make the rice cakes to sell anymore, his brother's ribs were almost poking through his tissue papered skin.

Other boys came later in the day, when the heat was less intense. This one chose now, he could hope to find something good for his family this day. He was inluck, shuffling underneath a newspaper that was starting to mold he found a half eaten melon. He jumped up in happiness when he discovered two of them, farily cool even with this immense heat. He jumped up in joy and ran to show his family what he found.

~ ~

Ding! Ding! The stove buzzer went off, waking Todd from his nape. He grumpily got up and turned off the stove, taking the pizza's out of the oven to cool. One slipped from out of his gloved hands reach, it landed on the floor with a clash. His terrier zipped out of the room with a bark. He swore and picked the pizza off the ground, throwing it into the garbage and mopping up the mess.

~ ~

The boy ran up to his mother first, shoving the fruits in her face. She sputtered at the site, but praised her son as best she could between hacking fits, and shivers. She was lying in their make-shift home, cardboard boxes piled and tied, with one wooden plank they stole for support. She was on her back in the mud, playing with the boys younger brother.

The boy gave them each a fruit, smiling still at his find. Flies swarmed around them wanting to taste the sweet juices, he swat them away as best he could but they didn't really bother him. Other villagers came around to watch, they held there arms outstretched for something to eat.

~ ~

Todd grabbed a Nutri Grain bar, and a cereal bar and half ate them while stalking out the door into the street. He didn't want to finish them so he threw them in the water grate, and kept on walking.

~ ~

The boys stomach wrenched in pain, his mother groaned softly from further in their home. It felt as if his insides were wrenching into knots, the melon as sweet as it was was haunting him. It was the price he paid for a morsol of food. He wriggled himself to see his mother; sweat was barrowling down her skin, she was moaning and shaking, her eyes slightly rolled back in her head.

There was nothing to their body anymore, no precious fat they could survive off of.

~ ~

All the while Todd whistled down the road, sipping a can of soda, tipping what he didn't want into the street.
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:41 PM
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The Arab

He lashed the rapier to his side. It was going to be a got day, it had already reached 80 and the Sun was just breaking the clouds high in the sky.

Stepping out of his mud hovel into the mud caked road, already sweat was appearing on his brow. The merchants had started loading up there horses and camels with goods to start the day.

Dust was swirling in from the east, smearing the mans bronze skin and mixing with his forming sweat as he walked to the merchants square. He wasn't wearing a tunic, only a turban and desert legging pants, specially designed to walk in deep sand. They were already pasted to his skin, molding to his body.

The Sun beat down on his back, as hard as his heart was racing, for the outsiders this heat would be imberable, but not for Justin.

He had reached his destination, the square was bustling with his people, but outsiders were there, shopping, selling, browsing, and stealing.

A troop galloped past him, belloping up a cloud of dust that choked him for a moment. The Arabiens were riding on a mix of horses and camels. They wore stowed in sheaths across their chests Rapiers, the same as Justins but much more elegant.

He stared at the riders, especially at the magnificent beasts they call horses. These "horses" as the outsiders called them, had been introduced only years ago, and only recently into his village.

Two men in the group noticed him starring and broke off, coming towards him. The man noticed that they had longbows strapped to the left flank of the horse. This could be bad, in his village, the "peacekeepers" didn't like to keep much "peace."

The two men stopped infront of the Arab. They were Arabian Royal Gaurds, low rank, the lowest you could get. There long, flowing yellow cloak told him this, an easy target for enemy archers.

"What are you starring at boy?"

They both were young, facial hair grew in late 30's, only one showed starting signs. That was the man who had spoken up.

"I was admiring your yellow cloaks, quite flashy might I say, but wouldn't you be an easy target for our enemies? Say the Persians?"

Both of their eyes flared, a few members with green cloaks of the group were chuckling.

They charged forward, unfortunately camels were slow chargers. They seemed to have equal skill with their blades, charging and swinging akwardly from ontop of the mounted beasts.

Justin dropped to one knee and bent backwards, well out of reach from their curved, deadly swords.

The men rode around each other coming back for another try. Two blades slashed, he parried with his left and grabbed the mans wrist as sand whipped in their faces. He pulled the man off his mount.

The man hit the ground hard, blood splashed onto the ground, running out of his nose, turning the sand dark. Justin heard the screaming peirce of the arrow before he saw it. His instincts kicked in, he fell to the blood covered ground and the arrow passed freely overhead, but he had only minutes before another shot came.

He parried a vicious attack by the bleeding man, now with his feet on the ground. Metal clashed against metal, sending sparks, burning his already sun burnt skin.

Justin knew he had to get the upper hand, now in only seconds the other gaurd would have released another deadly arrow.

The Royal gaurd slashed left, but was caught in another parry, he regained from and jabbed straight when Justin heard the arrow coming.

Having been in much worse situations, he just had to act fast. He clapped the gaurds blade to the left, and jumped rolling intill he heard the gurgle that meant what he wanted to happen, did.

His opponent was felled by the arrow released by his friend, the arrow had yellow painted across it's fletching.

Justing rolled off the ground and turned, the other gaurd had a sickly green complexion to his face, he doubled down and hurled at his feet.

They had gotten what was coming to them. He left the man and his company, sitting in their shock and disbelief.

The Arab walked into the bustling square. The noise was deafening, merchants selling their wares and people browsing. The sun beat down upon his back; sweat was running off in streams.

The men in the company rode quickly up to the Arab, but he wasn't surprised. He had his rapier ready incase they attacked, hidden under his loose clothing.

"We saw you battling over there, your skills were incredible."

Justin kept walking, looking for something to eat because he was starving. He would than have to go to work; he was saving up for one of the new beasts called a horse.

"Would you like to join the guard? You would most likely be able to achieve ranks quickly with your high skill"

Justin stopped in his tracks; he had always wanted to join in the guard. You could only join by invite, and they had just invited him. The guards were not that loyal, could it be a jest? He thought, a jest to attack him?

He turned and kept hidden his rapier, "Are you inviting me to join the Royal Guards? Will you bring me to the training house?"

All but three of the company nodded. One was the companion that had slain the man he had fought before; that man was solemn and speechless. The other two must have been friends of the man who was slain, or just didn't like him. There were many people who didn't like him.

They brought up a camel for him to sit on, a dirty foul beast. It wasn't a far ride but on a beast like that it would be uncomfortable until he got used to riding it, the hump grinding into his body. He wouldn't press his chances by asking for a horse; they may change their minds on asking him in.

He efficiently swung himself onto the back of the beast, settling as comfortable as he could. He sheathed his rapier, most guards saw him take it out of it's hiding and gave him a sly but approving look. The camel had a longbow and arrows attached to it's flank, yellow. Was this the camel of the man he had helped to slay? He shrugged and liked the idea; arrows if needed could aid him.

They trotted steadily to their training camp. It was far from the town square, so the "common" people wouldn't know the Royals training techniques. It didn't usually work, people came up to watch all the time, and the guards just showed off.

He knew this only because he would occasionally sneak off from his work of "stable boy" to watch the guards practice. The guards motioned him off the camel, he was glad to be off the thing. It was starting to give him blisters.

He jumped, hitting the ground with a bellowing cloud of dusty sand. The guards jumped off around him, rising dust as they hit the ground. They were sweating rivers down their skin. He wasn't as bad as this. Outsiders? Not likely, must not be used to the intense heat. Pathetic is all he thought.

They lead him to hill; he quickened his pace to see over it. Reaching the top he saw the training grounds fully from his high perch. Like little aunts people were parrying and attacking each other, and straw figures. They were jousting, both on camels and horses. Some were trying on armor, in the dead center a ceremony was being held.

He would take his chances and ask "What is going on there?" The man gave grins, showing him that they knew and he didn't. "Advancement ceremonies, many men this time around have achieved higher ranks. We have to hurry and recruit you in if you want to be one of us, of course later you will go through.training." Man chuckled around him, a bad sign for the Arab.

They quickly walked in the front gate. Guards with long poles (yet they differed greatly from poles, they were quite sharp on one end) were standing either side of the entrance. They eyed the Arab and waved them in, they made haste. People clashed as they went through the training side. The sand was a mixture of sweat and blood. People weren't supposed to really hurt each other here, but accidents do happen.

They continued through the armory. It was just a stand with various types and sizes of armor that you had to buy with your own money if you wanted better than the standard. The standard was just a piece of metal held by a string covering your chest.

They went into the center, going by a huge tent, which must have been the general's. The other men in the company were sweating greatly now; he was soaked in his own sweat but not as bad as these men.

Trumpets were blaring up ahead. Men were lined, common men. Some had cuts and scars, forced here by the looks of it. They urged Justin to join the column, and he did so.

A long ceremony followed. Justin was almost asleep by the time they finished; they were each assigned with a yellow cape, rapier, longbow, arrows, and armor. Which all were yellow, showing their low rank. He would achieve a higher rank quickly, yellow was such a putrid color.

He soon learned he couldn't trust anyone in this sun bleached earth. The men in his company, the 23rd, would steal, cheat, and worse even rat on him.

Elquizer was the biggest problem. A buff muscle shot if off; recently aquired rank green.

Training was getting worse everyday, as the Persians drew nearer to the city. Those Persians just wanted it all. Sweat dripped furiously as he tried to keep up with his opponent. Twirl rapier, cut forward, stab back, slash, repeat...get faster. It was all he could do to keep up with his brown cloaked opponent.

He had been assigned a putrid beast of a camel. Whenever he attempted to approach the creature would open the bowels of it's throat and spit on him. The sun would quickly dry it to his skin. It was a sickly combination of booger, food chunks, and saliva.

He had been training with the bow in his nighttime hours while others slept or danced. The moon and the coolness it brought was a relief to his sun pelted skin. He was told he had a natural talent, he never thought so. It was intill that one night everything would change for him and the world that he would discover his talent.

He lifted the bow, a slight breeze cooling over his skin. The smell of roasted gazel drifted his way, increasing his mood for the better. Bringing a yellow tipped arrow into holding and resting it against his forefinger in the bows sturdy frame. He steadied his gaze onto the straw figure impaled in the moonlight.

With final measure he released. The arrow shrieked in the nights air, slamming into the target. Straw burst in the impact, filling the already scented air even more. He smiled upon the successful hit, the breeze swaying his hair refreshingly.

He heard shouts in the distance, fires sprang up where there should have been one. A yellow capped stranger ran by screaming "PERSIANS, THE PERSIANS HAVE COME!" The man was felled by an arrow in the shoulder blade, ostrich fletched.

Justin ran at top speed to the nearest beast, grabbing it around the neck and flinging himself onto it. He squeezed his knees tightly on it's flank with his free hands gripping his bow he trotted to the encampment.

Tents were blazing in an intense heat, an inferno called fire. The cool night was now swollen with the deadly heat of flame. Few Arabs were running around him, grabbing for weapons to repel the deathbound attack.

He urged the camel forward, into the firey veil. Men in flowing blue capes, adorned with a hide armor of elephant skin were setting fire to tents and slaying ruthlessly. Ostrich feathers danced wildly around attached to their elephant hide helmets. Men saw him approach, fire glistened off their shields and long spears. The Arab heard the call of elephants in the distance, coming closer.

Three men approached in his direction, there spears held straight for his chest. If the academy had taught him anything, Justin thought, it was not to be afraid.

Three lances thrust forward, one swung low to the ground. The Persians kicked sand up as they approached partially hiding their actions.

Justin jumped forward, twirling his rapier in front of him. Stepping wider over the low thrusted spear, he slammed his knee down, while knocking two spears away with his rapier. The low thrusted broke, shattering into pieces that covered in the sand.

The broken speared Persian dropped the stick, and reached behind his back into the sheath resting there. He drew out a stubby dagger made out of elephant bone.

They attacked together again, two thrusts at his waist level. Justin spun back, kicking both spear attacks out of the way. The elephant dagger stabbed at his chest while he twirled, Justin twisted and slapped the blade aside with his rapier.

Justin regained posture quickly and stepped forward, the crude wooden shafts of the Persian weapons were open to attack. With a mighty blow he smashed the spear to his left, splintering it and burying the tip partially in the sand.

He heard the grinding of bone against bone, knowing it was the unsheathing of a dagger. A wooden shaft slammed into his side, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air against the blow, dust singing his eyes.

A man charged to his right, he brought his rapier up to parry. The opponents blade slipped free, smashing down on his arm and slicing it. A warm river flowed out, landing on the cooling land. Justin lunged forward, giving a shriek and stabbing into the man that cut him. This was just the beginning of the blood that would be spilt this night.
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:42 PM
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The Mohawk Man

He was moving with the rythm of the wind, his hatchet hitting left, right, cleave. The man he was parrying was working hard to keep up with his strokes. He was preparing for the war with the Iroquois.

His opponent gave a war cry and swung left, twirling and kicking, only to be met with a parry and left block.

"Deer spirits be with me" He slashed furiously trying to dislodge his opponent. Met, by a parry, every time. Sweat was plastering his deerskin tunic, rolling down his forehead down onto the forest floor beneath his feet.

He saw an opening between his opponents defenses, he gave an upward slash, parrying his blade aside and twirl kicking him to the ground. The man landed with a thud and a grunt. The mohawk brought his hatchet down between his foe's ribs, with a spray of blood the man took his last breath.

The chief gave a holler and chanted, soon declaring him victorious. Since he drew his first blood, and took his second life, he could join the war party.

~ ~

The 4th night on the trail they met the Iroquois raiding party. He was ambushed while scouting for his army. Three men crashed from the bushes, one carried a rifle. A whitemans gun with the power of 15 mountain lions. The last two both carried hatchets vary similar to his own, except stained slightly brown in places.

With shrieking war screams the two with hatchets attacked from the bushes, startling the young Mohawk. They swung, one swung swiftly to the head and the other into the gut.

The Mohawk ducked the high swing landing on his back, he kicked the low swing away. Than he heard it, the click of the readying rifle, he rolled to the side taking refuge behind a tree. The shot shattered the trees hide, sending shards flying every direction.

He jumped to his feet as soon as the next attack came, a hatchet flew in from the high left. He parried the blow, grabbing his opponents arm and jousting it up with his elbow, a sickening crack was heard followed by the mans screams. He fell to the moss on the woodland ground as soon as another musketball crashed into a fallen stump behind him, shattering it into peices.

The second man with the hatchet grabbed the Mohawk around the throat, restricting the air into his lungs. He kicked him in the shin, swinging quickly around. The Mohawk swung his hatchet frantically at his opponent, hitting the mark.

Blood exploded onto the moss around them in streaks, squishing beneath his feet. The rifle exploded again, barely missing his shoulder. The heat of the mound of metal was rushing toward his senses.

The Iroquois with a rifle was barricaded behind a split tree. Another shot rang off, again barely missing the Mohawk. "Great Spirit, Guide Me" he jumped among the brush dodging bullets as they shattered the earth around him. He jumped over the last log reaching his final opponent.

His opponent swung the butt of his gun into the Mohawks face, smashing it, the blood started rushing down his bare chest onto his deerskin. He was stunned momentarily, but hacked, left, right, left, with his hatchet with new found force.

He cleaved into the gun, shattering the butt after multiple hackes, rendering it useless. Quickly the man shot up his hands pleading for his life.

The Mohawk lifted his hatchet above his head for a final blow, but stopped short just inches above the Iroquois head. The army would want to talk to this creature. He tied him up with rope he had recently traded with the white man; he tied him tightly to a tree.

He quickly walked toward the direction those creatures came from, hoping to find the enemy before any of his allies, to take the credit for himself.

He ran into the thicket, listening, knowing always were to place his foot to get the least sound resistance. He was good, but he knew not the best. That was why he needed to make haste.

He ran in till his lungs couldn't take the strain, and stumbled into a bad situation.

He was catching his breath, and crouched low to the ground to survey the area. When he looked up, he saw Iroquois above him. Three with muskets, two with hatchets to his neck. He spat in the closest one's face.

They cleaved him, with the blunt end of the musket. His vision went fuzzy, and he blanked out. He was awoken with a fist to the gut, the pain shooting up his already sore muscles.

He was taught to not show pain, but he couldn't help when his face twisted with pain to the awakening hit. His opponent gave a holler at the efficient strike. He was tied upon a pole, tightly; he could barely feel his fingers.

Young boys surrounded him; they had lighter skin, no war scars. Pathetic. They were poking and prodding him, screaming out when he shifted to their touch, they would occasionally go out of their boundaries; he had to shift.

The older men were assumedly out looking for his brothers, they would soon find them. He knew who would win, who had more experience in war. The women would stand back, occasionally stopping from their daily chores of grinding roots and gathering herbs to stare at him and his lighter skin. His battle scars and the dried blood from the previous battle on him glistened, they pointed and whispered at these.

Evening came after what seemed like an eternity for the Mohawk, it was all he could do to keep standing. The strain with the rope on his hands were turning them black and blue, his feet were upon sharp sticks were throbbing, as they apparently had been placed there for his uncomfort. He was exhausted and couldn't sit fore he was afraid the rope holding his hands would rip them off, and the sticks would stab in harder if he shifted.

Soon a group of men came back. Many were bleeding; others had blood not of their own plastered to their deerskin hides. They had met his brothers, and had apparently lost. Arrows were sticking out of some, moans and groans came out of the younger, the older men kept their pain inside. He laughed out loud at their pain, at his brothers success, this was his mistake.

The Iroquois men gathered around him. Using him as a live punching bag. He did his best to keep his pain inside, but some blows were so hard gasps escaped; an explosion of cheers followed these from the Iroquois men.

His chest, stomach, and groin became a dark black and blue from all the hitting. Tears flowed down his face, against his will. It stopped as suddenly as it started, as an old man appeared from the group.

He could barely walk, supported by men on both sides. He came close enough, the Mohawk spat in his face. The men exploded in hate, punching him and clubbing him with blunt hatchets they used for pounding roots. He cringed being held against the pole, if not he would be on the floor.

The men stopped the beating with the lift of his hands. He slowly spoke, a deep and enchanting speech.

"Young one, you are foolish. I was once a Mohawk, but they are foolish and too barbaric. They threatened to get rid of me because I was too old, but wise, very wise. You spit in my face and defy me, but I give you a chance."

The Mohawk cringed, getting ready to spit again, but a musket was held to his head. "My people are civilized, much more than these creatures." He heard growls from the men around him, knowing some could spoke Mohawk.

"To train for the army, you have to kill a man. One of your own; if you didn't have to kill that man, your army would be twice its size." The Mohawk trembled with rage "Because we kill a man, our armies are much more experienced than yours. We don't need as many people to win."

The old man requested to be alone with the Mohawk. He than sat on a log, smoking a peace pipe. "That's what you think because you are foolish. Are army was half your size today and your brothers were all killed, none were spared."

"THAT'S NOT TRUE. YOU DEVIL CREATURE. MAY THE SPIRIT SMITE YOU FOR RUNNING AWAY FROM YOUR KIND." The Mohawk fell silent, and slouched to the ground, thinking about the souls lost if what this man says is true.

The old man took a hatchet out from under his clothing. "You are not convinced, you must enter the realm of the lost."

He swung hard and low, the Mohawk remembered seeing red and nothing else. He was entering the realm of the spirits; all of his friends were there. The old man was right, but in so many ways wrong. He was a lost soul; he could never come back to the earth because of his ways. He was sad, and sad for eternity.

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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:43 PM
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I am the one

I can bring life as well as death. My soul can touch yours with only a look into the depths of your eyes, I can see what you do not wish me to see. I am the fearbringer and the loverbringer, the wanted and needed and the hated. I see the earth as it comes, the life it takes away in it's daily torment, I see the life it brings in it's daily love. I see people in the world, the corrupted selfish souls that rape and murder. I also see the loving gentle souls, with care in their hearts.

What else do I see? I see the heavens or what you think may be heaven, I see what could be hell for some, a relief for others. I understand emotions as well as any human but yet I am not human, or could I be? You wonder what I see when I look into your soul, into your depths. Do I find love and compassion or hate and torment?

The world is scorched and yet relieved. Loved and yet hated. Cherished yet forgotten. Yet how do I know?

A man brings a six year old girl to his home and kills her with false hopes and dreams...what could this man be? No human is born evil, they are taught evil in their experiences. Yet who taught the first evil? So many are evil, so few seem to be good. What force could drive this man to such an act. An act you could call evil, but could it be? It could be grief, fear, love, compassion, hate, hope, and death in one, one form to kill.

Is this what death is? What is death? Is death a passing into another place or time? A resurrection of your soul, of your holy being? Is it a rebirth, will you come back into renewal. What Angelic presence shall know?

I am the one who knows. I am the presence. The presence you shall never know, only in your nightmares.
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 08-Jan-2005, 08:44 PM
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I stopped there for now, that's quite abit of reading and straining your eyes at the computer smile.gif

Please let me know what you think!
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Aaediwen 
Posted: 09-Jan-2005, 12:15 AM
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smile.gif A lot of potential in several directions. There can be or already is a good story in all of these. And All of them have a lot of potential to be a lot better. I already gave you my perspective on the first ones, and won't repeat myself here.

"The Arab", I see as the one that is already best to read. The setting is quite vivid, and there is a lot of detail in relation to the structure among the guards. I don't think you need all the detail about the camel though, and you repeat too much about how much these guys sweat. Once you've used it to establish the guards as outsiders prior to the first fight, that's enough about the sweat. All the setup is nice. The details about the social structure, the camels and horses, Justin's prowess... All of that. But the story sounds like it is only beginning. What becomes of Justin after he finishes ridding the place of Persian presence? Or does the Persian raid actually succeed? A prospect which could lead in an entirely different direction for the story. I could carry on with a list of things, but I think the first thing "The Arab" needs, is to be fleshed out. Carry the story at least through to the end of the Persian raid, closing perhaps with Justin's promotion, or maybe even carry it through his orientation here and to a point where he establishes some significant power within the guard structure.

"The Mohawk Man", again, seems to carry too much 'play by play' action in the fight scenes. Maybe part of it is me personally. Indeed, I've discovered that I certainly don't know how to write such a scene. I like the description of the rather undesireable situation he finds himself in after being captured though. I certainly don't envy that position. OUCH! That segment is fairly well written. It might be helped with more polishing still, but I'd focus on the fight scenes first and foremost.

"I Am The One" sounds like a really good stream of thought. But I think it would be better served formatted as a poem, not in paragraphs. I'll PM you a rough idea of how I feel it'd be better suited.


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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 09-Jan-2005, 08:53 AM
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Wow! Thank you so much for the suggestions! I'm going to look into those!

Now let me post what I think are my best..........and worst! smile.gif
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 09-Jan-2005, 08:55 AM
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The Controller

(Note: If you do not like Murders or get qeasy in any way, DO NOT READ! Thanks smile.gif )

Staring out the window of the car to his next victim. The victim had blonde hair, she had just presumedly come back from hanging out with some friends. Little did she know that tonight she would be taking her last breath, and soon she would be bathed in her own blood.

She unlocked the door without looking around, and went inside not locking the door behind her. He never heard the click. An easy target, one he could fool around with. His heart started pumping with anxiety as he stepped out of his car and unto the street. Her street, the one upon which she had walked thousands of times. Tonight would have been her last chance to walk upon this street.

He walked towards her house, making no attempt to be quite, he gave 3 sharp knocks on the door. Yes he saw the doorbell, but hated the noise it gave off (possibly to other victims). "Hello may I help you?" She was bathed in a brilliant light, a smell of baking pizza made his stomach rumble. She was beautiful, breathtaking, a book of Shakespeare was in her hands. So she was intelligent he thought to himself, it would all end. It would all end tonight.

"May I please use your phone miss? My car is making some weird noises and I have a long trip ahead of me, I don't want to get stuck anyware. I just need to call a someone to take a look at it." He had no problem thinking of a story to tell her, he had before with his other victims. This one he would play with.

"Yes go ahead, the phone is in the kitchen, follow me." He followed her through the main entrance hall, art painted by artists he had never heard of before lined the walls, in various brilliant and breathtaking colors. He couldn't help but stare at them when he passed, with each one getting a different emotion out of them. He would take one of these when her joys ended, one of these would be his.

She lead him to the left and into the kitchen. The pizza smell was strong, "I have to check on the pizza, would you like some?" "Well I really shouldn't, but if you have enough, yes please." It wouldn't have mattered, it would be her last meal, she better enjoy it. She pointed to the white phone across the blue tiled, checkered kitchen, "The phone is right over there, don't hesitate to use it."

She was nice. He would enjoy taking the life from this one. He picked up the receiver and dialed his brothers number, the answering machine picked up. "Hi, my car is making some weird noises. I think the transmission fluid is gone out of it, can you come check it?" He waited for a bit, summarizing then spoke again "Thank you sir" than set down the receiver.

She was biting into a slice of pepperoni pizza, not a vegetarian. People like her just seem to be vegetarian. She smiled when she noticed he was looking at her, "My name is Jessica by the way, may I ask yours?" He already knew her name. He knew when and where she was born, and her whole family. He even knew they were Irish. "Yes, my name is Dillin."

Her face lit up, he had used her brothers name. "Really? My brother has the same name." She picked up a big knife to cut him a slice of pizza, thought better of it and handed it to him. The urge was so strong to leap up and cut her into pieces right here, but he would wait alittle longer. He cut himself a piece of pizza and ate it in silence.

"May I use the bathroom?" She was startled by the noise, he had spoken for quite awhile and she was reading latina magazine, a girl with style. It was going to be gone tonight. "Sure", she pointed to the room across the hall from them. It was a deep hard oak furnished living room, a TV was tucked in the corner. "The bathroom is in the room all the way to the left down a short hall. You should find it easy enough."

Once he was in the bathroom he took a cell phone out that he had in his pocket. Now time for the fun part, he knew her number 476-2734, and he called it. Making his voice sound like her fathers, since their phone conversation earlier, "Hi Darlin, how are you?"

They had a conversation like it was good times. Intill he got to the crucial part, "Could you do something for me? You know that old chest in your room. Could you open that right now and find me my old journal from when I was a kid? It would mean alot." She gladly agreed.

Silently, he came out of the bathroom. He knew their family history right down to the trinkets. He did about all of his victims. For 15 minutes of the pleasure from killing, he loved the screaming, and the thrashing. They were so helpless, their very existence he controlled.

He walked silently into her bedroom. She had thrown things onto the floor and was halfway into the chest looking for the old journal. He silently pulled his dagger out that was lashed to his leg. He had used this for all his killings. She didn't see him, she only had one light on that was over the bed on the far side.

He crouched to the wall, and waited. He watched and waited. She rummaged and never found what she was looking for...he was ready. "Are you looking for this?" He held up an old stained brown leather book written in Latin. She jumped in the air in surprise "Oh it's you, I never heard you come in, where did you find that?"

"Well I came into your house earlier today and got it when I was planning to kill you." She looked shocked. Her beatiful face that was smiling and happy having a good time with her friends at one point today was gone to never return. She would no longer again have friends.

He jumped at her...throwing the book aside and thrusting the dagger into her chest right below the breast. She screamed in pain and gave a jolt. Blood rushed down, soaking her light yellow shirt, running over the remaining blade of the dagger.

He pulled out the dagger, she screamed with agony and torture, twitching in shock. Tears of pain and anguish were running down her face, smearing her makeup she had put on. He stabbed again, her side. Blood exploded onto the walls, he was smiling with the smack the dagger made apon entering the cavern of fleshy blood in the woman. She wailed for him to stop. She was his.

He put her on the bed, and cut off her fingers, hearing the bones crack and watching her face twist with agony and her shreaks satisfyingly peirce his ears. Blood covered her body and the bed, the smell of Iron, it was on him, mostly his face. He licked his lips. It tasted good. She was a satisfying kill.

He cut her stomach, taking out her organs...she was breathing barely but unable to scream. He had mastered the art of pain. Her eyes were just like the fires of hell with the pits burning with pain undesribable. He peirced her heart.

Smiling, he took an art picture and left the empty case forever, to find the next soul he could control.
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 09-Jan-2005, 08:59 AM
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The Controllers Apple

(Note: This is a Murder story, please DO NOT READ if you do not like them, or get qeasy very easily, thanks! : ) )

He was stalking his next victim. A boy with the name of jack would be his tonight. He was eight, and currently playing on the swings in the local park.

He was laughing, smiling, shrieking with joy. Tonight he would be shrieking from his hands, his soon to be blooded hands. The boy jumped up in laughter as one of his prusumable friends came over and tickled him. They raced off together, towards their parents.

"Mommie mommie! Ben is here! Can he sleep over tonight!?" His mother gave a flustered smile "Sure Honey."

The man smiled in his perch, crouching in nearby bushes. He felt his pace of breath quickening with pleasure of controlling two souls tonight.

The mother called the sons over, telling them to behave and she hastily walked away, towards the building district. The boys tackled each other to the ground, laughing and having fun.

The man sneered in the dark shade of the bushes, have fun boys, for today will be your last day with your own soul.

The boys raced off, running the direction of Jacks home. Perfect, we shall have some fun with them until nightfall.

The ran into the house, screaming in laughter all the way. He heard the click of the door after it had closed behind them. The boys were clearly foolish, he tightened the strapped dagger around his leg and approached the doorway. He knocked, waiting impatiently.

Footsteps approached, he could have lunged at them right there, when they opened the door, but stood his ground.

"Good boy, could I use your phone? My leg is hurt, I twisted it while walking on the sidewalk and I would like to call my doctor."

The boy stared at him for a good couple minutes, and the other one came down carrying a wooden sword. He would soon, have the chance to fight for his life.

"My mommie told me not to let strangers in."

"But I know your mother, I have been her friend for a long time. Her name is Anne Whinder, we were friends when I was but your age. My name is Kyle, haven't you heard of me before?"

He had done his research, the boys mother had been best friends with a man named Kyle, and frequently mentioned him.

"Ya she mentions you all the time! If only she knew you were here!"

He let him in and locked the door, he had just locked himself in his own grave. The killer smiled to himself, soon he would have them in his power.

Putting on a sweet and loving face the man looked around, he had entered an archway, various shoes lined the walls to the left, and an artwork piece of a tiger stalking a bird, hanging to the wall on the right. He knew it would catch it's prey, destroying the bird and taking it's life.

The boys lead him past the arched hall, which then lead into a wooden floored dining room. A table was set into the middle of the floor with four chairs, soon their will be Three. A bowl of fruit was set into the middle of the table, as soon as he saw the ripe fruit his stomach growled. He ignored it, for now.

The room split into three others, Ben and Jack led him straight, into the kitchen. It was a black and white checkered (tile) room.

"Kyle, the phone is on the wall by the Fridge." The boy smiled "We'll be in the living room watching some TV." The man smiled, "Alright, I'll get you when I am done."

These kills would be satisfying, two young innocent souls are going to be his. They are so un-knowing, so nieve.

He picked up the reciever and dialed his brothers number, the rings soon stopped, followed by a raspy voice "ello?"

His brother knew he controlled souls, it was his gift, his god-given gift and his brother had never minded.

"Hey Doctore Litherine? I twisted my ankle when I was walking down the street and I was hoping you could come down and check it." His brother chuckled through the phone, knowing what was up "Sure I'll be right down, were are you?" The killer set down the receiver. He needn't be careful, these were just children. He hadn't even limped and they didn't notice. They were foolish, very foolish.

He walked slowly but steadily out of the tiled kitchen, into the dining room. He stopped by the fruit basket, eyeing a deliciously ripe apple. He unstrapped his knife, and slowly, very slowly started to peel it.

He imagined it was his next victim, the sweet apples juices running down his hands, was as sweet as the victims running blood going down the very same hands. The peel coming off was their very flesh, moist and dripping with apple juices, moist and dripping with blood. He tore out the core of the apple, the way he took the core from his victims, he controlled them, they were his. The crunch of the breaking apple was the same sound their twitching, snapping body made when he broke them. He bit it, it tasted as sweet as his victims.

He set the remains of the broken, twisted apple down and walked into the living room. It had light blue walls with a darker blue rug. His first and picked out victim, Jack, was on the couch while Ben was on the floor playing with legos, immersed also in the TV.

Perfect, Jack would watch his friend die.

They never noticed him come in, he wondered if they even remembered if he was their. Quitely he walked besides Jack, who was transfixed to the TV. His hand shot out, muffling and sound from the boys lips.

He brought the apple-juice dripping dagger up to the boys throat, and he froze. Leaning closer the man whispered in Jack's ear "It's time to watch your friend die."

He lunged forward, stabbing Ben in the shoulderblade above the heart. He screamed in pain, a high pitched girly scream. Blood flowed valently from his wound to the floor as he turned and twisted the daggers blade.

The boy twitched in pain, still screaming without stopping for breath. All color drained from his face just as the blood drained from his body. The killer slid the blade out and stabbed him hard in the stomach.

Blood exploded onto the rug and wall with the impact, the boy screamed and flew back, blood sprayed across the killer, and Jack's face.

Jack was un-moving, no bone could move, he had been sprayed with his friends blood.

The killer hit repeatedly with the dagger, exploding blood and chunks of flesh everywhere. He tasted his bloodied finger, as sweet as the apple.

He kept hacking intill all but a whimper came from the tear stained boy, when he slammed the dagger into his heart.

Jack was finally able to move, relizing the horror, and danger of the situation. He ran out of the room, he tripped in the dining room, seeing his exit, the door, but unable to reach it.

The killer slammed his dagger in the boys kneecap, hearing a pop, and seing it shift a good five inches down. He dragged the dagger in the boys leg, splitting it in half. Blood cascaded onto the floor, flowing to the kitchen.

The boy shook in pain, words were not able to come out. The man knew he had won, they were both his for this night.

He stabbed into the boys head, slicing it in the middle. A white substance came flowing out with the blood as the boy shuddered violently, his eyes getting cloudy. The man stabbed Jack in the heart.

He than put the heart where the apple had been. The man walked out and never looked back.
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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 09-Jan-2005, 09:01 AM
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Both The Controller, and The Controller's Apple were made in a very depressed time in my life. I think they are very good though, since I put so much of my negative energy and rage into them! Trust me, I'm not a phyco killer! tongue.gif
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phoenix07 
Posted: 09-Jan-2005, 10:21 PM
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i only have read the arab, suprisingly not, you mentioned persians since they are old enemies smile.gif
wondering if you mean justin is an arab, i never heared of such name around,hmmf..
it is hard to recognize the whole story.. but its good for a start.. waiting for the part 2 if any smile.gif


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Haldur 
Posted: 10-Jan-2005, 10:15 PM
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I can't say I ever had such great vision in writings when I was sixteen...good for you! Keep up the craft, it speaks louder than anything else.

I suggest a book that might help you with certain aspects of writing, not that I think your writing is bad (hell, all us writers can use some improvement in some places more than other places) but because this book truly changed my entire outlook on writing. What the heck, I'll give you 3 books to reference. I got these at Barnes & Noble though I'm sure you can get them at any bookstore.

"On Writing" by Stephen King - This is a wonderful part memoir/part writing instruction that is actually very entertaining, insightful, and encouraging. And besides, it's freakin' Stephen King! I've read it 4 or 5 times (lost count) and swear by it!

"Room to Write" by Bonni Goldberg - A good little book to carry around for inspiration when the dreaded writer's block (queue the suspense music, maestro!) sets in. This is a great tool to have because she provides you with certain exercises to practice your skill, which allows you to be versatile with your work instead of having too much of this, too much of that...above all, she asserts the fact that you should write to have fun, no matter what anyone else thinks.

"Outwitting Writer's Block" by Jenna Glatzer - What can I say? I had writer's block, now I don't. Case closed. No really, this book is comprehensive in regards to what causes writer's block. Bottom line, read these books and don't look back!

Another really good book I failed to mention (and Stephen King says that this book and a Writer's Market are essential for any serious writer) is "The Elements of Style" by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White. You have to have this book if you're in any way serious about writing. Basically, this book was written by a Professor of English at Cornell University and his protege, E.B. White (wrote "Charlotte's Web") and it goes into great detail, citing examples, of the wrong and right ways to write. Includes sections on word usage, punctuation, sentence and paragraph structure, and revision. And this book is only like 90 pages! It's a great hand-held book for writing on the go or while you're sitting in front of the old Commodore 64!

Above all, three rules: stick to your guns, omit needless words, and flesh out the characters as much as possible for they are what truly make your story happen!

Good luck in all you do!


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dragonboy3611 
Posted: 20-Jan-2005, 08:21 PM
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QUOTE (Haldur @ 10-Jan-2005, 11:15 PM)
"On Writing" by Stephen King - This is a wonderful part memoir/part writing instruction that is actually very entertaining, insightful, and encouraging. And besides, it's freakin' Stephen King! I've read it 4 or 5 times (lost count) and swear by it!

Thank you for all your suggestions Haldur, I really, really appreciate them. I have heard of Stephen Kings "On Writing" In fact, it was reccomended to me by many people, so I should run out and get it! You are a writer? I might be confused but...have you written a published work? If so, I would love to read it, even if not published!
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