Jjkaybomb
2009-02-26, 01:30 PM
Like the title says, this is where I'll be posting whatever garbage comes to mind when I try and write. Maybe when I start up Evil Inc again I'll start posting it here.
The Wanderer
If the man looked over the landscape, the space that he would see is barren and brown. Winter still took the air and whipped the winds that always seemed to be yelling. It’s just so flat, so sparse, the winds love it here, they can run around and scream all they want while the people cover their ears and keep walking.
The wind right now was playing with the man’s coat, making it flap around like a game of parachute. The man found no humor in this game and gripped it close to himself. He had never had children. Did being two or so feet shorter than his wife have anything to do with that? Possibly, not that it mattered now. He was not going to stop to play with the wind, they would not make a game out of him. He had to go, not to stop. Destination was secondary to the movement. Clutching at himself tightly he barreled past the children and their playful screeches.
Or made his dog barrel past the children, but the dog was essentially an extension of himself, the fact that he was riding it does not mean anything.
Out of curiosity, the man did in fact pass a glance at the landscape, still wrapped up in himself. Immediately tears were torn from his ragged face, the wind begging him to remember the barrenness of his lost home. Or not. He lowered himself back down and kept going, he saw nothing of interest here.
Only in a place where spinelike trees only served to make the winds games louder and more cheerful as they climbed the barren branches did the wanderer pause to look up again. A man at least twice if not four or five times his size was on the ground, picking at it huffing and puffing and also batting away the games of the wind. The diminutive called out to him.
“Hullo, good sir!” said he, stopping his steps. The dog complied. “What might you be doing among the dirt of the road on this dismal day?”
“Well, I’ve tripped, that’s what!” the giant huffed, scrunching up his face like a wad of bad poetry, “And in a lovely twist of fate, a bag broke! I must find every piece, every piece…” the man grunted and resumed searching for every last piece of whatever piece he was rooting through dirt for.
“Every piece of…?” the wanderer asks, helping only himself as he falls off his dog to help the tower before him. He falls to the dirt to pick at grains the wind so loves to toss about especially this time of year.
The mass of a man only grunts and keeps looking while the wanderer frowns. The wind must’ve played hide and seek, there’s nothing to be found here.
The diminutive figure leaves the mass of a man to his work. He’s got to move on.
All that's here is... an introduction to the charactor, really...
The Murderer
Still land silent in early morning falls shattering. A crack of gunshot glass broken boom. A hand held aloft smoking with deeds done tosses their hand aside to turn and leave this mess. Boots clump steadily against hardwood floors masked by a wet thud and gentle moans. A rub of fabric with movement, a sound so small made so enormous by the enormity of the situation, even drowning out a deeper thud against a wall. Heavy breath, both heaving, but one shot was all there ever was. There never had been another like it. Indeed, even the people stirring around unseen and unheard were ignorant of the events as a murder, if they had even gotten that far.
The man could only mutter through his red cloud and deadened black night, the other could only spew anger at everything. But he was alive, and would remain so, as he threw off his burden and stumbled clumping out the door.
“Let dying dogs die, I don’t know,” was all he could muster in self defense to the night, “And guns fuggin rule.”
The sounds stopped, even his breathing. He had left the gun behind. The bootsteps started once more.
“Hi again.” He put gruffly to the panting corpse as he shuffled his loud steps over to the shining glorious wand of death, “I forgot this.”
The corpse only moaned its feelings, which certainly must’ve been many. Life flashing before one’s eyes, that stuff.
“Oh, and I forgot this.” The night man out bluntly into the corpses’ side, squelching blood shouts eminating from mortal wounds. “And I forgot to mention I hate you. And that these are the way of the future. Of the present, of now, of… zahdammit, you know, killing things.” The man flushed and grit his teeth pounding across the corpse, “What we all live for, right? Ri~i~ight?! That and your stupid, stupid stupid!!” The man could not stop himself from pounding against the corpse with his heavy bloodstained boots ironically. He was here to show the power of the gun, not the pain of his blows. “Stupid stupid I hate you!” cuts across the night louder than the thunder of a gunshot with no words.
The next several ages would only be filled with shouting.
I was kindve thinking... the first paragraph. Then I found out who this story was about and was like, "wait, it doesnt happen that way" and then I was like "go with it"
A Location Thing I had to do for Class
The attacking northern winds whistle and shriek over the silenced grasses and quieted planes like the voices of the thousands who died screaming and demanding justice for the brown rushes and shattered leaves they cherished and closely. They slam into the already battered and broken gloom of hovels held up only by the thin threaded remains of their sheep’s wool long gone and the glimmering hopes of times to come. Some eyes train for the sparkle among their dust, batted about by the screams and wails; zipping in several directions only to catch the luminous glimmer of preshattered glass. From their cultivated fields of goats long past, other wind-scarred eyes no longer look among the remains, but to the cloudy spires that so pierce and bleed the sky with their endless peaks, holding the barrier between their world and another. The last, the few, the most broken of all the beaten, merely take a twist of their necks to the tainted towers of their tyrant, the teeth of which open and tautened to take a bite. An open devouring maw that swallowed the land to satiate itself and no one else.
Ooh... melodrama. Sorta the start of everything, really...
Bubble Monolouge
All that ever matters in my world is going forward. Gathering life and supplementing your own. It never matters where you were from or who you were, all that matters is the gains at the end of it all. And if you died, then that was just that. They would use that death to further themselves, and all you would amount to was the amount you had invested in yourself, how much you fed the demon that ate you. If even that; humans would just destroy us completely.
That’s just the world, I guess. Demon, human, somewhere in between, life is just about living until you die, and getting on top is the goal before that happens.
Though I’ve never seen the five on top fall. My guesses are that they never will.
So, maybe what I’m trying to say is that it’s never about where you’ve been or how you got to here. You can have the most amazing tales told in the most verbose and beautifully charming way, and it won’t tell me a thing. Especially since I have a bad habit of thinking everyone’s lying about that crap. I tend to just trust what I see for myself. Just a survival technique.
I don’t know why I’m writing this down, then. What does it even matter anymore? What does it matter if it really was true care, true compassion? It’s in the past now. I have Chris now. And Chris has
It still might help me figure out emotions, if I look back on when I had none?
I don’t know, he just keeps preoccupying my mind. When I think of Chris, I can’t help but think of him as well. Especially when Chris
It’s funny, both my fathers had become more preoccupied with women when they’re around. I’m interesting, they care, but when Thryza comes in, I am merely a secondary.
I’ve seen enough proof to know that he cares! I have. It’s just that I can’t make my dad as happy as she could. The very thought that Chris enjoys Thryza more seizes up my cores and makes them function poorly, cracks in my shell loosening and leaking sticky, fluidous magic.
Which is why I always think back to him, to Ruby. What did we have? Was it more, deeper, broader than what I have with Chris now? I certainly never cried for Ruby, but maybe that’s because I never truly lost him. There were times with Chris.
I could sum up Ruby’s an I’s long history together in the fact that we were twins, mates, yet not mates. True mates surrender everything to one another; they are merely two bodies of the same demon. Ruby and I never had that sort of trust, or maybe we did. The fact is that we never truly tested our faith. Long, long years together, working for thousands of years for only the two of us alone. Yet all that time were we merely using one another? At the first sign of weakness would we take the other’s life? I still don’t know, and just talking about it will not help. So I will recount my past to myself, and hope that I make something clear. I must do it externally, as processing is interrupted frequently by these bursts of emotion.
Sometimes the best way that I write... I was just experimenting otherwise, really...
The Wanderer
If the man looked over the landscape, the space that he would see is barren and brown. Winter still took the air and whipped the winds that always seemed to be yelling. It’s just so flat, so sparse, the winds love it here, they can run around and scream all they want while the people cover their ears and keep walking.
The wind right now was playing with the man’s coat, making it flap around like a game of parachute. The man found no humor in this game and gripped it close to himself. He had never had children. Did being two or so feet shorter than his wife have anything to do with that? Possibly, not that it mattered now. He was not going to stop to play with the wind, they would not make a game out of him. He had to go, not to stop. Destination was secondary to the movement. Clutching at himself tightly he barreled past the children and their playful screeches.
Or made his dog barrel past the children, but the dog was essentially an extension of himself, the fact that he was riding it does not mean anything.
Out of curiosity, the man did in fact pass a glance at the landscape, still wrapped up in himself. Immediately tears were torn from his ragged face, the wind begging him to remember the barrenness of his lost home. Or not. He lowered himself back down and kept going, he saw nothing of interest here.
Only in a place where spinelike trees only served to make the winds games louder and more cheerful as they climbed the barren branches did the wanderer pause to look up again. A man at least twice if not four or five times his size was on the ground, picking at it huffing and puffing and also batting away the games of the wind. The diminutive called out to him.
“Hullo, good sir!” said he, stopping his steps. The dog complied. “What might you be doing among the dirt of the road on this dismal day?”
“Well, I’ve tripped, that’s what!” the giant huffed, scrunching up his face like a wad of bad poetry, “And in a lovely twist of fate, a bag broke! I must find every piece, every piece…” the man grunted and resumed searching for every last piece of whatever piece he was rooting through dirt for.
“Every piece of…?” the wanderer asks, helping only himself as he falls off his dog to help the tower before him. He falls to the dirt to pick at grains the wind so loves to toss about especially this time of year.
The mass of a man only grunts and keeps looking while the wanderer frowns. The wind must’ve played hide and seek, there’s nothing to be found here.
The diminutive figure leaves the mass of a man to his work. He’s got to move on.
All that's here is... an introduction to the charactor, really...
The Murderer
Still land silent in early morning falls shattering. A crack of gunshot glass broken boom. A hand held aloft smoking with deeds done tosses their hand aside to turn and leave this mess. Boots clump steadily against hardwood floors masked by a wet thud and gentle moans. A rub of fabric with movement, a sound so small made so enormous by the enormity of the situation, even drowning out a deeper thud against a wall. Heavy breath, both heaving, but one shot was all there ever was. There never had been another like it. Indeed, even the people stirring around unseen and unheard were ignorant of the events as a murder, if they had even gotten that far.
The man could only mutter through his red cloud and deadened black night, the other could only spew anger at everything. But he was alive, and would remain so, as he threw off his burden and stumbled clumping out the door.
“Let dying dogs die, I don’t know,” was all he could muster in self defense to the night, “And guns fuggin rule.”
The sounds stopped, even his breathing. He had left the gun behind. The bootsteps started once more.
“Hi again.” He put gruffly to the panting corpse as he shuffled his loud steps over to the shining glorious wand of death, “I forgot this.”
The corpse only moaned its feelings, which certainly must’ve been many. Life flashing before one’s eyes, that stuff.
“Oh, and I forgot this.” The night man out bluntly into the corpses’ side, squelching blood shouts eminating from mortal wounds. “And I forgot to mention I hate you. And that these are the way of the future. Of the present, of now, of… zahdammit, you know, killing things.” The man flushed and grit his teeth pounding across the corpse, “What we all live for, right? Ri~i~ight?! That and your stupid, stupid stupid!!” The man could not stop himself from pounding against the corpse with his heavy bloodstained boots ironically. He was here to show the power of the gun, not the pain of his blows. “Stupid stupid I hate you!” cuts across the night louder than the thunder of a gunshot with no words.
The next several ages would only be filled with shouting.
I was kindve thinking... the first paragraph. Then I found out who this story was about and was like, "wait, it doesnt happen that way" and then I was like "go with it"
A Location Thing I had to do for Class
The attacking northern winds whistle and shriek over the silenced grasses and quieted planes like the voices of the thousands who died screaming and demanding justice for the brown rushes and shattered leaves they cherished and closely. They slam into the already battered and broken gloom of hovels held up only by the thin threaded remains of their sheep’s wool long gone and the glimmering hopes of times to come. Some eyes train for the sparkle among their dust, batted about by the screams and wails; zipping in several directions only to catch the luminous glimmer of preshattered glass. From their cultivated fields of goats long past, other wind-scarred eyes no longer look among the remains, but to the cloudy spires that so pierce and bleed the sky with their endless peaks, holding the barrier between their world and another. The last, the few, the most broken of all the beaten, merely take a twist of their necks to the tainted towers of their tyrant, the teeth of which open and tautened to take a bite. An open devouring maw that swallowed the land to satiate itself and no one else.
Ooh... melodrama. Sorta the start of everything, really...
Bubble Monolouge
All that ever matters in my world is going forward. Gathering life and supplementing your own. It never matters where you were from or who you were, all that matters is the gains at the end of it all. And if you died, then that was just that. They would use that death to further themselves, and all you would amount to was the amount you had invested in yourself, how much you fed the demon that ate you. If even that; humans would just destroy us completely.
That’s just the world, I guess. Demon, human, somewhere in between, life is just about living until you die, and getting on top is the goal before that happens.
Though I’ve never seen the five on top fall. My guesses are that they never will.
So, maybe what I’m trying to say is that it’s never about where you’ve been or how you got to here. You can have the most amazing tales told in the most verbose and beautifully charming way, and it won’t tell me a thing. Especially since I have a bad habit of thinking everyone’s lying about that crap. I tend to just trust what I see for myself. Just a survival technique.
I don’t know why I’m writing this down, then. What does it even matter anymore? What does it matter if it really was true care, true compassion? It’s in the past now. I have Chris now. And Chris has
It still might help me figure out emotions, if I look back on when I had none?
I don’t know, he just keeps preoccupying my mind. When I think of Chris, I can’t help but think of him as well. Especially when Chris
It’s funny, both my fathers had become more preoccupied with women when they’re around. I’m interesting, they care, but when Thryza comes in, I am merely a secondary.
I’ve seen enough proof to know that he cares! I have. It’s just that I can’t make my dad as happy as she could. The very thought that Chris enjoys Thryza more seizes up my cores and makes them function poorly, cracks in my shell loosening and leaking sticky, fluidous magic.
Which is why I always think back to him, to Ruby. What did we have? Was it more, deeper, broader than what I have with Chris now? I certainly never cried for Ruby, but maybe that’s because I never truly lost him. There were times with Chris.
I could sum up Ruby’s an I’s long history together in the fact that we were twins, mates, yet not mates. True mates surrender everything to one another; they are merely two bodies of the same demon. Ruby and I never had that sort of trust, or maybe we did. The fact is that we never truly tested our faith. Long, long years together, working for thousands of years for only the two of us alone. Yet all that time were we merely using one another? At the first sign of weakness would we take the other’s life? I still don’t know, and just talking about it will not help. So I will recount my past to myself, and hope that I make something clear. I must do it externally, as processing is interrupted frequently by these bursts of emotion.
Sometimes the best way that I write... I was just experimenting otherwise, really...