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  • Re: Writer's Corner

    I wrote this for my last will and testament for my graduating class continuance.

    I, 8bit Fighter (not my real name but anyway), herby leave this world behind with some thoughts. All the hallways were a stage for us to practice to be young adults until the final day. No lnger bounded down the tiles to our feet, our futures are about to meet. Let us all rock the world and fill the arena.
    "Even with so much bad blood between us... It's funny... Now that I'm actually face to face with him again... The hatred is gone. All I feel is a deep sense of longing. And pity. Did Zero really hate me? Or... Did he fear me?" - Big Boss


    • Re: Writer's Corner

      I take too long to write anything I like. And even then I usually don't like it. I can always see an influence in it and immediatly trash it. I wrote a small story. I was proud of it and felt like I had accomplished something. I go to watch The Song Remains The Same and there it is. Jimmy Page climbing a mountain thirty years ago. Fuck me.


      • Re: Writer's Corner

        "Even with so much bad blood between us... It's funny... Now that I'm actually face to face with him again... The hatred is gone. All I feel is a deep sense of longing. And pity. Did Zero really hate me? Or... Did he fear me?" - Big Boss


        • Re: Writer's Corner

          Here's a mad tea party I wrote for the NW boards, because me and a girl are obsessed with Alice In Wonderland. This is still a work in progress...

          "Boris, may I ask you a question?"
          "Why certainly Norris! Ask away!" said Boris to Norris.
          "Does this tea taste funny to you?"
          "Oh no, not at all, it's tastes a little more nostalgic to me."
          "My thoughts exactly, except instead of 'nostalgic', I would have used 'funny'."
          A loud crash came from the kitchen and Boris and Norris were suprised find themselves being joined at the tea table by Horus, the albino alabaster Armenian asfixiated aardvark. He sat next to Boris, which was, coincidentaly, across the table from absolutely nothing, seeing as how Boris and Norris were sitting across from each other, therefore, with no one else at the table, the albino alabaster Armenian asfixiated aardvark named Horus was staring at the wall when he very well could have been looking at a person.
          "Horus!" exclaimed Norris. "How nice of you to join us, we were just having an indepth discussion about the mood and personality of this tea and--". Horus was paying neither Boris, nor Norris, who was specifically talking to him, any attention. He was sniffing around the legs of the table, every so often flicking and/or pinching them.
          "This structure's consistancy is inconsistant," is all he muttered. Boris just blinked for a moment, then said, "That statement is hardly not un-irrelevant to this conversation. Why do you do that all the time?"
          "I didn't!" exclaimed Horus defensively. "Twas Norris, for all we know." They both looked to Norris who only said, "He makes a strong arguement..." Boris stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Norris. "That, sir, is a bold faced lie!"
          Norris stood up and held his nose high. "I never lie, unless I'm lying right now, but seeing as how I never lie, I'm not lying, except if I'm lying, which I very well may be."
          "TEA TIME!!!" came the call from the kitchen. Boris got very excited and said, "We shall have to continue this discussion at a later time. It's tea time!" and started heading for the kitchen, but Horus stood up. "Boris, we have tea here on this very table! Here, I'll show you!" and he pointed to the tea cup in front of Boris.
          "Ah yes, my apologies. Now where were we? Ah yes, talking about Doris! I do hope she'll arrive soon, I am ever so bored with the people at this tea party, present company excluded." Horus and Norris nodded their heads in agreement.
          "Now Norris, is it true what they say: masturbation makes the heart grow fonder?" asked Horus from under the table, for he was continuing to poke and prod the poor tables' legs.
          "No Horus," said Norris. "You have that confused with 'mastication". The saying is 'Fondness makes the heart grow mastication."
          "Yes, sorry, I forget these things."


          • Re: Writer's Corner

            A week ago or so I was thinking over a couple of sketch ideas i had come up with and managed to incorporate a bit of black sabbath into them, this then prompted me with an idea for a black sabbath sketch which i wrote a begining to earlier today, it is entitled "The Battle For Black Sabbath" :

            Announcer : Ladies and gentlemen we proudly present to you the Koala Kola and MTV sponsored......BATTLE FOR BLACK SABBATH!!!! This battle will be between previous black sabbath vocalists and will commence in a back alley with the contestants vying to be the last man alive and earning the right to record the next black sabbath album! Now lets meet the contestants; from Birmingham, England the man known as "the prince of darkness" and armed with his signature headbite finishing move, he is the original vocalist....OZZY OSBOURNE!

            we see ozzy in the alley facing the wrong way and having to be turned around b the ref.

            Anoouncer : And now to introduce to you the next contestant. He is king of the Elves, the Holy Diver and seemingly ageless...RONNIE JAMES DIO!!

            pans left to where dio should be but we don't see anyone, then after a few seconds the camera moves down to dios height and we see him.

            Announcer : Our third contestant is a legendary singer, who likes the colour purple-a deep purple you could say, and packing his "Smoke on the water...Fire in the sky!" signature manouver...IT'S IAN GILLAN!

            pans to left to a puddle of water from which comes a puff of smoke and gillan appears.

            Announcer : Our penultimet contestant is a memeber of the Iommi solo band, he's no stranger to love and is known as the 7th star (well not really)...GLENN HUGHES!

            pan to the left to hughes

            Announcer : And the final contestant, who recorded sabbath's last studio album and is known as "the cat"...TONY MARTIN!!

            tony jumps infront of the camera with a a cat like pounce and stance, hands curled like claws.

            Rest of contestants : WHO?!?! (simultaneously)

            tony drops his hands to his side and looks at the ground disheartened that they don't know who he is.

            Announcer : Tony "the cat" Martin!!!

            tony makes cat stance again

            Announcer : And now a moment as i read the names of those who were either unable to or not important enough to take part: Ray Gillen, Dave Walker, Dave Donato, Ron Keel, Jeff Fenholt and Tony Martin.

            Tony : Hey i'm here!

            Announcer : Oh sorry, forgot about you there. Honestly you wern't our first choice. Now.....LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE!!!!!!
            "Someone said there's a lost horizon. We must find a way to the throne."

            "Don't drink from the cup of human kindness. It's a strange brew and poison to the touch."


            • Re: Writer's Corner

              HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...That is so true about Tony Martin [img]/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/nelson.gif[/img] [img]/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/tongue.gif[/img]
              Vic always says 'killing is my business, and business is good'.. He can play the symphony of destruction, after all the worlds needs a hero because the system has failed. Vic is on the killing road to Hangar 18, and he will Take No Prisioners on this holy wars.

              Quote by Ray Rules


              • Re: Writer's Corner

                I think Glenn would win
                "I want to tell you, yeah
                How Good It Feels
                Sleeping here with you tonight
                And that’s for real"
                -Sometimes I'm Happy 8/5/75


                • Re: Writer's Corner

                  My friend was beatboxing and had some athletic underwear on his head, so I called them Dancin' Pants, which spawned this: (We actually have it recorded on a cell phone, and yes, it's supposed to be a lame white boy rappin')

                  Dancin' Pants

                  My name is Lance
                  And I got dancin' pants
                  They are so TIGHT!
                  Sometimes, they give me CRAMPS!
                  My name is Lance


                  • Re: Writers Corner

                    A Short Story I wrote about a year ago:

                    Plant Food

                    Her back was hunched over, knocking over a foot from her height. Actually she was more than hunched over, her back was doubled over completely. Her hands were twisted and gnarled like the tree roots that stuck out of the ground on those old horror movies from my youth.

                    She waddled over to Sandra who was looking at an, arguably ugly, plant. Caressing the leaves with her hands, she gazed into the center of the plant as if she was in love. Actually it was more deep than that. We were in love and not once had she ever looked at me with that same sort of peculiar ecstasy. The gypsy looked up at Sandra the best that she could, squinting and grinning wide enough to reveal her single tooth which jutted out of her gum, a grave sticking out of stony ground.

                    I always hated Gypsy Fairs, even from the young age where Sonic The Hedgehog figurines could be purchased for a ridiculously cheap price at one. I could never feel safe in the company of such a wide assortment of weirdos. Not even at the age where you trusted everyone. And these weren't amusing weirdos either, but the sort of weirdos who you could expect to gut you given half the chance, and then auction off your innards to the highest bidder.

                    We were standing outside a rusting house-truck. By the door was an ironing board with a thin lavender cloth with a few plants sitting on it. Resting against the ironing board was a sign which read 'Plants for sail.' I stifled a laugh, as Sandra wouldn't appreciate me making fun of someone “who wasn't given the opportunities that we were given as children.” I looked into the house-truck to see if I could see a cauldron or a black cat. Even a broomstick would deal to my curiosity.

                    “Do ya like that one young miss?”asked the gypsy in a crackled voice, desperately trying to get the attention of Sandra, and to appear as friendly as possible. To me she still seemed creepy but the same couldn't be said for Sandra. Sandra at the gypsy and smiled politely. At that time I was hoping that it was all out of politeness.

                    “It's very interesting,” she said with an overwhelming amount of enthusiasm for what the plant was worth. I looked at the plant myself, green stem and leaves with a green flower, all the same shade. I strained to see what was so interesting about it. It didn't even have a smell. We have similar plants at home, and Sandra is always ripping them out of the ground complaining of weeds. Sandra had gone back to examining it. The gypsy cackled. Again, I tried looking for that broomstick.

                    “'Tis child. Them plants need a lot o' care. They need you to water 'em at least twice a day, perhaps as much as five times if it looks a bit sulky.” I don't know what Sandra was thinking, but for something that doesn't move it seems to require a lot of responsibility to look after it.

                    “Really?” Sandra asked intrigued. I whispered to her: “Next thing you know she'll be telling us that it can do flips.” Sandra playfully hit me and the gypsy made her presence known again, smiling at me, but she looked slightly hurt. I wiped the childish grin off my face and looked back to Sandra. Sandra also looked slightly hurt.

                    “Yes. 'Tis a lot of responsibility to look after it, but well worth the effort.”

                    “Why, does it grow money or something?” I couldn't hold myself back. Sandra scowled at me but the gypsy laughed, showing me her almost bare gums again. I was shocked out of my sarcastic joy. The gypsy shook her head.

                    “If you look after the plant, the plant will look after you.” This was a good phrase to use when advertising for a guard dog, but it didn't have the same effect when we were talking about a plant. I myself had grown weary of the gypsy vibe. I tried to walk away but Sandra took my arm not looking away from the plant.

                    “How much is it?” she asked. I had a feeling it would lead to this.

                    “That one is five dollars.”

                    Sandra looked in her pockets and drew some coins out. She counted them quickly and broke the news to the gypsy: “Sorry, I don't have enough”.

                    The gypsy looked somewhat sad for a second and her collected herself and said “Thats alright young miss.” Sandra looked to her feet, and the looked up at me, upset. I saw what she was getting at...

                    I rolled my eyes, but in a way not to let her see and drew a crumpled five-dollar note from my wallet. I handed it to the gypsy who smiled up at me with that singled toothed grin. I took the plant and handed it to Sandra. She giggled and kissed me on the cheek, saying excitedly: “You're just the best, Martin!” I put my wallet in my back pocket as deep as it would go. She said that I was 'the best' that day, and I never heard those words again.

                    Sandra and I walked back to the car. She stared at the plant the whole way home. I asked her: “What's so great about that plant anyway?” She glared at me, and then her expression softened, perhaps remember that I was the one who paid for it. She waited a while staring at the plant, obviously looking for reasons that it was worth five dollars. She was really struggling.

                    “Just look at the shape of the flower, Martin!” I took a quick glance. It was in the the shape of an 'X'. Big deal. It was green. Big deal. It smells like compost. Big deal. So far I didn't say what was so great about it, the badly painted pot it was in was more interesting. If only it could do flips or grow money.

                    “Looks more like a weed to me,” I expressed honestly. Sandra looked hurt. I couldn't possibly understand why. The plant was only in her possession for about half an hour and already I wished that it would curl up and die. The worst part about it was how it would manipulate me into wishing that my girlfriend would curl up at die.

                    “Well I like it,” she said. We left it at that.

                    For the rest of the day Sandra admired the plant. Now I didn't just find it uninteresting, I found it ugly. On Sunday Sandra bought a large bag of plant food, with extra nutrients. Why the fuss? I wanted to scream: IT'S JUST A PLANT! However Sandra obviously didn't think so. I should have gotten her a dog instead, something actually worth the money paid for it.

                    For the next couple of weeks Sandra seemed to exist solely to look after this stupid plant. Every morning she would wake up early, water it, feed it and stare at it. She would often turn up late for work and arrive home early, often with another sack of plant food. As soon as she entered the door she would rush to this plant, water it, feed it and continue staring at it. It was becoming a habit.

                    On Friday evening I walked over to her and sat down next to her. “Hey Sandy,” I said, trying to initiate a human conversation with was becoming barely imaginable by this stage. Sandra grunted at me. I'd like to think that what she grunted at me was hello, or at least some abstract variation of the word. “What do you say we go see a movie tonight?” She glared at me horrified. “I've heard that the new Star Wars movie is good.”

                    “I have other commitments Martin and you know that damn well.”

                    I let out a sarcastic 'ha'. “You call this life? This is just a plant! I like how you've let all the interesting ones die off in favor of this monstrosity!”

                    “What is your problem! I'm taking care of something that you gave to me as a gift and you're punishing me for it? What about what I want to do?” She had reverted back to the bulletproof argument that men everywhere dreaded... But I pressed on nevertheless.

                    “You've done what 'you wanted to do' for back near three weeks. Sitting in front of this monster, letting it interfere with your life. How's work going for you at the moment, Sandra?” She went deathly quiet. I had hit a nerve and continued to gently prod at it. “In line for any promotions?” She slapped me with one bony paw. I looked at her arms. “You haven't been eating well, have you?” She crossed them, looking like a teenager upset at her parents. She began to weep quietly to herself. “We don't have to see a movie I guess. We can get out a DVD or something, I'll even let you pick.” I had pushed it to far...

                    Sandra pushed me back and stepped on my neck, trying to strangle the life out of me with her boot. I lifted her foot up enough to relieve the pressure and said: “I love you with all my heart, and you know that... I'm worried about you. Your job is suffering, you refuse to leave the house for anything except for work and to buy that special compost. I'm sure the gardening place worships you for the business and let's face it, you don't look your healthiest either.”

                    She ran upstairs crying hysterically. I felt a kind of sadistic pride. I had come out on top of that one. I looked at the plant, which seemed to be avoiding my gaze. “Fear for your life,” I said. In hindsight I would have said something less cheesy, or nothing at all, but I guess that it is too late for that.

                    The following day two things happened. One, Sandra rung in to quit her job, and demanded all the forms be mailed to her. The second thing was that she invited her best friend, Jeanne around to look at her new plant. Jeanne came around at about one, and Sandra sent me to get the door for her guest. I did as she said and played the polite host. I greeted her warmly, and I was greeted in the same manner. I told her that Sandra was in the lounge and offered her a drink. She accepted the offer and I called out to my girlfriend, or at that stage not even my girlfriend any more. Sandra was just living in my house, not contributing to a single thing.

                    “My God, are you all right?” These were the first words that Jeanne said when she first set her eyes on Sandra. I casually informed that I was boiling the jug. I hurried back though, as I didn't want to miss anything important.

                    “So, what do you think of the plant?”

                    “I think,” Jeanne began, “That it's the most hideous thing I have ever seen.” Both the plant and Sandra flinched away, both looking rather hurt. “Are you telling me that this is the same plant that was the topic of every one of your workday discussions?”

                    “Yes, as a matter or fact, it is.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Because it's beautiful, and I love it.” I went into the kitchen suppressing my laughter the best that I could. I have never heard ANYTHING so pathetic ever been uttered by a human in my entire life. I knew that Jeanne felt the same way as well. I made the drink and brought it out to Jeanne, who didn't end up drinking any of it at all.

                    “Couldn't you have found a more... logical obsession?”

                    “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

                    “I'm just saying that it's hideous, and that it's made you hideous. Damn, girl! When was the last time you washed yourself?” Jeanne noticed the mounted up bags of plant food in the corner. “The plant shop is making a killing, aren't they?”

                    Sandra glared at me. “You planned this, didn't you?”

                    “He didn't plan nothing!” Jeanne protested. “For three weeks, this plant was all that you talked about! Now that I've finally seen it for myself I am desperately trying to understand why!” All I needed was popcorn and the show would be complete.

                    It went back and forth, repeating itself a few times and then Sandra punched Jeanne in the mouth. Crimson blood dribbled from the inside of Jeanne's cheek. Sandra went back to looking at the plant. I pulled Jeanne up off the floor and helped her to the door.

                    “Help her.” Jeanne demanded when we got to the door.

                    “I've tried. She doesn't want to be helped, as you probably know already.” Jeanne looked at me hopefully before walking to her car. I never saw Jeanne again.

                    By the beginning of the third week I stopped trying to reach Sandra. She wouldn't respond to me when I tried to talk to her, and she would only leave the house to buy more plant food with money that I suspect she stole out of my wallet.

                    By the forth week I was ready to kill the plant. Sandra had quit work and would only eat or drink when my logic said it was time for her to eat or drink. She would now fall asleep every night in front of the plant. In a month my girlfriend and I had become strangers, not even on nodding acquaintances with each other. Ugly black bags had formed under her eyes and she was rank of excrement. I no longer found her attractive. In fact she was beginning to disgust me. The plant was now three feet tall. She reminded me of the main character in the movie for 'Pink Floyd: The Wall', vegetating (If I may use the pun) in front of the plant instead of reminiscing in front of the television (which gets destroyed twice). Every day I came home expecting to see the lounge smashed to pieces and seeing Sandra building an army base out of the remains, or perhaps even seeing her asleep with her eyebrows shaved off.

                    In five weeks the plant was five feet tall: about the height of the woman who I originally bought the plant off. One night that week, I think it was Tuesday, I crept down the stairs and walked out to the shed. I picked up the pair of hedge clippers and took them back to the house. I could see the plant now... It was facing me, and I could feel it trying to stare into my soul.

                    I heard it's voice in my mind, the voice of the devil: “I dare ya! Stop looking at the blades and to the job already! CUT ME!

                    As I drew closer to it I could see it twisting to look up at me... I couldn't believe what was going through my mind, the plant was STARING at me! I sound like the village idiot but at that moment, with the garden scissors in my hand I didn't feel so far off the rails. It even seemed logical to believe that a plant was capable of not only conscious though, but of telepathy as well... because the plant really was looking at me. I pried the hedge clippers open and put the blades to each side of the plant's stem. Then I felt a burst of sharp pain: Sandra's teeth were sinking into the soft flesh of my wrist... she had bitten me protecting this stupid plant. Sandra screamed out... but the scream wasn't hers. It wasn't even human. It was feral, wild. There was no beauty of language in there, just noise.

                    The following morning I knew that there were three things that I had to do: The first was send Sandra to a mental institution. As much as I loved her, watching her go beyond obsession for this plant was worse. Worse because I feared for both her safety and mine. I had a constant fear that Sandra would drive a knife deep into my chest. The second task of the day was to kill this damn plant which has managed to seize Sandra's life. Finally I had to get this bite checked out at the hospital. Sandra bit me deep enough to break the skin and I thought that it was infected. Perhaps I should have added cutting the head clean from that gypsy's shoulders to my list while I was at it.

                    I crept down to the lounge, which is where the phone was. To my horror, but not really to my surprise, the plant had grown another foot and a half and sprouted at least fifty vines from it's stem overnight. It was now taller than me. I looked it up and down... It had uprooted itself from the massive pot it was once in and the roots had wrapped around each other to create almost human legs and feet.

                    The plant was looming over Sandra who looked more unconscious than asleep. The petals were now surrounding a deep mouth lined with what looked to be several thousand razor sharp teeth. It snarled. I grabbed the telephone, hurriedly unplugged it at threw it at the flower/head of the plant. I managed to knock it over and the beast hit the ground with a dull thud.

                    I ran to Sandra and pulled her into my arms. I ran into the laundry, the closest room to the lounge. I slammed the door behind me and used the washing machine to keep the door closed by pushing it against the door. I heard the patter-patter of liquid... At that stage I guessed that one of the pipes was leaking: The laundry wasn't the most often repaired part of our house. Then I noticed the crimson river flowing down my arm... Sandra's head was gone...

                    I fainted and woke up in hospital screaming. The trial followed soon after and I was found guilty of the murder of my girlfriend, Sandra Baker. I told them exactly what I had just written, almost word for word. I'm in this sanitized room now. I co-operate and read novels with the dirty words and violence whited out. I guess I was wrong to blame The Plant. Do you think it will forgive me? I hope so... I have forgiven the plant... Because it is beautiful... And I love it...


                    • Re: Untitled

                      I also started a fantasy story based on Black Sabbath songs, but I gave up after three chapters, I would post it, but I'll spare you the thirteen thousand words of it .


                      • Re: Untitled

                        I've been really struggling for new ideas recently so i was looking over something i wrote a while ago, it's a story i did for english and probably my favourite of anything i've done. I'll post the opening chapter today and another chapter every couple of days, the story is called "Space : A Chorus Of Time And Noise" and i initially came up with the idea from being influenced by an album, see if you can guess the album.

                        Space : A Chorus Of Time And Noise

                        "His head and hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire" (Revelations 1:13-14)

                        Among The Stars

                        "I see not what man believes. Does he believe that good will come of this, or does he believe that God will come of this? Though they believe God can be left behind, "God" is forbidden but he is not so forgiving. Man is merely killing himself to live, isolating himself away. Man's loneliness is but his fear of life, and his life is drawing to an end. I see man standing on the edge again, just like he did back then, hoping that his day will come, praying - if he could. Without the threat of death there is no reason to live at all. He will sleep with his life at an end, though not dead. Is he alive, or just breathing?" (Marilyn)

                        Blackness surrounds the outside, it stretches far and wide across the infinite landscape of space. The little white dots, speckled upon its face, sparkle in the midst of all the darkness, stars in the sky they spell out the names of history's greatest heroes and provide a silver lining for all. Silver starlight cast in shadow and cast aside, the hopes and dreams of all mankind embedded in their effervescent aura. Within this vast vacuum of beauty and black that is space, is the spinning madness known as Earth. Forever turning, it once embodied life and all that is good, but is now fading, hordes have migrated to pastures new leaving behind an empty world full of those who can't. They will soon die with it. And those who can will live in infamy for infinity, gracing space with their presence in a heartless place known as Polaris. It drifts in space like those who await their fate in purgatory. It is far beyond the Earth, but within view of the big finale that they hotly anticipate, soon the Earth will die and leave what little life it had behind. It will drag them to their grave in a blaze worthy of the finest celebration, but what there is to celebrate is hard to find. The Earth and all those who were left to die with it will then become just more dust and space among the stars.
                        "Someone said there's a lost horizon. We must find a way to the throne."

                        "Don't drink from the cup of human kindness. It's a strange brew and poison to the touch."


                        • Re: Untitled

                          I finally read your story Zombie and I loved it! I thought that it was great and that the ending wasn't what I expected. For him to love the plant like Sandy. I have to say that the funniest part is the bit about The Wall *giggles* I think you have to be on acid to be like "Whoa" while watching that movie lol

                          And Sabotaged, the beginning of your story was great. I like the way you describe things! But umm, what exactly is your story going to be about?

                 you all know, I've finished a short novel, about a hundred pages long, and I've started like four more...

                          one is called The Cat Lady and it's about a girl who wants a talking doll and her family is poor so she has to find her own money. She volunteers to take care of her neighbours 17 cats for one pound everyday, but her neighbour ends up needing more than that and she offers the girl an extra pound a day to clean her filthy house. And it's beyond disgusting. But, being only 8, she agrees to it. That's where I left off and I was thinking about having the old lady give her a doll and the doll turns out to be evil...and worse, the old lady knew that it was evil...something like that..

                          Also, I started one about these biker dudes, Kevin and Mike, They're 'certified heros' or something lol like Dog The Bounty Hunter. And on Christmas, their neighbour's little girl, Sarah, disappears and the two leave their brilliant, perfect Christmas party to find her. They search until four in the morning. The next day, the guys take Kevin's son, Zach to the park and they see a girl, very much like Sarah, laying on a bench and they get up and start walking towards her. Then, a man passes between them and when he's out of the way, the girl is gone and Kevin and Mike are confused. Were they both hallucinating about the same thing at the same time, was it just a Sarah look-a-like who moves really fast? lol Or is Sarah dead and was that her ghost that they saw? *spooky music* loll

                          The third one, I just started last night and it's about a kid who gets abused by his father all the time and in the end, he kills him. It's called Fatal Revenge...

                          And the last one, I didn't even start yet. I've been writing it in my head, but it'll be dedicated to my dad if I finish it. It's gonna be called a addicted and it's about a man who's on drugs and how it's affecting his family.


                          • Re: Untitled

                            Here's the next part of "Space : A Chorus Of Time And Noise", must say before i post anymore of it that it isn't the final version because i lost that a while back when my computer basically died and i didnt have any other copies of it, but i did have a backup of my 2nd last version so if there remains any spelling or grammatical errors then this is the reason why.


                            Prof. Dawkins led the group through the room where the F-models and M-models were engineered and onto the next ward.
                            'This' began Dawkins, 'is where we store those who have malfunctioned.' To "malfunction" in this day and age meant what was once known as to "die". Dawkins continued, 'In the first of two wards we have the Coma White patients.'
                            The professor opened the door to the first ward and ushered the group in. The room in which they now stood was half a mile long - the Coma wards took up the majority of the East wing on the Polaris - and was filled with row upon row of beds with body upon body lying on top of them. The bodies looked perfect, and beautiful, in some cases even more so than when they were functioning (alive). So much so that members of the group would "ooh" and "ahh" at how well preserved and presented the bodies were, even taking pictures at times. The bodies were a ghostly white, but they did not look "dead" they merely looked as if they were actually in a coma, alive but not breathing. The whiteness of the bodies were matching with the decor of not only the ship - inside and out - but with society itself and how it appeared ever since the User Friendly Party took over in 19 B.S. (before sickness).
                            "Do the WHITE thing"
                            "Heaven is white, white is clean. Hell is black, black is mean."
                            Were two of the slogans used when they won the election, this was before they disregarded the idea of religion and God which happened via the Anti-Angel Act (AAA) of 12B.S. . Everything always had to be white, from clothes to skin, apparently white was pure and good. Prof. Dawkins wanted to continue the tour, but was not so eager on the second room of the Coma ward.
                            'This is where the Coma Black patients are kept.' he said, pointing at the room with his eyes always diverted from it, tempted to look but afraid to rear his head.
                            'Why are they separate? And how are they different?" asked one member of the group.
                            Dawkins removed his glasses and wiped them with his lab coat, 'Because...' was his childish attempt at an answer.
                            'But why?' persevered the boy.
                            Dawkins became slightly annoyed and approached the boy, 'If you knew what was in there - seen what I have seen.' his face was red with anger, sweat dripping from his forehead and his pupils dilated in fear. He turned to the room, now staring directly at its sealed tight doors as if caught in a hypnotic trance, there was a sign above the door written in some odd language or code, his eyes fixated upon it. In his head the sign lit up and all around him he heard voices.
                            'Professor Dawkins, what do we do?' cried one.
                            'Contain them, contain!' he called. Screams now surrounded him, screams of pain in the dark, everything was black. He was back in the ward, facing the room, his back to the tour group. Dawkins pivoted to a full frontal view of the group, their eyes peered deep into his, questioning what he was hiding behind his mind and those doors.
                            'Come along,' he said, 'there's more to see.'
                            The group followed him like mindless sheep to the slaughter, their curiosity as to what they would see next led them. As the group moved away one of them stood in solitary stillness and opposition, not following like the others, she stood against their waves of movement. Her name was Marilyn. Marilyn was standing outside the door of the Coma Black ward, something the rest of the group had seemingly forgotten about, they had the memory span of a goldfish. The doors were calling out to her, to open them up and unveil what was locked behind them, whatever was inside wanted to be set free. Marilyn too wanted to be free from the oppressive nature of society and the UFP, but she remained stationery. Her hair blonde, bordering on shocking white smooth and as pure as snow, eyes of flame filled with burning desires and her figure concealed by the government issue one-piece white body stocking. She stared at the door and it stared back, almost out with her control she began to move towards it, the door was drawing her in. Closer and closer with every step, the yearning to know what was behind it. She stopped. Inches from the door, there was an urge to touch it. Her arm began a slow ascent, raising it up to the level of her chest, Marilyn turned her palm to face the door and started reach towards it. Slowly the arm inched its way to the door, mere millimetres from touching it, the anticipation for Marilyn was unbearable, she then froze.
                            'Don't touch that.' the voice came from behind her, there stood a tall muscular man - his masculinity somewhat hindered by the mandatory white body stocking - his hand upon Marilyn's shoulder. She quivered in his presence and could see from a small badge on his body suit that he was a Dove. The Doves were the law enforcers for the UFP, striking fear into the hearts of the people, maintaining control over them with an iron fist. The Doves had recently come under scrutiny in a scandal accusing them of bribery and corruption, proving that all was not so perfect even on the Polaris, but so much spin had been placed upon the situation by the Party that the unwitting public forgot it quickly and the scandal had been turned into a more positive story of the Party eradicating corruption within society, rather than the deep undercurrent of nepotism within the Party itself.
                            'I was just...' trembled Marilyn's lips
                            'You were just leaving.' insisted the enforcer.
                            He removed his hand from Marilyn's shoulder and gestured with his eyes that she should move along. Marilyn done so but she was now more curious as to what lay behind those tightly sealed doors.
                            "Someone said there's a lost horizon. We must find a way to the throne."

                            "Don't drink from the cup of human kindness. It's a strange brew and poison to the touch."


                            • Re: Untitled

                              I need suggestions for a title for this idea i had. So far all i have is a general concept of the story and an ending i thought of yesterday and want to apply to some sort of story, i can't get started without a title i need it to be there as an inspiration to me as a constant reminder of whatever i'm writing is about or represents. The basic idea is based around a hollywood actor, a legendary actor who is struggling with his personal life and in an artistic sense his career. This actor is in his 50s or 60s and despite still making fantastic money for his films he no longer gets the same feeling from them that he once recieved and recent times have seen critics question his choices in films, but never his ability to act his ass off. He's got money, a younger woman on his arm and almost anything else he could wish for, but he's not happy and is becoming increasingly depressed. He's drinking more, is now insomniac, on medication, increasingly violent and unpredictable which begins to lead to a reluctance from film directors and movie companies to work with him. Now at this point i could go either way with the story, he could either; a)eventually find his way back into work after a young aspiring director pleads for him to work with him purely on the basis that he loved watching him on screen when he was a young boy. Giving the actor a kickstart once again in his film career with him even being nominated for an oscar in the movie he done for the young director, and he also finds a new love on the set of the aformentioned film with someone who is closer to his age. or b) he continues to spiral out of control and finds his house and posessions being repossessed, his young girlfriend leaving him, his money being wasted on drink and drugs and completely dissapearing from the public eye and being entirely forgotten, ending up practically in the gutter. a suggestion of which storyline would be better would also help, but either way the ending will be the same. He will still resent the business, the world around him and himself and stands on the roof of a building and throws himself to his death either as a star or a nobody, if done as a film the jump would be in slow motion with johnny cash's cover of "We'll Meet Again" playing in full during the jump and interspliced with the jump will be a montage of moment throughout his life and the film, with the ending being just a few inches before he hits the ground (this was my ending idea i had, someone jumping off a building with that song playing, in slow motion with a montage).
                              "Someone said there's a lost horizon. We must find a way to the throne."

                              "Don't drink from the cup of human kindness. It's a strange brew and poison to the touch."


                              • Re: Untitled

                                Wow Sabotaged, this story you have here is very very good! The plot is very interesting in it and i think it is cool that you have written a story based on Marilyn Manson's Mechanical Animals cd(my personal favorite cd of his). I am very interested in reading more of this so post some more when you get the chance.