[Emmi Coolahan]

Thankfully she has not, and hopefully she never will =). I wrote it with her in mind, but I wanted other people to be able to relate. Let them know that they aren't alone.

[chloe hampson]

Thankfully she has not, and hopefully she never will =). I wrote it with her in mind, but I wanted other people to be able to relate. Let them know that they aren't alone.

yep, there is always someone else to be there for us. and odds are, there is always someone going through the same thing we are going though at the same time, the world is a small place and everything that happens is never as uncommon as we may think it is.

[Marcin Tomkow]

Spoiler

A missing coma after “time”: “Connal was just a boy at the time but he remembered well his father standing defiantly with the men of his village against a marauding band intent on razing it to the ground, shouting as he continually hacked one warrior after another, each kill seeming to add to his fury and strength until his large sword was cutting through them in fluid, sweeping motions they could not block, try as they might.”

Aside from that, well done.

Also, i hear the expression "raze it to the ground" but i thought it was "raise it to the ground"... learned something new. go vocabulary expansion (bulwarks and conscripts were new to me words).

I didn't want to add a comma there but I guess I can. I'm still in the first draft phase so things will be changing. In fact I've already changed and expanded that short sample because of later events in the story.

I use all kinds of fun words like bulwarks, conscripts, ballistae, mangonels etc. too It may be a fictitious setting but war plays a large part, so I'm researching as well. It's a slow process. It's not a cliche magical setting with wizards or dwarves or anything (but is instead a cliche setting that doesn't have any of that At this point everything is cliche in some way and every story resembles another. I've stopped worrying about trying to make mine wholly unique.). I'm not saying magic won't exist, but it may manifest itself as superstition rather than actual spells.

The most interesting thing is how the story is taking on a life of it's own as I write. Plans and outlines be damned, I find as I write the plot advances in directions I never considered, as authors frequently say happens when they write.

[Mark]

I didn't want to add a comma there but I guess I can. I'm still in the first draft phase so things will be changing. In fact I've already changed and expanded that short sample because of later events in the story.

I use all kinds of fun words like bulwarks, conscripts, ballistae, mangonels etc. too It may be a fictitious setting but war plays a large part, so I'm researching as well. It's a slow process. It's not a cliche magical setting with wizards or dwarves or anything (but is instead a cliche setting that doesn't have any of that At this point everything is cliche in some way and every story resembles another. I've stopped worrying about trying to make mine wholly unique.). I'm not saying magic won't exist, but it may manifest itself as superstition rather than actual spells.

The most interesting thing is how the story is taking on a life of it's own as I write. Plans and outlines be damned, I find as I write the plot advances in directions I never considered, as authors frequently say happens when they write.

oh, yeah, research. that is a smart idea. i never really went to research stuff, much.

It is nice to see people try something different, keep at that.

Absolutely. My fan fic never went the same way as expected or planned. yes, somewhat, but things change so rapidly and drastically sometimes that one can't help but wonder he or she is still writing the same story, or is the character that different from original plan. its imagination unleashed

[Lexy Corpsey]

How odd that I see this thread the day after I finished writing this four act play for my creative writing class (since my three group mates didn't do jack [censored] other than yell ideas at me while I did all the work). There's a character- The Master- in it that speaks in rhyme for badassery, and this is the last soliloquy in the play. A little context might help. Basically, two people went to go off and kill a dinosaur that was destroying their village after being trained by The Master, but one of them (Ichbindorf) screws it up and gets the other killed. Here it's revealed that Binky the Dinosaur is The Master's son. Don't ask me how or why.

The Master- The price with your life you'll pay
On this earth you'll no longer stay
[The Master comes form behind Ichbindorf and strangles him to death with his cane]
To end a life feels not so well
but 'twas necessary to me my brain does tell
It is finished but also just beginning
I failed here and my time is slowly thinning
A nomad's life, I welcome thee back
and there I'll stay till Binky's next attack
A new hero from the wreckage shall rise
one capable of a task this size
And with a mind and blade so sharp they cut
through all hardships and through Binky's gut
To teach him I will, to train him I must
to find him I'll follow the wind's guiding gust
This I vow upon my soul to do before my life's adjourn
this I owe the world before I to dust return
Binky, the fruit of my loins, my life's ill product
my son, my terrible, destructive construct
Does naught but destroy and he will a town another
but alas, my young self did however love his mother
Foolish puppy, nay, dino love did bring me joy
but at the cost of lives of righteous hoi polloi
With this conviction I find reason to onward carry
once 'tis done, I can my shameful secrets bury
Once 'tis done, my deeds will cleave 'twixt whey and curd
akin to blood my blood has spilled; the line 'txixt good and evil blurred
[The Master looks at Ichbindorf's corpse]
The blood I spilled the whey; my son did spill, like curd, the bloods that clots
Once his own is spilled, I'll say to me, "In Pace Requiescat!"

[Josh Dagreat]

Spoiler

I think your story should be called “I am dreaming of Killpocalypse”. If not for any other reason(s) then for the fact(s) that: it was a droid’s “dream”; Killpocalypse is a witty word combo(minus the fact that the original greek work that we get apocalypse from simply means “removing of the veil from the view” or “unveiling”, and not “end of the world” as the meaning of it is today); the story is store house of puns most funny; the fact that the supposed main character is dead so quickly, HK taking the number one spot. Descriptive language and the clever humor, pun overload, shows a fair deal of knowledge of both world and makes smart pulling of element of both worlds together, and using them in a fitting matter(bright world here, Tattooin is the equivalent in his world), it is funny--all these make the story that much better writing for you and for us, that much better reading.

Though for all the praise, I can’t say I agree with the stuff like the straw man wetting himself, sixually pent up wizard sixily pushing buttons, and sixually obsessed tin man, HK using his “sixy Droid's Assassin Rifle” —all that could have been avoided, too much six, unless the point you want to illustrate and or benefit from is that six sells(objectively speaking, it will sell your story, or maybe even be one of the only, or if not the only, thing(s) that sell your story, even if only one or two people). Should have killed the tin man, too, I think; he is a pervert, and since all the other character were being killed off, why he gets to live? And the lion and the Selkath, aw, poor kitty, poor fish people, I like them in the game and I I like lions, I wish lion and Selkath did not had to die.

"Mockery: Gold? What sort of idiot covers his roads in gold? When you can use gold to buy weapons?" eh, this second question mark seems out of place… or is it supposed to be there?

"Oh, you saw me! I was just trying to be preda-" unfinished line to indicate sudden death… classic, but still nice.

“Gazing into the sky, HK saw what appeared to be a flying monkey.” Are there monkeys in Star Wars? If not, I think maybe “a brownish, somewhat furry animal with annoying shrieking, a tail, wings, and four other extremities”?

"Mockery: Oh, yes, let's make everything we have out of precious jewels and metals! Ruby shoes, golden roads, emerald buildings! Why save our wealth to fund an army?" HK's servos grinded as he shook his head in disgust.”
And he is using an emerald for his temporary solution to broken “eyes”. Hm. Well, all that right there is just gold. And yes, pun is intended.

Actually, I was trying to poke fun by making all of the sixual characters odd or disturbing; my point was that six isn't always something that needs to be sold. The death of the lion was simply to speed the story along, and the death of the Selkath was from my own personal hatred of them. I left the tin man alive because I figured it would be a much more awful punishment for him, and that would be something HK would want. The second question mark was supposed to be there. And yes,http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Monkey

[I love YOu]

Actually, I was trying to poke fun by making all of the sixual characters odd or disturbing; my point was that six isn't always something that needs to be sold. The death of the lion was simply to speed the story along, and the death of the Selkath was from my own personal hatred of them. I left the tin man alive because I figured it would be a much more awful punishment for him, and that would be something HK would want. The second question mark was supposed to be there. And yes,http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Monkey

oh, well, glad someone does not think that six needs to be in art to make it good art.

poor tin man, forced to rust in his lust.

did not know Star Wars had monkeys, thank you. i guess by logical extension, i should have assumed it would, since Wookies minus the tail and all that.

[Ricky Rayner]

Here is something I made for myself when I was about to have a mental breakdown.

"Meltdown"

Spoiler

Everything in this house turns unstable. Doors that I had shut are suddenly forced open, water pouring in quickly and beginning to flood the entire building.



The windows begin to crack as the halls are filled. All these pictures I painted, these thrones I have sat on, and the rules I have set for myself are washed away in the current. Nothing can save them from being drowned and carried out of the window, along with everything else I own.



The roof is ripped off, collapsing into the ocean below as flames spark to life. They come in contact with a fuse, and that fuse begins to die off, toward a bomb set right in the middle of this house.



The flames and the water now race each other. Will the flooding drown the bomb and engulf the rest of the house, turning it into a monument in the ocean, or will the flames burnt there way through everything on top and detonate the bomb, leaving nothing left but a crater and fire ontop water.



Perhaps the two will collide together, and kill one another off.



Maybe a drain will open on the bottom as it begins to rain, killing the fire, taking away the water.





The biggest question though... what will be left after the storm?

[Chris BEvan]

"They spoke of prophets lost beneath sands and uncut stone. They spoke of great galleys from where termites dug their chambered halls, within the wood, within the frames, within the bones of the dreamy ships that once were. They also spoke of a son that was to come, whose milky eyes saw nothing, but understood all there was to see. They spoke of this and they spoke of more.

They spoke of blissful prayers who fell deaf on those who came to judge. They spoke of mercy, in it's sorry state, as with tear dried as dust, but not dead, not inside. They spoke of tenants who come with molten coins who bear the face and emblems of shifty men. They spoke of words that were as old as the pillars that erode each day, before the earth eats them whole. They spoke of this and they spoke of more.

They recalled the tales of making, of life being given through a breath of God. Such a breath that could sculpt a mountain or make a starts align, such a breath was wasted on us. They spoke of this and they persecuted us.

"You were dead" they screamed.
"You were dead"

But that breath that gave the sands their time and the wind its guile and the dead their life, that breath was to be shared again. A new arrangement was to be made. So they chided us, to name such fools as many as the stones that cover the borders of men and nations. We listen, for we wished to hear. They spoke of this and they spoke of more."


--------------------


The man carries the morning light with him. He greets me as a brother, but I know him not. The cold ebb of the tides wash his feet as he stand on the wet sand. His hair is Satin and so is his name.

He speaks of craftsmanship, of woodwork and boats. He loves the curves and the shape, the beauty of a sail at full wind, they seem "real" somehow to him, more "real" than anything else.

"But what would I know of this, why do you bother me which such things?" My words disappoint him. He looks more like a child now than ever he was. His stature is somehow small, his eyes are wider than I recall, his face is clear and his hands are small. Such small hands.

"Could these hands make a boat" I chide him. "They're smaller than three fingers of mine, what do you think you can do by yourself, you can not make boats, you can not set sails."

The man, the boy with satin hair tells me something I do not recall. He is too young to know what to say. His words weigh nothing more a strand of silk. If he only knew, if he only was wiser.

"You can't these things true" I cut him off. "Your hands are too small to lift, they are to small to hold or to weld or join or shape or even break.". My words made him smaller, for small he truly was. Sort as an arm an fair as a sea shell. I made these things known to him, I made him small with my words, which were a plenty. I told him to let these dreams go, to let boats make themselves, sail themselves, break themselves, but without him, without their worlds to intertwine, but left apart.

Did he listen? I do know. I know that I left him there alone, on the beach as the ebb washed his feet, as the wind blew his clothes about. As the first snow fell down on his satin hair.

[Horror- Puppe]

This thread is fun, I enjoyed reading these poems and stories

You guys should check out the fan fic forums here. I like to read some of the stuff on the Elder Scrolls one every once in a while, there are some really talented writers there.

I think I'll post one of the poems I wrote. It's basically a criticism on the way the boyfriend-girlfriend relationships lock people in a depressing cycle that they don't realize they can stop at any moment.

Spoiler

Love Lock

From the deep,
Painted in dancing lightshows.
Layers of blues, a place of repose.
From below she arose,
Splashing through the curves of her pose,
The sea, a mirror of her emotion,
Ripples of wind-blown motion,
Across her skin and the sea akin.

Endless embracing waves, grasping,
Through the tenderness of her caress.
Of nothing, she might possess.
Her form is of one in repress,
Ambrosial hands, firm in compress.
But, her heart is of aerials, swimming,
Upon the sea, skimming.
A search on the infinite watery verge.

A blind soul, this one.
Still stagnant she hangs above the surface,
Dripping a line of hope, wordless,
Droplets of memory splashing into the abyss,
Forever in search, not without purpose,
But in vain, for she seeks once more a lock,
Tied on her ankle, a cinder block.
Drift down into this warm sea and drown.

Yet, here is an unfiltered ray of sunlight,
Falling on eyelids yet to perceive,
That the sea has finally given a reprieve,
One to her fluttering heart to relieve,
But to open her eyes, she can no longer conceive.
Suspended in a freedom unseen,
In the waves, she hopes for someone in between.
Let it not be locked again, her wings of free rein.

[Chris Jones]

I'm currently working on a novel (no, not a fan-fic) and I'll probably post a chapter or two if you'd like to read it.

[Pants]

we need people to provide feedback, too... or maybe i just think we do.

[Carys]

I wrote a song today..I haven't finished it yet. But I'm close.

The lyrics are supposed to be in the style of story western songs like Jim Reeves, Marty Robbins, Johnny Horton, Billy Walker, etc. While the music is supposed to sound like Johnny Cash with the chuga chuga guitar and low singing notes at the end of the verses. I have no knowledge of music or writing theory so no one attack me if I do anything wrong.

Spoiler

In the summer of 88’ I left my woman for dead..
We were traveling cross the desert..I couldn’t keep her fed.
This is the tale of the girl I loved so
Yet I still went off and let her go

We stopped in a town somewhere way out West
I tried to explain to her that it was for the best
But I went off drinking...till I fell down.
Next mornin’ I saw her standin’ o’er me with a frown.

I did what I did and it can’t be undone.
I knew after that our trip wouldn’t be fun.
All she could do was yell and whine
I lied and told her everything would be fine.

I knew I had to get rid of her someday and somehow
I didn’t know whether to do it later or now.
How will I keep Johnny Law from knocking on my door?
If I shot my woman and left her on the floor.

My plans were made to kill her and throw her in a ditch
After so many years I would finally be rid of that ugly witch

So that's all I have so far. Any suggestions? Changes?

[hannaH]

A Haiku:

Cold fall, rainy day
I wonder the testicle
If I'll ever rest.

[Claudz]

Written for a poetry group. Topic: Time.

Spoiler

--Watch--

Watch my watch,
Time ticking by with each tick,
Minute after minute, hour after hour,
Well-spent or wasted; it doesn't matter.
Time flows on anyway. Siddhartha's endless river.

Watch my nephew grow,
The newborn morphs into a plucky toddler.
Smiles and dimples on a cherubic face,
Hands stained red from finger painting,
Wait another minute, and he's a child no longer.

Watch the seasons change; sunrises,
Golden fingers poke through dead tree branches,
All the leaves are cherry red or browning,
The last falls to earth at first snowfall,
Frozen death makes fertile soil.

Watch myself in the mirror,
Baby-smooth cheeks give way to a forest of stubble,
Charcoal black hair recedes towards my crown,
Wrinkles sprout up like weeds on my forehead,
Tired eyes need ever-thicker spectacles.

Watch the skyline,
Open space eaten up by condos and congested highways,
Cement runs thick over the fossil of a creek,
The economy tanks; everything begins to crumble,
Decades of investment well-spent or wasted,
Time flows on anyway. Siddhartha's endless river. . .

[Stacy Hope]

My writing falls into short stories. Here is a link if you want to check out two of my works available.

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/jamie-horwath?keyword=jamie+horwath&store=allproducts

The next story I'm working on is a about a computer hacker. The story, at its core, is set in a dystopean United States after a civil war.

Here is a brief snippet from A Vote To Kill---- Very rough around the edges meaning it hasn't been edited yet so, ya!-----

----Stone continued running toward the man and quickly grabbed a garbage can lid from the trash station as he passed it. With his left hand Stone held up the lid like a shield. His assailant fired his pistol and a pulse of light headed toward Stone. The light deflected off the garbage can lid. Stone never waivered his gait and flipped the lid around in his hand and slammed the Transit Team member dead in the face. A garbled ahhhhh escaped from the bird mask and the man fell backwards. Stone dropped the lid and continued down the alley. A large granite wall blocked his progress. Stone looked around and saw a fire escape to his left. He jumped up, grabbed the lower rung, and pulled himself up. Stone’s muscles ached as he climbed up the ladder. He could feel the fire burn in his shoulders but he pressed on until he reached the roof of the building. A service entrance stood in the middle of the roof. Stone ran toward it then fell backward as a strong gust of air pushed him off his feet. A large floating vehicle rose from far ledge of the rooftop. The box like chassis had two small wings extend from the sides and under the wing, turbines spun and propelled the craft into the air. The hover vehicle stopped just above the roof and the side compartment of the chassis slid open. A Transit Team member bared down on Stone with a rifle and took aim. He fired, producing an explosion of light that screamed toward Stone. The light opened up like a web and struck Stone in the chest. His body felt compressed as the light wrapped around his body and held him fast. The man with the rifle hopped out of the vehicle and walked over to his quarry. Stone looked up at him with a pair of frightened silver eyes and watched helplessly as the butt of the rifle smashed into his skull. Everything went black…

Across the Trade District, within the confines of the shadows, the lights began to click on in the advlt Entertainment Area. Casting aside the vintage Victorian lines of the architecture found within the Trade District, the advlt Entertainment Area clung to sleek lines and a futuristic theme. Buildings zipped with a flowing and modern style framing smooth metallic sidewalks and a conservative road system. Flashing neon signs littered the shop fronts and various digital windows hosted acts of fornication or other erotic entertainment that played via a digital recording. Three-dimensional theaters boasted the latest in interactive voyiurism and showed clips of the audience gasping and flinching during the classic money shot. Scattered throughout the digital debauchery stood billboards holding Venerable Corporation slogans and propaganda, which provided a grounded backdrop to the heated passion that floated in front of the passerbys? ------

That's a very rough snippet from my next short story/novella due out around May of 2012.

I've got a laundry list of stories I'm working on putting into a compilation called the Tequila Diaries. They range from cursed lotto tickets, cannabalistic funeral home directors, a horny wood sprite, alternate history story about Hitler and the Occult (hey, everybody should do one of those stories at least once), strange cave dwelling monster cults, and a relfective look at the events in a small cafe called Life Interrupted, which is an expansion of a college story I worked on many years ago.

Here is snippet from 'The Sparrow' this story is about a cosmic bounty hunter sent to wrangle some beasties from an alternate dimension that prey upon the dead as they try to cross over into a higher plane.

---Jasper sat atop a large round rock and tracked the sparrow as the bird made its way across the Ochrane Valley sky. He gave a quick lick of his thumb and held it above his forehead. I have you now thought Jasper as he took aim with his bee-bee gun. The bird soared high above him cutting through the afternoon breeze. The gun steadied then the soft thud of an air chamber made a distinct whoomph against the serenity of the graveyard. The Sparrow stopped its flight and crashed to the ground. Jasper put the air rifle over his shoulder and made his way toward the fallen bird, laughing and cawing the entire way. When he got to the fallen sparrow Jasper raised his fist and triumphantly shouted, “I got it Papa!”

“Dammit boy!” boomed a deep raspy voice, “stop fooling around out there. Can’t you see a storm is coming! Get back in here!”

“Sorry Papa!” shouted Jasper as he put his head down, which carried a crop of dirty blonde locks, and ran in the direction of Hopson’s Funeral Home.

The sparrow rested in the tall green grass and gasped its last breath. The bee-bee had struck it in the head. As the bird’s eyes closed, a tiny bluish light escaped its beak and dissipated into the warm summer air. In the distance a single bolt of lightning struck. The electrical charge beamed for miles around as it reached down from the heavens and split an oak tree in two. Shortly after the loud crack of lightning, thunder boomed across the ears of the resident’s of Ochrane Valley. Rain began to fall rapidly and the land was awash in rushing water. Out of the heavy rain walked a lone man. He slowly made his way toward Hopson’s Funeral Home.----


A Vote To Kill is more of a sci fi story. Experimental for me and taps into how social networking has taken over every aspect of life and money can buy anything.

The Sparrow is more of a Folk Tale with a massive twist!


.

[Daddy Cool!]

If you want a creative writing challenge look up Harris Burdike drawings, they are these eerie dream like picturedone by a mystery man. Try and write a short story about what you think the picture means and it has to include the caption that is below the picture.

[katie TWAVA]

Here's a crummy poem I wrote years ago and just pulled out of my random papers folder. Oh god the horrors I saw in there. At any rate:


I wore a hat today
For the first time in a long time

And walked out the door
To find a new way

Along my path I saw
Many ways

A dusty winding line
Trailed beneath my feet

The sun beat down and grayed
My faithful hat

One day I found
As I moved on
I had grown a beard
That matched my hat

And I decided then
That it was time

And upon a branch I set that hat
And beneath the grass I slept.

[Beulah Bell]

Here's a crummy poem I wrote years ago and just pulled out of my random papers folder. Oh god the horrors I saw in there. At any rate:


I wore a hat today
For the first time in a long time

And walked out the door
To find a new way

Along my path I saw
Many ways

A dusty winding line
Trailed beneath my feet

The sun beat down and grayed
My faithful hat

One day I found
As I moved on
I had grown a beard
That matched my hat

And I decided then
That it was time

And upon a branch I set that hat
And beneath the grass I slept.

I liked it.

[Jenna Fields]

A perfectly putrid poem
For preening pundits
A perfectly putrid poem

Pure prose protrudes
From underneath prickly
prickers

A perfectly putrid poem
For Preening Pundits
A perfectly putrid poem

Pompous poppycock pours
From underneath prickly
prickers

scratch and itches
From underneath prickly
prickers

Blood pours

horrible poem written in about a minute using words that start with the letter P Actually, a fun excercise in learning words. Great to use a thesaurus and write a poem that has words starting with the same letter. I like to do that in my writing once and a while. String together words that start with the same letter in a sentence within a paragraph.

"The bus ride was boring to say the least. Creek found mild entertainment in watching the raindrops
play Picasso on the window. The water broke apart and reformed in shapes that would make a pormographer
blush. Rain cast a surreal camouflage to the mundane acts of perversity that called home to the streets.
Quick drug deals, nonchalant [censored], and the poverty-stricken, fighting for a better life crawled by
in a clip of flash photography. Creek grew bored with the drills and gave a meticulous look around.
Surmising that the surrounding unhinged were self-absorbed in their pretentiously, pompous poppycock,
he reached to his front pocket and produced a silver pentagram."

There is an example of that in a paragraph from my latest published short.

[Danii Brown]

I liked it.

I did as well. Good stuff Steampunk.

[Marquis deVille]

I did as well. Good stuff Steampunk.

Normally, when I hear someone writing a poem or posting one I run the other direction because 99.9% of the time it's a love poem or about depression or something. That's why I liked Steampunk's poem. It wasn't that.

[Laura Hicks]

I liked it.

I did as well. Good stuff Steampunk.

You'll probably like my "wait that's not haiku" thing. The bold part isn't mine, but a famous Basho haiku that I was inspired by to write a "story" of sorts about. Turned into this:

Look! there walks a priest!
He is very far from home,
this Summer morning.

On the road to December,
He is walking and sees,
A little spot of color in the grass.

Wake up! Wake up! It's I,
who want you for a companion,
sleeping butterfly.

Where are we going?
Asked the sleepy butterfly.
Flying beside the priest.

We are going to watch
The cherry flowers,
Blooming over my grave.

Look! there flies a butterfly!
He is very far from home,
this Summer morning.

[JUDY FIGHTS]

You'll probably like my "wait that's not haiku" thing. The bold part isn't mine, but a famous Basho haiku that I was inspired by to write a "story" of sorts about. Turned into this:

Look! there walks a priest!
He is very far from home,
this Summer morning.

On the road to December,
He is walking and sees,
A little spot of color in the grass.

Wake up! Wake up! It's I,
who want you for a companion,
sleeping butterfly.

Where are we going?
Asked the sleepy butterfly.
Flying beside the priest.

We are going to watch
The cherry flowers,
Blooming over my grave.

Look! there flies a butterfly!
He is very far from home,
this Summer morning.

I liked the other one better. My favorite part from this one was the grave part.

Here is another snippet from Organ Donor. It was inspired by a bumper sticker on a beat up old truck.

-Light slowly began to cut into Jennifer’s eyes. She tried to move her left arm, but a hammer of pain
struck the anvil that was her shoulder. She winced and cried out silently. Gingerly moving her right hand
over to her shoulder, she pressed slightly against the wound. The hammer struck again. Another silent
cry escaped her lips until she passed out.

When she awoke, her brain remembered the injury and she refrained from sudden movement. Her
right arm moved along the surface on which her body rested. It felt soft to the touch. Jennifer dared not
move her head to inspect the surroundings. Instead, she gazed at the mirror on the wall. Her vision was
blurred, but she was able to discern her image and a glimpse of the surroundings.

The room appeared to be a bedroom. She was on a large bed with a black comforter on the top, and
her left arm was in a sling. She had a bandage across her forehead. Two contemporary metal and ash
nightstands were next to the bed. Track lighting offered a dim resolution to the darkness. The carpet
was burgundy, and articles of clothing littered the ground near the foot of the bed—her jean jacket, tank
top, and pants. Her frame supported an overly large black sweater. The clothing fi t loosely and ran down
to her hips. Her legs were bare and depicted a painting of bumps and bruises across a canvas of skin.
The nightstand had on it a small card, a bottle of pills, a glass of milk, and a sandwich. Jen paused and
collected herself. She counted to three and swung her legs around, slowly propping herself up with her
right arm. The hammer struck again.
“Ah!” cried Jennifer as sparks of pain flew from the anvil. She sat up and picked up the card.

You are probably confused and scared. I would be too. I left some painkillers in the
medicine bottle along with some milk and a sandwich. If I were you, I would take
some of the pills and eat the food. I should be back in a few hours. Jennifer, I implore
you not to leave or do anything stupid. A world of [censored] just landed in your lap, and
I am here to help you sort through the events of the last two days.
Yours truly,
James

Jennifer put the card back on the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of pills. There was no label on the
see-through orange bottle. She spilled two pills onto the black comforter and put the container back in
its place. She tossed caution aside, took the pills from atop the comforter, and placed them in her mouth.
She carefully grasped the glass of milk and washed the medicine down. The milk felt good as it navigated
the trail of her esophagus. She set the glass back on the nightstand. She leaned over, being careful not
to agitate her wound, and grabbed the sandwich. A healthy assortment of salami, ham, pepperoni, and
what appeared to be turkey was nestled between two slices of rye bread. Atop the lunchmeat, a river
of mustard and mayonnaise oozed joyful jubilation. An eager mouth took a large bite of the sandwich.
She coughed slightly and swallowed the semi-chewed food. Pangs of fulfillment filled her mind, and it
dawned on her that she had no idea when she had eaten last. Another bite was taken, then another, until
only crumbs remained. Milk chased the food and helped it migrate to her stomach. The pain pills began
working their magic. Jennifer could move slightly, and the hammer’s drop felt drastically less than before.
A small spark sprung from the anvil, but the pain remained at a tolerable level.-

I used the hammer and anvil to show pain in a visual manner which plays out near the end of the story to help visualize the anger and pain that Jen is going through as she blasts crazy cultist-like E.M.T's.

[Josh Trembly]

I liked the other one better. My favorite part from this one was the grave part.

Well the whole idea is that the priest is just a ghost. Sometimes I wonder if I could have gotten that through a little better...