share your work this is my poem the king of souls
The lonely king of souls ever weary in his castle
Tick tock goes the Clock
The king cries and weeps it is time again
Tick tock goes the Clock
Is is time To feed the Clock.

ONLY CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM OF OTHERS WORKS

Something I wrote after getting annoyed with the standard weird-looking-action-movie-guy falls in love with petite-normal-girl and lives happily ever after storyline:

She had the skin of crocodiles.

I had no idea what was going on. I had been walking out of my apartment building (the one I owned) and talking with a renter, when all of a sudden the world became a blur and my face began to approach the ground. My shoulder hurt like hell, and I knew that my whole body was going to start hurting soon, but somehow that wasn’t what my brain was really focusing on.

She had the skin of crocodiles.

The woman who had been moving so fast, the one who had knocked me to the ground and kept on going without looking back, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had the skin of crocodiles.

They say that in times of crisis, when great danger is at hand, the brain becomes incredibly active. A second seems like an hour, and a candle burns like the sun. Every little detail is absorbed, and remains until you die.

In my case, that was [censored]. I freaked out, and I payed more attention, but a second still felt like a second, and after I got back up, I couldn’t tell if it had been noon or midnight, let alone if a candle had been burning. But I could remember her.

She was tall. Not just for a girl, she was 6’4” or so. And big. I’ve never been good at judging weight, too much difference between the density of bone and muscle and fat and organ meat, but she was definitely big. Strong. And bald. She pulled it off, had the right face for it. A well-shaped head. Wore a black tank top and cargo pants. She was curvy enough to be clearly identified as a chick, but she just screamed, “not having external genitalia just means I have one less weak spot.”

And she had the skin of crocodiles.

Not literally, mind you. It’s not like she was carrying a bunch of crocodile skins to make belts out of. I live in Iowa, not Florida. It’s one of those things that angry tattooed teenagers get. Branding or scarification or something. All over her body, from fingers to scalp, she had smooth raised oblong shapes on her skin, just like the scales (or scutes or whatever) of a crocodile.

It was just like what kids with split tongues and pierced eyebrows get, except it didn’t look like she was trying to become something she wasn’t. It’s not like she was uncomfortable with being human and she wanted to be a snake or a cat or a gerbil. She just was (and always had been, on some level) a large, bald, beautiful woman with the skin of crocodiles.

Anyway, after I regained consciousness I discovered that she was running from the cops. Apparently she was some sort of extra-legal protester, or terrorist-lite, who beat up and spat on people she felt were in violation of God’s Will or some such bull. She had been homeless for years and lived off of what she stole from her targets.

It was a shame. She was the most beautiful person I had seen in all my life.

Perhaps some day she’d grow up, start living a productive life (perhaps in some sort of charitable or activist field) and look for a place to live. Probably after going to jail. Distinctive full-body markings aren’t exactly good for blending in. But perhaps after that she’d need to buy a house and I’d be selling one of mine. Perhaps then I’d remember how strong she looked right after she knocked me to the ground, and maybe she’d see some of my positive attributes. Maybe then.

Until that day, I’d probably want to put some bactine on my face. My fall hadn’t been particularly graceful.

Already have a creative writing thread

http://www.gamesas.com/index.php?/topic/1181732-creative-writing-thread/

Yep, please use that thread, thanks