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[Bood_war]

Also, here is the beginning to a story I may go back and finish sometime or another
____
   A brutal uppercut to the face. I barely feel a thing. I swing, and miss by a mile. I lose my balance and stumble forward. He takes advantage of this, and picks up a nearby crowbar. He raises it over his head and brings it down. Hard. I feel my skull crack. The pain just barely registers . Not a good sign. I fall, slipping into semiconscious. The last thing I see is him, walking to claim his prize.
* * *
   Some 30 minutes later I wake, disappointed with myself. I try to stand up, but fall. I sigh, and reach into my pocket, pulling out my car keys. I press the return button on the starter. My Hover Car arrives some 10 minutes later, and I manage to crawl inside and set it to auto-pilot.
   
   “God damn it. I failed.” I think. “17 times in 4 months. And that's just him. It's a wonder the city hasn't fallen apart.”
   “Maybe it should. You might get some rest.” A voice says.
   “I'd be the first person they'd go for-”
   “You honestly believe that?”
   “Well...”
   “You pose absolutely no threat to them. Why do you think your around?”
   “Pity?”
   “Now your catching on.”

   A sharp pain snaps me back to reality. The nanobots had finished. I sigh, and gather my thoughts together, seeing as my brain damage was now gone.
   I sit up, glancing at the dashboard to find out where I am, before switching to manual. I look around, 1000 feet over the city

[droqen]

i like this. i don't like how it's not rhymed (I prefer rhymed poetry usually.  unrhymed sometimes just seems lazy) but i still like this a lot.

I definitely understand; I prefer poetry that sounds nice, and usually rhythm and rhyme are necessary for that. However, for this, if I managed to do what I did and add a sense of rhyme without it being forced...

I'd be far too impressed with myself to continue existing

& good luck

[Jrsquee]

MUSIX

la la la laaa, laaa la laaa

na na na naaa, naaa na na na

duh, duh, duh, tschhh duhduhduh

aaAAAaaaahhh aaAAAaaaahhh aaAAAaaaahhh

tschhh tschhh tschhh tschhh tschhh tschhh

[Xion]

I did this a while ago.

 

After Everything


I hail a taxi over to me with wild arms barely visible through the thick black
rain that drenches everything in a dusty shadow. It pulls to the side of the road,
some feet from where I stand, and I can sense some hesitation on behalf of the car
door, not wanting to open to this torrential downpour and chance getting her master
all wet inside. Or maybe the hesitation is mine. Maybe I don't want to go. This has
all been nothing but a huge misunderstanding. I should turn back - I should go back
right now.

But it's too late. I'm already in the taxi telling the pilot "Take me to the
skyport," and handing him a two hundred ohm coin. He nods like a bubbleneck and
pulls away from the walk.

In an hour, we are on the highway and out of the black rain, clipping along at a
smooth twenty revs. The radio plays some tech-rock remix of a twenty first century
revolutionary's rant. It keeps playing the same chopped up clip over again:

"We sleep to dream what we cannot live. We walk into a handcrafted destiny. We wake
and life becomes our dream. We need to sleep no more."

I wonder which revolutionary it was, and which revolution. I wonder if they'd be
upset that I don't know who they are.

The skyport's needle punctures the perfectly geometric silhouette of the Man
mountains. A monument atop a monument. This entire region is a testament to man's
unwavering desire to become the One Driving Force.

In another hour we arrive at the skyport. Immaculate. The port is made entirely of
pure black and pure white synthetic materials. The materials were assembled by
trillions of subscopic robots one atom at a time. The whole port is shielded with a
nuclear vaporizer and powered by the only three perpetual motion machines left
standing after Bruntilla hit.

After everything dies, the skyport will still be standing, as pristine and
immaculately clean as ever.

The taxi pulls into one of the gates and docks. The door sticks when I try to open
it. Or maybe I'm the one who's stuck. I should go back. I should go apologize and
beg them to pretend this whole thing never happened. I'm going insane - this is
insane. Where will I go? What will I do when I get there?

I tell the driver to take me back to the City but it's too late. I'm already out of
the cab and on my way to the ticketeer.

The ticketeer greets me with an almost delighted buzz. I drop in a two ohm coin and
raise my hand to punch in a destination. Then I realize I don't have a destination.
The skyport had been my destination, but now I'm there - here. I stare blankly
towards the screen, not really seeing it. I'm looking through it, through all its
gears, and through the space behind it. I stare through the wall and the cubicles
on the other side, and through the workers, and through the synthetic outer wall
and the nuclear vaporizer shield. I'm frozen. Help me, I'm frozen! I struggle
to move some part of me, to focus my eyes, to live again, but I'm too far gone. My
body is going numb and cold and achey and, Lord, I'm not ready to die. When they
find my lifeless body I'll still be standing here, hand raised to press a button,
wanting to go but never going, just like when I was alive.

The ticketeer whistles impatiently and snaps me out of my stupor. A line of one has
formed behind me. I punch in a destination without looking, snatch the little gray
ticket, and rush to the station. Like there's no time. Like I've got a reason to rush.

I plop down on one of the station's lounge chairs, exhausted for some reason. I
chuckle to myself at the idea of me physically struggling against the friction of my
will. I imagine myself leaning forward to walk, as if in the gale of a wind tunnel.
Each step delivering me closer to the fan, until I reach it and it chops me up.
I stop laughing when I realize how depressing that is.

[Shade Jackrabbit]

   “God damn it. I failed.” I think. “17 times in 4 months. And that's just him. It's a wonder the city hasn't fallen apart.”
   “Maybe it should. You might get some rest.” A voice says.
   “I'd be the first person they'd go for-”
   “You honestly believe that?”
   “Well...”
   “You pose absolutely no threat to them. Why do you think your around?”
   “Pity?”
   “Now your catching on.”

I think you fall into a common problem here. You've got a conversation between two people who aren't walking around or doing much, so you simply lay out text. It ends up feeling very static though, because as far as we know the character(s) are in exactly the same position the entire time. It works for some characters, but it's rather unnatural. There should be at least some sort of physical/mental action for every couple of lines, as people tend to actually do things as they talk.

Take for example how in the beginning of Inglourious Basterds the farmer serves milk and the two smoke pipes while they talk. People do little things when they idle.

(Granted I know there's a robot/ai/whatever, but that means the human character should be doing something.)

[Ashkin]

Scrounging around in the family computer, I found an old story I had written a little while ago.

Cat's Game

Felix was hungry. The hunger gnawed at his insides, sure to slowly chip away at his calm demeanor. He needed food. The feline trotted over to the old house with the peeling pink paint and scratched at the powder blue door with his white tabby paws, letting out pitiful little meows. The door opened, revealing an elderly woman with smile crinkles all over her face, an apron that said, ‘Kiss the Cook!’, and a pair of oversized boots with a mess of hair the color of dough to top it all off.
   ‘Hello Felix!’ She said, in the most obnoxious voice she could muster, her warm, floury breath washing over him. If Felix could roll his eyes, they would’ve rolled out of his sockets long ago.
His owner picked him up and carried into the kitchen, in all of its pink glory. She opened the light blue door to the pantry, and a counterfeit expression of alarm covered her face. ‘Oh dear!’ She said, bending down. ‘It would seem we’re out of cat food!’
  But Felix was already walking haughtily, tail in the air, away. He walked into the yard, seeking solitude, and instead found the neighborhood stray, a ginger feline with brown stripes, trotting across the lawn. He was ingeniously named Ginger.
  ‘Hey Ginger!’ Meowed Felix. His friend’s ears perked up, and he looked towards Felix. ‘Hi Felix!’  Ginger purred, in his rough yet gentle baritone. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ Felix meowed, climbing down off his perch on the windowsill.
  ‘I saw a budgie get hit by a car. I guess it was flying too low.’
  ‘Scavenging? You’re eating it straight off the road, I suppose.’
  ‘A feast is a feast.’
   Ginger did his best impression of a shrug, which didn’t go so well, and ended up with him falling on his backside. ‘Well,’ Said Felix, ‘I guess I’ll just go now.’ He prowled over to the wood pile as nonchalantly as he could, with Ginger keeping a close eye on him.
  He broke into a mad dash and jumped from the wood pile to roof. The race was on. Ginger’s eyes narrowed as he ran along the sidewalk. Felix backed up, and took a running leap, soaring over the fence separating his and the neighbors properties. They didn’t have a cat. Idiotic humans.
  He landed on the opposite roof, and ran to a hole in the hedge surrounding the house. He leapt to it and slid down the emerald tunnel he had pawed away earlier. He broke out of the hedge onto the sidewalk, looking back just long enough to see Ginger’s surprised expression as the dusty cat turned the corner.
  He did the best snicker a cat could manage, and turned his head to his prize, skidding to a stop in front of the quivering yellow heap. Ginger watched in envy as Felix carefully sniffed the bird.
  A door snapped open. ‘Tweety!’ Shouted the small boy that ran out. He ran onto the road and scooped the bird up. His look of pride turned to fear as a car rounded the corner, clinking noisily in the wind. The brakes slammed down as the driver noticed the boy, but it was too late.
  The car swerved, wheels squealing on the pavement.
  Felix stared, frozen with fear.
  The boy screamed and tried to run.
  Ginger stood watching them, too scared to move.

 
  The wail of an ambulance siren filled the night, flashing red on the walls of the houses, splashing crimson onto the boy, his frail hand gripping the bird tightly. He was carried into the ambulance, and the screaming of the siren was joined by the broken weeping of a woman. Nobody noticed the fragile body of Felix, lying on the road.


  A single tear dropped on the gravestone, reflecting in it the stars above. It was soon joined by more, like the fragile rain after a drought. “Felix, Cat, and Beloved Pet” The gravestone proclaimed, its stony face offering no solace. The owner collapsed to her knees, weeping. Ginger sat solemnly by her side.
  After a few minutes, she gained the strength to stand. She looked up into the smooth velvety black sky. ‘I know you’re up there Felix.’ She said to the sky. The stars twinkled in response. Ginger raised his head and let out a long, heartfelt cry, echoes bouncing off the unforgiving graves.
  ‘I know how you feel.’ Said the woman. ‘Let’s go home.’ And with that, she picked him up and walked home, as the stars faded and the sun rose. “It’s good to have a home.” Thought Ginger, as they walked away from the grave.
 
 

[Danrul]

Red and Black.

Red and black are the only colours I see most days. The only tracks out here are mine; nobody ever ventures further into the outback, even fewer come back.

The Red.

It is the dust in the air that blows over me like sandpaper against the skin. It coats me until I don’t know whether what I’m staring at is a open wound or the dirt that fills it: red.

The Black.

It is the tread of my tire that I stare down for hours at a time. It cuts through the red that covers the ground and leaves in its wake endless trails of exposed tar: black.

The Red.

It is the needle that drops lower and lower throughout the day. It reminds me that my time out here is running short, and once again I must return to the nearest outpost: red.

The Black.

It is the worn leather that covers my hands, back and feet. It protects me from the red, reinforcing that the black is at home in the red and I am not: black.

The Red.

It is the earth that lies beneath me and stretches to all corners of this land. It is the life that remains out here and courses through my veins: red.

The Black.

It is the darkening sky that settles over me like a heavy blanket. It is the herald to the end of every day and what lies beyond every life: black.

The Yellow.

It is the golden orb that nestles itself between the red and the black. It separates the beginning and the end with a higher, constant presence.

The White.

It is the tightening grip of my knuckles upon the throttle as they flare backwards. It is the only thing I still believe in and yet remains foreign.

[Smithy]

Everything starts in a pee clinic. That’s where I was when I first heard the voice of God. A piddly building in a strip mall.

The ‘medical technicians’ look fresh out of college. Bet this isn’t how they imagined their future. I’m sitting patiently and watching them scurry about. I just came from an interview with Jim Goody, the boss of a small distribution warehouse that sent boxes to superstores across the state—and I did pretty good. Dispensed bull at a rate that would make any politician’s head spin. "Yes, I am dedicated to quality. Yes, I'll be a loyal toad, and yes, I will take a bullet for my managers if need be."

He shook my hand. I had the job in the bag. I’m supposed to take a drug test as a formality to finalize my employment.

This is where life begins. The pee clinic.

A kid came in before me. Stepped out of the passenger seat of a new van, and cut ahead of me when I was reaching for the door. His ma leaned out after him, “Good luck! Love you, Honeybun!” she called after him.

“Yeah, whatever.” He said.

He was wearing expensive imitation "gangster" clothes and had a new haircut. From what I could gather he was just another sixteen year old suburban future jackass. He was called in to give his sample before me.

I had to wait thirty minutes for my turn.

There’s a radio on in the waiting room. There always is in places like that. Technicians with sour faces don’t seem to be listening—but it’s tuned in to NPR and they’re talking about doctors. Saying paychecks for doctors have been lax lately. People were calling in to offer their commentary. All callers on radio shows sound the same, but they all offer different opinions. Sometimes I have the feeling that it’s all the same person.
Bob from Green Bay takes the spotlight, and he sounds just like all the other Bob’s and Jerry’s and John’s all around the state.

“I’m a first time caller, long time listener,” says Bob. Liar. “It seems to me that if doctors are being paid less than they normally are, den they’ll become jaded before their time. I’ll take my comment off da air.” And then he hangs up.

I look around. The young technicians look jaded. Paychecks must have been too small. They’ve become cynical before the appointed time for doctors to become cynics. Such is the national concern.

There’s a coffee machine in the waiting room. I get a cup. I need coffee, otherwise I can’t go. Eventually gangsterboy comes out and sits across from me in the waiting room. I wonder how he did. He looks angry. Pulls out his cell phone and calls someone.

"Yo-yo!” says the pimplefaced boy. “Where you at? I'm getting my pee screened. Bitches say I didn't give enough, so I gotta stay and try again. Yea. Bitches."

He should have some coffee.

One of the medical technicians looked at him and rolled her eyes. Seemed gangsters have shy bladders, too. Guess you learn something new every day.

A young technician calls me in and takes me to a back room. She handed me a cup and told me that if I didn’t give them an adequate puddle within three hours, it was equivalent to testing positive.

Turns out I have a shy bladder, too. Couldn’t seem to go. Was starting to get desperate. Fumbling with the plastic cup. The pressure of the world upon me. I had to go, but I couldn’t, I was locked up.

“Give it up, boy!” I whispered urgently, “you’re clean, except for the six cups of caffeine!”

Things seemed hopeless.

Cue God’s voice, filling the atmosphere. Just came out of nowhere, time seemed to freeze.
“When giving your sample, relax. Remember to drink a cup of water before your trip to the clinic. If you need coffee, it will be supplied to you. Fill cup with your urine sample up to the line. It may go beyond the line, but not below. When finished, tightly screw the cap back on and hand the cup in to the trained professionals. Remember—this is the first step towards your exciting career in distribution!”

God has a cheesy and confident voice. When he was done talking and time unfroze—

I was going. I was going and I couldn’t stop and I was surprising myself. The free flow of urine felt good. Great even. Better than anything in my life. I felt like a million bucks. And then, I stopped—stopped immediately at the line. No more, no less, and I was done.

I screwed the cap on, wondering if I had just gone momentarily crazy or if what had happened in the tiny boxed room was a genuine religious experience. 

A miracle.

Never been a religious man, but being quick to adapt, I looked up at the ceiling, gave a thumbs up and said a small but enthusiastic “hey, thanks!” before stepping out the door. The nurse was smiling widely at me, and I smiled widely back, handing her the cup. "Thank you!" she said.

Gangsterboy was still in the waiting room as I made my exit, drinking a large cup of water. I gave him a smirk as I walked out.

I had the job.

[Jrsquee]

Dayum, smithy.

[Ashkin]

tl;dr:
I have to pee to get a job.
There is a stupid kid. He might get the job.
The kid has a shy bladder.
I can't pee.
I can pee! It's a miracle!
I have the job.

It's amazing how exciting you can make the dullest things, Smithy.

[Tokyoma]

What's Yours is Mine.
Two small children in a sandbox with garden spades.
One child turns to the other and takes his spade.
The shoveless tot teeters to the edge of the box and grabs another,
without hesitation the child returns to the other and resumes shoveling sand.
A few moments pass and again, the first claims the other's shovel,
placing it next to the other and guarding them both with his own.
The other begins to stare at the pile of his once owned spades,
and then again at the other boy.
With a little more caution he makes his way off his knees and wanders to the other side of the box,
taking up the last remaining spade and casting a gaze over to the boy and the other shovels.
Carefully he manages his balance and steps firmly towards his excavation site, securely planting his feet and feigning attention to the sand.
As he toys with the shovel, sure enough, the other boy leans over to claim the final tool,
but he quickly lifts the spade up and into the eye of the boy forcefully, scattering spots of blood across the sand;
and I haven't been able to see out of this eye since.


A Burning
Unused, lying in the floor, to the left of the table, to the right of the bed, shoes and nothing more.
They had a history, they had a feeling, a planned future, feet to serve, miles to go, but not now.
Now they sit, taking in the smoke and tasting gray snowflakes of ash falling onto their tongues.
Bound together by a lace stringing across them, their miles are miles from becoming,
They cannot feel, these shoes, the temperature rising around them or the fear that they should,
Forgotten they would feel, pressure they yearned, difficult times they wanted, bereft of all they lie.
Carpet is all they had, to be moved would be glorious, filled with a kinesis, to be given purpose,
Eyes shifting slightly, peering for an escape from the torture, the burdening heat melting their souls,
Their sides folding inward, their stitching aflame, ash begins to slowly cover their shame,
A nibble at the table's feet, the flame kisses its way up the legs, she lusts after a bigger prize,
Dominant atop the table, she seeks a new weakened partner; she flares outward towards the bed,
Shaking her tail, flinging some sparks, her body swaying, flickering passionately,
The bed can't resist, she seems so infectious, so luring, he embraces... and again she consumes,
She simmers slowly, there's no one around who will have her, there's no one to fling herself upon,
at this she explodes, throwing herself against the walls, the windows, rolling across the floor in rage
kicking and screaming like a child, she snaps and whispers vulgarities with a hot tongue,
Dizzying even herself she races around the room, looking for the same exit the shoes had wanted,
But it's twice as elusive as before, and will not be discovered amidst her tantrum, so she burns,
suffocating within the small room, moaning for another, another to love another to burn,
desperate she scratches through the walls in desperation only to reach their brick core,
in defeat she folds upon herself, rubbing, trying to keep a warmness in the cold world around her, watching the room she'd brightened so greatly, spawn a darkness that overwhelms her,
and so she is crushed, slowly, her shinning brilliance now a soft glow, her heart flickering weakly,
as quick as she had come, she's loved and gone, awaiting another passion to birth her again.

[Danrul]

What's Yours is Mine.

I like this.  True story?

A Burning

Nice narrative, but the flow and rhythm I got at the beginning dropped for me.  If thats not how its meant to be read, sorry bro.

Also, Sonnets.  1st took me about half an hour to an hour, somewhere in that range.  Iambic Pentameter takes time, especially when you're trying to rhyme, something I rarely do.

2nd I spat out and had a lot of trouble writing.

Gleam and Grit

At street level there’s nought but gleam and grit,
From the gutter you feel the shadows flit
across your shoulders with a cold shiver,
lying across the drain under the sliver
of sunlight that dribbles off buildingtops,
pooling in the greasy runoff that stops
against the soaked cardboard and masking tape,
crumples the bruised bum bent all outta shape,
his face is swollen, tender and battered,
a man just like ‘them’ just further through life,
just back in town when he’d lost his wife
job house and kids, brutalised nightly by
the mob sharks and brokers, nothing hurts more
than to wake knowing he must face another.

Chairman of the Board

Quarters and dimes pool; filling the can,
Ego primping pity that befits a man
Of status power and suit, with a
6 figure salary and a 30th story house,
who’s toiled through meetings with seething spite,
in this city you hate your better man,
can’t be happy to sit on your hands,
can’t wait around and wait for relief
you work according to a central belief,
live fast, move fast, and never rest on your laurels,
raise your kids somewhere outta town,
dancing from city to house like a clown,
knowing deep down that you’re still just a joke,
for you’ve been trying to rest for as long as you’ve smoked.

[Danrul]

To my [CENSORED], who I hold dear STOP
Ten days until probation begins STOP
Five days until train rolls through [CENSORED]  STOP
Do please meet me outside the jailhouse STOP

half the boys are already loose STOP they’re
set to get what’s ours STOP (Investigate?)
Travel [CENSORED] by night, wait there STOP
Until we meet, Your dearest George STOP

POLICE REPORT:  Found suspect with 4 cohorts.
4 (inc. George) horseback, one wagon(stolen?)
George rode stolen mare (known as Epona)
Escaped with ten-hundred and forty in
Gov. Property (estimate based on auction price)
Warrant raised to three-thousand accordingly.