Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Poem)

Fan-fiction, short stories, screenplays, poems -- anything text-based really belongs here.

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Postby Coos » Thu Jul 31, 2008 10:59 am

Amazing poems Bk.
Hm, I might start coming here more.
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Postby Bk-o » Thu Jul 31, 2008 11:15 am

Yay! Someone posted. Finally. Thanks, Coos.
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Postby Bk-o » Tue Aug 19, 2008 10:50 pm

3 weeks later... yeah...

Boom Goes The Melody
Have you decided to forget
Have you decided to proceed
Am I just a memory
Or someone you'll never need
Though the times don't quite allow
A new scene to begin
Will you still admire heart
Or will you simply follow sin
Because I know your thoughts too well
I bet you think I'm such a fool
But my name won't ring a bell
Despite those years we spent in school

If the summer just began
Would we just laugh a little more
And if I could be your man
Would it be me that you adore
But it's so hard for me to feel
If I sang words of love and care
That you'd think none of it were real
And look through me like I'm not there
Let them magnify your beauty
And then I think my heart might fade
If you fell to conformity
Then my reasons would be unmade

Please give me something to proclaim
Because I won't stand down this long
Are you going to play the game
Or will you sing me a sad song
If the fun times truly end
Then let the warmth never go
Let the sound of beauty's voice
Be the rhythm against my woe
Because I know I'll never win
It's my nature to be tossed
Don't bother feeling sympathy
It's a game and I just lost
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Postby Tuor » Tue Aug 19, 2008 10:56 pm

Sweetness.
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Postby Bk-o » Thu Aug 21, 2008 11:07 pm

Free As The Fabled Birds
I can still hear the ocean's waves
Crashing on all the shores
Sweet smelling salt soaked in the air
As I clearly hear roars

And I see, I hear it so loud
It's the piercing love sound
Of a hundred happy souls now
Glad to feel this soft ground

The summer wind can feel so free
And happy times we'll see
So gather up your memories
Times of fun have no fees

Soon it will end and we'll all feel the same
We'll want more and we'll dread the confinement
We know what will come for even the tame
Grouching and grumping because of one hint
Sun shall slowly grow cooler by the day
And all of our sweat gently dissipate
Yet no one will be thinking "Come what may."
We all have the same times we almost hate

Enjoyable for some are endings to fun
Yet I am not one
So please carry on
I want to see
Every child be free
And just one more fun day pass slowly

Those who are free
Can be free if they truly want to be
And I will follow

Those who are glad
Can be glad if they strip off all their sad
And I won't wallow

Those who see light
Will see light for as long as they stay bright
I won't be hollow

My promise will be
That I'll stay me
And you'll stay up
Together, we'll stay free
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Postby Lono » Thu Aug 21, 2008 11:22 pm

Wow, beautiful poems. I should start reading your stuff again.

You should consider publishing a poetry book or something.
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Postby Bk-o » Thu Aug 21, 2008 11:26 pm

Aw, thanks. But I don't think I'm good enough to do that! >_<
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Postby Tuor » Thu Aug 21, 2008 11:36 pm

Fun stuff
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Poem)

Postby Bk-o » Tue Aug 26, 2008 10:41 pm

Inspired by that episode of Spongebob in which Mermaidman and Barnacle Boy first appeared.... reader beware, it's very long.

Here's my other tale from darkly lit times most of you probably didn't read. If no one's noticed, these tales will all be about Superheroes and the likes.
[Link.]

Tales From Darkly Lit Times
Masters of Mirewood City
Prologue – Rehearsal is Key

The very start of this specific tale begins from several years ago, over two hundred and thirty years ago, just about when the American Revolution occurred. Mirewood City has long been the center of innovation when it came to crime prevention and criminal justice. Hundreds of years ago, when this city was first established in New York State just along what is now the border between the USA and Canada, a problem was obvious. You see, a few other settlements were also filled with people. However, these were not ordinary colonists or explorers. They were criminals, banished from several other settlements as well as Europe. Strangely at first, these criminals did not care too much for raiding or stealing from the Mirewood settlers. Remarkably, soon the entire area that included the Mirewood settlement and other settlements joined together, setting the foundation for what would someday become Mirewood City. However, there was a reason for these ex-criminals’ docile behavior: they had a plan.

Just about ten years after the settlement of Mirewood, a city was born. At least, a city in all its rights could be population-wise as well as government-wise. Ex-criminals made up nearly a quarter of the population, a fact which did not take long to be taken lightly by citizens. But all of that changed when the plan was finally brought into fruition. The night was young, the moon in waxing gibbous, and all was silent as nearly all citizens entered their dream states. All citizens with no criminal past, that is. Before it began, the lead man said to them,
“Remember all o’ those sessions we ‘ad! Remember ‘ow long we’ve been waiting for this. It can’t go wrong. All that practice we ‘ad in the night. The rehearsal was key. It all comes down to this. Now let’s fuck up this shit‘ole!” The action was swift and in just two hours the governing heads were executed and criminals sat in the seats of the councilmen. In the morning, citizens were terrified and did not know what to do. However, one man, known by all as Patrick “Breakjaw” Johnson wasn’t afraid. Breakjaw was notorious for his strength and fairness. He’d on several occasions break the jaw of men who tried to cheat another person in any way, albeit he eventually cooled down enough to at most knock the men out. He was middle-aged, had hair like a grizzly, was as tall as a lamp post, and had fire in his eyes. Johnson rallied his faithful farming crew and launched a counter attack on the criminals. With the support of every brave man willing, they took back that city of theirs. Many of the criminals that took part in the insurrection were killed on the spot. Some were kept in prisons, and the rest were all sent down south to the buffer colony of Georgia.

And so this was the beginning of the city known as Mirewood. Its first hero was Patrick “Breakjaw” Johnson, and not only for his heroics against those criminals. This man set up the city’s first police force. What was once a bunch of sturdy men with rakes and muskets became an organized team of law-enforcing officers. Order was restored and the government reestablished. Breakjaw became the first sheriff of the city, and he pressed for tactical squads to be set up for crime prevention. More than just cops, more than just patrolmen, they created something on par with today’s S.W.A.T. teams. Crime was not welcome after that event. However, criminals and masterminds continued to target Mirewood City for that very reason. They wanted to see if all the rumors were true, or to see if they could break the city. To test the city or to test themselves, crooks flocked to the city and managed to raise a certain level of hell every once in a while. And so, just as Breakjaw did in the beginning of the city’s history, more had to do. Soon, a tradition of heroes began.

After Breakjaw Johnson passed on, his forces set up a system of training one man to his physical peak and equipping this man with the best weapons necessary for fighting and defending. Since so much money was needed, only one man could actually be trained and equipped like this. So the one man remained a secret weapon when the Breakjaw Forces could not handle certain situations. However, the man they trained never got much show time. So he abandoned the Breakjaw Forces, taking all of the special weapons and equipment, primitive in today’s standards, and became a vigilante. He fought crime at night when it was most active, and when the heavy duty occasions sprang up, he was the first on the scene. His name was Joseph Sheridan, and he was the city’s first superhero vigilante. He had no costume, but his equipment and training made him a super soldier compared to the petty criminals he fought. The Breakjaw Forces at first tried to stop him, but realized that he was doing exactly what they trained him for, so they let him go. They considered him their reinforcement in the field. However, Sheridan realized he could not keep this up forever. But he had no family except his son. And so, he trained his son all he knew, for as long as he could. When the day finally came that Joseph Sheridan could not continue his task, his son Malcolm threw on the uniform and took over. The entire specialist training was so secretive that no one outside the Breakjaw Forces even knew about Joseph Sheridan. Therefore, when he did his heroic thing, people were only left with wild rumors of the vigilante who never revealed his face to the public.

[center]* * *[/center]

The year was 1999, and Mirewood City is now at the same level as a city like Chicago. However, there is still one thing it retains since its birth: it’s a crime magnet. Fortunately, there is another thing it retains from so long ago: its tradition of a hero rising up to the challenge. The Breakjaw Forces no long exist. No, an official police force replaced it long ago. Trained at the Patrick Johnson Police Academy, no officers at this time know the truth about the man named Joseph Sheridan or that the Breakjaw Forces even existed. No officer knows that Sheridan’s son took over as the city’s night-time hero. No officer knows that if a family member could not take over the position of the city’s vigilante, an orphan or something like that was taken in by the current unknown man. No officer knows that in 1903, the first super-powered vigilante took over the saddle of the night sky’s protector. No officer knows that the hero of 1999 has been protecting the city for nearly twenty years and has no super powers. No officer knows that his name is Daniel Jong, the son of a Chinese immigrant who died holding him in his arms at the age of five. No officer knows that he was found and trained by Francis O’Connell, who also did not have super powers. Up until now, no officer knew the truth about highly trained and mysterious men hopping between rooftops and surveying the city. There were only wild rumors and crazy stories no one believed.

No, the date was November 29 of 1999, and Daniel Jong had found a young boy in the streets no more than twelve. He had been living off of food in the trash and made his home in a large box in the back alley of Lime Street. The unconscious body of a man holding a purse that does not belong to him lay silent in a heap of trash. The masked individual who knocked him out turned to the shaking boy in his box.

“You OK?”

“Ye-ye-yeah… no.”

“What are you doing in that box?”

“I-i-i-it’s my home!”

“Hmm, doesn’t seem like a very nice home if you ask me.”

“It’s mine! This is my box! You ca-ca-can’t take it away!”

“Relax, no one’s taking anything. Well, except for this guy. Which reminds me, I need to bring this back to its proper owner.” Jong grabbed the purse and began to walk away. “Oh, I’ll be right back.” The young boy stayed frozen in his box for several minutes. He shivered, but he did not move. He began to draw a mental picture of the masked man he just saw.

This guy had short hair, dark goggles, a mask that covered his nose down to his neck, and some black suit… What a weird guy… and scary, too! He took out that other guy really quick! Then, Jong returned.
“So! What’s your name, young one?”

“Gah!” the boy fell back in his box. “I-I-I don’t have one!”

“What? Everyone has a name.”

“Well, I don’t have one! I’ve been living like this all my life… er… or at least as long as I can remember.”

“Remember?” Jong lifted his goggles, “You know, you speak pretty properly for some street kid. Exactly how many years have you been living like this?”

“What’s a year?”

“Holy hell… Are you serious, kid? Alright, around here, a whole year usually passes every time a winter ends. You know what a winter is, right? Those really cold seasons that usually have a lot of snow?” Jong became a little anxious.

“Oh! That’s a year!? Then that makes it… umm… let’s see… two.”

“Two… two years is your whole life!?” Jong realized that this boy must have suffered amnesia after some sort of traumatic event two years ago that left him alone in the streets.

“Oh, and you asked me for my name. Well, I may not have one, but you can call me Breakjaw!”

Jong stepped back suddenly. What the hell?... How does he know that name? Jong just stared at the boy for a few moments. He didn’t know what to say to him at all.

“Hey, kid, where did you hear that name?”

“I… don’t know. I just… sort of remembered it. But it sounds cool, so I decided to call myself that!”

“Oh, boy, what have I gotten myself into?” Jong paced around for a short while until he finally said, “At any rate, I just can’t leave you here. I’m taking you to the Child Services Agency in the city. Hmm, I should probably change my clothes first.”

“Wait! Why should I leave!? I’m perfectly fine here.”

“Oh, really? Well, if you’ve really been living on the streets in this box for two years, you should know how cold the winter nights get outside. I’m surprised you didn’t freeze to death your first year out here.”

“Well… yeah… it was really…really cold…” The young boy looked down for several moments before he finally jumped up, “Fine! I’ll go…” The very thought of a warm place to spend the winter was enough to get the boy out of his alley.

“So… we need to think of a name for you… a real one.”

“But I like Breakjaw! It sounds so cool.”

“Heh…” The two drifters walked together down the street into the night.

[center]* * *[/center]

“Ok, sir, everything checks out. We’ll have this child assigned to a foster home in a matter of days.” A red-haired lady blowing on her nails nonchalantly spoke to Jong.

“Wait. I was wondering if I could take him in. He has no memories and I wanted to help him find out more about his past. I am a psychiatrist after all. Oh, well of course with the agency keeping a close eye with regular contact.” Jong handed the lady his card.

“Oh, well in that case, doctor, you’ll just have to fill out a few more forms and get interviewed by an agent. If all goes well, everything will be ready in a day or so.”

“Fantastic! Thank you, ma’am, thank you very much.” Jong turned to the young boy. “Now then, we still haven’t figured out a proper name for you. How about… Patrick?”

“Well, it doesn’t sound as cool… but I’ll use it!” Patrick smiled happily.
“I suppose just until we find out your real name.”

[center]* * *[/center]

And so, Daniel Jong took in this young boy going by the name of Patrick. He revealed the secrets of the city’s heroes and its past. He included Patrick in his daily training routines. He told him everything about himself.

“So… how exactly do you find time to do all that if you have a job, too?”
“Haha, well, it’s just a day job. I keep the office closed on weekends and since it’s in my house, everything’s really convenient. Plus, I’m free to sleep in during the morning since it’s my own business.”

“What does a pyschy-trist do anyway?”

“It’s ‘psychiatrist,’ and I talk to people who have emotional or other kinds of problems and try to help them.” Jong looked keenly at Patrick. “That reminds me, you want to try and remember some of your past, right? I think I can help.”

“How?”

“Well, there are several techniques. There are simple talking exercises and we could even delve into hypnosis if we needed to.”

“Awesome! Let’s get started!”

“What? Now? Er… OK.” Jong started but soon realized that this amnesia would not be lifted by any normal means.

“So, what do I do?”

“All you have to do is close your eyes and breathe in heavily ten times.” Patrick did and became very calm. “Good, good. Now I need you to think, think before the times in the streets, before that box, and before you met me.” This went on for a good hour before they finally got something.

“I… I see a bunch of men in suits sitting around a big table. I’m looking in from a door’s key hole. Now some of them are yelling at the one sitting at the end… He’s really sweaty now…”

“Now you listen here, Garrison! I’m not gonna just sit here and put up with this shit all day, ya hear? I need that money now!”

“Look, Ronnie, I’m sorry, but you have to tell your boss that we can’t hand over any money until we actually have the documents.”

“Holy fuck! You just don’t get it! Is yo’ fat-ass head really that thick?” Ron sprang up and smashed his fist on the table.

“Calm down now! There’s no need to get violent. We’re both… both civilized business men, right? I’m sure we can come to an agreement. Al, do me a favor and bring me the phone.”

“No problem, Johnny.” Al opened the door Patrick was looking through and Patrick fell back. “Hey, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be spying on them, it’s dangerous here. You’re father is in an important meeting and it’s not a good idea to be here.” Al walked into the next room.

“NO! THIS IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH! Look, you stupid fuck, you better deliver that money tonight or there’s gonna be some serious shit here!”

Ron pulled out a gun and aimed it right at Garrison’s forehead. Immediately Garrison’s men took out theirs and soon all of the men had guns aimed at each other.
“Whoa, Ronnie, what the hell are you thinking?”

“No, I’m not gonna put up with this bullshit no more. We need that money now!” Ron foolishly smashed his fist into the table again, but with the gun clenched inside it. As soon as his fist hit the table, a bullet rang out and hit Garrison in the stomach. Then, bullets went wild at both sides. Everyone went down except one of Ron’s men. Wounded, the man ran out of the room and out of the house. Garrison crawled out the door and saw Patrick and crawled to him.

“Son, please run. Don’t let yourself get involved in this.” Garrison’s head fell to the ground and stayed motionless. Patrick screamed and threw the man’s hand off his leg.

“Oh, my God! How could this happen!” Al ran in and started to panic. Then he saw Patrick. “Listen to me, you have to get out of this place right now! Trust me, you don’t want to see how this goes. Your father… oh God… you can’t let what just happened to your father get you involved with the police. You have to run away. Run far from here and don’t tell anyone what happened, OK!?” Patrick sat with his eyes wide opened and was shaking. Al ran to the garage, grabbed a canister of gasoline and poured it all over the kitchen. He then lit a match and threw it down where he poured the gasoline. “Dammit all, run! Now go, run!” And so Patrick ran out of the house. He kept running. He ran until his breath was extremely shallow and he collapsed on the hard pavement of an alley headfirst.

“Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh! No, no, no!”

“Patrick! Calm down! It’s OK, it’s OK!” Jong cradled Patrick’s head and eased him into the couch. “My God, I just can’t believe it…”

[center]* * *[/center]

“So… obviously that Johnny Garrison man must have been your father…”

“Yeah… I guess so.” Patrick sat solemnly on the couch looking down.

“We don’t have to mention this to anyone, OK? Er… yeah… At least we know what your last name is!” Jong smiled, but it soon faded. Patrick wrapped his arms around his folded legs and held them tightly. “Now listen, Pat… Hmm, that’s weird, that whole time and no one in your memory called you by your name… Hold on, I need to go do something.” Daniel Jong ran into another room and was gone for a good ten minutes.

Patrick looked up at the ceiling. He just couldn’t get the image of that bloody man out of his head. He lowered his eyelids and thought about what happened in his memory. A shoot out… That Ron guy shot my dad, but it looks like he died, too. One of them got away…

“I’m back! Here, Pat, read this out loud.” Daniel held out a piece of paper he wrote on.

“OK… ‘Hello, my name is Patrick Garrison. I’m twelve years old and I like ice cream. I hope to befriend you all’… what’s this?” Patrick looked confusedly at Daniel.

“Well, it’s a little something I want you to remember. You start going to school next week and I want you practice reciting that line. When I met you, you didn’t even remember what a year was. Anyway, practice reading that as much as you can so that you remember it, alright? Rehearsal is key, don’t forget that.”

“Uhh… OK.”
And Patrick Garrison who is age twelve and likes ice cream went to school. He learned and relearned. Many days Daniel also trained him physically as well.

“You know, it’s really tough carrying on this tradition these days. Everyone has more powerful guns and since I don’t have any powers like some of my predecessors, it’s a lot more dangerous. Even with body armor, I can seriously get hurt. Not to mention that it’s hard enough getting contacts who can supply me with equipment. At least I have the bank account. It’s an account that’s been passed down to the vigilantes before me, all the way back before banks when hordes of money were sealed away. You realize why I do this right? I’m glad that you’ve accepted it. You see, we have to find people like us to pass down the position to. We have to fix this city as best as we can. This modern police force? It’s never going to be enough. They’re not like the old Breakjaw Forces, too restricted. Right now, it’s up to me. And someday soon enough, it’ll be up to you. So remember that, Patrick. We need to bring back some of the justice to this place. Fight for what you believe is a life worth fighting for, a life for everyone in this city. And maybe someday… someday you’ll learn the truth about what happened with your father. Maybe you’ll bring the people who did it into justice. Just try, and never surrender. Got it!?”

And so it went on…


Nine years later, July 28, 2008. Daniel Jong is a victim of armed robbery and is shot in the waist. He’s no longer capable of running or even long term walking. For two years, Mirewood City had no hero, even if he was unknown.
Last edited by Bk-o on Fri Aug 29, 2008 7:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby Coos » Wed Aug 27, 2008 4:10 pm

Simply put; awesome :D
I'm surprised I read through it all :D
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Narrative)

Postby Bk-o » Fri Sep 05, 2008 12:24 am

I was doing my homework a few hours ago while I randomly started spouting lines that I realized I could put together into a poem. It was math, by the way, so the inspiration was pretty arbitrary. The big quoted part was mostly what came about from the random spouting.

Walk Alone
I know some people, they say I'm right,
My head is keen, but I lack some might
I do agree with these simple ways
'Cuz sometimes I want my lonely days
And go back to when the people passed
All of those moments flew much too fast

Oh how I wish I had never met
Never knew, laughed with, or went so near
So few times have I let my heart set
Sink into where my heart could not fear
Even the shine of the morning sun
It can never quell my quaking chest
A way to end it, I know but one
But my mind won't let this torn heart rest

It was those eyes, so innocent
Pure from the soul within
It was the laugh of merriment
Deterred me from my sin
Even those thoughts of endless joy
Trapped in dreaming was I
In my past, what a naïve boy
Clouded like this dark sky

And now I see, and now I know
My dreams, no, those nightmares
The truth revealed said not to go
Release all of my cares
So many times it flashed in mind
And dreadful my fears are
There she is, with her face outlined
Marks of a glowing star
And in my dream, my fears explode
The same as the heart's dread
Pour out my heart, this heavy load
Here's everything she said

She said, "You won't ever be with me
So why can't you just let it be
Take some time and cool it down, my friend
Me and you are just good friends for sure
And trust me you just don't want more
So please can we just let this just end

I think you should be a bit concerned
Take all the things that you have learned
See some things about this world and us
Might be best if you stay true to you
So see it from my point of view
Really it would only cause a fuss!"

Sink a hard heart hard as a rock
Below what was going to block
Sing the undying fears like a stone
And you'll know why I walk alone
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Poem)

Postby Cybella » Fri Sep 05, 2008 12:39 am

Wow that was really good!
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Postby Tuor » Fri Sep 05, 2008 1:35 am

Ugh, memories from that poem. Nice work
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Postby Bk-o » Fri Sep 26, 2008 5:21 pm

My latest school assignment has dragged me back into these forums... here's something I did around 6:30am and finished at 7:50, 10 minutes before my English class started yesterday. Revised since then though.

We had to modernize Dante's Inferno and create our own canto and level of Hell.

Personal Canto

At twilight’s rise a new wind had been born
And with this wind came a mystical sight
I found myself witnessing a dark mourn

The wind came down with strange sparkling light
It folded and fell until it was round
The shape of a sphere so compact and bright

A howling voice was both vibrant and drowned
And voices of sorrow were heard aloud
And what came out was a most chilling sound

“Come, boy, and watch this. You’ll surely be wowed
As agony calls from what Hell has tiered.”
And so I crept close to that dread-dark cloud

Then I was shocked as an image appeared
Swirls became faces of death-stricken men
I was confused as the voice simply jeered

“Look at the fools in that fiery den
They’re bound on their backs facing flames and pots.”
Scenes of cooking repeated again

Some were on poles tied by hundreds of knots
Rotating around a burning red flame
And others were being mashed up in lots

I gasped when I saw one clear as a name
President Buchanan, James was his first
He was in a greased pan flailing in shame

I leaned back and thought my stomach would burst
Seeing the horrors of so many souls
I knew that the fiery flames were the worst

Then I looked up and not at their tolls
“Oh wicked voice with this scene you have brought
Cease your laughing and tell me why those coals

So red with burning eternally hot
Have been placed under so many who cry?”
I stared at one monster over one pot

Stirring and stirring he boiled one guy
But then decided to mash him instead
And then started to make him into pie

I realized their minds could not be so dead
Undecided these beasts cycled their tools
Then, I saw that this monster had no head

Replaced they were by balls of dull cut jewels
Shining with no such magnificent light
But instead with the bleak darkness of fools

Then that shrill voice again echoed the plight
That all of those weary and tortured did
He began speaking to me at a height

Above I heard what his cruel voice must bid
“These are the souls of those who could not choose
Undecided they were in their own Id

Waiting, not wanting is sin we accuse
The path that they walked was ruled by no rules
They now suffer undecided abuse

Just as they were in their own life as fools
So here they must suffer in Hell for all
Leveled by kitchens to cook all these ghouls.”

“Tell me straight, why is it me you appall
With sights of such horror and things so drear?”
Then that damn thing answered in his last call

“It’s your doom as well if you don’t see clear
The path you must take lest you like it here.”
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Postby Coos » Fri Sep 26, 2008 5:31 pm

Awesome.
God, only 10 minutes? If I had to do something like that, it would surely take an hour.
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Postby Bk-o » Fri Sep 26, 2008 5:39 pm

Gahh, learn to read Coos. >_>
Said 6:30 to 7:50. That's like... and hour and 20 mins.
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Postby Coos » Fri Sep 26, 2008 8:58 pm

Lol, sorry. I skimmed through that part. But I did really read through the poem.


...Hour 20? Shit, however long it took wouldve been double for me.
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Poem)

Postby Bk-o » Tue Dec 16, 2008 1:07 am

Loooooong time, eh? Well, I've been working on this one for the past couple of months on my spare time at school. I've got three chapters done but I need to edit them since forum posting is very different from Microsoft Word... I've got the first installment here. Enjoy a new Tale From Darkly Lit Times! I got a lot of names and physical traits from classmates at my school, no reason. Warning, this piece is 9 pages long on Word.

Tales From Darkly Lit Times
Sons of the Still and Solemn
Chapter 1 – Wrecked

* * *
“Hey… He-ey! Are you listening?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.”

“As I was saying, it was the most amazing thing that happened.”

“Wait, when did this happen?”

“Last week, just after we heard Carter won his reelection.”

“So the baby was just lying there, completely breathless?”

“Yes, there was no sign of life in him at all, and then that’s when it happened…”

* * *
It was in the backyard of a suburban home that I was born. It was the evening, and a television inside the house with the open door was talking with a very monotone voice. On a hammock, my mother struggled and shook violently as her friend leaned next to her. Another man was there.

“Mrs. Markson, please, you’ve got to calm down a bit more. Miss Hayman, try to hold her shoulders steady.”

“I’m trying, she’s struggling too much.”

“Mrs. Markson, calm down… Sharon, please! You’ve got to relax, we haven’t even started yet.”

“Doctor, will she be alright?”

“It’s tough to tell. Premature births are never safe. Sharon, you have got to take deep breaths and calm down!” For several hours this went on until finally my head popped out. Everything seemed fine and everyone was happy until the doctor pulled my body completely out.

“Doctor, what’s wrong? Let me see my baby!” The doctor looked gravely at the baby and then looked at my mother with the sorriest of faces.

“I’m… sorry, Sharon. He’s… not breathing.”

“What!? What do you mean he’s not breathing? Give him to me!” The doctor wrapped him in a towel and morosely handed the unmoving infant to his mother.

“Oh, no! No! NO!!”

“I’m… terribly sorry. In my career as a doctor, I’ve never had to deal with a stillborn baby before. This is… a different feeling…”

“No, no! Doctor, doctor, please tell me there’s something you can do!”

“I’m sorry, but there really is nothing I can do… I’m so sorry.” My mother could only scream in anguish to the night sky holding my body in her shaking arms. Then, she set me down on the hammock and all three of them just looked at me.

“Sharon, it’s alright, I’m here for you.”

“Thank you, Grace, but I don’t know if anything can console me right now…”

“Mrs. Markson, I suppose we should let your husband know about this now. How can I contact him?” At that moment, no one else could hear it. No one heard it, except for me. In my dead mind, a voice was calling to me. This is the only thing I can remember before my normal childhood memories. Somehow I remember that voice. It was an eerie voice coming as if from a distant land, echoing in the darkness of my lack of life. No… you won’t die here, not now, not like this. No… you will live on, live on to suffer and save. No… you will live and not die here! This is what that voice said to me. It said some other things, but I cannot remember them. What everyone else remembers after that is…

“Right now Harold is… oh, my God!” My mother pointed at my body lying in the hammock. The three of them saw my arms move around, my feet shifting in the hammock, and my head turning left and right. I began to cry out.

“Im-Impossible… that’s just not possible, he was clearly dead. His heart wasn’t beating, and he definitely wasn’t breathing.”

“Oh, my God! Sharon! It’s, it’s a miracle! It’s nothing short of a miracle!”

“My… my son. He’s alive!” My mother carefully picked me up from the hammock and cried joyously like no woman ever could after feeling so much sorrow. The doctor simply looked shocked beyond reason.

“I suppose… it really is… a miracle…” And that’s the story behind my birth. I was born just before midnight on November 4th, 1980. I lived a completely normal life. I never had any medical issues beyond a couple of allergies. My brain was fully functional with no damage. I was alive.

* * *
Darkness seems to abound in an empty space. Inside, only a single voice calls out to no one, yet one decides to hear it.
“Suffer will last, suffer will last. Don’t let the innocent die. If you succeed, don’t you dare bleed. And then come back to my sky.”

“What? Who…”

“I’ve got a gift for you, son. Can you catch me? Try, boy, try.”

“Who the Hell is there?”

“Just be warned and wary. If you die, everyone will be hurt. Everyone…”

“What are you talking about? What does that even mean?”

“Be careful, unless you want to end up like many others who have strayed from my specifications.”

“Why are you saying these weird things to me?”

“Because I returned you to that world, and I can bring you back, just watch me!”

“What!? What Hell are you saying!?”

“Mind your brain… Tom…” A figure, a silhouette, approaches quickly in sight. Faster and faster, it’s as if it’s flying towards his eyes. Soon its face is shown. It’s a ghastly face with distorted features, lesions, and dirt all over. It runs right on top of his sights.

“Ahh!!” Tom wakes up. He’s shaking, sweating, and continuously moving his head around, as if he’s looking for something. He looks down at his hands. What the… what the Hell was… Tom jumps out of his bed and checks his head and his body to see if anything’s on him. Nothing… He’s certain everything was so real, the voice, the distorted figure, everything. “OK, OK, Tom, cool it. Your cool, nothing’s hauntin’ yah! Nothing.”

Tom’s doorbell rings, but when he hears it, it sounds as if it were coming from a distant bell from far away. It sounds as if it had just reached his ears before it slowly fades into the air around. He takes a quick glance at his clock. 9:34am. The radio is on, Tom slept through the alarm. A voice from the radio is talking.

“At around 10 o’clock pm last Tuesday, November 9, 2004, a shop owner was shot to death by an unknown group of what is speculated to be composed of gangsters.”

“Coming! I’m coming!” Tom rushes downstairs, still wearing the tank top and blue boxers he slept in. He runs to his front door. “Hello?” There’s a delivery man standing there, holding a clipboard and a medium sized box.

“Are you a, uhh, Thomas Markson?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“OK, can you just sign for this and I’ll be on my way.”

“Sure thing.” Tom signs the man’s clipboard and is handed the box. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” The delivery man walks back down to his truck. Tom closes his door and once inside again, carefully examines the box.

“Now what could be in here?” The box has no labels, no markings, and no return address. “Weird…” He rips the top of it open and looks inside. He takes out something wrapped heavily in bubble wrap. Just as he’s about to start unwrapping it, his phone rings. Hmm… He puts the bubble wrapped object back into the box and rushes to the phone in his living room and picks it up. “Yeah, hello?” At the other end of the line is Tom’s friend.

“Yo, Tom, buddy, I hope you haven’t forgotten what’s on today’s agenda.”

“Oh, of course not, Dan.”

“Good, ‘cause you know we’ve lots of ladies who are just dying to get a good look at us.”

“Heh, yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Just don’t expect me to be your wingman again, because I never want to go through something like that again…”

“Hey, hey, what happened last time was just a… a minor setback. Nothing major, I haven’t lost any of my stuff.”

“Like you ever had any…”

“Hey, that hurts. Alright, well, I’ll see you in… twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be there.” Tom hangs up the phone with a feint smile. He goes back upstairs and gets ready for his day. He showers, gets his jeans and T-shirt on, and he puts a bagel in his mouth as he walks out of his house grabbing his keys just before his door closes.

* * *
In his car, Tom bops his head to his radio’s steady beats. About a thousand feet above him in the sky, a dark cloud follows him. It’s a small cloud, maybe the size of a coffin. It’s moving at the same speed as Tom’s car. At that same time, Tom gets an eerie feeling, like he’s being watched. He looks around, moving his head warily. He dismisses it and continues onward. He reaches his destination, the local gym club. He enters and changes into his workout clothes. He takes a look in a mirror, flexing and trying to make his muscles seem larger. Tom is about 5’9” and weighs about 155 pounds. His hair is light brown/dark blond and short, and his eyes are green. He goes to the dumbbells and meets his friend Dan there.

“Hey, bro. What’s up?” Dan seems cheery.

“A dark cloud.”

“What…?”

“Er, never mind.” Tom wonders why he said that.

“Now then, I want to you take a little look at your 3 o’clock.” Tom turns right but sees nothing.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“Crap… I guess I meant 9 o’clock.” Tom turns completely around and sees two women working on aerobics on the mats. “What do you think? Eh, ehhh?”

“They’re… good looking.”

“Just good looking? Dude, they’re freakin’ hot. Check out that one’s curves.” Dan purrs.

“Man, you’ve got such stalker potential.” Tom looks at Dan with a condescending glare. Daniel Chiprean, he’s 5’11” and weighs about 170 pounds. He has jet black hair that’s a bit longer than Tom’s, and his eyes are grey-green, sometimes hidden behind the thin frames of his glasses. Dan and Tom have been friends since high school. Now both are 24-years-old and living in the same city, Philadelphia.

“You know, your jokes can go a little too far sometimes.” Dan shakes his head at Tom.

“So are you gonna go hit on them?”

“Nah, I think I’ll try and make them come to me.”

“Oh, God, here we go…” Tom looks desperate to get out of the situation, but then Dan pulls Tom down on a seat and hands him a couple of 40 pound dumbbells.

“Dan… I don’t think I can pump these for long.”

“Just do it, man. I’m telling you this’ll work.” Dan picks up his own pair of dumbbells and starts pumping them, carefully looking at the two women stretching on the mats. After a few minutes, the two women get up and start walking in their direction.

“Interesting.”

“I told you, buddy! Just watch and soon we’ll have a couple of lady friends to bring home tonight!” Dan smiles iridescently as the women walk towards them. Then, they simply walk passed them without so much as a glance and head to the lockers.

“Haha, oh man. Ah ha.”

“What the!? That was… but they… I was sure that would work…” Dan looks gloomily down with his lips pursed.

“Oh, don’t worry, pal. I’m sure you’ll get them next time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go run for a while.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dan, depressed, continues lifting the dumbbells. Tom walks across the gym to the treadmills and turns one on.

“OK, then, let’s get running.” Then, Tom hears a strange noise that sounds like a dog panting. “What the…” He runs onto the treadmill shaking his head. Sweat soon starts dripping down his face as eerie noises grow louder and louder around him. Eventually, Tom realizes that the light around him is getting increasingly dimmer. He struggles to see ahead of him and his vision eventually blurs a bit. He slows down and he realizes he needs to stop. He turns off the treadmill, but for some reason, it feels like he’s still running at full pace. What’s going on with me… Tom holds onto the railing of the treadmill and breathes very heavily. He collapses on the treadmill and blacks out.

* * *
It was a rather bright morning on my tenth birthday. The birds were chirping happily, and many other cheerful things were happening. There was a small party with just a few of my friends, and my grandmother came over from New York.

“OK, here comes the cake for the birthday boy!” My mother walked in smiling like a squeezed lemon. She brought a rectangular chocolate cake from the kitchen and placed it at the table.

“Alright, son, make a wish and blow out the candles!” My father was cleaning his glasses and wiping his nose.

“Umm… alright, I’ve got it!” I blew out the candles two by two, all ten of them. “Cake!” We ate the cake and played a few video games before I opened my presents. I had three, a new helmet for my bike, a new game cartridge, and a wooden spoon. “Huh? A… spoon?” It was from my friends as a joke, and they were all laughing as I just stared at it.

“Just kiddin’ you, Tom.”

“Yeah, here you go!” I got another present from them and opened that one up a bit more happily. It was silver and green flashlight. “Yes, that’s the real one.”

“It’s cool, guys, thanks!” I smiled the most earnest and real smile that day, and it was my last real one for a long time. After everyone had left to go home, my grandmother included, my parents were driving me to a restaurant for dinner. Everything seemed just fine. We were talking openly and were happy. I was strapped into the middle seat of the back row and my dad was driving.

“You know, Sharon, I think we could use a new car. Now I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Harold, a new car? Honestly, what could you possibly see wrong with this one?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. But don’t you think a second car would really help? Especially since you want to find a job now.”

“Honey, I just don’t know if-” My mom’s sentence was ended abruptly by another car crashing into us from my dad’s side. Our car spun a good four times before stopping and I screamed the whole time. I only ended up with a few scrapes and bruises My dad was dead instantly, but my mom was taken to the hospital for a few hours before her heartbeat flat lined. It was here last moments on earth, and I could only stand next to her bed and watch her suffer.

“Mom? Mom!? Please, mom, don’t die. Don’t die…” My mother’s head was concussed and her torso had been pierced by two metal bars. They couldn’t save her. It wasn’t even a drunk driver who hit us. It was a couple of store robbers speeding to get away. They both survived the crash. That day, I died a little on the inside.

* * *
Ambulance sirens ring aloud and Tom’s eyes open slowly and cloudily. He’s lying on his back on the inside of an ambulance still open and in front of a hospital.

“Hey, Tom! You’re awake, good.” Dan was leaning into the ambulance and smiling half-heartedly. “You gave me a scare there, didn’t know what was happening to you. Someone called 911 as soon as he saw your body hit the floor, good thing, eh?”

“Uhh…yeah, really good of him. How long was I out?” Tom had a headache and was still shaking a little.

“Well, the ambulance just got back here so it’s been about twenty minutes. The medics need to fill out some papers and since your case isn’t priority or intense it’s taking a bit.” Dan’s smile faded. “They said you’ll be fine and a couple of hours in a hospital bed will be it, then you should be out. They want to see if there’s anything behind it, but I doubt it.”

“I have no idea why that happened. I just… I heard these noises and everything got dimmer and dimmer… then I just blacked out.”

“Hey, Tom. You didn’t happen to hear something like a dog panting, did you?”

“Wait, yeah. I did.” Tom suddenly looked strangely at Dan. “Wait… how did you know that?”

“I… I… A few months ago, I blacked out like that, too. Before I did, I was in my house and then I heard strange noises, too. I heard panting and then it seemed like all the lights were going out in the house. I woke up twenty minutes later and was confused as hell.”

“Hold on, Dan. I’m really confused right now…” Tom thought back for a second. “Did you have a bizarre dream that morning you blacked out?”

“Huh? Oh… actually, I did.” Dan looked straight into space for a second.

“What was it like?”

“I was a beaver. A beaver building a dam in a river.”

“Oh… I see. I guess I’m just…”

“Tom, I’m kidding. Heh… There was this voice in the dream. And I’m guessing it was saying some pretty similar things in yours.”

“What? You heard the voice, too?”

“Yeah, Tom. Listen, I’ve got to tell you something I’ve never told anyone and neither have my parents. When I was born… I was stillborn, dead on arrival.”

“What!?” Tom looked incredibly shocked and dumbfounded. Impossible! That’s just not possible! He’s… just like me.

“But then, I somehow started moving again. I was breathing again and I was alive. But… that wasn’t before I heard that voice in my head. I don’t remember what it said so long ago, but I remember it talked to me.” Dan looked gravely at Tom who was just gaping at what he was hearing. “I know you’re the same as me because of what you’ve told me. I realize now that our friendship must have happened for far greater reasons than liking the same shows and sports. It was… some kind of destiny.”

“You’re going a bit far now, don’t you think, Dan?”

“No, I’m not. Listen, Tom, some weird things have happened since that day I blacked out. I discovered that… I can do certain things…”

“Things? Like… what?”

“Watch.” Dan pointed his hand at a medicine bottle in the ambulance. He clenched his fist and then a strange cube appeared around it. The cube was spinning around it and gave off a rainbow-like sheen. “And check this out.” Dan flicked his wrist upward and the cube containing the bottle went straight up fast. It went through the ambulance like it was intangible and went rocketing into the sky before it disappeared from sight. Dan smiled.

“What the…” Tom simply gazed in wonderment.

“And now, I can show you how to do that.”

End.
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Tale)

Postby Bk-o » Wed Feb 11, 2009 8:36 pm

I hate school. I hate the college process. I mostly hate high school though. Here's some crap I put together on my Steam ID that I want to move here for "storage" as I write some more on my profile page. It's a sonnet btw.

Home
Stay calm we'll stroll through darker times than now
Don't shy away I'll show you what is pure
Through crowds of new revival will be how
You'll resist deeper powers' shameful lure
And even if you stray from where we are
I promise I won't scream for tampered love
As times progress I'll still wait for my star
To guide me back to home's so peaceful dove
So in my heart I will keep doors unlocked
For more times unbound by no foreign lust
In steps of more pain profound as they're walked
Be how I feel lest my heart turn to rust
Change lives and all my heart and if I pray
Perhaps you'll then return to me someday
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Sonnet)

Postby Tuor » Wed Feb 11, 2009 8:55 pm

Wonderful, Shakespeare Pattern sonnet, Bk.

I always find sonnets beautiful, but they're a bit of a pain to write.
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Sonnet)

Postby Bk-o » Thu Feb 19, 2009 3:46 pm

:D

*Erhem*

Values
Unquenchable thirst for war-drenched moons
Trained to the furthest of rescues
Lulled by the sounds of melodic tunes
Easily conquered by dark hues
I am a fighter lost in his way
And still on my pathway to honor
These are my values drained by the day
Fighting will make me a goner
If I can stay to rescue the crowds
My body ending in pieces
Souls lifted to heavenly clouds
But only if my life ceases
I promise to you, killer of me
There will be grace, just you wait and see
These fights may continue, day by day
But my fight is over, peace will stay
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Freeform Poem)

Postby Bk-o » Sun Mar 29, 2009 11:43 pm

To anyone who does actually look at this once in a while, I've decided not to announce my new pieces in SPAM or anywhere anymore. I'm mainly going to post these for myself as I find this place to currently be my only creative outlet.

There are certain references in this one you probably won't get.

Paranoia
Temper, temper, mind my temper
Just soak in wasted sighs
Slay myself to garner placement
Serene within these lies
See my father dancing gaily
That hops fresh on his lips
Speak with strange intentions slowly
His hands in hite he dips
He'll dance outside to take a drag
Still held on solid stone
He'll swiftly breathe the smoke inhaled
And pretends not to moan
But deep inside I hear his cries
A paranoia worn
The only one who knows the truth
Was never even born
The birth revealed was just a lie
To seek what you can't sow
Planting seeds of lost denial
Had never seemed so low
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Freeform Poem)

Postby Tuor » Mon Apr 06, 2009 10:48 am

Nice, man.

I haven't written any poetry worth posting for awhile, damn.
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Freeform Poem)

Postby Bk-o » Tue Apr 14, 2009 12:45 pm

Ha, it's Tuor! Shady, as usual.

Histamine
As blooming buds of April pedals
Wake with vibrant taste
The dust of nature clamors silent
Hushed by nature's waste
They send away the shells of offspring
Tainted by no germs
And scattered over hills of shelter
Truth be what affirms
At day my sights shall numb and blur harsh
Crimson hot demure
My scents be slow and unresponsive
Blocked but not impure
The weezing twins hold out their hardest
Marred by brief inhale
Yet quick dissolving are these issues
Just be calm, not frail
And soon the night sky pierced by cooled clouds
Falls upon sky's lake
The heads inflamed with no such fortune
Stir my mind awake
But wait for triumph's hard elixer
Frozen by the clasp
This irritation, Spring's frustration
End in one last gasp
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Re: Bk-o's Literature [G - PG13; Original] (New - Freeform Poem)

Postby Bk-o » Tue Oct 13, 2009 10:11 pm

Apocalypse

The shadows I watch sometimes flicker away
Nervous I know how the shapes may deflate
Another new movie, another new play
Their levels of goodness will never be great
So carefully the shadows meander about
And lies become widespread, rampant, and loud
But nothing can seem to initiate doubt
Untill countless dark shadows wrap down in a shroud
Survivors will scream for the death to begin
But the desperate and dying will gain no reprieve
And the lonely will spit and turn heads in chagrin
While the liars will choke on the words they believe
And to all this may seem like a horrible end
But I applaud the tormentor, it's you I commend
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