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Fievel's Works - May/07/10 - Which Way Is Left? Ch. 21

Sat Oct 31, 2009 11:05 pm

The Directory

On The Other Side: The Adventures Of Ustream-Bot

Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 1
Ch. 2
Ch. 3
Ch. 4
Ch. 5
Ch. 6
Ch. 7
Ch. 8
Ch. 9
Ch. 10
Ch. 11
Ch. 12
Ch. 13
Ch. 14
Ch. 15
Ch. 16
Ch. 17
Ch. 18
Ch. 19
Ch. 20
Ch. 21

Quentin's Educational Facility For Advanced Learning
Ch. 1
Ch. 2
Ch. 3
Ch. 4
Ch. 5
Ch. 6
Ch. 7
Ch. 8
Ch. 9
Ch. 10

God Mode
Ch. 1
Ch. 2
Ch. 3

Yet To Be Named
Ch. 1
Ch. 2
Ch. 3
Ch. 4
Ch. 5

Before The End Of Time
Ch. 1 (Still Unedited)
Last edited by Fievel on Fri May 14, 2010 1:20 pm, edited 49 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 7:20 am

This is really good so far. I like your use of language, and so far it has a very concrete, realistic feel to it.
One thing I did have a problem with, as a reader, was finding the effort to begin reading such an elaborate piece of work. I think the opening paragraph certainly needs some work, not only to make it more interesting and make us want to read further...but also the way you've structured it.
For example:
If all of the reigning government’s assets were to be summed up, and compared to the wealth of Quentin’s educational facility, it would be significantly lower, possibly even less than their total accumulated wealth, and as such money was never an issue at the institution, except when money was in the headlines of the monthly magazine, and when the school had first opened, that clearly goes without saying... Anyways, the time of construction was approximately two hundred sixty years ago, at a time of economic instability, though that was a rather inaccurate description, as there is no such thing as economic stability.
You notice here, I stopped quoting at the first full stop in the whole paragraph. If you could break this wall of text down into more managable pieces, it would make it a lot easier to read.
But other than that, it was a very interesting read. Keep it up :)

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:12 am

Too much buisness for my brain! LOL

No im just kidding. Good work Feival.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:33 am

I like writing long sentences, Doc. I once managed to write a sentence that was one page long, but yeah, sometimes they do get a bit long. Anyways, there's going to be more dialogue in the next portion.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 10:25 am

Fievel wrote:I like writing long sentences, Doc. I once managed to write a sentence that was one page long, but yeah, sometimes they do get a bit long.

There's nothing wrong with complex sentences. It's good to see you have a wide vocabulary.
All I'm saying is that, from a reader's perspective, it's a bit of a mouthful. Particularly if you have a go reading it aloud. Speaking honestly, if you went to an editor with that work, there would be a lot of lines crossed through it the next time you got it back. I'm just saying, even if long sentences are your writing style, that's fine, but you have to make sure it's simple enough to understand. Sometimes you can convey an idea a lot better with a few words than you could ever convey it with several.

But I'm looking forward to the dialogue. That sould help clear things up a little.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 11:23 am

------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Chapter 1: Funding
If all of the reigning government’s assets were to be summed up, and compared to the wealth of Quentin’s educational facility, it would be significantly lower, possibly even less than their total accumulated wealth, and as such money was never an issue at the institution, except when money was in the headlines of the monthly magazine, and when the school had first opened, that clearly goes without saying... Anyways, the time of construction was approximately two hundred sixty years ago, at a time of economic instability, though that was a rather inaccurate description, as there is no such thing as economic stability. Regardless of the standard of living at the time, the funding for the school was entirely paid for by a few wealthy businessmen interested in turnips and eventual future revenue. Why they were interested in turnips, no one knew, but that strange fascination led to the development and construction of the most influential educational facility for all ages in the entire world.

The men in charge of the project, struggling to come up with an idea for how to gain a profit, assembled in an unnecessarily plain room, with the walls reflecting the light of the signs on the sides of the room too well, transforming what was once a magnificent ice sculpture into a mere puddle of cold water. The lights hanging overhead barely shone bright enough to make out the color of the Committee Head’s hair, which reminded one of a robin, in that their blood is usually red. The floor was exceptionally plain, and became the most apparent part of the room upon entering. A simple beige tiling lined the floors in a haphazard manner, as if the done by a drunk man, or Mr. Stevenson’s wife, and contrasted heavily with the multicolored desk at which they had taken upon themselves to be seated, perfectly ordered left to right, up and down by their grandmother’s maiden names, which none of them knew, but somehow managed to arrange themselves in the correct order. The multicolored desk was not selected by the Committee. In fact, they would prefer not to have it there, as Mr. Stevenson is liable to relapse into an epileptic seizure when staring at randomly changing colors, and the table was quite distracting, causing a few of the members of the Committee to forget why they had gathered in the first place. The Committee Head shook his head in abhorrence for the newcomers and proceeded to drop a book on the table that caused a vibration so massive, that one would have believed that there were in actuality two tables occupying the same space. Repositioning the black shades to their original position, he swiped a rogue piece of silver hair out of his range of vision and drew the attention of his fellow board members, whom he mostly regarded with absolute disgust, as they would be the ones to replace him when he was inevitably going to die.

The others quickly turned their heads, creating a small gust of wind as they did so, and silence permeated the air like nitrous oxide, except more instantaneous. Mr. Stevenson unfolded his legs and sat upright with his back perfectly parallel to the chair’s head, accidentally knocking his stack of papers to the floor in the process. He hurriedly reached for them, but he failed to catch them before they touched the floor, causing a loud fluttering noise to echo throughout the room as the table continued to change colors, shifting from blue to red. He quickly gathered them up and reorganized them rapidly and returned to his usual position and posture, but the others simply ignored the entire ordeal and waiting for the Head to speak, surrendered some of their focus to the distracting table, which now shifted from mostly red to a mixture between pink and yellow. Tiny beads of liquid began crawling down his cheeks, falling to the floor with a soft yet easily head splash, though the others continued to pay no attention to the man’s lack of self-confidence. The Committee Head, again angered by his potential successor’s incompetence and tentativeness, finally opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it as quickly as it opened, instead grabbing a lime green sheet of paper before him and performing a thorough scan of it as he prepared to speak.

“Today, we have gathered for the sole purpose of discussing the means of acquiring the funds for this new educational facility. As I am sure you are already aware of, the costs are staggering, and as the Committee for the Improvement of Education, it is our duty do spare no expense, to give from our own wallets to assist in paying for this insurmountable debt easily exceeding an imaginary number. As such, it is clearly impossible for us alone to procure these funds for what could boost the economy and the return the world to its former state of prosperity and peace. What we require is a simple plan, one that can be effectively established as soon as is physically and legally possible, and we need one soon, lest this trough become inescapable and chain us to the confines of despondency and doom. Are there any among you who may possess the possible solution to this appalling problem?”

The Committee Head scanned the table for faces that inspired confidence or reassured him, but he found nothing but blank expressions and empty stares piercing him like a knife would cut through a feathery pillow. Clearly none of them retained even the smallest light of hope or insight in their possession, though now they began seriously considering the situation at hand, though with little hint of success. The Committee had never been faced with so difficult a dilemma before, they usually merely discussed taxes, education reform, textbooks, and what would be deemed acceptable for a universal dress code. They rarely ever reached a conclusion with any of their prior predicaments, but this one demanded urgency and called for a simple game of word association in the hopes that one of them would be able to derive a remedy from the chaos that was usually associated with the practice, but it proved largely unfruitful. First word came up: tuna. That was out. Second: potatoes. Unlikely to prove useful. One after another, their answers came short of the conclusion or drove full speed in the wrong direction entirely, like a drunk racecar driver, but amidst the still partially jumbled mess of Mr. Stevenson’s papers came a possibility. The first words on each paper coincidentally crafted the words: nonexistent imaginary legal entity. Mr. Stevenson immediately considered the outcomes of such a daring move. If agreed upon, they would be directly challenging and perhaps even changing the legislative branches view towards business enterprises and could bankrupt society further on, but it was a risk they would have to take if they seriously contained the desire to improve the current educational system.

“Mr. Head, sir,” began Mr. Stevenson, fidgeting uncontrollably with his vocal inflection doing the same, “I have a thought, sir.”

“What is it this time? And it better be good, for your sake. I shouldn’t have to remind you that your name is on the list for removal from the Committee. In fact, I’m the one who approved your placement on said list.”

“Umm. Well, sir. I think that this entire set of… Uh… What was I going to say?”

The Committee Head contemplated the benefits of lunging at him with the mechanical pencil sitting beside the documents he had been holding earlier, but he managed to restrain himself, deciding that it required too much work on his part. Instead, he sighed with utter contempt and placed his hand on his head in a manner that suggested that merely speaking to Mr. Stevenson was enough to cause him real, physical, and psychological, pain.

“Well, sir, I believe, if I may so bold, that our troubles can be solved by merely forming an, uh, nonexistent fictional entity.”

“What the hell does that mean?” said the Committee Head with his face beginning to traffic more blood that it should, and his eyebrows collapsing into what can only be assumed to be the next level of the usual disdain he displayed to his inept coworkers.

“Well, sir, since the entity is fictional… Uhhh, there’s much you can do…”

“What I think he means, Mr. Head,” began Mrs. Bleach, “is that the government can’t tax or bill anything that doesn’t exist, as such, we can borrow financial resources without having to pay back the loan later. Also, we don’t get taxed.”

“While that is true, how are we supposed to pay the wages of the teachers?” inquired Mr. Rumsley.

“We never said that this school was going to be a nonprofit organization,” reminded Mr. Phobbes. “We could simply make the classes extremely rigorous so few students are capable of passing, and to get more money and increase attendance, we could keep the entrance fees low, thereby increasing the number of people who can attend, while still making a profit margin large enough to sustain a rather large faculty.”

“Hmmm. Yes,” agreed Mr. Rumsley. “We’ll be able to pay our employees quite a bit since we don’t have to bother with hiring an official to do our taxes. We also don’t have to pay the taxes.”

The board members twisted their heads in the direction of Mr. Head, who returned an insightful stare towards the center of the table. Finally, after much contemplation, his mouth opened and he began to speak.

“Perhaps, Mr. Stevenson, I have misjudged you. It is true. The government cannot tax that which does not exist, but how do you suggest that we prove to them that our facility is nonexistent?”

“We’ll need a lawyer, obviously,” said Mrs. Bleach.

Unfortunately, they recruited a lawyer, and the school’s construction could no longer be halted. In order to finance the construction, the Committee requested and procured a loan from an unsuspecting loaning institution, which soon discovered that it had no means, both legal and physical, of seeking retribution for the loan now lost to it. The owners then committed suicide, with their money now exchanging hands between the Committee Head and the contractor, who wore a tie.

The plan they developed proved to be more successful than they could have ever imagined was possible. Their plan essentially followed the outline they developed at their meeting: allow anyone to attend, no matter their score on standardized tests, Grade Point Averages, transcripts, amount of volunteer work, and time participating in extracurricular activities, and then charge people very little to attend. In addition to allowing anyone to attend and making the courses cheap, they agreed to make the courses as challenging as possible, so the probability of receiving a passing grade in any course was very minute and quite generally reserved for those who have either taken the course numerous times, absolute geniuses, and those who have absolutely no social lives whatsoever.

The school began construction nearly forty years before they came up with the idea, and it almost immediately gained much popularity and was highly regarded as one of the greatest schools that would ever grace the continent of Canada, which decided it was a continent seven years after the United States’ Second War on Terror, which was simply a video game released that received relatively decent scores. Nonetheless, Canada, now having a major export other than maple syrup, immediately began to see a general improvement in their financial situation, though some argue that the cause of the improvement was the government’s active use of fiscal policy in order to decrease the rapidly increasing inflation. The Canadians paid those people little mind, however, as they deemed their opinions as “too scholarly,” and otherwise lacking a sense of accomplishment.

Mr. Stevenson, now second in command of the Committee, was driving to Canada’s capital, which was moved to Sherbrooke, as they had forgotten how to pronounce the name of their previous capital of Ottawa. Stevenson was given an important assignment which involved destroying the members of the Committee’s personal records so that they could begin acquiring loans again, as all banks and loaning institutions were now aware of the fact that the Committee no longer had to reimburse their lenders for any funds lent out to them. It was a difficult task, as the Canadian Mounties were highly regarded for their new sniping division, which was comprised mostly of ex-mercenaries who decided that they were less likely to be sent to prison if the government compensated them for their assignments. In the opinions of most of them, it certainly beat out their alternative of arriving in a prison that retained men dressed as clowns who were exceptionally more willing to rape people than other prisons possessed.

The phone sitting in Mr. Stevenson’s pocket began to vibrate, and he immediately pulled it from the pouch, pressing the accept button as he brought it to his hear.

“What is it?” he asked with mild hesitation present in his voice.

“I’d just like to remind you,” began Mrs. Bleach, “that you only have twenty minutes to meet your objectives, Mr. Stevenson. If you fail, there will be consequences.”

“I… I understand,” he said, returning the silver phone to its spot in his pockets.

Now at the front step of the new capital building, Mr. Stevenson retrieved the handheld pistol from the trunk of his car, remembering to load it beforehand, so as to avoid any undesirable predicaments that may arise after his presence had been made known to the security presently watching over the building. The metal detectors at the entrance, having already been deactivated earlier in the day, would prove useless as Mr. Stevenson walked past the two white pillars on either side of the crimson doors with a nervous smirk. The two guards standing by allowed him entrance and Mr. Stevenson swiftly pushed the door out of his path without making a sound.

---That's all for now. Some parts may not make any sense, but just roll with it. Can anyone guess what genre it's going to be yet?
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:23 am, edited 2 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 12:02 pm

I like it Fievel.

Although I will sadly admit that I did not have enough time to fully read through it in great detail. Something I deeply regret when reading a friend's material.

Judging from the other comments, I do see and understand where your problem is and the key to fixing it, but I am confident that you can do it yourself.

I do like how descriptive you are. Very good and clear images are seen when I read this.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 12:54 pm

Curiouser and curiouser...
At the moment I can't think what genre it might be. It's very political, it seems to have a lot of politics and buisness in there, but I think I'm going to have to read more to work out what it's all about. Some bits did catch me off guard - I did a double-take and had to reread the previous sentences, when I read the words 'commited suicide' lol

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 2:15 pm

You're partly correct WMP. It is going to be somewhat of a social commentary, but that's not the primary focus. For the people reading, this story is comprised of two stories. The one I've been focusing on so far is in the past, when the school is being built, and the other story is in the future, after its completion. I'm not going to begin the other story yet, but I'll be sure to label it when I do.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:24 am, edited 1 time in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 6:46 pm

Wow. You're churning this out pretty fast too.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13)

Sun Nov 01, 2009 6:47 pm

I'm making it up as I go, really, but yeah, I can be very creative, very quickly.

Well, I'm bored, so I might as well begin the next chapter.
Chapter 1: Late
The door blew open as he entered the building slowly and stepped on the beige tiling of the school, as he frequently does, and scanned the main hall. The halls showed no signs of life, and silence and solitude emanated from the corners of the hallways in powerful waves of casual indifference, and the door scraped along the rubber mat and sealed the exit, booming loudly and swiftly piercing the intestines of the school. He swiftly hid behind a nearby pillar to avoid being noticed, checking out the are to determine whether or not there were any witnesses in the are. Judging it to be safe, he walked out into the open and sighed softly, noticeably pleased that he had not been seen. Only mice could be seen scampering about, carrying with them random small fruit and nuts towards their den, where they would be safe from the psychotic janitor.

Ferrik took a few more steps towards the horizontal center of the hallway and expressed slight confusion at the lack of people present in the hallways. He knew that today was supposed to be a school day, at least it had been when he had last checked the calendar, which was immediately before he entered school grounds, so he couldn’t think of where everyone else could be. Looking at the massive digital clock positioned on the wall parallel to the entrance, he discovered the fact that he was late to class, seventeen days late, in fact, which would probably cause some difficulties later, but he decided that he would have to deal with that later, once he made it to his classroom and gave his teacher a reasonable excuse as to why he was late to class. He began to make his walk towards his first class, but since it was four miles away, it was going to take a while, and was largely a futile effort.

He was wearing a plain, loose-fitting gray shirt, with random splotches of white, with the words, ‘The sky is the limit, and we can’t reach it” painted black in chiller font on the front. On his khaki pants were oddly positioned words of encouragement, which due to both placement and extraordinarily horrendous handwriting, were completely illegible. He was holding a comfortable black fedora with white stripes he had seen in films that he had only recently seen during the summer. His shoes were black and laceless, with dried paint, which, though it was peeling, seemed to grip the shoes with forceful, meaningless ambition. In his right pocket sat his black leather wallet, damaged, lens-less glasses, and an unsharpened number two pencil with the lead missing. He had evidently forgotten his backpack, though he did not seem to notice this fact yet. He had a watch on his left hand, but it was totaled, which Ferrik still glanced at every few seconds, only to realize the miserable excuse for a wristwatch he had been wearing was not only not working properly, but was moving counterclockwise, which he found to be bizarre. A black and white piano necktie hung around his neck, just loose enough to enable him to breathe, but still tight enough to cause him visible discomfort.

He displayed a blank stare at his surroundings, as he cautiously walked forward, attempting to make as little noise as possible with mild success. The grey walls surrounding him seemed to stretch on forever into the distance, with a minuscule speck of light barely visible at his distance and corridors branching off in a perfectly symmetrical manner into other hallways, which he was going to avoid at all costs, lest he be placed in an unwanted situation which he was not willing to go through alone. Straying from the main hallway was essentially the same as committing suicide, as only one result would come from such a venture.

On the ground a short distance away, placed on a lovely piece of modern kitchenware, was a small blueberry muffin, with actual, shining blueberries poking their heads out of the soft, cushiony exterior of the muffin. Ferrik stopped immediately before it and leaned over, lifting it up, plate and all, and then grabbed the muffin. Cautiously and sluggishly he placed the plate in its original position on the floor and began to contemplate eating the muffin.

Ferrik had been walking for well over an hour now, and he had yet to find his classroom. He slowly began to realize the fact that he did not have, presently, his schedule in his possession, as he apparently left it at home in the morning in all of the confusion, though that was of little importance when one considered the fact that he had no idea what schedule he was supposed to go by for the day. Regardless, he continued onward, hoping that the class he intended to arrive at was the one he was supposed to be in anyways. He could still taste the blueberry muffin as he continued to walk forward, rapidly losing interest in arriving to class on time, and instead, he stopped before a large mahogany door that stood to his left, inviting him to enter with a sinister air about it.

Ferrik, ignoring the sinister demeanor of the door, opened it without the slightest regard and walked in, somehow winding up next to a green dumpster, which, even though it was a dumpster, was in terrible condition, mostly. The dumpster’s exterior was completely covered in garbage, what Ferrik assumed to be vomit, and an assortment of various other forms of refuse. However, the interior was unusually clean, if you exclude the random assortment of turnips, to the point where one could assume it would be safe to eat in there without much fear of the food becoming contaminated, excluding, of course, the various airborne insects that seemed to gather in areas such as those. Ferrik looked around and noticed that he had walked outside the school and turned around to return indoors, but he found that the door was both closed and locked, which proved to be of greater annoyance to Ferrik than standing next to a progressively worse-smelling dumpster could ever hope to be.

He started thumping on the door, only to receive no response, and decided to surrender himself to the dreaded pink slip that went along with truancy, but his hope was renewed when he noticed smoke rising from behind the dumpster. He walked to the side and recognized his friend lighting some smoke on fire, which appeared to be easier than one would think.

“Thomas, what are you doing out here?” asked Ferrik, with an obvious hint of curiosity in his voice.

Thomas dropped his matchbox, which resulted in the matches burning to crisps, as there was another flame where the smoke had been rising. Thomas raised his fist with harmful intent, but lowered it when he realized who had startled him. “Ferrik, I should ask you the same question. You’re not one to skip out on class, unless you’ve finally decided to have a smoke with me.”

“I’d rather not,” Ferrik said, shaking his head with disappointment, before realizing that the fire had still not been extinguished. He stomped in the center of the flame, leaving the fire unable to consume any more oxygen that was required for survival. The fire shriveled and withered away, leaving behind its remains in a small dark pattern scorched into the already sunbathed cement.

“Good. I don’t smoke,” said Thomas, tossing an unlit cigarette on the floor as he crushed it with his foot.

“Still, you haven’t answered my question,” said Ferrik.

“Yes I did. I just responded with an observation relating to you instead of myself,” said Thomas factually.

“You know what, screw it. Can you at least help me find a way back inside?”

“I suppose,” began Thomas, unenthusiastically, “but why should I?”

“Just help me. It’s not as if you’re accomplishing anything significant right now, anyways.”

“Ferrik, Ferrik, Ferrik. Always trying to display your literary intelligence through the use of complicated words, when a picture says more than you could ever say in thirty seconds.”

“Whatever! Just help me find a way in, and that wasn't even sophisticated diction.”

“That was, but alright, I suppose. Show me where you first left the building.”

Ferrik led Thomas to the door that yielded no human response to knocking and knocked again to show that it would have no effect. Thomas walked up to the door and felt the edges with his hand. Then he removed his shoe and smashed it through the window.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Ferrik asked hysterically. “Do you want me to get in even more trouble?”

“You never said how you wanted to get back indoors.”

“True,” Ferrik said contemptuously, “but I didn’t think you would take it so fucking literally.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, I got it open,” he said, extending his palm in the direction of the empty space in the glass door, with his other hand still holding the brown shoe, “but now that I think about it, I don’t think making my own entrances to any sort of governmental or private-owned institution is very smart. Did you see how easily I broke in? There’s not even an alarm going off.”

Ferrik kneeled in front of the hole, but decided against climbing through because he noticed that the hole was not large enough for him to crawl through, as well as the fact that the sides were lined with rigid, sharp edges. “The opening's not big enough,” he said.

And with that, Thomas proceeded to completely demolish the door with his show, breaking every last piece of glass from the doorframe. He then sat down to put his shoe back on. Ferrik hid behind the dumpster, expecting an administrator or a policeman or policewoman to arrive and deliver them to the principal, but after realizing he would be taken to the principal for punishment, he stopped fearing for his record, as he knew that Chuckles would either not give a damn, or be completely wasted, and therefore unable to pass judgment upon Thomas and Ferrik. Ferrik then gagged and bent over and proceeded to throw up all over the dumpster due to the appalling smell of the vomit and assorted garbage on the dumpster.

“Not the muff!” yelled Ferrik, as he noticed a stray blueberry floating among the liquid mess he made.

Thomas turned to Ferrik and looked at the pile of vomit now lying on the floor. He turned away, trying not to get the urge to repeat his friend’s actions and said, “Geez, Ferrik. That’s why you’re supposed to filter the air through your teeth. Why do you think no one else ever comes out here?”

“Screw that! My shirt would be a better filter than my teeth!” Ferrik shouted, still bent over, swallowing small amounts of vomit.

“Are you saying that your teeth are misshapen and irregular? I’m not arguing but I think that might be a bit of an overstatement.”

“You bastard,” Ferrik said irritably, coughing up the remains, then he heaved another batch of food, bile, and mixed foods and drinks, into the already colorful pile of repulsive liquid on the floor. Thomas shook his head in disappointment and turned back to the door while Ferrik was still removing whatever was left over dangling from his mouth. Thomas grinned and walked towards the broken door. Having finished for the second time, Ferrik ran back to the door to rid his mind of all thoughts related to the incident that had just occurred.

Thomas kicked shards of glass away from the new barren entrance he had created and stepped through, removing small shards of glass from his shoes once he got to safe ground. Ferrik stepped through, not having to worry about getting stabbed by glass and met Thomas on the other side. Thomas looked up, still in the process of removing glass and said, “I still don’t hear an alarm. They must be replacing the security or something like that.”

“Just be glad you didn’t set off any alarms.”

“My parents wouldn’t care if I got in trouble. Hell, the only reason they sent me here in the first place is because it was the cheapest school they could find.”

“Shhh!” hissed Ferrik in an urgent manner. “Do you hear that?”

Thomas placed his hand next to his ear in an attempt to receive more sound, and then he realized what he heard. His heart rate immediately shot up, and his blood pressure followed suit as the color drained from his face. “H-Hotel California!”


---Well, it's the beginning of Chapter two. Props for anyone who knows where I got the name for the character. I constantly wear a piano necktie, by the way.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:42 am, edited 3 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Wed Nov 04, 2009 4:26 pm

Hmm, I can see now this is no ordinary school...it sounds even more satirical than anything else I've read/watched before, concerning schools. lol
You've painted the picture of what Ferrik looks like well. As for the school...I'm getting the strangest impression of something from Alice in wonderland...I don't know if that was your intention, but that is the general feel I'm getting from it.
I'm already starting to gather a lot of questions in my mind, reading this. It'll be interesting to see whether any ofthem get answered (I hope so), and if so, when.
Keep it up!

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Wed Nov 04, 2009 9:35 pm

This part has been combined with the rest of the chapter, and as such, nothing shall remain here until I find some better purpose for this space.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:41 am, edited 1 time in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 3:42 pm

This story really is beginning to pick up the pace. And Thomas seems like a very intriguing character - likable in the 'smashing windows in' sense lol
And of course the obvious question is - what is that sound? Really good first cliffhanger.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:19 pm

Hotel California as in the Eagles' song?
"You can check out any time you like,
but you can never leave"?

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:20 pm

Yuppie. One of my favorites, and it will be used quite frequently in the story.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:28 pm

I like that song

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:41 pm

Fievel wrote:Yuppie. One of my favorites, and it will be used quite frequently in the story.

Ah. A song as a reoccuring theme? I love stories that have that kind of plot device. *Thinking on Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes* :)

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:43 pm

It's a theme in more ways than one. That's all I'm going to say.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:49 pm

So the story's about drug addictions, insanity and the loss of innocence?

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:50 pm

It's a theme in more ways than one. That's all I'm going to say.

Ah, so it might well be like BBC's 'Life On Mars'! *secretive cackle*...or at least in the way that it's a theme in more ways than one. I won't assume it will go in exactly the same direction as Life On Mars, yet.
I wait to be surprised. Can't wait.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:54 pm

There's a lot of things that the story is about, and those are just some of them, Tragicom. The lyrics of the song themselves, when read literally can also be used to represent the story, in a depressing kind of way.

By the way, I like to give some characters personal themes, and these are the songs I listen to when developing some characters. Only two for now.
Ferrik: Mercy Kiss - Abandoned Pools
Thomas: It Was A Good Day - Ice Cube
The songs sort of describe them, but only sort of.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:58 pm

I see the first bit now actually for the litaral bit I mean.
Travelling and veering to the side because of a distraction and having to continue along the side.
Or I'm looking a little too much into it...

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.2

Fri Nov 06, 2009 1:36 am

Time for chapter two. It's a bit long...
-----------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 2: Briefing
Mr. Stevenson walked swiftly past the standing guards in the lobby, with cameras that seemed to follow his every movement as he made his way towards the elevator. Another group of security personnel stopped him as he approached the hallway leading to the elevator, but he flashed an identification card at the cards to verify that he belonged there, and they allowed him passage. Giving them a thin smile, he sauntered ahead of them and pressed the button with a down arrow, standing silently as his anxiety gradually began to build up, as he could not comprehend why they chose him to complete this task, which was clearly and easily too much for him to handle.

He accepted the assignment with apprehensive resignation, as he did not have the audacity to refuse or even debate his participation in this mission, and he probably would have been coerced into compliance even if he did manage to muster up enough bravery to speak out against the others. As such, there was no chance that he could have avoided his present predicament without simply putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, but his cowardly nature prevented him from even considering the thought, not that his fellow Committee members would care. Despite the fact that the revitalization of Quentin’s future school could not have been accomplished without his help, they continued to regard him with little more than the usual callous stares that shot through him at every board meeting, though he was beginning to grow accustomed to it.

Mr. Stevenson’s insides began to cause him discomfort as he entered the sliding metallic doors, which reflected his portrait back to him, causing him to turn his head to avoid meeting his own eyes. The inside of the elevator was entirely maroon, with silver handle bars on both sides that were perpendicular to the two entrances on either side of Mr. Stevenson. The ceiling was egg white, with an undersized light fixture hanging from the center that was embellished with little sea creatures were molded into the edges of the shade covering much of the light. The buttons were blue and the printing on them was colored white, with an extra three buttons that were to only be used in emergencies were red to enable those with colorblindness to discern that those buttons differed from the numbered ones.

The music playing in the background was mildly annoying, and also worked to weaken Mr. Stevenson's already minute resolve, with it's high pitched, yet seemingly random, bings and its general lack of harmony and substance. The echo in the room only made it more unbearable to the person listening, as the room was designed in such a way, that what should only be as loud as a pin dropping would sound like the fluttering of a stack of papers. Mr. Stevenson was tempted to press the button to open the doors, but his fear of repercussion for performing that action dissuaded him from going through with it.

It would take some time to reach the very bottom of the establishment, and Mr. Stevenson was informed that that time would be used to give him time to mentally prepare himself, and for him to review the briefing again so he would have less of a chance of botching his mission. He reached into his pockets and retrieved his cellphone, which had now been upgraded to a more recent model, and dialed Mr. Rumsley’s number, as he was the one who had been ordered to brief him. The phone rang a few times, then a voice was heard after a brief pause.

“Are you at the place we previously agreed upon?” Mr. Rumsley inquired.

“Y-Yes. There was no hassle.”

“Very well. I’m going to be succinct, so I trust you will be able to take in everything I tell you, as neither of us has enough time to spare. Are you prepared to memorize everything, even PINs, if necessary?”

“I…I suppose,” he concluded with uncertainty.

“You don’t sound too sure of yourself, but nevertheless, here are your objectives that you must complete in the order that they are dictated.”

Mr. Stevenson attempted to clear his mind of all thoughts, but only managed to panic himself further, and unable to regain his composure, he decided to take out a pen and paper and write his instructions, which he hoped he had time to read as he was frantically running back and forth doing whatever it was he had to do, which was probably an accurate description of what he was going to do.

“Alright, the first thing you must do, obviously, is to disrupt any technological surveillance equipment they may have in the bottom levels. Your disguise may have enabled you to get passed the inept sentinels they have hired, but that does not mean that the more observant head of security won’t be able to determine whether or not the company actually employs you. They have a record of everyone who has ever worked there, and as such, they will have no problems noticing you out of a crowd.”

Stevenson wrote inscribed those notes on the sheet of parchment despite the fact that he already knew that he would have to disable all surveillance devices in the area, and the fact that he had been reminded at least four times prior to arriving in the edifice.

“Those cameras that saw you earlier, we have confirmed that those are not as closely scrutinized as those that observe the lower, more vital levels, so there is little need to concern yourself with that. Just focus on the ones on the bottom floor.”

“That’s a relief,” added Stevenson with absolute sincerity.

“You will have to delete that footage from the database, however. Otherwise they will still be able to determine who it was who entered their establishment and unbeknownst to them, acquired a significant sum of their financial assets.”

“Will that be the same t-time that I delete the other information, or will that be done a-at a different time?” asked Stevenson hesitantly.

“They will be done simultaneously, but you cannot access the computer until you use the decoder on the PIN panel, which will hack into their database, retrieving various codes we can use to access their various files. The device is the one that Cue gave you earlier at the office. You will take out the USB link and insert it into the PIN panel by connecting the wireless data transfer device, or WDTD, to the PIN panel. This process should take approximately seven minutes, if you don’t waste any time, that is.”

Stevenson barely managed to keep up with Mr. Rumsley’s conveyance of his warnings and orders, just barely finishing the last word moments before he continued.

“It is known that there is a decent number of security personnel patrolling the perimeter of the area, their usual pathways, and their expected times of arrival to certain points have been programmed into your PDA. They are represented by the blue points on the map, while you are the green dot. The critical points for each objective are outlined in yellow, but the order in which you must arrive at them had not been included, as we only recently determined this information.”

Mr. Rumsley took another brief pause, and continued, “Once the decoder has obtained the required data, the only thing you have to do is connect it to the main database and Cue will handle the rest as you keep watch to ensure that the coast is clear. Once finished, you will then have to make as quick an exit as possible, as a total deletion of their information will result in the alarm going off, after which, people will be swarming every level to search for the culprit. You have only five minutes to make your escape out of any of the exits, which are marked in purple. Did you get all of that?”

“Y-Yes. I think so.”

“Very well then. Now do it. Do not disappoint us.”

And with that, the sound emanating from Stevenson’s phone transformed into static that was at least twice as loud as it should have been.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:26 am, edited 3 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.3

Fri Nov 06, 2009 1:15 pm

This is interesting...and a little confusing. Is Mr Stevenson infiltrating the school, or some other building? I don't know if perhaps I didn't read very carefully, but it doesn't seem to be very clear exactly where he is, apart from being in a high-security building.
Topic locked