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

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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R)

Postby Jasthn » Mon Dec 21, 2009 1:42 pm

It sounds familiar, my neighbor might have owned it. I've played a lot of games. Name a game, I've either owned it, own it, or played it somewhere before.

But if it's like twisted metal, I'd like to see a video of it, maybe it'll jog my memory. Which I'll do right now.
I GOT 'DEM HUMPS.
Doctress Who:You can be my Brony bitch ;D
Droctress Who:Jas, would you like me to make you a sandwich?
JesusChrist: Well if you insist Jasthn I'll use it with you. Spread them cheeks

Tragedy_and_Comedy: Jas is about as dangerous as a kitten.
Blood Lord:I hit your dog with mah truck. :3
Lenore Celestalis:*jumps on your back* weee~
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R)

Postby Fievel » Thu Dec 24, 2009 8:08 pm

------------------------ God Mode
Ch.3: Alliance
------------------------
The screen dissolved before Kirby, and the sound of footsteps grew louder as he remained motionless in the silent waters, and a shadowy figure materialized in the distance in the shape of a person wearing a lounge coat, with one hand sticking out slightly grabbing the tip of the coat. The person appeared relaxed and distressed simultaneously, and his hands fidgeted slightly as he slowly walked down the dark walkway still laden with random spots of wetness. His eyes seemed to pay no particular attention to anything in sight, instead jumping from sight to sight with no clear method to its madness, and the owner began pacing back and forth, evidently deciding that his present location was a suitable place to consider anything that his brain proposed to him, though he probably lacked the focus required for such a task at the moment.

His hands deeply entrenched within the confines of his pockets, they locked themselves within and their movements remained hidden from the general public, though the slight movements detectable on the outside suggested that he concealed something within and currently engaged in fiddling with it, perhaps attempting to get a good feel for it, or perhaps too distressed to think clearly and hold it with a steady hand. Kirby tried to angle himself to a better position to peek inside the person’s pockets, but the coat acted as a shroud and concealed the object’s identity from Kirby.

“Don’t think I can’t see you in there. Darkness isn’t a very good shroud once one becomes accustomed to the thin shadows, and it’s not like the water is a decent cover. You’re essentially using a veil of clear nothingness to hide your presence, though in actuality the darkness itself is what blocks you from the range of vision of the average passerby. Only if you go deep will the water provide adequate cover.”

Kirby started to panic at having been seen and considered reaching for his gun, but he didn’t know whether or not the person standing above him was a player or not, as his coat left no spot revealed to others, and he couldn't remember whether or not he saw him at the Player's Ball prior to the game's start.

“Yes. I am a player, and my name is Trent,” said the person kneeling down, removing his hands from his pockets as he did so, and Kirby immediately pulled out his weapon but halted himself the moment he realized that Trent chose not to retrieve his pistol, and instead brought his hands out empty.

“Why didn’t you pull out your gun? I have a massive advantage at the moment, and if I want to, I could easily just add another point to my score.”

“Must we kill one another? I believe the rules allow for cooperation,” recounted Trent, sitting back and turning his eyes from left to right, determining if anyone had become alerted to their presence.

“What makes you think I’ll agree to work with you?” inquired Kirby. “I’m already in the lead; don’t you think I can handle myself?”

“You’ll agree to work with me because you’re not an idiot, at least so far as I can tell. You may be doing well now, but others will also team up when they realize how impossible it is to achieve high scores with such great risks. They’ll realize that the only way to rack up high scores is to team up and take out hordes of people together, which is significantly more difficult with fewer people. Also, this alliance might help the two of us in future challenges, as we both know that they’re only going to get more difficult as we dwell further and further in the winner’s circle.” Trent paused briefly to scan the area again, then proceeded to bring up his proposition again, “So… What do you say?”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you, but I don’t see fault in your logic, so I suppose we shall work together until we no longer need to,” agreed Kirby, pulling himself from out of the water and onto the cold, hard ground above.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Trent, extending his hand in good faith.

He pulled Kirby up and then slowly ambled towards the light, turning shortly before reaching it, and staring intently at the ground below at a rock that somehow managed to find its way into the cool shade within the sewage system, though upon closer inspection, it revealed itself to be a hermit crab two miles from its natural habitat, and fifty feet from the pet store, which was probably where it originated from. Trent lifted the small creature off the ground and placed it in one of his front pockets, taking pity on it and with the intention to return it home.

“So… What should we do now? After we return this small thing to its home, of course.”

“I don’t know. We could always try finding a higher vantage point and just snipe the other players as we see them.”

“Don’t we need a sniper rifle for that?”

“The rules only say we can’t kill innocents. It never said anything about robbing them or their gun stores.”

“If that is your intention,” began Trent, “I’d suggest you hurry. Other people may consider this option as well, and if we’re late, we might as well shoot ourselves with our guns. First, let me take this delicate little creature to the pet shop.”

“Are you insane?” questioned Kirby. “The time that will be wasted on that venture could be better spent increasing our point totals.”

“Hey!” hushed Trent. “We have to respect nature.”

“Oh, great. I teamed up with a hippie.”

“You don’t have to be a hippie to be an animal lover,” said Trent, somewhat hurt by the thought, "also, you never said anything about it earlier."

“Whatever, if you seriously want to do this, then let’s hurry. I’d rather not lose so early in the game, or die for that matter.”

The two of them slowly popped their heads out from the ground and pulled themselves up when the judged the surroundings to be acceptable, then, when the opportunity arrived, they swiftly crossed the street, Trent cradling the hermit crab in his hands, and approached the Pet Store opposite the entrance to the sewers. A bell rung as they entered the establishment, and they immediately jumped for the nearest object large enough to cover them.
----------------------------------------------
It's been much too long since I last updated. Anyways here ya go. And here's the games where I got character's names from:
Kirby - What else?
Trent - Tyrian
Andrew - Bioshock
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R)

Postby Fievel » Thu Dec 24, 2009 8:46 pm

--------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 15: Amber
--------------------------------------
Mr. Nights sat apathetically in the tall amber loveseat, and despite the fact that he lived alone, a wide assortment of sofas and couches lined the walls and stood adamantly before the television, with each covered in a thin blanket to help preserve them. The number of couches present made it difficult for Mr. Stevenson to make his way to a seat to begin the conversation, but Mr. Nights had little trouble maneuvering his way to the dining room, which hid behind Mr. Stevenson, who now felt rather silly for not noticing it prior. A cat walked silently along his path, stopping to take note of his appearance, and then scurried off towards the staircase, hopping along the steps and up to the floor above, where it remained emphatically for no greater purpose other than to rest itself.

Mr. Nights gestured for Mr. Stevenson to sit on the opposite side of the table, though no chairs presented themselves to the occasion, so he was forced to sit on the floor, with his head barely managing to pop out over the table, and the fact that everything in the house stood taller than things in the average house certainly didn’t make the situation any better, but Mr. Nights paid it no mind. Instead, he saw it fit to drink his daily cup of tea, as he hailed from London, or rather, it hailed in London, once, though the people were sleeping at the time. Regardless of the weather in London, that hail resulted in him gaining the strange daily obsession with drinking tea and eating crumpets, though the part about the crumpets was because he actually enjoyed them and not simply because he had a mild lapse in sanity. Their slightly spongy texture, relatively flat top and the many air-filled holes attracted him so for reasons beyond his understanding, and whenever he ate one, he always coated it in a thin veil of maple syrup, his nation of origin’s greatest export, that flooded the tiny pores until the crumpet successfully absorbed a decent amount of the syrupy liquid.

“We need to start a dialogue,” proclaimed Mr. Nights, placing his china softly and slowly on the table, careful not to disrupt the integrity of the rather expensive piece of kitchenware. “There’s beginning to be too many periods of silent observation by that guy over there,” he concluded, pointing in no particular direction.

“I b-believe you may have some m-mental disorders, Mr. Nights. There’s nobody there,” revealed Mr. Stevenson, with his left eyebrow raised in a confused manner.

“Regardless, the point is that we need to come up with a plan so we can identify our attempted killer or killers, and I personally believe that they are associated with the organization.”

“W-Why? I say we just roll with it.”

“You know what,” began Mr. Nights, “your personality is as ill defined as you are.”

“W-Well, if you really want to d-do something, you c-could just investigate them, but I don’t really want anything t-to do with it. I have a wife and k-kid to think about. If I get on someone’s b-bad side, I’m practically asking them to beat m-my family with radishes,” reasoned Mr. Stevenson.

“Radishes?” wondered Mr. Nights, deeply confused.

“I don’t even know why I c-came here. I’ve nothing to gain from d-dabbling in the underworld, and I’ve no i-intention to place my f-family in danger of any sort,” said Mr. Stevenson, standing up but hitting his shoulder, as he had forgotten that he was sitting on the floor, then he ambled towards the door, with Mr. Nights remaining silent.

“If you find anything, feel free to tell me, but I shall not b-be assisting you in this,” and with that Mr. Stevenson attempted to push the door open, until he realized that the door’s handle had to be pulled on the side he stood on.

Mr. Stevenson walked out the doors silently, hoping to cause as little commotion as possible, and walked to his car, until he realized that Mr. Nights drove him here, after which he grabbed his cell phone from his left back pocket and dialed a taxi service that he knew operated at this time on this particularly pointless holiday. During his wait, he considered what he should do next, and remembered that he still hadn’t found his clothes since the day people attempted to assassinate him, and decided to go around town asking questions at places he frequented, though those were mostly bars and the occasional music shop that seemed to go bankrupt and open up at random.

The shining yellow taxi with black stripes along the back arrived suddenly, interrupting Stevenson’s train of thought, and stopped a few inches before Mr. Stevenson, who fell backwards at the shock it gave him, moving his legs quickly to avoid them getting crushed by the tires and the weight of the vehicle. He then stood up and grabbed the door handle, lifted it upwards, and pulled it back, moving the door out of the way for him to enter before realizing it was Ms. Ztake driving the taxi.

“W-What the hell a-are you d-doing here, Katie?” he shrieked in surprise, nearly falling to the grass below in the process due to the prolonged length of the increase in his blood pressure brought on by recent events.

“We all have day jobs, you know,” she responded, feeling somewhat insulted.
“I don’t…”

Silence came out of the radio and the air conditioner in the car.

“Are you going to get in or just stand there all day? What are you doing all the way out here anyways?” she inquired.

“Oh. Umm… Visiting a friend of mine I haven’t seen in a while.”

“Oh… Well that’s nice,” she said, not expecting Stevenson’s answer. “Get in already or I’ll leave you out there to rot in the nice weather.”

“All right, I suppose.”

“Where’re you heading, anyways.”

“Let’s go to Father O’Malley’s Bar.”

“Very well. You’re time starts now.”
----------------------------------------------------------------
I already had most of it done before I worked on God Mode, I just decided to finish it today.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R)

Postby Fievel » Sun Dec 27, 2009 5:40 am

------------------------QEFFAL
Ch.8: Colors
------------------------Ferrik
The air seemed to get lighter as the trio forced their feet through the grass that stood up to their knees, and ladybugs and young grasshoppers climbed onto their socks and pants unnoticed, leaving shortly afterward to continue on with their own business that involved consuming portions of the grass they inhabited. The walls around them gradually shifted to a more concrete form, with a singular design beginning to make itself known and a color other than that of the material it was made of presenting itself to the little piece of the world that bothered to look at it. Brick red was the uniform color, the presence of which becoming increasingly apparent as one glanced down the seemingly endless hallway with a faded glow towards the end of it.

A faint voice now echoed slowly along the flat walls, growing more quite and more silent until it faded into the black void that the trio left behind long ago. At the moment, the voice was unintelligible and indeterminable due to the low volume, but it seemed to have a melodic nature to it, as if singing or doing something of the sort, and it progressively grew more and more audible until the three perceived the words clearly.

“You can check out anytime you like,” sung a voice in the distance, with a tint of sadness vibrating in harmony with the melodic portion of the sound, “but you can never leave. Indeed.”

The voice gradually grew nearer and nearer as the trio silently and slowly snuck towards the direction of the voice, though they really had no reason to return to where they came from. Light poured through a now large opening and illuminated the stony steps, with progressively shrinking grass growing from the cracks in the corners of the stone tablets as they dwelt further and further into the green light in the room ahead. The light revealed a woman in the other room, with long, flowing blond hair that swung freely from her head with nothing tying it back or restraining it. Small, circular glasses with green-tinted lenses rested neatly on the tip of her nose, with the tip of the frame slowly transitioning from silver to green, with the ends being blunt hooks that wrapped around the hooks to prevent slippage.

She turned her gaze upwards as the trio entered the room and smiled lightly at them as they stopped inside, underneath the shade of a tall oak tree, with ivy wrapping itself around the base and the branches of the tree providing a place of residence for the small creatures that lurked in and around the old branches. She held a light colored guitar in her hands, with the body reflecting a calming green hue from a majority of the body and the rounded edge and a cool silver emanating from the strings and the attachments to the guitar, as well as a pure black resulting from the sunburst design. The strings remained motionless as she slid her fingers across the long neck and moved the towards the metallic extensions at the tip, twisting them with one hand and plucking the strings with the other as she was determining whether or not they needed alteration. Eventually, she decided that only one seemed to sound strange, and she adjusted the protruding metal pedal accordingly.

“So, what are you three doing down here?” the woman asked, positioning her fingers on the neck of the guitar and her other hand in place towards the other end of the strings. “Skipping class again, I presume. Not that it’s unusual for you to be doing as such, but down here isn’t quite in the norm for you guys.”

“Hiding,” answered Ferrik without much hesitation.

“Ah. That explains it, though you are quite lucky to have discovered this place. I doubt they’d even think to investigate these walls, assuming they even discover them. You see, the land down here is like a teacher’s paradise. A place where we are free to take breaks so long as we please.”

“Well… I guess that explains why we never see you at the Nurse’s Office,” said Miles.

“Oh. No. That’s because Ms. Lovelace likes to have a few too many,” corrected Ms. Lovelace.

“Did you really need to say that?” asked Mackwell.

“I suppose not,” she admitted. “It just sort of came out. Anyways, why don’t you all come with me, to the music hall, where perhaps the sweet sound of music will calm you better than I could hope to alone using my guitar.”
-------------------------------------------Gwen
The trees no longer barred their path in an incessant manner, and they became relatively sparse as compared with earlier, where they barely managed to see in any direction without a stump of lumber blocking their view. Now, however, with the trees in an evident lack of abundance, Gwen appeared significantly more content then she was previously, almost to the point where she started signing, but instead, she only managed to hum. Alice noted Gwen’s happiness, and her happiness in turn made Alice pleased, resulting in the two of them humming along and swaying their heads to “Paint It Black,” a song that certainly did not reflect their current emotions.

The two of them entered a circular room lit by a grey light on one side of the room and a blue light on the other, with a lamp that possessed both colors split down the middle framing a peculiar design similar to that of the sign of Cancer in the celestial zodiac in perfect radial symmetry, excluding the small crack on the side with the gray light that stretched out, almost touching the center. On either side of the divide stood a type of piano, on the gray side a synthesizer, and on the blue side a harpsichord with the first b flat key from the left scratched, creating a small chip in the side.

“Wonder why this room is designed in such a way,” said Gwen walking towards the synthesizer.

“Where are we, anyways?” asked Alice.

“Good question. We never did manage to find a map, but this room seems pointless, let’s move on to another area, perhaps one that has more meaning behind its design.”

“Very well,” said Alice, somewhat disappointed at not being able to examine the room further.

“Who knows, maybe we’ll find a map in the next room.”
-------------------------------------------------
Hmmmmm. Not sure about this one. Anyways...

An update of QEFFAL! Yay!
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R)

Postby Fievel » Mon Dec 28, 2009 10:15 pm

------------------------QEFFAL
Ch.9: Mixtures And Solutions
------------------------Prescott
The principal, well aware of what was occurring throughout the school, began considering everything in order to come up with a feasible solution to the violence that broke the silence and tranquility of his slumber. He knew that his subordinate, Envidi, was most likely the cause of the problems that plagued the school like the rats did much of Europe, and that in order to bring everything back to the calm nature of nearly a decade ago, when he didn’t need to go to the bar nearly every day to avoid the daily traumas he tried to ignore in his office, he needed to work while avoiding Envidi’s ever-watchful eyes. While he detested admitting it, he acknowledged the fact that Envidi’s intellect rivaled that of his own, though Prescott rarely displayed his insightfulness to others, and if he did not take precautionary measures in his schemes, Envidi’s response would most certainly end in Prescott’s undoing.

“What should I do?” pondered Prescott, scratching his chin. “What will I do?” he wondered, shaking his head. “What can I do?” he thought, emphasizing can in his own head as he lowered his head, making it parallel the surface of the smooth table.

The school’s vice principal, Envidi, simply known as Fire Starter to the students, is a stark contrast to Prescott, more commonly referred to as Chuckles by students, as his practicality, efficiency, and stringency, strongly differed from Prescott‘s frequent intoxication, imperceptiveness, and languidness. Envidi’s history in and of itself deserves more praise than his superior, Prescott, with whom, he gets in several arguments with over the most nonsensical and mundane subjects, most of which pertained to nothing of importance and easily angered him due to Prescott’s rather simplistic view of the world. Envidi never allowed much room for error and nonsense, and he preferred to conserve as much of the facility’s resources as possible, and he made being ecological mandatory for all members of the staff, though one wouldn’t be able to deduce that without knowing him personally due to his frequent extravagant waste of paper and his arsonist tendencies, which first became apparent during the last fire drill the school experienced.

Out of frustration for the children’s lack of concern and sincerity regarding the numerous fire drills, he ordered several students to drown certain classrooms in various forms of paper and flammable materials. Then, on the day of their next fire drill, he detonated the entire left side of the school and spent less than one percent of his monthly salary funding the repairs of the entire east, north, and south wings, though he was not charged with arson, or any other criminal indictments. Most people believe that he bribed the federal, state, and local police with large sums of cash, but the truth, which Prescott was aware of, is that the police were generally afraid to arraign him of any charges in the first place, as they believed that their social futures were at stake and did not want to end up homeless on the streets considering the vast political power of the leaders of QEFFAL and the fact that the only person who bother to use his political weight was Envidi.

“No friends, have I, I think, unless he, maybe…” thought Prescott with his elbows on his desk and his hand holding up his head.

Prescott removed himself from his seat slowly and half-heartedly, thoughtlessly rearranging the pencils on his desk out of habit and then proceeded to pace towards the closed window, which he opened upon reaching. He glanced upwards and peered out his office window to see whether anyone was spying on him, then, at a moment’s notice, he leapt outside and immediately started to utilize his five years on the track team.
------------------------Devon
He heard voices chattering in the room before him, with an unnecessarily elaborate and embellished door blocking the path towards the origin of the voices that slipped through the small slits between the two doors and between the doors and the ground, where light also crawled through, leaving a small imprint of a faded light blue on the fresh, smooth carpet that bent around Devon’s shoes. Small spiders and white webs made their homes in the corners and edges of the seemingly sparsely used hallway with miniature silver chandeliers hanging from gold plated chains attached to the ceiling every few feet along the way.

He placed his head lightly on the door and tilted his head so that his ear rested on the slit leading to the other room in hopes that he could hear them better. When he discovered that it had no effected, he decided to simply barge in the room and see who occupied the other room, taking advantage of the surprise brought on by the sudden entrance to the room to eliminate his foes, should they be the people he needed to kill. He took a quick, deep breath and repositioned himself in a manner that best suited his intentions and then charged at the door, with his feet still making no noise, and he retrieved two small cylinders from his jacket pockets, holding them like knives.

He kicked the door open with his feet as he leapt at the door, taking a martial arts stance in midair, and hit the dead center of both doors with his feet also preparing his weapons simultaneously. When he entered the room, he nearly threw them at the people he saw, until he recognized them as Alice and Gwen, as he worked with both occasionally, and then he quickly withdrew his weapons to keep their secrecy.

“Gwen? Alice? What are you two doing down here?” he asked with sincere surprise.

“We’re looking for some people,” answered Gwen without thinking.

“You mean the escapee and the accomplices? Good. Then you take that door on the right, and I’ll take the door on the left. Tell me if you see anything,” he said while walking out the door on the other side of the room, still antsy due to the adrenalin rush from earlier.

Gwen and Alice stared at each other in silence, and then Gwen decided to be the one to talk, “We’re sure they weren’t over there, right? If he finds them, there will be blood all over the place.”

“I’m not sure. We just have to hope that they’re somewhere along the way Devon wants us to take."
-----------------------Ferrik
“So… Ms. Lovelace… where exactly are we?” asked Ferrik, taking note of the strange markings on the wall.

“This, my friend, is the Music Center, the room that leads to all of the music contained within the walls of this school and labyrinth. Every instrument we use originates from here and returns at the end of every year after being repaired and properly cleaned.”

“Every instrument? That’s quite a few,” said Mackwell, walking towards one of the doors and poking his head through the opening.

“Yes, but one holding room has been having problems lately. You are free to wander around aimlessly in this area and play the instruments, but be careful not to wander to far, lest you return to that horrid maze designed solely to kill. Now… if you’ll excuse me,” she said, bowing before she turned and walked towards a room with a violin-shaped symbol above the door.

“This is somewhat fascinating,” said Ferrik, walking towards the center of the room, and then pausing to look around. “Which one to take…”
----------------------------------------
Fun times...
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R)

Postby Fievel » Thu Dec 31, 2009 11:26 pm

--------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 16: Cats In The Cradle
--------------------------------------
“So, this is our first stop?” wondered Ms. Ztake, staring at the “Open” sign in the window of the aging bar.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I figure I come here enough for it to be a plausible place to start my search for whatever the hell I did that day I can’t remember.”

“I guess, but I’m pretty sure there are several other places that you go to much more than this. Like the office, or the coffee shop, or the coffee shop.”

“Nope. My gut instinct says to start here, and I always have to listen to my gut, unless using logic is the more reasonable option.”

Ms. Ztake said nothing in response and the two of them entered the bar.

The wooden fan above the counter spun at a constant speed, barely avoiding the numerous glasses and bottles next to it and providing a steady flow of cool air that the bar patrons somewhat welcomed in the warming spring months, though the mosquitoes and flies that came along with the watery weather received a significantly worse reception. A man in the corner, swatting flies swarming around his key lime pie, typed endlessly on his laptop, though his expression suggested that his purpose at the bar was not recreational, but rather depended on necessity, especially as he cursed under his breath at the lousy internet connection. A refuse container with flies resting on the rims sat beside him and a wide hodgepodge of garbage and crumbled bits of paper rested neatly inside, with the implication of his occupation coming through with a few neatly rolled papers and a hint of green at the bottom of the bin. Nobody ever bothered to concern themselves with him as he typically kept to himself and never truly bothered anyone, and from what the bartender and the waitress frequently implied, which contrasted what most people believed about him, his friends were well fairly wealthy and visited him frequently for his useful, scarce services which some people desperately required.

Mr. Stevenson dealt with him on one occasion in place of a friend, but other than that, they had little interaction, and Mr. Stevenson barely knew anything about him other than his physical qualities and the fact that he enjoyed a decent game of poker, regardless of whether he won or not, which Mr. Stevenson found mildly unusual for a person who appeared to be nearly constantly drunk, though he claimed he never drank in public, but most people assumed this to be false. Mr. Stevenson waved hello as he entered alongside Ms. Ztake, who many people often confused for Stevenson’s wife, though in actuality, Stevenson’s wife lived in the province of Nova Scotia, in a city named Halifax, which Stevenson only visited on actual holidays not conceived by the government as another pointless holiday.

Mr. Stevenson glanced around the room, noticing that very few people occupied any seats in the bar that was thinly disguised as a restaurant, thought the only things they served that weren’t drinks consisted of hot wings, regular hamburgers, a salad, a rather limited assortment of desserts. He recognized nobody other than the man in the corner with the laptop and the owners of the establishment, with the daughter working as a waitress, though due to the slow business lately, her workload decreased substantially. The father retained his place behind the counter, preparing people’s drinks whenever they entered, as a majority of the people who went there were regulars, though for some reason none appeared to want a drink today. Mr. Stevenson reasoned that it must have been a result of the holiday, though he never realized that people took it so seriously.

Ms. Ztake sat at a high chair next to the counter and awaited service as Mr. Stevenson continued to stare at the emptiness in relative confusion. She tapped her fingers a few times and then, after having waited a minute without receiving any attention, she rang the bell, seeing that the employees were doing nothing that either party considered purposeful. Doing so revived the thought processes of three of the characters presently central to the advancement of the plot.

“Hello, Harold and Lidia Watkins,” greeted Mr. Stevenson as he approached the counter, taking his place in a seat directly in front of the faucet on the other side.

“Oh, Madison, ‘eather, ‘ello again. I ‘aven’t seen the two of you since… ‘ell, I don’t know ‘ow long it’s been,” said Harold, who had a speech impediment forbidding the pronunciation of the letter h when it was used as the single consonant in the phonemes of a word.

“Oh, and congratulations, by the way, Madison,” said Lidia in a cheerful manner, nodding at Mr. Stevenson before grabbing a broom to clean up a mess she noticed on the floor where two customers recently departed.

“Congratulations? For what?” Stevenson asked leaning forward on the counter until he began to hear the wooden support beams and much of the establishment beginning to make a strange, cracking noise that suggested it was perhaps time to take cover.

Mr. Stevenson barely managed to find cover before a portion of the ceiling, with the caption “Expires 06/04/2010” written across the sturdy piece of the debris resting on the wooden boards below as the building continued to sway back and forth. The people near the door rushed out and proceeded to force themselves into the thin windows of their cars and drove off in a panic, causing traffic a few blocks away. The rest all cowered underneath the tables and the counter, hoping and praying that they not be crushed by relatively light plaster or fiberglass, with the more intelligent people praying that the building return to stability, lest they have to find a new place to have their drinks, which many found to be a rather tedious task.

“Mizz Take, upon further reflection,” began Mr. Stevenson, covering his eyes instead of the back of his head, “I really don’t think we’re going to find the answer to what I’m searching for in a place like this. What do you think?”

“Yeah… not really the sort of thing you should be focusing on right now,” commented Ms. Ztake, mildly shocked at Stevenson’s statement.

The quaint establishment continued to collapse upon itself light a supergiant star does before it transforms itself into a black hole, or like an obese man or woman does to become more acceptable to society, only to be forever limited in the quantity of what they consume by having their stomach stapled, as opposed to simply limiting it themselves, which would still enable them to eat excessively occasionally. The door fell forward, the wall connecting to the hinges having broken off the rest of the surface, and Mr. Stevenson shoved himself further into the corner below the counter.
--------------------------------------
Again, I didn't expect this to happen.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) 12/31/09

Postby Fievel » Tue Feb 02, 2010 2:02 am

Alright. The Directory has been set up. Thanks again for the idea, Doc. It makes navigating so much easier. It is on the first page, on the first post, and some of the chapters have had their parts moved around, as I originally didn't post full chapters back then.

Now, on to the works themselves. I have obtained renewed interest in these works after several weeks of general apathy towards these pieces, and as such, I will begin working on them on a somewhat regular basis. Perhaps not with the frequency of before, but at least I am working again. I'll probably just work on Which Way Is Left until I can get back in the swing of things, after which I will begin updating the other two again, and have the other one completely edited. I already have chapter two for that one edited as much as I wanted to edit it, and it will be posted upon completion of the editing of the first chapter.

Before The End Of Time is not one of my favorite creations. In fact, I rather don't like it very much compared to my other ideas, but I love the multiple antagonists of the series and the traumas the protagonists are frequently put through, so I'll still work on it.

Just a heads up pee-poles.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) 12/31/09

Postby Fievel » Thu Feb 04, 2010 12:23 am

Oh. My. Fucking. Gawd. It lives!

-------------------------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 17: Sleep Better
-------------------------------------------------------
A slab of thin plaster hovered above the ground, wavering back and forth with no particular direction in mind, but eventually the wind forced it to take up residence on the left side of Mr. Stevenson’s partially unconscious body that made slight movements every few seconds to indicate that he continued to live despite having been crushed by a random assortment of debris from above. He began to flop about in a manner similar to a fish on dry land once he fully regained his mental capacities for no particular reason other than that he felt compelled to do as such. He sluggishly moved his legs until he was in a position that resembled that of a crawling motion, exhaling deeply as he did so due to the strain that came as a result of being crushed by relatively light objects. A piano also started to echo in his head, though he was not familiar with the particular piece that presently played in a minor chord, not that he knew very many musical works that included a piano, but some compositions in the rock genre utilized a piano as one of its frequently used instruments.

He finally stopped flapping about wildly after a few seconds passed, though the sounds from the piano, which had now morphed into nothing but mere cacophony, continued to linger in his mind, taunting him as he finally came to his feet and glanced about. Ms. Ztake and the others appeared to not have been greatly harmed by the ordeal; in fact, they seemed to have avoided it altogether, as they remained uncovered by any large materials that typically crushed people in such situations, though their unconsciousness suggested that something else managed to do the job instead, and quite well at that, especially considering the fact that Mr. Stevenson already rejoined the dying alive people, whereas the other three continued to take a nap on the hard, incredibly uncomfortable floor beneath them.

After another couple of minutes passed by, Ms. Ztake joined Mr. Stevenson in his wakefulness, though her reaction to regaining consciousness was not nearly quite as bizarre as Stevenson’s response, and nothing worthy of note occurred during her gradual readjustment to self-awareness and performing basic motor skills at an adequate level, though that passed relatively quickly. Afterward, the two of them assisted Mr. Watkins and his daughter out of the wreckage and pulled them to the side, allowing them to rest somewhat more comfortably in a location less cluttered with random debris and beverage containers with unidentified liquids pooling around their shattered remains. Not knowing what else to do at the moment, the two of them sat on a box that happened to be resting along the side of the building next door, which happened to house a mattress dealership.

They noticed the expiration date on a piece of former ceiling as they sat there, completely and utterly exhausted from waiting, and they stared at it in bewilderment, as the building collapsed on the same day that was written across the thin slab of generic ceiling. In the end, they decided to put it at the back of their minds to avoid thinking about something so pointless, and the thought of Ms. Watkins’ last words came to the forefront of Mr. Stevenson’s mind as he attempted to force the thought forward, attempting to remember it, but to no avail. Eventually, he grew fidgety as the inability to resurrect the thought left him somewhat panicked, as a nagging feeling bit at him interminably, dictating to him as it persisted in nibbling him that it was information worthy of contemplation and consideration.

According to a watch that currently rested on the cold concrete, only twenty minutes had passed since the building first began to noticeably collapse, and yet no ambulances seemed to be in the area, clearly meaning that either nobody bothered to call them, or that they were on their daily tea smelling break, which happened more than once a day, considering how rarely people saw them at the hospital during the daytime. More often than not, they simply played games of hockey at the local ice rink, as very few people seemed to be in need of immediate medical attention, and the responses of the people who actually did receive an injury equated to little more than an, “I’m hurt. Eh,” and the ambulance drivers and their assistants were beginning to grow tired of such unlively responses from the generally unpleasant masses who happened to reside in the suburban regions of the city.

Mr. Stevenson decided to call the local hospital and explained their situation, and the lone dispatcher alerted a nearby driver who claimed to have nothing better to do at the moment, as he was merely playing tic-tac-toe against himself, pathetically losing every game, ultimately proving to himself that he was impossible to defeat without assistance. Once the dispatcher started doing nothing but speak casually on a subject unrelated to the accident, Mr. Stevenson closed the cell phone and disconnected, judging a furthering of the conversation to be nothing more than an unnecessary waste of the cell phone’s battery life, which already seemed to be lower than recommended for possibly long trips to locations unknown. Meanwhile, Ms. Ztake rummaged through the ruins of the bar in search of any others who may still lie beneath the heavy covers, tossing everything to the side, in a safe place far from where the two survivors already claimed with their lack of conscious movement.

Upon closing the cell phone, Mr. Stevenson began assisting Ms. Ztake in her endeavors, hastening but not quite doubling the speed of progress she made prior to his support, as he was approaching the task with a general lack of enthusiasm, as the phone call drained a majority of the energy he gained from his mildly pleasant rest nearly thirty minutes ago, as was clearly evident in his face, which had grown extremely pale and ragged since then. When Ms. Ztake glanced upwards during the continuation of her seemingly endless chore, she let a slight shriek escape her lips as she noticed this quick and sudden change, as well as the words which seemed to have been formed on his forehead, which appeared to say, “I am exhausted.” Agreeing that they completed enough work for the moment, she returned to the rather sturdy box, placing a cigarette between her lips, and, using a lighter she obtained from the wreckage, set the end ablaze, after which she grabbed it and held it in the air as she allowed a cloud of smoke to be released into the already impure air that surrounded her.

Mr. Stevenson joined her on the box, having heard the sound of the sparks being created with the lighter, and she handed him one of the extra cigarettes she had been carrying, after which, she uttered, “You do realize,” she began, pausing to exhale more smoke, “that your bill is going to be very fucking huge at the rate this is going.”

Mr. Stevenson responded with a shrug and opened his mouth to say, “Meh. I’ve got plenty of money to spare, I suppose.”

“Works for me,” she replied with a grin across her face that was thinly covered by the smoke she just blew out.

After boredom obtained a rank of higher prominence than previously, the two of them finally decided to play a game of rock, paper, scissors to preoccupy themselves as the awaited either the eventual awakening of Mr. Watkins and his daughter, or the arrival of the police force or some medical transportation.
------------------------------------------------------------------
This felt really boring to write, but then I realized that there was very little dialogue in this chapter.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) Feb/03/10

Postby Fievel » Thu Feb 04, 2010 7:30 pm

------------------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 18: Possum Kingdom
------------------------------------------------
For the most part, neither of them were winning the game of rock, paper, scissors, yet they the time since they started exceeded three minutes, and they had played forty-two games, and both remained flabbergasted as yet again, this match resulted in a draw, though this time the both of them revealed a pair of horribly soft rocks composed of their flesh and a few bones that constituted their physical framework. They both stared at their hands in awe and disbelief, wondering what the probability of such an occurrence was and Mr. Stevenson suddenly felt as Guildenstern, though he didn’t desire making a monologue of similar length, in fact, he didn’t want to make one at all. He much preferred displaying his disbelief through remaining silent, as it required much less effort, and it still displayed the emotion properly, and in the end, that is the only thing that truly mattered, and Ms. Ztake’s reaction conveyed a similar message, though her brows expressed more uncertainty and confusion than did Mr. Stevenson. Mr. Stevenson was meanwhile attempting to feign calmness and ignorance regarding the improbability of what happened, or rather what continued to happen.

“Either we’re quite terrible at playing this game, or something awfully strange is occurring,” said Ms. Ztake after approximately twenty seconds of silence and stillness.

“Or perhaps we’re doing exceptionally well,” proposed Mr. Stevenson. “Clearly such a feat would not be possible for the average human, and I’ve not heard of such a happening prior to this day, except once, perchance, though that may have been little more than a rumor, as is quite common with this kind of thing. Many people seemed to be compelled to lie about an accomplishment which really should mean little to the populace, though they seem to find this kind of information quite intriguing.”

“Such an event doesn’t occur too frequently, so they are rightfully interested in such a thing. After all, people continue to be fascinated by Haley’s comet, though we all know that it shall return again someday in the future, though not for quite some time.”

“I’ll never understand the bizarre fascination for the predictable,” announced Mr. Stevenson, almost entirely serious. “We’ve already taken a picture of the damn thing, so why should we remain interested in when it’s going to return to us? If you want to look at it through a telescope, just put it under glass and squint at it.”

“Such a close-minded and superficial thought gets us nowhere,” Ms. Ztake retorted, her mouth transforming into a frown. “You have to go beyond what you see to know why it remains such an interesting subject.”

“Why are we even talking about this? Where is the ambulance?” Mr. Stevenson wondered, not wanting the further the discussion, as he found it fairly dull.

“Good question,” she said.

The two of them returned to their previous routine, though they no longer defied the laws of probability, or rather, they continued to, but the situation simply reversed itself. The amazement this time was considerably less than the last time, and they quickly grew bored of the game and decided to just sit and stare at the grey, fluffy clouds above that appeared to be apathetic on the whole towards the city at the moment, with them just indolently drifting along, providing no resistance against the calm wind, as they judged the struggle to be mostly futile, and they would much prefer to rest their weary heads on themselves, as they found themselves to be quite comfortable, albeit extremely wet. Despite the gradually darkening appearance of the clouds, they didn’t seem to be ready to precipitate, though a light storm seemed to be approaching from further north. Thin rays of light pierced through small holes in the surface of the clouds, and they shone down on select areas, providing slightly more visibility for some, essentially the people not presently driving, and proved to be somewhat of a bane for those who were, especially with the numerous reflections of the light that seemed to be lurking around every corner for no known reason.

The ambulance and its driver finally its appearance on the side of the road, and the driver was joined by a couple of others, presumably there to help lift Mr. Watkins and his daughter and to keep a watchful, hopefully caring, eye on them as they driver drove, which, considering the fact that it was rather improper for a driver to not keep his eyes on the road, thought there remained other methods for the ambulance driver to distract himself from such trivial matters. Unfortunately, Mr. Kennings, the ambulance driver, prided himself in being one of the most cautious and precise drivers within the municipality, and the cookie dough that came as a result was delicious, more so than one might believe it to be, as chocolate chips made themselves known to society by sticking their heads out of the rocky terrain and peered out at the world, attempting to force smiles of joy to staple themselves upon the soft faces of the innocent masses. The taste of it always seemed to be too much for the common people to handle by themselves.

“What now?” asked Ms. Ztake, the feel of concern having been lifted along with the stretchers into the ambulance, which was in the process of leaving.

“Perhaps I should go home. There was something Lidia said that didn’t sound right, and I think it had something to do with my wife, and even if she doesn’t want to talk about it, I can still ask my daughter if she knows anything.”

“Why didn’t we go to the hospital? I mean, we received injuries as well,” she wondered aloud.

“We have a greater purpose, and something as small as a broken bone can be corrected without any trouble at all,” he replied.

Ms. Ztake shrugged in response.

“Are you really going to count the time we spent unconscious towards the fare?” Mr. Stevenson asked after getting no response from Ms. Ztake, hoping for a certain answer in particular.

She sat silently for a moment and then answered, “Maybe,” as she began walking towards her yellow cab, which emerged from the collapse unscathed, though it did rest quite far from where the building formerly stood.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Too much candy. Head hurt. Bleargh.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) Feb/04/10

Postby Fievel » Sun Feb 21, 2010 6:01 pm

--------------------------------------QEFFAL
Ch. 10: Dark Hallways
--------------------------------------Prescott
Unfortunately, Prescott never actually ran during the time he was technically listed as being on the track team, as most of the time he merely sat on the grass beside the black track, or on a nearby bench that rested on the grass, taking large gulps of water as the rest of his classmates ran seemingly tirelessly down the endless, slightly bumpy walkway that allowed for a decent number of the team to be able to practice and participate at once. His inactivity back then was partially caused by the fact that one of his legs temporarily lost its optimal capacity for running and the like, as he injured himself while running one day, but after spending several months claiming that his leg continued to suffer from being sprained, the coaches and instructors began to have their doubts, or rather, their doubts that they possessed to start with were simply confirmed. Regardless of whether or not his minor injury proved to be a significant bane to him in his earlier years, his time with the track team presently gave him little assistance in charging as quickly as he possibly could towards the nearest secret entrance into the facility, which clearly represented itself in his excessively audible breathing and his frequent inclinations to pause for a moment to inhale some additional air, though he at least prevented himself from going that far. He finally regretted doing nothing during that time several years ago, though at the same time he agreed with the fact that he did not make use of that time, almost in an appreciative manner, though his thoughts immediately shifted to the situation at hand, lest he forget why he climbed out the window in the first place.

At the moment, he could only think of one entrance that had a high probability of being hidden from view and safe from intrusion by an unwelcome party, as it remained fairly detached from the rest of the institution, though that was not necessarily by design, as the line that appeared in the original drawing before it was made into a blueprint was a coffee stain that refused to surrender its place on the thin piece of paper. Technically, they regarded it as the fault of nobody, and a rather unfortunate stranger was fined an unexpectedly small sum of money to pay for the additional, unnecessary walls that were used.

Prescott stopped before a seemingly normal wall and knelt down, feeling around the edges for something that would enable him to pass, but then he realized that it was, in fact, just a plain part of the wall, so he moved himself to the left a few paces and repeated the process, though this time he succeeded in finding what he searched for, and the wall began to slide to the left, forcing itself into a hidden slit and clearing the way for Prescott to pass. He looked to the right and left of him, and, after concluding that he was safe, stealthily snuck into the dark passageway that recently revealed itself to him and instantly pressed a button on the side of the wall the moment he reached a safe enough distance from the entrance that wouldn’t have him crushed by the portion of the wall that was presently misplaced. The pathway became entirely obscured by the darkness that had remained in the corners previously, and Prescott clung to the walls, scrambling his hands about randomly in search of the switch that would bring light to the lengthy corridor.

He spent several minutes in a similar fashion, and for a few moments, he almost resolved to surrender himself to the dark, but he realized that he didn’t recall which direction he came from, and opening the wall from the hallway he was presently lost in would be quite difficult no matter the direction he took if light wasn’t present, and his present state of intoxication certainly wouldn’t help him in that regard. Several times, he thought he encountered what he sought on the wall, but it always turned out to be just a corner of a stone block that constituted the wall, and several times, he broke down into a drunken sob, which was magnified by his depression, and his thoughts again turned to giving up, but he always resolved to get back to searching.

Finally, he found the light switch he was searching for, and he flipped it into the “on” position, and discovered that he barely moved three feet from the door he entered from.

“Are you fucking serious!?” he shouted with a mixture of rage, annoyance, frustration, hopelessness, depression, and a multitude of other emotions. Then he sighed, first angrily, then hopelessly, coming to the realization that arguing about it with nothing would solve no problems.

“Now to get through this annoyingly long hallway,” he said to himself as resolution as he stared down the walkway.

---------------------------------------Gwen
“Did we try this way yet?” asked Gwen, who was becoming increasingly distraught as every turn brought more and more disappointment and worry.

“Yes. I believe we have tried that way,” replied Alice, who remained calm despite the increasing likelihood of danger that her friends could encounter.

“What about this way?” she asked, her legs and arms beginning to shake in fear for her friends.

“Don’t worry, Gwen. I’m certain that they will be able to handle themselves should they run into Devon. And yes, we have also tried going that way,” she added casually.

"Seriously? Damn it!" she shouted, swinging her left hand at the air in frustration. "How are we supposed to find them if we can't even remember where we've been?"

"I believe that we have yet to travel in these two directions," Alice said, pointing between two doors that stood behind Gwen.

Gwen frantically began twisting and turning her head in every direction to determine which paths they hadn’t taken yet. One of them displayed the image of a harp presented in carrot orange, and the one beside it displayed a guitar, which Gwen assumed was an electric bass, which was displayed in palatinate blue. Uncertain on which one to take, she was leaning towards going in the direction of the bass guitar, as she wasn’t particularly fond of the harp or the sound it produced when its strings were plucked.

“I really hope they’re somewhere over here,” Gwen finally said after a couple of minutes of silence and thinking as she started walking towards the bass guitar, hoping she would see her friends and that some splendid models of the instrument lied beyond the door underneath the symbol.

“I just hope that they’re safe,” said Alice.
--------------------------------------------------
Yay. Prescott's gaining significance in the story.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) Feb/21/10

Postby Fievel » Sun Feb 21, 2010 6:48 pm

New, or rather, old story time. From the hidden depth of my computer, er... laptop, comes a tale of some thoroughly disturbed individual, and it is a true sci-fi story. Don't know why, but I suddenly decided to start working on it, and now, I'm deciding to share it with you people.

--------------------------------Yet To Be Named
Ch. 1
--------------------------------Adelle Clarence Werther
Fires scattered about, with the sound of shrieking people ringing loudly in my ears, and I decided to take refuge in a nearby alleyway I frequented, not that it would offer much protection against the slowly advancing flames, but if I was going to die, I would prefer to do it in a place I find to be quite comfortable, though in truth, there was little to fear from my position, as the inferno approached more sluggishly than most people who were running frantically with fear in their faces seemed to notice. They were all idiots anyways. Always discussing the most arbitrary subjects with callous disregard for those who truly reserved the right to complain about that which they did not possess, namely the necessities of food, water, shelter, and to a rather noticeable extent, the opportunity to discuss that which the others were only a few hours ago were conversing about. Also that of being alive, as many people would probably prefer to not have died. Regardless of what transpired around me, its effect would be ephemeral, as it would eventually, inevitably, pass, with nothing but a scorch mark on the ground’s surface, though remaining in this literal hell would probably result in my death, which didn’t care to end just yet.

The buildings began to collapse upon themselves, effectively becoming their own downfall, and they created craters in the burning cement, warmed by the proximity of the flames and the fact that the sewers, which contained liquids that were quite flammable, were underneath the city streets, fueling the already expanding fires all throughout the city. Window panes across the street melted and were crushed by the fall of the support beams distributed among the skyscrapers that pierced the heavens with their lavish display of plainness and simplicity that inspired little other than a desire for the day to end shortly so one may return to their abode to go rest and relax and do nothing in general as the sun fell over the mountains and the moon greeted us with its casual, pleasant embrace of darkness and calmness that so soothes me in the nighttime when I’m lying in the alleyways, sheltered by nothing but a thin sheet of an outdated newspaper that I had long since finished. It wasn’t particularly entertaining as it was irrelevant when considering recent events, as the teachers’ union strike would no longer be of any importance now that the schools were burnt to a nice crisp. I never went anyways. Didn’t need it. I used something better to learn everything about the world outside me, making me significantly more intelligent than the general scum that could be found on a walk in the park, with their juvenile humor and their supposedly delicate minds. Children are not so innocent, as many people believe them to be. Little separates them from the filth who spawned them, though, as always, a few exceptions can be found if one looks hard enough.

The fire came too near for my taste, so I decided to abandon my usual resting spot, bidding it farewell as I turned my back on it, and began walking in the direction opposite the warmth, into the equally desolate, ravaged streets that had been trampled on a moment ago. Few residents continued to make their way through the barren roads, though they clearly did not know where to go in case of an emergency, which, as I heard, could either be the airport or the train station or the space station or any of the other stations that could be traveled to in times like these. Having had enough of the day to day rabble of the populace of this insipid planet, I resolved to leave the whole damn place entirely, maybe get a fresh start where the average citizen didn’t have the intelligence of a dead horse. As such, the space station was my only reasonable option, though probably I’d have to sneak on board since I didn’t usually carry my identification papers with me anymore, what with being homeless and all. Quite pointless really, but that’s what happens when dead people forget to pay their bills.

The station would take quite some time to walk to, so as I walked I scanned the area for any mode of convenient transportation, such as a motorcycle, but the only one I managed to find was a gunmetal grey Kawasaki ZX-7RR model that had been tied quite meticulously to a traffic light, with a teal ticket taped to the handlebars, though why someone used a thread rope instead of a bike lock or something more modern confounded me. Luckily, I carried a knife with me, in case I ever needed to mug anyone or defend myself, and I sliced the rope, fraying the edges and untangling the thread. I kicked the old-fashioned rope aside and removed the oddly colored ticket, crumbling it and tossing it to the street as I took my position on the motorcycle. With the keys still in the motorcycle, another strange occurrence, that of a person cowering in fear as opposed to running away from a portion of a building that was clearly about to collapse, happened on a street that was visible from my present position, but quite aways away from me, and I, not seeing a reason to do otherwise, decided to simply ignore the person in mortal peril and simply drive off, but something, some strange, yet strong, inclination, forced me to make a backward glance, back at the girl, and I quickly leaned to the right and executed a swift turn and immediately twisted the handlebars to increase my speed. I didn’t understand why, but something made me want to rescue her. Far be it from me to question myself.

The rubber tires rotated at a constant speed until they came into contact with a strange substance that appeared to be leaking from an unknown source from within the building to my right, and this contact resulted in the tires separating themselves from the warm cement beneath it and force their movements o become more haphazard and generally uncontrollable, and I, preferring not to be injured in such a manner, attempted to propel myself from the vehicle, though the end result proved to be less than successful, as my face came into contact with the pavement below and I received a decent injury to the head. I could see trails of blood slithering from my head, though the impact made me lose my sense, and that connection was beyond my grasp. I felt an intense pain, and everything seemed blurred and hazy. I retained the capacity for movement, but the pain and confusion disabled me. I noticed a glowing red light, twisting and morphing its shape as steadily approached me, bringing with it its bountiful supply of warmth, though I, with my general distaste for heat, responded with discomfort, which grew once my mind made the connection that the light was actually fire. Using my right hand, I weakly pushed myself away from the oncoming flames, but my pace proved much too slow to be able to gain an adequate amount of distance from the advancing fire.

Then suddenly, through no force of my own, I felt pressure around my shoulders and hands pierced through the holes between my arms and the rest of my body. It lifted me upward slightly, and shortly after I found head parted from the ground, the force began dragging me across the bumpy road, quickly, but not too quickly, as evidently whatever dragged me recognized the burns and scrapes that could be produced by travelling too quickly, though the injuries I suffered previously should have been enough to convince whatever it was that simply arriving at a safe location would be good enough. The intensity of the pain lessened as the endorphins began to take effect, and the clarity of my mind increased, though not significantly, and I managed to obtain a better grasp of my surroundings, yet the mysterious force remained obscured behind the back of my head.

My face continued to feel wet from the blood that flowed from various regions on my face, and I could feel the red liquid slowly making its way down my cheeks and onto my neck, eventually leading to the rest of my body, which was in a better condition due to the full force of the impact having been to my head, and I felt fortunate that the liquid managed to slow the vehicle somewhat before my management of it rapidly deteriorated into a frantic scrambling for finding a good position to leap off. I realized then that the only bad way to have leapt off was the manner in which I did, as injuring anything else would do little but create an annoyance as I made my way to safety. Leaping head first downward is never a good idea, in any circumstance. This I learned, though I wished that the whole fiasco had been avoided in the first place, and, after recalling why I changed direction in the first place, I cursed that stranger who sat helplessly just a few moments ago and hoped she died after being crushed by a random piece of falling debris, though considering my recent luck, that probably didn’t occur.

Finally, after a rather unfortunate time of small, sharp pebbles piercing my skin, and scratching my back, movement finally ceased and the pressure lessened as I was propped against a nearby wall, and I experienced the misfortune of having a foreign piece of cloth forced onto my face, with the smell of blood fading slightly due to familiarity, and the blood latched to my neck and seeping through my shirt was also cleaned up, though now the cloth was much too wet with blood to be used again. The blood continued to flow, however, and I felt myself quickly fighting a losing battle to remain conscious, which, considering it a direct result of blood loss, seemed to suggest that death was imminent, and again I cursed myself for deciding to stray from the path I planned beforehand, as well as towards the mystery girl again.

Unfortunately, before everything fazed into darkness and nothingness, I glanced leftward, and studied my caretaker meticulously, and found her to be the very same person I had intended to rescue earlier, and yet again, I was filled with disdain for myself for taking my little “detour” out of the city and off of the planet. When she realized that she was in no danger of being crushed so long as she moved to avoid it, I knew not, but apparently she reacted with ample time to rescue me from the inferno before the building collapsed and rained pieces of itself down upon the frightened, idiotic populace below, who seemed to do nothing more than frantically run about in circular patterns as opposed to simply resolving on a direction and hurrying along that general path until the time came to divert oneself. I turned my head away from my caretaker in disgust, though I lacked the functioning to display this properly, and occupied my remaining time among the aware watching the flames dance back and forth in every direction with no regard for what havoc they wrought or what came out as nothing more than a black reminder of what occurred. Concerning my caretaker at the moment, however, my last thoughts before drifting off were essentially, “I still wish you had died.”

---------------------------------------------------------
I know the paragraphs are long, but this story, which has several hundred pages so far, and I'm in the process of reviewing and slightly editing, focuses heavily on every characters different thought processes. Most other characters have significantly shorter paragraphs and manners of speaking.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) Feb/21/10

Postby Fievel » Mon Feb 22, 2010 11:06 pm

----------------------------------------Yet To Be Named
Ch.2
----------------------------------------Adelle Clarence Werther
I finally awoke after a rather uncomfortable period of rest and recuperation which did little for me other than bring back full mental capacity, though having just woken up, it wasn’t quite at my peak, and a few moments were necessary to bring my mind back to its standard level of operation, as I still felt the aftereffects of sleeping, namely that of drowsiness, though my vision could also use a moment or two to focus itself into something more useful and proper for a time such as this. After a few seconds of resurrecting myself from the temporarily deceased, I recalled where I was and immediately began to search for the girl who rescued me and placed me into such a circumstance in the first place, and I recognized that the area appeared to be different than it was before I fell into darkness and obscurity, though I quickly pushed that thought aside, deeming it insignificant for the moment, and I finally found her as she stood up and began walking towards me, evidently having noticed that I had returned from my slumber that I somewhat wished was eternal.

“A-Are you all right?” she asked timidly, as if expecting me to go into a fit of rage, which I probably would have, but recent injuries prevented me from doing so, and I also didn’t want to waste my energy on such a pointless endeavor.

I remained motionless on the floor and decided not to respond, mostly because I believed the answer to be obvious and didn’t need to be answered, but also because I was physically unable to at the moment, as it seemed that my ability to speak was temporarily silenced from the trauma of the injury, which I hoped would heal quickly. The scenery surrounding me was getting progressively darker, and I feared that my earlier sentiments were wrong. Either way, the hospital had already been burned to a crisp, so there was no way to get better at the moment. My only remaining option was simply to persevere. Unfortunately, that would mean increasing my debt to this stranger, but I’d prefer doing a favor to dying. Then again, not many people actually want to die.

“Are y-you all right?” she asked again.

I rolled my eyes in annoyance and decided to shake my head in response, simply to appease her and prevent her from making any further inquiries, though something told me that it was all for naught, and I probably would have benefited from remaining silent. The roar of the flames continued to make its presence known, though compared to earlier, the sound was softer, more remote, though perhaps we had simply traversed too far for it to travel, as some streets concealed preservative mechanisms underneath the platforms the prevented disasters such as this from having too massive of an effect, though why such precautionary measures weren’t installed on every street and intersection was beyond my grasp, though I guessed it was the municipal government’s way of saving on costs. Quite effective when only considering the short term, but in the long run, incidences such as these provided enough of a reason to spend that extra couple of dollars, though the city wasn’t worth preserving anyways, and restarting from scratch was a viable method for improvement, though I suppose that couldn’t truly be called improvement.

I faintly noticed the dull, orange glow of the inferno beyond the walls that protected us from harm, and finally, after several minutes of relative motionlessness, I found myself capable of making small movements, and after such an accomplishment, I decided to use my newfound powers to scan the area to gain a better grasp of where I rested. A few other groups of people sat silently in other corners of the otherwise empty room which I judge to be one of the rooms reserved for emergencies in the Disaster Quarters, where people scrambled for in times of crisis, though considering the fact that the flames were held at bay by the metallic barriers that refused to allow the blazing inferno access to the rest of the city. Other than the meager amount of cowering people, no objects or details of interest managed to hold my attention, though some sort of commotion seemed to be emanating from behind a door attached to the wall opposite me, though I couldn’t quite ascertain precisely what the noise originated from, but it sounded similar to that of a dog barking with bloodthirsty intent, and someone panicking as they attempted to escape its pursuit.

After a few moments of hearing the same sound passed, I heard a door slam, shaking much of the objects and slips of paper connected to the walls, with one, lime green paper falling to the floor below in the manner standard for a relatively light piece of paper. The door several yards before me opened slowly, shaking slightly but noticeable back and forth, and a head poked through the opening, with the remainder of the body following immediately afterward, and I instantly recognized the person as a friend, though I was unable to signal him or gesture for him to come towards me so we may discuss what had occurred since last we spoke, but fortunately, that wasn’t necessary, as he also managed to recognize me, and I made it known that I noticed his presence, though the injury apparently left a noticeable mark on me, as it took him a few moments to fully discern me out of the lack of a crowd. Hopefully, it was a just a few scrapes and scratches that would no longer be detectable or noticeable once they healed or were cleaned, though the motorcycle’s velocity immediately prior to impact begged to differ, leaving me only to hope the injuries weren’t too severe.

“Clarence? What’s happened to you?” he asked softly with sincere concern for my well being though not at all hoping for an answer in the condition I appeared in. The softness of his voice wasn’t necessarily done to spare me the suffering of excessively audible sounds, but instead was merely his manner of speaking, as he mostly kept to himself, with the only reason I saw for him coming here being that his own place of residence no longer existed in any useful or usable manifestation other than those commonly associated with ash. “Did you get caught in the flames? Wait, those aren’t burns, they’re more like scrapes,” he observed with an inquisitive look on his face.

I attempted to make a sound to confirm it, as far as I knew, but my efforts proved fruitless, and I was forced to content myself with the prospect of at least having a familiar face around during a time of such suffering for me, though at the same time, the entire circumstance was less than desirable, and as such, I couldn’t be troubled to display very much gratitude, though it seemed as if he understood my predicament. The girl who was with me at last noticed the existence of my friend River, and her response was that of mild shock and surprise.

“W-Who are you?” she asked, having not yet recuperated from the surprise, though I simply assumed she had a slight stutter, either that or low confidence in speaking with strangers. Both seemed to be equally possible at the moment.

“Just an old friend. Well... actually, I’m not sure if we’ve known each other long enough to consider one another old friends,” he said after less than a second of deliberation.

Such pointless contemplation caused me slight annoyance, but I was complacent nonetheless with the arrival of River, or rather, as content as I could be with the given circumstances, but such trivialities seemed rather pointless to debate amongst myself.
----------------------------------------------------------------
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) Feb/22/10

Postby Fievel » Tue Feb 23, 2010 11:28 pm

------------------------------------------Yet To Be Named
Ch.3
------------------------------------------Jiminy Farold Harper
I have no idea how old I am, but then again, why should I have to? Age doesn’t determine my intelligence or my dependability or my beauty or my favorite color, which is orange, though I don’t have a reason sufficient enough to explain why. I was surrounded by a bunch of mindless robots, who clung to my words as if they had been spoken by a god. I don’t believe anything I say; the world cares little for the plight of me and my fellow street dwellers, who are forced to beg in order to even receive the opportunity to live to see the next hour. I’d much prefer to simply surrender all of my fortune to my friends and fellow compatriots, but such a measure neglected the long term, and only served as a temporary measure to alleviate their suffering, and that would be worse than the false hope I forced down the throats of the crowds of strangers that converged around me as I spoke to them of a circumstance that they experienced on a daily basis, as if I knew the true level of their hardship. When the day concluded, I at least always knew where to find my house, whereas these people often competed with one another for a safe place to reside for the night, but for some reason far beyond my grasp, they continued to listen to me. They didn’t need me to inform them of the degree to which they suffered, and yet their numbers persisted in growing on a regular interval.

I never drank, to help ensure that I never revealed the truth behind my cause, which I was determined to keep hidden from everyone, even Bowdoin and Rez, who I trusted more than I trusted even myself, not that that said very much, but it remained true regardless. But nothing is exactly as it appears. Within the walls of a decrepit prison, there are still decent, hardworking people who deserved more than anyone to live out their lives free from the shackles of unjust oppression brought on by a lapse in judgment or a righteous fury. It depresses me to think that there is suffering everywhere in the world, but I am not a fool. I chase no birds, for I know I won’t catch them. I see no birds in bushes, as they have all been frightened away, and the bush burnt down long ago. I no longer hear the songs the birds used to sing as they made their yearly visits to the city to lift my countrymen’s spirits. There was only the smog the spewed from the smokestacks that towered high above us, stabbing into the sky that everyone dreamt about but few of us could ever hope to reach. There simply wasn’t a ladder that extended high enough, and even if there was, there was nothing to prop it against, allowing us to climb without having to leave people behind in order to hold the bottom steady. I was content to stare at the sky and dream, but the others wanted to do more than imagine a fantasy; they wanted to make that fantasy into fact.

Every day, I have to stand before the swarm of scarecrows and wooden puppets and give them hope for the future, one that was entirely without merit, as given the present state of affairs, upcoming improvement lingered just beyond my range of vision, obscured by the sun’s rays and the persistent moisture in the air. A true reformer asks for all, but knows how to negotiate properly in order to receive what they demand. I wasn’t a negotiator, I simply kept the movement alive, as it would take another generation or two before there was any great leader and true progression towards decency. What we had now wasn’t decent. It was a piece of shit. A deplorable pile of the remains of long dead creatures. Just some old waste that the world decided to sweep under the rug so they could feel better about the way the larger picture looked, with the gold gilded frames covering the smudged corners, shielding them from the public eye as if it’s best for both parties.

I am no fool. I know that correcting every problem concerning imperfection in the social structure is impossible, but that doesn’t mean that any improvement whatsoever is equally as impossible. Any step leading towards paradise would be great, or at the very least, a decent stress reliever, but it was much too soon to leave any significant effect for people everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a pessimist either. What I do now could be a large step towards substantial positive movement, but I lack the ability to foresee the future; I am no soothsayer; I am no oracle; I am no mystic, but who knows, perhaps I might breathe long enough to see my dreams come to fruition, but that possibility seemed highly unlikely, and nothing seemed to clear the clouds of the future to let the light shine through.

Right now, Bowdoin is making another one of his speeches. Whether he completely believes in the ideals he preaches, I don’t know, but I feel it necessary to respect him for his uncanny ability to inject pathos and emotion into every line he spoke. The people follow him more than they follow me, but they look to me as the intellectual force behind the movement, or at least it appeared that way. They looked to me to reason with the politicians and lawyers who were equally as adept at eloquence and logic as I, and often more so, as they received payment for their services, and as such possessed more of a reason to fight well, whereas I was no more than a stranger with green bills flowing from my pockets, standing before a podium, delivering hollow speeches with my tie knotted correctly and my shirt buttoned precisely. There is no telling who will be the true hero, but, at the moment, I lack the luxury of burdening myself with a matter of little consequence to my duties at present, and it interests me little. All I care about is keeping the movement breathing. Scrounging. Surviving. Historians could decide everything else, because no matter what happens, the things the historians write will ultimately decide how heavily we will have impacted the world. After all, the only reason that Jesus was followed long after his death was because people recorded his story and spoke of his influence on society.

Those historians will be pulling the strings of fate. They already know what they will be writing about, and they will alter public opinion based on what they personally believe. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, for no matter how hard one tries, you can’t defeat an idea with an army. Actions are supposed to be stronger than words, but psychologists say that learning how to speak a language ultimately determines our ability to remember, which is why I can’t remember anything that happened before I was three years old. Actions can’t explain events as easily as words can, and to say otherwise is simply foolish.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm really happy with how this part turned out, but I don't think it's right for me to judge my own work.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) Feb/23/10

Postby Fievel » Mon Mar 01, 2010 11:57 pm

------------------------------------------Yet To Be Named
Ch.4
------------------------------------------Rosaline "Rez" Saunter
“Shut up Richard,” I said, highly annoyed and increasingly frustrated as a result of getting no positive results from my current excursion.

“It’s just a suggestion,” Richard replied, which only worked to further my annoyance.

“Well, I don’t like what you’re suggesting,” I responded quite plainly and sincerely, hoping for him to abandon the subject after repeated refusals.

“Do you ever?”

“Haaa haaa. Your snide comments aren’t much appreciated, Richard,” I couldn’t help answering.

“That wasn’t a comment. That was more of an inquiry,” he corrected, not caring much for the direction the conversation headed toward, though still with a hint of insistence in his voice, though the sarcasm made it nearly imperceptible.

“And again, ha! Seriously, Richard–”

“What are we doing here, anyways?” he interrupted, effectively destroying my train of thought and leaving nothing but a vague remnant shadow of an idea. “This place seems to be inexplicably warm,” he continued, “too much so for my tastes, anyway.”

“Why are we here, you ask?” I began, almost forgetting why I started due to reminiscing about the relatively good times, or rather, times involving one of the few friends I ever managed to make in the slums. “I’m here to visit an old friend, assuming he’s still in the area and that he’s alive, both of which seem moderately unlikely, but it’s the only place I can think of where he might be.”

“Who are we looking for again?” he asked. “I believe you neglected to inform me of this when we first departed.”

“I thought I just said we were looking for a friend of mine,” I answered, having calmed down somewhat from a few seconds previously.

“Why?” he asked, for some reason intent on bombarding me with an endless supply of questions that probably didn’t require a complete answer to or could have been regarded as hypothetical, which easily constituted the simpler option, though I knew the queries would persist until I provided satisfactory answers, or at least ones that caused enough reason for silence, like a response that implied something personal or tragic, but the thought of explaining those lies later came across me as unpleasant, so I chose the option better for the long term.

“Because I believe that he may be able to assist us in our matter, and don’t ask how. Just trust me.”

My response seemed to have satisfied him enough to quiet him for the time being, but I knew the futility of attempting to silence him for a long time, as he always found something to comment on or devised another question in his head with the full intention of asking it. In an attempt to prevent him from gathering enough time to compose a query, I decided to walk faster along the dotted lines in the middle of the street, and, wondering about the absence of cars, which typically seemed to be overabundant around this time, I stopped immediately when this fact finally caught my attention, and a puzzled look came across my face, which was a bad move on my part, as I realized what would come of it, though I suppose it was understandable given the situation.

“What’s wrong, Rez, and why are no cars or the like present?”

“What are you, an idiot? How the fuck should I know? I haven’t been here in who knows how fucking long, and you expect me to know that?”

“Geez. You don’t need to be such a bitch,” he said almost immediately upon the conclusion of my series of hypotheticals, after which, I sighed in an apologetic manner and the two of us calmed down somewhat, and continued our stroll through the orange city, or at least, what remained of the city, as random spots along the path seemed to be missing whatever occupied them before our arrival, instead being occupied by the black remains of the former concrete and steel towers that I assumed used to stand there.

Due to the apparent lack of structures within the city, I began to lose hope of finding the person I expected to see either wandering the streets for reasons unknown to him, or perhaps hiding in his abode, which rested a mere couple of miles away, which at the moment, considering the wonderful scenery, wasn’t much of a walk, though the more time we wasted in getting there, the less likely locating him anywhere within the city was.

Random chunks of gravel and concrete lay splattered across the floor, though that was a result of the construction crew abandoning their work early, evident by the fact that the bulldozer continued to run, not moving an inch, yet rumbling back and forth in a consistent manner while spewing out fumes which doctors did not recommend breathing in, lest you end up coughing, which wasn’t a pleasurable experience by any account. Richard wandered towards one of the vehicles resting in the vacant lot and proceeded to inspect the vehicles, saving the bulldozer for last, and after a decent amount of time sightseeing, he motioned for me to approach him, explaining to me that every machine still had keys in the improper place and could be used for whatever we wished, should we decide to make use of them, which we did, for strolling through the wonderful jungle had swiftly become tiring and was no longer bearable.

The drive through the city was reasonably pleasant when considering the lingering embers and the thriving flames that persisted seemingly everywhere we traveled, waving a cheery and emphatic hello whenever we got in close proximity to them, though we kept a safe distance to avoid the discomfort of having to shake hands in an attempt to display our good manners and not to cause disapproval in regards to ourselves, as everyone tended to do, though Richard seemed to be more concerned with avoiding the danger as opposed to avoiding an obligatory greeting, which I found to be oddly peculiar. Considering who it was, however, I realized my thoughts on the matter quickly became pointless and contained little merit.
-------------------------------------------------------
Yes, I have been working on it since I last posted, I simply had a bad case of writer's block when writing this chapter.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) March/01/10

Postby Fievel » Tue Mar 02, 2010 3:09 am

------------------------------------------Yet To Be Named
Ch. 5
------------------------------------------Lucille “Pepper” Gotstago
The dim light attached to the loose pedestal that hung from the ceiling swayed back and forth in what appeared to be perpetual motion, as several minutes passed and yet it displayed no signs of decelerating in even the slightest degree, though its movement fascinated me despite the relative simplicity of the movement and the repetitiveness of the action it performed seemingly for my amusement, as nobody sat beside me to watch the common miracle brought to me by the defiance of the laws of physics. I respected the tin cone for its resolution in redefining nature, though in reality, I suppose there was something I couldn’t see or perhaps a simple steady stream of sparks that forced it to move in such a manner, in which case, it would probably be best if I, or perhaps someone more qualified or more willing to sacrifice themselves for such a cause, checked the light to see if it met my personal requirements, which were essentially the same that any electrician would recommend.

My arms hung fluidly from the head of the wooden chair I rested my head on, though why I rested it there as opposed to a bed, as was standard with most people, I didn’t know, nor did it concern me very much, as I was more preoccupied with wondering whether or not my accomplices would return to me with another offer for work, hopefully one that rewarded a substantial amount of money. Perhaps one that provided a challenge, as it was always worthwhile so long as it tested my skills, or even improved them, depending on the difficulty of the task, though that occurred infrequently and monetary gains were of more importance to me at the moment, though I suppose that if it were difficult, I could always place it on my resume, thereby making a better name for myself while making myself into better human capital, which was always a positive thing, although in my line of work, becoming known was perhaps the worst thing that could occur. Ah, well. Sometimes such a possibility becomes unavoidable, though, for my sake, and for the sake of my wallet, who is quite famished at the moment, I hope it doesn’t occur any time soon.

I sighed from boredom as I closed my eyes and realized that the position I sat in brought me great discomfort, though for some reason I was reluctant to move myself into a more relaxing position, or at least one that didn’t bring me any pain whatsoever. The ticking from an archaic clock steadily grew in audibility, and the rhythmic tempo of the spinning hand slowly lulled me into a sense of apathy and sluggishness, with a pint of drowsiness mixed in, and sleep sounded quite pleasant at the moment, but I still lacked the desire to move myself from the chair, and instead contented myself to forcing myself to slumber on the wooden throne that sat relatively alone in a room with nothing more than a box, an assortment of chairs, and an office desk that rested in the corner, with a computer humming quietly near the edge. The screen stared back at me as I gazed into the blackened image of a relaxed smile reflected across the flat, shiny screen with a glare across the upper corner of the face, blocking out some of my bangs while increasing the pleasantness and comfort derived from the slight smile and partially closed eyes with shaded spots along the left corner of both eyes.

A glass of water stood on the desk, with a few droplets progressively sinking to the bottom of the cup, eventually pooling around the base, leaving a clear circle of distortion along the sides, struggling to leave a permanent mark on the desk, but fortunately, I foresaw their efforts and placed the glass on a coaster to prevent their efforts from having any lasting effect, though a portion of my hair prevented me from witnessing this struggle, and all I could do in the meantime was hope. That’s all I ever did most of the time, whenever I merely sat idly in a single place as I awaited the call for more work every other week, always hoping I would receive a task that was worthwhile, but my hopes always betrayed me, and everything remained the same as usual. Fortunately, with the mounting tensions between the two armies, I would perhaps obtain more honorable employment working under the military, where, perhaps, my skills would be used in a strategic or tactical manner suited to my tastes and ability, and the probability of this occurring grew exponentially as the discontent among the peoples increase. Unfortunately, the distance between the probable instigator of the war and their enemies was too great for anything to happen unless something massive occurred, or unless full-scale war was declared unexpectedly, which was also highly probable at the moment. Hell, it might have already happened, and I may simply have not heard the news yet, as I tended to avoid watching the daily news, as it rarely showed me something I didn’t know. Maybe that was the case.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, one with overly lengthy pauses between each individual knock, and my response was one of relative silence, as I was drifting off into sleep as the knock came, and I thought it might have been a part of my imagination, but when more knocks ensued, louder in volume, I realized that my imagination was not the cause of the noise, but instead a visitor was the thing disturbing my quiet time of rest and relaxation.

“The door’s open,” I struggled to shout, though it came out as more of a loud mumble, and I doubted the truth of my words, but not enough to bother to check for the unknown person.

“Umm,” the visitor began, who I recognized as Samantha by her voice, “the door’s not unlocked.”

“Try it again,” I commanded for no apparent reason, attempting to lift myself from the wooden chair, with mild success. I probably could have done it faster, but I wasn’t in the mood to think about inconsequential matters such as those, especially when a friend is locked outside to face the harshness of cruel, cool reality alone.

“It still isn’t working,” she reaffirmed somewhat less calmly while twisting the knob forcefully, but all to no avail.

“Alright,” I finally answered after a few seconds of stillness, “I’m coming.” I stood before the door and leaned myself against it, using my head to prop up the rest of my body, as I didn’t feel like standing fully upright at the moment. I reached my hand down slowly and grabbed hold of the silver bar, slightly shocked by the coldness of the metal, but then twisted it clockwise after adjusting myself to the temperature of the metal bar. “Hey. What’s up?” I said as I stepped aside and allowed her passage into my humble abode, where she sat on one of the chairs arranged around the desk in no particular way.

“Nothing much. I just came for the usual reason: job propositions,” she answered half-heartedly, sinking my hopes for receiving an offer for something important.

“Forget it,” I stated plain and simple while waving my hand to the side, not wanting to hear something so upsetting at a time like this. She placed the papers on the desk and leaned back in her chair, revealing a look of hopelessness in her eyes as her legs dangled from the edge of the board she rested on.

“If you’re looking for that kind of work, our only choice is to wait, because if we’re not here when the job offers arrive, we’ll have to wait until the mercenaries they initially hire die out and they need the assistance of more soldiers and the like.”

“I know.”

“So…?”

“I-I guess I’ll just have to hope for the best. You’re welcome to take on a job by yourself if you don’t think we’re going to receive any offers, but I’m going to stay hopeful.”

“I’m not going to abandon you like that.”

I smiled again when she said that, though this time, she blocked the monitor, so I couldn’t see myself as I did.
-------------------------------------------------
Writer's block has been thoroughly beaten with a baseball bat.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) March/02/10

Postby Fievel » Thu Apr 29, 2010 2:01 am

OMG. An update after such a long time. Yes.

------------------------------------------------ Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 19: Beneath The Canopy
------------------------------------------------
A droplet of water dug through the air outside the dusty corridors and cells of the inside world, sinking through the thick invisible barrier with no intention of doing otherwise, and swiftly, in the blink of an eye, it reached its destination, the ground, and it instantly divided into smaller portions that were flung in every direction in a geometric pattern, though the specific mark those reduced droplets made were indeterminable, as other bulbs of water had already touched the ground prior to its descent. Mr. Stevenson awoke, uncertain concerning his location, and removed himself from the position of being parallel to the ground in favor of a more perpendicular stance, as that was the norm of most people from what he gathered up to this point in his life, but is was mostly a result of that particular position being generally easier to travel in, considering the fact that standing at an angle, unless traveling downhill, or having one’s face in contact with the ground general prevents a wide range of movement and also doesn’t necessarily assist in extending one’s velocity. Once standing, he glanced casually towards his wallet, discovering that its contents no longer seemed to be present, and were instead to be considered a thing of the past from then on, though this thought didn’t necessarily console him, or assist him with coping, in any manner. His face slumped into that of a highly disturbed elderly man who had taken a substantial number of antidepressants, which wound up looking similar in appearance to an ordinary frown, though the tip of the right of the lip was slightly higher than it ought to have been.

He sighed with a strange mixture of discontent and relief upon coming to the conclusion that he was presently in his own home for a change and turned his head towards the mirror beside his bedside, which was framed with an elaborate Victorian design, with spheres that had spiraling tips on both upper corners of the frame. The mirror was smudged a bit slightly to the left of the center, and Mr. Stevenson grabbed the tip of the shirt he was wearing at the moment, wiping the blurred area, but it only worked to make the region only murkier, as well as to encroach more of the surrounding area with its sinister intent that was comprised of nothing more than pipe dreams and dreams of pipes, both of which resulted in unsatisfactory conclusions. Mr. Stevenson retrieved a glass from a cupboard in the restroom and twisted the knob directly beside the faucet, quickly returning it to its initial position upon realizing that he required hot, and not cold, water at the moment. After filling the cup approximately halfway, he returned to the mirror and the mocking smudge that pointed and laughed at him, and he splashed the water onto the surface, this time using a small washcloth as opposed to his shirt to remove the stain from his sight. After completely disposing of the stain, he noticed a couple of words were written in small print on the surface of the mirror, though he could not determine the material used to inscribe the message onto the reflective plane.

Upon further inspection, the missive revealed itself to consist of the words, “Sup dawg, I heard you liked pools, so I…,” after which Mr. Stevenson ceased reading due to the nonsensical nature of the note, which was not musical in any shape or form, which worked to bring slight ire to him, so he pushed the thought to the edge of his mind, where it would possibly commit suicide, or perhaps simply look down from the top of the high cliff, and suffer from acrophobia, and possibly become shocked by these stunning developments, which could possibly result in the thought accidentally slipping of the edge of the cliff, also resulting in death. The possibility of it simply standing there also remained, but the lack of tragedy makes it relatively uninteresting, so it was skipped over in favor of the tremendously more interesting possibility of the thought climbing down from the ledge, and having its fingers slip near the midpoint, resulting in it plunging through the air until it achieved terminal velocity, which would then, of course, result in its almost certain death.

Mr. Stevenson made a note of the seemingly newly crafted imperfection of the mirror and resolved to purchase a new one, as he noticed other problems beginning to arise as well, and reasoned that it was going to need replacement eventually anyway. He opened the bedroom door and took a step out of the sleeping prison, stepping on a cat in the process, which resulted in him nearly losing his balance, but thankfully, he managed to grab onto the door and prevent himself from coming face to face with the floor, whose face was substantially larger. He took another step forward, now somewhat more confident in his stride, but his hubris returned the check with another cat carefully placed underneath his foot, but this time there were no doors in the immediate area for him to latch himself onto, resulting in him collapsing in an overly dramatic manner to the ground as he kissed it and a few pieces of wayward garbage with his forehead and his nose, which in turn brought him the gift of pain, which Mr. Stevenson wished he could return for store credit, but, rather unfortunately, store hours had yet to arrive, so he was forced to content himself with his present predicament, which he did somewhat successfully with the assistance of his newfound caution and his keen eyes that scanned the region specifically for cats and kittens and any other creature of smaller size then him. He turned his head toward a nearby window as he progressed smoothly and observed a bear waving back at him, reminding him that he should also be wary of creatures larger than he was, also warning him about proper methods of preventing forest fires before departing.

Mr. Stevenson, after repressing feelings of confusion, decided to continue his escapades in walking to his living room, which he seemed to be close to achieving, but due to recent excursions with kittens, he seemed to be reluctant to accept the simplicity of the task, and instead approached it with cautious optimism. He noticed a faint light barraging him as he continued pressing onward, and, after reaching the dividing point between the hallway and the living room, he recognized the light as coming from the television perched on a platform that was only slightly elevated from the ground. A figure sat motionless before it, observing it intently, though not necessarily paying too much attention, as another electronic distraction rested in the figure’s hands, though it was difficult to tell due to the moderately long locks of hair flowing from the back of its head.

Mr. Stevenson approached it slightly and uttered softly, “Elizabeth?” with a hint of kindness also somewhat prevalent in his tone.

The figure made no response.

"Elizabeth?" he attempted again, slightly more forceful, but only in volume, and not in tone.

The figure seemed to have received the message this time and turned its head to Mr. Stevenson and responded, “Oh. Hey Daddy. You're finally awake,” before returning to her initial position, though now her posture was straighter.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) March/02/10

Postby Mathias » Thu Apr 29, 2010 2:17 am

Didn't know you had a thread in here. (I have one, too, but no one reads it.)
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) March/02/10

Postby Fievel » Thu Apr 29, 2010 2:19 am

You do? Oh. Huh. Whadaya know.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) March/02/10

Postby Mathias » Thu Apr 29, 2010 2:24 am

I'll try to read yours at some point.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) April/29/10

Postby Fievel » Thu Apr 29, 2010 2:30 am

And I shall do the same for yours, once I find the time, which should be approximately two weeks from now.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) April/29/10

Postby Mathias » Thu Apr 29, 2010 2:52 am

Same.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) April/29/10

Postby Doctress Who » Thu Apr 29, 2010 4:55 am

I completely forgot about this. I'm going to have to start reading it again sometime.
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Hiryu: Doc's bag is a portal. She's actually from another dimension and when she jumped into it, she ended up at a desk with a browser open on this site. That's how she found it.
We have a Doctor Who thread now. Doctor Who threads are cool.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) April/29/10

Postby Fievel » Thu Apr 29, 2010 5:01 am

I forgot as well. Otherwise I would've updated on a more frequent basis than, once a month. Oh well, at least I finally got back to working on it.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) April/29/10

Postby Fievel » Sun May 02, 2010 3:24 am

------------------------ Which Way Is Left?
Ch.20: Sleep Better
------------------------
Mr. Stevenson’s gaze was unfocused, and he wasn’t certain how he should react to his daughter’s greeting, as not enough time had passed to provide for the complete return of his mental facilities, though a reaction meant nothing to her regardless, as she already returned her attention to the gaming device in her hands, which had the sound muted for a reason he did not know. A set of headphones lay beside her, stretched across the floor in a serpentine manner, with the earbuds resting touching her ever so gently and the opposite end coiled up and resting a couple of inches away from the left earbud, though the plastic surrounding the wire came up short, and the wires were exposed and frayed. Mr. Stevenson assumed she pulled them out of their sockets out of frustration, as she tended to do every once in a while. He made a mental note to remind himself to purchase a new set next time he could make the time to visit an electronics store, or a regular supermarket, as they held them in stock as well.

Mr. Stevenson slowly approached the couch that centered itself in the living room, but not before unintentionally making another feline his unfortunate victim, and rested himself on the smooth, somewhat leathery cushions, stretching his arms out to the maximum length possible, and the same happened to his legs, though that time a tiny crack was barely audible. He chose to ignore it. The light emanating from the bulbs above was nonexistent, making the only light source, other than the sun, which mocked him by abandoning him on a daily basis and returning without so much as a single word of apology or any sign of remorse. Forced apathy was the result of the daily dance of concern and neglect for him, though he reluctantly prevented the full effect from manifesting itself in forms that weren’t simply thoughts, which could do no real harm on its own, excluding the causation of its own suicide, which brought laughter to many children, including the ones who took up residence across the street, pointing with broken fingers and laughing with collapsed lungs at the elderly man driving a comfortable convertible down a sun-parched surface street with only a half empty bottle of water as his constant companion, though the length of that friendship was likely to be short. People grow thirsty. The only reasonable response would be to eliminate that undesirable feeling through any means, whether they are necessary or not.

A dim glimmer of light shone through the pearl-colored blinds in parallel arrangements on the floor beside the couch, with small divisions approximately one-third of the length from the edge blocking the intended path of an insignificant portion of the light, though the light was barely visible, as the sun had not yet fully awakened from its daily slumber, though in reality, it was more of a party, as the sun never truly turned off, it merely made its way to the next bar, looking for something to drink and people to relay its stories to. Albinos were not particularly fond of listening to the sun’s tales, and preferred to leave the bar when the sun’s limousine pulled up in the parking lot, inappropriately occupying the handicapped spot, though nobody ever bothered to bring this to anyone else’s attention, as it happened regularly, and it was generally easier to bear with it than to cause conflict and involve themselves in a matter that didn’t necessarily involve them. At the moment, the sun was only visible in the distance, screaming and shouting at passersby who happened to cross its path and revealing its infamous road rage. Mr. Stevenson had found after his several years of trudging along the path of life that he wasn’t quite as fond of the sun as he thought he should be, but he saw no reason to change that at the moment.

His daughter more or less continued thriving in her personal world as Mr. Stevenson failed to muster up enough of a will to disrupt her broadcast and exchange idle pleasantries with her, as he knew she disliked any conversation that could be avoided or had little or no point, so instead, he resigned himself to focus on the television, which displayed the adventures of a pink dog, though he wasn’t familiar with the name of the program, as it appeared less frequently than he would have liked, not that he truly complained anyways. He much preferred to concern himself with other trivialities, such as whether he remembered to pay the bills, or if he locked the door, or wondering if he would be required to work that day, to all of which the answer was typically yes, except in some rather unfortunate incidences, though those were too few and sporadic to cause him excessive stress.

His daughter’s level of calmness she seemed to display at all times, no matter the events prior, struck him as somewhat unnatural, though he felt it was for the best, as he didn’t expect her to be too affected by his death or the death of another significant family member, not that she even interacted with very many other people aside from the couple of friends he thought she had at school. Even when her younger sister passed away nearly three years ago, she gave little indication of feeling emotional distress or even of having been affected in some manner by this sudden change in the family. Mr. Stevenson believed at the time that she was perhaps too young to completely understand the concept of death, but nowadays, he has been led to believe otherwise. He tried not to concern himself over the matter, however, as he recognized it as generally harmful to his health.

Silence permeated the empty space in thick clouds, with only the faint mumblings of the television and the constantly altering wail of the game Elizabeth played. Adjusting the volume of the television crossed Mr. Stevenson’s mind, but he ultimately decided against it, mostly as a result of not gathering enough of a desire to alleviate the mildly uncomfortable atmosphere in the quarters.

Elizabeth began humming along to the music of the game she engaged herself with, though in minor key, though it wasn’t intentional, she was merely tone deaf. Either way, the humming was quiet enough to be relatively inaudible to Mr. Stevenson, who was beginning to struggle with remaining conscious, as, evidently, the amount of sleep he acquired during the night had not been enough to recuperate him fully. Either that, or he the multiple affairs with the cats he experienced moments ago had drained him of what little energy he possessed so soon after awakening from his drunken slumber. He slowly lapsed back into the darkness he felt before his eyes revealed themselves to the world, as the shutters grew heavy, and he felt himself incapable of resisting the temptation to momentarily remove himself from the dark reality he was forced to live through during wakefulness.

“Good night, daddy,” whispered Elizabeth softly with a relaxed smile after noticing his struggle, after which she returned to what she was doing before he entered the room, which was essentially the same thing she did while Mr. Stevenson was still awake, except she became somewhat more relaxed and the tension in her hands and fingers lessened.

“Good night,” she repeated, except this time, lighter in tone.

Mr. Stevenson attempted to return her comment, but was unsuccessful in this endeavor, and instead soon found himself among the denizens of dream land, who happened to have heard rumors of bears sneaking around houses for an unknown reason.
Last edited by Fievel on Fri May 14, 2010 12:34 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) May/02/10

Postby Fievel » Fri May 07, 2010 10:38 pm

Just in advance, the newest story is brought to you by me, with special thanks to Lily for salvaging it. It shall be posted soon. Thanks again, Lilz. Now I've just got to remove my name from the things.

This story is the epic tale of the Ustream-Bot told in Ustream during Seir's broadcasts.
Last edited by Fievel on Sat May 08, 2010 2:44 am, edited 1 time in total.
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