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Fan-fiction, short stories, screenplays, poems -- anything text-based really belongs here.
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Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) May/02/10

Fri May 07, 2010 11:39 pm

-----------------------------------------On The Other Side: The Adventures Of Ustream-Bot
Chapter 1
Back in the turn of the century, approximately around December, Ulysses and I used to hang out all the time. We would drink together, Sprite usually. I noticed that the same kid would drive by always on the same bike. Left foot moved first, followed immediately by the right. The birds chirped in a rather annoying and unpleasant manner.

Back during the Vietnam War; he said he'd never seen so many bloody children in his life. Not even in the movies. Not even in the movies... And yet, over there, bodies lay like decayed logs, with moss growing on the side and small insects crawling on the other side.

"Back in 'Nam,'" he would say. "I killed women and children. They don't prepare you for this in the army. They just don't. How can they? They just can't. But you just gotta. Those damn Commies. If you didn't get them first... They would get you."

I used to listen intently. I watched him as he lifted the glass; pools of water forming around the base, gripping onto the base of the glass, holding on with reckless abandon, as if they had no other concerns. They didn't. But he did. Just by looking. His eyes; you could see. You could see everything. The fire, the gas, the blood. Bullets flying everywhere, penetrating the air, piercing the flesh, never to be seen again. He sighed with a sort of anxiety, but you could see he wasn't anxious. He was always waiting, waiting for the next thing to happen, but then, Reagan ended the Cold War, and the next thing never came. How could it? He never had a chance.

The bartender glanced in our direction and inquired if another drink would be preferred. He shook his head, not because he didn't want one, but because he... He could see the children staring back in the glass, with their unfulfilled eyes, full of hopelessness and despair. They floated around aimlessly in his drinks, popping every once in a while, rising to the top if they were at the bottom. Others remained in place, preferring to be stationary. They didn't see the point of moving because they couldn't. Not anymore, and he knew, oh he knew, but he couldn't face them. Not now.

The next day, I saw the same kid, on the same bike, pedaling with the same, rhythmic motion. Everything was always the same, but at the same time, it was different, at least compared to before. The times were changing; his grey hairs were proof. He refused to believe the proof, however. It wasn't enough for him. That time lost, over there, on the other side. They lost time too, don't get me wrong, but he had to live with his lost time. He stared back at me as I entered the bar, his glasses reflecting nothing but light. He turned back, but not toward the drink. He lifted the glass and closed his eyes, and down the drink went, bitter and cold, with the ice holding fast to the base. It refused to surrender itself to the force of gravity. I couldn't, however. I had to bear it. He evidently had to as well, but he hid it better. It was like it didn't even matter to him, at least, I think it didn't. One couldn't be too sure these days. Men in suits hid everywhere. You could turn your head and see them peering from around the corner. Their suits were black, and their victims were already dead. He set the glass down, this time it was slightly to the left. A new circle formed, but this time, the volume of the water was significantly lower. The light hanging above vibrated slightly. Soft music played in the background.

"You know," he said. "I used to be somebody, over there on the other side. Me and my buddies, though metal shells were everywhere, we were doing something. Something meaningful. But now..."

He trailed off, then cleared his throat.

"I don't know what's going to happen to me, kid. Who knows, maybe tomorrow..."

Tomorrow was his birthday. He didn't know that, I did, though. I thought it would be better for him if I didn't mention it, though. Maybe he did know. Maybe he just didn't feel it was worth it. He stared blankly at the desk. He could see his shadow, moving its left arm as he did. The right arm remained motionless. A fly landed on the counter and frittered about. He picked up the glass and held it above the fly, lowering it slowly, until he stopped entirely. I knew why he stopped. He saw the face of one of them on the fly, shrieking with fear. He moved the cup back and just held it in the air, unmoving, and yet, much like the ice, melting.

"You know, son," he said, his back still faced toward me, "you remind me of someone. How often you come here, boy?"

I didn't respond.

"Doesn't matter anyway. Wouldn't want to find out you're a drunk at your age."

I wasn't, but I came anyways. Something compelled me to go, so I went. The record stopped, and the device pulled another disc from the set. Dream On was the record pulled, and it began to emanate from the speakers. Those outdated speakers, a nice, quaint touch, but a rather unnecessary one. A man in the corner started coughing, and I thought I saw blood come out of his mouth. It was just tomato soup.

I walked up to the counter, and sat down. He acted as if he didn't notice. I didn't mind, however.

"Times like these," he began, "are ones long gone. Life is long, enjoy it while you can't."

Those words struck me as odd, but I said nothing.

"Too long. Too long. At least, mine is."

A brief pause went here.

"Have I ever done anything worth mentioning," he said as he rejected taking another sip. "It seems as if all my life, I've just been here. Everyday, the same routine. Nothing seems to change, they do, though. The times go backwards. Only in times of crisis, like back then, do they move forward."

He exhaled, breathing in everything shortly after.

"I had a gun too you know. It could kill real quick. I didn't know, though. No one did. They never told us. We weren't informed. We never used them before. And how could we have? We were only children at the time. Kids with guns. That's all we were, to them, and ourselves."

He paused. It seemed as if he was near tears, but he held them back, held back the tragedy, but it held him back at the same time.

"Everyday, dozens of them fell, one after another, and we had to watch it... because we were the ones doing it. You should have seen it. The tin canisters shook in my hands. I could barely hold them. My aim was terrible," he chuckled to himself, but it was clearly forced.
Last edited by Fievel on Sat May 08, 2010 7:32 pm, edited 3 times in total.

Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) May/02/10

Fri May 07, 2010 11:41 pm

I'm still impressed that you wrote that off the top of your head. it's a really good start to a story.

Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) May/07/10

Fri May 07, 2010 11:43 pm

Thanks. Glad you were there to save the thing and experience the spontaneity.

FOR EVERYONE ELSE: Ulysses is Ustream-Bot.

Re: Fievel's Works (PG-13 - R) May/07/10 On The Other Side Ch. 1

Fri May 14, 2010 1:18 pm

------------------------------------ Which Way Is Left?
Ch.21: A Howl In The Night
A bottle in each hand, each weighing approximately the same amount, with different containers and designs, Mr. Nights weighed the two options in his hand and his mind, though for quite some time, he forgot what he was doing, and merely stood there, gazing intently at the white tiling of the floor beneath him. Eventually, he did realize his purpose for being there, and returned to making a difficult decision concerning what type of biscuits he should purchase, though all he managed to accomplish was returning to the status quo of before. In the end, he decided that getting both was the preferable option, and tossed both canisters into the cart, pushing the bottles and cans of soda to the side to prevent them from damaging one another.

A wide variety of colors and shapes made their homes in the cart Mr. Nights was pushing, with a majority of them pertaining to beverages of all sorts and sizes, though the largest quantity of them were lemon-lime flavored. A packet of coupons, appearing similar to a newspaper, also made their home there, though Mr. Nights had neither the time nor the patience to utilize them properly, and instead chose to use them to clean up messes he might make at home, though he was already in possession of paper towels and napkins, which were much preferable for that type of circumstance, which he either didn’t seem to realize, or didn’t seem to care. Either way, its true purpose had now been determined, and there was no changing its destiny at this point. It was much too late for the coupon packet to regret its life choices.

“So what else do I have left to procure?” Mr. Nights asked himself as he began walking in a random direction.

“Attention customers, we would like to warn you that we dislike having to watch after so few people, so we shall be closing in the next ten minutes,” declared the speakers placed strategically throughout the whole store.

“Well that’s no good,” Mr. Nights said, displeased, as now he lacked sufficient time to acquire the supplies he desired.

He shuffled along the aisles, pushing his cart this way and that, maneuvering through his path until he came out to the checkout area, with the relatively small number of malcontent cashiers who seemed ever so eager to turn out the lights already. Mr. Nights would have none of that, however, at least not until he managed to legally acquire his provisions, or at least discovered a somewhat guaranteed method of escaping with them without having to fear punishment or prosecution. Unfortunately, he knew such a possibility to be generally unlikely, and continued to advance towards one of the checkout lines, the one that had the fewest number of people. He checked his watch, which only told him that time had yet to stop moving, which he regarded as fairly positive, but he wasn’t too pleased about the time it claimed it to be. As he stood there he gazed out the glass doors, which revealed that the watch spoke the truth, and Mr. Nights cursed mildly to himself, just audible enough to not be heard, but loud enough for him to receive satisfaction from doing so.

The customer before him departed, and now Mr. Nights was required to take his turn with the magician who excelled at pressing buttons and packaged groceries, who eyed him rather suspiciously, but eventually decided to carry on with her business. Whatever it was, it clearly disturbed her, or at the very least confused her, as she seemed to have a look of displeasure and uncertainty on her face. Eventually, she was unable to retain her curiosity.

“So,” she began, “what’s with that mask?”

Mr. Nights stared back into her eyes, drilling holes into the pupils, and responded rather casually, “Whoops.”

He evidently had forgotten that the mask still remained on his face, which caused him to wonder how he hadn’t noticed earlier, as it wasn’t too comfortable to have placed across one’s face, but then he simply dismissed the matter, and made an addition to his previous utterance.

“I’m not infringing upon copyright, and as far as you’re concerned, that shall suffice for a response. Any further questions can be directed to the Committee for the Appropriations of Funds, the location of which, I choose not to disclose.”

The woman seemed rather annoyed by his response, but continued doing her job to hasten the process of getting him to leave, which Mr. Nights was appreciative of, as he no longer wished to remain underneath the artificially cooled roof of the local grocery store. He found the design rather plain, and much preferred the strangeness and peculiarity of his office, with its colors changing at seemingly random intervals, and the quaintness of the furniture used.

The woman finished packing the last of the object Mr. Nights had placed into the cart, and now inquired as to what method of payment Mr. Nights would prefer, to which, he responded credit. The exchange proceeded smoothly, and Mr. Nights soon found himself forcing the cart along the bumpy cement roads to his car, which appeared to be waiting rather impatiently. He opened the trunk of the car and placed the groceries in it, organizing them in a careful, precise manner, and checked the light to determine whether it might need a replacement soon, and assuming that it didn’t, he closed the back, and proceeded to enter the car in his rightful place. After going through all the proper processes for activating a car, he drove away from the parking lot, back towards home, where he could finally rest, and, remembering he still had the mask on, he removed it and cautiously placed it in the passenger seat to rest.

“Ahhh,” he sighed, as he finally allowed himself to relax contently, without having to worry about work or accidentally wearing his mask for quite some time, at least by his standards.
An intermission of sorts.

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

Sat May 15, 2010 4:53 am

I'll probably be streaming the Ustream-Bot story some time tomorrow, or rather later today, considering the time. It comes with assorted music! Anyways, don't ask me why I'm streaming it, I feel compelled to, because that's Ustream-Bot's home.

http://www.ustream.tv/channel/thing-watching I'll start somewhere between seven and eleven (at the time of this post, it is around 5 AM), maybe. Depends on whether or not I feel up to it. It'd probably end within less than three hours, assuming writer's block doesn't set in, or crack under the pressure, or something.

That's where it's gonna be. So come along. There'll be music, beverages (byob), festivities, and afterward I'll probably get drunk and start talking about the good ol' days... I have no idea why I decided to tell you people this.

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

Sat May 15, 2010 11:46 pm

Nevermind. Not gonna Ustream the story for a while, maybe on Monday. I'm feeling uninspired. I will Ustream other stuff, though. Possibly. Like vidja games 'n' cartoons 'n' music 'n' stuff. It'll always be random, though.

Time will usually be about right now.

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

Tue Jun 15, 2010 12:07 am

Oh god, this is a lot to sift through. It's intimidating.

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

Sat Jul 02, 2011 3:58 am


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

Sat Jul 02, 2011 9:52 am

Bot indeed. Dealt with.

Fievel, PM me if you want this unlocked again. Or start a new one. Choice is yours.
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