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Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.5

Tue Nov 10, 2009 6:26 pm

I really like that computer. That's a great personality you've given it - I hope it makes another appearance.

And don't worry about double posting, it's your own literature thread, after all.

One thing I did frown at when I was reading this, however, was this:
Grass managed to wrestle free from the earth below and pierced the air above

Surely grass wouldn't grow there, if it is underground? Even if it had soil and water, the light of torches wouldn't be enough light for grass to grow, would it?

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.5

Tue Nov 10, 2009 6:28 pm

That'll be explained later. For now, just roll with it. And yeah, the computer will return multiple times throughout the story.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.5

Tue Nov 10, 2009 6:31 pm

Fievel wrote:That'll be explained later. For now, just roll with it. And yeah, the computer will return multiple times throughout the story.

Oh goody-good. :D

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.5

Wed Nov 11, 2009 2:44 am

Well, here's another chapter.
--------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 4: A Meeting With The Colonel
Bubbling oil could be heard faintly in the background, as a slice of meat spun in midair before landing perfectly on a flat slab of metal that had been soaked in grease. The man who flipped the chunk of meat wiped the sweat off his forehead with a nearby cloth, and then proceeded to wring out all of the liquid onto the burger, adding his saliva as a final touch in a clandestine manner so as to avoid detection. He twisted around and faced the customer as he wrapped the tainted meal in a cheap paper wrapping with a required smile on his homely face. The customer thanked the man and walked out the door, unaware of what had just occurred to his order. Mr. Stevenson stared in disgust for the employee, but as it wasn’t his problem, he simply kept his anger to himself, recognizing that even if it was his problem, he probably would have done nothing anyways.

Mr. Stevenson sat in the other side of the restaurant, or rather, restaurants, as they were essentially two purveyors who happened to have decided that splitting the rent was more profitable for them, despite the obvious differences between the clientele and employees for both, which was made evident when the man spit in the food. Fortunately, Mr. Stevenson trusted the Colonel over the other place, and the thought of eating on the other side had not occurred even once in his entire life. Mr. Stevenson rather enjoyed eating here, and did so frequently, when time and work permitted it, of course, except in this particular case, which he was treating as a last meal of sorts, as he knew that his blatant abandonment of his assignment would result in his expulsion from The Committee, which he had worked for ever since he graduated from Stanford at a relatively early age. His thoughts already turned to his next course of action, and he was tempted to simply pull out his gun and shoot himself, but his fear of death proved stronger than his lack of willpower, that and he didn’t want to be arrested for being illegally in possession of weapon on public, or rather, corporate owned property, as the country was not Communist.

Stevenson frequently ate at this table, coming in at least once a week, sometimes with a friend, but that did not occur very often. He knew the cashier well enough to know her full name, and also that she was less than two years younger than him. She was also fairly beautiful, but despite the fact that she seemed to like him, and would probably be willing to accompany him on a date, he never could muster up the nerve to ask, and whenever he did have the courage, his friend was always there to stop him from taking the final step. He did not become angry when he did so, however, as he believed that he must have had a good reason for doing so, otherwise he wouldn’t even bother to prevent him from asking.

An unusual amount of activity was present at the Colonel’s famous fast food place, and it made Stevenson uneasy, as people were less likely to help him in a struggle when there were more of them, but he decided to calm himself down by consuming another fried leg, leaving his hands greasy. He wiped them on one of the napkins in the dispenser and sat silently for a moment, thinking about everything that recently transpired, though the only prevalent memory was that of the annoyingly pleasant elevator music that echoed in his head as he witnessed people who were either dead, or in the process of dying. While sorry for their loss, he knew that he would have been unable to save anybody on that floor without jeopardizing his own life, though he couldn’t recall seeing a fire extinguisher, which would make even attempting to save those people fairly pointless.

A high-pitched ring from a bell pierced the silence of the room as another man entered the building and scanned the tables, presumably searching for somebody, but there were too many people seated and walking around for him to get a clear view of very many people’s faces. Instead, he walked to the counter and ordered something, it was too loud for Stevenson to hear, and turned with the metal stand and the orange slip of paper that signaled the order number. He slowed as he approached Stevenson’s table, making Stevenson fairly nervous, but the man passed him and sat at the booth behind him, causing Stevenson to accidentally let out a sigh of noticeable relief.

“It seems fate, or whatever you want to call it, was on your side today, Madison,” said the man at the table behind Stevenson, who happened to also be the technological expert within The Committee, otherwise known as Mr. Cue.

“Winston? What are you doing here, and what do you mean?”

Cue remained silent for a moment, and the speaker called out his number. He politely excused himself to retrieve his tray of food, which consisted of nothing more than barbecue wings and some macaroni. Deciding to seat himself at Stevenson’s table this time, he removed the items from his tray and placed them on the table, carefully positioning them so that they formed a line that was perfectly perpendicular to the side edge of the table. He then arranged the hot wings according to size from left to right, with the larger ends facing away from him. Then, clasping his hands and positioning them perfectly in his center, he sighed and began to speak.

“Do you know the type of security system the Capital building uses for the data it stores?”

“Why would I know that? Isn’t that your job within our organization?” asked Stevenson.

“It was a hypothetical question. Of course I know that you didn’t know, because if you did, you would have simply returned to headquarters after that entire fiasco, knowing your mission had been completed without any intervention on your part whatsoever.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Stevenson.

Cue grabbed four napkins from the dispenser and arranged them on the table, overlapping the current napkin over the previous napkin so that they aligned flawlessly both horizontally and vertically, using his fingers to nudge them in the right direction when he judged them to be too far out in a particular direction. His focus on the napkins was near absolute, as he had completely ignored Stevenson’s query, causing him to ask it a second time, which he also ignored, but then he glanced upwards, and realizing that he had been asked a question, he pondered it, and swiftly came up with his answer.

“To put it simply, the data we were going to alter was not a very clever decision on the part of the Canadian government. The data that the government displays on the internet all comes from one source, but the owner of the website does not work with the government in any way whatsoever. The fact that he hasn’t altered any of the data in there is due to the various security measures put in place to protect that data, essentially making it “unwritable” as it were.”

“So in a way it’s like Wikipedia,” began Stevenson, “except only one person can write in it so long as they are able to access it.”

“Yes, but if that contributor were to disappear, so would their security measures, and as such, the only way to protect the data from being used and altered so as to change people’s criminal records and the like, was to delete it in its entirety immediately before the entire computer system crashes or fails. It basically remotely deletes all of the data posted before it dies.”

“How would it know when it’s dying though? I mean, it’s not really like it can predict it or anything.”

“There are multiple computers on standby, and when one fails, the rest immediately begin working on this process.”

“What if there’s a power surge?” asked Stevenson.

“I’m fairly certain that they’re smart enough to use emergency power generators. Anyways, I’ll explain the rest later. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but I’ll save it for another time.”

“How did you know I’d be here?” asked Stevenson, after a brief pause.

“You think too lowly of yourself to go anywhere good. I mean, really, KFC. Is this any place for an official such as yourself to be seen,” Cue said as he stood up and began walking towards the exit, leaving his food uneaten and growing cooler by the second.

Stevenson remained in his seat, seeing no reason to leave at the moment, as they would not be convening until the next day, and not wanting his food to go to waste, continued eating it, leaving Cue’s order to lie motionless on the table. He had managed to doge a bullet, but now the others would be significantly harder on him for his abandonment. Work was going to, without a doubt, become even more excruciating.

“But I like the food here,” he whispered quietly to himself.
-----I hate only working on this immediately before I update, but at least it makes it so even I don't know the outcome of the story.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:28 am, edited 3 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.7

Fri Nov 13, 2009 11:21 pm

Ch. 4- Miles Away
Silence. Nothing but silence. For hours now, possibly a day at this point, Miles had been confined to his rather chilly, stony prison, which was a strange thing to have in a modernized educational facility, but he didn’t concern himself with that. Fortunately, food was brought to him every once in a while so he wouldn’t starve to death, but he wondered whether it would be a better idea to die due to malnourishment now, as opposed to being killed by later by what he could only presume was going to be painful, and for what, having had his hall pass shot by some corrupt monitor who happened to have it out for him. Not much he could do at this point, however. All of his technology had been removed from his person, along with any means of communication with his friends, who could be doing anything at this moment, and more likely than not, had more pressing issues at hand.

Fortunately, they allowed him to retain his attire, which consisted of an azure jacket that had the appearance of a robe, except with a rougher material used, and down the length of each arm were white zippers, though for what purpose he did not know. There were no zippers in the front, instead being replaced with holes that were connected via bronze links, though he only placed the top two chains where they belonged, with the others having been left behind at his workshop. A green radioactive symbol was on either side of his chest, though those had been placed there after the jacket was purchased. Underneath the jacket was a simple atomic tangerine orange shirt; nothing truly special about it, and basic, comfortable jeans that allowed him a wide range of movement, not that he actually did much exercise, which explained his scrawniness, though his intelligence more than made up for his lack of physical strength.

He heard footsteps beyond the metal door before him, two pairs to be precise, and they were approaching his cell, causing him to stand up to determine his visitors’ identities. Two monitors entered, stopping just before his door, and one entered, though there were cells separating the two, and the one that entered signaled for the one standing guard to leave, which he did so with pleasure. The one that remained was a girl with celadon hair tied in a ponytail and easily passed her shoulders. She dressed in a similar manner to Gwen, though the colors of black and white were inverted, and her gloves were a lighter shade of grey, though everything khaki colored remained the same.

“Alice?” he said rushing towards her. “I’m glad you’re safe, those thugs from the other day certainly weren’t friendly. Are you scratched, is everything working properly?”

“Everything seems to be functioning properly, but why are you here, Miles? They say you’ve become nothing but a common criminal now,” she said with genuine concern.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Alice. I was merely walking around the school with a hall pass given to me by Chuckles when one of them decides to shoot it, making it appear as if I never had one to begin with, and then he called for assistance when I refused to go along peacefully.”

“Do you know who it was?” she asked.

“No. Almost all of them wear masks; they’re not like you and Gwen. They don’t have the same luxuries that you get, but that doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

The cell returned to its usual quietness as the two of them remained motionless, uncommunicative, and gazing at random spots on the walls, both knowing that they would have to part very soon, lest Alice receive punishment as well, considerably decreasing Miles’ chances of escaping alive. Miles averted his gaze towards the entrance, where he could see other monitors walking by, barely taking notice of him and the other prisoners who were yelling various profanities aimed at the passing people, unknowingly raising their chances of being convicted and sentenced to death, which was a fairly common punishment at the facility.

“You should leave. The longer you stay here, the more likely it is for you to be placed in here as well. Go tell my cousin or Geoffrey where I am, they’ll be able to get me out without much trouble.”

“Very well. Be careful, Miles.”

“You’re the one who needs to be careful,” said Miles as Alice closed the door behind her and he returned to his position on the floor, and began to sing, “And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man in the moon.”
Gwen, having long since become exhausted from doing nothing but relaxing, decided to begin patrolling the halls again, judging it to be a better use of her time than remaining stationary in a location that didn’t receive very many visitors, well at least not during the present time of day. Aside from the infrequent monitor passing by, the corridors were essentially vacant and dark, as the sun had set long ago, and, in an attempt to conserve energy, hardly any lights were left on at nighttime, and there were no perceptible sounds, save for her own footsteps, which made little sound to begin with. The lights barely managed to shine bright enough to bring out a somewhat transparent silhouette from the neighboring objects and Gwen, which suited Gwen perfectly, as she didn’t need to be as surreptitious in the dark. As she was walking relatively nonchalantly, Alice came walking hurriedly and bumped into Gwen, causing both to fall over, and both quickly pulled themselves up.

“Alice, where are you in such a hurry, and at so late at night? Your shift is over, correct?”

“Yes, but there’s something you should know,” whispered Alice, with some uncertainty bleeding through.

“And what is that?” inquired Gwen, mildly intrigued.

“Miles has been taken prisoner,” answered Alice somewhat bluntly.

“What?” Gwen nearly yelled. “Why? Has he hurt somebody? Has he committed a crime? Did he kill somebody… again?”

Alice did a speedy scan of the vicinity to determine whether anyone had heard Gwen’s shouting, but the coast seemed to be clear, so she decided to let Gwen’s yelling pass without castigation this time. Gwen also appeared to have realized her mistake and swiftly covered her mouth with her hands, despite the fact that she had already said what she was going to say, which made her current action fairly pointless.

“You do realize that that was in self defense, right?” Alice asked doubtfully.

“The point is that he killed someone, and if he did it once, it can happen again, but I never thought I would see the day when he would take up the knife again for evil,” remarked Gwen, expressing disappointment in Miles.

“Must I tell you again that it was in self defense? Regardless of what he has done in the past, he was set up this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone destroyed his hall pass and proceeded to tell the others that he was just another truant.”


“He doesn’t know, as he was wearing a mask,” Alice reported.

“Damn… Where are the others when you need them?”

“I believe that I might be able to lead us to them,” said Alice.

“In that case, let us leave at once. The more time we waste now, the less time Miles has to live,” she said as she began to follow behind Alice.
The light from the screen had long passed, and the three of them walked quietly down the shadowy corridor, which was dark because the light from the electric torches did little to help light the way, mostly due to the fact that the light originating from the bulbs that pointed straight up, with very little light being reflected back at the ground below. The paths divided three times already, and nobody could recall which direction they traveled in and when they were there, but at the same time, they didn’t care, and were merely trying to avoid arriving at the same location again. More grass penetrated the ground’s surface, though the patch in this region appeared to be bluer in color and generally brighter in color.

Each of them possessed basically the same expression, which consisted of a combination between annoyance, frustration, and gladness, though they didn’t have any real reason to be glad. In the distance, lodged in the wall, were the skeletal remains of a clown that quite possibly died of starvation, but his head protruded from the walls, with his colorful wig still in place on his head, as was the rubber nose, and his lower torso buried deep within the cold stone. The trio nearly passed it, but did a double take the moment they noticed it.

“This makes no sense, at all,” said Mackwell, who had quickly grown tired of idiocy.

“I guess that’s what he gets for clowning around,” said Thomas, snickering.

“Shut up Thomas,” said the others with a lack of enthusiasm.

“Hey, what’s that,” said Thomas, pointing to the corner of the hall, which was apparently a dead end.

“It looks like some sort of panel,” Ferrik remarked.

“More like an exit,” said Mackwell, rushing towards the ladder leading up to the panel.

Before Mackwell could reach for the lever to open the floor, it moved on its own, and a face came out wearing a tyrian purple beret, with a fern green feather on the side. He had black hair and green eyes, and was wearing a navy blue suit with an asparagus green vest. Tan laceless shoes covered his feet, and they were in near perfect condition, despite having been worn every day for the past three years.

“Ferrik. Mackwell. Is that you? What are you guys doing down here?”

“Geoffrey, are we underneath your lab right now?” asked Ferrik.

“Yeah. I’ve been trying to see if there was a way underground since I first starting hearing footsteps down there. How long has this place been down here?” asked Geoffrey.

“Beats me,” said Mackwell. “I barely found out about it three days ago, and I only went in twice since I first discovered it.

“Oh. Well, what are you guys doing down there?” inquired Geoffrey.

“Escaping. Can we come up?” asked Ferrik, approaching the ladder and kicking off the dirt and water that had clustered on the bottom of his shoes.

“I suppose. Just hurry up. If anyone has been stalking you, I don’t want them to find out about this place. It took long enough just to make it, I don’t want it ruined by some monitor.”

The three of them climbed the ladder into the cool, brightly lit room that hurt their eyes.
--------------------------------That Cat's In The Cradle thing is just a joke. I might remove it later, but yay. Three new characters.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:45 am, edited 3 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 1:41 pm

Argh! I had just gotten that song out of my head!
Thanks. Again.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 8:48 pm

Sorry, but I couldn't help it.

More themes.
The Computer: Points Of Authority - Linkin Park
Miles: Under The Bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Alice: Alone - Lasgo
Geoffrey: Dream On - Aerosmith

The Computer is going to be a main character now, as he fits the plot perfectly. I've already written out the entire plot, even though it's only been like three weeks at the most.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 8:55 pm

That's ok. Kei writes out the whole timeline before she even starts. About six times.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 9:00 pm

That happened with one of my stories, and then I scrapped it. Miles, Alice, and Mackwell, as well as a couple of characters introduced later are from that scrapped series.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 9:16 pm

I can just close my eyes and there she is, on my bed papers spread all around her, pencil in hand, ruler in her mouth...

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:20 pm

What's the ruler for?

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:21 pm

I have no idea

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:25 pm

Well, my room's pretty much the same way, except there's also sketches, drawings, and Cds everywhere.

Why did you say ruler? Why not an eraser?

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:28 pm

Because the ruler was in her mouth.
The room's changed now.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:33 pm

Do you have something against erasers?

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:35 pm

No. Why would you ask that?
It was with the rest of the pencils beside her binder.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:38 pm

Know what? I don't know why I write things on paper when I have multiple computers.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:39 pm

She writes it on paper twice and then on to the computer,

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:45 pm

I was going to start and post the new chapter tonight, but my head hurts too much for me to focus clearly. I'll try to have it up by tomorrow.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Sun Nov 15, 2009 11:49 pm

Take your time sweetie.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Mon Nov 16, 2009 1:40 am

One hour. I'll post it. Head hurts, but still writing. I did not expect what I'm going to do with Stevenson.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Mon Nov 16, 2009 6:55 pm

Just caught up on reading it all - great work. I'm really starting to get a feel for what Ferrik and the other's world is like.
The Computer is going to be a main character now, as he fits the plot perfectly.

Yes! Brilliant.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Mon Nov 16, 2009 8:31 pm

Did anyone happen to catch the title of chapter seven and get the joke? The next part's coming soon. Had to go to the hospital after my headache became more severe.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.8

Mon Nov 16, 2009 10:22 pm

Next chapatar
--------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch.5: Naked Ambition
Cue awoke with an unusually pleasant demeanor and gladness radiating from him, as he actually wore a smile instead of the usual bland or blank expression that seemed to have been stapled to his face like a poster to a wall. He brushed his teeth, flossing afterwards, combed his hair, rinsed his eyes, and did a quick stretch to loosen himself up after the long, tranquil slumber he just woke up from. After dressing himself, he wandered into the kitchen and placed two bagels in the toaster and set the timer for one minute and forty-three seconds precisely. Deciding that waiting would be boring, he made his way to his personal library, which possessed a collection of well over one thousand books, all of which were signed and first editions, aside from the classics, which would be too expensive to even purchase it in his dreams. Today, he intended to read Falling Up by John Silverstein, and breakfast time was a perfect time for him to start reading, as he reasoned that it improved brain functioning for the rest of the day, though on what grounds, non could guess.

“What the hell is this?” asked Mr. Cue, stumbling over Mr. Stevenson, who slept completely nude over a pile of Cue’s books that were scattered on the floor, and landing face first on the ground below, which was colored forest green and felt smooth when rubbed.

Mr. Stevenson awoke slowly, initially ignoring Mr. Cue’s voice, but then gradually opened his eyes and began moving sluggishly once he realized that the voice did not come from his dreams, but rather from real life. He sat up and, after noticing that he presently did not have any clothing on whatsoever, covered himself with one of Mr. Cue’s fantasy novels and looked awkwardly around the room in both bewilderment and surprise. He retrieved the glasses from his pocket and placed them on his nose to eliminate his blurry vision, as he did not know where his contacts were at the moment, and present circumstances probably wouldn’t allow him to look regardless.

“W-What am I doing here?” asked Mr. Stevenson, highly disorientated and looking around the room for something that could help him remember anything.

“That’s what I’d like to know, you demented little freak, rubbing up against my precious books in your sleep, and get away from my books. Those are all signed and first editions, and I can’t have you ruining them simply because you have no taste in beds,” Mr. Cue said, picking up a book at random and waving it in Stevenson’s face, also displaying the signatures at the same time.

“W-W-Where are m-my clothes?”

“How the hell should I know? I just barely got here, and here I find you sleeping in my personal library, nude, no less. Just go get a robe and a towel from the restroom, or something. I’m not going to talk to you when you’re nude,” said Mr. Cue, shielding his eyes with his hands from the unpleasant sight before him.

Mr. Stevenson stood up, still covering himself, with Mr. Cue leaving the room to attend to other matters that did not involve being in the same room as Mr. Stevenson. Mr. Stevenson slowly made his way towards the restroom, careful not to bump into anything or step on another of Mr. Cue’s books, which he’d never heard of before. Everything in the room, aside from the novels lying on the floor, was a singular color, forest green, and it was somewhat difficult for him to navigate his way around the virtually invisible furniture. Even the door handle was forest green, which Mr. Stevenson did not know companies produced. He twisted the door’s handle, which let out an easily audible squeak as it clicked, and pulled the door back, with the hinges squeaking in a similar manner, though prolonged and slightly higher in pitch. The hinges were also forest green.

Mr. Stevenson closed the door behind him, discovering a robe hanging from the door, which was also forest green, and was about to leave the restroom, but realized that he had to make use of the toilet, which had forest green water in it, as did the sink.

“How the hell can there be forest green water? Is this water safe to use? Why does he have so much forest green stuff in his house? I wonder if my wife’s worried about me…”

Even the windows were tinted green, as was the soap, the towels, virtually everything visible had been colored forest green, and Mr. Stevenson was mildly disturbed. He would have expressed have expressed this more, but he still hadn’t completely woken up yet. Attempting to shock himself into full wakefulness, he splashed some cold water from the sink onto his face, though he forgot to close his eyes, which resulted in slight pain and discomfort, both of which helped him accomplish his original goal anyways. After wiping his face on one of the clean towels in the top drawer above the sink, Mr. Stevenson left the bathroom and walked back out into Mr. Cue’s library, which had evidently not been entered since he went to the restroom.

“Winston, I’ve put on some clothes,” shouted Mr. Stevenson, forming a cusp around his mouth with his hands to amplify the sound.

“I don’t really care, Madison. I’m still coming in with a blindfold,” Cue responded, entering the room in a near stumble, with a forest green blindfold covering his eyes. “Now please tell me: what the hell are you doing in my house… naked?”

“I don’t know. Last thing I remember, I was at Blanco’s and I ordered a couple of enchiladas and some drink whose name I couldn’t pronounce,” said Mr. Stevenson, lying in an obvious manner.

“Look. Look. I don’t really care. Just leave. You might want to tell your wife were you’ve been while you’re at it. Oh, and do try not to make it sound too gay, as I don’t want to come off as a homosexual when I’m still attempting to find a date to the organization’s gala. I still retain some hope, after all. Here, take these clothes with you. We can’t have you being arrested on charges of public indecency, after all,” he added after a moment of thought.

Mr. Stevenson walked out the door, still mildly confused and shocked, without a thought in his head, and stumbled on the lawn as Mr. Cue shook his head in annoyance and yelled at him not to ruin his good lawn, which was also forest green, with his nakedness. After looking left and right, he crossed the street, getting hit by a car along the way, with Mr. Cue now shaking his head in disgust, in addition to annoyance, and Mr. Stevenson lied on the floor for a few moments, cringing in pain, holding his stomach, though the car did not hit anywhere near there, and slowly crawled his way to the other side of the sidewalk, where he waited to recuperate. A little girl passed him on the pavement, with her mother attempting to avert her daughter’s eyes from the man she rightfully assumed was drunk, and the girl skipped playfully along the pavement, singing a song about the sandman, who she assumed was casting his spell on Mr. Stevenson, who had closed his eyes to block out the sun.

After nearly an hour of resting, he slowly got up to his feet and began making his way through the neighborhood, blankly staring at the faces of the children who eyed him with their piercing stares of curiosity and wonder. Remembering what Mr. Cue had said about his wife, he reached for his cell phone and dialed his wife.
------------------For every chapter starting now, I'm going to try and make the title a joke based on the content of the chapter, and I did not expect myself to write this part.
Last edited by Fievel on Tue Feb 02, 2010 1:29 am, edited 3 times in total.

Re: Fievel's QEFFAL (Original Work PG-13) Ch.9

Tue Nov 17, 2009 4:24 am

“W-W-Where are m-my clothes?”
Where are his clothes?
Topic locked