DaCrum's Stuff: The Glasses

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DaCrum's Stuff: The Glasses

Postby DaCrum » Thu Sep 30, 2010 3:51 pm

Hullo fellows. I decided I'm gonna post some of my poetry. IF it seems dark and depressing, or emoshit, sorry, I probably wrote it when I had depression. I hope you enjoy. Do leave some comments.


Self-Loathing

I hate those
Who speak behind my back
Who slander and sputter
And spit and hate
I hate those
Who smile in my pain
I hate those
Who look down on me
As if I were their servant
I hate those
Who look up to me
As if I were their lord
But most of all
I hate that.
You see
The one I hate
Is me

Ennui II

It's such a
Bitch
Being always
Rich

Originality

If I'm not me,
Then who am I?
Am I the man in the corner
Tears running down his face?
Or the one in the party
With the tears only in his heart?
Am I still the loser
Who wishes for death?
Or would I ignore the problems
As if I were deaf?
If I'm not me,
Then who am I?

At Fate's End

As I sit in the dark,
Staring at the world,
I see a road.
It winds and winds,
Signs passing me by.

Occasionally, I see another driver.
We acknowledge each other,
But soon, fade away,
Back into the darkness.
Alone.

After all, it is only my life
That I steer.

My breath is heavy,
My heart beats still.
Yet, it yearns for no one.
My eyes stare,
And my thoughts run,
Stopping not even for rest.

As I see the rocks,
The cliff's edge,
I think of the impact.
The bottom.
Relief, it screams.
And I say,
Persevere, my friend.
And God stays silent.

But I can feel Him.
His beckoning tone.
Watching, in silence.
At His art, His child.
In this moment of despair.

I hear the laughs
Of all I've met.
The love they had
Echoing in my mind.
I wonder where they are
On this dark desert road.
Do they ride together,
Or alone like me?

I hear the drums
Of heaven beating.
The Western Wind
Calling for my soul.
I hear the voices of angels,
Crying through the night.

My engine roars,
The only sound in my ears.
Besides the wind,
Tearing at my capsule.

The walls around me
Stretch and turn.
My heart,
It wretches in my chest.
I feel alone.
God is silent.
Where were they when I needed them most?

Have I been forsaken?
Left at the door.
Sitting in the fog,
As they walk away.
The party goes on,
Yet I sit alone.
Staring at the dark.

When I drink, I drink alone.
For it is not for fun I do.
It is to get through everyday life.
Not for those people too.

This cup in hand,
Rotted juice.
Some form of being "cool".
I see the tears,
Mixing in.
The sadness falls on deaf ears.

I'm on that road again,
Alone,
Despite the crowds.
I steer alone.
No passengers.
No cargo.
Just me and my clothes.

And so, shall I ride.
Until the day,
My fuel ends.
And the road
Must stop.

The Sculpture

I see the sculpture.
The work of art,
So beautiful.
Her marble skin,
Shining in the florescent light.
Smooth, white.
Pure.
Perfection.
At least the only kind
That humans could obtain.

The Fated Day

I can only hope and wish
That the day I die,
It is not alone in a hospital bed.
Or from some selfish act.
But one of love, the one I never show.
A sacrifice, but for the life of another.

Fire and Brimstone

I see the crowds;
Shuffling,
Sheeping,
Schlopping.
I hear the cries;
Echoes,
Faint roar
In the cold moonlight.
Where is our friends
When we need them most?
Where were our leaders?
Our kings and lords,
But suckling on the fat tit of
The hard work of us.
Yet no one notices.
Am I alone
In this horrid observation?

Why?

Can't do much of anything right,
So why do anything at all?
When every action results in failure,
Or worse:
Lack of progress.
I see no progression,
No advance,
No gain.
Pain, I see,
Suffering, I watch every day.
Lying, hating,
Dishonestly, people live,
Slanderous action after
Miserly exploit.
Why?

Whispering Behind My Back

I hear their sniveling voices,
Scritching and scratching in the back of my mind.
I hear every slander, every insult,
Like a punch to eye.
A sucker punch.
Why won't they say it to my face?

I've grown used to the looks.
Parents stare at me as if I am Lucifer,
Here to lead their child to Hell.
Yet the children laugh.
I do not know why,
Nor do I know what they see in me.

All I see is blackened sludge.
The experiences of my life
Have cooled my heart to obsidian.
But the laughs of children
Do warm it so.

Unappreciated

I always feel unappreciated.
As if all I do,
Every helping action, every bit of charity
Goes unnoticed.

I feel like all I do
To impress, to show my love
Is ignored.

No one cares, why should I?

Traveling

Step by step,
Walking one mile by another,
I travel.
The sounds of nature
Soothe my soul.
Life goes on.

Observing, souring,
Knowing it all.
Assuming, alerting,
Sowing it all.

The coffee's ready,
The skillet is hot.
The fruit is fresh,
But I am not.
Breakfast is here,
Served by a fat woman,
Midwestern, matriarchal.
She pours me another mug,
As I glance into the kitchen

It's funny to think that
My entire life is
In that pack
At my feet.
But, hey, that's
How it goes.

The food is warm,
Nourishing,
It'll carry me to the next city,
I say to myself.
Just another mile of road,
Then I'll return.

Treadmill

The light sound of motorized hum,
The duldrums of a normal life,
Repeat after repeat.
Event after event.

Does anything ever change?
I see myself on a treadmill,
Never changing my distance.
Never catching that tempting
Carrot that hangs in front of my face.

Oh, how her beauty outshines the distance.
How my love makes it so painful.
How the distance never changes.
Whether emotional, physical, spiritual.

Life...
Goes on.

I am tired.
The goal unachievable.
It is about time
I get off.


Metaphorical

I am the wind.
I am bullshit.
Vodka
Vomit
Hate
Love
Hunger
Music
Life
Death
Us
Them
Red
Blue
Green
Red again
Theory
Proof

Fixing

Can superglue mend broken hearts?
Can duck tape stop a leaky soul?
Can I spot weld my life together,
Before I grow old?


Los Angeles

The smell of acacias & eucalyptus, Cayenne, sizzling meat...
Somewhat gunshots, the heartbeat of
Traffic. Rush, report, a tiny world consisting
Of all races, Latino & Chicano, (all Mexican to some White men),
Viet & Korean,(wonder what their fathers were doing in the wars), countless and Africans. The -oids. Negroids, Cauca–
With truth and justice for all. Is it
Truth or shameless opportunity? And, I return to that bench where I was overwhelmed by
That old grey smell, a tree of some sort
Its leaves in shambles around me.
Once again, I am romanticized by
The smell of acacias & eucalyptus.


Scratches

Thirty five thousand feet above,
Incapsulated betwixt aluminum,
Plastic, and a certain sense of uncertainty,
I look upon a dream scape,
Thirty five thousand feet below,
At the deep scars in the skin of our Mother,
The wrinkles in Her forehead,
Scratches from previous abuse.
This case of domesticity, a violent
Act by her love, Time, our Father.
Time.

Thirty five thousand feet above,
I wait for a destination,
A touch on the
Dreamscape
Thirty five thousand feet below.


Clouds

I write this with an aspect of apprehension
For those little fluffballs are always a muse
For the many lost writers.
However, at this time,
I watch them
In their
Natural
Arrangement,
Their comfortable home.
Where they are with friends


Soft

The man sat sipping his café au laît casually at the glass table. Waiters and waitresses casually took orders and dishes, and placed coffees and blends, teas and desserts. The soft sound of the French beach calmed his shaken nerves, and the hard sound of feet on cobblestone and voices of pedestrians and workers made him relaxed, a sense of community with complete strangers.

He was in France on a business trip: his recent outburst in a meeting with the Board—the all-powerful Board of directors, whose decisions were the basis of his life—had led the Company to believe that it was time for an extended vacation for one of their best and brightest, which had perfectly coincided with the reminder of the extended absence of one Chief of Foreign Affairs(FR); the transfer was quick and painless for the young, family-less man. His status as an extended bachelor eased his extended move.

Returning to his excursion at the café, he took in a deep breath and calmly garnered the attention of one of the waitresses. A petite, young girl with curls of lovely, light brown hair, she spoke very eloquent French with the slight lisp that the businessman had associated with the region. He quickly, softly, inconspicuously ordered a refill of his drink, as well as an additional order of sugary, fruit-filled beignets.

Despite the stress of a breakdown, transcontinental moving, relocation, abandonment, he was strangely calm. His ability in the Company had ensured his continued occupation in the Company, and he considered this a minor hindering in his rise up the Corporate Ladder, a vacation from the chaos of New York. The Company had barely any French assets, and that branch was simply made as an avenue for the pampered children of one of the higher employees—after all, even those at the top were employees to the Board of Directors—for sexual excursions and hedonistic binges.

His calm divulgence into his mind was suddenly interrupted by the introduction of another young French maid. She wasn't especially notice, by her special beauty had caught his sight, a naïve foal into the snare of a hunter. Locks of golden brown hair gently bounced with her gait, her smile was relaxed, friendly, as her lips weaved a ribbon of beautifully choreographed words. Her hands swung haphazardly, her legs following a moment behind. She laughed at the joke of one of her companions, the sound echoed in the heart of the businessman, melted his core, drowned his mind in thoughts of beauty. A casual search from her eyes caught the businessman's, and she smiled even more. However, she turned, following her friends, and disappeared around a corner.

The businessman sat there, awestruck, his mouth slightly ajar. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his latte. The hot, milky liquid flowed into his mouth, and, with that, his mind became sane again, and, although an entirely pleasant memory, the businessman turned his thoughts from the beautiful Frenchwoman, to business, and his triumphant return to New York.
Last edited by DaCrum on Thu Nov 01, 2012 3:56 am, edited 4 times in total.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff [PG13 usually] NEW SHORT STORY: Soft [PG]

Postby Tuor » Fri Oct 08, 2010 1:43 am

You have some cool stuff man.

next don't post so much at once though.
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff [PG13 usually] NEW SHORT STORY: Soft [PG]

Postby DaCrum » Fri Oct 08, 2010 1:47 am

Haha, don't worry, I won't next time.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff [PG13 usually] NEW SHORT STORY: Soft [PG]

Postby DaCrum » Tue Oct 19, 2010 10:44 pm

To say that I’m a protagonist would be stupid; to say I’m the good guy, that I’m the knight in shining armor strictly erroneous, not to mention fucking wrong. I’m more the asshole on that bike, the fitted jeans, the mirrored shades, giving you that look of “I’m undressing you with my eyes and you like it.” I tear through the town, teasing all the girls that the sweet boys like because I can, I leave them broken hearted in the streets, waiting for my roaring engine to come back. To say at all that I would lead anyone is to say that the ocean would rise up and consume the land. I was not the guy to fuck with. You smiled at me wrong, I made sure that smile stayed for a while. Many times I cut a fucker’s cheek at a bar just because. I dressed the way the ladies like because I liked it. That was me, that was how I was, that was what I am.

Now, here I lie, my body broken, my mind in swirls. I can’t hear anything, nor feel anything(although quite frankly I’m glad about that last part, just based on what I can see I’m sure the only thing I’d feel would be pain). My bike lays(at least I think that’s it), scrap on the shoulder of the road, a depressing wreck. What hit me? How did I get here? Well, let’s try to count my steps back, just like my mom used to make me do when I couldn’t find something. I was riding down the road, I was riding on that bike, that mangled piece of shit over there. I think I’ve been here before. That must be it. I was riding, like I always do, running from the sun. Running, running...

Something in my gut tells me that I should be running. My head still swirls, but I can definitely tell that feeling. I try to stand up on my two useless legs. I can move them, I can tell that much but damn... Put any weight on them and they just bend underneath. They aren’t broken, just beat up. My vision begins to clear, the blurs in the distant background becoming more and more clear. I can see my bike clearly. I balance on my two useless legs and quickly stumble over to the carnage. My pants are torn and ripped, the bloody, flayed flesh underneath revealing itself in grim crimson. My arms are sore(my feeling must be coming back– yes I was right, there is a lot of pain), but I still grab my helmet, sliding it off my still spinning head(shit, my neck hurts, I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely a bit beat up), and throwing it to the pavement. Must’ve been letting the blood sit in my ears or something, but I can hear now. I don’t like what I hear, there’s a car, there’s yelling, I should be running, I should definitely be running. My legs apparently disagree, because I am definitely falling towards my–

Okay, that didn’t help at all, but at least I’m at my bike now, just got to grab my bag, get my weap– Okay who is grabbing me? Who is pulling at my arm(I think it might be broken but I’m not sure, sure feels like it though)? I turn my sore neck towards where that thing is grabbing me, and I see a very, very angry man. Why hello there, why are you so angry? I guarantee you there is no need to twist my arm like that, but if you’d like to you can continue to do that, I just would prefer you don’t.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff NEW SHORT STORY: Untitled [PG-13]

Postby Tuor » Tue Oct 19, 2010 10:49 pm

Haha, I like this a lot. Especially the ending
"Suddenly Frodo noticed that a strange-looking weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the hobbit-talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him, and in spite of the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face; but the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the hobbits."
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff NEW SHORT STORY: Untitled [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Thu Jan 06, 2011 2:25 am

Putting the First Person Narrative on Hiatus until I can find the time/booze(I am a zealous believer in Hemingway's "Write drunk, edit sober" mantra).

For now. Zombie chapter. Put in quotes cuz I can. The reason I'm going to post this is because it has a bit already written so as I write it, I have a buffer before I run outta new content to post. For now, a teaser.

It was raining the day civilization decayed away into nothingness. People knew it was coming, they said. The signs were obvious. And, as the last of the ivory towers of humanity fell into nothingness, tears were wept. Each one for the memory of a loved one lost in the attempt to fight against the inevitable destruction. And each one disappeared, lost in the rain, lost in the flood of tears. Everyone wept. Everyone mourned. And civilization died.

Although human civilization died, humanity didn’t. Humanity lived on, without the ivory towers, without the technology that for so long held them upon gilded chariots. No longer could humanity live without suffering, without strife. No longer could the spoiled species be raised upon the torrential waters of life. No longer was humanity invincible. All the survivors realized that, and so, recreated their communities, not for the common social aspects but for protection, for survival. Humanity needed what little they had left to avoid the old threats, disease, predators, weather, and the new.

And so, in the ruins of some city on the coast, a solitary outpost stood, for protection, for safety. For hope. This is where our story begins, among this lone settlement, in a strange new environment. Earth had changed. The time of man had fallen, their era had ended. Yet, as moss on a rolling stone, it still stood, small yet existent. And so man stayed, against the elements, against the old, against the new. Life had changed, yet so had man.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Thu Jan 06, 2011 4:52 am

You should totally use a train for transport and shark mesh for defense.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Thu Jan 06, 2011 10:57 pm

I forgot to mention. What frequency do you want me to space out the portions I post?
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Fri Jan 07, 2011 12:11 am

You're probably asking Tuor, but I think once a day would be adequate. Treat it like a blog.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Fri Jan 07, 2011 12:13 am

Eh, just anyone. I could probably do 2 weeks at the rate I'm writing it. If I work on it more, then longer.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Fri Jan 07, 2011 3:26 am

Start of the first chapter. If it's too 'wall of text' for you, then deal with it. I can't double space on this place so meh.


Chapter 1

The wheat swayed gently in the wind, among the scattered skeletons of cars and trucks. In a city once famous for its gusts, now it moved almost unheeded, the windows that blocked it so now smashed and torn, the buildings slowly crumbling, the wind swayed the wheat. The wheat, a sign of a nearby human settlement, was growing in the remains of a large parking lot, much closer to the outpost than the far rural grounds. Without the roars of cars and the din of business, the city had changed. Birds’ chirps echoed through the halls and cubicle farms, grass grew between the cracks in the pavement. Among the obvious sounds of nature was a true rarity; somewhere among the ruins of the City of Angels, a human, a young woman, ran through the wheat, laughing, enjoying nature. Her still soft brunette hair swayed with the wheat, and her legs, not the once slim legs of a middle class teenager, had grown into legs that work, that help the community. She was wearing torn rags of denim and cotton, and across her back was strapped a small caliber rifle, for hunting and for protection. Her boots were taken from a dead soldier’s skeleton, carefully inspected for vermin and disease, washed, and refitted for her. Upon her golden brown hair was a hat, also taken from the soldier, that helped keep the sun out of her eyes, not to mention, through an amateur embroidery, denoted what community she was from. She was happy, not for material goods, nor social status, both of which she had long forsaken, but for the wheat. The golden fields of wheat had grown amazingly, and now her community was guaranteed food, if only for a year. Long ago, the community could scavenge for food among the ruins of supermarkets and restaurants, but that food had rotted and festered, and grown poisonous. So instead of supermarkets and restaurants, the community turned to hardware stores and farming supply stations, planted agriculture, and prayed for food. And, sure enough, on a warm August evening the plants grew, and the humans woke up to golden fields of wheat, towering stalks of corn, among squash, potatoes, lettuce, cabbage, apples, peaches, cherries, and apricots. For protein, the survivors hunted the local deer, as well as some birds, and wildlife from the nearby zoo which had escaped and thrived in the abandoned metropolis.

So the young woman was happy, for survival was ensured, or at least the avoidance of starvation. She laughed and danced and cheered. For a moment, her concentration on survival lapsed and she ran into the road, causing her to stop immediately, and grab the gun on her back. She cocked it, and, as quickly as her strength could muster, brought the butt of the gun to her shoulder, and the scope to her eye. She slowly backed up into the wheat field, and, as soon as she was hidden, relaxed, and fell to the ground, exhausted from the sheer terror that gripped her moments earlier. Several hundred feet away, on top of the ruins of an old parking structure, the community elder watched her, and laughed. “Children will be children.” He said, his old raspy voice with a tone of wisdom. The elder was a fairly old man, especially for after the fall, but was in great health for his age. Wrinkles accentuated his age, making the fifty seven year old man look like he was in his late 80s. He wore the furs of a feral canine, large, thick and grey, and carried a cane to help him walk. Compared to the more common assault rifles carried by the rest of the community, the elder had a sniper, with a much better scope to observe his people, as his hands shook and he could no longer hit the targets that he used to hit in his prime. He wore no hat, preferring his long, grey hair to be tied in a ponytail. His tanned skin shined in the sun, and his boots stomped on the dilapidated concrete. “Well, we should fetch her now, shouldn’t we?” With a smack of his cane, the rest of the community left their hiding places and went to go find the lost girl among the wheat. Although large for a community, it was only about twenty people, the elder, the girl, the businessman, the hunter, the farmer, the farmer’s wife, the athlete, the writer, the officer and three of his former subordinates, the storeowner, the grocer, the chef, the doctor, the doctor’s wife, and the introvert. Seventeen of the members have always lived in the community; the introvert arrived a couple weeks before the planting, but he seemed useful, helping out planting food he had no guaranteed holding of, showing his skills at repairing a car that they occasionally used for scavenging. So the community took in the traveling misanthrope and he established his ground in the community. Despite his shy appearance, the introvert had great charisma, and the elder began to use him for other things than manual labor, as a speech writer, and his own personal agent at persuasion. The girl had taken an interest in the introvert, as he was the only one of a similar age to hers that she had seen since the fall.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Fri Jan 07, 2011 4:53 am

Are you invested enough in this to listen to editing suggestions? I'm president of a creative writing workshop/club.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Fri Jan 07, 2011 3:56 pm

Depends on the suggestion. I already have most of this written out so meh.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Fri Jan 07, 2011 4:35 pm

The biggest thing is repetition. You say that the wind sways the wheat twice in the first sentence.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Fri Jan 07, 2011 4:45 pm

I almost like the repetition there since it emphasizes the moving wheat. Might reword it.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Fri Jan 07, 2011 4:51 pm

It always comes down to what the author wants, but if you were to ever have it workshopped, I can guarantee they'd point it out.

I've noticed repeated words in other places, too (not just in this piece).
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Sat Jan 08, 2011 10:50 pm

You may notice that I didn't update today. And I say SOD to you because fuck I forgot to.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Sat Jan 08, 2011 11:20 pm

He was the first to find the girl, sobbing quietly to herself among the squash. “Hey, girl. What’s with the tears? Come on, they’ve been looking for you.” The misanthrope said is a calm, soothing tone. Like a warm salve, his voice eased the girl’s pain and she looked up. “Yeah, I figured. Guess the old man saw my fuck up?” She replied. The introvert smiled, and lent a helping hand. Compared to the others of the community, he carried much different equipment. Almost always, he carried a backpack with various supplies he needed on his own, as well as his personal effects. Instead of an assault rifle, he carried two weapons that he had always had; one was a rifle of high caliber, the other a double barreled shotgun that had most of its barrel sawed off. The rifle had only iron sights, and was rather old. It had seen many deaths, and been the cause of most of them. Despite its age, the introvert kept it in pristine condition, often spending the cold dark evening cleaning it inside and out. It was kept on his back with a slowly deteriorating leather strap. The shotgun, however, was strapped to his leg by a pistol sling. Both weapons, he was proficient at, and both he could use to kill any creature, feral and civilized alike.


The girl returned the smile, and grabbed his hand, pulling herself up. “So, Greg, the old man got a plan for tonight, or are you free?” She said, holding his hand tightly and turning to him. The loner, Greg, pulled his hand away and frowned. “Well, we might need more supplies. Even with the extra food, ammo is low, fuel is low. Shit is low.” Unceremoniously, he leaned away from her and spit. “The hunter and I are thinking of going south for a bit, scavenge for supplies in suburbia, or maybe even the farmlands.” He let out a long and low whistle, and looked into the breeze. “Life is… interesting. If you ask me, after all that has happened, I’m amazed that communities still existed. When I was traveling alone, I’d often come up on the remains of a community, burnt bodies, starved animals. Skeletons and corpses, smell of rot.” He sighed heavily. “But, well, the one thing I never saw was the kind of organization of this community. You all work together, and, even without the hunter, you can adapt to your situation well enough that, hell, even if we died, you’d still live.” She gulped at that comment. Death had been such a large part of her life. She lost friends, family, peers. Her life, it seemed, had graduated from high school and gone on to the apocalypse. “With no organization, so many communities die, whether it was from infighting or starvation or feral, but this one... It’s thriving. Hell, this may just be the last bastion of human civilization on the world, and, hell, at least it is one damn good example of it.” She stared off towards the ground, upset, hurt, afraid of what was to come.
Escape will make me God.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Sun Jan 09, 2011 12:00 am

I mean, it's no issue if you hadn't.

I'll read later.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Sun Jan 09, 2011 6:02 pm

I noticed a few typos, but whatever.

I'm eager to see some undead.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Tue Jan 11, 2011 4:34 am

Didn't update for two days. Why? Cuz fuck you Mathias, that's why. D:<

Also for those of you silent readers, if any, please, go ahead and talk. The more interest I have in this, the more likely I am going to update. Also, there won't be Feral for a while.

Several minutes later, the girl joined the rest while the loner stayed outside to keep watch. The sun was setting on the ruins of the city, and the community was preparing for the most dangerous part of their lives: night. The elder surveyed everything from the ruins of an old office building, while all the other community members blockaded windows and doors and searched for other ways that anything, insects, animals, humans, could get in. One of the loner’s initiation trials was to stand watch during the whole set up, outside of the safety of the walls of the community, listening to the howls and screams coming from the city, watching the darting shadows and smelling the slight odor of rot. Although the community had now accepted him, he still practiced this ritual. It was time for him to think, to calm down, and, on some days, to smoke. He would talk quietly to himself, and straighten out what he could in his life. Soon, the rugged voice of the hunter rang out, “Greg, door’s closing, get your ass inside.” And so would end Greg’s contemplating, and, with his rifle in hand, he would go into the warmth of society and the safety of the walls, yet, still, as the doors closed, he’d stare outside longing for something more in his life.

Greg had lived for several years after the fall alone, traveling from California, to Canada, Mexico, the East Coast, and back. Searching for anyone, anything. In this time of solitude, he had learned to stand up for himself, talk to himself, be his own companion. Before the fall, Greg was antisocial, and the apocalypse had not changed anything. He still did not deal with affection well, had his fears of crowds, and often worked much better alone. People weren’t his forte, and generally he tended to avoid them. His discovery of the community, his friendship with the hunter, the elder becoming his surrogate father, the girl falling in love with him, was purely coincidental, if not borderline accidental. Both him and the hunter preferred the quiet solitude of their work, while his was more of a look for meaning, the hunter was, of course, a hunter. Both of their work required a certain amount of quiet, stealth, lack of verbal communication, yet a continual silent, unseen contact. This is what allowed them to become friends. The Elder, who once had a son but had lost contact with him before the fall and assumed him dead, saw qualities of his son in Greg, and so grew close. As for the girl, he was the only available mate, and, regardless of that fact, she had grown quite accustomed to his silent form of affection. Despite his lack of care, and façade of apathy, she continued to try and grow closer to him; Greg wanted more than coincidence and accident. Alone, he once lived, and, despite the advantages of being in the community, he still felt that he could continue to live alone.
Escape will make me God.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby Mathias » Tue Jan 11, 2011 8:11 am

I don't know why you're getting hostile about it, I am not at all bothered if you don't.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Prologue [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Tue Jan 11, 2011 9:08 pm

Hahaha. I was joking dude.
Escape will make me God.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Chapter One [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Wed Jan 12, 2011 2:20 am

And next passage. Hope you're enjoying it. Even if I think it might be just Mathias. It's also the last part of Chapter One.

His gaze locked towards the setting sun, the steel gates of the community closed, and, once again, he had been separated from the nature he so loved. The hunter walked up next to him, and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “So, yeah. It’s final, we’re leaving by tomorrow. Gasoline, ammo, maybe more sources of food. Elder approved, I’m assuming you told the girl.” The hunter brought a cigarette to his mouth and lit it calmly. “It’ll be... fun. I guess. You’ll like it. I just will be waiting to go back to the community.” He took a long drag, and handed it off to Greg, who took a drag for himself. “Well, we’ll get back, with whatever the fuck we’re getting. Alive, well, who knows.” Greg laughed a cold laugh, a soldier on the front, waiting for death to come. “Kill some feral along the way. Eh?” The hunter frowned. “You know, even if they aren’t necessarily friendly humans, you can at least treat them like they once were. Decent amount of respect.” The hunter slapped Greg’s back.

Dinner was uneventful, albeit celebratory. The arrival of the vegetables and fruits led to a much more extravagant dinner compared to the usual coyote or deer, and everyone was thankful for a successful planting. And, that night, as everyone was preparing quarters, welcoming the warm blankets of sleep, the hunter and the misanthrope packed. Rifles, ammo, food rations, tents, sleeping bags, clothes. It was a solemn occasion, a farewell to the rest of the camp. By morning they would be heading down the old, crumbling freeway. The radio only played static.

Outside, in the cold morning air of the Californian desert, a distant roar of an engine was heard. Greg and his companion was on their way to wherever they were heading. A gas station was slowly lit up by the rising sun, and three corpses laid still on the hard asphalt. Inside, two cadavers began to stir from a deep slumber. These were the feral, the lost humans. Their minds were broken, their thoughts cluttered, their bodies ravaged by time. They no longer saw friend nor foe, they tore at their flesh and their companion’s flesh. They attacked all that moved and some that didn’t. The madness was obvious in their eyes, but their behavior was the most obvious betrayal of their hateful nature. The sound of the engine echoed in their empty heads, and they knew but one thing: Food. They rose, screaming at the thought of humans, and bursted through the doors. They beat at the bodies outside, and tore at whatever they could. The car zoomed closer and closer to the station. The feral waited viciously.
Escape will make me God.
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Re: DaCrum's Stuff: Untitled- Chapter One [PG-13]

Postby DaCrum » Fri Feb 04, 2011 12:30 pm

Two poems, one is WIP


Contemplating

Contemplating suicide(not mine, yours)

Wondering how you felt with yourself

Contemplating death(mine, not yours)

How should I define self



Contemplating sex(neither mine nor yours)

Lust and love, envy, desire

Contemplating money(the absence of mine and yours)

Care for a dime, you greedy fuck



Can you see the way this world tears itself to shreds?

How the people cry out for change(not mine, maybe yours?)

You wonder and you wait, look and long for

Trust is a bit dry this year, wait for a rise



Contemplating art(sing mine, paint yours)

Fluidic movement, broken lines

Contemplating science(Is mine yours?)

Rigid structure, fixed places



Contemplating fun(smoke mine, drink yours)

Puffs and sips, the pain after pain for pain, with pain

Contemplating work(poor mine, earn yours)

Circles and running, fluidic pain for pain.


WIP


Copper, and flexing steel,
Under the wight of movement,
Of economy.
The cold cacti in the hot metal sun.
How wretched the corpses raise in this dry life.

Tearing limbs at the wrong moonlight,
As the pain of posterity treat
The new kinsman with undirected antipathy.
Wondering about the laughing media head and
The coyote cries in wet gray tones.
Escape will make me God.
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