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POST A STORY YOU'VE WRITTEN Easy; if you've ever written a story, post it.
Here's one I wrote: Departure He opened the door with his last remaining energy and collapsed onto the floor. He did not know how long he had been lying there when he woke up but he could still feel the pain. Carefully, he dug his fingers into the gaps in the splinter-ridden floorboard and dragged himself across the floor. The agony made him cry out in pain. The next attempt brought him closer to the radiator, which, by holding onto, he used to haul himself up against the wall. He relaxed for the first time in months, but this was one time he could not relax. He held his hand over the hole on his chest and pressed hard. With that some of the pain subsided, he would need to sit here until he gained the energy to stand. How had he let this happen? Pete and John were dead. He was alone. Flashes of past events flashed through his mind, but he knew to remember it all, and view his mistakes, he would have to go back to the beginning. He let his body slump and thought back to his departure. The motel was grim. The stench of moulding walls filled every room in the hotel. Still he was only going to be there for an hour. The only light in his room glowed dimly and swung side to side from its rotting fitting on the ceiling, alternately casting light on the hunched, slicked back, black-haired figure of Edward Kestleman. Dressed in a sleek, Italian-cut suit complete with black shirt and silk tie, he looked perfect. That was him, before hell broke out. He was sitting in the only chair in the room, a high-backed, crimson armchair, polishing his gun. It seemed like it had been hours; the black grease refused to spread thin on the embossed nickel casing of the gun. He loved his gun, he was loyal to it. He would never treat it badly as it was this intricate, shiny thing that kept him alive. Finally it seemed to be spreading thin, he picked up his dry cloth, shaking off a cockroach as he did, to wipe off the grease and expose the gleaming nickel. It was clean now. The nickel bore his reflection as he examined its beauty. “Colt 1911A1 .45” it read; the only pistol worth owning in his opinion; reliable, light-weight and deadly accurate. That was all he needed. He slid the gun into the velvet pouch and tucked it into the briefcase, next to the shotgun. He checked his watch. Quarter to nine, Pete would be outside any minute. He walked across the broken, splintered floorboard to the wardrobe. It creaked noisily open, breaking the silence. He unhooked the two suits in the wardrobe, shook them down and lay them on the bed. He looked up to glance outside the window. Still snowing, it seemed like the weather would never change. It was beautiful to see the Bronx at night. The beautiful, golden-yellow neon lights flickering on and off, the monorail in the distance; all this, accompanied with the snow was beautiful, he was going to love killing Charlie tonight, the thought of his warm blood slowly being soaked into the pure snow, transforming its colours, excited him greatly. He got back to work, and walked into the bathroom; he took his razor and toothbrush and walked back towards the briefcase. He folded the suits and tucked his toiletries between the folds before slipping them into the briefcase. He zipped up the briefcase and sat next to it on the seemingly concrete bed. After a ten minute wait he heard Pete three brief honks of the horn as planned. He picked up the briefcase and walked out the door, slamming it behind him as he went. | |
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Spookymuffin said: Easy; if you've ever written a story, post it.
Here's one I wrote: Departure He opened the door with his last remaining energy and collapsed onto the floor. He did not know how long he had been lying there when he woke up but he could still feel the pain. Carefully, he dug his fingers into the gaps in the splinter-ridden floorboard and dragged himself across the floor. The agony made him cry out in pain. The next attempt brought him closer to the radiator, which, by holding onto, he used to haul himself up against the wall. He relaxed for the first time in months, but this was one time he could not relax. He held his hand over the hole on his chest and pressed hard. With that some of the pain subsided, he would need to sit here until he gained the energy to stand. How had he let this happen? Pete and John were dead. He was alone. Flashes of past events flashed through his mind, but he knew to remember it all, and view his mistakes, he would have to go back to the beginning. He let his body slump and thought back to his departure. The motel was grim. The stench of moulding walls filled every room in the hotel. Still he was only going to be there for an hour. The only light in his room glowed dimly and swung side to side from its rotting fitting on the ceiling, alternately casting light on the hunched, slicked back, black-haired figure of Edward Kestleman. Dressed in a sleek, Italian-cut suit complete with black shirt and silk tie, he looked perfect. That was him, before hell broke out. He was sitting in the only chair in the room, a high-backed, crimson armchair, polishing his gun. It seemed like it had been hours; the black grease refused to spread thin on the embossed nickel casing of the gun. He loved his gun, he was loyal to it. He would never treat it badly as it was this intricate, shiny thing that kept him alive. Finally it seemed to be spreading thin, he picked up his dry cloth, shaking off a cockroach as he did, to wipe off the grease and expose the gleaming nickel. It was clean now. The nickel bore his reflection as he examined its beauty. “Colt 1911A1 .45” it read; the only pistol worth owning in his opinion; reliable, light-weight and deadly accurate. That was all he needed. He slid the gun into the velvet pouch and tucked it into the briefcase, next to the shotgun. He checked his watch. Quarter to nine, Pete would be outside any minute. He walked across the broken, splintered floorboard to the wardrobe. It creaked noisily open, breaking the silence. He unhooked the two suits in the wardrobe, shook them down and lay them on the bed. He looked up to glance outside the window. Still snowing, it seemed like the weather would never change. It was beautiful to see the Bronx at night. The beautiful, golden-yellow neon lights flickering on and off, the monorail in the distance; all this, accompanied with the snow was beautiful, he was going to love killing Charlie tonight, the thought of his warm blood slowly being soaked into the pure snow, transforming its colours, excited him greatly. He got back to work, and walked into the bathroom; he took his razor and toothbrush and walked back towards the briefcase. He folded the suits and tucked his toiletries between the folds before slipping them into the briefcase. He zipped up the briefcase and sat next to it on the seemingly concrete bed. After a ten minute wait he heard Pete three brief honks of the horn as planned. He picked up the briefcase and walked out the door, slamming it behind him as he went. Cool but kinda disturbing, and I don't have the TIME to write my long ass stories. But I'll try, let me find one though..... but kinda disturbing edit [Edited 5/11/05 14:29pm] ------;;;;;' | |
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wow, that has amazing imagery 
i've written a few stories...but i won't post them. you'd all mock me for writing fanfiction  | |
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evenstar3 said: wow, that has amazing imagery
i've written a few stories...but i won't post them. you'd all mock me for writing fanfiction  no we wouldn't! post ya damn story! | |
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a story like no other, as told by orgers
Lleena said Continue the story...
I was abducted by overweight aliens. I was beamed up into a spaceship and probed by alien hands. The aliens started this examination by first probing my eye with what looked and felt like an over ripe banana. After they seemed satisfied that they had examined my eye thoroughly, they then then moved on to my feet. Upon smothering my feet with a Raspberry jam like substance they proceeded to take numerous photographs from various angles of my left foot. I tried to help them out by pointing my toes this way and that, they seemed pleased and ommited gurgling sounds periodically . Just then, I heard a huge crashing sound and as I turned to look behind me I saw various Orgers had burst through the door armed with catapults and plastic cutlery. After a lengthy stand off (of about 6 hours) by which time I was so hungry my feet had started to look like freshly made toast, I was whisked away by the victorious Orgers who had overcome the aliens with brute force and heavy breathing. I was taken to a room where I was greeted by more Orgers, there seemed to be a fancy dress party taking place. Over in the corner, wearing a Toga and sandals, and clutching a plate of quiche and bean sprouts, stood... TheForg said ...an enormous Chicken, but with the face of HandsClaps. Well, that just freaked me out, i can tell you. Especially since she was clutching beansprouts - i thought everybody hated those horrible pulses. Just as I was about to ask her about the quiche, a booming voice said, "Prepare the victim for analysis by Quiche." I struggled and screamed and begged not to be affronted by the cheese and egg mixture. Just then...
Alf said Cloudbuster teleported in, drooling al over the floor, screaming : What are you listening to?, before he teleported his ass right outta the spaceship. Meanwhile...
Supa said That ripe banana Lleena felt was the detached tongue of the overweight alien queen. That jelly like substance was actual jelly. The queen, angry that her fresh human dinner had been whisked away stuffed her tongue back in her mouth so she could scream her orders. Her warriors left to find the succulent Lleena....
TheFrog said ...who was still trying to avoid the ensuing Quiche. "Let me go and i'll pay you thruppence!" i screamed at the warriors who closed in, murmuring in unison, "Lleena - your name will be "Quicheena" once we're through with you." Like rainfall on a summer's day, my saviour came in the form of a tiny Frog wearing a black hat. He hopped onto the Quiche and began singing an aria from La Traviata. Alas, he was squashed in an instant by a piece of ham falling from the Quiche.
What could I do? Well, what happened then was to change my life forever.... Lleena said One of the warriors was clutching a tome to his bosom and refused to part with it even though I threatened him with a hedgehog that I had found lurking in Alfomelmak's underwear drawer. A struggle ensued, and I managed to wrestle the book from him, at which point the warrior ran southward to get help. I opened the book and on the first page was a clue to the whereabouts of the golden Quiche, It said " la la la he he he, " what could this possibly mean I asked myself?" Suddenly, Supa and TheFrog appeared from around a corner, both looking respledndent in a pair of ripped jeans and a tight tshirt, "follow us, they said." We arrived a few minutes later and knocked on a door.....
Alf said F*ck off an uppity british voice shouted, "I'm piercing all cavities I can find !"
We knocked again. No answer. So... we knocked again. Again, no answer. Things started to look desperate, because the warrior had returned with laser-saber carrying buddies. I'll know what to do, said Supa, and he started to undress. Lleena averted her gaze, just in time to see... TheForg said hat while Supa was undressing, the door had opened and as they entered the room, the stench of rotten cabbage and cheese hit us like Prince slapping himself on a lonely night. Sitting in a throne at the opposite end of the room was a guy wearing a crown - well I say guy, it was more of a newt, really. The smell was visibly emanating from his armpits - literally visibly in the manner of a yellow-green cloud.
"Who are you, and what do you have to do with the Quiche?" I asked. "Lleena, all will be revealed shortly," said the smelly newt. "Why are we both having to share this pair of ripped jeans and t-shirt?" said Supa. "Can you get me out - The Frog has a wind problem." It was then that Smelly Newt removed his face and proved to be an ORGER. That Orger was... Alf said ALTHOM ! WTF are you doing in a Smelly Newt suit. Oh and btw could you please refrain from allowing TMBGITW stinking up your armpits {shudder}. But now that you're here, do you and Stripped Supa know how to avert our wicked warriors ? Sure, Althom and Stripped Supa harmoniously agreed. Follow us to this trap-door where we...
2the9s said ...will descend to the Secret Chamber 'neath the Org proper. It is here where Quicheena will have her final undoing. It is here where all will be revealed. So the wet newt smell dissipated like sweat off Mayte, and the Frog's wind problem was finally no more, as suddenly from out the shadows emerged...
Lleena said 2the9s carrying a bowl of fruit. "Would you like an apple Lleena?" he asked in his dulcet tones. I viewed his attire suspiciously, "that looks like my dress you have on, is it?." 2the9s blushed and changed the subject. The group of orgers continued down the tunnel...
TheFrog said with 2the9s, by now dressed as a pregnant Pineapple. Suddenly the lights dimmed and all exits from the room they were in shut. Turning to me (Lleena, that is), 2the9s said, "Fool!! Bwah, hah, hah!!! It was me all along, Lleena. I arranged for your abduction, as you well know." "I couldn't care less who abducted me, I just want to get back to the probing," I said (I being Lleena, that is) as I licked my lips. "That cannot be," said 2the9s in a voice which sounded uncannily like Barbara Streisand. "For first, I must explain to you what, "La la la, hee hee hee" means. "Get on with it then!" I exclaimed. At that point 2the9s went over to the piano and, opening its lid, revealed another Orger, who went, "Ta-da!!!!" in a really annoying way. That Orger was, of course... MinniG said .....minneapolisgenius who is holding a tray of fresh pooptoast because she is expecting Cloudbuster over for lunch that day. She made it special, just for him.
*ding-dong* echoed the doorbell from the end of the long corridor. MinnieG scrambles out of the piano and bolts for the door, almost losing her grip on the tray because her Smart Wool socks are dangerously slippery on the marble floor. She slides by the front door, skidding to a perfect halt and throws the door open in joyous anticipation of Cloudy's arrival. She has waited months for this moment, but her face falls when she sees that he has brought Marrk along. "Hey Minnie, sorry I'm late." says Cloudbuster coolly as he breezes past her with Marrk in tow. "Say, I hope you don't mind, but I already had plans with Marrk and I really couldn't cancel." he says, and she sees a secret, meaningful glance pass between the two men. "Anyway" he continues, "I just wanted to stop by and say a quick 'hello' before we go. I, uh, have the car running so I really can't stay.....you know how it is....." he trails off. Marrk hums "Billie Jean" softly to himself, with a sort of sweet, maniacal smile on his face the whole while. Minnie flicks her eyes quickly out the window at Cloudy's car and suddenly everything becomes clear to her. She feels as though she has been kicked by a horse, and the onset of a panic attack threatens. That momentary glance into his car revealed just what she had feared: Marrk's Michael Jackson blow-up doll propped up in the back seat. It appeared that he had invited Cloudbuster to one of his infamous Marrk and MJ orgies. "Look, I'll catch ya later Minnie." he says quickly as he gives her a hasty peck on the cheek, but as he turns to go, his elbow hits her tray of pooptoast sending the freshy made delicacies scattering everywhere, finally landing face-down on the cold floor. "Oh, man....hey I'm sorry about that. Did you make those for me? Thanks. Anyway, we gotta jet." he says and Marrk says nothing because he has moved on to mumbling "Man in the Mirror" as they make their way out the door. Minneapolisgenius is left staring dumbly after them as a tear slips down her cheek. "Who gives a shit!" she thinks, trying to convince herself that it doesn't bother her. She runs to the kitchen and starts frantically searching for her address book in the telephone drawer. She finds it and thumbs through the pages, finally settling on the number she's looking for: EllisDee #867-5309..... Her fingers punch in the numbers, as she tries to compose herself..... Cloudbuster said she changes her mind and starts wanking a dog off instead. Suddenly...
TheFrog said She realises that the dog is in fact Cloudbuster. Horrified, she grabs a bottle of whisky and announces, "I'm not sure what this has got to do with Lleena being abducted by aliens, but that's no excuse for this outrage, Cloudy!"
Slapping Cloudbuster across the face with the bottle, she runs for the nearest... MinniG said for the nearest plastic surgeon where she plans to have.....
Cloudbuster said ...a poo. Only Pej's exploding head could rectify the situation but he was...
TheFrog said breaking down a door, behind which were a bunch of confused orgers. "What the fuck are you doing here?" asked 2the9s, who was leading the rabid pack. "We're trying to find the damn meaning behind Quiche."
Lleena said Orger Cloudbuster is embroiled in a tussle with Christopher over the plate of fries that MinneG had made." The Orgers pondered this and gathered in a group, they decided it was time to arm themselves with weapons. I volunteered to lead the party to find some, but TheFRog objected, stating that I had a funny accent and that nobody would understand a word I said. I shot him a filthy look, which he seemed to like. Eventually it was decided that nobody should lead. We continued on our way to find some weapons and who should we bump into, but...
XxaxX said hilary clinton! attired in her reddest of power suits she wanted to swap dresses with 2the9s, a proposition to which he readily agreed. but by then the dress was hopelessly stretched to a mannish size and drooped where it ought not to have, exposing the former first lady in ways unmentionable. ms. clinton was hideously embarrassed* and screamed that she wanted her power suit back. but 2the9s was nowhere to be seen. and ms. clinton swore she would avenge herself by . ..
*get it? em bar assed? Supa said teaming up with the obese Alien queen. Nobody defiles the communist queen's reddest power outfit. Nobody. Hilary used her congressional powers to draft a law right there on the spot making 9s the #1 enemy of the United World of the Obese Alien Queen and authorized a reward of 1,000,000 steaming quiches, fresh from the underams of the smelly newt. Just as Hilary marked the bill with her signature of approval....
Lleena said A scantily clad orger (bkw) entered the room. He had been sent on a mission by his fellow Orgers to snare the alien queen and Hilary in a trap. "Hello ladies," he growled, and walked across the room to them in a manly fashion. "Why hello, tiger," replied Hilary, who undid the top button of her blouse and hitched up her skirt in a manner more befitting of althom, than a former first lady. The Queen looked on with an air if cynicism, she had seen bkw in his tiger skin thong before. "WE know you have been sent by your fellow Orgers to trap us," spitted the queen, "the thong trick isn't going to work anymore," she hissed. Bkw turned on his heels and darted out of the door, "Oh shit, now what?" he muttered to himself. Just then althom appeared clad in a Gold bikini, "not you too?" asked bkw, "yes, I have come to trick the ladies into handing over the key to the room that holds the mighty golden Quiche," replied althom, "oh lord, you're really gonna impress them looking like that," bkw laughed. As they turned to head back to their fellow orgers, Pej appeared. I know where the key is, follow me, he said. They followed him..
2the9s said ...when they disappeared around the corner Pej took the opportunity to slip his hands inside althom's thong... the front of althom's thong. Wide-eyed, althom said "What on earth are you doing, Pej??" Pej winked and said "I'm looking for the Quiche thing heh heh" Pej kept fishing around for an uncomfortably long time, then said "Hmmm, not only can't I find the Quiche thing, but I can't find...
Alf said not only can't I find the Quiche thing, but I can't find anything related to gonadal luggage. I'm an aussie Pej, yelled althom, after a couple of coldies an hour every day, all we got hanging in the front of a thong is as gut as big as the room Byron keeps his photos in; and you can feel around all you like but I ain't cracking a fat. So stop fiddling around and tell us where we're going.
Okay, Pej sighed with a shiver of disappointment in his voice, we're heading to... TheFrog said ...the pub.
Now that pej and althom had stopped their incessant fondling of each other, attention turned to more important matters; namely, what the fuck this story is all about. "It's about me," I said (I being Lleena again). "It's about me and my quest to find a Quiche, kill the obese Queen and get back to some hardcore probing." The troupe of Orgers made their way to the pub, but unfortunately found it closed. On the heavy wooden door hung a sign saying, "Closed due to toilet flooding". "Damn," I said. "AlfofMelmak must have been here already - always leaves a trail of enormous faece-induced flooded toilets." Having given up on a drink, the abominable troupe of smelly orgers made their way back towards the spaceship, determined finally to complete their quest. Just then... Lleena said ...just then, Ben appeared, he was carrying the Golden Quiche in his hands, "I have had it the whole time, if you had started a thread or noted me, i would have told you." he said. The Orgers let out a simultaneous sigh of relief, the ordeal was over. I had escaped further probing and we were all able to relax. TheFrog organsied a party to celebrate, "naked twister anyone?" he asked us, I declined, excusing myself by stating that i had suffered enough probing for one night and that i'll be damned if i was going to let althom go anywhere near my delicacies.
I let 2the9s keep my dress. It had huge sweat marks under the arms. "sweaty git," I told him. Everyone lived happily ever after! The End. source this is more fun reading edit [Edited 5/12/05 0:26am] You don't scare me; i got kids | |
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AlfofMelmak said: [big ol' org story]
 [Edited 5/12/05 0:31am] | |
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Brief synopsis i guess...
Okay...this is a chapter from a Novella i wrote in 2001! It's aimed at 8-14 year oldz...but anyone can read it  My class and teacher and a friend i got to read and criticize constructively found my style quite sensual and intruigingz. My friend thought da characterz were partz of my personality exaggerated for creative purposes  The Queen is a bold, cocky character who doesnt mince her wordz and is very opinionatedz...and the King is meek and mild, placid and slightly awkward by naturez. THey both have a past set in Medieval timez. The Queen was the offspring of an underground sorcerous (sp) and her father a King...when her father findz out about her mother, she is left homeless and lives on the streets. The King was an awkward, dark blacksmith who's family was killed by the notorious black death....he had a young love of whom he was torn apart from because he was common and she was royalty.
The Queen is inducted in2 the Kingdom of REM in the introductory chapter- it has somethin 2 do with her mother's sorcery
OKay her we goez...(if you can be bothered reading...) Just A Dream “Wake up!” The king lay on the cold cobblestone floor, huddled and asleep. He wore a smile, and was draped in purple velvet, a part of his new kingly attire. “Did you not hear me? Are you deaf? Get off the floor!” The king lazily opened his eyes; the rolls of skin on his eyelids kept pushing him back to sleep. “What happened?” “Never you mind what had happened. You were asleep!” “I couldn’t possibly have dreamt that. It was for real! It had to have been! Was it not?” The queen ignored him. “What about my great achievement?” “Oh yes. Well done.” The queen waved her hands at the king, as if he were insignificant. “How could I have fallen asleep, if I am no longer mortal?” “Because, my dear, you are an idiot. How many times must I mention that?” the queen sighed, twisting her mouth sideways, as she fixated her gaze on a spot on the floor. “Is there something you’re hiding?” “Oh, of course. There’s always something to hide. Where’s the fun if you can’t hide things? Just a few moons ago I hid Raven’s favorite little red ball. Oh, he wasn’t happy at all. Quite amusing to watch actually. Should try it sometime!” The king felt his face flush with annoyance. “Can you not say anything straight?” “Straight?” “Yes! Anything and everything you say makes leaps and turns, and loops around in a maze!” “Maze?” the queen teasingly mused. “Please! I’ve had it!” “You’ve had it? Oh, really? Try sitting on a throne for an odd several hundred years or so, with a talking pet raven as your only company! Waiting for you! You! The blasted King of Dreams! Experience something like that, then tell me you’ve had it!” the queen protested, flabbergasted, then calmed down, she rolled her eyes in contempt, and sighed. “Well, I never! It wasn’t my decision to become a king! Was it your decision to become queen?” The king looked the queen up and down, as he made his way to his throne, and tripped over a bit of his purple velvet cape. “I suppose I already know the answer to that question!” The queen laughed in an exaggerated manner, with her mouth wide-opened, holding her abdomen tightly. She clenched hard, with her long, crimson nails, as though she was about to pull her guts out. “Ha! You haven’t the faintest clue!” “And I suppose you’d like it kept that way.” He muttered, leaning his head on his right hand. He twisted his mouth to the side, mocking the queen’s usage of body language before. The queen reached her left hand out, staring at one of the floating windows, in concentration, as she gradually called it closer to their thrones. “I see another criminal’s dream, don’t you?” “Excuse me?” “It is time!” “Time for what? Another lie of yours?” “I am warning you. If you continue with this new attitude of yours, you will be incessantly sorry! Do you hear?” affirmed the queen, now standing in front of the king’s throne, wagging her finger in his face. “Just what is it exactly that you plan to do, if I don’t?” The queen suddenly poked her head in his face. “Don’t push it!” she whispered, making an exaggerated mouthing action. She poked his chest as she did this, her red eyes bulging out of her sockets. The glares of their redness made the king see stars, as he closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. He sighed. “Now for the next dream!” she screeched. The king’s presence started to visibly fade, bit by bit. First his hands, then his feet. “Oh, no.” “Oh, good! A day dream! Don’t be such a sissy, now is your chance!” “Chance for what, may I ask?” blurted the king, his arms then fading away. “To prove yourself…um…yes! To…The Greater Ones…oh, of course!” A deafening crash of thunder could be heard within the castle walls. The king hunched his shoulders, squinting his eyes in pain. “What was that?” quizzed the king, noticing a dark cloud above his head. “Oh, don’t have a hissy-fit. Thunder storms inside this castle? Perfectly normal. Happens all of the time. Now go! You have a dream to catch…wait! Wait! You forgot…” The king disappeared; the last of his legs had faded away. “Your sword…” Excerpt from "Queen of Slumber, King of Dreams" Melissa F White (c)2001-2005  No hablo espanol,no! 
Pero hablo ingles..ssii muy muy bien...
 "Come into my world..."
Missy Quote of da Month: "yeah, sure, that's cool...wait WHAT?! "  | |
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He Is
He is Quite beautiful I must admit He has A touch of blonde in his hair A light step in his walk A tender heart underneath A gentle way is his talk He is not quite midnight But IS dawn Or u can say in between He is not quite sunshine So shy, Tries to remain unseen He is like honey Not quite brown But just right He is not quite day He is not quite night He is caramel Milk and chocolate In the mix He is brown sugar He is Quite beautiful I must admit | |
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Not so long ago, in a world not unlike our own, a tiny faece called Benjamin lived in an imposing fortress called Colon Towers.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, TheFrog battles Benjamin, kicks his ass, steals his woman and lives happily ever after. 
Fin | |
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TheFrog said: Not so long ago, in a world not unlike our own, a tiny faece called Benjamin lived in an imposing fortress called Colon Towers.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, TheFrog battles Benjamin, kicks his ass, steals his woman and lives happily ever after.
Fin You were the same froggie as the one in the story i posted above, right? You don't scare me; i got kids | |
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AlfofMelmak said: TheFrog said: Not so long ago, in a world not unlike our own, a tiny faece called Benjamin lived in an imposing fortress called Colon Towers.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, TheFrog battles Benjamin, kicks his ass, steals his woman and lives happily ever after.
Fin You were the same froggie as the one in the story i posted above, right? my descriptive talents have wasted away to nothing since coming to the org.  | |
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TheFrog said: AlfofMelmak said: You were the same froggie as the one in the story i posted above, right? my descriptive talents have wasted away to nothing since coming to the org.  I´m sure when you lay of the alcohol and drugs, you´ll be fine  You don't scare me; i got kids | |
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Alf, man! Thanks for posting that, I'd forgotten all about it.  | |
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Cloudbuster said: Alf, man! Thanks for posting that, I'd forgotten all about it.
yeah Lleena should start another one !You don't scare me; i got kids | |
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AlfofMelmak said: yeah Lleena should start another one !Yeah, I think we should demand it of her.  | |
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Cloudbuster said: AlfofMelmak said: yeah Lleena should start another one !Yeah, I think we should demand it of her. i think you should demand it of her. | |
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TheFrog said: i think you should demand it of her.Okay. | |
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Cloudbuster said: TheFrog said: i think you should demand it of her.Okay. interpret, "it" as you will. | |
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TheFrogSpawn said: interpret, "it" as you will.
 | |
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TheFrog said: Not so long ago, in a world not unlike our own, a tiny faece called Benjamin lived in an imposing fortress called Colon Towers.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, TheFrog battles Benjamin, kicks his ass, steals his woman and lives happily ever after.
Fin
The saga continued, as Ben rose from the grave as a frog-eating torturer. he put a straw up the frog's arse and blew with all his might. needless to say, the frog exploded. | |
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Spookymuffin said: TheFrog said: Not so long ago, in a world not unlike our own, a tiny faece called Benjamin lived in an imposing fortress called Colon Towers.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, TheFrog battles Benjamin, kicks his ass, steals his woman and lives happily ever after.
Fin
The saga continued, as Ben rose from the grave as a frog-eating torturer. he put a straw up the frog's arse and blew with all his might. needless to say, the frog exploded. 
interesting that you immediately focus on my backside, though, Benjamin.  | |
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TheFrogSpawn said: Spookymuffin said:
The saga continued, as Ben rose from the grave as a frog-eating torturer. he put a straw up the frog's arse and blew with all his might. needless to say, the frog exploded.
interesting that you immediately focus on my backside, though, Benjamin. Yes. I want to put my willy in it | |
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Spookymuffin said: TheFrogSpawn said:
interesting that you immediately focus on my backside, though, Benjamin. Yes. I want to put my willy in it  | |
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So it happened that the Frant did happen upon a happening. The happening happened to be a surprised revolt for the taste of toast. For it was many years before the fruit gave jolly juice to the rebels own mouth dew. Alas, stated the frant whose froom was weltering in the shadows, we need more haste. And haste upon which it came was bourne.
Yesterday I found myself wandering through the shadowy lowlands of splurge. It was an eerie experience with a slight after taste of mellon medly. Naturally I heeded my advice and knelt down upon a knee and grove bindingly. The grove became apparently uncomforted by the single frant. I gestured to the grove to chill. And it did chill. The frant on the other hand was a somewhat perpetuous animal whose own froom was frolly to say the least. I needed a winged Brethren. My toes began to hurt and I pledged great pain to my brain. The frants frolly listened no more and we gambled our ilk. I continued to walk frogratanitally towards the great big dog. Woof! That was all I needed to establish a canine connection with froom. Woof! As expected, I never quite expected to be woofed so sprightly. The spright made me jump in haste. It was with haste that my jump did jump and the frant followed suit. Clubbing our garments in crassness became the solvent infortune of grace and speed. It was then that the grill became offensive to the creatured rug of mats. Oh my goodness, repelled the great yard guard. Who goes there? He questioned us with his voice and I answered with my Frant. Burp! The guard creaslessly arranged a group digit and defined a crass movement to which we were trapped. Who goes with you? Came another question from the guardian voice. Tis my frant replied I with my eye. Woof! Ah, the dog of bark was in my shadow. There was no way in helderime that any guardian, smokeless or not, would ever mess with a dog of bark. I was safe. | |
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TheFrogSpawn said: Spookymuffin said: Yes. I want to put my willy in it | |
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Elegance in Death
Slovakia, December 1941. The harsh, cold winds broke past Swan’s Polarneck and scarf as he approached the Embassy. How it made him angry to see it; the wealth, the splendour, with no true labour required to gain it. The anger cut into his head like a knife, steadily wearing away at his rational, calm and capable mind. Swan could not afford to lose his calm; this could not be done again and was too important to throw away. Without his calm, Swan would lost the elegance with which he earnt his name - it could become bloody; a massacre. This was Swan’s problem, he had a hot temper, and, in this profession, he needed to be calm all the time. This was Swan’s one let down preventing him from turning professional. He was drawing closer, the alleys and shadows with which he could hide were sparse and the Embassy’s floodlights were on. He drew his scarf over the scaring which surrounded his mouth. This was the hardest part, approaching the entrance to your goal; the actual deed was not as difficult, providing all went as planned. Swan could see the guards now, each one armed with a Mauser 98K, and a Berretta 9-millimetre with silencer – well armed, evidently these weapons were provided by Germany. Good. That would help when the Allies assessed the situation. Swan slipped into the café two hundred metres from the Embassy gates; here he would meet the contact, who should provide him with his weapon and a means of entry. He or she would answer to the phrase, “I hear the dogs are vicious now.” There were three men on a creaking, pre-1920s (evidently fake) minimalist table and a woman seated on her own by what would be the bar, only it did not sell drinks. Swan thought it safest to approach the woman. “I hear the dogs are vicious now.” “Yes, who told you?” The woman replied with a strong, French accent. “A friend.” “Local?” “Yes.” “Excellent, follow me.” Swan got up from the high chair that he was sat on and followed her across the neatly polished, black and white chequered floor. She stopped outside the ladies bathroom; they were out of sight of any watchers. From her pocket, the contact withdrew a 1927 Browning Automatic, with silencer. Excellent, this would have been Swan’s weapon of choice for any operation – a quick short burst of whispers, the splatter of blood, and the job would be done. Bliss; this gun was both silent and quick. “Your disguise is under the seat in the leftmost cubicle of the gentlemen’s toilets.” “Thank you.” “Good luck, Mr. Swan.” Swan walked casually into the gentlemen’s toilet, it was pleasant – crimson red walls and clean, odourless urinals. He was only interested in the leftmost cubicle however. He knew what would be beyond it before he opened the door, the stench of blood was overpowering, although any inexperienced person would not be able to tell the smell apart from the stench of human faeces, evidently present because the victim had soiled himself prior to death. Swan swung back the door. His reaction was surprisingly emotionless, even by his standards. The body was that of a guard, goodness knows how they killed him without being caught, but whoever “they” were, they were certainly experienced – there was not a single drop of blood on the uniform, and the bullet had slid cleanly in between the eyes at such an angle as to prevent the back of the head from exploding. Swan was impressed; he got to work straight away. He left the café in less than ten minutes and was totally unrecognisable from the tramp-like Swan before. Gone was the long, silver hair; hidden underneath the large hat which covered Swan’s ears from the cold. The scaring on Swan’s mouth was also gone; cunningly concealed by a very thin layer of make up, barely disguising the marks. Swan walked casually towards the gates. As he approached the black, cast-iron and gold-plate monstrosities, a guard stopped him. “Identification, please.” “Sure,” Oh Christ, thought Swan, he had not thought about checking the pockets to find out where the identification was, he took a guess. He was lucky, “Here.” “Thanks, sorry, but we have to be extra tight tonight, there are rumours that a terrorist attack is planned.” Swan proceeded onwards. Terrorist attack? How could they be so mindless, no one, not anyone, would plan to destroy the Embassy, nor would anyone even dare to take hostages. Still, he had to think pessimistically – they know something vague, they are not aware what, but they know some form of attack, which they presume will be a terrorist one, is planned, and they are right, in part. Swan had now reached the large, oak doors, which served as the main entrance to the Embassy. Swan did not bother to remove his black leather gloves as he entered, he did not like the idea of his skin touching other people’s signs of wealth, wealth earnt because their parents’ were wealthy at that; not true wealth. True wealth comes from the ground up, which was why Swan had no objections to this job. He was happy to do this job. Swan climbed the stairs. Slowly. Calmly. He had reached the top now, and was remembering the routes as he went; first on the right, down the corridor, second door at the end, left, right, through the door with the gold emblem. He had arrived; the Ambassador had his back to him, excellent. He was a grossly overweight man, evidently he was spoiled from the high life, greedy too – he would be classed as a kleptomaniac were he not this wealthy. Swan drew his gun. The soft whispers he remembered flew out of the gun with lightening speed, but Swan was wide-awake, he took in every delightful detail. He watched as the sixteen bullets cut into the Ambassador’s bulging back like a hot knife through butter, he watched his chest then explode open as the bullets exited his body. He saw the blood soak the entire wall and the vital organs of his body spill onto the floor. This was pleasure at its glorious climax. Then, as if it could get no better, the Ambassador’s young waitress entered, carrying a teapot on a wonderful Mahogany tray. Swan turned to her; the swift action caused his hair to spill from its hat over his face, giving him the visage of Satan himself as he fired three silent bullets towards her face. To anyone not as experienced as Swan, it would have all happened too fast, but Swan watched smiling broadly as the three bullets slid into her face, and her brain caused her face to spasm wildly. He loved it, the wild and random expressions just before the entire head collapsed into an indecipherable mush of red and white under its own weight, followed by the scalding heat from the teapot, which spilt out onto the stump where her head once was, causing the remaining flesh to swell and blister. Swan stood admiring his work. | |
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Spookymuffin said: TheFrogSpawn said:  | |
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Spookymuffin said: Elegance in Death
Slovakia, December 1941. The harsh, cold winds broke past Swan’s Polarneck and scarf as he approached the Embassy. How it made him angry to see it; the wealth, the splendour, with no true labour required to gain it. The anger cut into his head like a knife, steadily wearing away at his rational, calm and capable mind. Swan could not afford to lose his calm; this could not be done again and was too important to throw away. Without his calm, Swan would lost the elegance with which he earnt his name - it could become bloody; a massacre. This was Swan’s problem, he had a hot temper, and, in this profession, he needed to be calm all the time. This was Swan’s one let down preventing him from turning professional. He was drawing closer, the alleys and shadows with which he could hide were sparse and the Embassy’s floodlights were on. He drew his scarf over the scaring which surrounded his mouth. This was the hardest part, approaching the entrance to your goal; the actual deed was not as difficult, providing all went as planned. Swan could see the guards now, each one armed with a Mauser 98K, and a Berretta 9-millimetre with silencer – well armed, evidently these weapons were provided by Germany. Good. That would help when the Allies assessed the situation. Swan slipped into the café two hundred metres from the Embassy gates; here he would meet the contact, who should provide him with his weapon and a means of entry. He or she would answer to the phrase, “I hear the dogs are vicious now.” There were three men on a creaking, pre-1920s (evidently fake) minimalist table and a woman seated on her own by what would be the bar, only it did not sell drinks. Swan thought it safest to approach the woman. “I hear the dogs are vicious now.” “Yes, who told you?” The woman replied with a strong, French accent. “A friend.” “Local?” “Yes.” “Excellent, follow me.” Swan got up from the high chair that he was sat on and followed her across the neatly polished, black and white chequered floor. She stopped outside the ladies bathroom; they were out of sight of any watchers. From her pocket, the contact withdrew a 1927 Browning Automatic, with silencer. Excellent, this would have been Swan’s weapon of choice for any operation – a quick short burst of whispers, the splatter of blood, and the job would be done. Bliss; this gun was both silent and quick. “Your disguise is under the seat in the leftmost cubicle of the gentlemen’s toilets.” “Thank you.” “Good luck, Mr. Swan.” Swan walked casually into the gentlemen’s toilet, it was pleasant – crimson red walls and clean, odourless urinals. He was only interested in the leftmost cubicle however. He knew what would be beyond it before he opened the door, the stench of blood was overpowering, although any inexperienced person would not be able to tell the smell apart from the stench of human faeces, evidently present because the victim had soiled himself prior to death. Swan swung back the door. His reaction was surprisingly emotionless, even by his standards. The body was that of a guard, goodness knows how they killed him without being caught, but whoever “they” were, they were certainly experienced – there was not a single drop of blood on the uniform, and the bullet had slid cleanly in between the eyes at such an angle as to prevent the back of the head from exploding. Swan was impressed; he got to work straight away. He left the café in less than ten minutes and was totally unrecognisable from the tramp-like Swan before. Gone was the long, silver hair; hidden underneath the large hat which covered Swan’s ears from the cold. The scaring on Swan’s mouth was also gone; cunningly concealed by a very thin layer of make up, barely disguising the marks. Swan walked casually towards the gates. As he approached the black, cast-iron and gold-plate monstrosities, a guard stopped him. “Identification, please.” “Sure,” Oh Christ, thought Swan, he had not thought about checking the pockets to find out where the identification was, he took a guess. He was lucky, “Here.” “Thanks, sorry, but we have to be extra tight tonight, there are rumours that a terrorist attack is planned.” Swan proceeded onwards. Terrorist attack? How could they be so mindless, no one, not anyone, would plan to destroy the Embassy, nor would anyone even dare to take hostages. Still, he had to think pessimistically – they know something vague, they are not aware what, but they know some form of attack, which they presume will be a terrorist one, is planned, and they are right, in part. Swan had now reached the large, oak doors, which served as the main entrance to the Embassy. Swan did not bother to remove his black leather gloves as he entered, he did not like the idea of his skin touching other people’s signs of wealth, wealth earnt because their parents’ were wealthy at that; not true wealth. True wealth comes from the ground up, which was why Swan had no objections to this job. He was happy to do this job. Swan climbed the stairs. Slowly. Calmly. He had reached the top now, and was remembering the routes as he went; first on the right, down the corridor, second door at the end, left, right, through the door with the gold emblem. He had arrived; the Ambassador had his back to him, excellent. He was a grossly overweight man, evidently he was spoiled from the high life, greedy too – he would be classed as a kleptomaniac were he not this wealthy. Swan drew his gun. The soft whispers he remembered flew out of the gun with lightening speed, but Swan was wide-awake, he took in every delightful detail. He watched as the sixteen bullets cut into the Ambassador’s bulging back like a hot knife through butter, he watched his chest then explode open as the bullets exited his body. He saw the blood soak the entire wall and the vital organs of his body spill onto the floor. This was pleasure at its glorious climax. Then, as if it could get no better, the Ambassador’s young waitress entered, carrying a teapot on a wonderful Mahogany tray. Swan turned to her; the swift action caused his hair to spill from its hat over his face, giving him the visage of Satan himself as he fired three silent bullets towards her face. To anyone not as experienced as Swan, it would have all happened too fast, but Swan watched smiling broadly as the three bullets slid into her face, and her brain caused her face to spasm wildly. He loved it, the wild and random expressions just before the entire head collapsed into an indecipherable mush of red and white under its own weight, followed by the scalding heat from the teapot, which spilt out onto the stump where her head once was, causing the remaining flesh to swell and blister. Swan stood admiring his work. you do realise that this will be waved around in court when you're charged with murder in the future, don't you. | |
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TheFrogSpawn said: Spookymuffin said: [really amazing story]
you do realise that this will be waved around in court when you're charged with murder in the future, don't you. I haven't been yet | |
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oh my god Alf!!!
I shall do another one. ~thinking of a theme~  | |
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