Spookymuffin said:

No, spelling is fine. It's just putting individual letters together to make words that's the problem.

minneapolisgenius said:

evidently now - it's "grammar"!

Spookymuffin said:

No, my gramma died about 9 years ago.

Okay, here's mine: I only wrote it just now, so it's a little rough.

There must be an accurate record of everything that has gone on since the beginning of time. For this reason, and this reason only, David believed in God. David was convinced that when he dies, God would show him every aspect of his life that he couldn’t quite remember or never figured out.

Questions such as, “Who was it who told me that the Eiffel Tower grows in the summer?” and “Was that experience a dream or did it really happen?” would finally have a concrete answer.

He would be able to find all of those objects that seemed to have disappeared into thin air. He would know where they were left and where they are now. Maybe he could even return a few. Like his wife’s left chandelier earring that she lost in the hotel (did a hole in the earth open up and swallow it?) or his house keys that must have just jumped off of his key ring (are they still stuck in the mud in that sugar cane field? Are they in the middle of the ocean?)

He would be able to replay every disagreement that he had ever had and finally, FINALLY, have proof that he was right. He could play and replay those moments for all of eternity if he wanted to and maybe even sneak back down to earth and implant the moment into the heads of his enemies, his wife, his parents.

David would be able to relive all those moments of glory that no one was ever around to see, like the time he killed a fly with his chopsticks (just like in the ‘Karate Kid’!) or that time he threw a crumpled paper over his shoulder and it landed perfectly in the trash can.

David was convinced that in death he would be able to be the great man he never was on earth.

But until David dies, the mystery remains.

JasmineFire said:

It's good!

You should totally read "The Library of Babel"

Spookymuffin said:

thank you, i'm glad you like it.

I've never heard of 'The Library of Babel'...I think I will try and check it out.

The final short story I wrote, again when I was 14, just before I gave up creative writing.

Elegance in Death: Opening (I was planning to make this a book)


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 untidy 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,” A sharp burst of adrenaline rushed through him; 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.

How deliciously violent Did you write any more about mercenaries (I'm assuming that's what these are )?

I still can't believe I handed that essay to my teacher, blood and all.

Spookymuffin said:

Wow.

evenstar3 said:

I know - and he loved it!

I had this I don't give a shit what you think attitude back then to my creative side, but it's all but died now as I took creativity out of my education to pursue privately, which of course resulted in me doing it less. Just wait till I get a good camera though.

Spookymuffin said:

evenstar3 said:

Didn't think of that.

There once was a girl named Virginia.
We called her Virgin for short.
But not for long.

Finis

actually, although i am not wild about the violence, you really have a gift. you write beautifuly.

Okay, here's mine: I only wrote it just now, so it's a little rough.

There must be an accurate record of everything that has gone on since the beginning of time. For this reason, and this reason only, David believed in God. David was convinced that when he dies, God would show him every aspect of his life that he couldn’t quite remember or never figured out.

Questions such as, “Who was it who told me that the Eiffel Tower grows in the summer?” and “Was that experience a dream or did it really happen?” would finally have a concrete answer.

He would be able to find all of those objects that seemed to have disappeared into thin air. He would know where they were left and where they are now. Maybe he could even return a few. Like his wife’s left chandelier earring that she lost in the hotel (did a hole in the earth open up and swallow it?) or his house keys that must have just jumped off of his key ring (are they still stuck in the mud in that sugar cane field? Are they in the middle of the ocean?)

He would be able to replay every disagreement that he had ever had and finally, FINALLY, have proof that he was right. He could play and replay those moments for all of eternity if he wanted to and maybe even sneak back down to earth and implant the moment into the heads of his enemies, his wife, his parents.

David would be able to relive all those moments of glory that no one was ever around to see, like the time he killed a fly with his chopsticks (just like in the ‘Karate Kid’!) or that time he threw a crumpled paper over his shoulder and it landed perfectly in the trash can.

David was convinced that in death he would be able to be the great man he never was on earth.

But until David dies, the mystery remains.

JasmineFire said:

I likey!

How is he at getting his cat to swallow a pill?!

evenstar3 said:

Me too. I got bored of writing.

Spookymuffin said:

Great ending! I like the way you think.

That second story I think I remember from you posting it here before.

All my stories meander along for a while before always ending prematurely with the narrator giving up on the story, entering a world of inner turmoil and cursing the very story he's narrating and the banal characters...

Ah fuck it, this post sucks.

Fauxie said:

everybody hurts..but perhaps to work better on your "banal characters" i would study people or a certain society.
take this voyeur role and look at people,how they work, what makes them tick, them either make fun of it or try to fit in like a parasite.
make the audience feel as if you trap then inside a room with your crazy writting.
[Edited 11/8/06 18:41pm]

weepingwall said:

Narrator's problems, not mine. I write like a fucking champion!

Fauxie said:

but you whine like a chump.

The Mook (by me, last week)

Let me kick off a little story about a cat named Mook,
Lived in some Bronx P.J.’s around 72,
Didn’t have much, but much isn’t what he needed,
Cause in his poverty he learned his soul was undefeated,
Started spinnin’ records, pullin’ people together, whatever, the weather, the level, the rebel, he was a microphone devil,
Pretty soon Mook rocked the biggest parties on the block,
It was like he answered the questions, and had the keys to the lock,
When his fingers hit the tables it was like her forgot, he started wigglin’ and movin’ and performin’ to the beat, by the time it was over there was a new trend on the street,
Couldn’t dance the old ways when you heard Mook’s tunes, so kids was makin’ up new moves to match the scratch in his grooves,
Mook stayed really humble, it didn’t get to his head, cause he gotta lotta dap, but notta, lotta bread,
Now the 80’s went around it went from bad to worse, Mook was noticing some came last and others came first, it was him who conveyed some kind of Reaganomic curse,
The folks in the P.J’s they had no clue, so Mook started spittin’ on it when he played his tunes,
Started speaking bout the system, speaking bout the lies,
Rappin’ bout the violence he witnessed with his eyes,
Mook told his neighbors stand together, band for greater strength,
Went to pure waters and expanding minds and states,
This cat was all about community, and keeping folks in unity, cause that’s the root of the tree, and the voice of the free, its gotta be you, its gotta be me, to take responsibility and stand up on our own two feet,
And folks were getting’ and pumpin’ it, and playing it loud, and where they used to live in shame, folks were suddenly proud,
Things were going fresh word up for a couple of years, cause Mook was speaking the truth, and he had the youth’s ears,,,, but things changed, Mook changed, hip hop changed too…..
One day Mook got tired of living off just respect, started looking for that money that ASCAP royalty check,
Drinking at the club just a little too much, hanging with the kids he used to mistrust,
Stopped talking bout unity and standing together,
Started talking get my chedda, whenever, wherever,
Got caught up in the actions of life and its strife, didn’t realize his so called friends pulled out a butterfly knife
Slit his throat, took Mook’s sound and claimed it as their own,
The sound of mook’s voice, man to this day its gone, when I roll through the hood I hear the echoes of his songs, mostly what I hear is where Mook went wrong,
the downfall of Mook, the downfall of his soul, the downfall of hip hop, the downfall of the call, the downfall of character, the downfall of us all!
[Edited 11/8/06 19:37pm]