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STORY TIME (The 'original content' thread?)
|Displaying posts 1 - 25 of 30 1 2 Last|
|Displaying posts 1 - 25 of 30 1 2 Last|
|Sep 12, 2011 3:10 AM ET||#1 (permalink)|
[I literally came up with this story at random earlier tonight at work. I call it, "The spider and his mate" And yes, some of you saw this in my facebook note. But this is for the people not on my facebook, as well as the people who I couldn't tag, due to the tag-limit].
Once upon a time there was a spider named Alex. Alex was an adolescent male spider on the cusp of adulthood, and having gotten the hang of catching insects in his web, he had reached the point in his life where he wanted to mate and start a family with a nice female. And so he started his search for love.
(This post was last edited on September 12, 2011 at 7:56 PM ET.)
|Sep 12, 2011 4:50 AM ET||#2 (permalink)|
"Alex came upon the web of the most beautiful female spider he'd ever laid the eight of his eyes on."
Hahaha loved that line! And the whole playing a song with the spider's web idea thing was really original, I really liked it. Also, I can't keep track of this shit, so if you don't have me on fb add me bro - facebook.com/lokio
|Sep 12, 2011 9:04 AM ET||#3 (permalink)|
It's no coincidence that my name is Alex and I once did a girl named Rachel... is it? Though, to be fair, I was the one who impaled her.
Really liked the story Gore!! The punchline was like a punch to the 'nads.
|Sep 12, 2011 12:28 PM ET||#4 (permalink)|
psythe, here's a Fun fact: male spiders of a lot of species actually pluck the silk on a female's web as a form of courting. Something about the vibrations making a distinct sound thats aurally pleasing to the female to keep her from mistaking him as food. Also, we're already facebook friends.
TIM, its funny you bring that up. I have a lot of close friends named Alex, like five Alexes, including you. And most of them have a bitch problem. Your bitch problem will probably involve an STD the way you fuck around :-P Speaking of which, I better get myself tested.
|Sep 12, 2011 1:00 PM ET||#5 (permalink)|
[accidentally posted twice. oops]
(This post was last edited on September 12, 2011 at 1:01 PM ET.)
|Sep 12, 2011 5:48 PM ET||#6 (permalink)|
For real? Shit, I thought it was just a clever story device hahah - obviously you took it a bit further than nature does tho, and I like the idea, pretty cool :)
|Sep 12, 2011 7:58 PM ET||#7 (permalink)|
Thanks man. Provided that I remain in the mood, I'll write more fables like this. Fables styled for metalheads' tastes.
|Sep 13, 2011 2:29 AM ET||#8 (permalink)|
I went through a bit of a Robert Ludlum phase when I wrote this. It's set in like, some Himalayan mountain type place. You know, big ass mountains of snow thousands of feet above sea level that little brown people build villages on anyway coz they're completely batshit nuts hahah
The fresh mountain air glinted in dawn’s watercolour light, a slight breeze twirling its’ fingers through the threads of cloud and dew-scented mist. Newly fallen snow reflected the silvery blue of the brightening sky and clothed the sparse trees in a veil of frost. It also laid a soft covering over the concrete and wood of an old, forgotten temple, abandoned centuries ago by the monks who had found the icy heights too cold for life or prayer. They left to favour lower grounds, and lives had been lived, memories went unpassed as the eras accelerated.
And now came a lone figure, the silhouette of a man holding himself up by the wooden frame of the lost temple’s doorway. Stumbling forward, he enters the chill and light of the sharp morning. He has one hand clasped tightly to his stomach, his right arm hangs limp and useless at his side, swaying with his violent steps. The snow quietly crunches underneath the thick, hard rubber soles of his shoes, a whispered serenade to a man who had not forgotten.
His figure crisp now, no longer hidden in the shady depths of the temple, the old, wrinkled face owns a complexion of another land. Shivering furiously, the biting cold numbing his bare hands and head, he is as pale as the crescent moon in the clear day sky. Through the torn and shredded remains of what was once a high-grade, pure woollen turtleneck sweater and tracksuit pants, rivulets of gleaming red blood weep from cuts and wounds all over the old man’s thin, staunched body.
He staggers determinedly forward, deep trenches of pain etched in his gritted face, his breath coming in short gasps and suffering wheezes. From behind him emerges another figure, calmly watching the scene, waiting. Dressed in a fur and leather jacket over a dark-brown tweed suit, he reaches one hand inside his jacket, bringing a fearful cry from the haggard man a dozen paces ahead. Removing only a cigarette, which he lights and takes a deep draw from, the outlined man continues to merely stand and watch in silent patience.
‘Nyet, nyet!’ The old and tattered man rasps in dreadful horror, trembling away from the younger, frowning figure. Panicky and failing, he trips, falls to the snow-laden concrete ground landing hard on one knee, unable to break his fall with his arms, a groan escaping his blue, stammering lips. Glancing in wide-eyed terror at the still silhouette behind him, he tries to rise, pushing up with every last fibre of his rapidly waning strength. He shudders forwards a few more steps, collapses again, struggling now to crawl forwards, not strong enough even to stand. Finally he can go no further, he lies still and panting in the aching frost, a trail of smeared and splattered red snow drifting from the temple doorway to his shaking, battered body.
Seeing the old man come to a dying halt, the furry figure grinds out his cigarette beneath his heel and advances slowly towards the prostrate man, grimacing slightly at the haunting contrast of the flowing blood against the pale grey skin turned a bluish hue from the icy chill. He squats down next to the dying man, his face a mask of deepest sorrow, hushing the old man, who rattles repeatedly, ‘Nyet!’ The old man’s eyes, lucid and fading, stare up into those of his greatest enemy, seeing not hatred nor anger, but only bitter resentment.
‘Take me home, Taras,’ strained the dying Russian, his left hand still gripping his stomach where a bullet had only minutes ago struck him.
Taras took out his gun, a silenced Graz-Burya pistol, and shot the man at his feet for the second time that morning. Replacing the gun, he looked one last time at the face of his enemy, now dead by his hands. Taras sighed. ‘No, friend, Russia was never yours.’ He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to seven already. He wondered if the helicopter could reach him up here. Never mind, the descent would help to clear his thoughts. With one last regretful glance at the body of his former comrade, Taras turned and, head bowed and hands in his coat pockets, left him to the stoic embrace of the ice and sky. 'Your fight is finally over, Zakyl. Goodbye, old friend.' He left him, to winter's arms.
(This post was last edited on September 13, 2011 at 2:32 AM ET.)
|Sep 13, 2011 9:20 PM ET||#9 (permalink)|
Fuck...that beats the shit out of my little animal tales.
|Sep 13, 2011 11:09 PM ET||#10 (permalink)|
I would totally buy a book of Metalhead Fables - do one about a miniature giraffe! haha :)
|Sep 14, 2011 7:39 PM ET||#11 (permalink)|
Actually, I may just do that
|Sep 16, 2011 12:15 AM ET||#12 (permalink)|
Rachel and Taras are some cold mother fuckers. Atleast Alex got to rip a piece off, and i cant get that image of a ground cigarette outa my head, i can almost smell it. Nice reads and am envious of your talents.
|Nov 21, 2011 7:27 PM ET||#13 (permalink)|
[Another one from yours truly, titled, "In the Land of Giants"]
Jenny slightly peered from the corner of the structure, clutching her young daughter Elizabeth in her arms. The mother and daughter are starving and Jenny can just about smell the fresh food from the crate that was dropped on the ground roughly 90 yards away. It’s been a few months since the enemy occupation. The famine had pushed her community to relocate in order to scavenge more food, but sadly the new place they've settled is hostile territory. The occupation had claimed the area as theirs and are cutting the little food supply Jenny's community had.
It is risky to make the run out in the open, risk of getting killed by the enemy occupation. But times will only get harder if she doesn't take the risk now. Jenny sprints for the food crate from the drop, staying against the wall to avoid being seen, hastily taking whatever she can carry and sprints back toward her home.
“I made it!” Jenny proclaimed to her family in tears later that night. “Let’s eat and be grateful, I don't know if I'll be so lucky next time.”
Jenny’s husband Robert died the week before, he was scavenging just like she did when one of them spotted him and killed him on sight. So now Jenny and her three children are left to fend for themselves in hostile territory.
The neighbors saw she brought food back. The next day she spoke with her neighbors about the food drop. Then her neighbors and the rest of the community had a meeting.
“Someone is dropping crates for us” Mack said. “We’ve got to get to it without being spotted.”
“We’re losing people every day” Sven said. “At the rate we’re going we’ll be dead in 6 months just from scavenging”
“I have an idea!” Sam, the old woman said. “They sleep at night mostly. It’s still risky but our chances are better.”
“Okay” Jenny said. “I’ve lost my husband. I don’t want to lose anyone else. We must do this.”
With that, the community was resolved. They waited for nightfall and ran out to the crates dropped for them. Each one gathered as much food as they could and rushed back to their homes.
The community repeated this for a week. Sneaking out at night, taking food from the crate and all was well, that is, until a few of them started foaming at the mouth.
"Well," Sam said in between coughing and hacking "It is now my time to leave this cruel world." Then, writhing and seizing in agony, Sam died surrounded by the ever-dwindling community. Others soon joined her, including Jenny's two sons, Timothy and Robert Jr. The community held another meeting.
"The food crates were a ruse. The enemy occupation dropped those crates of poisoned food for us to kill ourselves on." Sven said gravely.
"I've lost my husband and my only sons" Jenny said in tears. "Its just me and Liz and I don't know what else to do"
"Jenny," Mack struggled to speak over his own grief, "The enemy has all the weapons, they're stronger than us. We have nothing except our ability to forage for food. Its all we know, and its all we can do. I lost my wife to the occupation yesterday, they killed her and she was pregnant with my child. But they can't kill all of us, we're resilient. We must keep foraging for those we lost, and for those who haven't come yet."
The next day, the remaining search groups desperately searched for any scraps of food that weren't in the poisoned crates. Few returned and even fewer returned with food. The day after, Jenny was walking with little Liz in her arms foraging with Sven and Mack when they had caught the scent of food again. They got closer to the food when Mack shouted, "Fuck! We've been spotted! Run!"
The three ran, Jenny clutching Liz in her arms tight. Sven saw shelter.
"Quick! In here!" Sven yelled in panic. They followed and hid in the shelter, standing still.
Jenny sniffed around "The food smell is coming from this shelter but where is the food?"
"I also smell death" Sven said fearfully.
Jenny looked around and found the corpses of some of her neighbors that went missing in the trap they found themselves in. She screamed in horror at the sight of their rotting shells.
"Shit." Mack said, "My legs are stuck. I can't move them"
"Fuck, me too" Sven said, struggling.
Jenny started struggling as hard as she could for the sake of her child but just couldn't budge. Her legs were stuck to the surface of the shelter...All six of them.
The group starts to hear footsteps, loud, thunderous steps approaching the trap they were in. The enemy has approached them. He lifts the trap with his massive hand and peers inside.
"I see the glue traps work well" the giant said.
"You evil man!" Jenny screamed at the top of her lungs. "You killed my husband and my only sons!"
"You killed my wife!" Mack screamed
"You're killing our elders, our loved ones, our children our community, our kind for what you bastard?!" Sven yelled.
The giant simply says "You and your kind are pests, and must be exterminated."
"Look at my little girl you monster!" Jenny continued. "She should have a right to live as any other living thing!"
"Not here" the giant replied. "Not off MY food, not for your disgusting offspring. I don't pay the rent I do to let your kind live here for free."
"Fuck you!" Jenny screamed back, "The only disgusting thing here is you for killing our people with your weapons of mass-"
"Correction!" the giant interrupted, "Your kind moves here in droves just to eat my food. All you do is come here, eat, reproduce and leech off of my hard-earned money. You're so filthy that you leave your excrement in places that I have to clean up because your shit has bacteria that makes me and my family sick. If it was as simple as telling your kind to go back where you came from I'd do that, but your kind is fairly disorganized. At least ants have the sense to do some semblance of harvesting, they're even cleaner than you. You're also known for anchoring yourselves wherever you go which leads me to this final solution."
"Killing us with poisoned food crates, glue traps and shoes?" Mack scoffed at the giant, "You'll never kill all of us with that."
"I've noticed" said the giant, "But thats not the final solution. Pay attention you filthy cockroaches." The giant turns the trap toward the area they've called home for the past few months so they could see. "All of this is going to be gassed until every last one of you is dead, those of your friends that I see scurrying around right now, as well as those I don't see living in the pipes and behind my walls. I may not kill all the roaches in the world, but I'm sure as hell gonna kill all the roaches that have decided to call my place home."
"Can't we make an agreement or come to a resolution?" Sven pleaded.
"No, we can't." The giant gravely answered. "Simply put, your kind and mine cannot co-exist. You must die so I can live peacefully. There's no getting around that. Your species can go for a month without food. You aren't getting out of the glue trap, ever. But not to worry, the apartment will be gassed next Tuesday so you won't have to wait for death too long..."
All pests must die...
(This post was last edited on November 21, 2011 at 7:29 PM ET.)
|Nov 26, 2011 2:15 PM ET||#14 (permalink)|
Thought the story was great. When you begin, do you start with the reveal in mind and 'work backwards', or do you begin and let your imagination guide your from the beginning?
I saw this MU item a few days later and thought it fit sweetly as a part two. LOL
|Nov 28, 2011 9:40 PM ET||#15 (permalink)|
Junkie, I'm kind of everywhere when I come up with a story. Depends on what it is:
The spider story was me at work one night and I came up with a riff. Then I saw a spider web and thought back to some random animal facts I had in my head from childhood. Thats where it started. A spider trying to play her web to impress her. I like to have realistic/grim endings to counter the popular "happy ending" option. That said, I already knew he was gonna die. So I started with the buildup and ending. Then I started at the beginning and decided to build up from there. So I guess thats kind of like "working backwards"
The roach story: I already knew the twist in mind. But again, I just started at the beginning to flesh them out and humanize them. Obviously I wanted readers to have the whole "oppressed people/immigrants/genocide" feel to it from the beginning as a way to keep the reader's interest, maybe even spark the reader's sympathy. That way, when the twist comes, the perspective is changed suddenly.
Some of my earlier works, I just wrote from start to finish and let the stories write themselves. I've taken note from other authors on their methods. I like to use whatever method I feel works best in the moment. I don't like to stick to one way of writing because then everything will read the same way. It keeps the works standing alone while clearly standing out as something *I* wrote.
|Nov 29, 2011 5:10 PM ET||#16 (permalink)|
Writing stories are hard. Cause you can come up with an idea that's full from start to finish, but other times you'll come up with only one section of a story and then build upon it as you're writing. I have a few stories ideas like that. I need to figure out how to write them though because I wanna write a few books.
|Nov 30, 2011 8:09 PM ET||#17 (permalink)|
Gore: I hate the roach story :(
Correction: I hate roaches. I liked the story :)
|Dec 25, 2011 3:54 AM ET||#18 (permalink)|
ZMA, I have a friend who writes awesome stories, but never finishes them because he gets bored with the ending.
psythe, its cool. I hate roaches too. So much.
|Dec 25, 2011 4:44 PM ET||#19 (permalink)|
Man, you guys are lucky, I never have an actual idea, I just get in the mood and start writing whatever comes into my head - that's why I never finish stories, coz they only last as long as the mood does haha :(
|Dec 25, 2011 5:43 PM ET||#20 (permalink)|
Gore, yea that's why I haven't written anything yet. I wanna be fully motivated so I'll be into it from start to finish. Oh and I finally read your spider story. The Jimi Hendrix of spiders lol.
psythe, if you just sit and think about it in your head before you write anything, you can build upon it till you have a big idea going.
|Dec 26, 2011 2:41 AM ET||#21 (permalink)|
Dude if I sit and think too much before I start writing, I get fully focused on where the story's going and what's happening next, and next, and next and next and next - so much so that I forget where it all started and all the good stuff in the beginning and I end up giving up on the whole thing coz I can't remember half the damn story! lol
|Dec 27, 2011 3:52 PM ET||#22 (permalink)|
That's happened to me before. But I usually do it like that because I like to have a solid set of ideas before I either write it down or really commit it to memory. It's just a matter of repetition, for me at least. Repeating the ideas to yourself multiple times so it commits to memory and you can move onto the next section of the story. And if something is really great that you don't wanna forget but you wanna move on, write it down on a sticky note. Or better yet, put it down in your notepad in your cell if you have one. Or smartphone. Whichever.
|Dec 28, 2011 1:01 PM ET||#23 (permalink)|
I call this story "Severed Savior":
Union Station, one of the busiest train terminals on the East Coast, practically at the heart of Washington D.C. Alex and Carlos were waiting for their train to arrive late in the morning.
"Fuck, delayed?" Carlos groaned.
"Gay!" Alex moaned.
Carlos got up from his seat, cracked his neck and back as he stretched, "I'm gonna go get some food, what you want man?"
"Yo, get me a bagel with cream cheese." Alex piped up
"Alright, hit me up if anything changes." Carlos said.
Alex said "Aight."
Carlos waited in line for a good 5 minutes (breakfast rush). He finally got himself a breakfast sandwich and Alex's bagel when suddenly he heard gunshots from a distance, followed by screams of people. It is then that his phone vibrates. Carlos answers the call.
"Alex, what the fuck is going on?" Carlos said as he saw the crowd of people run away from the gunfire.
"This crazy bitch is shooting people!" Alex screamed over the phone with the sound of automatic gunfire in the background.
"Are you taking cover?!" Carlos yells, dropping their food.
"I'm behind one of these fake ass shrubs," Alex panted, "But the bitch hit me as I went down!"
"Where are you hit?!" Carlos screams into the phone as he runs against the panicked crowd.
"My fucking leg!" Alex screamed over the gunfire.
"Okay hang tight!" Carlos yelled, "I'm coming for you man!"
Whether Alex hung up his phone, or the network cut their call, it didn't matter, he had to think fast as he put away his phone. Carlos pulls his handgun out of his shoulder holster and pulls the slide on his S&W 9 VE as he thinks to himself, "One in the chamber." and runs along the side of one of the halls as the crowd runs away from the shots. He sees Amtrak Police officers running toward the shooter in formation, but as they turned the corner they fell when the rounds came spraying from their left.
Carlos found a niche in the wall as he watched men, women and children killed indiscriminately by the shooter. A mother was running his way with her wounded child bleeding in her arms as she notices Carlos with his gun, waiting for the opportunity to get a clear shot.
"Please save my baby!" The mother pled desperately. But then the shooter noticed her and shot her several times through the back and hitting the bleeding son she was holding. Carlos remained hidden in plain sight in that niche. But that was not the time to give away position. The shooter stopped firing as the last people emptied out. Carlos kept himself as close to the wall as possible, holding his breath and trying to be as quiet as possible. Carlos heard the woman's footsteps moving away from him, but didn't peek past the little cover he had for fear of being spotted. Then suddenly, his phone started vibrating. The footsteps stopped and then sounded like they were moving closer toward him. He held the gun close to him, ready to fire upon the shooter, but she stopped three or four feet from him as his phone stopped vibrating.
"There's no one else here." the shooter said, Carlos detected an arabic accent in the woman's voice.
"So be it." another female voice said.
"Please let me go, I've killed so many, I can't take it anymore." the arab woman pleaded sobbing.
"You'll be done when I say you're done! We go toward the headquarters now."
The footsteps faded, as Carlos came to the realization that the shooter was being forced to kill. After deciding it was clear, Carlos moved as quitely as he could toward the McDonald's. He took a look at where it began, in the waiting area. Some bodies were obviously bullet-ridden, other people appeared to have been trampled to death in the commotion. In the distance, he sees a caucasian woman with dirty blonde hair with her handgun pointed to the head of a woman wearing a violet hijab and what appeared to be a metal collar around her neck. Then Carlos sees movement in the potted shrubbery. Alex was motioning Carlos toward him.
"Are you okay?" Carlos asked, ripping a sleeve off of his button-up shirt, making a tourniquet for his wounded friend's leg.
"Oh yeah I'm just fine" Alex answered sarcastically, "what, with being shot and all."
"Call the feds, tell them they're going to the Amtrak Headquarters, I'm going after them." Carlos said.
"This isn't fucking 'Die Hard'!" Alex scolds him, "The fuck are you doing?!"
"When those feds move in, they're just gonna see the hijab and kill her!" Carlos argued back, "I gotta handle it."
"If you die trying to save that bitch I'm not gonna feel sorry for you!" Alex yelled as Carlos ran toward the headquarters.
Carlos walked toward the McDonald's. The bodies were more sparsed out as he heard sirens and helicopters from outside the station. He turned left at the McDonald's and took the stairs going down through a silent corridor to the lobby of the headquarters. He approaches the front desk and sees the Amtrak security guard in her chair with a bullet wound right between her eyes and the backsplatter of the exit wound on the wall behind her. Carlos looks at the CCTV (Closed-circuit Television) and sees the camera on the caucasian woman and her muslim hostage holding an AK-47. The screen that had them in view indicated they were at the subterranean floors. So Carlos took a nearby stairwell and went down.
The basement level appeared empty, apart from the machine rooms, it was nothing but drywall and the columns that support the building. As he went down the stairs, Carlos saw that C-4 explosives were planted and armed throughout the area. He went through the door that indicated the floor they were on. He then heard a gunshot and saw the body of a middle-aged man fall outside of a lit entrance a couple doors to his left. He carefully, silently walked along the side of a wall, as he was trained, texted "C-4 planted everywhere, basement level." to Alex and carried on.
"Please, I've done what you wanted, can I leave now?" the hostage begged her taker.
"You'll leave soon enough." The caucasian woman said.
Carlos hears footsteps rushing down to the floor him and the women were on.
"FBI! Get down on the ground!"
"They're coming! You get to leave now." The woman said, as she reached for her remote detonator and pushed her hostage out into the hallway.
Carlos moved into the entrance and in a split second, both Carlos and the woman draw their handguns on each other, firing at each other simultaneously. The woman fires two shots into Carlos' chest, but Carlos got his one shot right between her eyes. Her lifeless body fell to the floor as Carlos falls struggling to breathe. The arab woman went face-down on the floor as the Feds told her, Carlos' body fell right next to her, bleeding.
"I knew you were there..." she said as the bomb squad disarmed the collar bomb around her neck, holding the hand of the dying officer that saved her.
(This is a story based on a nightmare I had recently. It was too real. Yes, it reads like "Die Hard" I know).
|Dec 28, 2011 9:17 PM ET||#24 (permalink)|
That wasn't funny at all.
|Dec 30, 2011 3:36 PM ET||#25 (permalink)|
Doesn't have to be funny, it was just an interesting story. That must've been a weird ass dream dude.