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 1 
 on: August 30, 2013, 08:16:43 am 
Started by nelsonwilliam - Last post by nelsonwilliam
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 2 
 on: August 20, 2013, 09:24:37 am 
Started by EightyEight - Last post by TracyBoone
So, time to start writing stuff again. I really should get on with SaC, but I've just had so many other ideas rattling around in my head. I guess it's short story time for now... Tongue
I am going somewhere with this one - it's just the first part. I think there's enough confusing stuff that needs to be explained later on Tongue

-----------------------------

   It wasn't always like this.
   The air shimmered with heat, the telltale, traitorous sign of a harmonic forming. It was the one warning the enemy got. If they stayed, they would die. With a hiss like a snake about to strike, the air exploded. Trees, the dense forest, ignited, not even catching fire before they burst into shoals of
led light and fire. The grass withered for a thousand years, died, evaporated, and the soil melted, all in an instant. Tiny creatures, thousands of them, busy with their tiny existences, burned into purgatory. A rabbit, burrowing near the surface, writhed in pain before its flesh was charred off the bone. The protection of the earth had granted it a moment longer to live - only for it to suffer.
   This was too real.
   The harmonic disappeared. The ripples in the air were no longer artificial, the product of cunning manipulation of energy; they were the blood and tears of the forest, whose heart had been pierced, reduced to wind and ash. But the destruction continued. A gale rushed outwards, blowing a breath of hell through the foliage. Plants combusted, tree-trunks charred and smoke started to curl from their bark. Fire spread outwards from the wound, a glowing corona, but then the wind reversed, extinguishing all but the largest flames.
   In the centre of the wound, the enemy crouched. It was not dead. It was a blasphemy, that it still lived - as if it did not appreciate the sacrifice that had been made. The forest wept, sending heat into the sky. Around the enemy, an impossible bubble of sanity remained. Untouched grass, unspoiled air. The bubble reflected invisible colours of the sun, twisting the light as it passed through the barrier in the air. It had foiled the harmonic; the enemy was untouched.
   Now we know where it is, we can kill it.
   It barely deserved the name missile. It was a tiny black bulb, with a fluted body and bloated head. It was smaller than the rabbit that had died paving the way for this most deadly of weapons. The missile hung in the air, slow and inefficient. The enemy saw it, and started. What it started did not matter. It could have done anything, but nothing would save it. It ceased to exist as soon as the missile was fired. The perfect parabola paused. The missile looked down at the forest, at the black burn which had been made for it, like an animal's hair is shaved before surgery. It fired.
In the forest, a new firestorm erupted. The blossom started in front of the enemy, and expanded into a flower of pure light, purple and mostly white, glowing brighter than the sun. Shadows leaped away from it, ignoring the far-off star for now. The blossom expanded, drilling into the ground, reaching deeper than the harmonic ever could, burning. It reached into the enemy, peeling off layers of armour that the planets themselves coveted. The air was scoured painfully, every impurity burned away. Blue and green lights flickered in the blossom, gas in the air igniting, sizzling away like air trapped in old firewood. The blossom ended, exhausted itself. Fire retreated into the forest, taking care to pass around the husks of trees that were still destroying themselves. In an instant, the blossom was gone. The shadows returned. The trees finished disintegrating. The storm of wooden shards in the air burned from the new heat, fireflies dispersing into the dark, and vanished.
   The enemy was dead. Its body was dispersed in the air; it had become the air. The perfect bubble of protection was gone, too.
   Now we know where it is, we can kill it.
   The vital links to the world of knowledge, that expanded universe, were cut off by means civilised and humane, and the knowledge receded like the tide as Mathias unplugged the armour's elink from the back of his neck.
   Though the link never came inside him - the contact was made by magnets and wireless signals - he somehow felt invaded whenever he was connected to the armour. It put him in the mind of some ancient and evil spirit. But he mostly ignored the feeling. Quite apart from his squadmates' ridicule, feeling that your own armour, your livelihood, was going to suck the soul from your corpse was never a good mentality in a combat situation. They were trained to trust the armour, nurtured to succumb to its power and the amazing sensory extrapolation that its elink provided.
The armour disappeared back into its berth, a flayed black outline. Dormant, it was nothing more vicious-looking than a black body suit, tight-fitting, but with bulges in odd locations - the shoulders and shoulder blades, the small of the back, fronts of the thighs and shins, rear of the head. Its soles were toughened and thick, ready to provide traction on every surface. But active, it was transformed into the deadliest killer. Jagged protuberances grew from its hide, designed with only efficiency in mind but still evoking terror. Dark wings, the focusing equipment for the harmonic weapon, gave the armour the appearance of an ungodly apparition; the defensive flip-side of the same technology distorted the air around the wearer, forcing the viewer to question whether this hellish vision was really a thing of the world, not an escaped nightmare. Unreal muscles flowed artificially beneath the surface, and the movements of even the most ungraceful wearers were coaxed and coerced into becoming lithe and fluent.
   Mathias called it the devil-incarnate-suit, mostly jokingly.


Awesome story man.. Just love the way you have managed it.. Have you written more storries?

 3 
 on: March 27, 2012, 03:21:13 pm 
Started by inbetween mind states - Last post by inbetween mind states
should of posted it here first, anywho i have a lot of unfinished ideas and starting points and dont do anything with them, BUT i decided to finally write something and its about the idea of self worth and social conditioning

"Cardboard Boxes"

She exists inside hollow spaces of her mind
in search of words to re write her prewritten existence/
lost in contradicts and concepts of intellect above her own mind
so she bypasses dictionary term definitions until she finds her own blank page/
and then weaves a web to interconnect her knowledge to newly found ideas
only to become entangled in her own thought processes/
to find they have become unwashed glasses filled simultaneously with subjective half truths and half lies/
she hesitates to quench her own thirst with it, pre empting her discontentment/
knowing her perspective will resemble a hazy picture of a nameless figure bidding for her belief/
but uncertainty binds it close to her and faith is a forgotten friend who no longer visits her/

and as time passes she tries to match its face of contentment in routine/
but she becomes weary and finds it still flies even with her attempts to clip its wings/
so she suppresses reality and draws a curtain on her own mind, no longer seeing the beauty in the morning sun, it only greets her with its knowing familiar stuck on smile/
and even with closed eyes it still dawns on her, she need not peer into what the future holds in its steady hands/
and so it knocks and she refuses to open, knowing the sense of hopelessness has been left once more at her door again/

it is then she begins to wonder on notions of self worth, and how hers was built by the words of another and misrepresented ideas placed to fit a frame of someone elses choosing/
so she paints brush strokes and re creates the image based on her own perceptions, with the knowledge the original was sold soley for profit for people to view the world out of a single window view and for all to be presented with the same picture/
she then continues to dismantle words she was built with until she is left only with the internal and is at last faced with the true definition of self/
she is i and i is she , my melancholic mind state i keep at at arms length,and with words i created her and glimpsed the beauty of the light once again/
and as night falls the hallways of my mind i can walk with a torch lit and no longer need to hold in unneccary anxious hands to view the cardboard boxes of suppressed thoughts i placed at the back of my mind.../

By Idris (aka Inbetween Mind States)

 4 
 on: March 27, 2012, 03:06:56 pm 
Started by inbetween mind states - Last post by inbetween mind states
"Cardboard Boxes"

She exists inside hollow spaces of her mind
in search of words to re write her prewritten existence/
lost in contradicts and concepts of intellect above her own mind
so she bypasses dictionary term definitions until she finds her own blank page/
and then weaves a web to interconnect her knowledge to newly found ideas
only to become entangled in her own thought processes/
to find they have become unwashed glasses filled simultaneously with subjective half truths and half lies/
she hesitates to quench her own thirst with it, pre empting her discontentment/
knowing her perspective will resemble a hazy picture of a nameless figure bidding for her belief/
but uncertainty binds it close to her and faith is a forgotten friend who no longer visits her/

and as time passes she tries to match its face of contentment in routine/
but she becomes weary and finds it still flies even with her attempts to clip its wings/
so she suppresses reality and draws a curtain on her own mind, no longer seeing the beauty in the morning sun, it only greets her with its knowing familiar stuck on smile/
and even with closed eyes it still dawns on her, she need not peer into what the future holds in its steady hands/
and so it knocks and she refuses to open, knowing the sense of hopelessness has been left once more at her door again/

it is then she begins to wonder on notions of self worth, and how hers was built by the words of another and misrepresented ideas placed to fit a frame of someone elses choosing/
so she paints brush strokes and re creates the image based on her own perceptions, with the knowledge the original was sold soley for profit for people to view the world out of a single window view and for all to be presented with the same picture/
she then continues to dismantle words she was built with until she is left only with the internal and is at last faced with the true definition of self/
she is i and i is she , my melancholic mind state i keep at at arms length,and with words i created her and glimpsed the beauty of the light once again/
and as night falls the hallways of my mind i can walk with a torch lit and no longer need to hold in unneccary anxious hands to view the cardboard boxes of suppressed thoughts i placed at the back of my mind.../

By Idris (aka Inbetween Mind States)

 5 
 on: December 27, 2011, 11:35:48 am 
Started by nelsonbla20 - Last post by nelsonbla20
hi......................................

 6 
 on: December 07, 2011, 10:29:58 am 
Started by francisste17 - Last post by francisste17
magnetic name badges

 7 
 on: September 25, 2011, 10:37:21 pm 
Started by OneB3at - Last post by OneB3at
Point of View: AJ Poole
Location: Los Angeles
YEAR:  Summer of 2045

AJ sat down on her fatherís chair in his office and she began to fiddle with the hem of the black dress she forced herself to put on in order to attend her parents funeral. She still couldnít believe that her mom and dad were really gone and really dead and really not coming through the door of the house she grew up in.
   ďHey, little one, you ready?Ē asked Danielle from the doorway of her brotherís study.
   AJ wished she could answer no, but she knew that she would never be ready to say goodbye to her parents, so she nodded. AJ picked up the journals in front of her, that she had stayed up to finish reading. The previous night she marked her favorite passages from both of her parentís journals and intended to read them as part of her eulogy.
   AJ walked out of her fatherís study and closed the door behind her. She faced the stairs that would lead her to a car that would take her to her motherís dance studio where everyone had decided the wake should be for her parents would be.
   The car pulled up to Camilleís studio, AJ got out of her car and walked up the steps of the studio. As AJ approached the door into the studio she took a steadying breath and pushed the door open. The people who had arrived before her turned and watched her enter the room. She stalled before continuing the walk towards the podium that someone had set up at the other end of the room. As AJ made her way towards the podium the voices of the people her parents once knew quieted down before eventually fading out all together. When AJ reached the podium she turned and faced the people who are waiting for her to give her eulogy. She set the journals she had brought with her down on the podium and turned to her favorite entries. She looks up from the journals and stares out at the crowd in front of her. She looks back down at the journals and closes them shut instead.
   She closes her eyes and takes another steadying breath and begins a eulogy that comes from the heart; not one that she wrote the night before with anecdotes from her parents past.
   ďMy parents, Oliver and Camille Poole, were fifty- three when a drunk driver T-boned their car on their way home from an award ceremony in my fatherís honor and they were killed on the Pacific Coast Highway. In their fifty-three years of life they had loved, lost and loved again. Not always each other, but usually each other. They had four kids. Dad had plenty of wins between Oscars and Emmys and even more nominations. Mom owned this dance studio that started out as one that taught everyday people and ended up becoming one where stars and ordinary people learned how to dance side by side where everyone there was equals; but the always managed to get home before seven oí clock almost every night. Dad helped my siblings and I with my English and History homework and Mom helped with Science and Math.
   ďMom and Dad had careers where cheating on your spouse not only usually happened, but was expected to happen at some point in their marriage, but Mom and Dad never did; they were always true to each other. To the press they had the perfect marriage; never had an argument or a harsh thing to say to the other one, but behind closed doors, and my brother and sisters can vouch for this, they had some serious verbal, knock-down drag out arguments that sometimes ended up with Dad sleeping on the couch and Mom slamming the door to their room closed. In the morning though, when we came downstairs for breakfast, Mom would be sleeping on the couch with Dad. Before we woke them up because we didnít want to make our own breakfast, we saw how peaceful they both looked. It always surprised me, even has I got older, after one of their fights and they were sleeping on the couch; they both look like they had never fought with anyone about anything before. They always made up and never seemed to fight about the same thing twice.
   ďA couple of nights ago my brother, sisters and I were going through Mom and Dadís stuff and we found a trunk full of stuff. The come thing in these trunks is that there is a note from Mom and Dad, plus a few journals that they wrote for us.Ē AJ held up one of the journals that she had brought with her, ďthese journals have everything about their lives, the good, the bad and everything in between. These journals talked about everything my parents went through since meeting each other the summer before the freshmen year of high school. Their story inspires me and makes me believe that love can be a person needs to get by. For Mom and Dad all they needed was each other.
   ďAs sad as their deaths make me; I am glad that they went together, because if there is one thing that these journals have taught me, itís that they did everything together and they should have left this world together and not separately. Both had amazing careers, but what I think everyone in this room will remember isnít their careers, but their relationship with one other and how well matched for each other they were.
   ďThere was one story that my dad wrote that stuck out to me, it was about when his father died. He wrote that he hated the twenty-one gun salute and the procession that was given to a fallen soldier and he wrote that he thought it would be better to just have a party celebrating a loved oneís life instead of mourning their ending. So in honor of Mom and Dad, I think we should raise a glass to them and turn up the music, exchange stories about them.Ē AJ grabbed a shot glass from the table behind her and lifted the amber liquid to her lips and drank the shot.
   The people in front of AJ clapped and all raised their glasses that had various different liquids in them and drank to the lives of Oliver and Camille Poole. 

 8 
 on: May 27, 2011, 09:07:12 pm 
Started by Jaycee - Last post by Jaycee
Lips on my bastard with cherry ice hair
on a stranger
kissing the lips on my apathetic mistake, my apathetic lies.
 my lies
my lie, lie, lies
cold, broad shouldered lies through my teeth
needles stiff in my tendons are lurid like the lies that I tell.
you know better than to believe me
when I kiss the lips on a bastard
talking with bad breath swirling around jaw bones
and stealing money
but you know better.

 9 
 on: May 23, 2011, 03:58:01 am 
Started by Iamvanpierse - Last post by Iamvanpierse
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 10 
 on: January 06, 2011, 04:13:33 pm 
Started by pampaiscapamn - Last post by pampaiscapamn
Hello. And Bye.
dsfsdfdfs

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