Short Story a Week

[lidless_i]

Well, my previous ambition of writing a short story a day ended disastrously, but I don't wish to give up on writing, rather I'd like to do it more often and acctually improve. Hence I'm making another thread, this one, where I write one a week. That should be doable... Also, if anyone else wants to join in this...thing... that I'm doing (unlikely) feel free to post them in this thread. Hopefully I'm not breaking any rules or anything with this... anyway I'll post this weeks when I get it done... assuming I remember.  

[NovaKing]

ZOMG your back and I was the first to witness it!!! What do I get??? Can I name you after me??? XD

I'll join in. I began writing jointly you know.  

[lidless_i]

Cool. I didn't think anyone would notice I was gone.
Anyway here's this thing. Kind of cliche, at least I think so, but oh well.

A black bile that resembled pitch spewed forcefully from in between the protagonist’s lips. His eyes were shut and watering from the pain it caused as it scratched the inside of his throat. So much of it had already been regurgitated that his hands, pressed against the cement floor, were coated in it up to the elbow.

The flow ceased for a moment and he caught a quick breath before another, more powerful surge followed. The pain in his esophagus increased to the point that it felt it should burst before it finally stopped. The protagonist tensed up, dreading the next one, but it didn’t come. He let himself fall over sideways into the substance he had just vomited, relieved that it was finally over.

“Dreams are supposed to end when you realize they’re dreams right?” He said quietly to the darkened space around him.

The antagonist answered but his words went unheard, as always. He wondered why he even bothered.

The protagonist sat up and started pinching his arm. After a few moments the pinching gave way to hitting, as he got frustrated.

“Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!” He shouted, punctuating each “up” by bringing down his fist. Dismayed, he sat in silence a few moments, forcing back the tears of frustration that were welling up behind his eyes.

“It’s not very fair is it?” Mouthed the silent antagonist. He turned and walked away just as another spew of bile was ejected from the protagonist’s lips.

The sound of door closing filled the room several seconds later, and he was finally, truly, alone.

An undeterminable amount of time passed, and the protagonist became accustomed to his solitude. Wars were fought and won, and the very face of the globe shifted as the protagonist sat alone. In his stillness he came to closely resemble the room in which he waited, both in mind and body.

In the stories the ancient creature, imprisoned in the bowels of the earth, was invariably eviscerated before the appropriate time of its release. If imprisoned for “eternity” it would be freed at some point, thus voiding an eternal imprisonment, by either one of the protagonists or one of the antagonists and set loose to do their bidding.

If intended to emerge at a set date, say the apocalypse or some such nonsense, the antagonist would invariably work towards its premature release; often unknowingly throwing their own well being to the wind in the process. The protagonist would then be charged with ensuring it’s continued entombment, and if not that defeating it upon it’s emergence.

It was this hope that the protagonist clung to as the years passed, that some ambitious soul might take it upon themselves to find and free him. It was a strange hope in the sense that, with each decade that passed, the likelihood that it would become a reality grew stronger, simply because nothing could stay imprisoned forever. And over the years there were visits; the antagonist returning to check on his prisoner. Always unseen and unheard, save for the opening and closing door.

“Stories of this variety don’t tend to end until the protagonists claim victory,” The antagonist spoke from a crouching position near his counterpart, who appeared to be comatose. “And I’ve lived to my satisfaction. So, when you are ready to have yours, the door is open.” With that, he stood up, turned and left.

The antagonist stood up slowly, breaking the crust that the bile had formed. The room no longer seemed so dark, and a rectangular, blue light shone from the far side. Several staggering steps brought him to the doorframe and he leaned heavily on it, looking out at sprawling fields. On the horizon, pale mountains were barely visible.

“Finally,” He said and stepped through.  

[NovaKing]

I liked it cheif; quite a lot in-fact. Out of curiosity why do you think it's cliche? is it becuase the protagonist gets his way, because hope wins out in the end?

In many ways your short resembled a lot of the ancient folk lore in that it contained a simple message with a clear and well spoken narative, but then comes the abstract part of this that brings your story away from that mind set. I felt that it was an interesting mix and, again, I rather enjoyed it.

Notably, the beginning made me think this story was going to follow the dark formula you've sworn by in some of the past work I've seen you produce. But you left that feeling midway.

You wrote this beautifully. Now to get working on mine...if I ever get the chance to -eyes giant pile of work-  

[lidless_i]

The part about there being fields just outside the room is what struck me as cliche... for some reason the good guys always tend to be associated with fields and the bad guys with mountains. Glad you liked it though.  

[NovaKing]

lidless_i

The part about there being fields just outside the room is what struck me as cliche... for some reason the good guys always tend to be associated with fields and the bad guys with mountains. Glad you liked it though.

I woudln't have had it any other way. To me, the fields best represented that feeling of freedom you got when the protagonist was finally rewarded for his efforts.  

[lidless_i]

Eh, really short one this time. Between the cold and the earache it gave way to, I'm just glad I got this done. Excuses.


A child’s eyes unblinkingly observed the dark, nighttime sky. They were locked onto Orion’s belt, the boy ignoring all else that happened around him. Not the noise, not the fires, not even the agony welling up in his chest could tear his vision away from it.

A train of blood stained combat boots thundered by close enough to make the ground shake. The last in line gave the side of the child’s head an accidental kick, but didn’t hesitate or check if he was all right. There were, of course, more pressing matters to attend to.

The taste of copper filled the boy’s mouth as the stars began to fade from view and the pain in his torso subsided. None of the fear he had come to expect accompanied this passing, it was all far too sudden for that. Rather, what he felt was a dull panic in the back of his mind, something that didn’t bother him much at all.

Soon even that faded, and all that remained was time. The boy was content to wait here, for even that couldn’t last forever.  

[KirbyVictorious]

I love your imagery. ANd use of gore. Nice.  

[lidless_i]

“Humanis Cerebrum, Homo Intellectual, the people of the mind. Filtered through society, expectations, the moral standards imposed by the 'majority,' and our own flawed ideas of what we are capable of, it would appear that we are one with the population. However, we differ in that, even underneath the lifetime’s thick layers of brainwashing, we see. Others follow, while telling themselves they are in control. We follow… just wishing we could be.”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who are you following?”


“Each other.”

“I don’t understand.”

The man the black jacket said nothing. The police officer questioning him frowned imperceptibly.

“So, is this some kind of cult?” The officer asked after several moments of silence.

“Religion is a flimsy construct by which we mask our fear at the uncertainty of our future.” He replied.

“Alright… well then what are these?” He placed a stack of photos on the table in between them. They depicted intricately drawn symbols on the walls of a house. “If not for some kind of cult then what?”

The man in the jacket paused long enough to look at the picture on the top of the stack. “I take it you already tested what material was used in drawing those?” He asked casually.

“Yeah, we know…” The cop said. Some of the anger he felt and the injustice that had been done made it through to his voice.

“Well then surely you can realize the intention of it. Typically anything scrawled in blood is jagged and conveys an ominous meaning, something cliché like the name of the man who let the blood. However, look at what I’ve done here; ornate patterns, elegant loops. It’s beautiful.”

This time it was the officer who didn’t reply.

“Imagine if it was in another medium. Ink or paint perhaps. Could you say, then, that it didn’t have artistic merit?” The man in the black jacket kept his voice as neutral as possible.

The policeman glanced down at the photographs before replying.

“I’d call it vandalism… So that’s your motive? You wanted to paint a picture?”

“Officer, if that was all, I would have used acrylics. If you really wanted to understand, you would ask me to teach.”

“What?”

“It seems to me that you are merely attempting to establish a motive. Like a fly, trying to understand the force that blows its fellows away. Just as the wind is beyond the understanding of a fly, the forces propelling our destinies are far beyond our comprehension.”
It was at that moment that the police officer, previously wary that this man might be delusional, lost all doubt on the issue.

“The reasoning behind my actions is, to put it simply, that they had to be done, and I was the only one that knew it.”

“Right, well I think that’s all the information we need for now,” The officer said, putting a formal tone on his voice.
Once outside the interrogation room, he told his partner the gist of what the man in the black jacket had told him.

“You can talk to him if you want, but I’d just as soon send a shrink in and wash my hands of that loon.” He concluded, gauging his partner’s reaction.
The officer’s partner had a small chuckle at the ramblings of the lunatic behind the door, before dismissing them entirely and going about his business. The words stayed with the officer somewhat longer, but he stopped thinking about them as soon as he got home that night and saw his daughter’s smiling face.

Eventually, as all children –barring the dead ones- do, the little girl grew up. The officer died, and an individual who had once worn a black jacket rotted in a cell. Through it all, life, death, and the inane ramblings of a crazed murderer, the world remained tilted on an axis of twenty-three degrees, people still fought over who-did-what, not-what-was said-but-how, and which governments would control what dirt.

Sadly, the one in charge of tugging the strings of destiny is dead at his station. Occasionally the crows picking at his corpse might tug a line or two, and “that’s how I met you, babe. Let us engage in relations of a more instinctual nature.”  

[Voxxx]

I rememeber you! Jeez, it was like you'd dropped off the face of the um... guild. DX

Nice to see you back.

I loved the last story. :3  

[Sors]

Sors

Curious.
Most of your stories seem to hint at humanity failing to grasp some deeper meaning. Although you yourself don't provide such a meaning in these stories.
O.o
They're interesting, but not quite fulfilling I suppose?

 

[lidless_i]

@Voxxx: Thanks... I tried to keep writing and commenting on people's work but I'm apparently not very prolific when it comes to either... (I think I used prolific correctly there.)

@Sors: I acctually hadn't thought of that... Them/Us not grasping a deeper meaning for sure, but it never occurred to me to try and point out what it was... probably because I don't know. That is I don't know in reality, I could just make one up for the fiction, I guess...  

[Xahmen]

You're last main character seemed a bit dramatic, it was on purpose I imagine.
I liked the dialogue.  

[lidless_i]

It was on purpose in the sense that I noticed it early, was too lazy to fix it, and, so, tried to work it into the story... I thought the dialog in the last one was a little long winded to be normal people talking... but once again I was too lazy to do anything about it...  

[lidless_i]

From the time we enter this world until the time our biological machinations cease a portion of ourselves is devoted to the formation of and adherence to rules. Some of these regulations are innate to our biology, and cannot be ignored; lest we take a venture into what lies beyond. Others are imposed by our experiences and the reactions we have to them. Ignoring these functions is oftentimes impossible simply because we don’t even see them as rules, rather we count them as factual and only question their validity when it is absolutely necessary. When these rules are broken, however, the response can be anything from quiet, begrudging acceptance, to murder. Even when any of these things come to pass, a portion of the mind will still devote itself to making these rules.

So now we observe the developing fetus. Just the process of maintaining life and growing is a complex process, bogged down by regulation and order. Stripped of all this biological bureaucracy, however, the functions are simply as described; stay alive and grow. Nutrients come down the tube; we convert the nutrients into material to make new cells, rinse and repeat.

The infant’s only concern is the accumulation of experience, and with this the formation of order. We make this noise and the parental figures respond to our needs, if they fail to comply our lives are forfeit.

As the infant ages it learns to observe and understand the consequences of its actions. Its biological needs are obviously being adequately cared for at this point, given that it has made it this far. Thus, it will add the first rule pertaining to an abstract concept, garnering affection. When we make this noise, the parental figures assess our needs. If they fail to identify a biological need, they attend to our emotional ones. Continually making this noise will occasionally cause the parental figures to make similar ones at one another.

Enter early childhood. By now, the rule system is far too complex to document on paper, but several key aspects from the infant stage remain intact. Especially prominent among these is the need to gain emotional validation from the parental figures. Biological rules and needs are more often than not taking a back seat to this. The first rules of social interaction are already well documented, but not often adhered to very strictly. When we perform this action, we gain parental approval. Caution, variable; if paternal figure smells like such and such beverage do not approach. Doing so will often result in a physical declaration of disapproval.

Middle to late childhood approaches, and the rule system is just starting to resemble that held by the average adult. Rules pertaining to self-image and worth become more common. Regulations designed for the upkeep of other’s feelings and well being also start making themselves prominent. Occasionally these for others conflict with those for the self. Our maternal figure appears to experience more happiness whenever we neglect to ask for material goods we desire. Conflict of interests; the other children don’t appear to want anything to do with me unless I have nice things. Why does mother cry?

In the teenage years, the rules system typically becomes adaptable enough to adopt the changes necessary to enter adulthood. However, it is not unheard of for the system to fail in any number of remarkable ways. Most teenagers will throw out or modify all but the most basic of rules.
When things occur that are beyond the scope of our systems we begin to feel powerless. Mother wasn’t moving this morning; an empty bottle of prescription medication was sitting on the nightstand. Her skin was cold. The reaction to situations such as these is typically an aggressive bid to take back control. Acts of violence are the most common form of these.

Father’s room, separate from Mother’s for years, smells of liquor. Caution, do not approach, doing so will likely result in a physical expression of-
We have our own physical declaration of that nature. Memory, there is a handgun in the hallway drawer. There are legal repercussions for these actions. Invalid, unresponsive. Frustration at that facet of the situation would only serve to fuel the anger.

The paternal figure and an unidentified woman share the covers. Both are either passed out or asleep. The option to resolve the situation peacefully is still available. Invalid.

Fear. Fight or flight response active. It is Dangerous to approach the maternal figure. Fight rejected. Flight initiated.

The sleeping lovers were awoken by the sound of a single gunshot.



(Not too proud of this one... just because suicide seems like an unlikely response to one's mother's suicide... oh well.)