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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Tue Dec 19, 2006 3:53 am Post subject: |
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The room was a mess, like a whirlwind had torn through it. Papers were strewn across the floor, some drenched in tea, spilt from a recently filled cup.
The body of O'Doyle McNulty, veteran explorer lay limply in his armchair, his arm still laying across the tape recorder on the table at his side. The expression etched on his face was a combination of terror and wonder. The old rug on the floor was singed in various places, some of the holes still smoking. In the glowing embers of his open fire there was a playful twinkling of dancing motes of light, occasionally shimmering into recognisable shapes.
Whether his body was just slightly unbalanced in the way that he was laying in his chair, or whether some other force pushed him, it will never be known for sure, but he seemed to slide slightly, knocking the tape recorder off the table. It fell to the floor, the impact activating the 'play' button.
The noise on the tape was horrifying. Against the background of sounds of burning, crunching and hot lava there were screams of terror, howls of strange creatures, sounds that conjured up the most fearful of images in the mind. And in the middle of it all, O'Doyles last gasps of breath, during what must have been a futile and impossibly ill matched struggle, as his dying moments were replayed in audio...
Then there was silence on the tape as it continued to run, only the ticking of the carriage clock on O'Doyle's mantlepiece could be heard on it. After a while there was a click, as if someone - or something - must have at that point pressed the "stop record" button.
The unrecorded part of the tape ran on, with a faint hiss. A few moments later, voices on the unrecorded portion could be faintly, but definitely heard.
"Almea? Is that you?" O'Doyle's deep tones barely crackled through the white noise.
"Of course it is, silly!" replied a very quiet, pure, clear, tenor male voice. It seemed to emanate from a very small being, perhaps even faerie like.
"Oh, Almea, I've missed you so much! But I had assumed you had perished! That demon had ensorcered you and stole you away from me! However did you escape?" there seemed to be fondness in the way O'Doyle's spoke.
"Awww... he's just a big bully! He took me back to his lair, a dark and evil place of fire and brimstone, surrounded by moats of lava. There, he stuffed me into one of his crystal prisons, and drew strength from my magic, leaving me weakened and helpless!" replied the faerie, his words barely making themselves audible on the unrecorded tape.
"But how did you escape?" O'Doyle's voice, although deep and booming, was still faint and almost undiscernable through the hiss.
"Well... that's where your mistaken! You really don't remember how it all ended do you!" giggled the faerie's distant, tinny tones as if hiding a great secret. "Unfortunately", I was drained of my magic til my magic ran out, and then it began to further take my life force in lieu of my lagging manna."
"I- I don't understand! How is it that I see you before me now?"
"Mcnutiy, you must understand! You must remember!" the faerie's voice was raised, and induced a fair bit of static at this point.
"'Remember? What do you mean?" O'Doyle asked through the resulting hissing and crackles.
"O'Doyle, you silly fool! You've gone and forgotten everything haven't you? Don't you remember... You didn't survive that battle! And neither, it seems did I! But we're free now! FREEEEEE! WEEEEEEEEEE!"
The tape continued to hiss quietly until it spooled on to the end.
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| Posted: Tue Dec 19, 2006 9:09 am Post subject: |
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Masterweaver
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| Posted: Sat Apr 21, 2007 2:41 pm Post subject: |
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The fairy plunked the tape-recorder onto the desk and hit the red button. The troll sighed, and held before him a script. "Almea? Is that you?"
"Of course it is, silly!" read the faerie, stifiling a grin.
"Oh, Almea, I've missed you so much! But I had assumed you had perished! That demon had ensourcered you and stole you away from me! However did you escape?" The troll ran through his lines as if he simply did not understand that feelings could be faked or even emulated.
"Awww... he's just a big bully! He took me back o his lair, a dark and evil place of fire and brimstone, surrounded by moats of lava. There, he stuffed me into one of his crystal prisons, and drew strength from my magic, leaving me weakened and helpless!" The faerie was now openly grinning, and the needles of teeth gleamed mischivously from his mouth.
"How did you escape?" read the troll, annoyed at the faerie's mirth. He hoped he'd get payed well for this...
"You're mistaken!" giggled the faerie. "I was drained of my magic and my life force!"
"I see you now! How come?" said the very angry troll, slamming his script on the desk.
"You remember, right?"
The troll snatched the faerie out of the air, in a rage beacuase it was not taking this seriously. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THIS?!?!"
The faeries slipped out, and began flying around the room. "FREEE! WEEEE!" He deftly turned off the recording.
The next morning, the tape was on the desk of O'Doyle McNulty, investigator in the paranormal. He listened to it, and threw it into the trash, muttering, "Another prank."
_________________
Sarothen, Mesoli, Gerastro
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Key
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| Posted: Sat Apr 21, 2007 8:39 pm Post subject: |
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"First thing is, how come you can't get me better parts than this trash?" complained Ben as he waved the script. "I'm sick of fantasy parts. Why don't you ever get me some drama? Or even a good sitcom?"
"Hey, come on, Ben, it's steady work," soothed Donny like he'd done a hundred times before. "And you know, I did get you that gig with the community theatre last month. They're still fixing their stage."
Faye tittered from just above Ben's shoulder. "Maybe you ought to go on a diet," she said. "All the Orson Welles parts are already taken."
Ben swatted at Faye with the script, but she flew up out of reach and laughed at him again, her needles of teeth gleaming mischievously from her mouth. "And second thing," growled Ben. "Why do I have to work with her?"
"Ben, Ben, Ben," said Donny in his most concerned voice. "You know I love you. You know I'm doing my best. It's just that all the troll parts are in fantasy. And the faerie parts too. You guys have just got to learn to work together."
Ben sighed. Donny continued, "Look, just make nice and do the reading, ok? Do it for me. And if you do, I..I'll get you a lead in a romance. Yeah, that's it. You'll be the next Bogart, I swear, or my name isn't Donny Nutcracker."
Faye stifled a giggle from the rafters. Ben shot her a glare, shook his head glumly, and trudged onto the set. Faye flitted behind him. With the directors and writers speechless at his half-ton frame, Ben read the script.
"Almea? is that you?" he said in a bored voice.
"Of course it is, silly!" replied the faerie, grinning.
"Oh, Almea, I've missed you so much. But I had assumed you had perished. That demon had ensourcered you and stole you away from me. However did you escape?" The troll ran through his lines as if he simply did not understand that feelings could be faked or even emulated.
"Awww... he's just a big bully! He took me back to his lair, a dark and evil place of fire and brimstone, surrounded by moats of lava. There, he stuffed me into one of his crystal prisons, and drew strength from my magic, leaving me weakened and helpless!" The faerie was now openly giggling.
"How did you escape?" read the troll, annoyed at the faerie's mirth.
You're mistaken!" laughed the faerie. "I was drained of my magic and my life force!"
"That's enough!" cried the director, a small young man with a goatee. "You've got the parts, both of you. You look amazing!" He turned to one of the many assistants scurrying along behind him and said in a low voice, "We'll need some voice talent for the dub-ins." She quickly scribbled some notes as the writers and hangers-on broke up and went about their business.
Ben's massive shoulders sagged. Bad enough that he couldn't get good parts, now they didn't even want his voice. They were just renting his body as a special effects prop.
But as he began trudging his way back the warehouse where he lived, Ben felt two small feet land on his shoulder. "Cheer up, Ben," said Faye. "You know, I really think you could do romance."
Ben waited for the sarcastic barb that he was sure would follow, but it never came. Instead, Faye flitted off high above into the clouds, and Ben was left on the sidewalk, wondering.
He paused for a minute, then said to himself, quietly, almost tentatively, "Here's looking at you, kid."
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NeverNeverGirl
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| Posted: Mon Jul 23, 2007 9:16 pm Post subject: |
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heres my attempt at this - i think i have understood the task properly...
I am the one he killed. I am my own replacement. Never can you kill me without bringing me forth again.
The one who killed me? Dr Peter Acheson. A mortal man with a no more superior intelligence than the amoeba from which he was descended. Famous alien bilogical scientist? HA! He fell into his fame one day by interferring where no one with any sense would have dared, he is famous simply for the arrogance and stupidity of a middle class white male with mother issues.
It began on a Sunday. Driving down a long and winding road high in the hills of No Mans land in the middle of the night. Peter Acheson had stopped to use the bathroom when he stumbled across the very thing that would lead to his fame. As he zipped his fly up he glanced up and saw a flash of light from amongst the trees.
It can barely be comprehended what he was thinking at that moment, it is far beneath one such as i to sttop so low.
Pulling his gun from teh glove box he shoved it in the front of his pants and hoisting his camcorder from his car Peter panned in on what he had at first taken to be a 'spaceship'. A term used by the uneducated.
He went forwards warily, creeping ever closer to the undiscernable object hidden by the trees and groundcover. As he came nearer he saw a man with yellow skin step forwad from the bushes and into the clearing where the 'flash' had come from.
'Oh Shi-' the man crumpled to his knees with his upper torso twisted around facing the way it had come.
Looking at the point from which the flash had come Peter crept further forward believing that he was yet to be seen. Steeping clear of the shadows the great ShiVa made himself known. A majestic Urok King such as has never been known. Resplendent with oily purple skin and three eyes ShiVa crouched beside the fallen figure.
'No RaVi, not you too.. ' As ShiVa reached to close the eyes of a fallen comrade Peter Acheson stepped out of the darkness.
'Take this you scum sucking alien' firing a shot into ShiVa he laughed. ShiVa raised himself up on his arm - looking puzzledly at Acheson.
'and this' again a pistol cracked thru the night sky. ShiVa stared down at his chest as a bloom of deepest red spread over his skin.
'and one for the road' Peter Acheson laughed manically. At last ShiVa was no more than an empty vessel for a long departed soul.
He spent many months up there with his 10th grade biology texts trying to unwrap the riddle of that night. he produced several papers (with much help from a ghost writer) on what he had 'found'. But what does he know? What will he ever know?
We were lost space wanderers from across the galaxy, caught up in a misunderstanding. We came to offer you respite and we were greeted with hostility, for that we shall never forgive you.
Be warned. What has died on you world on our world is reborn...
_________________
~  ~
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NeverNeverGirl
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| Posted: Mon Jul 23, 2007 9:22 pm Post subject: |
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I think i responded to the wrong post - but oh well - sorry.. is osmeone going to write a new story or do we kep going on from the orig still?
_________________
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Masterweaver
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| Posted: Mon Aug 06, 2007 6:48 am Post subject: |
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Death is life and life is death.
His name was Peter Acherson. It is now Peter Acherson. It will be Peter Acherson until he dies. And he will die slowly and painfully.
He had been resting, for reasons best unmentioned, when we iluminated the night sky. He was puzzled, but wary, and brought a weapon. A nine tee seven are, we recall. He went toward the light.
They found him, and he was quick. He took them down before the shield formed. Nameless will they be now and forevermore...
But we heard. We prepared our defenses, and strode out to meet him.
It must be said, in his defense, we were terrifying. We were like a yellowed corpse, with our thin fingers and our parchment skin. It must be said that the first shot was paniced, and if he had stopped, we would have pardoned him.
The second, though, was hungry. The third, malicious. In three short bursts, he had gone from the defender to the attacker to the victor. Such turnabout stunned us, and we crumpled down, defeated by surprise.
But not dead. We now prowl about his mind, waiting for his time, and giving him hints of what he has faced. He publishes his findings, if one can call messages findings, and grows rich ans stagent. But it is not time yet. Only at his time will we take and mold him.
Then, when he is named no more, we will step in and claim our name once again!
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Masterweaver
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| Posted: Sun Dec 16, 2007 12:13 pm Post subject: |
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| This was fun! Will anybody continue this?
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Key
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| Posted: Sun Dec 16, 2007 6:17 pm Post subject: |
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They say he is a fortunate man, the one called Peter Archer. He was the first to meet our kind, and when he killed us, they made him a hero. So be it: in his current form, which they call life, let him be honored, rich, and famous.
When he dies he will be ours.
He had been resting, that evening when we illuminated the night sky. He was puzzled, but wary, and brought a weapon. He went toward the light.
We had come only to observe. We strode out to meet him.
In his defense, we were terrifying - like a yellowed corpse, with thin fingers and parchment skin. His first shot was panicked, and had he stopped there, we would have pardoned him.
But the second shot was hungry. And the third, malicious. In three short bursts, he went from defender to attacker to victor. Such turnabout stunned us, and we crumpled, dead, defeated by surprise.
Thus began the war of the races, in which wave after wave of our kind have impaled themselves on the weapons of the human race. The humans grin like idiots, throwing parades for the victors and thinking that they are winning as they destroy the bodies of millions of our people.
But they don't understand that there is existence beyond the body. They don't know that every one of our dead follows its murderer unseen, waiting in silence to extract our vengeance, which shall be eternal.
They say Peter Archer is a fortunate man. They are wrong.
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Crossfire
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Location: Somewhere between here and not-here, now and not-now... in the half-light, the borderlands, between.
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| Posted: Sun Dec 16, 2007 7:47 pm Post subject: |
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They say he is a fortunate man, the one called Peter Archer, but there is a darkness about him. There is something strange in his eyes that makes sane men shrink back from his burning gaze.
They say he speaks to the dead, and in a way, they're right. Our race no longer lives on this world, not really. We are the last.
When he dies, we will.
He was a champion of darkness, one who forsook the light in favor of the shadows and destroyed all those who opposed his black master. He was tainted by the amulet that he wore; it was his beloved, his heart, his most prized possession.
His bane.
We had come only to observe, but we sensed the terrible corruption that was slowly worming its way to the core of his soul.
In his defense, we were terrifying - like living corpses in the half-light, with long, bony fingers and skin stretched over bone like parchment over frame. His first shot nearly took down one of our number, but our shields held firm against his dark might.
The second shot was hungry, the third malicious. The unholy jewel around his neck shone with a sickly luster, prompting more and more unthinkable acts. It imbued him with unimaginable strength, and he mowed us down.
Our bodies died, but we lived on. He knew of our presence now, and led all humanity against us. We had no chance against his vast armies, and our entire people wept as one at the final destruction of the old races.
Thus began the war of the races, in which wave after wave of our kind have impaled themselves on the weapons of the human race. The humans grin like idiots, throwing parades for the victors and thinking that they are winning as they destroy the bodies of millions of our people.
But they don't understand that there is existence beyond the body. They don't know that every one of our dead follows its murderer unseen, waiting in silence to extract our vengeance, which shall be eternal.
They say Peter Archer is a fortunate man. They are wrong.
_________________
Thrash, dash and crash alike.
Silent eyes decide the wise and unwise - for one that lies. Let it arise.
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Mephistopheles
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| Posted: Sun Dec 16, 2007 8:12 pm Post subject: |
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They say that Archer is a fortunate man, and in some ways, he is more such than others who have laid claim to that title. A brilliant soldier, brave and daring where other's are weak and incompetent, he never backed down from combat, never had he fled a battle.
The shadows of those he had slain followed him, haunting him, but he feared their presence not. They were, despite their race, his brothers in arms. Thousands had fallen to his own sword in the years of combat, and countless millions more to his armies.
Every day, people look at Archer, seeing the dark and stern gleam in his eyes that speaks of countless atrocities that he has been part of, and the ability to accept and commit more. What they fail to realize, is that their reasons for believing him to be fortunate, all the gold, women, and allegiances, are not the reason for his daring and bold demeanor.
No, he sees us, the shades that follow him out of respect for him. He knows that we will honor him after death. He knows that we shall greet him as a brother when he passes from the tales of the living and moves into the realm of myth and lore.
_________________
Cause I am, whatever you say I am
If I wasn't, then why would I say I am?
I don't know, it's just the way I am.
eminem
without the threat of death,
there is no reason to live at all
marilyn manson
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Key
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| Posted: Mon Dec 17, 2007 10:06 pm Post subject: |
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They say that Archer is a lucky one, and he is, but they don't understand why. They know him as a brilliant soldier, brave and daring, who's never backed down from combat, nor fled a battle.
The shadows of those he has slain follow him, haunting him, but he fears their presence not. They are his brothers in arms. Thousands have fallen to his bow in the years of combat, and millions more to his armies.
Yet they know him not. Do they never wonder why he lives so long yet never ages, or why he never uses the new weapons, though a rifle shoots further and straighter and deadlier than any arrow?
He outlasted most of us: Axehandler, Swordsman, and Rockthrower are gone now. Boxer and Biter, long dead. But no Archetype lives forever. His time is coming: he can see it in the eyes of Rifleman. When the soldiers no longer bother to learn the bow, when it passes from common use into the pages of history, Archer will pass on too.
He sees us, the shades that follow him out of respect for him. He knows that we will honor him after death. He knows that we shall greet him as a brother when he passes from the tales of the living and moves into the realm of myth and lore.
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Crossfire
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| Posted: Thu Dec 20, 2007 1:58 am Post subject: |
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They say that Archer is a unlucky man, and he is, tortured by memories too terrible to look in the eye but too horrifyingly compelling to forget. What they don't understand is why. They know him as a brilliant soldier, brave and daring, who's never backed down from combat, nor ever fled a battle.
The shadows of those he has slain follow him. They are always by his side. They worship him and, gazing into their adoring, ghostly faces, he knows that he will never be alone.
They are his brothers in arms, his friends, his lovers, his family. Thousands have fallen to his bow in the years of combat, and millions more to his armies. Some he has killed simply so that they would always be by his side...
Yet they know him not. Do they never wonder why he lives so long yet never ages, or why he never uses the new weapons, though a rifle shoots further, a beam cannon shoots straighter, a chain array faster than any arrow?
He outlasted us all. Axehandler, Swordsman, Rockthrower and the Keeper of the Breaking Sphere, all dead. But no Archetype lives forever, and when we die, we only grow stronger. His time is coming: he can see it in the eyes of Rifleman. When the soldiers no longer bother to learn the bow, when it passes from common use into the pages of history, Archer will pass on too.
It's cold out here, but when he walks through the billowing veil and into our arms, it'll be warm again.
We're sure of it.
He sees us, the shades that follow him out of respect for him, out of love. He knows that we will honor him after death, and beyond. He knows that we shall greet him as a brother when he passes from the tales of the living and moves into the realm of myth and lore. He knows that when he does fall, far into the enveloping darkness, we will be there to catch him.
He will join our ranks.
_________________
Thrash, dash and crash alike.
Silent eyes decide the wise and unwise - for one that lies. Let it arise.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Thu Apr 24, 2008 5:07 pm Post subject: |
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This is my first post in this experiment. I hope I didn't change it too much.
They say that Archer is an unlucky man, and he is, in his way. He is tortured by a memory too terrible to look in the eye and too much a part of him to forget.
It is a memory of a lost age, of happiness and innocence that he shall never now again. But those who follow him do not know this.
They know him only as a ruthless soldier, brave and daring, who has never backed down from combat, nor fled a battle, staying, fighting until the last of his foes breathes out his life into the sky.
Despite the tales, of innocents slain and towns razed, hundreds of thousands follow him. Many of those who, once had said they would swear their souls away rather than follow him, worship him. His eyes burned with his rage and his hate, and his sadness.
He is their General.
He is their Leader.
He is their God.
And they are shadows of the men they once were. They are always by his side. They worship him and, gazing into their adoring, ghostly faces, he knows that he will never be alone.
And Him? He worships battle. It is his only love now, his heart pounding, and his sword slicing through the throats of those who stand in his way. His passion for blood has replaced his old love.
He dances the dance of death, seeking always for it. It is his lover, now, and he dances with her always.
Thousands have fallen to his sword in the years of combat, and millions more to his armies. And always, he has lead from the front, dancing through spears and swords, and eventually guns and canons.
Yet even those who follow him, his chosen, know him not. They never wonder why he lives so long yet never ages. All they know, is that he lives a charmed life, never to die or age, just as they do.
And this charmed life is his curse.
Always he seeks death, but can never find it, always looking for peace and rest.
And always, when he thinks of his dream, in his dark heart, black and turned to dust over the ages, there is a glimmer of light, and life, as he sees again the image burned forever in his brain.
She has been gone, these ages past, thrown down to the dark void of eternity.
All he seeks is to join her.
And so He fights through the ages, seeking for rest, dancing through fire and steel, always seeking what he has lost.
And that is his curse.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Black Hawk
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| Posted: Thu Jul 03, 2008 10:51 am Post subject: |
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wow deadman that was awsome 
_________________
"I don't make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts."
-Will Rodgers
Michael Crichton one of the greatest writers of his time 1942-2008 rest in peace
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shy_blu_eyes
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| Posted: Thu Jul 03, 2008 3:58 pm Post subject: |
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 Somehow I missed the whole second page, but since I already wrote this, this is based off of IM's post from 3 Dec 06.
Sweat poured down Finn’s brow as she typed franticly. Pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket she tried to make out the smudged access code. ABBAABBA…
Finn cursed, she was six digits short. In the next room there was a load crash followed by a two rapid blasts, Eric’s shotgun. A moment later a third shot erupted, followed by the chatter of automatic fire. Finn could imagine Sarah firing short bursts with her characteristic blend of determination and indifference. Smaller pops now, and loud cursing, Eric firing his pistol. The noise level rose to a frenzied crescendo…
Refocusing on the task at hand Finn was struck by a sudden memory, something from a lifetime ago, something about…
“Italian sonnets,” Finn whispered to herself.
ABBAABBA-CDECDE
Access Denied
-CDCDCD
ACCESS DENIED
Finn bit her lip, struggling to remember the rhyme scheme she had worked so hard to ignore all those years ago.
ABBAABBA-CDCCDC
Access Granted
Running down the list Finn quickly found the file she sought…
Acheson-0127-001
A yell, followed by a scream. Continuous automatic fire. And then silence…
Male, Caucasian, age 34 years.
Subject is sole survivor of test group 127, trial 1.
Subject initially showed signs of accelerated heart rate and distraction consistent with previous trials. Currently in good physical health.
Something slammed against the heavy blast door, denting it. Then another slam. Then continuous pounding. The door groaned. The hinges couldn’t survive for long…
Subject shows signs of acute paranoia. Reports other team members killed by “Demon-like Creatures”. Reports that he was able to kill one of these creatures with three rounds of .357 Magnum ammunition, prior to activating return signal. Magnum recovered from subject, three rounds of ammunition expended. Suggest sedation and observation of subject until further testing can verify reports.
The rest of the file was massive, 3.7 gigabytes total, no time to look at it here…
Finn quickly attached a specially designed portable drive, uploading the file in its entirety, hoping it would contain some clues about what had happened.
Now, she though as she detached the drive, how to get out?
A moment later, the door gave way…
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