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ethereal_fauna
Perpetually Distracted
Joined: 16 Feb 2005
Topics: 58
Posts: 2567
Location: USA
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 Posted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 7:49 am Post subject: The Carver's Blossoms |
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*Disclaimer- This Graphic storygame contains descriptive Violence and Sexuality, including Perverse Criminal Behavior. Author recommends discretion. This storygame is intended for mature audiences. Younger readers should not continue or participate in this storygame. *
Chp1 The Carver's Blossoms
Snowflakes land in the crimson pool forming a latticework of ice atop the congealing mass. Despite the chill the red color continues to spread in an ever-widening circle against the blanket of white. Tiny phantom cobras arise into the chill air from the cooling stain, striking at invisible targets before disappearing, taking warmth with them. The man stands over his victim, oblivious to the biting cold, and watches the bloodstain grow with fascination. The prey draws short, shallow breaths and stubbornly clings to life as if to savor every last sensation while the beating heart pumps less and less. The man wonders if he should take her, the pale skin barely warm, into a sheltered location. No time. His attack had left gaping wounds, and her life should soon end. He needs to finish this now while she continues to live. Positioning her naked form into lewd poses, he finally appears satisfied with the view. The victim’s face lies in the snow, her arms tucked underneath her. Her knees planted firmly in the drifts, the round buttocks reflect the cold moonlights as the man backs away slowly, hand outstretched to catch her upturned rear should it topple. He pulls out a camera and snaps several pictures from various angles.
“She was perfect,” he laments. “Except for the nose. The nose was all wrong. She just didn’t understand that. She didn’t understand why that nose had to go.”
He continues muttering to himself as he watches his victim draw her final breath. He lingers after her death, shivering against the cold night air. The snow continues falling, a shimmering layer taking on a pink hue as it blankets the bloody scene. He once cursed his foul luck for crashing the stellar craft on this backwater planet, but villages of beautiful damsels abound in this superstitious world, far away from the pursuit of dogged law officers. The civilization proved less than advanced, the languages easy to learn, the naive peoples simple to persuade, with a physiology remarkably similar to his own. Unimpeded the man now continues his search for her, that temptress haunting his visions since his youth. Here he will finally find her. But not tonight. In a sudden fit of rage he utters a string of profanities. Grabbing sticks from the snow-covered undergrowth, he crudely impales the corpse of the woman through every available orifice, turning her head to the side to include the vulgar maw where her nose once jutted rudely from an otherwise perfect face. Atop the two skyward pointing staffs, the man delicately perches tiny, hand crafted fabric flowers.
The new season’s festival brings joy and excitement to Tonversit, a handsome village boasting a one-room public school and an inn. Gathering on the village square, the populace fills the air with joy and laughter as warmer weather renews the landscape. Carly walks confidently through the gathering, smiling and flirting as she strolls. Her young and supple form attracts much wanted attention from several young men, who seek to strike her fancy. A short, flimsy skirt exposes long legs to the newborn sun, while the ample bosom spills from an equally short and flimsy blouse. Carly tosses her head lightly, sending a cascade of chestnut curls about her brown shoulders.
“Do you enjoy the lovely weather,” a shaky voice squeaks her way.
Carly turns and smiles broadly at Fimpton, whose pale blue skin appears even paler and bluer next to Carly’s warm brown tone.
“Why certainly, Fimpton,” her liquid words glide like honey.
Carly casts a casual glance towards Jonlan, who leans handsomely against a tree and listens intently to Shurli’s animated speech. Fimpton continues speaking to Carly, prattling on about his garden, while Carly glares at Shurli. Young and attractive, Shurli’s thin white skin and voluminous amber hair sparkle in the light. Jonlan favors her with his winning smile. Carly seethes, jealousy buzzing inside her chest like some angry venomous insect. She had spent the long, cold season warming Jonlan’s bed. Despite lying with Jonlan almost every night through those blustery months, he had failed to put a child in her belly. Now that the warm season broke, he discarded her in favor of this insipid tramp.
“…and the orange ones are quite lovely, almost the same color as your eyes,” Fimpton’s reedy voice interrupted into her thoughts, still chatting about his blossoming garden.
Carly turns a bemused glance to the slight, awkward Fimpton, so desperately attempting to win her affections. Although not physically attractive, Fimpton does have his finer points. His quick mind grasps the most difficult concepts, and he possesses a real talent for growing plants. He should produce a very smart offspring.
“And what a blow to the rugged, athletic Jonlan that would be,” Carly thinks to herself. “The whole village will whisper about how he bedded me all through the cold season without giving me a daughter or a son, while this slight fellow not even half his size produced such an intelligent young one so quickly during the year’s renewal.”
Oh, but how she still covets Jonlan’s strong embrace. Perhaps that is why the goddesses withheld a child from their union. Jealousy offends the goddesses, who find the dark emotions festering due to it unsightly. Perhaps she should seek the midwife, to examine her for some signs that the goddesses cursed her womb. Maybe Carly should just seek out another young man, someone else who strikes her fancy enough to drive all thoughts of Jonlan from her head, and frighten away all remembered tastes of his kisses or whiffs of his masculine scent. She looks again at Fimpton, who offers a timid and expectant smile to her.
Chp2 The Tailor
The man returns the following evening before the last light escapes into the night, to better view his new creation. She remains poised for action, her rounded hips suggestively in the air. A wind must have taken her flowers sometime during the day. The final rays filtering through the trees offers a romantic setting for the man to enjoy his time with her. He regrets the rough, crude sticks poking harshly from her frosty bottom. The offensive items prove difficult to remove from the frozen cavities. He labors until he frees one stick. This will do. The man again retrieves his camera and snaps several lurid photographs.
Despite the chill, the man imagines that he enjoys the warm company of the woman who haunts his dreams. She giggles and strikes a seductive pose. He teases her, almost touches her, then pulls away. He savors these moments with her because it doesn’t take long. Soon his fantasy ends, and the smiling face of his dream girl evaporates, leaving him standing over a cold dead body. Retrieving string from his backpack, he ties another fabric flower to the remaining staff still reaching towards the stars. He promises to return, and trudges away to the south.
They called me the Carver. The media, the police. They said I carved away women’s body parts. Of course they were correct. In a way. I just carve away the bad parts, the ones that aren’t quite right.
True to his promise, the Carver returns on several occasions. The frozen body remains pristine for many days. Eventually predation mars the icy statue. Still he comes to view his handiwork. One evening he returns to find that some large scavenger has pulled the body over, and even drug it a short distance before starting to feed. The icy snow bank where the statue rested for so long shows signs of her presence. Although the body lies several feet away, the skin lingers, frozen to the ground. It appears that the animal began feeding first on the broken face. Toothy indentions mark the bones. The Carver sighs. He’s done all he can for her. Soon the thaw happens as the season changes, and he knows at that time she will decompose. He will simply have to find another to replace this one. Maybe someone more perfect, someone that will be warm and alive for a little longer.
Carly warmly wraps her arms around Fimpton’s bony left elbow, immediately suppressing the urge to compare his scrawny bicep to Jonlan’s impressive physique. Although Fimpton’s frame is small, his height proves sufficient to require Carly to look up into his face.
“Why don’t you show me your lovely garden,” she smoothly suggests.
A look of relief flashes briefly across Fimpton’s face, replacing the timid, hopeful look for a moment. As the couple strolls down sunny gravel paths towards his garden, Carly snuggles her head onto his shoulder. A glow of pride tinged with astonishment lights his visage as they pass by other couples and groups of people out attending the festival.
Nith, a tailor with reputation of little note, watches the unlikely pair stroll by. He settled in Tonversit several months ago, and struggles still at garnering business in his tiny shop. Leaning heavily in the door frame of his store, he contemplates closing early and joining the festivities. His arrival in Tonversit coincided with the old season’s festival, where he had considered himself fortunate to win the affections of Soliel. He had looked forward to her warming his bed through the cold weather, but at some point she apparently tired of his slow business, lean table, and perfunctory love-making. She excused herself from the breakfast table one morning, announcing her intent to visit one of the merchants in a traveling caravan. She sought to browse through their wares before the whole troupe took advantage of the break in the weather and continued on their way. Soliel ran off without so much as a goodbye.
This festival might prove luckier. So wanders Nith’s thoughts as three young ladies pause to engage his attention. Purla, a busybody and gossip, preens in the reflection of the shop’s small glass window. Her fair hair appears so frosty in the light that it’s almost white. The slight, submissive Winnow smiles and wrings her delicate, olive toned hands against the front of her dress. Athletic, burly, and strong-willed, Ellie strikes up a conversation.
“Would you care to close up shop and favor a lady with your fine company?”
Expectantly the trio looks at Nith. They clearly had prowled the cobbled streets without much luck at finding a man. All desperately want out of their mothers’ houses and away from their sisters with children to flaunt. Like Carly, Winnow wishes to conceive. She will happily return to her grandmother and mother pregnant, should some man choose to engage her company for awhile. The vain Purla only wishes to feel attractive. She desires a handsome man to accessorize her wardrobe. She had hoped to continue her relationship with Sullivan, but he had grown tired of her transparent character over the months of snow. Ellie seeks a drinking partner. Fond of strong ale, she fears a lonely life of conversation with herself.
Nith considers the ladies before him. A moment ago he felt lonely and forlorn, but now a buffet spreads before the hungry man. He quickly draws the shop door closed.
Chapter 2 has been edited for posting here at InterFable. If you would like to read the uncut chapter, please PM the author.
Chp3 The Stranger
The Carver lurks in Tonversit, hiding amid the people enjoying the festival. Gay music plays in the village square as local bands take turns sharing their art. Street performers entertain and seasonal shops sprout up along the gravel paths. The entire scene appears medieval, most uncivilized to the Carver. Yet all the lovely ladies swarm during this time, advertising a desire to become his perfect mate.
This one has her perfect eyes. That one has her perfect nose. None of them are completely right. This angers him. There, that one walks by and smiles at him, with the audacity to sport her perfect mouth beneath a pair of eyes that look all wrong. Yes, some of these women need a little crafting.
The Carver might settle for less, at least for awhile. His body craves a female touch. He sniffs the air like a predatory animal, nares quivering and sifting through the assorted colors of the environment. The acrid black smell of refuse arises from the gutters. A brown scent of livestock drifts by along with sounds of grunting and squealing. Pungent and juicy, the red smells of various roasting meats waft from stalls along the cobbled streets. Underneath it all the subdued hues of the village women enter his nostrils. Most smell fertile and randy, begging to be penetrated. The scents of some wax old or sickly, but still those women advertise their bodies. At least they don’t falsely display perfect parts.
He hears a female voice addressing him, and responds in what he hopes proves an appropriate manner. She smells deliciously ripe like some sweet, watery fruit. Her touch feels soft, warm, and inviting. He might spend awhile with this one.
A stranger enters town during the waning celebrations of the festival. While the warm weather and renewed spirits of the villagers refresh his tired soul, weary from travel, he senses a lull in the festivities as most people consummate a new coupling. He notes an oddly matched pair walking by, the dark beauty of the woman overshadowing the pale insecurities of the man. A quiet desperation calls the unlucky in love to the cobbled streets. He passes a tailor’s shop where the morose face of the lonely craftsman indicates deep thought. Three ladies walk the gravel path coming his way. The fair haired one commands his attention.
“Why, you’re new in town stranger,” the woman purrs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He wears a dark cloak despite the nice weather. “I am Purla. Care to pleasure us with your name?”
To her credit, he notes that the woman doesn’t flinch upon touching him, although she clearly must feel his deformities through his cloak.
“I am called Carson.”
He speaks briefly with these women, judging the disposition of each. The one named Purla asks pointed questions about his physical abnormalities. Carson pins her for a gossip, which might work to his advantage. He spins a small yarn about the acquisition of his defects, although truth would hold that he was born with them. Carson calculates that these ladies browse for healthy men. Even the people in such a small village as this, know the differences that acquired and congenital traits have on the birth of young.
“So you were born handsome and healthy, only to have life mar your soul in such a manner?” Purla asks, her forehead wrinkled in sympathy.
Yes, he assures the ladies, and if only some special woman should give him a chance, then perhaps he could give her a robust son to redeem his father’s misfortune.
The three women cluck with concern. Carson excuses himself to let a room at the inn, promising to return to the festival after refreshing his weary body. He thinks that fortune might just smile upon his lonely heart this season, and whistles a contented tune on his way to the inn.
**
Winnow pushes the stranger from her mind. She wants to conceive a child this season and doesn’t care to wait on Carson’s return to the festival. The trio happens upon the tailor’s shop. Nith the tailor closes shop and accompanies the ladies to the street corner, where an active group of performers entertain.
Sitting at a table covered in a long blue cloth, the four become engrossed in the lively antics of some jugglers. Winnow takes her eyes from the show and considers Nith. The tailor has lived alone since Soliel’s untimely disappearance. Winnow surmises what any lonely man might want, and devises a quick plan to ensure that Nith notices her over Purla and Ellie.
While her three companions remain involved with the activities of the performers, she slips unnoticed under the blue cloth. Quietly she creeps under the table to Nith’s lap. He peers under the table at her, a shocked look gazing up under the cloth. Smiling coquettishly, she unfastens his breeches. Nervously he looks around and lets the cloth drop.
As the performance draws to an end, Nith slouches in his chair and attempts to look composed. Ellie and Purla glance about, spotting the empty chair.
“Where did Winnow get off to?” Purla gesticulates. “She’s such an odd one at times.” Shrugging her shoulders, she dismisses Winnow and props her chin on her elbow. “Why don’t you treat us to a drink?” She indicates a nearby vendor.
“N-no, thank you,” Nith stammers, the last word erupting in a high-pitched breath.
Miffed at his apparent cheapness and puzzled by the absence of their friend, the two ladies excuse themselves abruptly. Moments later a disheveled Winnow crawls from beneath the table cloth, and she and Nith head to his small apartment above the tailor shop.
Chapter 3 has been edited for posting here at InterFable. If you would like to read the uncut chapter, please PM the author.
Chp4 The Gossip’s Mouth
His carnal appetite whetted, the Carver resumes his scrutiny of the village women. He scoffs at the naiveté of these people. They were a barbaric, unpolished society whose most heinous crimes involved the theft of livestock, at least until now. Sometimes he misses the vast modern cities of his home world. He doesn’t miss the bright lights or the loud noises, although the cities offered a wide selection of women to perfect, along with relative anonymity. What he does miss are his laser scalpels. He curses under his breath and mentally kicks himself for not bringing those along, but he had been fleeing from the law after all.
This quaint little world had provided though. He looks at the bloody sheers he had used to remove the last victim’s broad nose. These needed maintenance. He wipes the blades clean and then takes a whetstone, honing the tool to fine edged blades. He then stands over the prostrate form of this village’s most vile offender. Her silken voice and satiny hair conjured visions of his dream girl, but her weak jaw line and wide, ugly mouth just looked all wrong. The lips were too thin and drawn into a tense line across the face.
**
Purla ruined her beautiful voice by pushing it through those ugly lips, prattling on about the personal affairs of the townsfolk, while throwing in requests for compliments about her. The Carver considered himself fortunate to find this remote little hole to shelter in, avoiding the mishaps of his last work of art. He could bring his women here and sculpt them undisturbed, far from prying eyes or listening ears. Luring Purla here had required ingenuity, but the satisfaction of her screams was worth it.
The beginning was easy enough, wooing and romancing her out of her clothes. Her passion fueled his own and the Carver had found the sex act gratifying. Purla had sighed and giggled, then tried to seduce him again. That’s when he noticed how unsightly her mouth appeared. He could not tear his eyes from it. He rudely pushed a finger into Purla's mouth. She had struggled at this mild assault, biting his finger and attempting to push him away.
The Carver ignored the cutting teeth, and forced another finger into her resisting mouth. He pinned her to the cushions with the weight of his body, and then grabbed her jaw with his free hand, squeezing and tugging until he felt a snap and the pressure of her bite eased. That’s when Purla screamed, an odd gurgling agony spilling out around his fingers. He slid his fist into her mouth as her eyes rolled up into her head. A tooth had slid out covered in spit and blood.
**
The Carver ignored his throbbing finger while he tended to his sheers. Her lips stretched and bleeding, Purla needed a little crafting. He stands over her limp form and tugs at the lower lip. Her bleary eyes wink open as he removes the lip in one clean cut. Again she screams. She scratches at his chest, her dislocated jaw hanging open in a comical parody of her wail, but her fingernails only break against the rough vest the Carver had slipped on.
“Now,now, hush hush,” he soothes, slashing with the opened sheers at her upper lip. “It’s almost done.”
She bled an awful lot, lost consciousness again, and looked even worse than when he had started his work.
“She wiggles too much,” he thought angrily. “I’ll have to fix that problem.”
He ate a light meal while waiting for her to regain consciousness. His camera ready, he knew what he needed to do. He would capture her almost perfect image before her last breath escaped her, while her sorrow for her sins could still register on the picture. Then he could silence her screams and still her struggles, and create a work of art. Purla groaned and her eyes fluttered open.
The Carver begins snapping pictures while Purla whimpers and moans. He captures her from many angles, and then takes up his sheers from the table. Purla shakes her head and tries to speak, uttering one last pitiful cry as the tool plunges into the back of her throat.
At festival’s end life resumes its normal pace in Tonversit. The older matrons return to manage their households, bringing grandchildren and gravid daughters in tow. The old men occupy their time, passing along knowledge of some craft to an apprentice or engaging in complex card games on the village square. The young and fertile celebrate new relationships or mourn the lack there-of. Some of the unfortunate at love pack up their belongings and travel northward, following the spring thaw in hopes of improving their chances at the festivals of the larger northern villages.
Ellie returned to her stool at the tavern. She dreaded another unhappy season laboring on her mother’s farm. She looked forward to the day when the old bitch would die, leaving her sister in charge of the house. Purla cozied up to Carson. She planned to stay with him at least for a few nights, until the twice jilted returned and one of them struck her fancy.
Carson enjoyed the physical companionship, caressing Purla’s naked flesh in the darkened room of the inn. He thought about tarrying awhile in this sleepy village, and pulled on his clothes.
“I’m heading north of here a ways, to inquire about a plot of ground just outside the village. I passed an abandoned trapper’s shanty on my way in. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like.” He paused momentarily, “I should enjoy your company this evening if you decide to stay.”
Purla smiled, her wide mouth pulling her already thin lips into harsh lines across her face. Carson didn’t like her mouth, neither its appearance nor its incessant gossip, but her warm body felt good next to him with the lights down low.
A few moments after Carson’s departure, Purla slipped from the inn and sought out Ellie at her usual haunt.
“I may follow the thaw,” Purla mused aloud to Ellie, “Although Carson’s bed is cozy. His deformities are so, scandalous.” She bit her lower lip and opened her eyes wide for emphasis. “It’s like lying with a demon.”
Ellie snorted. She could care less at the moment. Purla groused at her friend’s lack of interest and walked from the tavern into obscurity.
Chapter 4 has been edited for posting here at InterFable. If you would like to read the uncut chapter, please PM the author.
Chp5 Soliel
Purla is much more appealing dead. She remains quiet and still, suitable for posing. Suitable for a fantasy. He had enjoyed her warm, living flesh, and for a few moments his dream girl had seemed there and real underneath him. Once he had noticed the ugly mouth however, other urges had taken control, more powerful and primitive than sex. The Carver feels shame for allowing his physical needs to interfere with his work, but it was always that way. His higher purpose was written in his primal man, an odd juxtaposition to what should normally exist. He knew he was no ordinary man, yet still he was incapable of being good enough for her. If only he could sculpt the pristine castle for her soul to occupy, then the burning fire within him would be quenched. She would keep his heart happy and warm with glowing embers.
Purla’s supine flesh seductively sculpted, again the Carver misses the creature comforts of a modern world. While private and secluded, this little shack did not have indoor plumbing or lighting. In fact, the whole of this backwater world lacked such amenities as electricity, refrigeration, pay-per-view holonet. Not only would Purla’s body rot without a walk-in freezer to preserve it, his precious camera would need recharging at least once this year. Something needed to be done. Reluctantly he pulled on his clothes.
He wished he had paid a bit more attention at school. Even a seventh year dropout could construct a simple battery. Of course the Carver needed something a little more. He pored through his memory for some device or plan, and finally concluded that a trip back to his hidden craft would prove necessary. He would let a horse and wagon for the journey, and bring back everything he could possibly need.
His small stellar craft sported several unisolar crystalline silicon panels as well as multi-layer, amorphous silicon, thin-film solar cells. He could devise a photovoltaic system sufficient to power this small abode and create a welcome retreat for himself. He would need to be cunning as he designed the system, careful to ensure that he could harvest enough power from the sun while keeping the system away from the view of any passing hunters or travelers. Utilizing a spectrum splitting cell constructed of three separate, homogeneous semi-conducting solar sub-cells, each with a different spectral response characteristic, the system he planned to construct could convert different visible and infrared wavelengths more efficiently, allowing him to partially conceal the solar panels.
He could easily power a light and even the viewer for his camera with the direct current provided by a solar energy system. If he brought back the rechargeable, deep cycle batteries from the ship, along with a power inverter, he could also salvage a few of his AC appliances. A cold beer sounded good after a day of carving. He would also secure a few padlocks, to prevent use of the shack by hunters or trappers in his absence.
He softly kissed the cold skin on Purla’s forehead one last time, before stuffing her into a burlap sack for disposal. He tied the sack with a knotted hemp rope, adorned with several fabric blossoms. The memories will last. The pictures will last even longer. But poor Purla’s body was starting to smell and had to go.
He set off for Tonversit, dumping the burlap sack along the way. He hummed a jaunty tune as he entered town. A small crowd had gathered in the square, so he strolled over to find out what was happening.
Carly found that she rather enjoyed Fimpton’s company. Jonlan had often left her alone at night, hunting or fishing, or cavorting with his friends. He’d bring home game for her to clean, and sit drinking at the tavern while she worked like a mule. Fimpton however woke Carly early that morning with a gentle kiss on her cheek, and had beckoned her into the garden to watch the blooms awake at the sun’s caress. Throughout the morning he had taught her about mulching, weeding and pruning, and then left the garden to her tending while he went into the woods to search for some herb or another in the late afternoon.
A loud commotion at the town square brought Carly from beneath a flowering bush and into the streets. Jonlan and his crew had apparently returned from last night’s hunt, but something seemed amiss. She walked into the gathering crowd to find out what the ruckus was all about. She bumped into Fimpton as she jostled shoulders with other curious townsfolk.
“Oh, you’ve returned,” she greeted Fimpton with a kiss. “Was your trip successful?”
Fimpton smiled and held up a small cloth pouch, bulging with greenery and soil. “What’s happening here?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Carly murmured as she strained to see what the hunters had placed on the ground.
Horrified gasps swept through the crowd. Instead of a large buck with an impressive rack, the hunters had brought back a badly decomposed skeleton. It was apparent that the remains were human, as jewelry still dangled from bony wrists and ankles. Teeth marks scored most of the bones, and some bones were missing altogether. A tattered fabric flower stuck to the concave pelvis. The skull was recovered, although no longer attached to the spine and missing several teeth. A few matted strands of hair clung to the grisly skull, dark black silken threads caked in mud.
Winnow bent beside the bones, sucking in air as she touched the bracelet glinting on the right wrist. “This was Soliel’s bracelet.” She backed away shaking her head in shock and denial.
Soliel’s sister then pushed through the crowd, and her agonized wail sounded throughout Tonversit. Apparently Soliel had not abandoned her home and family. What could have happened? The townsfolk muttered about this grisly find. Had some animal attacked her? Had the people of the traveling caravan abused her? Surely they would have salvaged her jewelry if they were monstrous enough to have taken her life. Many suggested contacting the larger town north of Tonversit for help in determining what had happened. Some simply dismissed the remains as a tragic animal attack.
The crowd dispersed as Soliel’s mother came to recover the bones. Carly walked home silently next to Fimpton. Neither cared to discuss the grisly find.
“Oh, your hand,” Carly said as she noticed blood on Fimpton’s skin.
“I cut myself with some thorns,” Fimpton casually dismissed as the couple stepped into his modest house.
Chapter 5 has been edited for posting here at InterFable. If you would like to read the uncut chapter, please PM the author.
Chp6: Accusations
How unfortunate that Soliel’s body was recovered, but also how deliciously exciting. His artwork until this point he had always had to hide, making sure his sculptures were carefully concealed lest any evidence link to him. But these stupid people weren’t even sure that Soliel had been murdered, and definitely didn’t have a forensics lab. He could show off his artwork, albeit in an indirect fashion. He could allow the people to see through his eyes, exactly what was wrong with the entire female gender.
He went about the business of obtaining a horse and cart, disguising his true intent with the pretense of work, and a desire to look for answers concerning the odd death of Soliel. The equipment was difficult to come by, as many were already seeking to gain a horse and cart for the very same purpose. A decided distrust also permeated the air, because of the chilling nature of Soliel’s death. He smiled at the thought of them finding the burlap sack containing Purla’s discarded body. Then little doubt should remain as to the attribution of the killings to the hand of a master.
As he set off for his craft, he reviewed his mental list of items to retrieve. He also reviewed the history of his greater purpose, and how many women he had fixed throughout his career. As he journeyed and the day grew weary, he relived many of his favorite moments, and the gratification of several screams echoed in his memories.
As night fell he continued on, reluctant to stop. In the darkness and silence his thoughts strayed to more painful memories. His mother. Her beauty matched only by the girl of his dreams, indeed it was his mother that had spawned her. His earliest recollections of soft caresses and silken words faded as his personal history progressed. At a tender age just short of youth, still dependent on his mother’s love and unashamed of her hugs and kisses, the vile monster known as his father had taken her away from him.
She was always caring, meek and submissive around his father, but fun and vibrant when alone with her son. Together they had endured the ill moods and violent outbursts of the man that ruled the house. The Carver recalled with detached emotion the events that forever shaped his life.
His father often raged that his wife bore him a son. What use was a son that was coddled and weak? He’d much prefer to have a daughter to adore her father, love him in ways that his wife never would. This argument was common and well rehearsed, and the Carver had pushed it to the back of his mind as he played with his toys in the adjoining room that fateful evening.
The yelling had evolved in some subtle fashion, as had the sounds of his mother being hit. The Carver had crept to the door of the room his parents were in, peering anxiously inside. The nude figures of his parents didn’t shock him. This argument and violence often accompanied sex, which his mother endured with some remote hostility. The timid son had often watched, sharing in his mother’s pain and hoping that by his knowing, he could somehow bear it for her. His childish mind struggled with the weight of such a burden.
Tonight the open-handed slaps had progressed into a flurry of thrown fists, his mother laying on her back on the bed as instructed, but somehow inciting deeper anger from her husband. She resisted as the blows became harder, blood pouring from her broken lip and a savage gash above her brow. The man beat her until the struggles became weak, and then crushed her life from her with his bare hands wrapped around her throat.
That night passed in a frightful flight, leaving behind all the Carver had ever known. His father had never spoken to the son any word of explanation. The following morning had revealed a new existence, as his father had thrust his son into a completely different identity. The Carver became the daughter that his father had wanted, and when many miles and much time had passed, they settled in a quiet city and kept to themselves.
He hated wearing dresses. He hated growing out his hair, which his father would brush for endless hours and insist that bows be tied in. He hated his father, and over time he hated himself more. The image in the mirror infuriated the Carver. The reflection resembling his mother too much, a feminine face that was not quite right.
His father seemed a different man, almost tender and loving towards this daughter. At the onset of puberty, that changed, as the Carver resisted his father’s attentions more. The subtle growth into a man became increasingly apparent, and the guise of femininity fell away. One morning the Carver simply left, as if walking away from the theater after a bad movie, and he considered this home and the life he had lived there no more.
Tonight on this strange planet the Carver cried.
“Someone did this to her,” Soliel’s mother wailed. “Someone is cursed.”
The townsfolk muttered at this remark as fear swept through their midst. Surely an animal, or maybe someone cursed from the caravan, but not anyone living among them, had perpetrated this heinous act.
A battered cart rolled into the cobbled streets, the driver grim faced and worried. He stopped in the town square, and displayed his grisly find. A cry of horror rose from the crowd as Jonlan opened the blood stained burlap sack and spilled the grisly corpse of Purla onto the weathered stones.
“Some monster lives with us,” Jonlan yelled. “Some monster killed Soliel, and now has killed Purla.”
Purla’s fresher remains revealed more detail than the bones of Soliel. The cruelty spoke clearly from Purla’s abused body, and from somewhere in the crowd a female voice whispered, “Jealousy.”
The simple people knew little of envy or greed, sharing quite socially in most respects. Greed and envy led to bickering and theft, but the mutilation of Purla’s body spoke of deeper evil. The goddesses despised jealousy most of all, the ultimate of greed and the personification of pointed envy.
Hysteria gripped the townsfolk, and accusations and suspicions fell from everyone’s lips.
“Some evil man has accepted this curse,” Winnow said, feeling vulnerable since Nith had set off on business.
“No man could do this out of jealousy,” countered Sullivan, not particularly aggrieved that Purla was dead, but horrified by the brutality of the slayings. “Whoever did this wants to take away what makes women beautiful, what makes them desirable.”
A general murmur of consent washed like a wave over those gathered, and almost in unison the crowd turned to look at Ellie. Ellie stood staring vacantly at Purla’s body, horror and perverse fascination mingled on her face, unaware of the accusing eyes staring her way. With dawning realization she looked up into the faces staring at her.
“I- I didn’t do this,” she stammered, shaking her head in denial. “Purla was my friend.”
With mob mentality the crowd swept in, yelling accusations and threats. Soliel’s mother struck Ellie in anger, but the noise slowly died as Purla’s mother came forward. The woman silently regarded her daughter’s broken form, and a tear rolled down her face.
“My baby,” she wailed in lament. “She loved you so much Ellie, and you despised her beauty. How could you have done this to her?”
The words settled like a reasoned verdict. The townsfolk cried out in anger, demanding retribution.
Last edited by ethereal_fauna on Tue Jan 03, 2006 6:52 am; edited 20 times in total
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| Posted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 8:54 am Post subject: |
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Wheres the option for hide in the closet? Theres a crazy killer on the loose.
Very creepy Ethereal. Makes The Inheritance look like a nursery rhyme.
Great job of showing us a glimpse into the killers head. I feel dirty now.
I went with Fimpton, because nerdy unathletic guys need love too.
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| Posted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 8:56 am Post subject: |
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Chp7: The Burning
The Carver reached his craft, still well hidden and solidly sealed. He doubted anyone had stumbled across its location in this remote and inhospitable area mired in nettles and droves of stinging insects. He hated going there himself, but once inside collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Upon awaking he began scavenging through the craft, recovering his mental list of needed items.
He rummaged through the medical kit stowed neatly away in a compartment, searching for anything that might be of use later. The contents proved fairly basic, the kit intended for first aid. Shoved far back in the compartment a neatly bundled cloth rested. The Carver retrieved it and unrolled the fabric to examine the instrument wrapped inside. His heart leapt in excitement.
Although not as favored as his laser scalpels, the ultrasonic wand inside the bundle represented enticing opportunities. Vibrating longitudinally at 55,000 cycles per second, the harmonic blade provided precise cutting and coagulation with minimal thermal tissue damage. He could sculpt the soft tissues without messes and charring, as the mechanical energy of the electrically powered vibrating blade transferred to the tissue. A coagulating effect occurred without cauterization as the proteins denatured, and a cavitational effect eased cutting as the scalpel separated the tissues.. The tissue simply parted as the blade produced areas of transient low pressure at the tip, causing fluids inside the cells to vaporize.
He quickly wrapped the instrument back in its protective cloth, and set about finding the generator for the unit. With such a valuable tool, he could sculpt more, and leisurely, creating true beauty as he removed the unwanted features. His subjects would last longer before expiring, and he wouldn’t have to dirty his hands until he wanted to. He discovered the generator stowed away beneath a bench that attached firmly to the wall of the craft.
He loaded the cart with renewed enthusiasm, hardly heeding the stinging nettles or the inconsequential complaints of the horse. He turned back towards Tonversit and journeyed without any unpleasant ghosts haunting him.
Spurred by fear and inexplicable rage, the crowd set about with one unspoken purpose. The women restrained Ellie, which proved no easy task given her athletic bulk and the rush of adrenaline released by panic. Ellie cried out for reason amidst this insanity, but the fresh smell of Purla’s corpse mingled with the decaying odor of Soliel’s remains appeared to drive the manic course of action of its own accord.
Without conference the men gathered wood into the town square, while two craftsmen hastily roped together a crude wooden cross that they subsequently erected in the middle of the pile. Where such thought birthed no one could later explain, but with single purpose the townsfolk decided that Ellie would burn for her heinous deeds.
Ellie protested and struggled as the townsfolk secured her to the wooden cross, her feet resting on the packed earth although tied tightly at the base of the structure. As more wood piled around her, covering her feet and ankles, her outcry slowly subsided to subdued sobbing. She looked pleadingly at the people who she once called friends, some leading her screaming sister away. Her eyes made contact with her mother’s, standing numbly in front of the pub, and Ellie despised the acceptance of accusation she saw staring back from her mother’s face.
Carson remained at the outskirts of this mayhem, appalled by the activities he witnessed. Fear forced his silence. As a relative stranger, he felt a vulnerability in this atmosphere of incomprehensibility, having faced skepticism in other towns due to his deformed physiology and aloof nature. Abruptly he decided that the welcoming nature of Tonversit, now lost to this madness, no longer appealed to him, and with one last glance at Purla’s battered corpse, he went to fetch his meager belongings and leave. Purla’s beauty was destroyed, but her warmth in his arms lingered in his memory as he slipped quietly away from the furor on the town square.
Tufts of straw peeked from under the piled wood surrounding Ellie. She stood, spread on display tied to the cross, denying once more her involvement in anyone’s death. Her denials went unnoticed, as multiple fires began licking at the edges of the death trap. The intense blaze of the straw faded, and small wisps of smoke curled toward the sky as the denser wood began to ignite.
The gathered crowd grew silent as the flames roared into new life, growing as it crawled its way along the piled fuel. An intangible line of demarcation separated the townsfolk from the hideous scene in the square, almost as if the burning construct with the wailing woman in the center existed in another place rather than in front of them. Ellie’s screams transitioned from a pleading denial to a claxon of agony as the flames reached her clothes.
The natural fibers of the fabric burned away quickly, exposing blistering red flesh struggling against the thickly knotted ropes securing Ellie to the cross. Her sustained wailing ceased momentarily in a smoke-choked hack, and then resumed as the fire reached her hair. The stench of burning hair and skin finally overpowered the smell of the rotting bodies that remained resting on the cobbled street.
A brilliant bonfire glowed in the town square, and the people watched as the grisly form of Ellie teetered and crashed in the center of the blaze. Although dead and silent, her screams still resounded in the minds of those gathered, and most remained glued to their respective positions until the flickering flames began to quiet. As the evening crawled in the glowing red embers finally released their captives from the spell, and the townsfolk dispersed.
**
Carly hugged her shawl closer around her shoulders. Despite the warm weather she felt exposed as she hurried past the cold ashes, their fire long dead but their hate and fear still burning hotly. She doubted that Ellie had committed the crimes that the townsfolk had accused her of, and she feared that the heinous monster that had killed Soliel and Purla was still lurking about. Carly shouldn’t be out on the streets late at night, but with Fimpton away she had little choice but to attend errands. A soft voice called her by name, and with a small startled cry she turned to face the tailor.
“Carly,” Nith smoothly beckoned. “You are out late. What happened here?”
As he indicated the ash, Carly sighed relief remembering that Winnow had mentioned Nith’s absence. He must have just returned to town. Carly didn’t want to tarry longer in the accursed streets. Perhaps Nith would escort her home and she could relate the tale of Ellie’s death. Did she dare expose her unease and ask?
Chp8: Brown
Carly had been difficult, but the Carver had succeeded in smuggling her to the hidden dwelling that he now referred to as his refuge and workshop. He unloaded his laden cart, and set to work improving his accommodations. Luck had favored him when dealing with Carly. She was not only beautiful, but clever and suspicious as well. Had it not been for Fimpton’s interest in herbals, and tedious labeling of any chemical properties he derived from plant products, then the Carver would not have been able to easily drug and subdue her. As fortune smiled upon him, the Carver had slipped a powder descriptively designated as sleeping weed, effectively induces sleep or in smaller quantities a stupor, into the drink of his gracious hostess.
“How rudimentary…how cliché,” he thought, although he wasn’t complaining about the circumstance. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to coax Carly to this shack. She wasn’t that gullible.
As he effected the necessary improvements to this place, he paused briefly to listen to her sounds of struggle from inside. He’d shackled her securely with livestock restraints, and every now and then she would call out for help or scream obscenities aimed at him. He toiled through the day, and by evening his generator roared to life. That would do for this evening, until the photovoltaic system supplied power. He walked inside the darkened shack and switched on the hastily rigged light. The bare bulb flickered on, and although the fixture was not aesthetically pleasing, it was functional. Carly spared a moment of incredulity for the apparatus, before returning a frightened, angry gaze to the Carver.
He was tired, and he sank heavily onto the squeaky bed to watch his captive. He considered drugging her again and having his way with her submissive body. That wasn’t his style, though. He enjoyed the struggles and the screams. She possessed real beauty; healthy bronze skin glowed with the vigor of her youth, and her shiny chestnut hair curled tightly around her tear-stained face. The Carver drifted into a sound sleep, and his subdued captive allowed him the rest.
He awoke some time later, feeling creative. He stood over Carly as she slept fitfully against the wall, shackled like a beast. Studying her form, the Carver critically compared her to what he really wanted. She was almost perfect, but then weren’t they all? He had no complaints about the intense amber eyes that lay behind the slumbering lids. Her eyes were unusual and intelligent, and not displeasing in the least. Her soft hair wasn’t exactly right, much curlier than he’d have liked, but even that was easy to dismiss. What grew increasingly unnerving to the Carver was the brown tone of her skin.
Warm and smooth, her skin would have been perfect if only fairer. He didn’t mind darker skin tones, but it wasn’t right on her. His mind dwelled upon this thought as he laid out the ultrasonic wand, carefully preparing the instrument as if setting up for surgery. But wasn’t that really what he was doing? Inconsequential, for this was art. He’d have to tie her securely to the table, to prevent excessive wiggling. She needed to be alive for this, if he wanted to expose her true beauty.
He would have to sculpt slowly, and most likely in sessions. That might make the work last longer, but the task was part of the joy of creation. He casually wondered how much skin a person could lose before truly deleterious repercussions would manifest. With his workspace readied, he rudely hauled the drowsy Carly to her feet by grasping a fistful of hair.
She cried and begged for him to stop, pleading and clutching at his painful grip. As he pushed her onto the table, flipping her to her back, her pleas transformed into a hateful scream and she scratched at his face. He slapped her hard across the cheek, but this didn’t seem to phase her in the least as she began thrashing violently, hitting him with the loose ends of the shackles. Her kicking legs pummeled against his hips and groin, and one well-placed swing landed the clasp of her shackles firmly against his nose. Blood spurted from the abused feature, and in anger the Carver punched Carly square in the jaw. At this her struggling ceased.
The table was too short to lay her out completely, so he draped her legs over the edge with her bottom poking precariously over the rim of the table, and then secured her ankles to the table legs. He strapped her midsection to the table with a leather belt, and bending her arms painfully downward at the elbows, he secured her wrists to the legs of the table as well. With her strapped firmly in place, he tended to his wounded nose.
Carly was conscious again when he returned to her, and a stream of foul expletives poured from her mouth. He liked that, and after a bit of deliberation decided to begin his sculpting on her left shoulder. She grew quiet when the instrument first contacted her flesh, staring in horror as the Carver lightly brushed the wand over her shoulder and across her left breast. A narrow line appeared on the surface of the skin, almost as if drawn by a fine quill of ink.
When her traumatized nerves finally sent their signals, and her brain registered the pain, Carly opened her mouth in an eloquent and infinitely satisfying wail. The Carver applied gentle pressure to her skin by pulling softly downward on her breast, and the newly opened flesh parted slightly along the thin line he’d just cut. Beautiful, shallow, perfect. He was beginning to appreciate this new instrument. He passed the wand along the same line, cutting deeper into the epidermal layers, carefully incising the flesh to a depth approaching the targeted eight millimeters. A soft sizzling could be heard when Carly finally ceased her screams, and small wisps of steam snaked into the tense air as some of the larger blood vessels sealed, the truncated capillaries oozing blood plasma although holding their whole blood components. Excellent.
She panted rapidly but did not resume screaming. Instead her body spasmed in a reflexive action, and then her bladder released. The Carver watched in awe as the golden arc sparkled in the harsh light from the exposed bulb, its trajectory enhanced by the awkward position in which he’d bound her to the table. Her urine flowed in a seemingly endless fount, and he angled his way to beside her knee for a better view. The pungent fluid spattered on the hardwood floor, sounding much like a jet of rain-wash pouring from a gutter.
He turned once more to her shoulder, shuffling along the table and listening to her whimpers. She screamed again as he resumed cutting, a sustained wail that ceased when she blacked-out. The Carver followed the line of symmetry down her sternum, crossed her midsection beneath the breast, and then delicately traced around the circle of her brown areola. He didn’t want to remove that just yet. Carefully he lifted the skin, cutting along the layers and removing the targeted piece. The underlying tissues quivered in the harsh air, and he watched the involuntary motions with fascination.
A large portion of his work was done, but still it was only a beginning. “Enough for now,” he thought.
He smeared a salve onto the exposed patch of dermal tissue to prevent drying, and slowly began removing his clothing. Performing a lewd striptease for the unconscious Carly, the Carver imagined her appreciative responses, and her eyes watching his vulgar dance. That phantom girl in his mind giggled and begged for him to release her legs so she could wrap them around his waist, and the Carver complied as he moved between Carly’s thighs.
Carly opened her eyes as her attacker entered her, and her pain-bleary mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. Her memories replayed in a chaotic manner- the burning of Ellie, her fear, painful cutting of her flesh, Nith the tailor walking her home, the need to relieve her bladder along with an unwillingness to request a toileting break of her captor, the light sensation of an unusual instrument brushing across her skin, struggling, fighting back, brewing tea for her and Nith before complete blackness…
Nith’s grunting and moaning over her brought her mind into sharper focus. Her arms remained shackled to the table, but her midsection was no longer tied and her legs were free. The pain on her left upper torso screeched like a clarion. She remembered where she was finally, and how she had gotten here.
Nith had walked her home, and invited himself in. She brewed tea for them, and later awoke in wherever this place was, chained like an animal waiting for slaughter. What was wrong with the tailor? What perverse thoughts motivated him? She had held out small hope that it was all some twisted joke, or perhaps he was just unhappy with Winnow and overcome by a burning lust for Carly. But deep down she knew that he was responsible for the mangled bodies of Soliel and Purla. Carly didn’t want to die.
The tailor’s eyes were open, but clearly his mind played some fantasy, and he didn’t appear aware of Carly at all. She wrapped her legs around him, circling his chest within her thighs. He smiled broadly and muttered, “You like that angel?”
Her face grimaced, creating a mask of disgust, revulsion, hatred, and determination. Carly tucked one foot below the other, crossing her ankles for leverage, and then with the rush of adrenaline released by her fear, pain, and desire to live, she squeezed her legs together with the force of a vice.
Nith’s face registered shock as the audible cracking of his ribs punctuated the space of the shack like a shot from a gun, and the air rushed from his lungs as Carly’s knees dug into his back. Slipping in the untended puddle of Carly’s urine, Nith hit the hardwood floor with force and then ceased movement. His unconscious body struggled for ragged wheezing breaths, and Carly fought to remain awake in the aftermath of her effort. She had to get out of here.
Her mind raced as she looked around, her arms numb from the awkward position of their binding. She couldn’t see how the shackles bound her to the table, and wriggled her wrists a little to ascertain possibility of freedom. Perhaps if she somersaulted over the end of the table she could get a closer look? The shackles might allow enough motion of her wrists for that.
Nith groaned and her heart leapt back into her throat. He didn’t seem fully cognizant just yet, but his muttering indicated he might be coming around. Carly cursed her situation, and the unbearable agony of her skinned side. She banished the encroaching darkness that threatened to overtake her again, and bid her mind to come up with a solution for escape.
Chapter 8 has been edited for posting here at InterFable. If you would like to read the uncut chapter, please PM the author.
Images retrieved online and may be altered from artists’ original works.
This storygame is complete. Read the final chapter
Last edited by ethereal_fauna on Tue Jan 03, 2006 8:45 am; edited 3 times in total
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Reiso
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| Posted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 1:23 pm Post subject: |
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I also went with the Fimp, for no other reason than that he is there.
This is great, ethereal_fauna. The way you blur the line between the genres you employ here is very well done. A story with this kind of diversity, combined with your vivid, descriptive writing is something this forum has needed. The characters are also well drawn and instantly identifiable. Excellent work.
_________________
Sector 17 -- Rebuilding... ... ...
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter
And because it is my heart." -- Stephen Crane
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 2:33 pm Post subject: |
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Thanks Reiso. I wanted to write something different and dark. I think I did.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Fri Mar 04, 2005 6:13 am Post subject: Chp2 |
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Chp1 Poll: What action does Carly take next?
Pursue Jonlan 0
Encourage Fimpton 6
Seek the advice of the midwife 1
Find another fellow 2
Chp2 Poll: Which lady wins the affections of Nith the tailor?
Purla, the vain gossip 1
Winnow, the shy, submissive one 5
Ellie, the burly lush 2
_________________
The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Last edited by ethereal_fauna on Wed Jul 20, 2005 3:41 am; edited 6 times in total
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| Posted: Fri Mar 04, 2005 12:04 pm Post subject: |
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Jonlan seems to have had his chance and didn't measure up to her needs. Time to let the geeky guy get a turn. 
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Ravenwing
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| Posted: Fri Mar 04, 2005 12:46 pm Post subject: |
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Ethereal, I would have to say this is definitely NOT for children. The description of the deaths made me wince because the images were so vivid. As for what to do, I am not really sure. But I think Jonlan has lost his chance with Carly, so I guess that leaves Fimp. Besides why would Carly need to see a midwife? She's not pregnant or anything, is she? 8)
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Fri Mar 04, 2005 5:49 pm Post subject: |
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Carly isn't pregnant, but she sure wants to be. She thought she might consult with the midwife to see if her womb was cursed. An annual gyn exam sorta thing. 
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 3:36 am Post subject: |
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While I am enjoying this, and see great potential for it, I think that last bit is something that goes a little further than 'sexuality'.
I wouldn't go as far as calling it pornography, but it is definitely perverse. Not that it's perverse writing - don't get me wrong. Just that it's writing of a scene with perverse behavior in it. Know what I mean? If I weren't the moderator of the forum, I wouldn't say anything, but maybe you should put up a more strongly worded warning than 'contains sexuality'. Something along the lines of 'contains potentially disturbing sexual acts' or something.
Just a thought. I hate bringing it up, but I gotta.
_________________
Sector 17 -- Rebuilding... ... ...
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter
And because it is my heart." -- Stephen Crane
Last edited by Reiso on Fri Mar 11, 2005 1:03 pm; edited 1 time in total
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 3:59 am Post subject: |
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Great story.
As twisted as it gets really. The only thing I've read that's more twisted so far is American Pyscho. That book gets into detail that shouldn't be necessary.
Well done Reiso on your moderator duties, I understand the reluctance, but it is probably a lot more detail than 12 year old members need.
I've gone for the geek, mainly because I'm one.
Look forward to the next installment, a worthy successor to Inheritance. 
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Last edited by Smee on Sat Mar 05, 2005 10:29 am; edited 2 times in total
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 4:25 am Post subject: |
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I reworded my disclaimer, to include a stronger warning and recommendation that younger readers not participate. If desired, I can tone down the disturbing sexual scenes and stick with the blood and guts violence.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 5:00 am Post subject: |
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ethereal your warning was good, but you should consider the fact that the only thing separating a kid from reading this story is ur warning, and we all know that no kid is gonna bother with a warning. if there was another forum, restricting ppl below a certain age, then i wud be at ease, but right now this is still nagging me.
but i'd like to say that this is a first-class horror-pyscho story. if the graphic acts didn't freak me out, i wud definitely have continued reading it.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 5:31 am Post subject: |
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Maybe I'll edit the posted story, and readers can PM me if they want the uncut version? It might make it more IF friendly.
_________________
The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 6:44 am Post subject: |
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| much safer.
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 12:35 pm Post subject: |
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I like the story, but I am taking a different approach to it then Reiso. I say it needs to be more violent, and have more blood. Blood is the way to get men like me happy. But of course there are some who don't like graphic stories, but I do. As you will soon see from some of my stories I don't leave any parts out dealing with killings and murders.
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 1:20 pm Post subject: |
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I'm 12 and I know it all already. Good ol' parents didn't bother buying filter. They have a filter in school, though, and they're abusing it's power over our free time-they've banned freewebs.com for no reason! I can't edit my website! Get rid of the filter! Allow us on such great sites as funnyjunk (cute puppies 'n' kittens and funny stuff-what could be better?)!
Overthrow the Internet Police Dept.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 1:55 pm Post subject: |
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| BStheGreat wrote: | | I like the story, but I am taking a different approach to it then Reiso. I say it needs to be more violent... |
I don't think he objected to the violence. The first part of the second chapter had some disturbing and perverse sexual behavior. I edited those parts out.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 2:00 pm Post subject: |
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| Phang wrote: | | Allow us on such great sites as funnyjunk (cute puppies 'n' kittens and funny stuff-what could be better?)! |
I just can't picture Phang and her legions of evil minions surfing cute puppies and kittens sites 
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Reiso
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 2:34 pm Post subject: |
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| ethereal_fauna wrote: | | I reworded my disclaimer, to include a stronger warning and recommendation that younger readers not participate. If desired, I can tone down the disturbing sexual scenes and stick with the blood and guts violence. |
This raises a very good point about sex vs violence. Certainly, sex is more natural than violence, yet the societal tabboo on sex is far stronger in most places.
So does the graphic violence in my own storygame make it any more suitable for younger viewers than the sexually psychotic behavior in this one? Absolutely not. Hence my own warning, though I was admitedly reluctant to even put one in and you at least had one from the start.
Ideally, we could keep the kiddies off the site. But we can't, and I'm always paranoid that someone is going to sue the site if their kids read something on here. Typically, they get more offended by their kids seeing sex than violence, no matter how little sense that makes - believe me, I fully agree with you here. But with the warnings, no one can say that we aren't doing our part, so I really doubt it will be a problem.
Maybe we should ask key about putting something on the main page. What do you guys think about that?
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Sector 17 -- Rebuilding... ... ...
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter
And because it is my heart." -- Stephen Crane
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 3:13 pm Post subject: |
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| Reiso wrote: | | Maybe we should ask key about putting something on the main page. What do you guys think about that? |
To register for the site, a person has to affirm that they are at least 13. As long as the stories are PG-13 (to use a movie rating) then there shouldn't be any problem. Especially if the authors place warnings before stories that might be a little too mature for persons under 13.
Of course this story and some of the others I've read wouldn't be rated PG-13 at the movies. And like you, I wonder about the values of our society when violence is considered more appropriate than sex. But the contents of this story involved sexual violence- I edited that out for posting here.
I think that a parental advisory on the main page might be appropriate since guests can view stories without registering, and there are members under 13. I don't want to run off any of our younger writers though. There's alot of budding talent here that needs to be encouraged.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Muaddib
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| Posted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 9:11 pm Post subject: |
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| but i have to point out that what was objectionable on ur original story was not sex, it was perversity. two lovers dont try to kill one another and then masturbate over their dead companion.
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Phang
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| Posted: Sun Mar 06, 2005 2:45 am Post subject: |
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Well, don't worry, this isn't as bad as some stuff I've seen. And the little puppies and kittens are soooooooo cuuuute!
Reiso, I totally agree. Why are people so offended by sex when it's completely natural? And how come they are not so offended by violence, which is not as natural?
I'll shut up now before I start ranting.
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Muaddib
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| Posted: Sun Mar 06, 2005 3:29 am Post subject: |
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| thats really deep...for a 12 yr old.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sun Mar 06, 2005 4:07 am Post subject: |
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| Muaddib wrote: | | but i have to point out that what was objectionable on ur original story was not sex, it was perversity. two lovers dont try to kill one another and then masturbate over their dead companion. |
I recognize that. That's why I edited it.
| ethereal_fauna wrote: | | But the contents of this story involved sexual violence- I edited that out for posting here. |
I think that was what was so disturbing about the first part of chapter two.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Phang
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| Posted: Sun Mar 06, 2005 4:07 am Post subject: |
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Hey, I stopped before I started ranting. Mainly because Katerina's signing in and she wouldn't like it.
I can get far deeper when it comes to this.
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| Posted: Wed Mar 09, 2005 5:30 pm Post subject: |
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| Quote: | | the round buttocks |
I would have read your story, etheareal, if I hadn't seen this! Buttocks? Who are we kidding!
You know, this killer reminds me of someone....unther!...except he digs the dead bodies out of the cementary.
Well, I completely dissagree with humoring the dork....It's not fair to handsome guys like me.
I haven't decided yet.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Thu Mar 10, 2005 8:31 am Post subject: |
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I have posted the second half of chapter two (again). I did this yesterday but some bizarre internet fairy reduced my very prescence at IF yesterday into nothingness. Hopefully this time it will stay.......
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Thu Mar 10, 2005 8:34 am Post subject: |
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| D-Lotus wrote: | | I would have read your story, etheareal, if I hadn't seen this! Buttocks? Who are we kidding! |
I know you like buttocks and breast implants, D. I just feel a little off if I type in tits and ass. Can you imagine those words in your head as you read? I think you can imagine those body parts just fine....... :twisted:
Ain't got nuthin' but luv for ya, D.
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| Posted: Thu Mar 10, 2005 6:01 pm Post subject: |
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It's just that when you say buttocks, and old englishwoman comes into mind, and...ugggghh!
I wento for going for another guy, who could possibly be the killer.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Fri Mar 11, 2005 3:18 am Post subject: |
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lol  I'll bear that in mind next time I need to describe a butt.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Ravenwing
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| Posted: Fri Mar 11, 2005 5:22 am Post subject: |
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| D-Lotus wrote: | It's just that when you say buttocks, and old englishwoman comes into mind, and...ugggghh!
I wento for going for another guy, who could possibly be the killer. |
LOL, D. Going for another guy would be an interesting option, but I think it doesn't really move the plot. Although it would be interesting if Carly did happen to choose the killer as her next guy.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Fri Mar 11, 2005 7:32 am Post subject: |
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Sorry D but Fimp gets his girl.
Now we need to get ol' Nith the tailor hooked up with some femme, and I have one more character to introduce in the next chapter. Then of course the killing starts in our peaceful village of Tonversit..... :evil:
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Phang
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| Posted: Fri Mar 11, 2005 11:20 am Post subject: |
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Soz I haven't come here for a bit.
Ethereal, I know completely what you mean. As many of you may remember, I had LOADS of trouble with LoD Chapter 4. And as for the 'buttocks' argument, I find what word to use a problem too (I write very twisted stuff on my computer, at least until Vampess started reading them).
But it's all for Jono...<sigh>...
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| Posted: Fri Mar 11, 2005 11:22 am Post subject: |
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By the way, I'm voting Winnow because shy people should have their chance too.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 12, 2005 12:25 pm Post subject: |
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Should I post the first half of chapter three, like I did with chapter two, or not split it. Just wait until I get it all written and post in one fell swoop?
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D-Lotus
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| Posted: Sat Mar 12, 2005 2:20 pm Post subject: |
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I picked Purla. Who wants someone that can drink more than you and is stronger than you? And who wants some meek, "Oh I'll work for you the rest of my life!", get stuck with a baby she'll make you get affectionate with and will end up marrying and having a mediocre life? And who wants Purla either? None of these are anything I would choose, none are interesting at all, but if I had to, Purla. He can always dump her later, like that other guy.
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 12, 2005 2:24 pm Post subject: |
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Well the typical relationship lasts only for a season, anyways. I don't think Nith really wants a relationship so much as a warm female body to lie next to.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Sat Mar 12, 2005 2:26 pm Post subject: |
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| D-Lotus wrote: | | ... none are interesting at all, |
Yeah the interesting girl went home with the geek.
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Ravenwing
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| Posted: Sat Mar 12, 2005 5:56 pm Post subject: |
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On first thought, I was thinking Purla because it sounded like he wasn't really serious about any of the three particularly, and you had described her vanity easily. But as I continued thinking, I chose Ellie. If I had thought Nith really wanted to settle down he would choose Winnow. But like you said before, I think he just wants a naked woman to grace his bed, and so I go with Ellie.
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