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  1. Aishod is a story I have been working on for years (and is still on it's second draft) I started it for NaNoWriMo in 2011 and finished the first draft for NaNoWriMo in 2013. Since then it has been and on/off sort of project (since I started writing a novel for my mumsy) but I have edited and rewritten the first 9 or 10 chapters to a standard I am much more happy with. I'm still not totally happy with the story, there is a lot of explaining that needs to be done and a lot of things that need to be expanded but for a second draft of a really rushed story I am pretty happy with it. The story of Aishod... Aishod follows the young and somewhat imulsive princess Pippa who has come home from magical boarding school. She had been receiving vague letters from home for years and suspected her uncle Tibbott of foul play. As soon as she returned she was put under house arrest, but little did her uncle realise that her magical ability of the mind far exeeded his own. She easily slipped out of the palace unseen and hired the mercenary Ivy to help her work out what is going on. The two are set on a journey niether of them expected as the Guardans of Magic warn that Tibbott is planning something far worse than just removing the Queen from power and taking the throne. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 etc.....
  2. Thought I'd post the first part in my serial web fiction, Cruise Control. If you like, you can follow on the official website! ******************************************************************* ZAK I was told that Kimberly, like everyone else, had died in the flames of White Valentine’s. But I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. I refused to believe that I couldn’t save her. Someone was talking to me—or trying to. With headphones on and eyes closed, I blocked it all out. The shrill screams of Alexisonfire blared in my ears. I bobbed my head to the marching drums and screeching guitar. The memory of White Valentine’s had seeped into my mind and I needed it—to use a shifter term—shrived. Music is an escape, Kimberly once told me. I put the volume up a couple of notches. We are not the kids we used to be, Stop wishing for yesterday, (“Zak!”) We are not the kids we used to be, Stop wishing for yesterday. (“Pay attention, Useless!”) That surly voice ruined it all. I lowered the volume. “Yo,” I said. “We can hear you,” Chaz said, our self-proclaimed leader and elected pain-in-the-ass. “You’re gonna make my ears bleed.” I changed the song. The music did the talking for me. You’re mean to me, Why must you be mean to me? Gee, honey, it seems to me, You love to see me crying. Even the classics spoke for me. Thanks, Dean Martin. Kip snickered and Annette chuckled. Chaz groaned. “Very funny,” he said. His mouth didn’t do the talking, his mind did. The four of us lissed, something we could do since we were kids. “Now why don’t you turn that crap off and get to work. Bless us with what you see.” I opened my eyes to the subway station. I sat on the concrete steps, the platform laid out in front of me, the tracks on either side. Two arched tunnels led east and west. We were at Broadwin Station, the last station before hitting Downtown York. Or what used to be the downtown before White Valentine’s had left it as a graveyard. Groups of people huddled about, probably here for the same reason we were. To see the train coming, a train that hadn’t been operational for six years. But someone said he’d seen it: a train go from Broadwin Station and west into the downtown. Then someone else said it, and someone after that. Pretty soon everyone and their grandmother had seen the train, but no one knew when it showed up. “You know what I see?” I lissed. “Diddly squat.” “These people shouldn’t be here,” Annette said. I couldn’t see her. She hid somewhere. As usual, given that we were in public and she hated being seen in public. “The Rends might come.” “No way,” Kip said. “The Rends wouldn’t come this far east for a silly rumour.” I rolled my eyes. Then why were we here? “Zak,” Chaz said, “why don’t you do us a favour and really look.” Then he added with his charm, “Do something, Useless.” I sighed, switched the music off, plucked the headphones from my ears, and wrapped the cord around my iPod. The iPod was green and the words ‘Milky Way Eyes’ were inscribed on the back. A gift. To Kimberly, Love Zak. I stuffed the iPod in my jean pocket and touched either side of my glasses. “Shift.” My heart fluttered and eks flowed out of it. Using the little eks I had, I shifted the lenses, but the frames remained the same. I saw the subway station as it had been a couple of days ago. No train. Some people waiting around like today. Some had even brought lawn chairs, blankets, and food. Like waiting for concert tickets to go on sale. I went further back: a week. Same thing. Then I went back a month. Nothing; no sign of life. This was before the rumours began. Rewind to two months. Three. Four. Nada. I kept going back, speeding through the months, the years. Today being February 15, I went back six years and a day, to White Valentine’s. A twelve year old me stood waiting on the platform in a buttoned white shirt tucked into black trousers and an overcoat two sizes too big. Easy there, Casanova. My fingers clutched a gift-wrapped box close to my chest. My eyes were wide with a faraway gleam to them. As I recall, I was shitting bricks that day. I had planned to meet Kimberly downtown at Dunmas Square. I went even further back, trying to find her. Kimberly. But she’d rarely come this far east. Her father wouldn’t have let her. Not in Fallers territory, my father’s territory. Uh-uh. Yeah, we weren’t the kids we used to be. We were eighteen year old shifters with our own unique abilities. Stop wishing for yesterday, Zak. I blinked; flashed back to the present. “Didn’t see any train,” I lissed. Chaz said something, but I didn’t listen. Too caught up by the three familiar eighteen year olds climbing down the stairs on the opposite end of where I stood. Kip whispered a curse. I bit my lower lip. They were here. Rick. And flanking him were Melanie and Aaron. The Rends had come. “Called it,” Annette said. Chaz and Kip got ready. Chaz touched the sleeve of his leather jacket. Kip undid his duffle coat, unravelled his tie, slid it off his collar, and stretched it out from end to end. Where was Annette? Rick saw us and scowled, his dark eyes narrowing to slits. He wore a long black overcoat over a dark red shirt. He reached into his coat with his right hand. His lips moved, whispering a single word. The air got thick, warm. Eks. Then he pulled out a long, curved sword. He’d already shifted. Not caring about the innocent non-shifters around us. Both Kip and Chaz returned the gesture. The right sleeve of Chaz’s leather jacket expanded, moulding into a diamond-shaped shield. Kip’s tie stiffened and curled, shifting into a spear. I stepped back. Not much my glasses could do in a fight. Just as pandemonium was about to break, a thin crease cut across the air, glowing red like the embers of a dying flame. Chaz, Kip, and even the Rends, stopped, all of them staring at this abrasion in the air above them. Then something… bizarre. A sound. Faint at first. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The sound grew louder; more familiar. A motor from a car. Roaring as if at top speed. “You guys hear that?” Kip said. The very air ripped open a gaping hole and a bright gold convertible burst through. Chaz and Kip ducked, covering their heads. My mouth hung open. I’d seen some crazy things as a shifter, but never anything like this. The driver’s blonde hair flailed in the wind. She turned her head and looked right at me. My heart stopped. Those eyes. Those milky way eyes. Kimberly. She wasn’t alone. Stalking behind her was the biggest greyver I’d ever seen. Part 2
  3. So, this is another one of those nights where I have nothing to do. So why not write a story? This seems to be happening alot lately, so WHY NOT MAKE A THREAD FOR THESE NIGHTS!!? I'll start putting my random stories in here. The ones where I write them on the forum, I'll keep my planned stories separate. (you know, because i never end up writting them!) Anywho. Let's get started. Most Recent Outside the Coffee shop. AFTER THOUGHTS: Once again the ending was kind of rushed. I don't know, I wanted to go one way with the story (Romantic encounter), but then got sidetracked. I ended up turning her into some sort of ESPER, or someone with the power to mind read (and possibly more), and went absolutely crazy. That felt totally out of place compaired to the rest of the story, so I cut that out and restarted. Or rather, cut that out and just ended the story there. I had fun with the characters though, might make a story where the protagonist has social issues, and the heroine tries to cure it.We'll see. Thankyou for reading this. Previous Works Not together, Together.
  4. DuLake


    Rattle By Jeremy Lloyd Beck Chapter One -- Welcome to Write Club The first rule of Write Club is you never tell anyone they should stop writing. Lucius Alugan joined Write Club so that he could brag about how his vampire movie was a genius re-imagining of Greek mythology. “Real next level shit,” he said. Lucius works as an overnight stockboy at the neighborhood Snak N' Grab and came to Write Club to feel like a writer; he came to Write Club so that he wouldn't have to sit on his ass and make pages to feel like a tortured writer. Lucius Alugan pretended to be an alcoholic and a Satanist for his writing. His government name was Joseph, but pretended the name's Judeo-Christian roots offended him. The second rule of Write Club is you never say when a story is a rip off. Mononymous Henna told everyone she was a proofreader for Rolling Stone, but we all knew she worked the sandwich cart. Henna came to Write Club to get feedback on her song lyrics. Like every other singer-songwriter hopeful, she wanted to fuck a rock star and believed that meant she had vocal talent. She wore black and boots and died her hair jet because that's what she thought was cool. She was going to bring the hard rock back to pop music. Her music was shit but she had a cute face and eye-liner, so maybe she could achieve her dream if she learn how to stuff her bra. Sir Lancel Aincroft tried to ask her out for lattes after Write Club once, but she didn't want to risk staining her perfect white teeth. The same week, Lucius got her number because she thought his frilly white shirt was exotic and original and totally rock n' roll. That weekend, Lucius took her to his crypt to get her drunk and blacked out on her shoulder. Sir Lancel spent the night abusing his emergency inhaler and masturbating. Jennifer Logan wanted to become a blogger. She came to Write Club because she couldn't figure out anything interesting enough or true enough to blog about. Nobody asked her out for lattes or sex because she wore a pixie haircut instead of make-up. Everyone at Write Club knew Jennifer cleaned the toilets and children of some interchangeable Hollywood executive. Lucius tried to convince her to give her boss his screenplay, but she wasn't stupid. When Jennifer wanted a raise, she bought gel inserts for her empty bra. The third rule of Write Club is that you give any writing exercise a chance, no matter how bat-shit it sounds. When Sir Lancel Aincroft suggested everybody go through Craigslist personals and write up a character sketch, Lucius said he was a hack and that his Conan the Barbarian rip-off stole it's plot from Lord of the Rings. The fourth rule of Write Club is that you don't use words like “hack.” When I created Write Club, I was looking for a place to practice my craft. I always believed that words were magic, that they had the power to build new worlds and realities. Sir Lancel believed that, which is why he wrote Conan rip-offs and colored them with rings of power, it's why he wrote escapist fantasies where good also won. He knew that words could create the worlds that didn't exist but should, the ones we need to survive. Sir Lancel understood that we would all burn in hell if we never thought to write ourselves a heaven. When I started Write Club, I was looking for a creative space to build my own heaven. The fifth rule of Write Club is that you always find something nice to say about a piece before you critique it. “It's shit,” Lucius said. “Another Lord of the Rings rip. The world doesn't need another one of those. Sir Lancel cringed. “The sixth rule is honesty;” Lucius shrugged. “At least include what you liked about it,” I said. “I liked that it ended,” he replied. “Took it bloody long enough.” One more thing about Lucius: He wasn't British, he just thought it was cool to steal vocabulary from the BBC. “I liked the world you created,” Jennifer offered. “It was. . . big. Epic and all that. I liked the map you drew of it all.” “Yeah,” Henna followed, “real big, really complex. Like a movie. I liked that. And the bit with the snakes was creepy.” “He'd never make it in Hollywood,” Lucius muttered. I frowned. “Neither have you,” Sir Lancel whispered dryly, eyes lowered, lips static. “Up yours, Harry,” Lucius spit, tipped back in his chair; Henna touched his shoulder; Sir Lancel took a hit from his inhaler. His real name was Harry, but he went by Sir Lancel Aincroft, his D&D name. He was fat and tall and smelled like his job at Burger King. When he worked the fryer, he had to wear a hairnet around his wild neck beard. He studied computer repair at the local technical college and sent anti-Creationist letters to the school board as a herald of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, a sort of sauce-strewn Cthulu. He swore off alcohol and drugs, but always kept the emergency inhaler he didn't need nearby for a few inebriating puffs. When it was my turn I told everyone about the snake that whispered to my protagonist in his sleep. I told them about how crazy it was driving him and that I was beginning to suspect I had an ending – between you and me, the hero goes nuts and axes the shit out of his bride to be. “Does somebody die?” Henna asked. “Somebody always dies in your stories.” I smiled. “It's horror, not pop music.” Lucius said. “Of course somebody dies. Somebody has to die.” “Why though?” She asked. “Wouldn't it be more of a surprise if they didn't?” “What can I say –” I laughed – “every spell requires sacrifice. I guess mine take it in blood.” “Be careful with that dark stuff, man,” Lucius warned. “Said the Satanist?” Jennifer raised her eyebrow. “It's not for everyone,” he retorted; I smiled; Sir Lancel turned his head away from the entire scene. “My song today is about finding true love on Craigslist and finding out it's your spouse,” Henna said, beaming in her ingenuity. The second rule of Write Club is you never point out when a story is a rip off. On the bus, I was struck with a vision of my story, I saw what it could be and what it should be. I felt it run through my blood like a virus, an amoeba swimming as fast as possible to my death. I pulled out my cell phone and, chubby fingers fumbling over the touchscreen, I wrote the last act of my story. The words were there; the spell was written. All that was left for me to do was to put it all together and cast it on the world. When I got home, I was happy to be done for the night. My daily word count achieve, I was content to give myself over to slumber. I quickly stripped to my boxers, climbed in to bed, and let a snake-fueled ax-murder drift gently out of my mind – or perhaps it just sunk deeper in. After I went to bed I woke up in my protagonists room. A three-legged crow tapping it's nine talons impatiently against my dresser. It was crimson red and flecked with gold. The bird opened it's mouth to caw, but nothing came out. All I could hear was the hissing. “Sssacrificce,” I heard, turning instinctively to the golden snake in the aquarium by the bed. I straightened in the bed and tried to stand up, but, as I turned to stand up, I realized my legs were both flayed and bleeding; I realized I was not the hero. The hero was standing over the bed with an ax. I heard the crow's cawing like an echo as he lifted his weapon. I grabbed the nightstand and pulled myself to the ground as the ax dropped deep into the mattress. My hand slipped into the nightstand drawer and pulled out the gun I'd left for my ill-fated heroine. It was unloaded and unhelpful, but that was the story and my body couldn't help but follow through. I squeezed the trigger and listened in terror as the gun clicked impotently as the hero – wearing my face, as all my heroes do – climbed over the bed, ax raised, ready to end the story. Then the bird flew between us, the hero slipped fell backward off the bed and his hatchet fell helplessly behind him. Then the hissing returned. I turned to the sound and saw the snake, scales aglow, growing fatter and longer in it's coil in the small glass box. The snake grew until it could no longer be held back; the sides of the aquarium popped and sand and water spilled from the perch. The snake continued to grow as it crawled toward me hissing: “Ssssacrifice. . .” The snake turned and snapped at the bird. I watched it dance in the air and then fly out the open window. I was alone. The snake raised it's expanding mass and hissed provocatively, its tail rattled like the muffler on my first car.. Make a move, try your luck, it seemed to say – though it could clearly say so if it wanted to. That's how I wrote it. That's when my protagonist grabbed me by the shoulder and, hand choked up on the ax, released the mortal blow. I winced as the blade sunk easily through my collarbone; I felt the very tip touch my heart. “Thank you,” the snake hissed, coiling itself back up. My protagonist dropped me back to the ground and began hacking cleaving blows into my chest, the blood sprayed like a water fountain in hell, all the way up to the ceiling fan.
  5. Okay, so it's so hot that I can't sleep. And so I decided to write a story - or at least a part of it. I literally just typed it up a minute ago and copy and pasted it here, I proof-read it once or twice changing anything that annoys me but beware it was a rush-job. Also, I thought that just a regular story might be boring so I wanted to try something different. I'm going to end the chapter with a choice for the reader to decide. Something like those old do-it-yourself adventure books. e.g. The Goosebumps series. Anywho, I hope you enjoy. I stumble out of the alleyway, my clothes drenched in sweat. My eyes shake violently and my vision deteriorates. My mind is white. Completely empty, just a swirling daze. I look back to see if they’re still following me, I can’t see them. I think I’m safe. But still, I can’t shake off this feeling that I’m in danger. It must be my imagination. There’s no way I’d be thinking straight in my condition. I close my eyes and use the wall as a support. “What was that?” I remember the scene I just witnessed. It was a massacre. A group of men in black suits killed people. How many people? I can’t remember exactly… My memory is hazy for some reason, but it wasn’t an insignificant amount. Don’t get me wrong though, even one death is significant. But this was different. This was on a completely different scale. So why? Why can’t I remember exactly what happened? “What’s wrong? You look terrible.” A voice calls out to me. It’s a boy’s voice. I know him, his name is Jayce and we went to high school together. We still keep in contact via email and texts but he doesn't go out often so this is the first time seeing him since school. What luck, he might be the perfect person to run into. I decide to talk to Jayce about what I just saw. “Listen, Jayce. Do you have some time?” “I guess. I was just about to go home.” “In that case, I need to talk to you.” He remains silent for a second before asking ‘Is it serious?’ I give him a nod. “… Okay. Let’s go to a café and talk” I’m thankful that he realized how serious I was so quickly. He’s always had a keen sense for what was serious and what wasn’t. “What did you want to talk about?” Jayce asks immediately after arriving at the café. I give a quick glance to my surroundings. Glad to there’s no one around, I let out a sigh and look at Jayce. “I saw something… strange today… Not anything supernatural but it felt out of place.” He gives a silent nod as he rests his chin on his hands. Silence fills the café. Not because there’s no one here but from my own mouth. I stopped talking. For some reason I can’t remember what I wanted to talk about. Why? It’s important. Something happened. Something big happened. So why? It was so significant that it makes me uncomfortable. So why can’t I remember it? “Noah? What did you see?” Jayce speaks up. I guess he found it strange that I just suddenly fell silent. That’s the natural reaction after all- I initiated the conversation and stopped midway, of course he would find it odd. “No… Never mind. I’m going to go home.” “Okay. I was headed back home too so we can walk part of the way together.” Jayce lives around the same area as me so we go home in the same direction. We get up and end up leaving the café. I get a strange feeling that someone is trailing us. Who is it? Even after walking for ten minutes the feeling doesn’t go away. Someone is following us, I’m sure of it. I take a glance behind us in an attempt to catch them but the streets are always empty. The streets are empty? Now that I think about it… The café was empty too… Isn’t that strange? Its peak hour and it’s been completely empty ever since I left the alleyway. Was it empty before then? I can’t remember. Why? Why Can’t I remember? Something is wrong. Something is wrong, and it has to do with the person that’s trailing us. I’m willing to bet money on it. But what do I do? What can I do? ============ Choices! Option A: Ignore it. It might be your imagination after all! Option B: Let Jayce know you think someone is following you. Maybe he can help! Option C: Confront who - or whatever is following you, right now!
  6. Hello people of Kametsu! Been a long time hasn't it. Anyhoo, considering the sudden little jolt in the lit section's ass as of late, I decided to see if I could get a little advice/help on a story that quite literally came to me in a dream. I'm not even sure if this coherent at all. I mean, it was quite literally a case of me waking up and going "Holy fuck, that was an awesome dream! Wait. That would make an awesome story! Paper, fast!" before falling on my ass is a mess of covers and sheets while desperately trying not to forget the little details that made the dream awesome. But alas some of the details are gone, some are distorted and some are just down right weird. What I'm asking is a little help too see if this actually sounds any good, and if so, should I begin work on it? Please, be brutal here. Anything that sounds off, or what ever do tell me. It seems I'm rambling again, so here is some of the detail. At present, cause I couldn't remember there being any real plot other than what is stated in the setting section of what I managed to jot down. Setting: It was a post apocalyptic setting, with a ruined futuristic cityscape where massive skyscrapers have been blasted open and left to decay and the ground is scorched and dry. The Witch is found at the only green part of the whole city, near its centre and surrounded by circular and geometric garden fixtures. Her area is actually a large airship, as is revealed later (as it was revealed later on in the dream I mean, the actual design wasn’t really evident, but it seemed similar to Haven from Mortal Engines). The actual setting, backstory and the likes wasn’t touched upon in the dream, as it focused mostly on the Witch making contact with tribals in amongst the city and giving them an Elixir to remove disease and other things. But thats for later. The Witch: In the dream she seemed, cold, calculating yet oddly humorous and always sarcastic. She seemed to have a complicated with the other named character; Satan, jumping between an intense hatred to a jovial and almost romantic friendship. I can’t really remember what she looked like (other than she had black hair and was constantly covered in what appeared to be motor oil or axel grease, further alluded to when she mentions her “profession”) Her name isn’t actually the Witch as far as the dream went, and was actually the name the tribals had given her. She is the creator of the Elixir, or at least I believe she was, and only wanted to give it too 33 individuals; 12 males and 21 females, but after it is revealed that the “Liasons” have given it in a watered down form to most of the organised tribals she is revolted and warns of troubles to come. Wasn’t touched on in the dream as too what, but that will be easy to rectify myself. She seemed very intelligent and in control of her emotions, except in her interactions with Satan. She also had a fondness for orchestral music, and intially chose the “Tribe” due to their musical talents that she witnessed during dance/ritual they were performing. The Devil (Satan, is what I called him after waking up): Nothing much was touched upon in the dream. Other than his interactions with the Witch, he does not actually say much. He was often seen prancing about, almost as if doing ballet, while he was interacting with the Witch. He seems to have an intense love of food, specifically the food the Witch had in the marketplace onboard her airship. Where the food comes from isn’t touched upon however. He is seen in every interaction cooking a meal of some sort and has access to perfectly clean plates, silverware and proper dinner clothes, along with flowers despite no flowers being shown onboard the airship or elsewhere in the dream (notable exceptions being the Hippy-eque tribal group that the “Liasons” interact with later in the dream, who have daisies and other small flowers in their hair and houses). He was always in a white suit with a red rose on his lapel. He also is the only character to wear shoes (I didn’t see the Witch’s feet but I imagine she wear sandals or something similar) and is also seen cleaning and polishing them. I'll put more info when I'm finished decrpyting (the handwriting is atrocious, as too be expected when in a rush, in the morning and crumpled in pain from jamming your "jewels" into a chair leg... ) and translating it onto my computer. Does this seem interesting or am I just whacking out cause it was a dream? Do you guys and gals see any potential in this for development?
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