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The Jail Warden

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Part Two [02 Jan 2005|10:01pm]

agentaldrich
[ mood | stupid writers block ]

I've been working on this story and it's 31 pages.... but I'm stuck. Any suggestions? Maybe questions of stuff you don't understand. The dragon and the girl need to have a confrontation but I can't figure out how. This is the second 1/2 of the story.... it was tooo long too post thje whole thing.

31 pages folksCollapse )

Get Locked Up

Outline Story Part One [02 Jan 2005|10:07pm]

agentaldrich
[ mood | cranky ]

I've been working on this story and it's 31 pages.... but I'm stuck. Any suggestions?

31 pages folksCollapse )

Get Locked Up

Speaking of Creative Writing... [29 Apr 2004|10:43am]

jesusthejew
[ mood | pissed off ]

I hate T Stores, she needs to burn in hell.

That us all...

Get Locked Up

Wassabi [28 Apr 2004|08:33pm]

petervenkeman
[ mood | cynical ]

Just sending a hello to the other inmates out there. Got a few story ideas but just need to get them typed up. Wanted to see what htis this was all about.

1 Inmate Admitted| Get Locked Up

Video Game Character [28 Apr 2004|10:11am]

jesusthejew
[ mood | hungry ]

Alright, last night, all throughout the night I was having these weird dreams. I couldn't retell any of them right now, but I thought of an interesting main character or side character for a video game. The game would be a modern RPG, which would be interesting, because it's only been attempted like once or twice before. Here's the rundown of a few characters.

Hero - (I always name the main character hero until I find a better name, sometimes I don't find a better name and he remains hero until the end of the project. It confuses my teacher, I love it.) Hero is a suburban teenager with a pension for mischief, he has a skateboard, trusty spray paint, rotten eggs, etc. He enters the city to vandalize some property. He is eventually cornered by some policemen and thrown in juvenile, where our story begins.

Warren - A teenaged asian kid who lives in the city. He has been in juvenile for the past two years on and off. He'll make time off, live with a foster home or an orphanage in the city, get a hold of drugs, waste himself, and get thrown right back in. He has taken a few too many acid tabs and way too much ecstasy for his own good. He sees himself living in an interesting world filled with acidic colors and insubstantial objects. He develops powers that only he can see and can sometimes mimic his past trip experiences.

Car - Car is not this guy's real name, he just happens to be the guy with the car. I don't even know how he gets stuck with the other two, but he is driving along by juvenile hall when Hero and Warren break out thanks to Warren's acidic abilities. The two rush to the car, they get a ride, and then things just happen to get them to stay together. The only thing missing now is the fourth seat of the car. Car's real name is David, but nobody cares about that, its his car that people care about. He's not the nicest guy, but he's not a delinquent, just an asshole. He's older than the other two guys, being in his mid to upper twenties. His car is a dark green 96 Buick Skylark.

Girl - I don't have a name for her yet. She is a country girl, coming to the city to make it big. She happens to get kicked out of a waitress job and is mugged by a stranger. She is cut with a knife on her arm, and is bleeding on the sidewalk when the three guys find her. Car suggests taking her to the hospital while Warren says that it's out of the question, they are 'outlaws.' Hero looks in the glove compartment and finds a first aid kit and a bottle of whiskey. He douses the cut with the whisky (much to Car's chagrin) and begins to bandage the cut up. He tells everyone, "I saw it on the Discovery channel once." Girl passes out and when she finally wakes up, is on the other side of the city with the three guys and is now coming along for the ride.

I have no idea where the game is going, but I was thinking an interesting plot of joining up with the underworld, going to past acquaintances, and getting Warren more drugs. There might be something about getting Car a new car, and maybe having Girl get famous, or fall in love, or something. There will probably be a few more characters, but these are the only ones I've thought of so far. I'm thinking that some of their enemies will be police officers, other delinquents, and maybe even bounty hunters out for their rewards.

Let me know what you guys think, if you have any suggestions or whatnot, and any other character ideas. I'm trying to keep it based in reality, except for Warren's strange abilities. I have a feeling that at some point in the game he will go through serious withdrawal and will need to be taken care of while he can't use his 'powers.'

Peace out guys.

Get Locked Up

Beginings [26 Apr 2004|11:12am]
otaku777
[ mood | accomplished ]

Right, time to get off my lazy and sleep deprived ass and actually post something. This is the first part (chapter?) of a story I started over break and really should get back to.
---------------------------------------------------------------
High Magic

It was a chilly winter day on the streets of Manhattan. All around, people were bundled in multiple layers of clothing, shivering and clattering their teeth, rubbing palms together in a vain attempt to gather heat. All Jason Karter, dressed in his thin cotton t-shirt, faded blue jeans and black trench coat could think about was how foolish people really were. He strode through the city not even feeling the bite of the January winds, despite the fact that his coat was wide open and flapping in the breeze.

Jason had always been partial to winter anyway. The cold chill kept people indoors and off the streets, which suited him fine. Summer always meant children released from the shackles of school, teenagers without jobs loafing about the mall, and the tourists. The Hawaiian-shirt wearing, picture snapping loudmouths from Minnesota or some such state, who drew so much attention to themselves the panhandlers had to compete for an audience.

And that was the problem really. It wasn’t the fact that they were tourists, but rather the attention. Jason hated attention. He did his damnedest to draw as little attention to himself as he could, but these people. They drank in attention like mosquitoes drank blood. The whole thing made Jason’s head hurt.

Stopping in a small mom and pop coffee place he frequented when in the city, Jason took a seat in the corner. After a minute or two, a waitress came over and he ordered his usual; black coffee and a cheese Danish. One of the few simple pleasures Jason allowed himself nowadays was pastries. At forty-two, age was quickly catching up with him. He was still lean and fit however and his hair, while grey, was a thick mane that made him look distinguished. Not that Jason cared. He tried to have as little to do with other people as he could. So of course, when the girl sitting across from him starting making little sneaking glances at him, he did what came natural. He left.

He only got a block away however, before the girl caught up with him. She hesitantly walked behind him, arm stretched out as if to tap him on the shoulder. Before she could reach him however, he spun around and gave her a menacing glare.

“What is it brat? I haven’t got the time or patience.”

The girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, who was dressed in baggy jeans and a loose fitting hooded sweatshirt, pulled back looking hurt. “Geez, sorry. It’s just, well…” she broke off into a string of incomprehensible murmurs.

“What do you want?” He accentuated every word, becoming increasingly frustrated.

“You’re a warlock aren’t you? I mean, an actual element crafter. I noticed when you walked in, but was so surprised I didn’t even notice. I mean-,” He cut her off before she could say anything else, pressing his hand over her mouth. Without a word he pulled her into an alley, pressing her against the wall.

“Who sent you? Was it Sheena? Is she sending children to do her work now?” Without even realizing it, he had wrapped a hand around her throat and it wasn’t until she went limp in his grasp that he had realized what he had done. Immediately relaxing his grip, she let out a throaty cough and ducked behind him, putting up her hands in defense.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know any Sheena, I’m just a kid!” Tears began to well up in her eyes and Jason let out an exasperated sigh.

“Sorry kid, I just…sorry. Look, it’s not safe to talk like this on the street. I know a place where we can chat in private. Follow me.” Without waiting for confirmation he walked deeper into the alley, until he came to a dead end, a brick wall standing in his path. The girl, after a moment of indecision, followed behind and now stood behind him.

“What’re you doing?”

He didn’t bother responding, but began talking in a low voice that sounded like he was gargling with rocks. When he was done, he pressed his hand to the wall and walked through. Blinking in disbelief, the girl pressed her hand against the wall, and stumbled through, finding herself standing in a café that looked like it was decorated in an homage to the 20’s. She saw Jason in a corner and walked forward, not looking where she was going, nearly knocking over a waitress carrying several drinks of various bright colors, all popping and fizzing. Taking a seat next to him in the booth, the two sat there in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, until Jason finally spoke.

“So, who are you and what can you do?” It was more of a statement then a question.

The girl blushed, suddenly becoming very interested in the table. “Well, my name’s Rachel and to be honest, not very much. I mean, I can do some minor tricks with light and~” He interrupted her before she could get any further.

“Show me.”

Rachel let out an audible gulp and began a whispering a chant. Jason could see the fire spirits appear around her, and a sphere formed between her hands. It started at a dull red but quickly becoming brighter and brighter until he was forced to look away. With an explosion of light, it floated upwards out from between her hands and became larger, taking on a humanoid shape. Everyone at the bar at this point had their attention focused on Rachel. The humanoid shape at this point had grown to well over seven feet tall and featured human facial features. It dropped to one knee and bowed its head.

“Mistress, how may I serve you?” Its voice was low and husky and although it had no real gender, its voice was closer to a man then a woman. Rachel blinked, unable to respond. The crowd at this point had formed a circle around Rachel, Jason and the creature.

1 Inmate Admitted| Get Locked Up

Compilation [26 Apr 2004|10:30am]

jesusthejew
[ mood | mellow ]

Hey guys (that's right, all three of us) what's going on? I am thinking about compiling a book of short stories, getting some illustrations, and all that stuff. There are places that you can go to get everything published, and it won't cost a fortune. So, if any of you guys want to get in on that, feel free to join up, let me know, all that stuff. Right now it doesn't have a theme, but if people submit the same kind of things I'm planning on putting in there, it might be horror fiction. I'm not limiting it though, so share with the world, get some fame and stuff. Yeah, that's it.

Get Locked Up

An Epiphany of Sorts [21 Apr 2004|04:11pm]

jesusthejew
[ mood | accomplished ]

Hey guys, Jesus here, I'm going to start this thing right now, other people can feel free to join up, I don't think there are any circumstances that wouldn't allow people. Feel free to comment and/or leave your own stories, plot ideas, character designs, etc. Anything relating to fiction, whatever types of fiction you want to work with, go for it, I don't care, I just wanted to try starting something.

Peace Out

*****

J. Ginsberg
An Epiphany of Sorts

I hear a loud bang from within my apartment. It echoes off each wall, reverberating through my ears.
I drop the phone I am holding up to my head, there are still words digitally exiting the speaker, they fade into beeps and whirs as my neck arcs backwards and my eyes look up. The cracks in the ceiling and the water stains create a brown mosaic that tumbles down drip by drip, faster than gravity can pull me into its embrace. My vision darkens.

I sit in a very comfy orange armchair in the gourmet coffee shop down the road from my work. I sink into the deep, fluffy cushions, and sip my Caramel Macchiato. I feel the liquid pouring down my throat, warming my insides, and soothing my nerves. The paper in front of me is opened to the travel section; there is a picture of some green hills in Greece that beckon to me to jump into the pages and out of my life. I close my eyes and imagine running down those verdant hills through the luscious greenery.
The sound of a cash register opening wakes me from my reverie. The drab grey suits and black ties serve as an awful antithesis to the bright green hills. My gaze briefly lingers on the picture once more before I turn the page into the Personal section.
The personals are separated into seven columns; all of them are pointless; the bottom of the page is dominated by advertisements for self-help hotlines, AA meetings, and various community help groups. One thing catches my eye, and that is the number for a suicide hotline. I have been contemplating killing myself for the better part of a year; I haven’t done it yet because I don’t have the balls to. Maybe the suicide hotline is what I need. Maybe whoever is on the other end can help me sort out my life, or at least prolong it until I can get professional help. Maybe it will do me good to just talk to someone instead of typing into a computer and dealing with coworkers.
I tear out the little advertisement and place it in my wallet so the fold will be down the center of the phone number. My watch chimes that my lunch hour has ten minutes left. I stand up, leaving my near-empty cup on the table, and walk outside into the bitter February cityscape.

The lock turns on my apartment door and I walk in to find it the same exact mess it has always been. The answering machine beeps across the room, sitting on the wooden desk, in its designated place. I walk over to it, avoiding the paper piles strewn about the floor and push the flashing red button.
It screeches loudly, then begins talking in a soft computerized voice, “You have two new messages, to play your messages press-“ I cut it off by pressing the button marked play. “First message.”
I like answering machines because they don’t get mad if you cut them off. They just go on talking in their monotone voice as if nothing ever happened.
“Hey, this is Jerry at work, I’m going to need you to come in tomorrow, there is a paper work problem, and we need you to help sort things out. I know that it is a Saturday, and you will be compensated for the overtime. See you tomorrow.”
I hate Jerry; he is my boss. Unlike my answering machine, Jerry doesn’t have an off button, and I can’t interrupt him. Like the answering machine, he has a monotone voice.
“End of first message.” The original monotone returns. “Next message.”
I turn to look at the mess in my apartment; I can’t straighten out my living space because my work life meshes into my personal life. Sometimes I can’t even tell the difference, they shade together as well as an artist sketch. Maybe that’s my problem.
“Hey, it’s me,” The recorded voice of a woman, “I haven’t heard from you since Monday or Tuesday. I just wanted to talk to you; you should be out of work, so give me a call back when you get in.”
They kept me late today at work. Over an hour. Sometimes it bothers me, today, I just accepted it.
Wait; did Jerry call me before I was out of work? That bastard, he was the one who kept me late today. Shit.
I sit down on my bed, the covers are untidy, and the sheet is half on the wooden floorboards. I rest my eyes in the palms of my hands and my fingers weave through strands of thatch.
I take out my wallet and finger out the suicide hotline number. I contemplate dialing it. The worn newspaper is folded perfectly down the hyphen between the number groups. I gaze over at my end table as I place the partially creased advertisement face up on the surface.
I knead my eyes and yawn as I lean backwards. I grab my sheets, and fall asleep as my head misses the pillow.

Jerry walks away from my cubicle, his loafers pad the ground not quite silently. He just asked me to stay an extra hour doing his job for him. This is what work has been like for the past six years. I don’t think my corporate ladder has any rungs.
My cubicle is laughing at me. It isn’t really laughing out loud, but it is inside my head. It laughs like a psychological horror movie flashback, obnoxious and everywhere. I roll my chair backwards into its giant mouth, stand up, and walk down the hallway in the opposite direction of Jerry. I’ve had enough of work today. I’ve had enough of work forever. Every week is the same thing, and now the shit has piled up too high.
I might be psychic because I can tell that the future will be filled with crap. I open the door to the stairwell and turn to pay my last respects to my job. After today, my career is dead.

I sit on my bed staring at the end table. A decade old revolver lies as stagnant as my life. It sits beside the suicide hotline number and next to that is my phone. My fingers reach out to probe the surface of the revolver. I pick it up and examine it from many different angles. I open up the chamber. My fingers have done this a thousand times, open the chamber, and look at the single bullet. Just like the rest of my life, broken down into easy steps.
Get up. Shower. Shave. Go to work. Come home. Go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Some people say that a simple life is the best life. Here’s how simple my life looks now.
Close the chamber. Place my index finger on the trigger. Position the barrel in my mouth. Cock the hammer with my thumb. Pull the trigger. Go to sleep. No more repeats.
I contemplate the differences between each series of seven steps. Scenario one, work is on Monday. Scenario two, I never have to work again.
I put my index finger to the trigger and hold the gun sideways in front of me, examining the serial number etched into the side.
I begin to cry. I drop the gun on my bed and pick up the phone. I dial the seven digits for the suicide hotline and wait.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
I go to hang up. “Hello?” a faint word coming out of the earpiece.
“Hello?” again, distant.
I raise the phone to my ear and speak into the receiver. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” The voice on the other end says.
I sniffle. “I’m in a bad place right now.”
“What kind of place?”
I tell him. “I quit my job today.”
“On a Saturday?”
I gaze around the room. “My boss always makes me come in on Saturdays.”
“What’s your problem?”
I’m confused. “Don’t you know?”
“Are you going to kill yourself?”
I don’t respond.
“What are you going to use? Do you have a bottle of pills next to you? Are you going to hang yourself with a belt? How about a rope?”
I wait a second. I look to the gun facing me on the mattress.
“I know. You’re going to shoot yourself. You’ve got a gun right next to you.”
I stare at the revolver.
“You going to use a shotgun? No, I bet you don’t have the balls for that. A magnum? Nah, I don’t think so. I bet you have a wimpy little revolver, or a nine millimeter.”
I don’t say anything.
“I’m right aren’t I? That’s why you’re being quiet, I’m dead on aren’t I?” He pauses for a second. “Listen buddy, you called me, you going to say anything?”
I croak softly. “You’re right.”
“What did you say? I can’t hear you.”
Louder. “You’re right, I have a revolver lying next to me on my bed.”
“Well…”
I look up from the gun, my eyebrows arch. “Well what?”
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
I fall silent, my mouth gapes open.
“Well, why don’t you just do it? Get it over with. What else do you have to live for? Nobody likes you; in fact, I hate you. Just get it over with…”
I grab the phone with my left hand; the voice on the other end is still talking. I pick the gun up with my right. The gun shakes in my hand as I situate the barrel between my teeth. The rattling is unbearable. My thumb cocks the hammer with a click.
I hear a loud bang from within my apartment. It echoes off each wall, reverberating through my ears.
I drop the phone I am holding up to my head, there are still words digitally exiting the speaker, they fade into beeps and whirs as my neck arcs backwards and my eyes look up. The cracks in the ceiling and the water stains create a brown mosaic that tumbles down drip by drip, faster than gravity can pull me into its embrace. My vision darkens.

3 Inmates Admitted| Get Locked Up

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