Here is a sample of one of my short stories. I was given the scenario of a storm in a suburb, and told to "enlighten" upon it. This is from my CAS HS Senior class English. (CAS = Centers for Advanced Studies) It may look odd here in the thread, because it was made in WP.
"Blood Tornado"
November 12, 2000...Winchester Rehabilitation
Slowly, ever so slowly, a crack of light seeps through the drawn blinds of a tiny window, the only shutter seen from the outside world into the blackened mirth of the unknown within. The crack of light is joined by another. then another, until it is recognizable as the myriads of light so forthtelling os a coming sunrise. One after the other, they slowly alight upon a prostrated figure in the corner of the room, huddled like a half-dying mouse that has eaten too much poisoned cheese. As the miniscule beams of dawn slowly alight upon his form, the figure slowly looks upwards as if in unfounded awe at this spectacle, this kaleidiscope of fragments. But every so often, as if in practiced fashion, the figure is seen looking towards the darkest corner of the room and shivering...as if some malignant thing lurked in the shadows, ready to leap upon the huddled and shivering figure in the glimmering corner. The man, this now seen thanks to the growing light, stares in what is akin to horror at the sight he sees. A steady stream of stagnant water softly drips down from the ceiling into a puddle where the corner meets the wall. It is this sound and puddle that has drawn his attention. Slowly, as if in reliving a faded dream, he looks up...staring at the slowly forming droplets of water on the browned and cracking ceiling. He starts to shiver violently, his now revelaed face blanching in absolute fright as he beholds the droplets. He is finally starting to remember how it all began, this trip into insanity. It all started with the sound.
Drip.......Drip........Drip.
September 28, 2000...Omega Corporation.
A burst of laughter ricochets through the marbled halls of the empty 38th floor above 5th and Chrysler, home of the Omega Computer Corporation. A figure is seen walking down the empty hall, broad-shoulder and level as it maked it's way along. A broad smile is seen on the toe-shaped head hanging above them, the ruddy colored features detailing one that spent most of his time outdoors whenever possible, if possible. His clothes, while fashionable, do not venture outside of casual comfort, leading one to imagine his frame of thinking. As this figure, this epitome of the business world, makes its way further down the hall and towards the elevator, one can see the very lifestyle this individual is accustomed to. A long, tapered finger slowly reached out and gently depressed the down button upon the wall, a soft hummed tune slipping from the man's lips. As the door to the elevator slowly slides open, he wonders absently what his wife could be cooking for dinner tonight. The elevator slowly closes with a chime, the finger again slipping out to depress the button for the garage. The elevator acknowledges this with another chime, smoothly and unnoticeably sliding it's way down it's predetermined path. Another chime confirms its destination as the doors open, a cooling breeze wafting inside as if tantalizing the man to come out. The figure obeys this unseen whim of the wind, slipping out somewhat silently as he makes his way towards his car. He slowly reaches out and unlocks it, popping open the door and slipping into the drivers seat. As he starts the car, he vaguely recalls the weather report for the day. After peering through the side of his window to check for traffic, he glances up at the sky...a slight cloud passing across his furrowed brow. He swears softly to himself, vowing to never believe another weatherman as long as he lived...the weather report for the day having called for a pleasant evening, not this mockery of an overcast day. Slow yet surely, he points the car towards home and sits back...intent on making his drive as smooth and comfortable as possible. The car accelerates, almost as if in obeying the unconcious whim of the man behind the wheel. The long fingers slowly edge their way towards the leftmost pocket of his shirt, coiling about a protruding ornament. Deftly, he presses the clip inward and pulls off what is now recognizable as a nametag, the scrawl of John Hawthorne eteched across the nameplate.
Minutes later, John pulls down the street adjoining his own on his way home. His brow furrows lightly as he glances up again, noting with some displeasure the darkening and almost broiling clouds above, his plans for a cookout now ruined. As he pulls into the driveway next to his house and slowly opens the door, he is buffeted by a waywardstrike of wind. Again he glances upward, a flit of annoyance crossing his features at this sudden protrusion into his normal rountine before being replaced by one of mild shock. As he watches, the broiling clouds slowly start to coalesce as if a malevolent mind was behind its forming, giving it shape and spirit. Before he can utter a snort of suprise, yet another burst of wind strikes his body...sending him back against the side of the car, closing the still open door. He turns, knowing in the back of his mind what is about to happen but unwilling to acknowledge it...his gaze turning into fright as he spies the telltale funnel of an oncoming tornado. Before he can get the shout of warning that was programmed for his lips, another burst of wind drives him harder against the car as if in warning. His body, hard from days of working out and outdoor activity, reacts instantly to this new threat...driving forward against the wind in a constrained effort to reach the house, further reverbrations of warning echoing from his throat in the direction of his abode. Again and again, as if in joyous play, streamers of wind buffet against his body...teasing and driving him away from his goal and hope. He struggles against these, the result merely keeping him in place before he finally stops. His body now tired and uneasy, he looks towards the entrance of the house as if in telepathic pleading...willing his wife to step out of the house and hear him. The current shock on his face grows even more as the door slowly wafts open, the figure of his wife stepping out in light confusion as to what he might be yelling about. Too late is his final cry of warning as the growing tornado, having drawn far closer than before, slowly seemed to be reaching out with invisible hands...the nearby houses along the street being ripped apart as if they were merely childs playthings. In renewed determination, the man fights against the wind towards his exposed wife...her shocked countenance finally registering him as she takes an unconcious step towards him. Before another step was taken, the prowling gusts of wind, seeing new prey, leapt forward. With a cry of suprise and anguish, the woman is lifted from her feet...her figure seen arching upwards with the writhing debris into the resounding cyclone beyond her. A cry of despair rips itself from the throat of the man before he vaguely registers an object to his side. Too late does he turn his head before a wayward seat, ripped off a toilet, strikes him in the head and shoulder...knocking him unconcious.
September 29th, 2000...Ground Zero.
A soft groan permeated its way upwards from a pile of debris, the creaking of ripped boards and weakened structures seeming to lilt as if in lullaby. Underneath this, 20 feet below ground level, the figure of a broken and bleeding man is seen within the basement of an obliterated strcuture. Slowly, as if in great pain, the shadowy figure rises up...a grimace flickering across its countenance like a dying light bulb. As he glances about, he slowly registers a sort of sound. As he searches, he explores the crumpled basement that he seemed to currently residing in. Upon coming upon a darkened corner, a stranged cry of horror seeped from his throat. He has found teh cause of the sound, yet his mind is unwilling to register what he wants to believe is impossible. Imposed upon the wall, hanging from a steel rhubar as if in a playful mockery of puppetry, lies his wife. Her body, once so lithe and graceful in life, now ragged and torn asunder by random boards and debris from within the tornado. As he steps back, he seems to choke on his very breathe as he catches a full glimpse of her. Her body, so akin to a misused puppet, almost ripped apart...flaps of blueish-gray skin hanging grotesquely from exposed arms and legs. Small streams of discolored blood, blackened from dirt and soot, trickle slowly down torn flesh and exposed bones...the tips of crushed ribs exposed cruelly through the fabric of the woman's once bright dress. The streams of blood slowly curl about these bones, reacting with them as if in play...patches of missing muscle and skin only adding to its ugliness. Its this dripping that John heard, the dripping of his own wife's blood as it drained from the abhorrent corpse stuck upon the steel shaft as if in some sick shadowplay of a shish-ka-bob. As he sinks down to his knees, his mind slowly starts to fail him...the welcome stars of blackness pervading his vision as he slips into the comfort of unconciousness, only one sound penetrating the sanctity of his mind as hours later rescuers carry an unconcious screaming man into the lighted depths of an ambulance.
Current Project: Helping new people get on their feet, teaching people how to rp, and continuing in the lines of what I was doing last iteration of FFR.
Note: The RP Quizzes are postponed for the moment. Once an RP economy is set up, and I get a sponsor or RP...they will return. Otherwise, it will just be for fun.
I gotta tell you man that....was awesome. I could totally picture it in my mind, and believe me, thats a hard task. Keep it up man.
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"I hope you can't sleep and you dream about it/And when you dream I hope you can't sleep and you scream about it/I hope your conscience eats at you and you can't b_REaTh_e without me"
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