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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 13, 2010 4:43:42 GMT 1
I kind of forgot where I was going with my crappy story, so I came up with this stream of conscious crap in about 5 minutes. I'd beat my head against the desk to come up with something decent, but I have to work tomorrow.
12 December 2010
I share the corridors with ghosts who have come here before me, some I used to know. One of whom I once loved. The moon grudgingly shares its light through cracked and dirty windows to the east. This is where I linger longest, though I know well what I will find. There is one room I long to be in, to enter and let the fire of memory consume me, to make this place live again. Yet I know like all things, memories fade and wither and lovers view you with jaded eyes before they exit in haste.
Edit: Helps to do a proper cut and paste job. /shrug
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 13, 2010 12:42:50 GMT 1
I've rather lost track of my ongoing story too, but here it is again anyways.
12th December 2010
'Sel'drath is the chosen leader!' cries Sephas. He sounds like he means it, too. Eleven other voices cheer loudly and hopefully. She has twelve elves following her around now. Apparently her assassination mark is an unpopular guy. These guys see her as some kind of redeemer for her people.
All she did was dole out some of her old tribal healing poultices. It's not a frickin' miracle.
Most everyone else gathered at the bottom the freezing cold mountain just stares. There is light applause. Oh! Now she has to deliver some kind of speech.
'Be blessed,' she begins. Uh...
Shit.
13th December 2010
Sel'drath doesn't believe in Gods. Except the elven God of wine, who she has muttered to from time to time before falling asleep. Ho ho. It's not that she doesn't think they're up there: just look at the beauty of the Earth.
She just... doesn't think there's any point in relying on these God characters. Sure, thanks for the life and the wine, hey. But is that it? You wanna hang out, or...?
And there must be some bigger, better people who created them, you know?
A voice calls from the crowd. 'Chosen One? Chosen by whom?'
Uh.
'Gods, apparently.'
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 14, 2010 1:48:23 GMT 1
Work was... well I survived it. I don't feel like writing. Hell, I don't even feel like sitting upright at all. So there's this.
13 December 2010
Banner ads briefly amuse me. I was told that I could "win a lesson with Jim Courier" when I went to look up lyrics for a depressing song. But a lesson with him would involve some familiarity with tennis, whose scoring system makes about as much sense to me as cricket. Then there's the expectation that I would pretend to be at least slightly coordinated. I could barely manage skateboarding in my youth, and when it comes to belly dancing it takes me twice as long to learn the choreography as a normal person. So, laughing, I closed the page.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 14, 2010 6:26:11 GMT 1
"And then she detoured back towards her rambling story for no apparent reason."
14 December 2010
A slight breeze stirs, briefly lifting the humid air around us before settling it back down in a graceless, soundless thud. More than anything else around here, it's the humidity that can drive a girl mad. I see two pairs of hungry eyes ahead of me that have probably already crossed that line. I motion for Marie to put the torch out; if they want to fight I want to make it hard for them to see their targets. "What have you got?" a fair-skinned girl with dreadlocks asks. I shrug. It's not like we have any real meals.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 14, 2010 19:27:13 GMT 1
Work was... well I survived it. I don't feel like writing. Hell, I don't even feel like sitting upright at all. So there's this. I'm having a miserable time lately too (yours sounds worse, though) so here comes a rushed, lukewarm effort from me... *goes off and hammers keys* 14th December 2010Sophia has one of those wedding dresses that actually looks kind of boring, plain. It's basically just an ordinary dress, except white. We could have bleached one of her regular dresses. But she doesn't need a fancy costume. Nothing could make her more beautiful t- no, it's a bad dress. I wouldn't have picked it. She likes it, obviously. I catch her eye and she gives me her new smile. It's like the awkward, secretive one she gave me for ten years, but now it ends with her thrusting her head forward a touch, sweetly. Yeah. I finally won you. 15th December 2010- I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you today. So... how do you feel about it? - I fear the wounds are... fatal... - What? - Do not grieve... soon... I shall be one... with the Matrix... ...ugghhh... ugh-ughh... Ultra-Magnus... it is to youuu, old friend, euhh... I shall pass the Matrix of Leadership... as it was passed to me. - Look... - Nor was I. But one day an Autobot shall rise from our ranks... and use the power of the Matrix... to light... our darkest... hour. Till all are one. - THIS is why we're breaking up, Steve. Open your eyes, please.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 15, 2010 16:01:58 GMT 1
I woke up with a migraine so I did a nonfic entry for the day that I won't post here. When the sound of the dog breathing doesn't make my skull crack, I'll see if I can get back on track (tomorrow, obviously. Today is a total bust).
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 16, 2010 16:01:33 GMT 1
Ugh. You don't sound happy, BC.
Here's another one from me.
16th December 2010
Sel'drath is out hunting. She and her twelve followers are sick of fish sandwiches. There are so few tracks to follow, despite the deep, crisp snow. Oddly she's just picked up the impressions of big, human boots. Out here?
A rustling noise raises her eyes from the ground and she sees the most obvious wizard there has ever been. He's dressed in a forest-green robe and hat, long white beard, big boots. He matches the description perfectly. She just never imagined he'd be wandering alone, dressed like this.
'Ordin... Sintuklass?'
He smiles.
Sel'drath draws her bow, fast, smiles back.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 16, 2010 21:36:09 GMT 1
"Migraines and final exams don't mix!" (Neither does my job, but that's another matter.)
16 December 2010
Marie is standing guard over the rations, and I can hear her thoughts, debating about sharing our stuff. Finally, she steps back and gestures at the food. "One at a time, please. I doubt there's enough to go around." They move in. I turn all the way around, getting ready to step off of the barricade when I see Kayla looking at the trail of blood the red-haired guy left when he was speared. Small waves come in closer, yet when they retreat the trail still remains. I wonder if she knew him. Maybe I don't want to know.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 18, 2010 2:54:43 GMT 1
17th December 2010
Sel'drath is two hours late. She arrives back at the camp with a ruddy face, bared teeth and no meat.
'What happened?' asks Garridan. They all stand, concerned.
'Fuckin'... frozen fuckin'... fuckin' fingers. Couldn't shoot my fuckin' bow, for cryi-FUCK'S sake.'
Sel'drath is upset.
'What were you hunting?' asks Caradhras, the fourth follower.
'HIM.' Their leader spits. 'The enemy. Sintuklass. Saw him in the woods.'
There is hubbub.
Sel'drath pulls a piece of yellowed paper from her waistcoat.
'But he did drop this. A letter.'
'Oh?'
'A letter... with his address.'
The gathered elves stare.
'So... let's open it?'
18th December 2010
Dear Sintuklass,
Thank you very much for my presents last year. I wanted to write you right away to say thanks but mum and dad said no you were busy sleeping.
This year all I'd like is a pony please. It was eighth on the list last year so I guess it was overlooked.
I hope it doesn't lok lie I am just trying to butter you up but. I hope that you have a good Methrass too and that you also get good presents too!
Yours not trying to be nice just to get a pony,
Sara Suzanne Talmir
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 18, 2010 4:48:44 GMT 1
I saw something in the local news that pissed me off so much that I had to write about it today. Since it's a nonfic entry, I won't post it here.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 18, 2010 12:39:57 GMT 1
You can post non-fic here!
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 19, 2010 1:00:35 GMT 1
19th December 2010
‘And remember, little lad, Jesus DIED for your sins, a’ight?’ Our vicar was scary.
I was only eight but I remember thinking, ‘No he didn’t! Not exactly, anyway. Or rather, yeah he did die -- slowly and painfully -- but then he came back. That doesn't count! That's not death. He died in the same sense that Super Mario dies. Except Jesus has infinite one-ups.
‘What he did was, he was tortured horribly then recovered and then... went back home to his dad’s.’ I thought, ‘That’s impressive enough, vicar. There’s no need to exaggerate that story.’
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 20, 2010 1:57:46 GMT 1
Nonfic day again (but not for the same reason as yesterday). I tried to continue the story but I sat around and couldn't get anything going. I think I can by tomorrow, though.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 20, 2010 2:09:00 GMT 1
20th December 2010
You hate driving at night. More than that, you hate stopping at night. You always want to lock the doors but it seems like it would be ridiculous.
A stocky, Asian man in a hat and gloves waves at you furiously from the traffic light. Though you glance at the mirror, you know he means you.
What on Earth does he want? You wave? Wave. Uh. Hi!
He's so frantic! What?! Oh... Mary, mother of God. THERE IS A KILLER IN THE BACKSEAT.
Oh, no. Forgot to turn your lights on.
All right, stop waving, pal. Yeah, thumbs-up. Smartarse.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 21, 2010 3:16:13 GMT 1
20 December 2010
There are twenty-one women standing around in the growing darkness, all of us acting as though we aren't disheveled and dirty. We must look to outside observers as though we're pretending to be at a party, waiting for our boyfriends, all dressed up and nowhere left to go. Then the talk turns to what we heard earlier, about the gunfire and the shouting. "They turned the bullets back on the gunmen. I don't know how they did it but I know it's true!" one excitable blonde woman, Helen, tells us. Were they sniffing glue over there, I wonder?
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