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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Jan 10, 2007 5:42:50 GMT 1
Lets start off with some old ones, right before I was banned. These mean a LOT to me:
Unable to comply, your feelings are in progress.
Feelings are completed, but I’m still not complying.
I’m finding it just a little hard to fathom.
Just a little difficult to believe.
I’m starting to think you’re gone crazy,
I think you’re lost your mind.
I Know you have to be joking.
In the past, we’ve made a lot of progress.
And we were both able to comply with everything.
I remember hearing that ‘Blood is thicker than water’
You and I have bled a lot together.
And I remember the rain upon your face,
Or were those your tears?
Your laughter was short and to the point,
Like everything else you did.
Time seemed to be on my side,
I felt like I knew you since I was a kid.
And I remember your cheeks growing red,
Either from laughter, or the cold.
Your tears were few, but always silent.
Out of all your talents, you were exceptional at being quiet.
You hid your wings under your blazer, or your dresses.
I don’t know why, but I was determined to set those wings free.
I wanted to see you soar higher than I ever would be able to.
I saw something in you not even your lover did,
And I felt that I held the treasure map.
So I set on a quest to bring forth the best in you,
And I was able to succeed.
But when I found your treasure, the trap was sprung.
And now I lie at the bottom of a hole.
The genius of the hole is well known,
You can spend years climbing out, only to have the hand that should of saved you,
Push you all the way back down. Making the hope deeper, and deeper.
When you fall down a hole it knocks the wind out of you.
Then a quote famous to me pops into my mind:
“Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
As I write this, I still lay in that hole. But I’m smiling…
Despite the fact you pushed me, despite the fact you’re over me.
Above, in the clouds, I still see you soar.
***
And so this is how we work.
A tick.
This tick indicates an emotion.
This emotion floods our mind.
This flood turns off and on certain flood gates.
Certain gates remain up.
Certain gates collapse.
Gates that remain up dictate not what happens.
The gates that remain up dictate what does not happen.
The gates down allow the emotion to flow.
Emotion flows.
And so this is how we work.
A tock.
This tock indicates the ending of an emotion.
The emotion lasts for a certain period of time.
The emotions sink,
the tide rolls out,
and flood gates are placed back up.
We wait for the tide to roll in again.
And so this is how we work.
A t-tick.
This... 'T-Tick', as the sound suggests, is a studder.
This is a studder of emotion. A spill of emotions.
Flood gates all shut down.
Emotion spills in, soaks, and the mind is empty.
Seconds, minutes, hours later, exact same emotion spills in.
Sticks around, feeds off of the previous spill, drains.
And so on, and so forth.
And so this is how we work.
A tock
This rather loud noise is usually what snaps the mind out of its assault.
Sewers drain, flood gates rise.
Emotions sink.
Common sense.
We hope that that doesn't happen again.
And so this is how we work.
a Ding!
This Ding! indicates something has hit us.
A word, a push, a fisticuff, a note.
This Ding! could also be replaced with a Pang!
as seen in the sentance 'a pang of guilt'.
Thie Ding! compels us to react, to respond, to reply, to retort.
and so we do.
And so this is how we work.
a Dong!
This Dong! incidates that your retort has ceased, or has not come to pass in the alotted time frame.
This noise symbolizes the end to the sudden flare inside,
the rage, the hate, the fear, the anger, the spite, the lust.
All of these rather spine-tingling emotions cease to be for the time being.
The Dong! is the end of many things.
People run like clockwork,
the mind runs like clockwork.
Emotions run on clockwork,
you run on clockwork.
The axles of the mind are always spinning,
something is always turning,
an idea is always churning.
There, inside your mind, like clockwork.
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Post by Valencia Donahue on Jan 12, 2007 2:44:36 GMT 1
I already gave you my critique for both poems, but this is just a post to say that rereading those poems haven't changed the fact that I enjoy the cognitive cartwheels they give me.
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Jan 21, 2007 5:03:18 GMT 1
Ka-Kilk.
"Lord, please don't make her..."
Heh. Lord. If only it was that easy.
July 26th, 2:30AM, Park Inn Hotel. Berlin, Germany.
The woman made her way as silently as she could to the end of the room, after closing the door with a subtle click. Outside, random flashes of light and tracer fire were the only things that reminded her that a war was outside. Everything was so... Quiet. She opened a dresser drawer, and with all her might she removed a massive case from it. Slamming it down on the bed, it sagged the springs heavily. She ran a hand through her brown locks.
Bzzt.
"Tango armed. Permission to engage."
"Shoot when I tell you to shoot, soldier."
The case opened, the AK-101 assault rifle was cocked and locked. As the young woman shouldered it with her left, she closed the case with her right. She turned to face the window.
A hiss meant the bullet is close, but a high pitched...
Stzing!
The bullet pierced her head, causing her to fall back dramatically onto her bed. She rested there with a casual expression on her face. The red flower on her head grew in size before it began to drip. Odd patterns could be made out on the wall, compliments of brain matter and blood.
Ka-Kilk.
"Tango down. Moving in."
He felt sorry for her. He was hoping she would open the case, admire the gun, and close it. Why anyone would be using an AK-101 in the year 2015 was beyond his thinking. But she was officially armed in the mission perimeter, and that made her a target. Too close for .50 cal bullets now. He thought as he left his sniper rifle on the roof. He made the large leap to the next building, doing a quick roll recovery to take the pressure off his legs. Switch to the little guns. He completed his thought as he removed a G36K from his back. He left the buttstock folded to the side, and brought down his night vision. To his left, a soldier similary dressed in all black and dark grey urban camoflauge made his run along the building tops towards the hotel. The same situation was to his right. "This is Delta One, moving in. Copy, Echo?"
Eight hundred feet in the air, a large transport chopper hovered in the same circular pattern. "We copy. Happy hunting, Delta."
Forty stories tall. Four stars. Smack dab in the middle of the old capital. After several grueling months, the conflict was almost over. In unison, several Eurofighter Typhoon's flew over the hotel, lighting the top floor up with ATG missiles. The building shook, waking up right-winged forces in a right hurry. It also killed a good dozen look outs and Anti Air weapons. The Typhoons moved far too fast.
The mission was simple. Make their way from the 20th floor to the lobby, eliminating any resistance along the way, and level the building. It would be one of the last actions of the conflict. Another pat on the back for America.
Ka-Klik
"Delta is in. Orders?"
GSG-9 Soldiers cocked and locked their silenced rifles. Snipers rested their rifles on their shoudlers as the unit looked towards their squad lead. A small crackling noise, and then:
"A four point perimeter around the hotel. No one in nor out. Let them do their job."
"Understood."
In one fluid motion they all turned on their thermoptics. Unregistered tango's began to appear in front of their eyes. Multiple Ka-Kilk's. "Lock and Load. Lets show them how its done."
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Post by lazy on Jan 23, 2007 1:16:55 GMT 1
Always enjoyed your short stories. Keep it up.
Post already.
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Post by Kei on Jan 24, 2007 1:14:59 GMT 1
God damn.
You're first poem... that shit actually made me curse, lol.
Really good job, Shamino.
(Still lovin your gun-runner story)
~Manuel
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Mar 21, 2007 1:35:05 GMT 1
An honest man with daring eyes
swears up and down that he tells no lies
and he's unable to be criticized
He just wants people to sympathize
Wants to set up in a high rise
over lookin' the downtown from the skies
unable to take the dream he busts down and cries
Hardly able to shed tears the dream then dies.
Because that's all it can be
and it ain't too difficult to see
Because that's all it can be
and it ain't too difficult to see
And you just couldn't believe me
and it'll come back to bite you in the ass
when you're doing your best to be avoiding the brass
your girl has to turn on and work her sass
and you look around unable to escape your past
how long do you think you can last?
When it comes down to it there's not a thing called luck
The only way to survive is to make an honest buck
Hit or miss, run or hide, jump or duck
When it comes to you the world doesn't give a fuck.
So you sit back and tell me to take it easy
You're on the top of the world but its getting breezy
Going to be hard to stay on top forever
But i'm not saying I don't wish you luck on your endeavor.
But in all honesty Its not like you deserve it,
its safe to say you sucessfully blew it.
It was cute for a while, a nice little bit.
Unfortunately you'll be clinging to the tit-
of the very society that you hate,
and there's NO way that you can navigate,
For no reason at all you seem too irate.
I could go on and on about your unavoidable fate.
But its okay, its not too late.
All you have to do is switch up your face,
stop hating on every other race,
keep up with the global pace,
this isn't a game of hide and chase,
Start it up and close the space,
maybe you'll get a bit of grace
Living in an age filled with strife
A capitalist man with a communist wife
Who's only looking for an easy life
Scared it can be ended by the cut of a knife
So on top of money you need security
All the while on the way to university
Emotionless ramblings about how much it hurt,
you make it about as valuable as dirt
And in the end its all the same,
you sign it with your worthless name,
Every thing you say pushes up the ante,
but its all a game to me.
Because I know what to do and I got it made,
Got my chair set up and i'm sittin' in the shade,
Drinking a glass of pink lemonade,
with bliss like this who needs to get laid?
So keep tickin' off the days until you get a raise,
I'll watch you try and crawl out of your malaise,
While I lay back in a most comfortable Daze
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Post by Leon Loire on Mar 21, 2007 1:50:44 GMT 1
A futuristic tactics short story? Why didn't I notice this before?
Hell, I gotta say, that short story's extremely eye-catching. Keep it going with the intense detail there Shamino, and get a response to that storyline as soon as possible. I'm honestly not the expert on poems on here, but I'm definitely more of the short-story type. Keep them coming.
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Mar 26, 2007 5:47:12 GMT 1
The problem with The Zone is that, from a distant satellite photo, it looked quiet. From video documentaries, it looked quiet. Why wouldn't a radiation infested wasteland, that expanded thirty kilometers from the dreaded Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant be anything other than quiet? The Zone was entirely too noisy for this particular Stalker. To the right, in the far east, he could hear bullets fly, and the dull thud and rumble of grenade's. In front of him was the swinging hinge of an old military road block. He placed his gloved hand atop of it to stop it. He gripped the rusty metal tightly, feeling the texture of the brown metal through the exoskeleton-type suit that he wore, that became like a second skin. He looked to his left- west- towards the old scientific research facility. The rumor there was that scientists still tried to work there, but they were trapped. An Anomalie was said to be destroying the brains of Military and Stalkers alike, zombifying them into stumbling, gun toting, lifeless humanoids. Devoid of all soul. He tried to imagine the moans they gave off before he put 9x18MM FMJ rounds into their mostly unprotected craniums. But imagination was interupted viciously by reality. He ducked down, letting the gate swing just above his head as his hand unholstered his Walther sidearm. He fired off two instinctive shots that would usually send any mutant dogs crying home to their beastly mothers. But it wasn't a growl he had heard, as much as it was a hiss. An omnious patter of foot steps... Grass crunching... Hiss.
A high pithced scream caused him to raise his chin an inch, looking a little harder for the source of the noise. His free hand adjusted the mask that covered his head, and then wiped away a rain droplet from his goggles. There, on the road, a hundred meters in front of him. He could see a blur. It was fast approaching. Flesh slapped against old cement as the bare feet of the invisible one ran with all due haste towards the Stalker. The Stalker in question steadied his breathing, raised his pistol with both hands, and gently pulled the trigger. The bullets stopped in mid air, and blood splattered onto the floor from nothingness. Twenty meters, fifteen...
The Stalker tilted the gun sideways as he began to one hand, blind fire towards the oncoming creature as his other hand unslung his AK-74SU from his side. He hadn't brought his better rifle on this outing to The Zone, and he was beginning to regret it. Just in time, he felt his other hand grip the handle and the trigger of the Ak, and he swung it down to his hip just in time to see the creature appear before him.
It was a humanoid. With pale, nearly yellowish skin. It had multiple welts and boils on its skin, and its fingers were twice as long as a normal man's. Where a mouth should be were five long strips of flesh that seemed to have muscles within them, as they opened and closed in hunger. The eyes were white, pupiless, and spoke a thousand words. All of them meant the same thing: Hungry.
The AK was set to a three round burst, and the man holding the gun thanked The Zone for it. The 7.62MM rounds tore into the chest of The Mutant. While it didn't kill him, it put the well needed space between them, as The Mutant staggered back several meters. It had been so close, the Stalker could smell its radiated flesh from behind his respirator. What followed was a series of gun shots from both the rifle and the pistol, until the top of the pistol clicked back lifelessly to show its owner there were no more bullets to be fed into the chamber, and that the AK magazine was filled with air. The mutant wheezed, its five flaps attached to its jaw still reaching out to the air, in an attempt to feed. The pistol was holstered, the gun, reslung onto his shoulder. The Stalker removed a seven inch combat knife from his suit's thigh. It was laser sharpened to allow painfully easy penetration, but the top was spiky and hooked, made to tear out the innards of those whom were stabbed upon removal of the knife. With one fluid motion he cut off the mouth of the beast. It took all his nerve to stop from gasping or recoiling when he heard the scream of pain come from The Mutant. Yet despite the fact it was riddled with forty six bullets of two varying calibers, and its blood-sucking pieces of flesh were removed, it still breathed precious oxygen into its radiated, mutated lungs. Both lungs were punctured and partially removed with two stabs and slashes inwards. The Stalker removed the knife, wiping it on the stomach of the now dead Bloodsucker, before sheathing it back into his black suit. He frowned upon hearing a bullet load into the chamber of a bolt action rifle. From the sound, an unclean M1 rifle. He turned slowly, hands up, and sighed releif to see it was simply another Stalker. "I mean no harm." The Stalker in the black combat suit said loudly, in the native language- Russian.
"Then neither do I, Stalker." The man said. The new comer rested the M1 (He was getting better with weapon identification, The Zone will do that) on his shoulder. This particular Stalker was not as experienced as the one that had just slain the mutant. He wore a simple cut ski mask to protect the bottom half of his face, a hood over his head that tried to hide his dirty black hair. And a brown leather jacket with wool gloves. All of his ammo was visible along his belt. He looked like a Russian citizen compared to the mutant slaying Stalker whom wore an all black, tight fitting, highly armored combat out fit that made the poorly equipped Stalker think he was Russian Experimental Special Forces. "I was just passing through on my way to The Bar, would you care to accompany me?"
The Stalker replied by slamming a new magazine into his AK-74SU, nodding curtly as he reshouldered the gun once more. In a metalic voice he replied "I don't see why not."
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Mar 27, 2007 5:57:05 GMT 1
"Ah, Sasha! my brother! It is good to see you back!"
The man entering the underground Bar removed his goggles and respirator, leaving black material to still cover the majority of his head- but at least his face was somewhat clear. The respirator pressed and dangled near his chest, and his goggles were atop of his suit-covered forehead. The conversation was loud, the lights bright, and for the first time in two days- the atmosphere was friendly. He was in the Duty Bar, across from the Arena, and it was one of the safest places in The Zone. The Heavily agile, experienced, and armored Stalker went by the name Sasha, nothing more. He shook the hand of the guard that had let him pass, turning it quickly into a small handshake that ended with their fists pressing together.
"There is new, cold Vodka and beer from the outside world. Don't even ask how it got here, just pay and enjoy!" The guard said, patting Sasha's back as he walked by. The other Stalkers were easy to identify. They were the only patrons of the god forsaken Bar. Sasha walked up to the bartender, placing a small bag on the counter. The sound caused the bar tender to turn his back to a customer and focus on Sasha. He was a short, fat man with a handlebar moustache that was greying somewhat. It was clear from a few small scars and a look in his eyes that he was a Zone veteran that simply wanted to live now. Veteran. Sasha thought as he watched the man open the bag. The Zone's only been around four years... Four years of chaos.
"A Thorn..." The bar tender said. He placed on a rubber glove from under the counter, picking out a massive ball of wood spikes. It seemed to resonate radioactive power. The man nodded as he inspected. "Two thousand."
"Done." Sasha nodded, keeping what he said short and sweet. He didn't want to be remembered by voice. A stack of twenty bills was placed in front of him. Sasha removed a large, carbon fiber moneyclip from a side pouch, wrapping the twenty bills in with the other hundred bills. Being a Stalker was well paying- he sad several money clips all about to break from bulge. Eighty, Ninty thousand in bills this month alone? He thought as a shot of Vodka was placed before him. He thought he heard On the House But he was too busy contemplating his minute riches and consuming the alchol its self. He shook his head sternly as he tasted the alcohol. "Russian Indeed." Sasha mumbled. He looked around in an attempt to try and find a friendly face.
Despite the fact Sasha retained no affiliation with a particular faction or group of Stalkers he was still skilled enough to have friends in all of the right places. He watched as the rookie he had met during his run in with a Blood Sucker was finally able to pay his way into the Bar. Sasha sat down at a small, rickity table for two in the corner, ignoring the whispers of 'information' and 'artifact knowledge' as he walked by. He kept one hand on his AK-74's strap, and the other on his money. Taking a seat he rested the compacted AK-74 on the table, removing a cloth and beginning to clean it affectionately. The Zone threw a hundred challenges at you every day, and even a year later, Sasha retained his same rifle from when he first entered the place.
Sasha was rumored to be ex-spetznatz, pre-2006 Chernobyl explosion. Pre-Zone. Luckily for Sasha a few rumors was all that was spoken about him. He didn't want to catch too much attention. After all, attention meant knives (or bullets) to the back. He was one of the top 100 most experienced Stalkers according to all the traders. It was this fact, and the fact he wore an intimidating set up that kept most trouble away. The Stalker suit he wore reeked of Russian Experiment. It was a crossbreed of special forces light, agile armor; and also the wish of being combat effictive in a highly radiated part of The Zone. It was refreshing to be able to fight and explore in the same suit- his previous flak jacket and trench coat did little for combat effectiveness.
"The luxury of being good I suppose." He muttered to himself as he felt a chilled bottle of Vodka to his right. He took a relatively clean shot glass from a stack of them on the table, pouring himself a shot as the rookie sat across from him, uninvited.
"Would y'mind moving your clunker there?" The Rookie asked with a laugh, pointing at the half-polished AK-74 Sub Compact. Sasha looked up at him with a blank stare. "Or not, that's fine too." The Rookie raised his hands in defeat. "I don't see why you take care of it so religiously, there's a million more in this 30 kilometer radius."
"And not a single one of those million are my Automatic rifle." Sasha said sternly. After a third shot he raised the gun (with the magazine out of the gun, so other Stalkers and the bar tender did not get jumpy) and began to wipe the cloth up and down the top of the gun, near the chamber. "You'll have to sit at another table, i'm about to strip it down to the nuts and bolts. I haven't checked out her guts in over a month." Sasha said absently.
"A month? How long have you been in The Zone?" The Rookie asked as he stood, taking a shot of Sasha's Vodka (which Sasha paid no mind to).
"September... 2012, is it? It'll be a year and six months soon." Sasha nodded slightly to himself in self assurance as he placed the gun down, his gloved hands beginning to carefully tear apart the gun piece by piece. "Through luck, skill..." He paused as he flicked away a rusting piece of metal. "And care. If you don't care for your tools, The Zone will take you, Stalker." Sasha said, looking up to meet the Rookie's eyes for a moment before looking back down to his gun. "Get a bottle and try and find a place to sleep- the alcohol is on me. It looks like you'll need it."
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Post by Leon Loire on Mar 27, 2007 22:27:34 GMT 1
It's good to see you've got a source of writing inspiration; S.T.A.L.K.E.R seems well placed as a good storyline in your writing style, and it's great to work from.
Just wanted to note that.
As I told you online, your first 13 lines in the first part of this short story do well to catch the reader's attention. You hit the description of the protagonist himself effectively, you strike a foreshadowing of the conflict within the 13-line limit, and you describe the setting with ease. It does well to keep your reader interested, and you succeeded.
The only thing I would recommend working on would be to add more details toward the protagonist himself. We know about his rifle, his armor, and his choice of keeping to himself, but it's difficult to make a mental image of his face, or his eyes, or his hair. These are important things to have known, even for those characters that are attempting to stay mysterious and unknown.
Either way, keep them up; I've begun to gain quite an interest in the Stalker genre.
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Mar 27, 2007 22:40:12 GMT 1
It's good to see you've got a source of writing inspiration; S.T.A.L.K.E.R seems well placed as a good storyline in your writing style, and it's great to work from. Just wanted to note that. As I told you online, your first 13 lines in the first part of this short story do well to catch the reader's attention. You hit the description of the protagonist himself effectively, you strike a foreshadowing of the conflict within the 13-line limit, and you describe the setting with ease. It does well to keep your reader interested, and you succeeded. The only thing I would recommend working on would be to add more details toward the protagonist himself. We know about his rifle, his armor, and his choice of keeping to himself, but it's difficult to make a mental image of his face, or his eyes, or his hair. These are important things to have known, even for those characters that are attempting to stay mysterious and unknown. Either way, keep them up; I've begun to gain quite an interest in the Stalker genre. Why make an obviously mysterious character known to the reader? I am leaving out physical looks for a reason. This will probably be the only time you see this particular Stalker unmasked. |
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Jun 7, 2007 15:41:36 GMT 1
news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/689609.stmThe above source indicates conflicting interests in one of the most important companies in the world, OPEC, and how those that are apart of it are relying on only one thing for income- Oil. OPEC is a nearly carbon copy of the fictional company CHOAM in Frank Herbert’s classic science fiction novel, Dune, in which both companies control and distribute very important resources that are instrumental in the stability of their society. In Dune, CHOAM is run by the ruling houses of parts of the known universe, and is head by the Emperor of the time. OPEC is run by the people that produce, and export, Oil. Technically, The Emperor controls Dune, the planet in which spice is created, and so CHOAM can be easily related to the company OPEC, both in the way it is ran and the importance of the product they control. The Cultures and Customs of Saudi Arabia by D avid E. Long ISBN: 0-313-32021-7 The above source is an excellent resource of facts and precise history on the makings of Saudi Arabia- a band of different families and tribes living in the same geological area that are banded together under a single man for the betterment of the people and of their religion. Paul Atredies, who is one of the key characters in the Dune series, is an individual who bands together the Fremen, whom are modeled very closely after those who live in the middle east, to unite them under a single banner for the good of themselves, their religion, and their way of life, in a desperate time of tyrrany and growing tensions between galactic powers, Harkonnen and Atredies, which are represented in Dune by Russia and America. The Cultures and Customs of Saudi Arabia show the comparisons between Fremen and Saudi Arabia and their struggle to their current riches by using oil. While the Fremen, in Dune, are shown to rise through their struggle with the power of the Spice. Oil: Anatomy of an Industry by Matthew Yeomans The above novel analyzes the importance of oil as a resource and as a political bargaining tool over the last one hundred and twenty five years as a resource. In Dune, an entire royal house is obliterated in order to keep production of the spice skyrocketing. An entire government is replaced with another, more tyrannical government for the sake of producing more spice. Oil: Anatony of an Industry picks apart the Oil industry and through reading this book, one can find out about the dangers and the backdoor politics behind production of a precious resource such as oil, which is easily comparable to the spice that is found in Dune. Entire countries and world leaders can shift and be shaped in the wake of rising or lowering oil dependency, which is easily comparable to the happenings of Frank Herbert’s Dune.
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Sathanas
Newcomer
MISSING IN ACTION
Posts: 33
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Post by Sathanas on Jun 7, 2007 19:54:33 GMT 1
Good shit man...I'm impressed  |
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Jul 4, 2007 4:25:41 GMT 1
"So you're sure they're bad people?"
"Yeah, I'm fucking sure they're bad people. I don't know what Italians are doing in my motherland in the first place."
"Italian Stalkers?" Sasha said, placing a gloved hand to his chin. A camel cigarette was freshly lit, placed in the corner of his mouth, and he rolled it about with his tongue, inhaling every fifteen seconds on the dot. "I'm not a racist man, but wop's in my Zone are very, very odd."
"Yes, apparently all types of mafia men, or ex-special forces, are flocking to here for easy money." The amateur Stalker said as he nodded.
"Five hundred thousand rubles." Sasha said, placing the cigarette out in the ashes of previous cigarettes, cropped in the corner of the stripped table.
"Thats... Thats a lot." The man said as he removed ten bills, and placed them down. The rookie stood behind a business man who looked very, very out of place. "For The Zone, I hear. " He added. It was, perhaps, the wrong thing to add.
"Yes well... That's each." Sasha said casually, removing another cigarette from a titanium tin stashed behind his spare clip on his thigh. "How many?"Sasha asked as the man whistled loudly. Others in the bar looked over momentarily, the place went silent... Then moved back to their business.
"Here." The man placed down a far larger amount of bills, sweating a bullet for every bill. "Wasn't meant to be this much..." The man whispered.
"You want it, you pay for it. Thats how this place works." Sasha began to place his headgear back on, and in a fluid motion split the ashes and picked up the bills. The ashes floated only momentarily, before sticking to the expensive suit of the Russian Mafia man. He raised an ashed covered finger to the rookie behind the man. "Never mention me again.. Or I'll kill you." He spoke. He made his way with quick pace to the door, and all other Stalkers stared at the two. All of them, head wear or none, had the same message in their look.
]
Get out, for the love of god.
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Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Oct 23, 2007 4:04:32 GMT 1
I had found myself on a stretch of land unfamiliar to me. Already I was annoyed by the morning dew staining my trousers and the cold air wrecking havoc on my chilled throat. I placed on my hands leather gloves, and adjusted them tightly to further avoid the cold. The leather jacket on my person did very little to stop the English cold from slithering into every opening and crack that the jacket offered. My glasses began to fog as my breathing cycle changed, dimming my sense of sight. With a quick look to the left and the right, I attempted to find a seat on the moors.
It felt like a battlefield that had not yet been used. The tension in the air, I felt, was the sole fuel that perpetrated the bitter cold. However, I made my way across the plains towards what looked to be a little piece of what could only be described as hell. The weather was icy and cold, but I had finalized in my mind that this home was the center of it all- and that if I passed onto its legal property, I’d be frozen there forever. However, I managed to catch a glimpse of life. A young girl, several years younger than I, seemed to move about the area as if it was deep spring. There was a separate air around her that seemed to temporarily rejuvenate whatever she set her eyes on. When her eyes fell on me, I felt her effects. I gave a small smile, she waved.
Upon getting closer, I leaned down slightly to introduce myself. “Top of the afternoon to you.” I said with my breath visible once more. “Would you happen to show me how to get back on the road for Liverpool?” It was a vain attempt to get myself out of there as quickly as possible. However, I felt shielded by youthful presence. The place around me felt like it belonged to the dead, and the dead alone.
“No…” She said, at length. “I do not believe that I have even seen you around these moors- just who are you?” The young lady inquired. I was slightly taken aback by the sharpness in her voice.
“I’m Paul, just trying to get back onto a main road.” I replied, attempting to keep my smile up. She seemed to consider me for a moment as I shivered.
“You seem rather cold.” She spoke as soon as I finished my reply. “You should-“
“’Cuse me.”
I looked up to see a tall, tanned man with a hawkish look staring at me from a small distance. His words seemed close to my ear, yet he was a good dozen yards away. He walked up with a quickness rarely seen except those in dire need, and he, too, considered me. “What are you doing on my property?”
I froze. The young girl seemed to fade to the background as she made several steps backwards as the tall man advanced. She looked up at him as they met at the same location- but he gave no inclination to her existence. I was the only thing currently on his mind, and it scared me.
“I’m a large fan of the countryside, and I attempted a detour on my way to the main roads to Liverpool.” I said, trying my best not to jumble my words. “But I guess I failed.”
“Indeed. You’ve yet to give a name… You are certainly not starting off on the right foot with me, young sir.” His words cut into me like small knives, and I felt tempted to step back- as if his words alone could damage me.
“Pardon me; I’m Paul- Paul Bridgeman. And as I said, just trying to find the road to Liverpool.”
“It certainly isn’t on my land, as you can see.” And the gentleman raised his arm in a swooping motion. Out of the corner of his eye I caught a gleam. He was happy to own what I stood on. So very… Painfully, happy. In his gaze I could see hard work, but what kind of hard work was the mystery I didn’t have the time to solve.
“I do see, Mister…?”
I came to quickly know him as Heathcliff, and after telling the young lady he addressed as Cathy to go back to the estate known as Wuthering Heights, he said he would personally walk me to the road. Something in the back of my head told me to say no, to just run past the home and to find it on my own. But it was just a whisper. I agreed, and we walked. “I must admit, this is a beautiful place. It must come alive in the summer time.” I said, attempting conversation.
“Yes well… It does.” He said, rather lamely. He didn’t seem to belong in the luxurious clothes he wore, and his posture and his presence felt like Alexander The Great. There was something greater at work in this place. I felt like I had intruded on something far too large for me to comprehend. I asked to quicken the pace.
As I stepped onto a built, solid road, I gave a gentle wave that was not returned. Instead the man known as Heathcliff briskly walked back towards his grounds, and the trees seemed to close around me, their branches like arms to protect me from the dark sight of the Estate and its owner. As I began walking forward, I thanked them- and I assumed the groan of the wooden planks under me were their reply of “You are welcome.”
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Post by Valencia Donahue on Oct 23, 2007 5:17:43 GMT 1
I haven't read "Wuthering Heights", so I cannot give an indepth critique on characterization.
However, I like everything else and how you've moved the piece along. I may have been a smidge bothered that you didn't turn to a thesaurus to change up the word "cold", but maybe the redundancy was intentional.
Nice job with bringing out the personalities of the characters, especially through descriptions and actions. Too many people nowadays rely too much on forced dialogue.
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