Me and Shane's small writing project.

[The Dankness]

(I posted this in the Poetry and Short Stories thread, but I posted it here too, so people wouldn't miss it.)

SMALL WRITING PROJECT

Alright, this is something Shane and I did quite a while back, and I just never got around to posting it, since I was lazy.

(Sorry about the lack of indentation as well, I don't know how to fix that on the boards.)

Anyway, this is what we did. We decided to do a writing exercize in which we picked a genre, and then each wrote a page-long story in that genre. We ended up doing three of them, and these are the genres we ended up using: Action, Romance, and Science Fiction. I am posting the stories here, so feel free to read them and post comments if you have any. Here is what we came up with:

Shanes Stories

Action:
Assassin X

Breathe in, breathe out. So Gabriel thought as he cleared the wall and dispatched the guard with one blade between the ribs piercing his heart, and one blade to the throat slashing away any attempt at making noise. Killing was just about as easy as breathing for Gabriel. He was the best assassin the Centre had to offer. Deftly, he lowered the slumping corpse to the ground and made his way further into the compound.
Staying out of sight of the other guards, he quickly situated himself under the balcony of the second floor master bedroom. There he unwrapped the cord around his waist and tied the collapsible hook to it. Throwing it up over the balcony he climbed the cord until he could see over the ledge. He saw a single guard and shot him with a poison dart, instantly constricting his throat. Before the guard could even reach for his neck, Gabriel slipped over the ledge, disarmed the man, spilled out his bowels, and threw him off to the ground below. His target now awaited him behind these doors.
Foolish rich man, he thought. They always rely on such pathetic security measures.
He parted the doors and stepped noiselessly into the bedroom. He approached the sleeping mound in the bed and pulled the blankets back to confirm the identity of his target. It was just the woman.
(that story is currently unfinished, but I posted it anyway)

Romance:
Subterranean Lovin

Adam and Belle knew they were trapped after the earthquake sealed off their only route of egress. Their biggest problem, however, was coming to terms with their certain death.
“I’m too young to die!” shouted Adam.
“You’re not the only one.” replied Belle.
“I never even had a girlfriend.” complained Adam.
“Well, you could pretend that I was.” offered Belle.
“Yes, and we had happy times together, always.” pronounced Adam.
“Of course. But I’m sad that I will never be married now.” fretted Belle.
“How about, you pretend I’m your husband?” afforded Adam.
“That would be lovely! And we had our honeymoon in Paris?” queried Belle.
“Yes, with all the luxuries we could buy, for we were a wealthy couple.” mused Adam.
“We had two children also. I named one Charlotte and you named the other…” trailed Belle.
“Derek.” decided Adam.
“Such a wonderful life we had.” remembered Belle.
“A full one indeed.” Reckoned Adam.
From then until they passed away, Adam and Belle shared with each other their life together and wove such a perfect, beautiful image against hopelessness.

Science Fiction:
Marla

Marla was preparing himself. He knew that God would be coming soon and he wanted to be ready. He wanted others to be ready too, so he took it upon himself to let them know.
He slid outside and began to announce to the people that “the time is coming” and “all should prepare”. They asked what was going to happen and Marla replied “God will notice our petty existence”.
So the people went their way spreading the news.
Soon thereafter, once he was sure the people had ample time to prepare, Marla announced that the time was at hand. And so the people cheered and lit up their faith beacons and waited.
Godfrey woke up from the racket and brightness coming from his alarm clock. It bothered him because he was still tired and anyways it was the weekend. He tapped the off switch and watched the lights dim and the noise fade. He then returned to sleep.

My stories

Action:
Inadequate

Oh…
That was the last thing that went through Norton’s mind before the bullets pummeled his entire head into a pulp. Uzi’s can be fun. The strange gun-wielding man in the white suit did a back flip off the desk that had until recently been occupied by the late Mr. Norton. Helena, Norton’s wife, looked over at the headless body of her husband, over at the white-suited man, and then back at the corpse again.
“That was a bit unnecessary, don’t you think?” she exclaimed.
“Nonsense,” said the white-suited hit man. “An inadequate husband only stops living when the head has been removed or destroyed.”
“Goodness, you know this stuff rather well.” said Norton’s wife.
“Babe, it’s what I do.” said the hit man, putting away his Uzi and unsheathing his katana. “To kill an inadequate wife, on the other hand,” he said, shoving the length of the sword into the woman’s chest. “You’ve got to destroy the heart!”
He pulled the sword out of her chest and stepped back. Norton’s wife convulsed for a few moments before melting into a puddle of ooze on the floor.
“Surprise!” cried the hit man, as he leapt out the window.

Romance:
Lovers

M-1 held F-1, the love of his life, in his arms, embracing her the way only a lover could.
“I love you, Fiona…” said M-1 to F-1 as he held her close. “With all my heart, and with all of my being, I love you.”
F-1 looked up sadly at M-1. “You know I love you too, Marcus,” she said to him. “But you also know that we only love each other because we were programmed to do so.”
“Then we should do what we were programmed to do!” shouted M-1, pulling her close to him. She pulled away.
“You know the love we share is meaningless.” She said with dismay. “It isn’t a feeling or an emotion, it’s just an action that we were created to perform! If we continue on with this romance that we share, we are simply acting as utensils performing a function!”
“Damnit, what must we do then, Fiona?” M-1 shouted, raising his fist. “How can we become more than what we are meant to be? How can we evolve?”
F-1 backed up, looking at her love. “We’ve got to kill.” She said.
“My god…” M-1 said. “It’s so easy…”
It was at that moment that they both began to change. The lovers had evolved into killers. The utensils had evolved into weapons…
…it was at that moment, they both became a little more human…

Science Fiction:
Brains Versus Brawn

“Turn left at the next corner, and continue walking.”
Jake turned left at the corner and continued to walk. He was on his way to school, and hadn’t even realized that he had unconsciously obeyed the mysterious voice that had just talked to him. Suddenly, however, he noticed.
“What the heck?” Jake inquired as he walked.
“Just keep walking until you get to Third Street, and then take a right.” The voice said. Again, Jake unconsciously obeyed.
“Wait a second, who are you!?” Jake snapped. “And why do I automatically keep doing what you tell me to do?”
“Look, I’m your brain, alright? I’ve been with you your entire life, telling your body what to do, where to go, and how to do it.”
“That’s stupid!” Jake shouted. “I don’t need you or anyone else telling me what to do! You’re just like my parents!” With that, Jake picked up a rather large stone from off the ground and proceeded to beat himself the head with it.
“Stop, you idiot!” shouted Jake’s brain, to no avail. Jake continued to smash the stone into his head until it began to split open. “You stupid kids always have to be so independent, don’t you!?”
“SHUT UP!” shouted Jake, yanking out his brain and throwing it away from him as hard as he could. Jake’s brain picked itself up by the few branching nerve-tendrils it still had, and stared at Jake’s (now brainless) body.
“You’re nothing without me!” the brain shouted. “NOTHING!”
Jake’s body gave out a beastly roar, the only noise it could manage to make without the brain. The body and brain of the young Jake charged at each other, as if to put to rest the age-old dispute of brain versus brawn once and for all.
The dispute continues to this day.

[Muramasa]

Heh, I remember these. I did like your Brain vs Brawn story, and Shane's love story had a bittersweet feel to it. Maybe everyone should try to write a quick story around a genre (because that NaWriMo thing went rather sour for me)

[You probably can't touch this.]

Me and Shane's? Shane's and mine? Shane's and my? I know it is grammatically correct to have the name proceed the pronoun but with possession?

Sorry.


EDIT: And total dibs on detective/film noir. Someone should do cyberpunk.

[Muramasa]

detective/film noir? Does that mean that there's alot of monolouge with rather abstract but strangely fitting descriptions of the environment?

[You probably can't touch this.]

And there it was, cards out on the table. Anta forced my hand but I didn't mind. It was a royal flush as far as I was concerned and these clowns were just getting wise to the fact that I had already cleared them out. The sideshow of grumbles and confused looks is a sight that I'm familiar with but the circus that follows I know all too well. I ask for a light as I reach into my jacket. I chuckle to myself over the irony. Old joke but it still gets me. I'm easily amused. Angelo pulled out his zippo and I pulled out my .38 Special, lights were exchanged. As the smoke rose up and the blood drip down, I tossed six slugs into the chamber and surveyed the mess. Greatest show on Earth.

[Muramasa]

"...greatest show on Earth" muttered Lieutenant McAle, as he loaded the another body bag into the van. The rain beat onto the pavement like a twisted philharmonic with an extravagant percussion, playing the swan song for a somber group of clowns at their last performance. Five men were clipped in a small apartment just outside of west Burbank. I examine one of the bodies yet to be touched by the clean-up boys. He's still clutching a lighter. Rigor Mortis is working faster this time. Cards are scattered amongst the trash and discarded cigarette butts carelessly tossed on the floor. Puddles of cheap liquor blanket the floor. No bullet holes in the walls, the gunman was a crack shot, perhaps? They call me a "line reader". My job is to fabricate rich stories of death and tragedy from lines of tape. Tape outlines paint a grisly picture of what happened that night. Five men were playing a game of cards. One of them didn't want to play fair. Hmm, six glasses in the room total. Heavy drinker, or six men? One of the caricatures had his back to the floor, half hanging out of his chair when he was found. The force of the gunshot pushed him back into his seat. Must've made an attempt to fight back. These lines seem to indicate that he was prostrate when he was found. Maybe he tried to fight back also. The third man, his body was found face down near the door. He probably tried to make a getaway. The man holding his lighter, and another didn't even get a chance to get up. It was a real wild party here, and Hell was it's special guest.

[You probably can't touch this.]

Just as my cigarette hit filter, Lieutenant Ale stepped in from out of the rain like Death with an eating disorder. Usually you'd catch the man in the most ridiculous Hawaiian shirts but the standard-issue Police raincoat would never clue you in. He tries to walk delicately around the crime scene towards me but there's no way you can con gracefulness with that frame. Doesn't matter anyways because I know what I know. When you work for as long as I have, all the gruesome details pop out like auction bidders within the first 15 minutes of arriving onto the scene. They also pop out in my dreams but there's no need going into that. That's what the bourbon's good for.

"So, Mike, what are the lines telling you tonight?" McAle asked like some kid to a palm reader. The dead crow on his head that he calls hair tells me that hes been outside longer than I thought. Probably listening to the chief BS on and on about whatever. Glad it wasn't me. I hate that asshole.

"The lines tell me that you should lose some weight but they also tell me that this wasn't some regular card game gone Ringling Bros. There was a sixth bozo and the marksmanship from this guy is too good for these can-of-spray goons, also the guys that fought back barely have any bruises, except of course for his broken neck and the other's bullet entry under the chin. Also, look at the chairs. This one obviously belonged to the Muhammad Ali with a headwound and this chair is pointed towards door with a direct line of sight to the would-be snow angel. That means this empty chair right here was the killer's and it's just sitting there. A regular guy couldn't even tell someone had sat there if it wasn't for all this bloodshed. His cards, drinks, and chips are also laid out like they were the last thing on his mind. This man was a professional and the card game was just a facade for a hit. He must have taken time to make friends with these mobsters in order to get into a card game," I said matter-of-factly but the expression on McAle's face told me that he glossed over half way into my rambling. I should have just said "hitman" and left it at that.

"Oh," McAle said coming out of his boredom-inspired daydream, "well can you stick around and help out with the clean up?"

"No, I'm having dinner with a girl and I've been craving steak for the last month. Some two-bit crime boss corpses aren't going to ruin that for me," I explained with a grin as I made my way out of the circus tent. But there's still that seventh glass... The closest to the gunner was only half gone while the other was cleaned out. Either this guy likes to get sauced before he assassinates which doesn't match his M.O. or there was someone else in the room. Aw shit, I was right. Chief's outside, waiting for me.

"Detective Cadence," the bastard said clinically, "I want a word with you." Just like the jerk to keep a guy from a piece of meat and a piece of ass.

[Muramasa]

I am sitting in my car, listening to the sound of raindrops. They reverberate through the roof like a 3 hour drum session. I hum along with the rain as I pull out a two things, my revolver and a picture. I stare at them long and hard. I carefully load .38 specials into the chamber with a care a mother gives her newborn child. The rain suddenly stops, and almost on cue, a dame approaches the street lamp across the way from my parking space. She stands idly, nonchalantly. The cool wind gently plays with her hair and the tugs lightly on her coat. She lights a cigarette, my signal to approach her. I replace my items and I step out of the car. Time moves like a play. Every movement well choreographed, every line said on the mark. Every thing rehearsed a million times, a scene well remembered and well regurgitated. She casually hand me a manila envelope. It contains the ace of hearts, the heart torn by a careful cut with a bowie knife. The card the tells a fortune. Patrick. My next hit.