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Attention! Fiction!

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ZJGent:
It has come to my attention that I don't offer enough to this forum. I mean, you look at some of the people and they are knitting each other little hats, and drawing fancy pictures, and making music and such. I knew in my heart that these people were setting the example and I wasn't following it well enough. And it set me to thinking, well, even if I wanted to make my humble offering to the people of the forum, how would I go about such a thing? After all, I don't know how to make things or sing things or play things. My sewing skills are rudimentary. I draw like a drunken spider after an escapade in an inkpot. So where to find some small way of paying my due? I suddenly realised that I can write somewhat okay, and hence: the Fiction Thread - I will write a short, personalised paragraph in any genre of your choosing, incorporating one or two themes of your choice, and you can take them away and read them. I can't promise you'll enjoy them! But I will try my best to research the necessary genre and keep the style consistent. I will keep writing these for the next ten hours or so, after which I will probably need to sleep a little - anyone wanting to have a pop at writing can by all means take the reins at that point.

in short, specify:
- genre
- 1 or 2 themes
and I will write a little for you.

like a present! only on your computer. and not one of those shitty e-cards either. those things suck and blow.

Edith:
I want a spaghetti western!
Old West, bad guys, saloons!

ZJGent:
A Dollar Whistle

The pale moon shone over Cancus Ridge and lit up the little frontier town below. To the south a buzzard circled – some steer, probably ‘scaped from Jack Hannaman’s ranch. It was known amongst most of the folk in town that Hannaman was more of a scholar than a rancher, and it was evident in the man’s disgust at having to inherit his father’s land and work. Tonight Hannaman sat over lists of sums and dabbed his pencil in a crucible of water often, in order to keep the evening dust from off his additions. Outside, all was not well. The sound of piano music leaked out from the Irishman’s saloon. O’Riley, the saloon’s rotund and jocular landlord, to whom the dusky little drinkin’ house owed its name, had just thrown out three angry young men from the city, on account of their violent modern ways. The young men in question could now be found sneaking back towards the bar, armed with six-shooters, a can of gasoline for the burnin’, and a heavy cloud of liquor in their licentious minds. The slip-door of the saloon opened with a bang, and the music died amidst a high, keening note. O’Riley looked heavy frighted, sack o’ custard as he was, and would have been praying for his life; were it not that the dangerous young men’s attentions were fixed elsewhere. You see, the music had not entirely stopped, as such. From a cold corner of the darkening saloon, a single dollar whistle, such as sold to children for their birthday celebrations, was being played, and played good. The notes slid away into the night, and the three young men, brothers all, demanded to know who dared play. A tall, unshaven shadow unfolded from his corner, and stood in front of those untutored, uncivilised city brothers – the stranger’s jaw set and his mind firm. A military-style pistol sat in a holster strapped to his hip, gleaming, proud, and arrogant. The patrons of the bar dared not breath, for fear of striking a match to this tense and flammable situation.

KvP:
POST-APOCALYPTIC SCI-FI PLEASE

featuring mutants, and possibly some sort of cube.

ZJGent:
The Fifth Argyle Mythologies

The upper echelons of the ancient and withered Chronos tower whispered with a dead air – after the third Electron War, fought in the outer skies, the atmosphere had withdrawn to a safe point near the earth’s surface – and Adrian found himself coughing and wheezing, even inside the safety of his biologically cleansing exoskeleton. The suit only cleaned the air, it couldn’t make more of it than there was. At the tower’s storm-blasted apex Adrian could see the fifth Argyle Cube glimmering in its protective chamber. Finally, the Society of Survivors would know where the last waters were; finally his sister would be free! This thought pushed his aching limbs forward, where his own will had long since failed. To his left, in the empty air to the east, hideously mutated carrion crows swooped from their perches, knowing a feed was not far off.

Adrian persisted, freeing the Tazon Distance Catheter from its shoulder holster. If there was to be any unwanted attention, it would have to be dealt with quickly. After all, there was not much time left. In less than an hour the last of the Argyle Cube’s power would deplete – after that, there was no hope for the last of the humans. With thoughts of extinction weighing heavy on his mind, it was hardly surprising that the carrion crow managed to sneak just outside of his range of vision. It was only when he felt the first of many tentacles squeeze the cables on the spine of his exoskeleton did he think to turn around, his first shots burning a hole through the wing-spines of the terrifying avian monstrosity.

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