Fun Stuff > CHATTER
Writtin' Thread
Thomas Edison:
Wow, a thread that I actually think is a good idea, and that surely cannot fall into endless quips of a sexual nature.
I might get something typed up at work later and post it up.
Ossstentaaaatioooon. Awesome word.
ThePQ4:
--- Quote ---that surely cannot fall into endless quips of a sexual nature.
--- End quote ---
Okay, now you're just asking for someone to write some smut. But Eris asked nicely for us not to turn this into a sexy writtin' thread, so I shall ignore this sudden urge... But if it is not so nicely ignored by someone else, just know it's your fault, k! (Note: I'm not being bitchy, I mean that in a cute sarcastic way...I'm trying not to resort to the smilies...)
Scrambled Egg Machine:
I am a single face in a sea of digital camouflage. Stepping off of the train onto a bullet pocked concrete platform fifty miles south of Denver, I am one more soldier in the meat grinder that is Mid-West Theater, Sector 1. This town was once called Castle Rock, but all it is now is a firebase and supply dump, the rest of it having been pounded into oblivion by artillery. A-10's slam past overhead on their way to the trenches. I follow the crowds, into a bunker with truncated stumps of antennae protruding from the top. A bundle of gear is shoved at me and am ejected into the trench systems to find my unit. A Chinese-made ground attack fighter rockets overhead, cannon fire tearing into everyone and everything around me. I drop, bisected by a 23mm cannon round. Welcome to the war.
This is a segment of the prologue to a novel I am attempting to write.
Leinad:
Well you already shot your main character in half. I for one cannot wait to see how this turns out, if you can make him recover from that in a way that does not turn him into some super-human killing machine. Because we have way too many of them. But if you make the story a gritty, tough place without anyone thing being too over-bearing then you could have something interesting going on. PM me with more stuff, eh?
Thomas Edison:
I sit, idle as my car, outside a building which can only be described as a last desperate bid to re-enact the ‘70s ‘Late Modernism’ architectural movement. The funny thing is that it fails to grasp the monotonous feel that it’s supposed to have captured. Around it, across the streets and throughout the city, the other high rise buildings are bizarre, eccentric and generally a love-or-hate affair. This one, however, stands out like a blank canvas in a gallery of complex artworks. It is tall, as well as bland. Others try to be new, expressive, arty. This one, however, does not. It just is.
I know this because my father wanted me to be an architect.
I tweak through the radio stations as the car motor purrs, the flickering static complimenting the oppressive gloom of the building to my right. The airwaves are laden with news of impending war, of ever rising death tolls and of the new threats that emerge daily. I can’t suppress the curling of my lips as I realize it paints a bleak picture, just like the monolith to my right. As I said, it's a funny thing.
The building itself is the base of operations for a company whose name I choose not to recall. It is fifty eight floors high, and holds a number of workers too large for me to grasp. Maths was never my strong suit.
I am not smart, I am not witty, I am not wise.
I check my rear view mirrors before opening my car door, though I needn’t worry. Rush hour is long gone, and no one drives for the sake of driving anymore. With income decreasing and petrol prices increasing, the only time people drive anymore is when they need to get to work.
In fact, the only time I drive anymore is when I need to get to work.
I cross the road, the security of the building have opened the doors for me already. They’ve observed me coming here, to this building, every now and then for a few months. I am familiar to them. Each time I enter I carry a package made from cardboard and wrapped heavily with that odd brown packaging tape which, I think, smells glorious. The package is usually empty. This time, the package rattles when I shake it.
The men in suits with name tags smile and nod as I enter the building.
Within this building is a man. This is a man with power. Within this man is knowledge. This is the kind of knowledge I could never have. Not many people know it, but this man is one of the main driving forces behind all our problems. This man is sat at the top floor. This man is the head of this company whose name I refuse to recall.
In three minutes, this man will be sipping expensive brandy from a cooled glass. In five minutes, I will be within an elevator, pressing the shiny button for the top floor. In twelve minutes, I will be tearing open the package and assembling the contents. In fourteen minutes, I will check the clip is ready and the safety is off.
In fourteen and a half minutes, the man will be dead.
My father wanted me to be an architect.
__________
Today has been a reeeeallllly slow day at work. We've managed to watch Pulp Fiction, Transformers and that Pixar film with the rat. =/ I even managed to get to mah laptop.
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