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Writtin' Thread

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Eris:
Saturday morning, trying to sleep in. The light sneaks its way through the gaps in the blinds and pokes my closed eyelids, urging me to pay attention. The day has begun, and I am missing out on all there is to do. Resigned, I peer slowly through my lashes out the window, smiling tiredly at the cheerful clear sky peering over the buildings. The room is quiet, only the sound of the man sleeping next to me. For once even the neighbours are silent; it must be earlier that I thought.

I take a look at the body laying beside me, noting how soft he looks when he is asleep. The worry has gone for the moment, and I am glad of that; he always seems to be thinking in three directions at once, trying to keep up with the world when he is awake. I lay back and relax, looking out the window once more and breathe in time with his sleepy breaths. It feels like we are alone in the world here, and that is an oddly comforting feeling.

A plane flies overhead and brings me crashing back to reality as I wait nervously to make sure it doesn't fall out of the sky. With a small sigh I roll over, away from him, and try to sleep again. The sun touches my face and I know sleep won't return.

ZJGent:
The priest's corpse lies, strangely splayed, over a gravehead in the bowels of Saint-Simon-Just. We are mere metres away from the great sprawling sewer system of New Paris. I glance at the revolver in my hand, whose head seems now blunt and pitted, angled at the floor. I sigh, a sigh for the Simon this cadaverous labyrinth was named after. My recently shellshocked brain struggles with simple facts known once to me. Who was the grey statue turning an icy saturnine glance over the priest and I? Patron of... patron of... no. The pebble of information escapes from the buttered fingers of my mind, and I am lost, chasing my own thoughts down black scarps. A damp sigh turns the cold dead air grey in front of me, and I collapse onto the granite feet of this Simon of Nothings and Nobodies.

November again. I expected it to be different by now, and yet I am still riding on the mouldering coat-tails of older dead. When did I lose myself? Père Luiz does not answer my thoughts, so I ask again aloud. My voice spirals down to the city's sewage where it echoes and marks the walls whose history aches with detritus. It is then that I laugh. My own musings on coat-tails; and the long jacket I wear is now slick from the evening's efforts. The worms in the walls would be proud of my work. Such decay in only one short tussle! Luiz' habit fair reeks with blood and irony. So pure to his congregation. So deserving of the spikes of my armoury. His teeth open madly, as if to bite a brown earth sky. The electrics this far below Paris are none too good, so our father's earth-moon can only flicker dimly above him, an electric light built to scare away old shadows.

I retrieve the pocket-case from its ragged wool tomb, and unclip the tin edging. Inside, a needle's spike gasps glitter and sparkles in the dim light. Christ, I think, as I limply prepare my work. Wherever He sits, he's ignoring me now. The vial of green liquid adds a phosphorescence to the vault around me, seeming somehow to make its own light. Luiz' arm is knotted, and I think of the ease with which - yes, now - the pin of violence in my hand dives into vein. The green spreads up his arm and his corpish pallor is replaced by a shade of something sicker. It is now that I must hurry. The needle must rush quickfast back to its pocket cave, with the vial, and I must escape further. Not up, but down, to the sewers, where Simon and the other saints will catch no sight of me.

It is then that my mind realigns and the facts come together.

Scrambled Egg Machine:
I'm working on a little steampunk-type thing, but it's going slow. Maybe later.

Scandanavian War Machine:
man, i forgot about this thread. i've actually starting writing short stories with the intention of compiling them into a book of some sort and i guess i might as well share one of them.

this is sort of a work in progress. the story is finished but i'm constantly rereading it and changing a word here and there, or adding some extra descriptions or changing sentence structure that comes off awkward. feel free to criticize, this is the first short story i've written since highschool so it's pretty unpolished. i'm working on my second one right now and it's much better (if i do say so myself) and longer.


----------------------

Two guys walk into a bar. The guy on the right says
“What color is my shirt?” and his friend on the left replies
“Um, it’s blue. What color is mine?”
“Well, it’s red” he says, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

Besides these two, the bar is completely devoid of customers so the bartender stands behind the bar and watches while they continue their conversation in a quiet whisper. After several moments they nod grimly, pull pistols out of their jackets, and place them in each other’s mouths. The bartender can’t stand to watch so he starts walking towards the supply closet in the back as they start counting down.
“uhhn”
He opens the door.
“hdoo”
He steps inside.
“hreee!”
He closes the door and covers his ears.
Both guns fire at almost exactly the same instant, filling the empty space with their hollow clapping, sounding not unlike a deadly round of applause.  A second later the bartender emerges from the little closet by the bar carrying a mop and a bucket. He sets them down against the bar, pushes a little red button on the wall that immediately starts blinking furiously, and pours himself a drink. He sits at the bar instead of behind it, sipping his drink slowly with his eyes closed, daydreaming of a far off land that probably doesn’t even exist. Several minutes go by and he’s already on his third drink, this time a whiskey sour, and he can’t help but wonder where we went wrong.
“Oy! Couple’ah colored shirts offed each other, eh?”
The bartender is so shocked by the sudden break of silence that he inhales the whiskey he was about to swallow and nearly chokes to death coughing and sputtering. He almost wishes he had choked to death. His father would have said that that was ironic, whatever that meant. He turns to face the loud transgressor, fully intending to tell him off for sneaking up on a fellow like that but thinks better of it once he realizes who, or perhaps more accurately: what, it is.
“Mighty sorry to have startled ya like that, chappy. I assumed you ‘eard me open up the door. I’ll ‘ave these two outta yer way in a jiffy, chief. Don’t you worry one bit” said the man in the silly accent.
Whether or not he is actually a man or not is unclear. Nobody knows who or what the Suits are, or where they come from. Nobody ever bothers to ask or even to spend much time thinking about it. It’s dangerous to get caught up in such things.
The bartender turns away from the well-dressed man: he’s hovering above the fresh corpses like turkey vultures circling over the head of someone lost in the desert, waiting for him to die. But these two are already dead and this man-thing is far too clean and proper to be a vulture anyway. He finishes his drink, picks up his bucket and mop, and turns back towards the mess. The Suit and the bodies are gone; the only evidence that they were ever here is a couple of dusty footprints in the drying blood and, of course, the blood itself.
He begins to mop.

-----------------------

schimmy:
I am the happiest child
and you are the loveliest thing.
In any bed we can find, you sleep.
You're at your best and I'm at my most.
You breathe so soft I can't sleep.

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