Lets Write A story!

[Avron]

June, singings in July at Fort Henry.

[s.xkitten]

"I awoke in a dark room to come to the realization that..."

Xen Hu was standing over me...i realized my time had come, and attempted to scream...he gagged me, and dragged me out of bed...the rest is to graphic for this website..

the fucking end...

[Avron]

Why U Be like that?

[Serbia]

And you thought I was bad.

[Hitman079]

"I awoke in a dark room to come to the realization that..."

Xen Hu was standing over me...i realized my time had come, and attempted to scream...he gagged me, and dragged me out of bed...the rest is to graphic for this website..

the fucking end...

i believe describing violent rape is not too graphic for this site.

[s.xkitten]

"I awoke in a dark room to come to the realization that..."

Xen Hu was standing over me...i realized my time had come, and attempted to scream...he gagged me, and dragged me out of bed...the rest is to graphic for this website..

the fucking end...

i believe describing violent rape is not too graphic for this site.

eeh...i wasn't really thinking rape...Xen isn't that dirty...

[Avron]

Why you gotta ruin a good topic idea? This could have spammed its way to to 1000 pages.

[Hitman079]

fine. i'll post a story. note: it has a moral because my teacher required my story to have one.

BANG! The saloon doors of the Blue Moon Tavern flew open, smacking the walls and kicking dust up into the air. A tall, shadowy figure stood in the doorway, panting. He glanced around the interior of the tavern. The patrons looked over their shoulder at the newcomer, and, uninterested despite such an entrance, went back to chatting and drinking. The figure trudged to a barstool, swung his legs over it, and sat down.
"What'll it be?" grunted the bartender, looking up from drying mugs with a cloth.
"Whiskey and a water," he ordered. He pulled down his white ten-gallon leather hat to his back to reveal messy, sweat-drenched, blonde hair.
"Yeh ain't a reg'lar, are ya?" asked the bartender as he set down two mugs in front of his customer. The newcomer poured a strange portion of whiskey and water, almost entirely alcohol. He downed it in a few gulps, and with a grimace on his face wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Nosiree," drawled the newcomer.
"What's the name?"
"What's it to ya?" he snarled.
"Nothin' at all...nothin' at all," mumbled the bartender, going back to wiping down the mugs.


At a table in the far corner of the tavern, three men were chatting amongst themselves. They observed the man intently, and one of them, smoking a cigar, looked up from gazing at the cards in his hand. "Whaddya think, Tyler?"
"Loaded? Iono. Call him over."
"Hey, Mister!" called out the smoker.
The newcomer peered over his shoulder and responded indifferently, "What?"
The man with the cigar blew out a ring of smoke and held up the cards in his hand. "A game of cards?"
The man at the bar seemed to be interested. He walked on over and sat down on one of the chairs. He looked around the table, and greeted, "I ain't too friendly around strangers, but I'm a sucker for a game'a poker."
"Well, we ain't gonna be strangers soon!" laughed the smoker. "Name's Moore."
They shook hands. "This here is Tyler, and the other one is Clark."
"Call me McCormick."
Both nodded. Tyler was a rather tall man, with high cheekbones and his silver hair slicked back, creating a heart-shaped hairline above his forehead. His hair went past his ears and was tucked behind them. His eyes were narrow to the point a shadow was cast over his eyes, and he had a prominent nose. His mouth was sort of in a frown, and he exuded nobility, which was accented by the black suit and matching bowtie he was wearing.
"You look honest enough," remarked Tyler. "I say we let him play a bit."
Clark grunted in agreement. Clark had a beard that started near his upper lip and covered his chin, going back to his ears. His beard was brown, and it looked like it was combed and well-groomed everyday. His hair was combed to the side with hair grease, and tufts of it on the side fell upon his ears. His nose sort of resembled an exclamation mark. His eyes were puffy, showing that he had been deprived of sleep the last few days.
Moore's eyes were similar to Tyler, but his hair was brown. It circled in a ring around his entire face, and was accented with a upside-down \_/ mustache. He wore a normal beige hat. "Like yeh hat," commented Moore.
"Same t' yeh too."
"Well now, enough chattin'! Let's git on t' playin'!" boomed Clark.
"Let's hav' sum' drinks over here!" called out Moore. Tyler remained silent.
After a few minutes the four were chatting and laughing like old friends who had just reunited for the first time in years. The drinks kept coming, and the money kept going.
Whenever Moore would play a good hand, he'd slam down the cards on the table, bringing a smirk to his face and a frown from his peers.
After the game raged on for what seemed to be hours, McCormick had started to notice that Moore almost always folded or called at the right moment. From time to time Moore's predictions would be wrong, but more often than not they were correct. He was pretty sure it was not sheer coincidence. When it was his turn to receive cards, he requested for two. He noticed something strange- an almost imperceptible black dot in the left corner of the card, hidden among a sea of red and white patterns. Maybe he was seeing things; his vision faltered ever so slightly for short periods. He kept staring at the card, and lifted it up to see what it was. It was an ace.
McCormick decided to ignore the spot and tell himself that he was seeing things. So the game continued. As the game persisted, McCormick knew he wasn't seeing things. The spots started to appear here, there, everywhere on seemingly every card that had greater value than ten in a multicolored rainbow. Throughout the game, some dormant feelings in him had been aroused from time to time. Now it was a burning, raging passion within him struggling to burst free. By now Clark was flat broke; a majority of his money was mostly with Moore and the remainder of it with McCormick and Tyler. Tyler was looking desperate, and so was McCormick. Only a little more than half of his money was left. Once again, Moore smirked, and McCormick winced at the mere sight of seeing the corners of Moore's mouth crinkle. However, McCormick knew better. Moore was most probably bluffing; no one would let evidence of the value of their poker hand show so clearly on his face.
"Fold," sighed Tyler.
"In," announced McCormick, calmly placing his poker hand face up on the table. He had a full house, the fourth most valuable hand; he was pretty confident he'd win the dollar pot. It was not meant to be.
Moore smirked again, and slammed down his cards on the table. McCormick stared stupidly at the cards that presented themselves before him. A sickening realization came over his mind; it was a straight flush the second most valuable hand. His face reddened with anger as Moore cackled wildy. McCormick could bear it no longer. At that instant moment passion won over reason. He shoved Moore furiously against the wall.
"YOUSE CHEATIN'!" he thundered.
Moore gasped in horror, a look of indignation on his face.
"Boy, I ain't cheatin'," he slurred.
McCormick swore vehemently and shoved Moore to the wall even harder. His face expressionless, Moore repeated, "I ain't cheatin'."
"You lie! Lying ____!" He brought his arm back like a spring, about to slug Moore in the face when a strong hand grabbed him from behind.
"Sirs, you better take this outside, or yeh'll both never set foot here again, ya hear?" threatened the bartender.
Mumbling angrily, the four shuffled and staggered outside.
"Look, man. I swear on mah mother's grave I ain't cheatin'!" exclaimed Moore.
"Swear on yeh own grave, cuz' that's where you're goin'!" teethed McCormick.
"Now, now, we mustn't fight like barbarians," Moore soothed, backing up from the advancing, rip-roaring drunk McCormick. Knowing he would surely lose in a brawl, Moore suddenly found courage when he felt something hard poke him when he backed into the wooden wall of the Blue Moon Tavern. Confident that he wouldn't win in a scuffle, but would in other forms of combat, Moore suddenly stood rigid and stood up to McCormick.
"Sir," Moore cried, "I challenge you t' a duel!"


"I ain't got no gun," snarled McCormick. "It's a coward's way of fightin'."
"Fightin' is an idiot's method," countered Moore. "All brawl and no brain." Moore tapped his noggin to further the point.
"Fine," McCormick agreed. "Gimme a gun."
Tyler handed McCormick a large silver revolver, handle first.


"D'you know how t' duel?" inquired Moore.
"Sorta. I've seen it before."
They walked out to the center of the wide dirt road that bordered the bar. They stood in the center of it, back to back.
"Pace!" barked Moore.
McCormick was so drunkedly furious he paced briskly away from Moore when the duel started.
"Stop!" Both spun around to face each other, finding they were about twenty yards apart from each other.
McCormick fingered the gun, which he had stuffed in his pocket, waiting for Moore to make a move.

Moore had absolutely no fears at all. He was 100% confident he'd win. However, Moore was still on the cautious side, slowly inching his hands toward the pistol in its holster. He hoped to gain every inch's advantage possible before drawing and killing McCormick.

McCormick saw Moore's attempt to subtly get his hands nearer to his holster, so McCormick decided to make his move. Time seemed to slow as his hand shot towards the gun in his pocket, drew it out, and let his finger rest on the trigger. He pulled it, and saw the hammer draw back ominously, and then thrust forward to ignite the gunpowder inside the bullet that would find its way into Moore's skull.

Moore was caught off guard as he saw the event happening. His mouth fell open, and he started to reach for his own gun- but he knew it was too late.

McCormick waited for the satisfying BLAM! to be emitted from his revolver. However, it never came. Instead, he heard a horrifying click. He realized in a split second that the revolver Tyler had handed him was empty.
"Aw, sh-"
BLAM! Moore's pistol barked, and it bucked back brutally in his right hand. The small, superheated ball of copper shot through the air, out of the smoke created by its firing. Moore heard it penetrate the air with a whoosh! and heard the sickening sound of it hitting its mark.

McCormick's eyes widened as he felt a hot, searing pain as the bullet sailed past his skin and shatter his left shoulder blade. He staggered backward, let out a gasp, and clutched his injury, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. Another report of Moore's pistol followed. BLAM! The wind was knocked out of his gut as he felt a knife of pain slice through his stomach as if it was made of soggy paper cards. He hunched over, begging for the pain to stop when another BLAM! entered his ears. This time it struck him square in the chest. He felt an excruciating pain as his heart was torn apart by a bullet. He tried to gaze up one last time at his murderer, but his vision blurred and all he saw was blackness

Moore, shuddering at having killed a man, walked up to McCormick's limp body. At the exact same instant, he sobered up. His hands felt wet, as if stained with the blood of the young McCormick. He kneeled at the corpse and tried to whisper a prayer of begging for forgiveness, but the words never left his lips.
"The man's dead, Moore! There's no use!" consoled Clark.
"The man woulda been dead anyway, Moore. He was r-rip-roarin' druink," whimpered Tyler.
Moore glared at his two peers.
"Y-you know t' truth," he bawled. "Hain't no use denyin' it! We cheated, and we cheated 'im good! It all started with a game'a cards- and- and the whiskey!
Moore choked out, "That pistol was empty! Y'know it! The man's dead! He's dead! DEAD! May God have mercy on our s-souls!"

[Avron]

Mccormick is my schools like cop? or w/e good story, I only read the name but good story.

[Serbia]

Not reading it, but it was probably good.

[s.xkitten]

i actually took the time to read this...

it was pretty good...

[safariguy5]

Not bad, but I really can't add anything to that.

[Hitman079]

thank you thank you
positive feedback is appreciated

[Dancing Mustard]

It made me sad because I thought it was going to be the second half of the rape scene but then it was just an addendum to Brokeback Mountain but without the bumsecks which was really the only interesting bit of Brokeback Mountain even if I did not like it because it was about homosexuals and it made me feel uncomfortable because I am a man who likes ladies who look like ladies and not ladies who look like men or men who look like ladies but now I am just posting a rambling run-on sentence for the fun of it with little hope of actually furthering this topic or contributing to the thread the story was very good but you are kind of addicted to adjectives although I am sure that will cease to be a problem as you write more.

[Iliad]

It made me sad because I thought it was going to be the second half of the rape scene but then it was just an addendum to Brokeback Mountain but without the bumsecks which was really the only interesting bit of Brokeback Mountain even if I did not like it because it was about homosexuals and it made me feel uncomfortable because I am a man who likes ladies who look like ladies and not ladies who look like men or men who look like ladies but now I am just posting a rambling run-on sentence for the fun of it with little hope of actually furthering this topic or contributing to the thread the story was very good but you are kind of addicted to adjectives although I am sure that will cease to be a problem as you write more.

That is one long sentence, could you imagine actually try to say it without a pause?

[Hitman079]

you can improvise the commas.
btw another story:
not as good as the first one because this one was rushed (yes it has a moral)
It was summer vacation 2007, and we were all set to start planning out our high school future from here, the end of freshman year at McDonald High School. Careers? Whatever. College major? Don't need to worry about that. Right now high school's about two things- popularity, and what directly influences it- reputation. It can be broken down further, and reputation comes from your actions and looks. No one cared about the inside, until they got to meet you. But it's the looks that get people attracted first. A book's cover attracts you first, then you start to read what's in it, and you decide whether or not it's worth your time.
Anyways, the name's Marc Howard. I wasn't born especially musically talented (as in singing), so I took up playing the bass. Now this summer me and my friends Cam, Tommy, and Phil are getting together to form a band- we'll argue over its name later. If we're good, if we succeed, then we can say hello to popularity and -girls-. I don't think anyone has the equipment or know how to make up a rap song, the mainstream stuff is pretty awful anyways. Rock is the only decent music left, it still sings about love, war, rebellion, and the rock-n-roll lifestyle. Rap's just about what's in some girl's jeans.
So now you know the background story and brief history of the (future) most famous and popular band of all time.
We're meeting at Cam's house, since we can practice there after school when folks are at work. Ok, so first and foremost is the Camster himself, our lead guitarist/main vocals. Phil is the honorary drummer, and Tommy is the other guitarist/ backup vocals. I myself am a bassist.We all join in the vocals, just the people better at singing get louder microphones. I got there second after Phil, and then me and then Tommy.
"OK guys. Great bands gotta have a great name," began Cam.
"The Phil Cassidy Experience," suggested Phil.
"No," we chorused in unison.
"The Bored UFOs," someone suggested.
"What kind of a stupid fu-"
The argument went on for almost an hour, and we finally agreed on our new awesome name- Tranfusion. See the brilliance behind it? Our own ingenious Marc Howard came up with that. If we really did get good (thinking realistically here), we would get shirts- maybe simple black with red letters. Who knows, the future awaits us.
***********************
After months of practice (three to be precise) and then some, our school was having an upcoming talent show. What better way to shine than by performing in front of the whole school? We weren't creative enough to compose and write our own songs, so we're just playing some other band's song. We practiced the [stuffing] out of it. We were definitely ready, no doubt about it.
The story was different the night before. A few more perfomances and we were up. The talent show was boring so far, nothing too impressive. One promising singer, and some geek trying his hand at comedy or some other loser doing magic tricks. Ok, maybe I'm underestimating them. They got a good reception, but seeing other people get a standing ovation or something makes me even more nervous. Cam was pacing back and forth, and Phil was sitting down, closing his eyes and air-drumming the beat he was supposed to play over and over, muttering to himself. Tommy was at the bathroom throwing up (from nervousness, not bulimia). I myself was pretty close, but I have more self-control over my body.
"Next up- Transfusion!" called out the announcer. My heart jumped to its throat and I had to swallow it back down. We were up, and I could practically hear the heartbeats of Cam and Phil. Tommy was back, and he looked as glum as a prisoner being led to the electric chair. We shuffled onstage and I picked up my white-and-black bass. I tried not to look at the crowd, but my curiosity got the better of me and I nervously glanced up. My God, there were so many! I didn't ever know the student body had so much. Phil swallowed and it looked like he just swallowed a yo-yo. Poor Phil, he had to start up the whole song. Nervously gripping his drumsticks, he tapped his high-hat (the thing on the drums you hit with every half-beat) faster than we thought he would. I was taken by suprise as he hit it the fourth time, and Cam started it off with a dissonant cord.
"Turn away..." he sang nervously (more like spoke).
Tommy and I joined in, and we seemed to be doing okay, at the second chorus, until Phil hit something wrong. Most of the time you don't notice when a drummer messes up because they keep going, but Phil paused for a long time. Cam looked like someone stabbed him from behind, and he looked back at Phil. Tommy and I followed suit, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Someone started clapping in the audience, and other people were following suit. However, I plucked my bass and, voice cracking from nervousness, screamed "Remind me to kill Phil! Kill Phil! Phil kill kill Phil!" in unison with a simple, repetitive chord. It drew a few laughs, and then everyone started to laugh. I stripped off my bass and ran offstage. As we ran I heard thundering (somewhat sarcastic) applause. Cam, Tommy, and Phil did the same, and we were backstage, practically sobbing over how badly we did.
"Phil's fault."
"All Cam."
"It was Tommy."
"Marc did it."
***********************
It was after the talent show, and everyone was waiting for their ride since the show was during school, and it was a great time-waster-get-away-from-class event! I practically was using my backpack as a mask and I phoned my parents to pick me up earlier.
I was sitting down and balling myself up in a corner, when I heard footsteps approaching me. Judging from her miniskirt, it was a girl. Then I looked at her legs and realized- it was...Linda Kline, only the most popular girl in the school. What does she want from me?
"Hey, Marc."
"Hey Linda..." I mumbled without even opening my mouth.
"Don't feel bad. That took a lot of guts, you know. I wouldn't have gone up there for a million dollars. Besides you were much better than some of the other losers."
I looked up with a look of hope on my face. "Really?"
"Yeah! It took guts. I was thinking of singing but I chickened out!"
"Oh."
"Well, talk to ya later!" Linda winked at me and walked away.
I looked behind me, and there was just a wall. There was no doubt she was winking at me! That was the most I've ever talked to her (four words), but I'm sure I heard her right. Maybe how we did doesn't really matter after all. I mean, we had guts, and that's probably what counted most, not the song we chose or how well we played it.