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Gotta love how my last post was from moving in freshman year and now I'm almost a senior..
Good old Ekublai and the Newgrounds Writing Anthology brought me back, though who knows how long I'll stay again. :P
Life goes on; if I have time I'll try to go back to the forum (after so many years), we'll see.
Finally settled in, so I hope to be putting a lot more into the writing forum soon. (hopefully with the minimal use of fire extinguishers)
I've spent the past few months getting ready for college, the past few days packing. After being a sometimes thing here, I hope that I can be more active when I get settled into my dorm in a couple weeks.
Also, I've been working on some new pieces, so I'll hopefully put them up for review soon.
Warren Saunders stood six feet tall, leaned on a dark wooden walking stick, and had a pair of eyes that both matched his cane and looked out on the world as though they didn't give a shit. His voice was as creaky as his bones and about as often used. Moving about was difficult in his late sixties; years of farm work had thrown out his back and knees. He didn't really care about his knees, or his back for that matter. Whenever they acted up he would just swallow one of the Advil pills he always kept in one of the many pockets of his jean overalls, give the offending body part a little whack from his cane, and carry on. He had taken the same approach to raising his children, but that was years ago.
He lived in a small and slightly run down farmhouse, with the green paint peeling off of the sides to reveal rotting wood and rusty nails. Warren would wake up every morning at five and go sit in the wicker rocker on his front porch and watch the sun rise, reflecting off the the dew which had collected on the forest of weeds which inhabited his front lawn. Occasionally there would be a cool breeze off of the river which ran through what was left of the farm and blow off a strip of paint, landing it on the porch where Warren sat rocking and smoking his cigar. Only once did he ever shift his eyes from the array of reds radiating from the horizon to observe the gliding green paint fragments. That was when he had finished his cigar and was getting up to go back inside. As he slowly raised himself out of the chair, with much assistance from his wooden cane, the strip flew and hit him in the face. The wind that morning was strong enough so that it almost blew off his hat and he staggered back in the breeze, swatting the piece of green, man made, time worn foliage from his jowls.
He had known the paint was peeling off. He also knew that his rafters needed fixing. He knew that his barn was run down and in disrepair, and that the grain silo had no roof left. It had been blown away by some storm or another that had blown through; he couldn't remember which. He had raised cattle for over forty years, and now their house and his were rather worse for ware. But, as for everything now, he didn't care. The cattle had served him well. They'd done their job and he'd done his, getting up early every morning to feed them, letting them graze and watch the sunrise. Now they were gone, and all he had and cared to remember was the dawn.
If he had wanted to, he could have remembered when he sold his entire herd of cattle to pay for the college education his son so badly wanted. He lost the best farm hand he had that day, but he didn't care. His son was where he wanted to be. If he had wanted to, he could have remembered the day he got married to the most wonderful girl he ever knew. She was gone now, and he didn't care. She was in a better place. He lived alone in his rotting house on his weed ridden farm which was falling apart, but he didn't care. His wife was gone, his son had left: there was no reason to.
I know it's a bit short, but eh, it is what it is.
The rain fell in relentless, thick drops from the conflagration of dark grey clouds over the burial site. It did not tinkle off of the grey metal coffin; the rain rattled against it like the hungry thunder which cracked intermittently throughout the graveside addresses. Although the attendees had expected to see the lightning which would occasionally insult the service, the sky remained dark. When the casket was lowered down by black clad men with black ropes into the hole, it descended into the churning stomach of the earth with the bile of the blackened sky turning the pit into a swill of brown and grey. The pillbox was washed down with seventy two shovels of the finest mud, now sludge, and the five family members clad in mourning watched from under a small, navy tent as little rivers of dirt washed past their polish ebony shoes to the now filling cavity. The digestion was completed as the resounding thunder clapped it's belly in full satisfaction, although the rain continued to provide the after dinner drink of sweet sorrow as it soaked into the soles of those standing beside the now erect headstone. With the dark maelstrom seething overhead, it was hard to believe that it was only ten o'clock: not even lunchtime.
---my technology is a Mary Poppins-like bag, that is highly collapsible, has an enormous capacity, and condenses the objects inside it. can be on a key-chain or ring or whatever. It is called the Pock-It.---
Mary's tiny purple Pock-It hung on a pink lanyard around her neck alongside her blue, green, yellow, orange, and red Pock-Its.
"God, Mary, why do you have so many Pock-Its?" asked one of her friends, who had a black, ring-model Pack-It on her index finger, and pointed towards the lanyard.
"Well," Mary started, "I just, you know, think they look great on me! Plus I've got them color coded for each of my classes! The red one is for math, the orange one is for history, the yellow one is for-"
"But why don't you just get a newer model? You know the newer ones can self organize! I heard that soon they'll be, like, able to pock twice as much." interrupted her friend.
"- and the purple one is for all my extra things. " finished Mary, only half listening. "Oh my god, Stephanie, why don't you understand? I need them to be orderly, and my rainbow will obviously make me look like an even more beautiful person, if that were possible."
Stephanie looked at her friend skeptically. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
"Huh?" asked Mary, taking out her makeup and a mirror that she had taken out of the purple Pock-It.
Stephanie sighed. Although Mary was a good friend when it came down to it, she certainly wasn't the brightest.
"Ooh, ooh, guess what?" said Mary excitedly as she put her mirror and makeup kit back into her Pock-It. As Stephanie started ask 'what,' Mary interrupted and continued talking. It was ok, Stephanie was used to it.
"So Peter was being so annoying when I got home after school. He was like, 'Ew Mary, why are you so obsessed with your looks? All that makeup makes you look like a slut."
"No!" interjected Stephanie, who knew first hand how rude Mary's little brother could be.
"I know, right?" Mary continued. "So, to get him back, I stole his little pet hamster. God, the little twerp must be flipping right now! That thing's his only friend."
Stephanie laughed. "So where'd you hide it, in the attic?"
"Psh, why would I do that? That place is so dusty, and I can't have any dust on my cloths, ugh. Naw, I just Pocked it. I've actually got him with me."
Stephanie had stopped laughing. "You pocked his hamster?"
"Yeah, so?" Mary replied, taking the first bite into her ham sandwich.
"Animals don't pock, Mary." said Stephanie, leaning across the table towards her friend. "Didn't you read the instructions?"
"Of course not, nobody has time for those stupid things." Mary said through a mouthful of bread and meat. After swallowing she paused. "Wait WHAT?"
"Mary, animals don't pock!"
The table fell silent as Mary reached into her purple pocket and dropped a dead hamster on the table. Stephanie looked up from the limp rodent's body to meet Mary's eyes. Two words came out of their mouths in unison.
"What creature gave you the right to enter this wood?" demanded the elf hoarsely, standing erect with the blade of his leaf shaped sword pressed firmly against Raymond's throat.
"Tell me now! Who gave you the right to enter this wood! Speak quickly, else I lose my patience! SPEAK!"
"I was on a hike! Dude!" Raymond managed to say, his shoulders pinned tightly against the tree behind him by the pain on his neck.
"I was just hiking through the woods and I ended up here! I didn't know I was trespassing or anything! I thought the Muir park's side trails stayed on park land, I'm sorry, man! Please don't hurt me! "
"You wandered here, human?" asked the elf, leaning forward slightly, tilting his head, his eyes becoming even more hostile and focused.
"Yeah! I guess?" replied the hiker.
Removing his blade, the elf grabbed Raymond by the collar and threw him into a tree to the left. The elf, standing tall and full of pride, looked down disdainfully at the human. Raymond's shoulders were hunched and turned away from his sudden attacker, and he glanced towards the strange person who had appeared in front of him only moments ago. The elf looked at the human against the tree and thought of him like a bad dog; like a dog who had urinated in the wrong neighbor's yard, in his yard.
"Humans do not simply wander into this forest. They bring with them fire and destruction and axes so that they may make our wood part of their...machine. Humans do not belong here! You do not belong here!" said the elf, raising his voice and looking down his nose at Raymond who now stood and faced him, shoulders sagging and palms outstretched.
"Dude, I don't know if you're some weird uber-environmentalist, or something, but I love trees, man! Their cool! Gotta love 'em! All I've got is my walking stick, see? No axes!" Raymond said, cautiously, gesturing to the rough oak staff lying on the ground.
"Hey, look, I've got a Quaker Oats bar too! It's chocolate, everybody loves chocolate! Take it, just take it!" he said, voice quavering, hunching away even more. The elf simply stood there, and only his eyes followed the wrapped bar's fall to the dirt. He grimaced.
"That thing is not of nature; it is some manufactured boil made of the honest soil. It is of your world, your heartless machine. I have no need or want of such things."
"Well what DO you want? I'll give you anything, man! Take my cell phone, take my wallet, take my water bottle, just LEAVE ME ALONE! JESUS, WHAT DO YOU WANT?" shouted Raymond, now hunched back against the tree almost to the point of touching the ground, and to the point of tears. Out of all the years he had spent hiking along paths through the woods, this was the last thing he expected would ever happen. He had never been mugged before, and never by some weirdly dressed, long haired hippie with a sword.
The elf's eyes narrowed at the question, and his previously harsh tone became dark and menacing.
"I want nothing of you, that is what I want. I want nothing of you, nothing of your world, nothing of any kind, but for you to be gone. Be gone, utterly gone!" spoke the elf as he approached the frightened human figure, who, at the elf's last words, bolted down the path he had come in a cloud of blue language.
The elf stood there for moment, back straight, eyes narrowed, and grimace present.
"Humans, they understand nothing." He said with disdain. "They 'wander' where they will and do as they please with no utterance of regard towards their mother, the womb that bore their kind upon their earth. They are quick to manipulate to achieve their ends, their desires. And as they trickle in and out, they wish to taint our world as well. What they seem as progress in not so, but simply the hastening of their doom, and the doom of what they call their precious earth. As they are present, so shall they be a plague upon any world."