The Stories Within

Started by BeneathTheTides, July 06, 2017, 09:43:55 PM

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I was asked, just as you were upon entrance to this community, what is it that I wish to find here.
While at first this seems like an easy thought, my mind dug at the surface of it,
and I began to wonder.

I can write in the quiet moments with nothing more than a pen and paper for company.
I can delve into the creation of stories in the isolation of google docs.
I can turn my sight and mind to any numerous places to salt the layers beneath my skin with lust.
So, what did I want? What was I searching for? Why do I once again step fresh faced into somewhere new?

The answer is simple Dear Reader.
Though it took me a moment to find it, find it I did.

It's far from straightforward writing, role play, or crafting myths that we do.
We entangle worlds, shape words, and we move to the music that only we can hear.
So, yes, the answer really was a simple thing in the end.

The storyteller, the fiend, the one who can taste the words upon your lips as every note of the story plays out,
my answer was to dance through the pages with you.

Before we find our tempo
(Brief notes)

Below the surface
(My O/O)

I am capable and willing to play both male and female characters, but I am most comfortable with the first.
I will often suggest I play multiple characters, while the main focus will be on one of the many.
I like to ramble, quite a bit. So if you are unable, or unwilling to give me at least a few paragraphs to work with, my interest will wane.
I am here for stories, and while some can be heavy with smut, I require there be reason behind it.

Some of the lyrics that refuse to let go
(A few story concepts)

Broken Geometry
(Psychological horror, mystery, and realism)
Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
There has been a murder in the apartment complex,
a conversation with a detective who has cold eyes,
and a strange text from a name that was not put into your phone.
“Mathematics will tell you that a true circle has a central point to which every edge is at the same distance.
A space, a divide, that has equal expanse no matter how you look at it.
A walled section that has no shortest route of escape.
A place where every variable fails to calculate the easiest path out.
Every option, though different, has the same numerical outcome.

Poets will tell you that a circle is where the genesis meets the end.
Where the path repeats itself in unbroken pattern.
A symbol to which one can retrace the joys experienced, and shed a tear for the sorrow it leaves on the tongue.

Yet, I believe them all wrong.
It is merely a test, a bent line upon the page,
and one that is so easily stepped over.

I’m here to show you the way out.
I’m here to show you the flaws of truth.”

-Sent from
Now the world is turning upside down, and it is easy to notice what had been ignored.
The signs were everywhere from the start.

Bullets, Knives, and Pancakes.
(Supernatural, horror, and syrup)
Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide

America is famous for its diners.
Places that even at the crack of dawn one can fight hunger with greasy bacon,
scrambled eggs, and waffles .

In a place like this we find,
a man with a British accent that has a quick smile and poison tongue,
a Texan who died while his body walks,
and girl who likes super man, swimming goggles, and isn’t what she seems to be.

So, finish up that coffee, wipe your hands,
and get ready for the road-trip of your life.

Stained Glass Eyes
(Fantasy, low-magic, and wolf like creatures)
Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
Night falls and the caravan stops.
Camp fires bloom in the darkness,
and the guards swell their voices with alcohol.

A day more... almost there..

They imagine the fat purses of coin that will weight their belts,
and the whores that will lighten them.
They can taste the fatty meats, and the heady meads.
They know the face of greed, but as the screams start,
they are introduced to the grinning mask of fear.

With the sounds of teeth gnashing, claws tearing, and fur whispering against midnight,
it was thinning the herd.
It was taking vengeance upon those who would trespass upon his territory.

What was the worst place to be, now becomes the safest,
inside that cage filled with slaves.

The Will O'Wisp
(Cyber-punk, action, and futuristic)
Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
Even inside bloated cities draped in neon lights, wet skylines, and technology,
there are forests of addiction to be found. There are glimmers that would guide
you down those dark alley paths, and lead you below the faces of
buildings that reached for the heavens.

Pass by the withered stumps of withdrawal, and keep steady past those shadows
that are more machine than human. Watch as that flickering glow leads
you to a bar that has a sign over its door proclaiming

‘The Nine Wells’.

So step in, ask about the owner from the man behind the bar,
and watch as those enhanced eyes study you in return.
Order a drink, a drug, or a byte to eat,
because the job that needs being done isn’t as easy as you think.

The First Touch of Starlight

(Sci-fi, Firefly-ish)
Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide

People get settled on a planet, left with merely a shovel,
some animals, and some seeds.
They are left to fend for themselves against raiders,
disease, and taxed for their troubles.
This isn’t the life shiny dreams are made of.

So when that ship lands, and their cargo bay yawns wide,
what is stopping someone from sneaking on board?

With its name painted in broad white along the stern,
the Tether is a strange ship with a stranger crew.

For now however, just look out that window as it rises into the black, and
tell ‘em with a hushed whisper that you’ll never be coming back.

The rhythm
(The example)

These are not the only stories within reach of my mind, nor are they the only ones I seek.
I merely lay them here beneath your attention for two fold reason, to offer a bit of my tastes, and show I enjoy a wide range of topics.
They are open to thread what details into them as we may one day see fit, but I do believe them to be solid ground to start from.
Yet, what of not just the concept, but how I write? What of the style and length you should expect of me?

To that I offer you this.

Based on the 'Bullets, Knives, and Pancakes' concept.
Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide

The moon lay upon the bedded blankets of thin stretched clouds, and the reality of the stars smeared their glow against the cotton surface overhead. Distant forms of shadowed limbs whisked by in the dimmed distance, and the headlights punctuated the yellow dashes against the seas of black roadworks. Humming with unmaintained soles, the wheels pulled the van down the highway in steady cycles of vibrations that shivered through the rusting green shell, and its old engine grumbled in dangerous unchecked health. There were others out there in this lapping waves of midnight, swimming through the same hours that tidal pulled closer towards dawn. Cars appeared from the murk, cutting like beetles through the gloom with glowing eyes, only to skitter back to the safety of shadows a moment later. Homes in the distance set afire in the dark by their electric fueled blaze of bulbs, and more than one set of warning cones escorted by workers draped in garish orange safety vests.

Yet, for all of this reminder that they sailed the world with a large populace just out there past the windows, the three occupants of the van seemed isolated in their near silence. Each of them handling hours of travel in their own comfort levels.

For Traith at least, the world out there was too large, and the blackness too deep. The shadows of the horizon stretched out into infinity and lay near death under the bleak marked sky. It simply felt… wrong. In the United Kingdom, the roads were almost always sheltered away from such maddening views by hedgerows, plant encrusted fences, or sound barriers. Generations of land greed employing the owners to keep even eyes of strangers away from trespassing upon their soil, but here in America? Everything seemed so… what was the word? Expansive was as good as any he thought to himself. Then, there was odd sensation of being displaced by merely sitting in the passenger seat that was to his muscle memory on the wrong side of the van, and no matter how many hours they spent moving, never could this be shaken. Americans took very basic ideas and skewed them. Drove on the wrong side of the road, and hell, they even murdered the bloody language. What could you do?

Hazel eyes peered at  his dull reflection in the window that he was perched beside, and though they twinged with a bit of tired, there was still that ever present half cocked smile below them to make up for it. Dark brown hair that verged near black played delightedly with the slight breeze that the air conditioning puffed through the vents, and a day worth of stubble had sprouted along his cheeks. Overall one could imagine him doing well with the fairer sex, which most certainly he did, and with that English accent of his? Well armed with that, it wasn’t just the ladies that he could draw glances from. The worst of it however was the fact that he knew all of this, and knew it well..

At the height of six three, Traith was slim built was a casual manner about him that allowed almost every action to be fluid in motion, as if everything in his life had been rehearsed. Even something so simple as him flicking down the sunvisor to gain access to the small built in mirror seemed just a casual thing for him. Graceful without meaning it to be so, and damned proud of it. 

“Planning on fixing your makeup?”

That thick Texan accent that sounded like gravel and shell casing was owned by Scott, and where the passenger seemed smooth honey, the driver made up for it with all the missing rough edges. Built like a soldier, muscles were clearly outlined in that constant tense way that he always held himself, and every action he took seemed clearly defined. Even the small constant adjustments of the wheel which large powerful hands were clasped upon (ten and two), seemed to tick this way and that in well timed clockwork. Nothing about that square jaw or sharp blue eyes seemed to hint at anything graceful, but rather Scott seemed tailor made to be functional with the word steady thrown in for flavor. Short militaristic buzz-cut, clothes after all these hours having remained perfectly pressed, this was a man with the poster child for one who knew how to follow orders, keep to the system, and do what training had taught him. Even that holstered firearm that offered a slight bulge behind Scott's jacket seemed to be just right in its proper place.

There was no art to this brute behind the wheel, and Traith despised him for it, but that was fine. They weren’t here to be friends.

“We need to stop for food soon, ‘the kid’ has to eat.”

The Brit responded with no sign that his egos ribs had been jabbed at, and it fell from his lips with dismissal that the American was even there. Instead of pushing into yet another verbal duel against someone he considered close to being a neanderthal, Traith tured that gaze over his shoulder to the seats behind.

“Want some pancakes?”

It was to her religious studies that ‘the kid’ had delved into. With the care of a curator Alex’s small seven year old fingers lovingly touching the texts of one of her many bibles, and a penlight tucked behind her left ear bled its pinprick of light down against the iconography. This issue was titled ‘Superman’s Fall’, and apparently was a ‘NEW EXPANDED REPRINT’ of Issue 93. The cover was a candle light vigilance over a tombstone marked with the trademarked swooping S, where people shed tears for a hero they once loved.

With the focus of a scholar and pious humility of a monk, she explored every inch of the thin pages, setting to memory every dot of ink, every letter, and every image. Though to her its holiness was never in doubt, (How could it be? It was Superman after all!) the word ‘pancakes’ can hold a shattering effect even upon the most diligent of works, and that simple question held enough weight to break her attention away from such ancient and foreign manuscripts. Bright green eyes that shone like emeralds were clad in a pair of bright pink swimming goggles, but even behind those tiny windows, they mustered enough strength to snap at him in defiance. Freckled cheeks puffed out in disbelief at such blasphemy at Traith’s interruption, but after a small bit of consideration, there was a signal of a nod given. Then came a huff of a small sigh that cast her long strawberry hued hair out in a dismissive gesture, something the men had come to understand as her ‘whatever’’. A second later once more she was absorbed into the holy psalms in her possession, tumbling headfirst back into a world that mourned a fallen demigod.

“That-a girl, you tell ‘em.” Mr. wannabe lone ranger added, those cold blue eyes having witnessed the exchange through the rear view mirror.

Fifteen minutes later, they had crossed yet another set of state lines, skipped onto the off ramp, and pulled into a dirty parking lot. In the distance Pennsylvania slept while the bright sign of the diner lured those still awake with the promise of fried eggs and black cheap coffee. Alex had lovingly placed her growing collection of comics into her blue backpack (she never could decide on her favorite color), slung it over her shoulder, and launched herself from the van the moment
the sliding door opened.

“Be right in” Already an unlit cigarette was dangling from its perch between Scott’s lips, and while the man certainly didn’t mind the tobacco, there were other reasons for this often repeated phrase. The soldiers boots, ever the cowboy, ground against the loose gravel upon the parking lots surface, and with a practiced roll of thumb, the spark of the lighter briefly made the man's face flash against the dim. It would be easy to miss unless you knew what you were looking for, but Traith did. Already those cold blue that Scott was in possession of were moving, and the Brit had long ago caught the trick of it. Milling about looking at license plates, checking around corners seem out of place, draw attention but puffing on a cigarette? Well, that was an everyday sight for people.

‘The kid’ wanted to waste no time however, and laced her small hands into Traith’s right, pulling him towards the entrance with the thoughts of syrup, jelly, and chocolate milk dancing through her head. So inward into the belly of yet another American beast they strolled, the scents of breakfast foods striking them the moment they opened the door, and their stomachs growling in preparation for the morning's meal.

Right across the place Alex danced, her red striped sneakers slapping against the thin carpet in exaggerated urgency, and with a scrambling bounce she had parked herself in a booth near the window. With only a brief glance out that pane of glass to see the winking eye of Scott’s smoke moving through the parking lot, the girl took up arms for the fight ahead. Scooping up the awaiting set of silverware, the superhero in training was mustering up a look of determination, preparing herself for the epic confrontation ahead. Yes, she would conquer the villainous cakes of pans, and possibly even the salty evil of bacon, all in one fell swoop.

Scott was already quick behind, those causal steps taking him in past the doorway as Traith settled in beside Alex, his arm draped almost protectively around the small girl's shoulders. Blue eyes kept moving across the room, dashing against the few other faces that were gathered within. No, he wasn’t so much as looking at them, that wasn’t the right way to put it. Those glances were cutting them apart, identifying weak points, in a way that often would remind Traith of how a sniper must view the world. Scraping away the fat of the scene to identify the best places to put a bullet if it was needed. Begrudgingly, witnessing how the gunslinger worked never failed to garner some form of respect from the Brit, but those were words that would never drip from his tongue. 

Betty, the aging waitress with a yellowing nametag appeared into the scene with glasses of water, and smiled perplexedly towards the child who sat there silently bespeckled with a pair of goggles. That confusion on her face the men were used to seeing on others, many found Alex a bit off putting. The odd sense of clashing fashions, the silence, or even the way that currently the kid was steeling herself for the duel to the death with syrupy delight wasn’t exactly normal. Yet as always as it was in these situations, Traith with that silver tongue would often pull others away from such things.

“She’ll have the short stack, and a chocolate milk. We’ll have a coffee while we decide on what to order, though after meeting you Betty, I’m pretty sure I’m hungry for something sweet.”

The waitress was older then the Brit, but that didn’t stop her from feeling a sudden heat rise to the edges of her cheeks. Was that even a slight flutter of her heart? Oh dear me, I believe it was! Had to be the accent though right? Tall, dark, handsome with a voice of an angel? Oh yes please! She smiled back at Traith feeling girlishly a fool, but she didn’t even notice the slight extra bounce in her step as she skirted away to fetch the quick order.

“Sometimes I have to wonder about you.” Scott jabbed once more.

“What can I say? I’m an equal opportunity flirter.” Traith smirked in his arrogance.

While they were distracted with one another, the men only now noticed that Alex had abandoned the knife and fork. Hands pressed to the window with that green gaze cast out into the growing hours of morning, and they both felt it in their ways. For Scott it tasted like freshly made gunpowder, but to Traith it tickled the back of his neck like ionized air after a lightning strike.

“Too public kid” The Brit offered in hushed tones.

Alex turned her goggled eyes towards Traith.

“Let this one go” He tried again

Quick as a snake strike, the girl had taken the fork back up, and with as much venom she plunged it downward. The prongs cut through the thin protection of pant leg, and dug deep into the meat of Traith’s thigh. A grunt of pain hissed out from the corner of his mouth that formed a snarl, and for a short lived glimmer, a small flash of truth, something with yellow eyes sat there beside her. Thick green scales seemed to ripple along the man’s cheeks before the illusion perished, but the girl did nothing more then once more turn to the window that looked towards the parking lot.

Alex knew someone was out there in the distance.
She could feel them coming this way.

The outro
(Final words)

If I have caught your attention, please drop me a line through PM's so I may place bait in attempt to hook you further.
I am willing to discuss, plot, and touch upon a wide range of ideas.
After all Dear Reader, I'm here to dance with you.


Annulus / 1.0 A few more things to dream of.

I. The Confession
[Multi-character. Multi-view points. Realism. Brutal.]

"Would you like a story that will make your career?"
Sounded like every reporters dream, particularly in this day an age where everyone with a cell phone could get the scoop from just about anything to make a quick buck. Yes, it certainly seem too good to be true didn't it? Yet, there was something about that voice on the other end of the line that has curiosity peaked. Something about it sounded honest, genuine, and not a bullshit line to get attention. Might as well check it out.
An aspiring reporter gets a phone call, and has a meet and greet with a self professed serial killer.
Starting off with them sitting down to talk, getting to know one another, we play this out before dancing into the scenes of his victims.
So, not only do we write the present, but also the past.
Shall we learn of his crimes together?

II. The Blink
[Paranormal. Semi-Realism. Questions of sanity.]

Why doesn't anyone believe it? Right there in the corner of vision, a thing that's sometimes a man, sometimes not, grinning like a fox with a mouth full of chicken. It follows, it speaks, it can be felt, but no one believes!? Maybe, just maybe, they're right. Maybe, just maybe, sanity itself is losing meaning.
Ever have an imaginary friend?
One so real you can feel his hands? Taste his lips and hear his breath?
What happens when this illusion gets jealous?
What happens when it won't go away?
Let's find out.

III. The Tree of Prophecy
[Low fantasy.]

A world that is much, much older then it seems.
A place were ancients created wonders, but few ever have seen what remains of such things.
A time when magic is believed to be real, but the truth of it is hidden.
A society where even having slightly pointed ears results in you being called a 'Mut', and gets you quickly thrown in a cage.

Welcome to a world that has moved on, and to a town called Lud.
Rumors start to spread of a tree that not only speaks, but offers prophecies.
This draws the attention of two men, whom I will play.
For reasons of their own, they are intent on getting rid of such an oddity that the locals are worshiping.
While not fandom, it does lean heavily in setting from The Dark Tower series. (The books, not the god awful movie)
I'm quite open to the 'counterpart' here, as this is a world, rather than a setting.


Annulus / 2.0 Them

Whispered Prayers.

Please, bring my brother home. He got mixed up with some bad people. If you do this for me...
                                                                                      Please, I’m scared of [Insert petty fear here], do something and…
I promise, if you get me out of this mess I will...


It’s following him again, gabbering in that serpents tongue.
Little by little, it worms itself into the thought process, spreading cancerous veins.
The man, for all the horror of it, knows of it happening.
Oh yes, he’s been through this before. He knows that it is growing tumorous ideas inside his own skull, and brewing up nightmares with just a splash of violence. Though, what could be done of it? No matter what he has tried, there was nothing to banish that grin from the monsters face below his skin. There was no way to silence the voice burrowing deeper and deeper into the soft fabric of his mind.

There was only surrender to the agreement.

Green eyes, the color of fresh peeled scales, opened against the quiet of them being closed, and into the world a different thing peered. It wore the flesh of humanity well, and pulled the strings in dedication to make this body breath. Yet, it was something from the outside. It was something allowed in. It was something else with the name of a God that looked through the lenses of those venomous eyes. It was that thing that went by the name Amen that ran soft pink tongue across those dull teeth.

              That’s right kids.
Say a prayer, cap it off with those little famous words…
… go on. Dare you to speak to something you did not intend to.
Send those hopes on up in smoke, and see what that gets you.

For God is good to those who sign on the dotted line.
So be it.

[                                      ]

The blank spaces in his life have always been intentional, for there is no other way to describe those lapses of the mind. There isn’t a fog, or glimpses of what happened, there is just this brightness which devours those seconds. It is only when his brown eyes opened to the ceiling above the bed did at last the realization that it happened at all formed. Just a void of colorless light, peeling away even more time from a lifespan that already felt all to short.

Perhaps this is how heavy drinkers feel after a long binge. Muscles sore for even breathing, and head thundering somethings fierce. Stomach rolled in the pits of his being, either out of nausea or that of wishing to be fed, the signal wasn’t clear. It was all a blur at the moment, merely the blank pane of the roof above him in that terrible off white. Head, which sported short dark brown hair in need of a trim, rolled against the single pillow on the queen sized bed. Attention, for all of its painful and miserable glory, sought his cell phone.

Near sighted since birth, and without those contacts in, the thirty two year old man had to squint those newly cracked eyes. They peered at the face of the phone as it glowed to life at his urging, and in bold black numbers, the time was revealed.

Ten minutes.

That groggy mind thought with reassurance.

Head went back down to the pillow. Dreams were short as he waited on that morning sun, and the blare of the set alarm.

Hey fuck-head. Hey dumbass. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The phone was still in his hand, and in muscle memory thumb tapped the screen.That short amount of interruption to his sleep was enough however, and once upon a time in a distant past that wasn’t filled with light, there had been a different name to call him by. Today though the man was simply Prophet.

Naked below those smooth covers, sheets, and position in the bed, the man was already aware that something was wrong. Every inch of him seemed to cling to the fabric, as smooth as it was, and heavy sigh escaped his newly rising lungs.
He knew this sensation well.

Rising out of slumber fully now, the man took himself to the shower.
After the blood had been cleansed from him, life began as it normally did.
A cigarette, leading to coffee, leading to some sort of light breakfast.
Shower, shave, contacts going in.
The process was flawless, as it always was.
It was a practiced routine.
A prayer without words.

Now Prophet stood before that mirror, the one that painted his shadow into sight on the door that was open behind him. Brown eyes looked back at himself, gentle features echoed faithfully to every detail. Even that small circle of white scar upon the right top edge of his lips was there. Anyone else would know themselves instantly, but for a long moment, Prophet only looked at that image in the glass.
He searched his own face.
Prophet stared at the stranger with questions,
and found no answers.
This is me, nothing more.

So, instead of crying out to the universe, or questioning fate, or roaring at the sky…
… the man went to do the laundry.
So be it.


Imagine a pair of twins sitting down for dinner, but note the differences. It might be a hard thing to do, but pay attention to how their mouths work. One, that version on the right, seemed to cap every word off with a particular twist. A slight smirk, smile, or fabrication of joy, just at the edge of his lips. The other? The one on the left? Well, there was only deadpan expression, but it was Prophet who spoke first. Blank tones carried upon the curls of vocal cords that were worn.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Do it right.” That tired voice rattled from the other side of the table.

Prophet, bowed his head, closed his eyes and turned inwards. It wasn’t with voice, air or anything as vapid that he reached out with, but instead his soul.
May I have at least one last time, someone meaningful.
Please, grant me this.

Good boy.

Again brown eyes opened to the table that he sat at alone, the meal in front of him forgotten in an instant. For it wasn’t made for consumption, but an offering, or if the reader prefers, part of the prayer.
A newborn calf.
The offering of sheep.
It was proper to offer a sacrifice when wishing.

Prophet felt it uncoil from his being. Cold scales ,the flavor of frost, dragged against the very depths that people try to hide, but it was leaving. It had a contract to fulfill. Perhaps that is why the man made the wish to begin with, to have this momentary peace where he was alone, but it did not matter. Another soul was damned by Prophet’s words, and that was enough for The Serpent.

Ah, but there was the trick wasn’t it?
Prophet’s meal was set aside, but the table was set for two.
It was one of his last meals after all, so the man had planned ahead.
An offering, and something for himself to eat.
The table was set for two.

Plates traded, and silverware flashed in his hands.
Cutting through the flesh of slaughtered cattle, potato, and broccoli...
Perhaps a simple pleasure, but one he enjoyed alone…
For he was blessed in this moment because he damned someone else.