View Full Version : Something I Wrote For School

07-27-2007, 10:41 AM
His eyes, they seemed white as snow, with just a tiny circle of blue surrounded by black. His hair was as black as coal, and also had the look of thin, long, slithering snakes. His face bore many scars, reminders of an ugly and desperate past. Day after day, he went about his business, first to the pub, and then he left town, not to be seen until dusk. He was always dressed in the same ragged cloak, and his other clothes did not go well with it. A beggars cloak covering a noblemen’s suit surely must have been a strange sight, especially on such an unusual man.

Unnatural anger emitted from his very being and he seemed to always have a quiet internal rage, as though at that moment, he were, in his head carrying out a silent argument with himself, or perhaps with God. He carried himself in a quick, precise manner, as though he were a proud soldier in formation. All his motions, gestures, and manners of speech suggested an excellent education, despite his appearance. The rest of the town didn’t ever bother him. No one knew what the old man’s name was, or where he was from. He kept to himself, and they kept to them selves. The mothers forbade their sons and daughters to speak to him, and the men did their best to never have to speak a word to him. He never was exactly hated, no one knew enough about him to hate him. He was feared, the way the dark and the unknown are feared.

I first encountered the man some years ago. He left a strange impression on my mind. I had bumped into him on my way to the station in the morning. He had his head down, bent against the bitter November wind. At the time he walked with a pronounced limp, trying to avoid putting pressure on his right leg. He showed no pain apart from an occasional grunt or sharp intake of breath, suggesting a controlled mind. As I walked to the station, he was just leaving it. There, like always, was a mob in front of the station, a crowd, tightly packed, and jostling any one in it and around it. As I was just attempting to slip my way through the crowd, he was just beginning to exit it. He slipped on a patch of ice, and fell in front of my feet. I reached out to help him up and he snarled, “I don’t need your help, or anyone else’s for that matter.” I apologized to the strange man and I went on my way. I never expected that I would ever run into this strange, proud man again, or the kind of effect he would have on my life.

I wrote this in like November for school, when we had to write a character sketch.

07-27-2007, 10:46 AM
tl; dr

07-27-2007, 10:53 AM
tl; dr

ha, figures. Three paragraphs isn't much.

07-27-2007, 07:54 PM
I had to write a short prologue for a story that will never be written for school.

“I’ll be right back” Nick whispered in her ear. The blindfold on his partner prevented the sight of Nick scurrying into the kitchen- his stomach moving with waves as each step is taken.
Inside of the black block of wood Nick saw his prize. A key to another dimension lie before him- waiting for him for years. The butcher’s knife became one with him and shone in the light. He thought to himself “This wasn’t as dramatic as I had imagined it that day.” A reflection of the kitchen window and table could be seen in the blade. The knife became a window which he used to peer into the past. Days never ending without himself, he could recall every moment all at once.
The knife felt heavy. Almost three times what it really weighed, it seemed almost as if a medieval iron sword. The stainless steel became flesh and blood.

She could only hear the slow but anticipating footsteps for a few moments before he climbed back into bed. Nick was not prepared to rush things; he had all the time in the world.

He grasped his steel by its blade, allowing his blood to flow onto her chest. The blindfold misleading her to believe only what she wanted. He gradually gripped harder as he became closer and closer to his finish; the blood was pouring as if it were flowing from a tipped cup.
His climax approaching rapidly, he had intentions only to fulfill his own pleasures.

In unity; the butcher’s knife and semen embedded themselves into the woman. Screams of pleasure and murder rang in the room. Dried blood on his hand allowed him to grip his knife’s handle as if it were attached. Stabbing in between her ribs in unison with every burst of his cum; he had reached a level of climax that had never been known by any other man. He was God and Satan in one being.

Her mouth filled with blood. The frantic struggling and gargling of a woman tied to the twin bed made him feel euphoric. Nothing will ever bring him down; a perpetual high would forever engulf his mind and body. I am forever, the same as, and so much different from the woman.

07-30-2007, 01:04 AM
I read about one sentence of that and thought fuck I'm not reading it.

07-30-2007, 07:14 AM
I read about half. Nick, you are disgusting. You're utterly demented.

07-30-2007, 10:00 AM
Entertaining, though.

07-30-2007, 10:09 AM
Noodlesfan's story is dissapointing. I expected more of him.

07-30-2007, 10:40 AM
You're English, what the hell do you know?

07-30-2007, 10:42 AM
You're English, what the hell do you know?

So what the fuck are you? Mexican?

07-31-2007, 11:36 AM
So, did anyone read mine after Nick posted his?