Kilrogg's Space

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Well, I'm not quite up to reposting some of my old works, but I might later on, after the holidays. For now, I'm just reposting, and posting anew, short things that I've scribbled down over the years. Any critcism is welcome, but I'm not expecting essays.

[Flak]

I'm looking forward to it.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

A boy, or man, or young adult, which ever you prefer, was wandering in a big green wood. It seemed so dark, so terrifying big, and the young adult had lost his tracks. He wandered for ages, wandered till his feet grew tired, through the great green wood, and no noise was to be heard. No birds from above, no grunting of animals in the bushes. Do not think though that the great green wood was dark, oh no, light shined through its roof, showing clearly to the boy, or man, that he was indeed lost. He wandered, searching for his track, but he was undeniably lost. So he, the young adult, nearly man you may argue, or still boy maybe, he simply wandered, trying to find an end to this gigantic green wood that seemed to have no end. He thought, logically there should be an end to this wood, and if he but wandered long enough he would see the end, and at the end, he knew, would be meadows of freedom, and freedom was his happiness. But the gigantic green wood seemed to have no end, although he wandered, wandered, wandered. And finally he sat down in the gigantic green wood, for he had realised that in wandering, without any tracks, the wandering, indeed himself, had lost its purpose. Purpose to exist that is, and that is the most terrifying of all things.

So the boy pondered, pondering what he might do to find his tracks, thereby his purpose, thereby the end of the gigantic green wood, thereby freedom, thus happiness. He looked towards the green roof in despair. Perhaps he could simply imagine a purpose? Create an illusion of some man sitting up there in the canopy, starring down at the boy, and he would pray to him, pray for a purpose, and through the illusion, well who knows, maybe there would be one to be found. But no, it was useless. The boy had far to little patience for illusions and he knew that no imaging of his would ever bring him a purpose. So the boy pondered, and pondered even more. He looked on the gigantic green wood's floor. Perhaps he could examine it, retracing his tracks somehow by conducting detailed analysis on it. But no, it was useless. He had far too little patience for useless facts, and he knew that they would bring him no solid answer to his seeking of his tracks and his purpose.

So he pondered, and pondered, pondered. Maybe there was no answer? Maybe the purpose had been an illusion itself all along and his tracks were never to be found? The boy looked up in the crown of a particular tall, tall tree in the gigantic green wood. He imagined himself climbing up there, jumping off, looking up at the man in the canopy, looking down into the floor of hidden facts, out into the empty air that would consume him. No, he had no patience for such thoughts, nor did he want to have them.

So he pondered, pondered, pondered. What could the boy, the man, the young adult do? Where do you think he could look for his purpose and his tracks, his way to the outskirts of the gigantic green wood, the freedom of the meadows, happiness?

The boy looked inside himself. Then he looked some more, and pondered on it. Pondered for eons, sitting there in the gigantic green wood. And finally he found it. The purpose, the will to wander. He then found the tracks. Before long the tall, tall trees became less so tall, the gigantic green wood less so gigantic, and in the end the end was found, and the young adult was standing outside it, outside in the meadows. He was free, and there he found happiness indeed.

[Flak]

There were no mistakes, so insofar as that's concerned good job. However, while the 'boy/man/young adult' is important, I feel you use it too much for comfort and it makes the story a bit repetitive. If that's the point of it, then I guess it's just not the kind of writing I like. Good work.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

I've been doing lots of repetition in the my writing recently. I usually don't like to write poetry, with stanzas and all that, but I still like to write in a poetic style, so tried writing prose in poetic style a few times, just to see how it works. So far I think it works nicely.
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There was a breeze sweeping across the waters, making slight waves brush gently over the cold bare rocks. I was standing there, watching, wondering, the waves. It occurred to me how strange it must be to be a wave. You start life with the flow, it pushes the premature you into being, itself shoved along by something much bigger, much larger in the whole concept, something ancient and invisible that you can only marvel at. I marvelled. Marvelled at how, being a wave, being pushed into being, you keep growing, some slow, some quicker. But all waves must come to an end as they flow and grow, grow and flow, towards their inevitable doom. Some collapse on themselves, too big for gravity to allow standing, something old and unseen determining the course of events. Gravity. That which binds us, straps us, traps us to this world. That which pulls, pulls the waves to their death. Some crash on the cold, oh so grey rocks that have been shaped soft and round for eons. By something old, ancient, forgotten. The waves kill themselves against those grey, grey rocks, spitting blood of foam against the sky, the grey sky.

How strange it must be to be those rocks, shaped by wind and weather, to watch the lonely sea take its everlasting course of flowing, growing, crashing, flowing, growing, crashing. Some, the fortunate, they get to grow more, until they meet a beach, a coast where they can crash and then lick the sand, sometimes yellow, other times grey, oh so grey, and slowly return to their waters, flowing, growing, crashing, licking, returning. These waves I watch did not crash. They licked, but not sand, oh no, they licked the grey, grey rocks, as grey as the oh so grey sand. The sky too was grey, grey, grey, oh so grey.

The seagulls above shouted their pitched laments over the sea. I could imagine those seagulls being the souls of lonely widows of sailors, as lonely as the lonely sea, who had lost their husband at sea, forever doomed to cry their horrible pitched laments over the sea, the lonely grey sea. The seagulls were grey, the world was grey. The sailors lay somewhere beneath the waters, their moss-grown bony fingers reaching towards the waves that were flowing and growing. Growing and flowing. Never able to answer the cries of their lamenting wives, their souls fluttering in the ancient old wind that was grey, grey, grey, oh so grey in its taste and gentle breeze. The bones too were grey, grey, grey with decay and the moss, which was green. Green as the grassy fields I once looked upon. Such a contrast to the grey world here by the grey old lonely sea.

I remeber those grassy green fields so well, as if they were burried undernead my skin. I could so easily visualise the waves calming down, the ancient flow stopping, the grey sea rapidly turning green out in the horizion, spreading its lush colour to the bare soft grey rocks that would grow into small and round green hills. And the grey lonely souls of widows in the grey sky, they would turn into black ravens, as black as the night sky, crying out not laments but proud shouts, one louder than the other, souring over the hills with their long wings. The grey sky would be grey no more, but break open and spill out sunlight, and turn a deep dark shade of blue. And the sailors with their boney fingers would be great men who had died peacefully or in heroic combat, their hands lying on their chests under the brown earth, their wives' souls flying above them, watching them with their yellow eyes, guarding them with their black beaks.

Oh yes, those grassy green, oh so green fields. Such contrast to the grey world here by the grey old lonely sea. And yet, I loved the grey, grey sea as much as any grassy green, green, green fields. Here by the sea lay old ancient powers that I could not even begin to explain, and I loved it. I loved the grassy green fields as well, their lush growth and small hills so well-burried beneath my skin, which, I think, was starting to turn grey as well. I loved them both, the fields and the sea, but no matter how many times I turned to the grassy green fields, I would always turn back to the grey old lonely sea, it had such an attractive force that I could not deny. So here I stood, by the grey old lonely sea, oh so grey, grey, grey. And how I loved it, with grey love I loved it.

[rålfwårg]

Your poetic writing style is very good, however, if you wish to capture your readers attention you need to do more than describe the landscape.

Involve some characters, and by characters, I don't mean humans, but objects that play a part of your story. Give them catch phrases. One writer here who has done an excellent job in providing an example of this is Vagrant. In his first story 'The Unfortunate Seige', he had a town bell that rang with a ding. Vagrant wrote about this bell until it eventually became a character.

Apart from that, you wrote that well, just remember, repetition can sometimes interrupt the flow of poetic writing and make sure you use lots of free flowing sounds. Poems work best when they roll of your tongue, the same goes for this style of writing. Use lots of 'S's and 'L's' and you'll work it to perfection.

Once again, good job :y-thumbsu

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Since A-Thousand-Lies mentioned this one, I thought I might as well repost it. It's proably one of my favourit scribbled works. If you find this interesting, please read Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung). It's awesome.
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One day, Douglas was called from to the Director's office, and he knew what that meant. For the Director would not see anyone except if it was to fire somebody. As far as Douglas knew he had done nothing wrong, his work had not decreased in quality, he had always worked hard and long. Yet, now it seemed he was going to be sacked, and Douglas had no clue why. How the hell would that Tyrant even know of his existence?

He entered the office, which was considerably bigger than his. All that Douglas could see was the bureau and the empty chair, but the Director was nowhere in sight. There was a chair in the middle of the room, opposite the desk, and so Douglas sat down and waited.

Douglas was an average man with an average life. Every day he would go to work, earn his living, and go home. That was the cycle of his life and he was content with that. His job was office work. He was cramped into a small office, working long hours, never being shown any gratitude with a raise of his salary, but even to that he could accept. He was simply glad he had a job and was earning money. Douglas could simply not figure out what he had done wrong. And the company was nowhere near the need of downsizing.

The truth was, Douglas finally realised, was that his life was boring. He could accept that as well, but it was true that nothing exciting ever happened to him. While in these depressing thoughts, the boss finally entered and sat down, his hands folded, his body slightly leaned towards his victim.

"Hello Douglas, glad you came, I'm afraid I have some rather sad news. You've been in the company for, how long? 7 years? Well, unfortunately we have to let you go, it's really in everyone's best interest."

His own damn interest, Douglas thought.

"Why?" He asked, "Why am I being fired sir? I've worked as hard as anybody in this place, maybe even, may I add, somewhat harder than others. There's absolutely no reason that I should be sacked."

"Oh yes, there's plenty of reason, but of course I'll explain it all to you. Think back, has there ever been any tragic occurrence in your life, any sort of accident, or some nasty incident like that?"

Douglas was stunned. What in God's name did his life have to do with anything? It was no business of the Director's, everybody were entitled to their own god damn privacy.

He had only been in the company for one year when it had happened. One day, while on the way to work, he had been stuck in the train for almost half an hour. Douglas knew he would have to hurry, and so had ignored the red light. The car had come faster than Douglas' reflexes could dodge, and the last thing he remembered was the screeching from the wheels, and a thump, which he could feel vibrate through his body. Next thing he knew he woke up, lying on the street. He saw that there was a huge crowd gathered around some distance from him around an ambulance, and an overturned car that had been smashed into a lamppost. He realised then with huge embarrassment that he had not been hit, but must've fainted and somebody else had been the victim in the accident. The police had been nowhere in sight so he had slipped off unnoticed by anyone.

The Director nodded.

"Yeees, and you simply continued your way of living, not thinking back to that moment."

Douglas had in fact thought about it from time to time, but not really taken it into full consideration. After all he was fit enough to work, and since there had been no police inquiry he had assumed that there had at least not been any casualties.

"Well," the Director resumed, "I'm afraid to inform you that you were in fact hit by that car, Douglas, and you did not survive."

At first of course Douglas did not quite register what had been said. Then his brain tried to rationalise what he had been told, but failed utterly.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you died. You are in fact still dead, Douglas. You are the persistent essences of the spirit that once inhabited your body, if I may be so formal."

It was the first of April. It was a dare. Somebody had wanted to get back on him. He was on one of those stupid television programs where people are ignorant that they're being filmed.

"Dead?"

"Yes, Douglas, dead."

"Listen here," Douglas said, putting on a strict tone. He might be but a worker, but he wouldn’t sit here and be talked to like that by his boss, "I'm tired of this nonsense. I'm just trying to make a living, but if you want to fire me, go on. Just please spare me all this scheit you're trying to pull on me." "Sir," Douglas added, just to make sure he was not taken to be completely rude.

The Director merely sighed.

"I knew you would take it this way, but then let me demonstrate."

He took a book from a drawer in the desk, and chucked it at Douglas. Douglas yelled, put his hands up to shield himself, but the book just suddenly vanished. Then he could hear a loud noise behind him, turned around, and saw the book lie at the door.

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. I'm dead. I'm a freaking ghost."

Douglas bowed his head into his hands. It was true. But how? How could he not have noticed all these years? He asked the Director.

"See, this is more or less why you're being fired," the Director said. "It so happens that many people tend not to realise, or accept, that they are dead and they try to continue their daily lives unaware of their paranormal state. This has been going on for quite some time, but I believe it began relatively soon."

"You knew? You knew all along?" Douglas was growing angry again.

"Of course. It happens frequently these days, what with the growing need for production and the everyday tedium of our time. Across the world ghosts seem to just carry on with their lost lives. We businessmen have taken advantage of this. After all, ghosts do not need to be paid, nor do they need to sleep or eat. It's completely free labour. And of course they can't sue us, because they're dead and so not entitled to the law."

Douglas could not believe what he was hearing.

"Are you telling me there are ghosts working all over?"

"Indeed. They're dead, yes, but one cannot see it really, and they can touch things if they don't think about it too much. It saves companies huge expenditures. However, some minor problems have crept up as people are starting to realise that there are dead people in the workplaces. They simply don't like the notion. To make sure my company don't get completely ruined from bad reputation, I'm keeping the amount of ghosts working in check. Luckily, as far as we businessmen are concerned dead souls are an inexhaustible resource, so we'll never be in desperate need. I'm sorry to have to let you go Douglas. All I can really say is, rest in peace."

The greedy bastard chuckled over his joke as Douglas left. He could still barely believe what he had heard, but as he headed down the hallway towards the exit he did notice it. Amongst the people who were typing, doing paper work, and working their asses off, there were some who had darkened eyes. Eyes with no hope, no future, even though they might not realise it. It scared Douglas more than ever to know that he too had such eyes, but really they weren't actually much different to the eyes of the living people. Not really that different at all.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

And now for something completely different...

This was suppose to be something longish, then something shortish, then it became nothing at all. Bear in mind when you read my unfinished works that this is really the normal process that most of my creative writing goes through. Although, by the end of this, I'm sure you can see where this is heading. I liked the idea though, I even had a really good ending for it (something rare indeed), I just can't remember it.

By the way, this was back when I tried to be funny in my writing. I don't think I achieved this a great deal in this one, but I still liked my image of the narrator having a British upper-class twit accent, but with the same physique as an Orc....Enjoy!
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Mrath the 34th '56
So, now I'm here at last. At this miserable place they dare call a camp. I'm still thinking back at my service in Camp Greshk where they at least had proper lavatories. And how did I end up in such a humiliating situation? It's ironic that the very same person who is now my colleague is also the dimwit who ruined my career as a Lieutenant. I told that fool to put General Frek'Dnar's priceless trophy bow down and somehow that hairy ape got the blame of using it as a hammer shifted at me. For Doomhammer's sake! I barely knew Grok. Not that I'll miss Frek'Dnar, that sweaty imbecile! The only so-called 'strategically intelligence' that goes through his mind is how to move in on the ladies and how to best lift those ruddy muscles of his.
The arrival is as I had expected, awful. That crude Sergeant Krezna shouted at us for approximately two hours about what would happen to us if we did not follow orders and then gave them to us: to clean his disgusting boots. And with the complete lack of any proper lavatories around here, I'm pretty sure that what I and Grok wiped off was more than just mud. Curses! Damn Grok for putting me, Second Lieutenant Threk'Nark, at the lowest rank in the whole of the Horde! What wouldn't my dear mother and father say if they saw me now?

Mrath the 36th '56
I can't stand it anymore! Those lower life scums called peons! How could they even think of putting me here because of some bloody bow? The stench! And I certainly wouldn't claim that any mental stimulation ranking higher than a snail is going through the group of my colleagues. The only thing they ever talk about is the size of their axe and the size of their...no. I can't take it. How did the proud Horde ever breed such dim creatures? The fungi growing under my bed are more intellectual than them! Why, WHY, W-H-Y?! I don't deserve this! I tried to make the Sergeant understand that my station here is only temporary. Unfortunately those are the words I chose and before he began to break into laughter it looked like he was having a mental lockdown.

Hrek the 3rd '56
Well, I've gotten use to the daily routine of dark mines, dark woods, dark mud, dark woods and dark mines. The food though is hard to even look at. I wouldn't even consider feeding a ghoul with that. The camp cook is permanently cross-eyed and he looks like he would serve better as a suicide weapon against the enemy as well as his cooking. I can hardly eat! There is nothing healthy about it. I almost considered calling my unfinished meal 'Fred' just for the sake of it. I swear, I saw it move although it looks dead! Curses!

hihi meGroKme WRiT meMAKe THREK madME MAkE joke S......................................mE LIK do Ts

Hrek the 7th '56
I could cry. Grok's been in my diary! MY PERSONAL JOURNAL! It took me hours to wipe the drool off although it looked more intriguing than the chef's dish today. Though I must confess I'm astonished that Grok can write. Even the nonsense he has put above seems somewhat advance for an Orc who uses his hand as toilet paper and spends his spare time looking at rocks. Well, an Orc with a mind like mine have of course realised that it's useless trying to resist the humiliation of the situation. I have worked hard and it seems even the brute Sergeant Krezna has acknowledge my work. I've been granted access to a proper bed! Yes it's filled with dirt, yes there is new specie of fungi developing beneath it and yes it has lice, ticks and other disgusting insects in it but it has straw! REAL straw!

Hrek the 33th '56
I've just recovered from hanging myself with my own belt. It seems I had accidentally spilled some of today's meal unto it and it had immediately begun to corrode. Strange. It was as if my whole life flashed in front of my eyes. I realised that nothing has ever been worse than this god forsaken place. Fate has been cruel. It won't even let me kill myself, plus I broke my arm! Whatever I did to deserve this it must have been something pretty horrible. But the rather intriguing flash I just had suggested nothing and
I just had to chase off Grok. Apparently he is very good at working when the work does not require anything to do with the head. He has been given a promotion of bed, and of course that bed is next to mine. So we're sharing room for the moment. Horrible. Absolutely horrible. Even more so because I think the cretin has developed a liking to me. He always wants me to join in watching rocks. How do you explain an Orc with a personality that of 3 year old that you don't want anything to do with him? He always looks at me with big wide wolf eyes and a naïve smile completely void of any intelligence. I hate myself.

Zeth the 2nd '56
There was an attack two days ago. An ambush of undead corpses had slowly crawled up on our perimeters and then, without warning, attacked us. In the chaos of fire and smoke I happened to see Krezna's decapitated body. I certainly won't miss him. As I ran for the nearest burrow something I never saw, but which felt cold, so very cold which spread into my very heart, grabbed onto me and swung me on the ground. It hissed at me, its foul breath smelling worse than Grok's pants. That was the thought that ran through my head as my life paid me a visit once again. A pitiful but determined scream suddenly appeared out of nowhere and before I knew it I was standing up again, face to face with Grok, carrying an axe which was covered in blackish blood. "Me saved friend Threk." That line. I can not forget it.

[Bullroarer]

Your passion is extraordinary.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

This is bit of a strange one, and I can't really remember if I knew where this was heading at all. If I did it has completely escaped my memory. This is set in a world that I invented for a large piece of work called Where The Grass Is Golden which was the first long story I actually ever finished.
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It had been ages, almost two centuries in fact, since anybody in the mountainous regions of Tmath had spotted an orc. They had been driven away by internal war but mostly harassing from humans and other ‘intelligent’ races in the past. One thing must be understood about the orc; they are ugly, of an intimidating size and frankly, quite smelly. Most non-orcish communities have persecuted them for their hideousness and were at some time around the 1390s described by a skilled Senamian diplomat as “utterly repugnant,” the line being frequently quoted in many history books from then on. So orcs were being hunted away, being called rude names such as ‘smelly pig-face’. This official label of the orcish race is in fact not entirely unjustified. One, because orcs do actually smell like something that crawled out of a dead corps, and not unlike one in appearance either, and two, because, according to an ithist, a studier of an obscure branch of zoology, in 1744 claimed that the orc is in fact a distant cousins to the domestic pig-cow, a farm animal mostly used to kill rodents and other pests by being placed near hives letting their body odour spread, thus annihilating the vermins’ nerve system. The ithist later proclaimed his theory that pig-cows were in fact entities sent by an alien race, living in the darkness of the sky amongst the stars, to spy on The World. The ithist, although disregarded by other professors of zoology, became very famous, moved from the crude shed he had hitherto been living in, to the University of Brima, and finally declared a heretic by the Holy Church of Ena and burned on a pile of his own books. Due to an increase use of magical substances in printing around the mid-1700s the bonfire grew to an enormous size, so large in fact it was spotted by a vessel hovering outside The World, carrying an alien race. The race had been researching the planet for some time and was finally convinced that the time was ripe to conduct even further experiments on the sore ignorant people who inhabited the small green world. The aliens were finally discovered accidentally by a fateologist who happened to be looking at an exact angle on the vessel spying on The World, thereby penetrating the cloaking-shield with his sight and proving the long dead ithist’s theory of the aliens’ existence. The fateologist wrote an eventual best-seller titled ‘Fate!’ in which he proved that some external and higher force was manipulating The World, conducting random and seemingly unrelated events, linking them together. The theory was never officially approved though and the fateologist eventually committed suicide in a state of deep depression, being later made into an award-winning movie which managed to attract the alien races to The World to see the extraordinary blockbuster. The irony of all this has been widely discussed but is much too confusing and complex for anybody to understand, and shall not be described in further detail here.


It was the winter of 1598. The snow had seized the earth early that year, decorating everything in white with occasional dark green in-between. The fact that an orc, let’s call him Narg (a common orc name) had just been spotted was of high significance but it was unfortunately a pig-cow, in fact Narg’s great great great great great grand cousin forty times removed, who was the observer. Had it been any other race passing the pig-cow, or had the observer been any other race, they would have probably fled in terror of the smell. However, neither Narg nor his distant relative noticed each other and Narg proceeded through the waist-high snow carpet. The importance in this event lies in the now wrong-proven long hope that orcs had fled as far as to the Yonder Mountains and become extinct, and also in the potentials of greater things to come. For an orc never roams alone if it can help it. They are social beings, in fact they are said to be, by a learned man a couple of hundred years afterwards, more socially skilled than humans (he was later executed by the Holy Church). Some revolutionary and radical change must have occurred for such a being to travel the recesses of the Tmath Valleys. Indeed something very revolutionary and radical indeed was happening just as the orc finally shook his last efforts of his cold body and fell dead into the deep snow, thus to be found many centuries afterwards by a fateologist who was be inspired to write a ground-breaking book on the very foundations of what was to happen next, in the coldness of late-1598.


Fate is not an easy thing to deal with, mostly because a large amount of people refuses to believe it and concidencity versus fateism is so very confusing that most people can't bother. The question we must all ask when given any path of decision is not "Why?" but "Why not?" (Saying "Why not not doing something" has been proclaimed as being extremely childish and a sign that people are simply refusing to pull themselves together and take responsibility. Even so "Why not not do this or that" is frequently heard which is why The World is generally seen as 'completely sad’ by many philosophers). So if an orc wandering in the cold alone when it should not, due to its social instincts, one may say "Why shouldn't this be a stroke of fate", but then again "Why shouldn't this be a case of coincidence?" So fate and coincidence cancel each other out.

To sort out the problem, if indeed there is any solution, one simply has to make up one's mind about the matter and get on with life. However the particular story about Narg the orc suggest very much the existence of a linear course made already for The World to take. It must be considered though that all this could be coincidence although those who choose to do so may be in danger of being seen by others as deniers of the obvious, and both stupid and idiotic, something that should usually be avoided. The obvious being that fate does exist, in which case nobody has a choice in the matter, and being given names is just a part of what has been given to you in life. Take it or leave it.

[Inquisistor7]

I am very impressed by what you have written. The sentences and style flow so well that it is hard to stop reading.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

And here's to a bit of sarcasm.

Please remember that you don't have to read these in order. Read anyone you like, or all of em if you care to.
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Every day I watch the Big Box. It flickers and whizzes and spins. The pretty colours I watch every day. Nice people come and go on it, they smile and wave at me, so I smile and wave back. Their smiles are white, like mine. Their waves are happy, like mine. Their hair and face are pretty. From morning to night they come and go those grown-ups in the Big Box, doing all sorts of funny stuff. Some are not so happy though. Some people in the Big Box seem angry. Some people in there seem sad. They shout at each other, they wave with flags that are usually black, with words I don’t understand. U…maybe ‘us’? S…maybe ‘so’? A…maybe ‘angry’? It would make sense, because some of those people are very angry. I hope they won’t be angry forever. Some of them fight each other, hurt each other like Mum and Dad hurts me when I’ve been bad. I know how much it hurts, so I always hope that they won’t fight too much. Some of the people in the Big Box cries and cries, like I cried when my puppy died. They pull at their hairs, it must really hurt. The people who cry a lot usually cry around sleeping people. They seem peaceful, but the crying people are very sad. In that case a lot of puppies must’ve died. I hope they will get new puppies soon, like I did. But when people are too angry, or too sad, I feel bad watching it, so I switch over to another place in the Big Box, a place where people kiss and say nice things. In those places there are no angry or no sad people. That’s the place where they smile, wave, kiss. I feel good watching it, those people must been in love, like Dad is in love with me, kissing me, always kissing me. Sometimes he does other things than kiss, but that’s just like what those people in the Big Box do, so I guess its okay. Sometimes though, Mum and Dad make me watch some people who read from the Big Book. They tell me to, so I do it, but it’s really boring. Really I only like to see the happy, smiling, waving, people with white teeth and shiny hair and pretty faces.

The Big Box also makes noise of every sort. Explosions and glass breaking. It frightens me a bit, but it’s everywhere so I watch that too. Those noises come from strong people. I know they are strong because they seem very stern, like Mum and Dad when I’ve done something bad. They hold guns, but they shoot for real, not like my toy gun. One day I think I’ll get a real gun, then I can make all those funny noises. I heard Dad talking about putting me a place when I’m much older where there’ll be plenty of guns and noises to make. Somewhere where they all wear the same clothes. It might be boring though, because they all read from the Big Book, and they never see their Mums and Dads. And I don’t think they’re suppose to kiss like Dad kisses. I don’t hope you lose your puppy there, because then I won’t ever be happy there. Noises from the TV are so funny, but they can also be, like the people, sad or angry. Sometimes I hear shouts echoing in the Big Box, and people rising their hands up in the air. What are they raising it for? Are the strange noises telling them to? Why? Mum and Dad say I’ll understand when I’m older, when I’m going to that place with the same clothes and the Big Book, no kissing and maybe even no puppies. The noises are so violent sometimes that I cover my ears so that I won’t hear. I’m scared at those big noises, those quick, hasty noises, like they have to hurry like Mum and Dad when they go to work. Those raising their fists must go to work a lot. Doing what? Well, the noises in the Big Box tell me they usually shoot with real guns, making explosions, and covering the scenes with red paint. I guess one day I’ll be painting the ground red too. But now it seems so dangerous, so I turn away to music. Happy tunes that I can hum to. There too are pretty people, singing and playing on their instruments. They never seem really sad or angry or making dangerous noises. I think I’d rather want to play and sing like them, instead of making all those dangerous noises and wasting all that red paint. But Mum and Dad decide, so I guess I will spill red paint when I grow-up, reading the Big Book all the time. No kisses. Maybe even no puppies. It must be so boring to be a grown-up, so I guess I’ll be happy as a kid for now, although the Big Box tells me, with its clothes and music and noises and Big Books, to become grown-up quick. The Big Box decides too, so I guess I’ll just do what I’m told.

Tomorrow I’m going to High School for the first time. I want to take all that I see and hear on the Big Box with me, because it has taught me so much about life.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

This is an alternative-history thing that I definitely enjoyed writing. There's a lotta fun in rewriting history, probably because history is my favourit subject. Now, there's some pretty racist stuff in this one, so if you get easily offended I suggest you don't read it. If you don't mind, then please read on.

I might expand on this in the future, but I'm trying to finish another old work of mine in the moment, which you might see results of after the holidays.
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I barley heard the teachers enter, partially from the noise in the class, partially because I was looking out the window, as usual, daydreaming. Yesterday there had been an attack on Präsident Breuer. A huge riot had started just outside my apartment and Mom had strictly told me not to go down there, but I had still sneaked out and even chucked a couple of stone on some SS guards.

“Herr Williams?”

I looked up at Herr Branson and noticed I hadn’t greeted. So I quickly stood up, raised my hand, and gave him the old “Sieg Heil,” (trying to give as little enthusiasm as possible) before sitting back down, staring out the window.
“Next time I want to see that hand straight up and a ‘Heil Hitler’,” Herr Branson almost growled, as he always did. Always something to complain about.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumbled as he went on his monotone voice. Ideology was absolutely the worst subject ever, and I usually ended up sleeping and getting bad grades. I didn’t really see why we need to know it anyway, it was pretty simple. The Three K’s, and a bit of Jew bashing now and then, that was pretty much it. I knew it all off-hand and the essays we got were stupid and vague. The next day we had to hand in How Does Lehrmann’s Grundregeln der Juden of 1952 Agree With Die Führer Adolf Hitler’s Final Solution? Pretty pointless seeing as the ‘Grundregeln’ were all about why Jews are bad and didn’t have anything to do with the concentration camps, which by the way we weren’t really suppose to mention.

“And so we see the comparison between Communists, N.iggers and Jews. In the latter days of the Führer’s reign the violence against the Aryan race grew beyond just the Germanic borders, leading to the American-German War, won in 1943, and the Russo-German War, won in 1945.”

The guy talked like a history book, going on and on about why the German Wars had led to the ethics of completely eradicating the Indians and reduced Africa to a few tribes. I yawned, looking out of the window again, not caring about anything going on in the class. Wasn’t going to help me in the exams anyway. In the lack of anything better to think about in the moment I actually thought about what was being taught in class. Germany had really kicked everyone’s ass in just about a decade. Real smooth, with their Blitzkrieg tactics. Worked efficiently, got those Communists, N.iggers and Americans every time. And for some reason the old idiot had shot himself, just after the success in Russia. So Himmler had taken over, and the rest of the world had to suffer for that. The Germans hadn’t actually won the war in America (there hadn’t been victorious enemies, there had been renegade rebels) so then we had the Cold War, and everybody had been freaked out about that for about four decades. The nuclear bomb made by that German physicist in Berlin, Einstein (he was a Jew of course, but we weren’t really suppose to mention that at all), hadn’t been used except on the Japs, so the whole ‘war’ had been pretty pointless. It all ended up with the N.iggers going to hell, and the wars in the Far East.

“Herr Williams?”

It had been god damn twenty Hitlers before I was let off, and my arm hurt like hell. My friends had left, I didn’t blame them, so I took the bus home by myself. It was summer time and the whole city was sweating. Mostly from the heat, but all the fear of terrorism from the Middle East probably added to it. Most homes had been issued with gas masks and a whole f.ucking 600-page manual of what to do in this or that situation, if the Iraqis decided to fly into some more buildings. They talked more and more about ‘control of the population’ in the television, which was really just a dumb excuse for returning to Hitler’s old Gestapo-system. I think it was about 1960, during the Second Far East War, that there had been some messy stuff happening with those fellows behind the government, and they started arresting everybody for the slightest notion of Communism. Ever since America became Communist, the Europa Germanica had been pretty screwed, and is still screwed so it seems.
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On a rather interesting note, I think, is that N.iggers is censored, while Japs is not.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Poem time! I've already posted this twice, but here we go again. The background story is that one day I found myself with HIGH fever, 42.9 celcius. And so I had some pretty strange and deranged thoughts as I woke up. I was lying in the sofa, and suddenly, word by word, this poem comes to me out of nowhere. I only had to add a bit at the end, but the rest is more or less as it came to me.

Not a very profound poem, the point is pretty clear I should think. But I still like it a lot.
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At a grand house in Bourgeois Street
A splendorous party is taking place
All the rich have come to meet
To talk business, that’s the case

There we have Ferrald Fathand
He who laughs so loud and merrily
He smokes his cigars which he demand
Spreading the smoke, to everybody wearily

And there is Miss Moneymaker
Her pretty face is always welcome here
She flirts with the men, though she be a faker
Her goal is to take money, do not fear

Ah, and Georgie Greed
A sweet boy if ever there was one
He cries for his mom, to him feed
Candies upon candies, that’s his fun

And last we have Bob the Butler, but not least
He who stands silently, waiting for his pay
But with a polite “Yes sir,” making them enjoy the feast
You cannot enjoy your money without the Butler, I’d say

But outside the grand house in Bourgeois Street
Stands a group of small shaky forms
What is this? Who could be so cold around their feet?
Money, warmth, leisure here, that’s the norms

The knocking of the door commence
The master of the grand house himself appears
“Who may you be, so dreadful, at my fence?”
“Here we do not welcome queers.”

“Any crumbs to spare sir?”
Says one figure, rather rudely
“Do not my patience stir!”
Is the reply so moody

“I have no time for beggars, do you not see?”
“I have a splendid party to attend!”
“Leave now, leave us be!”
“So that I may look away from you, and my sight amend.”

And so the forms, humble but frowned
Leave the grand house in Bourgeois Street
No place for them is to be found
For people with no money, and cold feet

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Over the years I've attempted to write some cross-overs between computer games, none of which I ever even got close to finish. This is probably my favourit cross-over, and also the only 'funny' piece that I've written which I really consider funny.

Now, in case yuo were wondering, The Lost Vikings is a game series made by Blizzard from the mid-90's, about three vikings lost in space and time chased by an evil green alien dude. Redneck Rampage is an FPS game from the Duke Nukem 3D era, about two rednecks trying to stop an alien invasion led by a stripper-looking specie.
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The Great Escape

"Um, Erik?" the groaning Baleog asked

"Yeah, what is it?" Erik the Swift groaned back

"Why...are we...running...so...quick?!"

"Thanks for asking that question for me, Olaf," Baleog said to his other companion, Olaf the Stout (And Somewhat Fat, a name secretly agreed between Erik and Baleog, but never mentioned because of the strong ever-lasting friendship between them...well, almost never).

"Okay guys, how many freakin' time do you want me to tell you," Erik said annoyed and pointed upwards, towards the bleak Nordic sky that was now being filled with a rather large X-3Z Voltus Ship.

"Tha...nks...Erik," said the fat Viking who looked like a heart attack was eminent.

"Yeah thanks bud, I think I just spilled all my mjöd in my pants now," Baleog said, as always, in a very warm and sarcastic tone.

All three ran over bush and past stream, away from the dreadful spaceship with technology their primitive human brains could hardly comprehend. In the ship's control room, surveying the Vikings' escape on a TST 2000 GHz computer screen, sat the Dread of the Galaxy, the Evil Incarnated of the Universe, the Iron Fist of Fear, Tomator the Great. Right now he was especially dreadful, evil and iron fisted (great would not really fit the description here) because this hunt was making him miss his favourite TV show, Glactus Watch and in an hour Mrklyth Talk Show would be on. Yes, now was not a good time to be a small poor Viking on the run through the tough Scandinavian landscape.

"Pitiful Vikings, I...have...you...NOW!" Tomator said, slamming his fist on the control button to the F76 I.I.A.S.G. Transportation Beam, while laughing a very evil and sinister laugh that would have made any stereotype bad guy green of jealousy indeed. Almost as green as Tomator himself probably.

The laser gun spat out of the F76 I.I., blah blah blah, Beam which neared the pathetic humans with the near speed of the Grelthus VI Comet.

"YES!" Tomator said loud and victoriously, "I'VE WON! You are mine no…" Tomator's victorious speech was very rudely interrupted by another beam engulfing the Vikings, leaving only a small patch of burned-out grass.

"WHAT!" the furious Dread of the Galaxy shouted. "Who DARES interfere with Tomator's schemes. Tomator! The Evil Incarnated of the Universe, the..."

Tomator was, unfortunately, interrupted once again (when Tomator got mad, bad things happened very quickly, slow and very painful things) by a flicker on his TST 2000 GHz computer screen. A humanoid woman appeared on it, not wearing much more than a bra and some panties.

"Who are you?!" Tomator growled. "If you do not immediately tell Tomator, the..." he was just about to have another go at an intimidating speech when the woman said very sweetly, "Why Tomamoran honey, don't you remember your own cousin?"

Tomator's eyes widen.

"C...Cousin? Cousin Vixen?"

"Exactly," the so-called Vixen replied, licking her lips in delight.


A Doubtful Reunion

The burp very likely reached across most of the town of Hickston.

"Ni'ce one Bubba," Leonardo said impressed to his friend and companion. "Ya jus break the record, ol' pal. 30 seconds, weee-hew!"

Applause could be heard from the other end of the messy bar.

"Bu' I bet'cha I can do it longer this ti'me."

"Yeah, sure Leo. Dre'am on," Bubba said confidently, while the other rednecks at the back was passing money for the coming bet. After all, Wednesday afternoon was always an exciting one, with the two locals competing. 'The Burping Brothers' they called them, which fitted quite nicely.

"Ya'all watch 'n list'n careful no-w, ya hear!"

Leonardo drank three cans very quickly, beat on his chest and opened his mouth to deliver the Hickston's Record.

At the moment though, the Sheriff busted in, followed by a couple of boo's and hisses at the interruption. Apparently Leonardo had been too surprised to do anything with his gas, and had swallowed it all. Those who had put money on this monumentous event now began to fight over who should receive the cash, and ended with chairs and broken teeth flying around. In the middle of the chaos the Sheriff reached Lenoardo and Bubba.

"Hey fellaws! There's sum lady here askin fer ya," he said, pushing his very big sunglasses up back on his nose and tightening his belt which was provided with two guns, just in case the glasses didn't make a big enough impression on any lawbreakers.

"Wh'y can't'cha jus send her over here, Sheriff?" Leonardo asked.

"Cus, boy," the sheriff said rather nervously, "she's askin fer ya. She won't move a step from that…that spaceship till ya'all talked to her." He said this very quietly, looking over his shoulder at the continuous fight.

Leonardo and Bubba looked at each other.

"Um, ho'w did this lady look li'ke sheriff?" Leonardo asked.

"She...kinda would remind ya'all bout a whore. Nope, she ain't wearin' much fer sure."

Interchanging stares was passed between the two friends.

"Wh'y ya lookin' at me Leo?" Bubba asked.

"You know Bubba. Don't'cha see? It's her!"

"Wh'o?"

Leonardo heaved a sigh and shook his head at his rather dim friend. Not the cleverest guy around. In fact Leonardo knew cows who were smarter than Bubba, but that was alright. They were childhood friends after all, although Bubba never quite seemed to have gotten passed that stage.

"The Vixen gal Bubba! The one that kidnapp'tcha!"

Bubba looked puzzled for about five seconds, then his faced twisted in horror and he began to rock back and forth in the chair mumbling, "No, please, not there!"

"So it is true, huh? Ya guys weren't drunk dat night them crazy stuff happn’. Them aliens really do exist," the Sheriff said nervously.

"They sure do Sheriff. Had the countrysi'de populated with them clones, giant space guys ‘n’ $hit-aliens fer sure."

By now the Sheriff looked like a sweating pig and beckoned the two to follow him. They arrived a few minutes afterwards outside Hickston, and there, nestled in the fields of the American wasteland, was a spaceship like the one Leonardo had encountered some months before. He was more nervous now though, because he had, as far as he could remember, pumped the vixen-leader of the alien invasion's tits with lead. With regrets of course, but it was either the sex bomb, or the Hickston bar. Not a tough choice. But now she was standing there, next to the ship, looking very seductive at the three humans.

"Greetings gentlemen," the space alien said, leaning over a bit so that the humans could get the full view of her beauty.

"Um, hi!" Leonardo muttered. Bubba was still standing by the car looking white as a ghost at the alien woman.

"Why, hello Bubba," the woman said with a perfect white-teethed smile, "it seems you still recognise me. Missed me handsome?"

Bubba shook his head very quickly, and went into the car to hide. The Vixen giggled.

"Okay, alien," Leonardo said impatiently, "what's this all 'bout?"

"You are clever aren't you, Leo?" the Vixen said.

"Smart enough," he replied, "no'w what'cha want?"

The Vixen smiled again, her most inviting and girlish smile.

"All I want is some help human. Just some help with some disaster that is in our both interest to prevent happening."

"And wha' disaster might that be alien?" Leonardo said irritated.

"The destruction of Earth, Leo, the destruction of Earth."

The Vixen was one big smile.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Help Needed

"Oh my...head."

"Oh my...back."

"Oh my...balls!"

"Olaf! If I want to know about your gentiles I'll ask!" Baleog complained loudly.

The three Vikings looked at their surroundings. It was a very small rusty coloured room with something that resembled a chair, but not quite. It had some kind of button on it. The room was closed by the typical electric bars

"Finally awake humans?"

The Vikings turned around and saw a very big green guy in a purple suit standing outside the cell, looking very menacing."

"Are...are you a giant?" Olaf asked nervously.

"Spare me for your primitive beliefs human. I am the one and only Tomator the Great."

"TOMATOR!" they all gasped.

Baleog released his sword and charged towards the bars. He was about to swing the sword between the blue-glowing rods when Tomator slapped him, pushing him into the opposite cell-wall.

"I let your weapons alone humans, because such pitiful tools would never be able to defeat, Tomator the GREAT!"

"Um, okay," Erik said helping Baleog down from the hole he had made in the wall. "So I guess you finally got us. What do want with us anyway?"

Tomator looked like he had a rough inner conflict but said finally, "My original…plan was always to…to install you in my Galactic Zoo. A lot of people out there are fascinated by the human specie for some reason. It would bring me wealth beyond measure. It's not cheap to be the supreme being of the universe you know."

"What do you want from us then greenie?" Baleog asked, rubbing his head.

"I...," Tomator hesitated, and screwed up his face, "I need your help."

The Vikings looked at Tomator in utter surprise.

"Oh, don't give me those stunned ape faces, it's hard enough as it is! Yes, I, Tomator the Great, the Iron Fist of Fear, need the aid of you inferior humans."

"And what kinda help might that be?" Erik asked.

"First...I will have to explain something to you. You see, I am not only the ruler of space, but also time and my time is not here. Indeed, I am from the future. And I bring ill news."

The Vikings held their breath.

"You see, your Viking specie will travel much throughout the planet called Earth."

"What's a planet?"

"What's Earth?"

"Silence ignorant monkeys!" Tomator commanded, "Your nations shall seek out new lands and eventually stumble upon a land known to you as the Vinlands."

"I've heard about that," Baleog said, "but it's only a myth, a saga to draw out valiant warriors to fight pointless battles with the giants and trolls and to be devoured by the Great Snake of the Sea."

"Whatever," Erik said, "you just didn't want to go because you are afraid of water."

Baleog looked like Olaf might lose a limp any time soon. Tomator continued.

"They are real enough my insignificant creatures. These tales of the new strange lands will reach far and wide and only a few centuries afterwards another human, named Colombus, will try the perils of the small lake you call the Atlantic Sea. He shall he be the father of a new nation, a nation which will eventually reach out to the stars. The Vinlands shall be called America."

"That's dumb," Eric mused, "why didn't they just stick to Vinlands? Or at least call it Colombia, after that guy, or something. America doesn't make any sense!"

"Stop interrupting me mammals! Now listen carefully. This nation shall invent the technology of time travelling as well. Then shall they go back and screw time over very well indeed. In fact they will come to your lands, conquering everything in their sight. However this of course will prevent the rumours of the Vinlands to spread, thus preventing Colombus from reaching these lands and finally the nation of America will not be founded and the time travellers will not be able to conquer anything."

"And what good does this do us?" Baleog asked.

"First of all humans, I'm sure you are not prepared to see your countries being invaded. Second, the disturbance in time will create a cycle that is impossible to solve, a loop if you like, and will eventually destroy everything in the Universe. You, humans, must prevent this from happening. You specie shall be the downfall of us all! You must go back and kill the invaders. I need your help because I do not wish to see the whole Universe gone. I am after all its supreme creation, and it’s no good to me if there’s nothing to be dreadful, evil, iron fisted or great about. Will you do this?"

"Sure thing!" Erik said stroking his beard.

"For Odin! For Thor!" roared Baleog.

"Um, I have a question Tomator, sir. Can you please go back and…" a very confused-looking Olaf said.

Tomator rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for Tomator’s sake! Which part of the instructions didn't you get human? Until where did your inferior brain fail to comprehend?"

"Well, um, first of all, what's a Zoo?"

(On a short note, Tomator is in fact the only one in the Universe great enough to swear on his own sake, or so he claims).

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Yet another poem that has appeared a few times on this board in the past. It use to be my favourit one, before I wrote The Grand House In Bourgeois Street.
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Hurling towards battle with a green fury
In a crater I rise to watch my foes
curshing hundreds with many a blows
I do as I have been told by some winged villian,
who commands me to throughly kill 'em

We move on to a village of enemies
I rage as I do in this damn mad slaughter
trampling through all, a woman, her son and her daughter
And then, in the midst of fighthing
my gaze lands upon something, in my eyes biting

With a single tear that reflects the yellow flower
It's frail, small, beautiful, my mind is filled with wonder
and as friend and foe fall around me, I ponder
I pick the wholesome thing to gaze some more
and my flame engulf it, eating it raw

As my company advances I am in deep thoughts
I see things I never saw before
nothing around me seems to have a single flaw
Mountains and hillsides, valleys and streams
more importantly are the flowers, so my mind deems

Yes I begin to think of all that is neat
As I think, I am not in the next battle
though my body is tearing through bones that rattle
I am in my own world, of beauty and dreams
though I'm a mere minion of some eternal evil, or so it seems

I can have a life, can't I?
Of course! I have decided
Too long have I these wicked masters abided
I'll travel through all these beautiful places
Sharing with all the calmness, my exciting gazes

Yes, I shall live truly in this world
I will share my goodness, now it's clear
plant flowers, what a silly idea!
I am an Infernal, servant of Archimonde, or is it Ner'zhul?
but I don't care, I'm no longer but a tool

And as the evil undead things march along
and me, the fool, walking beside without a clue
I did not notice, beneath me, that cursed line of blue
which seems to have run out quite quickly already
And I disappear now, dissolving steady

If only I had had time to watch
And see
And smell
And gaze upon this beautiful world
But of most that I think, before I go to oblivion
Is that yellow flower, burning in my hand, that could have been mine

[AlarStormBringer]

I'm sorry I haven't been replying and encouraging you oh great one. Don't mind the blasphemers who have not read nor heard of some of your great works!.. Oh your stories arrived somewhere around the time of the Orcs vs. Zerg.. I miss that story..

[Inquisistor7]

I am afraid that I myself had forgotten to read the rest of these posts (I had stopped for whatever reason around the poem about Bourgeouis Street). Let me say this now that I have read more: please keep writing. This is good stuff man. The poems are good and the prose are enjoyable. Please keep it up.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Right, I'm back. Thanks for the encouraging comments, I fully appriciate it. So here's my first submission in this fine year of our lord twenty-o-five.

It's a story I've toyed endlessly with in the Starcraft World editor, has changed many many times, and at one point I decided to write it down as a story just for the heck of it. There's a second chapter to this which I've decided not to post as it's pretty messy.

Happy New Year people!
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"ALARM! ALARM!"

"ALERT! ALERT!"

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

Nick's eyelids slowly opened up to reveal that same old rusty roof, and his nostril were immediately filled with a scent that same old ventilation system had been making lately. He looked over to his companion who was slowly waking too, yawning loudly.

"Oh, that f-BEEP-ing piece of s-BEEP of an alarm clock," that same old partner groaned and began to scratch his bald head, irritated as he always was.

"You know what I hate more than that bulls-BEEP censor voice modifier that came with this f-BEEP-ed up junk and that motherf-BEEP-ing alarm? It's that cr-BEEP-y, no good, messed up..." Brian suddenly sat right up in his bed.
"WHAT?!" he shouted accusingly to the speaker in the ceiling. "I can't say cr-BEEP?!” Brain’s following monologue was indistinct as most of it was interrupted from the beeps above.

Nick frowned, got up and washed his face in the rusty sink. It spurted out water that was much the same colour.

"Can't blame you Brian,” he said as sympathetically he could through the mould-shaded towel, “but what did you expect from a Len, and a 4.0 at that? We couldn’t afford any other damn ship, you know that."

“Yeah sure, but…hey! How come you’re allowed to swear?”

Nick threw the towel in Brian’s lap with a sigh.

“We’re on a flying technical bug, as you should very well know dude. Wanna swear, swear through that.”

Brian frowned at the towel-looking thing in his lap, apparently not quite sure if it was safe to believe his friend. Then he put the fabric to his face as if one of the girls on the wall above his bed had just worn it.

“Bloody brainwashers the lot, them big people at Korhal. Evil bastards! Pig f.uckers!"

Nick got up, leaving Brain to his blissful moment and could been heard messing around in the large kitchen. It was installed strangely enough at the end of the ship where the motors would be situated. In fact neither of the two men aboard had ever bothered trying to locate the motor, as they knew all to well the process they had to go through reading the manual.

“God,” Brian said relieved, “that was better than an or-BEEP-m.” He started roaming through the tons of broken cupboards and unfastened shelves like Nick, once again irritated.

"Nick mate, I think we made a mistake buying this s-BEEP," Brian said as he tried to look for Puffy Star cereals. "Should've bought that small ship, remember, that one with automatic weapons and everything,” an affectionate gleam appeared in his eyes. “Wasn’t that expensive, we could’ve afforded a few dollars less."

Nick shook his head.

"You know we couldn't've fitted all our cargo in it. Man, we’ve been through this before. It was ages ago, okay? Why the h-BEEP are you still depressed about it dude?"

The disgruntled man pointed above his head, at the small box in the ceiling.

"THAT! That, that, defiler of liberty! That F-BEEP-ing piece of…censor THINGY!!" Brian bellowed as he thrust his fist into the table.

"Oh, calm the f-BEEP down dude!"

He drew some long breathes and said, "I feel much better now."

After finally finding their breakfast Brain sat down and smiled unexpectedly, making Nick a tad nervous.

"Anyways, Nick me lad, we've finally arrived. About time already, huh? I can't wait to get some proper food and a good round of beer and maybe find a nice lady or two to share them with."

Nick agreed as they sat and eat their Puffy Stars with not so fresh milk on. When they had finished they went into the control room that was located just where it should be. It always relieved Nick to be in there. The dark endless void and countless of luminous dots never failed to amaze him, though he had been born amongst them. The only thing that bothered him was the increasing number of ugly space platforms that was lying around these days, and even more increasing now that the Confederate taxes were no more along with the Confederate itself. Though its defeat had done plenty of damage to their trade in particular, at least the increase of platforms made it easier to drop of cargo. But, they had had the goods but a few days, and then suddenly the Confederate collapsed, so now they were rummaging through the Koprulu Sector, trying to find people who would buy what they had to offer. Fortunately what they had to offer was of Korhal quality and thus people were keener to buy it rather than what else could be found on the market. The fall of the Confederate had also made it easier for the two companions to travel around with their trade. And so, as Brian always said, “life is full of them ups and downs.”

The computer’s human face Len 4.0 appeared on the screen as Brian turned it on.

“Captain, we are approaching Tijuana II. Waiting for further instructions.”

“Yeeees! Time for food, beer and chick!” Brian sat down in the second-in-command chair in anticipation. “Nick, quick, put on some beats!”

“Which? Mine or yours.”

“Mine of course! This is not the time for jazz.”

“Actually, it’s called Bebop dude. It’s a type of freestyle jazz that…”

Brian cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Put on Autobahn. Oh yes, Autobahn is right for this time and moment. God I love Christian rock.”

The Len 4.0 descended slowly towards Tijuana II, spurting out a high pitched roar that just managed to resemble some sort of tune as it did so.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Another poem, which has also been published more than once on this forum. There's a story following this which unfortunately isn't on my computer, so I probably won't bother copying it from paper.

This was my first serious poem, not something assigned in English class or quickly written for fun in a minor fan fic (I use to do it for the computer series Zork, which many won't know about). So bear in mind, this was a first attempt of serious poetry
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The Tauren Warrior

The skies go dark as Ronut and Torau blows out Draun the Sun
Shadows goes deep and cries "Darkness has won!"
The fire starts and welcomes the shadows
The tribe is ready to celebrate the coming of spring

Taurens come out, out of their tents
Then the cheiftain, Klarus, and to his wife his hand he lends
They all shout "Hail Klarus, our cheiftain and his mate Trona!"
The feast begins, the fire burns and finally the spiritman comes forth

He sings, sings about the making of all
The making of Longo the Tall
"Hail Olongo Spirit of Spring!"
Then the dance can begin
It is time to see who shall be the new Tauren Warrior

Behold, the young Taurens exit the Holy Tent
All gaze in their eyes, proudness in their eyes, and make their head bent
The spiritman shouts "Behold! The Worthy! The Young!
"Let them dance now and let Tarum choose in his spirit song.
"Choose who shall be the new Tauren Warrior!"

They dance, dance to the beating drum
"Dum Dong Dum!"
They dance in the night, fire casting their shadows
Shadows darker than Ronut herself

They all watch as the Worthy are possessed by the Holy Ones, the Spirits, the Gods
Obno Spirit of Plants, wife to Olongo, and Santaul Spirit of Earth
Nagong Spirit of War and the Great Spirit himself
Tarum the Almighty

The Worthy keep dancing
The fire now dancing in them, spreading its arms, in the wind branching
dancing in their soul, their body, pain, sweat soaking their fur
the drums singing "Dum Dong Dum!"

Then the spiritman screams
"They have spoken, the choice has been made, their words like holy streams!"
All hold their breath, who will it be?
Lono, Ramtro or Povau perhaps?
Who shall be the new Tauren Warrior?

"It is Bonlau! He is our new protector!"
Cheers from the tribe, Klarus raising his sceptre
"I name him Bonlau Fierce Eye!"
Cheers from the tribe

The other Worthy return to rest
Proud, honoured by their defeat, they did their best
Left is Bonlau Fierce Eye, the Chosen
He enters the Tent of Nagong to receive his weapon and tattoos

All is well
The Taurens return to their tents to dwell
Still the fire burns, telling of the new Tauren Warrior
Still the drums sing, sing in the fire
"Tarum Dong Tarum!"

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

A bit like my Nazi story, in fact I had some similar ideas for them, although in the end this story would go in a completely different direction. I wrote it around the time of the infamous pseudo-swastika symbol debate. Apparently the Demon Hunter's weapon first had a symbol on it that look kinda like a swastika, and god forbid we cannot have that, so they changed it to a panda face.
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Evian Fatehunter

Night and day collides in these mystical lands. In the realm of Mythmathia the metaphysical plains expands out towards infinite reaches and the laws of nature abandon. The demon hunter Arl'zha Bloodseer looks up on the green-blue sky dragging the almost metaphorical scent into his nostrils, stimulating his mind into higher emotional levels of reality which Arl'zha has learned to become a part of and thus given control of his gifted powers to their full potentials.

He stands there, in silence, his dark eyes shining, the torn cloth bound around his head waving slightly. The cloth ends in two tears which are wavering in the gloomy dark air, blending with the night elf's pitch black hair, darker than the night itself. His muscled chest rise and falls in slow controlled breathes and his massive arms are tense. He is waiting. Waiting for the foe to show his evil face. Arl'zha has been on his trail for hours and finally has he found the cursed demon. He cannot see him but he can feel his presences, the wickedness that spreads out to every corner of his senses.

The night elf slowly lifts his blade from its sheath on his back. He is waiting for the hell-spawn to make the first move. Patience is what he has been taught by his ancient masters, their skills passed down to him from generations beyond eons counted.

Finally, the demon charges. Arl'zha dodges the brute attack and makes a full turn in the air, cutting the demon's arm. Its bellow rages through the very bones of all living creatures and echoes throughout the forest. It lifts its giant leg to crush Arl'zha but the night elf is prepared to jump. Suddenly though he stumbles over a tree log.

"f.uck!" he cries as the burning foot comes crashing down on him, bringing darkness to Arl'zha's mind.


"Game over. Arl'zha Bloodseer gained 100 Experience points. You will be able to revive your character in 24 hours at the Temple of Anth'ia in the town of Darkdome."

"God dammit!" Joey almost threw the helmet off.

"Hey, watch it kid!" the game-master growled from the counter, "If that thing gets busted you owe me 600 bucks, you do."

"Sorry," Joey mumbled and left the gaming stage, where dozens of people his age were sitting in black chairs with black helmets, twitching as they played Ultimate WarcraftWorld Arcade. It was an awesome game but Joey thought the night elf needed some more ninja-like features. Ninjas were cool. Like a sword twice his size instead of that small pathetic blade. It had earned Blizzard Entertainment a bad reputation anyway, with that symbol on it, so what was the use? Still, Joey found it incredible that people could still complain about a sign that that dictator huy used some hundred years ago. And Nazism died out ages ago. What was all the fuzz about?

Well, Joey didn't really give a damn. What mattered was that he was not improving in UWWA. Neither in Starcraft 4: New Allies nor in Final Fantasy XX in fact his whole gaming life was going right down to hell, probably because of school. Why did they get so much homework? The exams were months away and he didn't really care if he failed or not. All that mattered was how he got enough wins in Starcraft to reach rank #331 and how he found the final boss in FFXX.

Joey passed the same old grey streets with same old busy traffic and same old pedestrians going to and fro. His home was fortunately only some twenty minutes away from the arcade and so he had time for other leisure, like his PC.

His home was a flat. Mess was starting to accumulate everywhere since his dad had moved. Mom had gotten more and more tardy in her daily routines. Joey kicked a box into the kitchen that was standing in the middle of the corridor.

"Home," he mumbled.

"The food is ready, in the kitchen!" was the reply.

Some food. Joey looked at his dinner gloomy. Banana Coca-Cola and food that looked cut out from a FoodCom commercial. It was very likely all grown at the farms outside town.

"What's in the steak?" he asked, trying not to sound too ungrateful, which was the main source of argument that he was having with his mom lately.

"Um, chicken...and pork, hun."

Oh yummy, he thought, GM vegetables and meat from FoodCom, it's healthy and it tastes good as well. Your body will soon absorb the nutritious modified genes. You'll never feel healthier. Food from FoodCom, we are concerned with what you eat. He had memorised the whole commercial. Joey even tried to imitate the fake smile that woman did. He bet his whole stack of games it was photo-edited teeth. They were so white that their old television began to flash and fry at the back whenever it displayed those gums.

And what was up with that old crap anyway? They hadn’t even gotten a decent DVD player. In fact Joey’s computer was the only somewhat modern thing in this place. He needed to get a new hard driver actually, the old one only had 800 GB. It was hardly enough to get Silent Hill 8 up and running, and his newest game, TimeSpace simply wouldn’t run. Damn and blast Microsoft and their stupid incompatible WindowsRT. It hardly did anything that a good decent Linux5000 couldn’t do. No proper video player, no proper gaming support, not even a proper god damn word processor who would just do it’s simple task instead of continuously giving suggestions of twenty alternative methods for cut-and-pasting. Joey wished every day that a bundle of money would fall into his lap so that he could buy Linux, but as yet his lap had had a disappointing lack of bundles of money.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

This is a story I made in a writer's workshop my school had. We were even trying to filmatise it, but as it was towards the end of the school year, I never got to.

It is based on a series of pictures that this dude named Harris Burdick made, each having a title and line from the story he supposedly wrote about the pictures. The guy dissappeared without a trace, and the publisher never got the stories, so it's like a big mystery thing. Now it's tradition for students to write stories based on Burdick's pictures, which can be quite interesting.

Here's my take on Burdick's picture A Strange Day In July. (Picture can be found here http://www.sd35.bc.ca/lm/harrisburdick3.htm)

Finally, if anyone be interested, this was the first piece where I really began to break away from fan fic, which had dominate previouse years of creative writing. I find out there was a whole lot more stuff to write about than just orcs and sexy night elves, however amazing that may sound, and lots of different ways to write it.

Enjoy!
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A Strange Day In July

It was incredibly calm that day, which lay towards the middle of the summer. The frogs made their small awkward sounds in a tiring sort of way and even the buzzing of insects seemed as if they would rather just lie down, staring out in the air. However, they could not since the fish in the pond were swimming about, though they too looked like they wanted to just do nothing. Everything in fact, the grass, the trees, even the air seemed on the hazy day, well, lazy. That was definitely the word Paul would use. Lazy.

He had gone down to the small pond because of the simple fact that he was bored out of his mind. Nothing was happening at home, with the dust flying through the warm rays of the sun.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, something please, just happen!" moaned Paul, kicking the rocks about.

He took a coin from his pocket. The pond was named the 'Wishing Well', though it lacked everything apart from water to be a well. Nobody really knew where the name originated from, but the name had led to people throwing coins in the pond and angry park patrollers, who did not want the fish to choke on them, to collect them. Paul supposed that that was why nobody ever got their wish fufilled from the pond.

Now, though, he picked up a coin. He had simply been searching his pockets out of pure boredom when, quite coincidentally, there had happened to be a coin inside. Paul looked at it. It looked almost like gold, reflecting the sun in the clear light-blue summer sky. Maybe he could trick his sister into believing that it was gold and then laugh at her stupidity when he revealed the truth. He giggled at the thought, but then realised that he was much too lazy to bother getting into a fight. It was just one of those days where everything seemed pointless.

Paul took a look at the coin again. Then he shrugged, the park patrollers wouldn't find out who had been littering the pond, he thought, and then threw the coin in with a flick of his thumb.

"Let something, anything exciting happen!" Paul almost commanded the pond.

He stared at it. Then stared some more. Then, when he had stared some more, repeated that.. Finally he figured that his wish had been futile and nothing would happen at all. After all, wishing wells and such were just superstition, as Paul's mother always told him.

Paul turned around, trying to gather the energy to make his feet leave the place, else he would probably have been standing there the whole day, when something hit the back of his head.

"Ouch!"

He looked behind him. It was probably some stupid insect that had seen his head too late. Paul looked down to search for the unfortunate animal, maybe he could play with it before it died, but he only saw a small glittering item between the small stones. It was the coin!

Now how could that be happening? Was the fish picking on him, or was the pond also too lazy even to let the coin sink into it? That was just silly though. Paul shook his head. He was a reasonable and realistic boy. He knew what was true and what was not. Ponds throwing coins around was definitely in the latter category. Well, he would just have to throw it again, and so he did. This time though he watched it, just to be sure it went in.

The coin bounced right back, not even touching the surface of the pond.

"How odd." Paul said to himself as he saw the coin land on the ground, right at his feet.

"What's odd?"

Paul turned around. It was his sister. He suddenly felt embarrassed, as if he was simply imagining the coin behaving strangely. He wished his sister would go away but then changed his mind. It would be exciting to let somebody else see what this weird pond could do.

"What's odd Paul?" his sister asked again. It annoyed him a bit that she was always so curious, never minding her own business.

He picked up a stone and threw it in the air, then catching it while he said, "Hey Liz, wanna see something cool?"

Liz shrugged carelessly.

"Sure."

"When I throw this stone at the Wishing Well," Paul said mysteriously, like a magician about to make somebody disappear or pull a rabbit out of his hat, "it will come right back to me."

Liz looked at him with narrow suspicious eyes. She obviously thought this was some kind of joke to make her look stupid.

"Let's see then," she said doubtful.

Paul didn't hesitate. He threw the stone as hard as he could at the pond. True enough, it lept back and landed at Paul's feet.

Liz' eyes went wide. Paul, too, was surprised. He had almost expected it to fail this time. The fact that he had been right about this absurd thing, and that this time it had proven to work with other things than a coin, startled him.

"See! I told you so, stupid." Paul was now enjoying that he had shown his sister that had been right.

Do it again." She sounded more excited than sceptical.

"Okay," Paul said, as if making things bounce in the air was the easiest thing in the world. He picked up another stone, threw it, and gasped along with Liz as it flew in a wide arc above the pond and landed precisely where he had picked it.

"Again," Liz said, breathless.

Paul picked yet another stone. He threw it with all his might but the third stone came skipping back. It landed at his feet. Paul did it again, and the fourth one came zooming back, also ending up where it had been in the first place.

Now Liz joined in, and she and Paul kept throwing stone, watching them fly in their own kind of way and land where they had been in the first place.

This seemed to go on for hours, but finally Paul stopped, exhausted at all the throwing.

"Now, that is really, really wierd," said Liz, also exhausted.

Paul nodded.

"You think we should tell mom?"

"Nah," said Paul, "she'll never believe us." Though another reason, Paul thought, was that he liked to keep this a secret that only he and his sister knew. He liked the idea of a 'magical' pond that they two alone knew of.

“What d’you wanna do now?” Paul asked Liz, who usually came up with the good games they played.

“I’m tired. The air is making me lazy again. Let’s go home.”

Paul looked up. Even though the throwing business had seemed to go on for hours, the sun was exactly in the same place it had been before.

“I know. Nothing happens around here. Nothing. I wonder why it’s so boring. And this day is going on forever. I wonder why. Maybe it's all a dream or something.”

"Yeah, and we're both in it, and we can come back to this weird pond any time we want without being disturbed." Liz said, excitedly.

With that in their mind the two children left the pond, still glittering brilliantly with sun light.


The first man approached the painting. He had his coat over his arm because of the heat they always seemed to have around here.

“God, even the paintings looks hot.” he mumbled.

“Hm?” said the second man, now examining the painting as well.

It portrayed two children in some sort of park, throwing stones in a glittering pond. It did actually look hot, with the summer sun in the blue painted sky.

“It is quite realistic though, isn’t it.”

The second man nodded.

“Yes. The artist must’ve spent ages making it. That’s the way it should be with creating things. You must have a great in-sight for details, while on the same time have the mind of a child. But that's the same.”

"Indeed," the first man said, "a child sees the world so much different than we do. More vivid, more real. Nothing escapes the eye of a child. We are always overlooking things in our rushing, but our children, they see things we don't."

The second man nodded again.

"It wouldn't surprise me if a child had painted this painting. All the details have been drawn out fully, every line is clear, as a child would’ve seen it."

The first man turned around and, with the second man behind him, headed for the exit of the empty museum. The second man looked at his wrist but found he had forgotten his watch.

"What is the time and date today?" he asked.

"Can't remember, and I don't have my watch either."

“I wonder why we are always having this heat in the city," he continued, "it’s not all that polluted after all. Must be the weather just taking a strange twist.”

The second man shrugged.

“I don’t know. It’s also quite boring this place. Nothing happens around here. Nothing. Probably because there really isn't anything to do.”

The first man looked towards the sky before he and the second man left the grey dusty building.

“Yes, and this day seems to go on forever.”

With that in mind, the two men silently agreed that there was probably some reasonable explanation as they walked down to the empty street.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Yet another Harris Burdick story that I tried out. I've just read it for the first time in a year, maybe two, and I have to say, it's probably one of my favourites. Probably because I relate to it very much (I do that with all my stories, a lot of it is about me really, but this one most of all). You can see the Burdick picture here: http://www.sd35.bc.ca/lm/harrisburdick10.htm
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The Third-Floor Bedroom

It all began when someone left the window open. Grace suspected it was her mother. Either way it was one of her parents. Really it didn't matter. What was important was that one of the doves on her wall had been ripped off. She had been enjoying the fresh breeze coming in when suddenly she had heard a squeak and a begging for help. She had turned her head, just to see an empty space between the other doves, and the white bird being carried away, out of the window.

It had been painful. Of course Grace had gone out to search for the bird, she didn't quite know its name, but had found no trace of it. It was then that the panic started to spread through her room. All of her toy that inhabited her room began to whisper about the 'missing dove' and who was going to be next?

"I should have warned you," Croc, Grace's toy crocodile said, sadly, while his eyes were searching the outside from the window panel.

"What?" Grace said, her face showing a clear expression of questioning, "you knew about this, Croc? How come you didn't tell us?"

"Yeah, you dumb stuffed crocodile! If you knew that was gonna happen all along, then why the..." the rude old teddy bear said. He had been so ever since Grace had put him on top of the wardrobe, in the corner of the ceiling. She found his insults very annoying from time to time, but usually just ignored it. However, he could manage to make a fuss about everything, and even now a lot of Grace's other toys were following the same example, blaming the poor crocodile for the disappearing dove.

Croc shook his green soft head that looked very dusty white in the warm sunshine. He looked as if he was ready to be sucked by the vacuum cleaner a million times for his guilt, whatever he had or hadn't done.

"Be quiet all of you!" Grace commanded sharply to the toys which immediately obeyed, as if someone had suddenly turned off the sound. "Croc? What is it," she asked gently, "what is it that you know about this?"

Croc sighed heavily and was about to speak when Mom entered the room.
"Grace? Honey, we are eating soon."

Grace rolled her eyes. Her mother always interrupted and instead of leaving, having very clearly sent the message through, Mom of course had to come in and talk. Grace wasn't usually bothered by her mother's friendly conversations but why did it always have to be while she was talking to somebody else?

"What are you doing?" Mom asked, approaching the window, "every time I come in it always look like you are doing something," she actually had some interest in her eyes.

Grace simply shrugged. "Just talking to Croc."

Mom drew a smile on her mouth. Grace knew that both her parents could neither see nor even imagine that he toys were alive. Grace had accepted the fact, but she wished that her mother wouldn't look at her like she was some kind of clown.

"Well," Mom said, "he sure would be better sitting in the bed than being here in this dusty old window." She picked up Croc and was about to take him away, when she noticed the blank space on the wall.

Mom touched the space, as if she expected that she would get the dove back by being nice to the tapestry. Then she scratched the space and then one of the doves, apparently seeing if it was possible to rip one of them lose.

"Have you...?" she asked but Grace shook her head, a bit too quick which, Grace suspected, would make her look too suspicious, and then she would be blamed for her mother's own mistake. It was after all her who had opened the window since she was always the one with the 'fresh air' comments.

Mom left the wall, put down Croc and gave Grace one last smile before she left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Your mom." Croc shook his head. "Always such a know-it-all. I was actually enjoying myself in the window. Nah, don't bother Grace, I'm fine," he said as Grace was about to pick him up.

"So," a toy dog called Bob said, "what was it you were going to say before you were so rudely interrupted by the Big Lady."

"Look," Grace said, now going a bit red in her face, "I know Mom always barges in all the time, but she can't help it you know, she just...doesn’t understand. Sorry Croc."

Everybody turned to Croc who had been now interrupted more than once, but seemed ready to talk.

"Well, Grace, I've always known about us toys, why grown-up can't see us and all that. You see, when kids like you get a bit older you come into something, eh, I think they call it puberty. Yeah that's it. And um, something happens to you, and, er, your body...and...ah...change..." Croc was starting to mumble and turn his eyes away from Grace, who didn't quite know where he was getting at but was watching him excitedly.

"Anyway, stuff happens to you, and you sort of lose your sight. It's like the world become a bit more dull, and you'll stop seeing things as they truly are. Sooner or later Grace, you won't be able to neither talk nor see us move, just like your parents."

There were horrified gasps and many of the toys began to move nervously about. Grace had gone quiet and was looking, slightly pale, at Croc, now with fear.

"But...but," Grace said, but she couldn't speak clearly enough as her throat tightened and tears began to swell in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Grace. I really should have told you. You all."

Despite Croc's excuses though, the toys were starting to shake their fists towards him, and some even started to throw bricks, pencils and themselves at him.

"When, Croc?" Grace asked as Croc dodged a flying Toyota.

"Dunno, not now at least Grace. I think it's about at the age of 11. It won't come suddenly though, at least I don't think so. Slowly you will not be able to hear or see us move clearly, then start to ignore us..."

"NEVER!" Grace cried, and ran out of her room as a particularly large plastic brick collided with Croc's head.