ravenswept: (DJ Gesha)
Trying to get back into the habit of at least writing on a Mon-Wed-Fri schedule, and drawing a blank as to anything of substance, I choose to reminisce about one of the few ideas I've worked/am working with that is not mine.

The idea, which I've decided to name Owen as it was never given a real title, working or not, was one of my best friends'. At the time he was big on mafia and crime stories, mainly movies like Lucky Number Slevin and Unleashed, and had a thought of a story he wanted to write. The problem being that he, er, has no writing talent. Not really. None. At least he's aware of this fact. But since I did (presumably), he asked that we work together; he would write out his initial idea for a few scenes, send them to me, and I would rewrite them into something more resembling a coherent story.

Now there are/were several problems with this. He wasn't one much to elaborate on ideas, so after receiving his portion, I was having to ask about details he doesn't mention. Also, as this was being written in short bursts, and he not having a totally thought out narration, things were going to happen that I had no idea about and so couldn't fully elaborate to. He would read what I wrote and then use that as the basis of going forward, but that meant that while I could affect how the story moved forward, I couldn't see how exactly it did because I was only doing rewrites and extensions.

But the overall idea was fun, taking what someone else has laid down and expanding it into something more than it is. I imagine this is somewhat what ghostwriting is like, only with less pan-flashed celebrities who think people actually want to know how they got to the point of writing a book about how they got to wherever they are. Somewhat annoying at times, but still fun.

These aren't the whole of what's been written so far, but an example of what I get versus what I make it into. The first, and in bold, is the original part I got from my friend, without any fixing. The following, and not bolded, is my handy work.


Owen 010 )


Owen 101 )


And there ya go. The full section of what I've written can be found right here. There's not a whole lot more, mainly just the introduction part. As fun as it was, my friend hasn't yet gotten back to me with any more of the story, and as this isn't my idea I wouldn't know where to go with it.
ravenswept: (Default)
I dug this out of the depths of my flashdrive. The date is still on the word.doc 3-10-99. Wow. waitasecond, that was eighth grade for me, what happened there?

I forget what exactly the project was originally, I want to say we had to create our own, wait! that was it! the assignment was to create our own island, draw it out as well, and map out all the features. What I have here is the extra credit part, where you were to create the culture and people.

What I did with the first part was instead of a single island, I created an archipeligo. Thirteen islands, with four peoples and desperate cultures, and intersecting mythology. I was an ambishish child, which often got me into trouble come time to actually finish assignments.

Speaking of which, I never finished the extra credit work (I also lost the map). Don't remember why, but what's there is what I did do. Right as things were about to be thrown down too. Hell, I stopped midsentence, so that just shows how much I really into finishing it. Ah well, I cringe at seeing what I used to be, but still see hints of the style that would stay with me.

Rereading through it, I apparently was big on names. Because I made up as many I could apparently (but for some reason though "celtic" would fit right in). And used every one. Lots of info dumping at the beginning. Kinda makes me want to go back and rework everything. And the actual legend story at the end is something I'm keeping and want to rework into something better. The ideas are still decent... but this is just... I shake and hang my head in embarrassed shame.

Kareen: where, with all the other names I had made up, at some point I thought Tanto was a good name for a island native and not at all racist )

Oh the suspense, it pulls at me so.
ravenswept: (Default)
...except replace "unwell" with "batshit loco".

Psycho, My Own, a story I had almost forgot about. Probably my first ambitious project, it was started way back in 2001-2002, or somewhere there about. I forget what I was thinking, and I'm curious about what I was thinking, because looking through my notes I was trying to take on a lot; and had very little understanding of it all.

I'm getting ahead of myself; all that I'm saving for another idea dump post later on. Here, I'm a gonna share the only scene I ever wrote for the story, everything else being background, character notes and faux-psychological interspective. Strangely, I'm not sure why I didn't prose it out normally, instead I apparently chose to write it in script form. So that's how you get it too.

Read my old shame )

I'd like to think there's still something there to work with. I'd really need to better research mental illness if I wanted to go forward, I know I probably got quite a bit wrong (not to mention terminology). In my defense, I was in highschool when I came up with this, so that excuses at least some of my mistakes... sorta. =_=;
ravenswept: (Default)
He twirled the rose again, wondering if he was overthinking the whole thing. Sitting in the large hotel lobby, he looked around as people went about their business, checking in, carrying bags, while he just sat in the middle of it all on a plush couch, hunched over staring at the blue rose in his hands.

Blue was her favorite color, he knew that. One of the few details about her he did know, hell he didn't even know what to look for when she got there. How he got to this point seemed like a blur, he hardly remembered being invited down to finally visit, let alone the few months prior getting to know each other through sporatic messages online. There was some kind of connection, else he wouldn't have flown down; there had to be, right?

He studied the rose; he knew blue meant eternal love - or was that everlasting love? - and hoped that she didn't. He had merely wanted the bold color, to make a good first impression, to impress her, not make any declariations.

God, this was all a mistake, what was he even doing here? He didn't know thing one about this city, it was why he was sitting like a putz in this hotel waiting to meet her. He wasn't about to get lost trying to find her; they also didn't want that kind of knowledge, where each other lived. Not yet (ever?); let's just start with dinner and whatever else the night brings. Where is she, is she late, was he early, he shouldn't have let the hair-lady gel his hair, it said he was trying to hard, maybe he should just -

"Um, excuse me? Are you [censored]?"

He looked up, catching her eyes immediately. Shit. She was beautiful. Damnit, he knew he should've sprung for a nicer shirt.

"Yeah, yeah, that's me. [Censored], right?" Real names were so awkward, never used much before. But online handles would've made the whole thing even weirder, so they had both agreed to forego them and let each other know the first big thing about themselves.

This, would be the next big thing.

"Yep. Sorry about the time, traffic was weird on the way over."

"No problem, I was just... sitting here. It's a nice lobby and all. How'd you know it was me?"

She giggled, a hand brushing through hair that wasn't out of place anyway. Great, either he was on the right track or had just said something incredibly stupid. "Well, you said you'd be waiting with a rose, and being you're the only guy here, waiting, with a rose, I just figured..." Stupid, definitely stupid.

"Right, right." He held it out. "For you, by the way."

She looked a bit wide eyed, surprised by the small gift, her hand gently accepting it. A hand, he noted, that was surprising smooth. "Thank you." She turned it this way and that, inspecting it like a jewel. "It's beautiful, I love the color." She blushed when she mentioned the color; oh god, did she know the rose color rules?

"So," she said, searching the lobby with her eyes, rocking a bit on her heels, "what do we do now? Are there any plans, or were we just gonna play it by ear? Cause, you know, whatever works for you, you're the one visiting and everything, I just though, you know, hehe." She was embarrassed, he knew this already.

"Yeah, right, plans." He looked around himself, letting his eyes come back to rest on her. "Well, the concierge did help me find a small restaurant not far from here, and it's not going to blow my budget; is an Asian fusion place okay?"

"It's fine. Anything after?"

"Um, that's up to you really, I'm kinda hoping to make it through the meal without you leaving after getting to know me." She laughed, a good sign. "I figured if we make it that far, then we could just see where we end up. I guess there's some kind of street thing going on? We could wander that, you know, just... see where we end up." He felt like an idiot.

"Sounds nice." He looked up; she had a small smile. She was as nervous as he was, but seemed okay with everything so far. He really wanted this to go well, wanted the night to go well, and she seemed willing to give him a chance. Don't screw it up, don't screw it up, don't screw it up, don't -

"Let's get going then." He offered his arm. He regretted it immediately, and almost took it back, but she stole it before he was able.

"Let's." He smiled, and led the way.


They stood outside the hotel door, the carpeted silence muting everything around them. Neither said anything, didn't know quite what to say. Both wanted to, but the words, for once, escaped them.

"Do you... want to come in?" His voice was low, searching. Just because everything else had gone well, the chance to still dork everything up was still on the table. But he felt good about asking, especially when she squeezed the hand they'd been holding for the past five minutes.

"For coffee? Or a nightcap? Is that what they usually ask?" her eyes saying yes, even if her mouth didn't.


"Hmm, mm?"

"I don't really need a pretense." He reached behind, fumbling with the keycard, but managing to open the door without looking, and took a step inside. He kept a hold of her hands, the rose of the night trapped between their palms, but didn't pull. If she wanted to, was ready for this, then he was going to let her enter on her own.

Still, he was a little surprised when she followed right in step with him, not even hestiating to be led inside. The door closed on it's own.

His hands shook, gently taking the rose from her and setting it on the dresser; not from fear, but from the tick of electricity they'd both been feeling since the kiss at the fountain. He didn't want to rush anything, but both wanted more. Holding hands was only going to last so long.

Her purse slid to the floor, not unforgotten but no longer needed. In a quick move he had her pressed against the wall, both hands cradling her hips, one slipping under the blouse to touch warm skin. The kiss was harder, more hungry than the previous. Her arms were around his in the same instant, holding him close, not letting him away for air. It had been a good night.

He finally pulled back, teasing her as she kept trying to pull his lips into another kiss, pulling back every time she went forward. Their bodies were pressed tight together, each could feel the heat coming off the other. She gasped as his hands went along her sides, barely skimming up along her ribs. At some point during the kiss she'd managed to unbutton his shirt; time to return the favor. He pulled up on the fabric, hoping, but not caring, to not rip the material as it came up and over her head. He didn't take it off all the way, instead getting it all the way just before the sleeves became removed, leaving her wrists trapped together, and her at his mercy.

He held her arms above her head with one hand, snaking the other to the small of her back and pulled her into another kiss, lighter and multiplied. She went flush against him, a leg darting out and wrapping around his so he couldn't move further away. The raised arm came down, bringing her tighter to him, and her arms, still cuffed by her blouse, incircled his neck, pulling his lips back to meet, again and again.

Finally, they just stood there, foreheads softly touching as they gently rocked together to unheard music.

"We should..." He had slight moment of panic. Too fast, damn it, he knew it, god, he had just fucked himself over all because- "...probably take a shower." Idiot! Stop overthinking this!

"Right," he said, not loosening himself in the least. "Shower." He felt the blouse finally give her up, falling in a heap next to the forgotten purse, her smooth hands raking through his hair as they shared another tender kiss.

"Share?" she offered. He saw her wiry smile, matching it with his own.

"You sure? You don't have to..."

"No. I don't." She pushed off from the wall, her hands travelling down his arms to pull at his, leading to the bathroom. "But I want to." She met his eyes, a mix of trust, lust, and something else he was slightly afraid of, but wanted none the less.

He let her tug him forward.

It had been a good night.
ravenswept: (Default)
I'm not crazy you know.

No, I'm not. Not really. A tad bit mad, maybe...possibly...but not crazy.

No, that would mean I didn't quite know what I'm doing right now; are the straps too tight, by the way? I know it'll be meaningless in a few moments, but still, no point in unnecessary discomfort. See, would a crazy person care about something like that?

But, anyway, I'm well aware of the ramifications of my actions. The papers are just little bit more, shall we say, verbous in their depictions of my work. But they need to sell papers, going out of business and all, so I guess my little hobbies seem like wonderful little front page news for them.

I don't care for the nickname, though. "Macabre Killer"; it's so, I don't know, grisely. I'm merely an artist. My chosen canvas happens to be flesh, so can you blame me for getting a little uptight for being labelled by something so not what I'm going for? Also, please stop shaking, you're going to cause leather burns, and that's not what I'm trying to achieve this time.

Sorry to say, you won't be the main focus of this piece. That honor goes to her, over there. What? You don't like it? Well, excuse me, she's not finished yet. God, everyone thinks just because they've seen Saw and all those shitty sequels, anyone can be a critic. Do you know how much work goes into this projects? How much effort it takes to find the right subject matter, let alone getting them to my studio? Do you?

Sorry, sorry, hehe, I'm a bit passionate about my work. That's why I'm an artist, you see, the passion behind every cut and stuture. It's not unlike Dali's work in some ways, you see melted and disfigured shapes and objects, when that's not the point at all. It's the thought of why things are like that, why did artist choose to make them that way. It's actually quite quieting.

Oh, would you stop crying already? I haven't even started yet, and it's not like you'll feel anything, I'm not that cruel. I just flip this switch over here, and zap you're out like a light. I just need a few parts. It's one of the sad ways of my craft, actually finding the right tones and hues. But, lucky me, I found you! And you're just near perfect, yes you are. Yes, I'm sorry, here let me get those tears for you, but that's the way it needs to be. We can't all fulfill our purpose. So how lucky are you do finally do so, right?

I think I've rambled on long enough; thank you for listening. Well, whatever you heard between your little triads through the gag, rather rude I must say. But, listen you did, and I don't often enough have people to actually talk to, so thank you none the less.

...yes. I know, you don't need to say it.

I could. Easily, just loosen that one link behind you and it all comes loose pretty quickly.

I could.

But I don't want to.

ravenswept: (Default)
Mary Sue is you! You is Mary Sue! Today!

Okay, the task is seems is to write yourself (your real life self, mind you) into what is the most hated of literary characters, the Mary Sue. Or Gary Stu, should you be picky about naming conventions and/or a guy who doesn't like being called by female dominant names. To those, I direct you to the late Mr. Cash, and his thoughts on Sues.

Also, I'm in no way taking this seriously, and will enjoy this trash as much as possible. Like a fat kid on a cupcake.


The throaty laughter started deep inside, rising to the deep pitch and ringing tones that surpassed even the greatest of legendary B-movie mad scientists. It was so simple, he thought, again and again with so little effort on his part. Take a simple picture, not even with a good camera, a mere three generation old cell phone lens, and place it on any one of the many social networking sites. Within minutes he had been friended by people across the globe. How did they find him? He'd stopped asking that question years ago, figuring what worked in middle school would work outside those hallowed halls. It wasn't like he didn't have the time to practice back then, he'd hardly needed to study to pass those pedantic tests anyway.

"Yes, bask in my glory bitches, bask!"

The not-a-smile-not-a-smirk grin that had stopped so many before. Hair that perfectly spiked forward, yet had never felt the too-smooth slide of any product on the market, brushed forward and back in that devil may care fashion; so many tried to achieve, so few actually could. He didn't know where the t-shirt came from, it could've been old or new, but regardless, like all others, it fit him in such ways as to accent his physique without making it look like he was begging. Not that he wasn't proud of his body, but a sane person could only handle so many, shall we say, incidents that occur when shirtless that he erred on the side on modesty as much as possible.

He rubbed his chin, wondering if he should've shaved. What hair that did grow on his face never bothered him; why worry about what wasn't going to look bad? The goatee to sideburn look was pretty in right now anyway, no need to go beyond in effort. He stared at the screen, wondering if anyone else could make a five-year old laptop go as far and as powerful as he had. Why upgrade when you can simple make what you have go beyond anything new anyway? More and more, people wanted to know him. He chuckled again, soon he could turn the full force of this controlled public opinion on his designated targets. They would burn, if not in cyberspace then possibly in the real world, where the more, ahem, devoted would take actions into their own hands.

He didn't worry; they would never connect themselves back to him, least he himself get in trouble. And even if a connection was somehow made, he had thousands of "friends", and more by the hour. Who was he to pick even one of them apart from the pack.

"Soon. Like the tsunami pack of wolves, this wave will ravage those who I deem worthy. Or, unworthy, as the case may be." He laughed. He had made a funny. "No fourth season of Avatar the Last Airbender? Target! You leave a franchise hanging with so many unanswered questions?! You will burn, in fire! Oh, yes, your crimes with the Shyamalan will be held accountable, you cannot hide. Allow such atrocities to occur for mere pittances of simple money? TROLL, my minions, troll them until their servers crash! I have the internet, and what's more, access to that interent! My righteous opinions will be heard and made real!"


Hmm, perhaps I have issues.

Also, for reference:

Bask, I say! Bask!
ravenswept: (Default)
Not so a while back, I posted a short story from the first-person view of...somebody. This somebody did... something to a certain... um, someone, and all was very spooky and dark and got my ego warmed quite a bit after I posted it on [livejournal.com profile] a_soc_k.

Also, because of that posting more ideas came to me through others. Ideas I probably would have liked not to have, because I can distract myself with countless little nagging ideas all by myself, thank you very much.

But no, a few took root. The nameless, faceless protagonist now has a face, gender, and almost a name (I can personally aim my hate towards [livejournal.com profile] seraphania for her gender ;p), as well as some background.

I cannot produce in words how much I wasn't planning on continuing this. I was shocked to have the original as well received as it was, and had hoped to ride on it's coattails for a short time, while letting it stand on it's own for it's own merits. These are things I am no longer allowed. Because I have ideas. And these are ideas that are sharp beaked and clawed and peck at me like I'm tasty. I am not. And so to appease these non-existent peckers, if that first part was the opening chapter, I give unto you the ending of whatever story it may have told.


We just stared at each other for what seemed like too long.

He said it.

I couldn't believe it had actually came out of his mouth, but this stupid, intelligent, thoughtful, stupid, sexy bastard had actually said what I just thought he said. He just sat there, shirtless, with my silken red bedsheet the only thing hiding all of him from the world, staring at me and waiting for an answer. I couldn't believe it. And of course he had to say it when I was in little more than a thong and bathrobe. Damn it.

I was lucky and got to my gun before he did.

"Don't even. Leave it."

He stopped moving. "It's true then." He didn't need to say anything, but he was probably in some form of shock. "You run the Rebekah Corporation."

"Not so much run as built," I said. "Named after my grandmother." My pistol was leveled at him, and his hand was already away from his holster. He wasn't going anywhere. "The fact that you found out is a testament to your skill. You really are a damn good detective." I motioned to the chair by the desk, and he slowly moved to it, keeping his hands up. I knew he wouldn't try anything. He was too sweet to.


"Why what?"

"Why are we- why is this happening?" He looked around, his hands still raised. God, he was cute when he was confused.

I gestured to put his hands down, and wondered if I should even say anything. Grandpa's videos always had the mobster in this position who started monologuing be the one who died first. Expect for Scarface; different kind of climax though, not really what we had set up here. His face, however, was clearly hurt and confused; he really didn't know until right then. Jesus, I couldn't keep him like that.

"We," damn it, my voice cracked, "We are here...because you walked into my bar one day and were a gentleman. You never asked about my work, and accepted the lies I gave you. You cooked me dinner and left without wanting more. You- we are here, because I love you, and you had to go and just fuck this all up sideways."

His eyes didn't glance around; he wasn't looking for an out, not some way he could turn the tables on me. He couldn't reach me from the chair, and there was too much distance between us cover that fast. He wasn't hiding anything on himself; obviously. The only thing within reach that he could even try anything with was my letter opener, and that was about worthless; he'd given it to me after all, he knew it was cheap and stupid and kitschy and that's exactly why he had got it for me.

I was proud of myself for keeping an indifferent face on while we talked. It was all show, he knew me too well to think I was that detached. I was working things out; looking at the odds and variables, seeing how things would turn out, and trying not be distracted by how much my body still wanted him. He might've been doing the same. But your options are more limited when you have a nine mil staring at you from near point-blank.

"You don't have to do this." Please don't. "You just said you loved me. Which is amazing, because- well, it's not the phrase I would have expected in this situation."

"And what did you expect, Detective? What scenario did you envision when you pictured me holding your life in my hands?" I didn't want the sad smile be seen, didn't want this to be any harder but allowed him the charity of showing emotion. "Please, tell me."

He gave a short little laugh, that same one he gave when he was embarrassed but still thought it was funny. "Can't say I really pictured this exactly, but... you... you don't have to do this. Really. Neither of us does."

I laughed myself, too shrill for my ears but it was getting harder to hide. The gun never waived, though. "And what you would have me do, oh white knight? Give up my life? The people, the deals, the money, the lies, the fear, the whole scha-bang and all for what? For a man, a handsome man, mind you, the man I love, the man I had actually dreamed about leaving with forever like I was in high-school, to ride off into some sunset? Is that how you pictured this? With me doing some little turn on my heels," amazing how you can spin around and never have the barrel go off target, "face the world a new woman, where we live together on some beach and forget we ever lived this life?"

"...it does sound nice when you say it like that."

I laughed again; it was getting harder to hide the sadness in it. "It does, doesn't it. It really does." We let the silence deafen us, allowed everything we knew to just fill the room. He didn't know everything, but he knew enough to guess at the rest. I did know everything, which didn't help the least bit. It was almost over. I knew it, he maybe suspected, and we both just wanted to know who would cave first.

"It doesn't have to end this way." Damn. "I don't have to tell anyone. Hell, you have cops already on your payroll, you can always blackmail me into not saying anything. Hey, I think I'd make a pretty good patsy."

"Liar," and even he chuckled when I called him on it. "You're too much of a straight arrow to ever let something like personal feelings stop you from doing what's right. You'd do what you know you had to, even if you knew it'd hurt you too. That why you do what you do. It's why you're as liked as you are. You're a good man. Good for me."

Another unbearable silence.

"You don't have to do this." I considered his words, felt them out. He was a horrible liar, which is what made the truth from him that much more hurtful. Because you knew he was right. And he wouldn't have said otherwise.

"I know.

But we both know that isn't how this story ends."

He was gone before the chair even fell backward. Two in the chest, same as I'd always practiced. I walked up to his body, looking down at what was gone. I didn't follow up with one in the head; this wasn't an execution. This wasn't even murder. This was a loss.

The tears threatened to come hard and fast. I squeezed my eyes tight, refusing to let any tears go; there was business to handle first, I could cry like a baby later in the shower. My nails dug into my palm, felt the skin break, but it did the trick and I gasped out at the pain. No tears. Not now.

Martin and Jessie broke down the door in their rush to my aid, bless those guys, fifteen seconds late. Forty-fives, with silencers, stared at me from my now broken entry. Like that could intimidate me right now.

"It's alright guys," I said, setting my own pistol down. "It's all done."

"Boss?" Martin started to ask, lowering his gun, before Jess nodded past me to the floor. He moved quickly over the body, gun drawn like he thought zombies were real, or about to be. Martin cleared the bathroom, returning with the small first-aid kit, taking my hand as I supported myself on the dresser.

"What now, ma'am?" Bless Jessie and his focus on the details. Let him take care of the little things.

"Call Donaldson, get a report going. A city detective was found shot tonight, on the way home from his girlfriends'. Mugging gone bad. Something, just make it believable, he wasn't stupid in life. Keep things in house, I don't want this handed down to some rookie who's not under us. And wake Kellser up, we need a cleaner in here." I looked back over to him, the red puddle growing bigger. "Find out how to get a hold of his parents, they're up in Chesterfield somewhere. Make sure we take care of all funeral arrangements. They aren't paying for anything."

Jessie nodded, and was on his cell halfway through the list. Martin let my newly wrapped hand go, just staring at me; he'd been around longer than Jess, he could read me better. "Anything else we can do?"

I looked around, finally remembering to pull my robe closed. Still reasonably clean, to tell the truth. Nothing broken, nothing overturned; hell, it could've fooled me that nothing had just happened. The window wasn't broken; two inches higher would've changed that, need to remember to get that fixed. The bed was still messy; we never had gotten to that shower. The bedsheet trailed from the mattress to the downed chair, just now beginning to soak up blood. His picture smiled at me from my desk just a foot over, taken just a week ago.

"Find me a new roof. I don't feel like living under this one anymore."


There's a lot I want to change. Things to fix, little bits that don't flow right for me. But that's for later. I think I want a hug now.
ravenswept: (Default)
Here's a strange equation for you; past midnight, plus TV Tropes, multiplied by stroke of creativeness, equals what follows below. And all I can keep asking myself is, "What the hell is this?" Because really, when I got hit with the idea, this is all I got. Nothing more. What'd he do? I don't know. Who's the boss guy? I don't know. Are they even going to kill him? I don't know.

For what it's worth, I think it was when I was going through "Even Evil Has Standards" when I got this.


"Shut the door."

I hear the link of the metal catching, followed by extra clinks of two bolt locks. What we're about to do doesn't need visitors.

He sat in the middle of the room, bound at the wrists and ankles, with a blindfold and gag for good measure. I would tell you his name, but that won't matter soon anymore. I'd tell you what he did to wind up like this, but part of him being here is erasing that memory. I had crews going around and making sure his name wouldn't touch anyone's lips again.

I had worked years for the power of not having to pull a chair up myself, or having to pull out my own cigar and light it. I sat down, right in front of him, while the guys took a step back. Looking him over, he'd wet himself some time ago. Some drool was sliding around the gag and down his chin, which simply blended into the sweat and tears he was pouring out. He had every right to be this scared.

I took a small puff from the cigar, not saying anything. He knew I was there, he'd heard me come in. This was one of only two things I was going to enjoy about this; making this little fucker sweat 'til his balls drowned, and this cigar. Because it was nasty work we were about to put in for, and none of it was meant to be enjoyed.

I waited another ten minutes, enjoying most of the cigar that wasn't Cuban, but excellent none the less, before nodding to right. Douglas stepped up and removed the blindfold. He must've been down here longer than I thought, because it took him minute of blinking his eyes before he realized I sat in front of him. When he did he just about knocked himself to the floor trying to back away. I said nothing, didn't even move, while he had his little panic episode. Finally he got to the point where he was breathing raggedly though the cloth in his mouth and just staring at me with wide, red eyes.

"You know why you're here." And he did. His head jerked up at the acknowledgment, and he immediately started to ramble something but the gag stopped him from making any sense. The only thing I could make sense of was when he started sobbing. "Shut up." Another puff. "First, I'll put your mind at ease; your family will not be hurt. Not your wife, not your daughter, not even your mother-in-law who you have never shut up about. They will not be harmed in any way. If anything, they are safer now. None of them will even have to move from the city. Does this please you?" He actually takes a moment to think about it, then nods like he's okay with it. "Good. Mind you," and I let my voice grow harder, "they will never speak your name again. They will never think about you again. If they are lucky, they will be able to forget you entirely and never have your conscious cross theirs ever again. You will be less than deja vu to them, because they won't even remember if they forgot about you." Another slow puff, and his pant stain grows a little bigger. He starts crying again.

"You should know that what is about to happen, I take no pleasure in." Some from behind me took my jacket, and the chair went with them. Martin wheeled up the dentist's chair. "I loathe when this actually becomes necessary, and I detest when I need to become involved. But you, and your actions, have made this inevitable. And that is just one more reason I don't like you." Martin and three others moved in quickly, each grabbing a limb. He struggled as soon as any part of him was untied, and it was like watching linebackers wrestle with some methhead cranked up on PCP. Almost got free too, I'll give him that, though I doubt Charlie appreciated the kick to the stomach. I simply stood and watched, dropped the remains of the cigar to the floor and rubbing it out, waiting for them to finish.

Martin finally got a hold of the situation and clamped his hand around his neck. He still had fight in him, even as his face went red and his eyes started bulge a bit, at least until his arms went limp. Quickly they got him from one chair to the other, and used plastic ties to secure him to the reclined – rather plush, actually – dentist seat. His breathing was ragged and his eyes half-lidded as his head flopped to the side to stare at me. If he was trying to beg to me with his eyes, I wasn't seeing it. Maybe I didn't want to, but then again I wasn't in the mood to look.

Somebody wheeled up a cart as I stepped up beside him. "This was your doing. Remember that, as they do their work. I made the rules quite clear and was up front about penalties. When you choose to ignore these rules, you put not only myself, but your family, your friends, every person in this room and outside's lives in danger. All because you are a little man with a big ego. And you always have been. And so here you are."

I stood up and looked across the room. His name remains unsaid, but for different reasons than that the scum in the chair. No one knew his name, but everyone knew how to find him. The surgical gloves weren't necessary, but they added to the illusion and I think that's what he enjoyed about it. He nodded, and moved closer under the light.

Douglas brought me my jacket, and had the door opened before I was even there. I slipped on my coat and looked down; fear was the only thing left in his eyes. “As I said, this is not something I do for enjoyment. This is not revenge. This is not personal. You broke the rules, my rules, and now simply reaping the rotten fruits.” I kneeled closer so he had to look me in the eye. “This is not personal. Simply punishment.”

I stood and turned, precise steps taking me out of the room. The other man stepped forward to the light.

“Remove the gag, please.”

If he screamed anything as I left it was drowned out by the loud tone of the metal door closing. The only following sounds where the scrap of the deadbolts being put back in place.

Then silence. Not even a whisper from behind the door.

I hate this job.


Lord, just simply copy/pasting makes me want to go back and rewrite it all over again.
ravenswept: (Default)
After almost three years of n-o-t-h-i-n-g I'm ready to get back into actually writing. It doesn't matter if no one ever sees this. I just need to do it.

And to start, a small snippet from a short I'm working on.

"W-why," she started to ask, gathering her falling robe closer to her chest, "of the five of us, why was I chosen?"

"Chosen?" Curz chuckled. The throaty chuckle erupted into outright laughter, the demon enjoying what seemed to be the first amusement he'd had in decades. His tail flicked side to side as he crossed the circle to tower over her, his yellow eyes taking in her form. "You are sadly, heh, sadly mistaken. You weren't, by any means, 'chosen'." He blew a thin smoke trail at her, and her robe quickly burned and dissolved in her hands.

"You're simply the one who didn't die."


ravenswept: (Default)

January 2013

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