|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jan 23, 2008 11:44 am
I've decided to start submitting work to magazines. Therefore, I'll becounting on your support here a little, and I'll probably post the roughs here. I'd really like some feedback, and I'll be updating you on my progress in this scary new world. Progress or lack thereof Submitted 'Apple' to 'Delivered' magazine.
|
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jan 23, 2008 11:47 am
This post will contain rough drafts of future submissions or full stories. Let's go! UNFINISHED NEW STORY= NEON SHOTS 123Through the door, you could still hear the party going on. Anonymous dance music blared throughout the house, but in this room, there was an unearthly silence. Sat around the table Chris, Dave, Nick and Jamie looked at the gun sitting almost nonchalantly beside the bottle of vodka. They were drunk, but the cold light reflecting off the gun had a sobering effect them. Chris, however, was still riding the alcoholic high, and grinned hideously at them as he stroked the gun's grip. The room was cramped and dark, the dying glowsticks taped around their wrists providing a bizarre contrast to the atmosphere. 123'I told you we would be playing a new game tonight', spewed Chris, a pornographic smile seared into his face. 'Russian Roulette. Simple. You point the gun at your head, pull the trigger, and if you don't die, then you take the shot.' 123The others looked uncomfortable, but Chris didn't see them. He couldn't see anything, really, just flashes of light and blurs. The pills were kicking in, and they were brawling with the alcohol in his bloodstream. He raised his left hand from beneath the table, and threw a plastic sandwich bag full of pills on the tabletop. 'Chill guys, take one of these. They make you better at this game.' The others nodded, taking a swig of vodka and knocking back a pill each. Chris took three in hand. 'Wet-ends', he spat, gobbling the pills and drink noisily. 123'Ok, now we start. Who goes first?', Chris reeled on his chair, centre of his own neon circus of horror. He pointed the gun at David's forehead and pulled the trigger, hard. 'Bang!' Dave fell off his chair. Seconds later, he stood up, jeans soaked with piss and glaring at the cackling Chris. The others looked on with lazy cow-eyes, not really seeing the exchange. 123'You b*****d! Look at this now!', gesticulating wildly, Dave looked like a Hindu God to the others. The didn't even see the dark patch around his crotch. 123'Sorry, mate', sniggered Chris, 'couldn't help myself'.' He nodded at the vodka, cheap supermarket brand stuff, but it did the job. 'Two shots of that, since you wasted some of it there.' Giggling disgustingly, Chris slid the bottle in Dave's direction with the gun. Dave stayed standing up, moving around like a suffocating fish. He made to go towards the door, but glanced at Chris and thought better of leaving. Sitting down, he took two swigs of vodka and made faces like Japanese demons or a murder scene.
*** UNFINISHED UNTITLED HORROR STORY 123The ships to the New World were always over-filled, what with the lure of prosperity and freedom. Down in steerage, it was not uncommon for insane tales of terror to arise amongst the Irish poor, with their Celtic mode of imagination. Their minds, haunted by images of cold bogs and trackless forests, were populated by a vast array of wild creatures, whose forms and habits predated even their fevered Catholicism. Witches, banshees, giants; I've heard the poor swear blind they'd seen them in the rolling green of the Old World, and well might they have. To see the fear incited in them by a floating clump of seaweed or the shadows on the ship at night, one feels assured of the existence of frightful creatures, and glad for the company of those that know the charms to keep them at bay. 123Of course, not all the horrors were in their minds, and I've seen such gruesome things in steerage you won't believe. Kept awake one night by the perrenial coughing of the sick below me, I took a stroll around the ship. Soon thereafter, I heard a great commotion, and called the crew to follow me towards the source. The scene we burst in upon was so aberrant that two of the sailors vomited on the spot. Beaten and senseless, a woman lay at the centre of a crowd, clutching a blighted piece of meat we later deduced was her grandchild. Driven insane with hunger, she had knocked its head against the side of the ship and had been eating the body for a week, only being found out when the stench of the thing grew so great it overpowered that of sweat and waste. Declared a witch by her fellow passengers, she looked more like a skeleton, and we dispatched her with haste, and some degree of pity on my part. 123Nothing I've seen or heard yet compares, however, to the tale told me by the Captain of the Sea Lily, and the events that occured during the ship's last voyage. It's a famous, or rather, an infamous tale now, and though a fair few doubt it, I myself am inclined to believe. The Captain looked at me with such painful intensity as he recounted it that any doubts I had were swept away on a tide of awful belief. 123The first sounds, he told me, were reported on the twentieth day of the voyage. That is, it was on the night of the nineteenth they occured. Down in steerage, a sort of 'bad knocking, like as you get unwanted on stormy nights'. Of course, the crew thought they knew better and laughed off the fears of the poor. Wild rumours were bound to be a staple of any voyage, and even the most superstitious sailor was wont to mock the fantastic imagination of the immigrants. A sort of rudimentary check was done, to reassure the passengers, and by midday most had forgotten the noise. That night, though, the knocking began again, with a dreadful plurality to its character. Terrified as they were, the steerage passengers couldn't sleep, and sat awake listening to the blasphemous rapping. 123The next morning, they elected a spokesman, one Patrick McKellen, who demanded to meet with the Captain, and sat upon the stairs leading to the upper deck until, his interest piqued, the Captain deigned to meet him. However, his assertion that the supernatural knocking had begun again only gained him a contemptuous leer, and McKellen was sent on his way, a bitter look in his eyes. Others begged the crew during the day to set up a watch, but their pleas were whisked away in the sea winds, the sailors only growing more irritated with the story. When the time came to lock the poor in steerage for the night, some scattered voices chattered on about the noises, but the majority just clambered dutifully into the hole. 123When the black sky began to make the stars look pathetic, however, the noises began again, with an intensity the passengers had not heard before. Then they stopped. The poor sat awake until dawn, but the sounds did not start again. Upon their release for the day, though, the poor were horrified to hear that a sailor had gone missing during his watch. The Captain ordered the ship searched top to bottom, but they found no trace of the man, and talk of the knocking during the night began again with a new fervor.
UNFINISHED SCI-FI/DRAMA TYPE STORY, ANNIE
|
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|